KidKrinkles

I never make these sorts of things. Inside, paper lanterns glowed warmly. Simple instruments chimed and jangled somewhere in the air, their notes softened beneath the low murmur of gathered voices. Wooden platters of chocolate-glazed nuts and small cuts of cheese passed from hand to hand. It was peaceful. Victor’s own wedding had been to the point. His daughter, the Reverend Stefaniya, had officiated for him and Viktoria in a quiet ceremony, held after he had nearly lost his life in an ambush while trying to pilfer some altar to Gashadokuro, back when Marlon Pell had been his greatest concern. It had been fast, plain, and private. Neither he nor Viktoria had ever cared much for drawn-out ceremonies or parties. Most invitations bounced off him like arrows on a shield. He had even missed King Alexander of Balian’s wedding, and he had been meant to be the best man. It had not been intentional. He had been busy helping liberate Caladras from a voidal horror’s grip, then raising a pyre for his friend Dalrend. Weddings were not bad things. Victor did not begrudge them their joy. He had simply never been very good at reaching them. And when he did, misery often followed in his shadow. He moved quiet as his plate allowed, forcing smiles at unfamiliar faces. He had surely looked out of place, his Numenedain Ranger-Veteran's helmet resting beneath his arm, and against his hip. He almost didn't know what to do… it felt uncomfortable and he couldn't place exactly why. Months of hiding can make the tongue knotted; like he'd forgotten how to speak. "Gramps!" Across the way, the call found Victor, bright and unguarded. His head swiveled and he saw the lavender-lad in his wedding finery. He looked as one should on their wedding day: but that itself was a feat. Despite it all, Nickolai was managing to find happiness through the bleakness of it all. A husband-to-be. A father, a son, a family man. The bowie's face eased; after all, that was why he was here. "Ye' look dapper." He offered, his right-hand gesturing towards him, with a finger lazily curled to an unfinished point. As he neared, Victor’s hand came up, his smile staying pinned to his face as he clasped Nickolai’s shoulder. Nickolai's own hands came and patted at his plate with a laugh. "Might be te' first weddin' ah've actually made it te'." "Well we're honored to have you here." His smile beamed, cheerfully. "Please, mingle, indulge. There's plenty to eat, and drink." A great way to end up dead. I can't enjoy those sorts of luxuries out here. "Mm. I'll grab a drink. Rare'a do, but, one won't 'urt." He'd say, a swirl of cigarette smoke swirling from the corner of his lip. It was a small lie: he had his vice already. He left Nickolai to his revelry: he wandered towards his great-grandson, Galian. His footsteps went unheard against the general liveliness of the reception. He eyed the familiar port-wine stain across the lad's face. He was enjoying some snacks, from a plate: presumably he was supposed to be offering them, not eating them. "Ye' look sharp." He'd say to the boy, making his presence known. The lad jumped and spun to face his elder, "Intend te' outdress yer' pa?" The child hurriedly finished the hors d’oeuvres on the plate. He ate quickly, greedily, or perhaps like he was hiding the evidence of his snacking? He quickly gulped, and wiped at his mouth, "... n…. N… n-no o-one… c… c…. Can outdress P-papaej." The bowie waited patiently while he spoke, before replying. "Yer' given 'em a run for 'es money." A quiet snort from the man, who looked about some. He watched Nickolai drink in the day, a grin worn on his face, before he looked back at the boy. "Perhaps ye'll find yer' future bride 'ere?" A teasing tone, his lower lip puffing up. The boy quietly listened to that, and offered out a hand. Some of the extra snacks he'd squirreled away: not yet eaten. Victor's hand came down, and plucked a small piece of cheese, and an almond with cocoa. He'd pop them in his mouth, chewing slowly. "Bu… but all… all of them are t-twice my age, grandpaej Victor." "Aye. Wasn't bein' serious." A warm smile to the lad. A thought crossed his mind, and his hand slipped into his sporran. "This wasn't ye, was e' lad?" A plain note, in simple writing, it read: I miss you grandpa, can we hang out soon? The boy stared back at the letter, plain faced, chewing slower still. "... I… c-can… write l-l-letters to you…?" I bet it was Buge. The bowie was blessed to have so many grandchildren, through one way or another. "A' course ye' can write te' me lad." Nearby, there was a gentle tapping to break up the conversation and mingling that hung in the green canopied air. "Ah! It's about ready-- if the guests could gather at the base of the tree, for the ceremony, ja?" "I wonder if they need a dramatic fog?" He spoke to himself, Victor's eye trailed down to the mist that swirled at his feet, and snorted to himself. At least he could still make himself laugh. "They do." Corann spoke, his cane tapping as he formed the front of the semi-circle, near where vows would be exchanged, and the bride and groom displayed. Victor offered a smile to the man and bobbed his head then, chuckling as he spoke, "A' will be sure te' 'op around 'em, when t'ey come out." "Perhaps I will make it rain sparkles from you, as you do so?" Corann added in his own dry tone. A hush drew over the crowd: “Before we begin ea just want to thank vy all for being here today. This day has been,.. A long time coming for eam and Solveig. Vyr presence to support us means more than words can express.” As he spoke, from over a great branch came Solveig in her white gown. For a moment, Victor forgot to breathe. She walked carefully beneath the glow of lanterns and stars, the dress catching what little light the Mother Grove offered and carrying it with her. Her hair had been curled and tended with loving hands, bright against the evening dark, and every step she took seemed measured not by fear, but by the weight of the moment. His mouth parted a touch, "Oh." The word was smaller than he meant, and, more reverent. He watched her as she moved to join her husband-to-be, and took his hand. My own wedding was so quiet, it must be nervewracking. All these eyes on you. On all your love. There is a special bravery in being here. Victor’s hand drifted idly to the cigarette at the corner of his mouth. He did not pull from it. For once, even that felt too loud. A smile hung on his face: love was about vows, and promises, and enduring hardship… and they'd done it. This was their prize. A druid woman spoke up, offering a smile. A woven cord rested on her forearm; likely some Druii marriage rite. "Friends, family, circle members! We've gathered today to show our love and support for these two lovely people, in celebration of their marriage! I believe the couple has vows for each other?" Victor's ear twitched, as he heard a newcomer, though his eye focused forward. “Solveig. We first met in a bank of all places. And that same day ea was taken by Drusco as a prisoner of war. In the face of that, besides just wanting to live, ea knew ea had to make it back to just see vy again.” His tail twitched with excited nerves. “Ea knew from our first conversation that ea had to get to know vy.. Vyr gentleness, vyr kindness, vyr everything. It was candle light to eam moth brain.” "Vy gave eam a chance that most would simply niet have given based on eam appearance. Vy have encouraged eam, challenged eam, vy have always made sure to do better. Because vy believed ea could…” Nickolai's breath hitched as he cleared his throat again, trying to keep his emotions in control. “This is eam promise to vy Solveig.. Before the aspects, before our loved ones below the tree…nyie matter what befalls us. Should the hells rise up to swallow us, the void come for our minds, or even the spears of those who would see us apart - ea vow to vy that ea will never fall. Never leave vyr side. Niet just for eamself, or for our kids.. But for vy.” The bowie's own hands folded before himself, resting atop his sporran. "Victor." A gauntleted hand was set atop his shoulder, his eye sliding to the fingers. They were the lamellar folds of a samurai's tekko. He knew the voice well. Hirano Jiro. **** me… this is what I get for coming out of my hole and enjoying a wedding. The voice found the seam in his plates like a knife. The bowie stayed focused, eye forward. His mind did wonder who, and how many were present. Was he caught by chance, or did they know he'd be here? This was the reason he wore his plate, and not his nice kilt. The sound of the vows drifted into the background, as he felt a steady rise of his heartbeat in his ears. "Mm?" The bowie hummed in reply, his eye sliding off of the hand that placed itself on his shoulder to the ceremony. "I need you to come with me, the Admiral requests your presence. And I would strongly prefer to not interrupt a beautiful wedding for state business." Victor’s jaw shifted once around the cigarette. "T'en don't." He'd say flatly, his eye unmoving from the couple. Jiro's hand remained firm. "I would prefer this, but will do what I must." He intoned. A warning. "The more civil this conversation, the more productive and peaceful it can be. You risk nothing, I know you've got jars ready to catch you, when you fall." The cigarette smoke curled thin from Victor’s lip. A slow breath followed it. "We're Civil, Jiro." He'd assure, flat-toned as ever. "Te' Admiral wants me for Idunia's sake. Dead here, dead t'ere." A slight shrug. Too many folk nearby. He doesn't have a weapon drawn. I think. Can't risk anyone here getting hurt for my sake. "Actually, we want you for our sake. We have issues to go over, more related to our business than Idunia. Truthfully, I know nothing of your issue with Idunia. This is a separate matter." … I believe that. “T'at sounds worse, frankly.” His voice lowered further, his eye sliding a touch to the right without granting Jiro the whole of his face. “Ah'vae nae clue what Kurai-Kuni wants wit' me.” "Ma, frankly, at worst we cut off your head. At best, you tell the Admiral what he wants to know, and we let you head off with a bow and all go in peace. All-in-all, it depends upon cooperation. I would not lie to you, I am samurai." His expression didn't change, though his brow made the smallest twitch. Now I don't believe you. I've seen your name in some dark books. "It is about the Seisho." "Ah… t'at makes some sense." The man said. A faint shift… not surprise, but recognition. "Frankly t'ough, ah'm watchin' te' ceremony. Ye' can kill me 'ere if ye' wish. Its as ye' say t'ough: Ah'll pop back up." His voice eased. Almost a conversation. Death was not a strange topic, but not one he feared. "Ye'll simply ruin'a beautiful ceremony. Te' Admiral can write te' me if t'ey've questions. But Seisho Ehiba is dead." A pause, in the conversation. The silence that followed had teeth. His eye returned back to the couple in earnest. "If t'at is your decision: as an aside, I do not fault ye' or take it personal." “It's not about Ehiba. Ano- It's about Miyu. And I wouldn't kill you to get you to come in for questions, ma- very counter-productive.” His lips pressed thin against his cigarette. Ah, another vow came to bite me in my ass. “A' would not answer questions t'at endanger Miyu.” He'd hum, more than he spoke, almost tired. “Ah, I'm sure you've your ways. But ah've mine too.” “Then it is what it is. I ask you to consider who you will endanger if I am made to do this as I am commanded. Let's do this in Yorumachi, where the children won't see.” He bid as a final suggestion. He didn't have a blade drawn, though he plainly put his knife on the table. “If it's gotta' happen one way or the other, let's be civil enemies.” He clicked his tongue. “Let te' ceremony finish, at least.” He'd grumble, and flick his head forward towards the pair. “I can agree to that. We'll leave after the reception begins, no reason to endanger civilians over the problems of the immortal. Which… I wasn't sure of, arigatogozaimasu for confirming that.” That revelation goes both ways: I would've guessed you know how to make new vessels. I wonder if you are one? “Ye' study alchemy for'a 'undred years, ye' learn te' tricks. Everyun' around long enough presumes t'at." He replied, his voice dry like parchment. Then, quieter: "Ah've nae intention'a dyin' before I free myself from Orsathiael. Once t'at is done; a' can rot.” “There might be a solution for you.” “Ah've my own solution. Just need time. Only sad thing is, this'll get in te' way'a me killin' Argelion if'a lose.” He'd mutter. The trouble with Idunia. “Ma, frankly - we are vengeful, Miyu is frankly… Secondary. You can yet talk your way out of this, the Admiral's anger is elsewhere.” His brain sparked with fire, for a brief moment, though the heat dissipated as the words reached his tongue, “Ye' are offerin' me a rope at ano'ers expense. T'at is not my way.” “Information of other sorts is a viable trade off. I know she's wearing a new face, cowering among the druii of the enclave. You can't really tell us anything I don't already know.” The words landed coldly along his back, his shoulders tensing some. Jiro wasn't wrong. That was the worry. The old knight said nothing for a moment. He let the ceremony fill the silence for him. Let the vows speak where he would not. “Largely he doesn't know about the methods, I could just deliver a head. I operate by ano… a gentleman's agreement of this sort of thing.” “… We can talk in te' Yorumachi. I abhore violence any'ow. If we can make an agreement: Ah'd prefer it. If not, t'en it is what it is.” “I would prefer a conversation, truthfully.” “Nicky,” she tried to begin, then was forced to pause, catching her breath as tears of joy fell freely down her cheeks. “My Nicky,” she repeated, regarding her husband-to-be with a shining smile. “. . . What can I say about you in front of all our friends that they don't already know? . . . Back when we had only just met, I always called you ‘my hero.’ You are that. Ever since I met you that day, I could already tell . . . You're impossibly brave, steadfast, always ready to stand up for others, no matter the cost.” The gathered crowd stayed quiet for her. Even the little sounds of the Grove seemed to soften: the shuffle of feet, the faint clink of platters, the breath held between one vow and the next. “But our friends already know that. You're talented too, always ready to freely give of those talents to others. Your skill with music — always ready to serenade your friends. Your smithing talents — always glad to make a weapon for any who needs one. Your skill with art — always brightening whatever room you're in just by putting up one of your paintings. But they already know that too . . .” Solveig paused for a moment, reaching out, even preemptively, to take Nicky's hand in hers. “Why do you do all these things? Why pour so much of yourself out to others that you hardly have any left for yourself? Well, it's simple. It's something personal that I have gotten to see much better than anyone else ever has. You simply refuse to stop loving.” The words settled gently beneath the boughs. “It's remarkable, really, that someone with more reason than anyone in the world to turn his back on the world and become self-centered should be the most selfless man I've ever met. It's why I've loved you from the beginning, and it's why I make this vow to you now. Because, now that I've seen how you treat friends, acquaintances, even complete strangers, I can know for a fact that you will not stop loving your family, no matter what the cost. So my vow to you, Nicky, is simple. I will love you as you have loved me until the end of time. I promise to strive to show you the same kindness, love, and honor that I have been so privileged to receive from you. Til death do us part . . . And beyond.” The officiant's hands shifted slightly, lifting the silver and white cord from her forearm. “Nickolai and Solveig, I ask that you both look into each other's eyes.” She reached forward, resting the cord over their hands. “Will you honor and respect one another, promising to never break that honor?” Nickolai took Solveig's hands and smiled brightly. “We will.” His tail couldn't stop wagging, the goofball. Solveig wiped at her eyes with her free hand, allowing the moment of pouring out her heart to settle, the worst of the nerves behind her. She returned Nicky's bright smile. “We will.” “Will you share in each other's pain and seek to ease it?” She lifted one end of the cord, wrapping it over Nickolai's hand and wrist as her words echoed in the air. “Indeed we will.” He echoed the same answer, looking down at the cord beginning to bind their hands. “We will,” Solveig promised. “Will you share the burdens of each other, so that your spirits may grow together in this union?” She began to wrap the other end over Solveig's hand and wrist, just like she had done moments before. The silver and white crossed softly over them, making visible what had already been true. “We will.” Nickolai looked up into Solveig's eyes. “We will,” Solveig said without hesitation, the vows only the natural extension of what she had already vowed to her husband. “Will you share in each other's laughter and look for the brightness in life as well as the positives in each other?” She shifted the ends of the cord, slipping them into each of their hands. A warm smile grew across her lips as she did so. “Only reason we've survived so long,” Solveig couldn't help but add with a smile. “We will.” Nickolai grinned, looking down at the cords that now bound their hands together. “We will.” The cords were tied over their hands, binding them. “Nickolai and Solveig, as your hands are bound together now, so are your lives and spirits joined in this union of love and trust. Above you are the stars and below you is the earth. Like the stars, your love should be a constant source of light, and like the earth, a firm foundation from which you can grow.” The Grove seemed made for such words: stars above, roots below, and family gathered between them. “You may kiss the bride.” Nickolai swept Solveig off her feet and kissed her. He smiled, now the happiest man alive. Solveig was suddenly reminded of the first time she told Nicky to kiss her, and he missed her cheek and got the side of her head instead. As Amethyst's words became a dull buzz in her ears, she focused in on Nicky to make sure he didn't miss this time. All concerns in this regard were swept away as Solveig herself was swept off her feet, flinging her arms around Nicky to kiss him in return. For a moment, Solveig is so lost in Nicky's eyes that she nearly forgets to look over at all their clapping friends. As she finds her feet again, however, she looks out over the crowd, tears again spilling down her cheeks. As with that quiet moment when she was unsure if she would ever see her beloved again, she resolves to ingrain this memory in her mind as long as she lives. Taking Nicky's hand, she looks to him, ready to join the crowd. Hirano's hand slipped from his shoulder, long enough for his hands to come together rhythmically. "Congratulations." Though Victor was quiet, head tilting downwards. His eye crossed over Galian, to his side, who was staring a hole through the man. He wasn't clapping either. Some form of shock. Even when trying to spare those around violence and chaos, a wayward blade grazes the innocent. "Right. Let's go." The pair quietly made their way to the front of the Grove. The familiar hinges of the doors creaked open, latch after latch, lock after lock, until the cool, damp air of the surrounding swamp struck Victor like a damp grave blanket. Behind them, the wedding did not stop; he did not want it to. The air smelled of decaying roots and budding growth. Still water held up lily pads and croaking observers, while mosquitoes and cicadas filled the dark with their thin, needling chorus. The dirt path took the weight of Victor’s plate poorly, each step pressing a shallow print into the sod. There was another cheer from inside. A Kha passed the pair wordlessly, slipping into the Grove as though crossing from one world into another. Warmth swallowed them. Music followed. Then the door settled, and the swamp had Victor again. Yorumachi… Why is that so familiar? A long, long time ago, before Gashadokuro laid siege to the Flower Festival, Camulos had frequented Kurai-Kuni’s home. He had picked up the Oyashi tongue and, in time, given Victor a book on the subject to study. Victor snorted under his breath as he remembered his old mentor, Danzen, telling him, Do not offend my tongue with your words. The language had become an unused blade for him; rusted. "What is uh…" "Yorumachi?" He'd ask, his voice low as they walked along the dirt path, armor leaving impressions in the sod. "Capital." Hirano answered, his footsteps easing. He could sense the apprehension from him. Victor's movement halted, a root springing from his heel and entrenching itself along the path. His head bobbed once, slow and grim. "Ah'd prefer we talk 'ere. T'at would be te' equivalent of me walkin' into'a 'ornets nest." Hirano shook his head some, “Ma, we treat our enemies as honored guests. I give you my word, we're not just going to jump you and murder you. You will be given the opportunity to speak and defend yourself.” At the end of the day, I am simply not Oyoshi. He wasn't one of them, at the end of the day. Excommunicated besides. Just a foreign old ghost, in old armor; a fool who disgraced his master, and turned his back upon the white flame. Mercy, honor, grace, anything they might afford would be done the Oyashi way. He'd be shown the door as his head rolled from his shoulders. “If nothing else, I operate by a gentleman's agreement. If worst comes to worst, our conflict is at an end.” He clicked his tongue. “I am samurai, I am speaking as an official of the state.” The man had figured as much. That was the trouble with honorable men in uniform. Their word could be true, and never really their word. "Per'aps ye' might try talkin' as'a cigarette enthusiast t'en." The man suggested, the humor buried in the growing tension between them. The man's hand dropped, resting on the pommel of his warpick, a thumb brushing upon it. “Then I'll speak as such." Jiro's tone relaxed, though he stood up straighter. Taller. Like some old dragon unfolding its wings. "I have oaths, and a duty. I gotta' bring you to Yorumachi - but I can guarantee your fair treatment and that we're not ruthless dogs who will subject you to torture. It is unbecoming of a samurai." "If I gotta' kill you," The man said, voice dropping low, "your head is coming off clean." The swamp droned on around them. The man's brow creased plainly on his face. "Or I make you drink Juliet's and your dead body will satisfy things.” A laugh erupted from within the Grove, a sting through the air. "But we are speaking on if, and not when." “Mm. See: Ye' said ye' were not te' ruthless dogs ye' presume'a think ye' are. T'en ye' said ye'd force'a juliet down my throat.” He'd blink, arms crossing over his chest. When he had learned the art, Galathol had made it seem Juliet's Potion was a tactical decision. When the flesh became infirm. When muscle slacked and health failed. It was never something he wished to try, or experience. Even a blade was less cruel. “I never said I wouldn't kill you if I'm ordered to ," Jiro answered. "Ma, It's my job. But I never said I'd force it down your throat, you can just drink it.” “Makin' me drink'a Juliet is force.” He'd snort. It wasn't funny. “If ye've questions, ask 'em. But a' dun' t'ink goin' to te' capital te' be held at potion-point lest'a sentence'a friend to death is somethin' a' can live wit'.” His hand rose to the strap of his helmet, unclipping it from where it rested against him. There was no flourish or glamor, he simply lifted it, settled it over his head, and let the old shape of himself return. “A' suspect ye' might beat me." His eye was swallowed by the shadow of his veteran's helmet. "I do not think ye'd beat me quick enough… te' first thunderclap'a boomsteel rings out: and t'is aint'a un-on-un anymore. I disappear." “The druids aren't going to come to your aid, ma- I know more than you know regarding this. They're not eager to invoke samurai ire right now. I will if I must, but I'd prefer not to.” He clicked his tongue, moving to lay his hand against the saya on his side, thumb pressed against the Tsuba. "T'ere's more t'en Druii 'ere." He'd hum, thoughtfully. At least a couple of his Knightly brothers were within. His left-arm crossed over his shoulder, and his right affixed the misting shield of Rokdora into its familiar place. His right-hand then tugged his squire's warpick free: black, heavy, and ugly with volatite. The swamplight gleamed from its explosive point. In the background, a feminine voice began to sing, indistinctly. Something soft, and weightless. "Ask yourself this, Victor." Jiro's tongue clicked, his hand held firm on his tsuba. "You can disappear right now. No one inside has to die. One act of selflessness, and we both save our people. I have my vow, I cannot back away from it." There was a heavy slosh, and a clang, as a thick bottle met the thin brush between them. A deadly concoction resting on the ground. His helmet tilted down to it, loosely holding the warpick in his grip. "You're suggestin'a die so ye' can take my 'ead back, while'a go to a new body." He had already made quite a few… stronger than he was now. He could wear a new face, and be at the peak of his form. But his soul would still be ensnared. Presumably, his curse would follow him, too… only a matter of time before his hands turn black, and Orsathiael's fog finds him as his ever-companion too. A new body was a lease. Not owned. He'd be found once again. "Dead is dead, ma. My orders are to handle this cleanly. This is clean enough for me." One man's poison is another person's soap. "... why not let me go get'a double's head. Give that to ye?" He'd ask, negotiating lives not yet lived. "... ordinarily, I would have no reservations with dying. But I too ah've an oath te' fulfill. Take Argelion's white flame." “You can't.” He clicked his tongue. “Only a templar can take it and you're bound to Orsathiel. This doesn't hurt your goal at all, ma- delays it, but doesn't eliminate it.” “Only a Templar can take it.” He'd echo. “Again. Ah've not been idle for decades.” Jiro's teeth pressed together, and he hissed. Not as though he bore some treachery, but as though he were delivering a poor diagnosis. “Machiman doesn't give his blessing out to those who have given themselves to other kami. Until you break Orsathiel's grasp, your goal isn't feasible. Ma- I couldn't take it with Janisama's.” “I am aware'a t'is.” He'd retort. “Ah've put plenty'a t'ought inte' t'is. I will reclaim my soul, and be stripped'a te' chains t'at are pressed inte' my skin.” His hand clenched then, around the haft of that pick. An ambient fury that had stuck with him since he'd realized his folly. “Then allow me to offer you the solution that may yet help us both without bloodshed.” His tongue clicked once more. “Convince another to take up your mantle with you, you will have the time - and a better chance as a new man.” “You mean find'a champion te' strip Argelion?” “Hai. Save yourself, save others. You're a good person, you stand by your beliefs. So I give you this so you may decide what is more important in this moment: Vengeance, or justice. We both have boomsteel, we're going to get a lot of innocent people killed if we do this. I will not deny you your justice if you feel you must take it, mine is not the business of Machiman. Find your champion, if your cause is worthy you will.” His head shook slightly, left-to-right. “I appreciate yer' appraisal, and valor. Personally, a' would not kill ye; nor would'a let t'ose 'ere kill ye. If we begin te' fight, t'ough: You might. My reservations will slip in t'at case. My pursuit is justice, not vengeance. And it is justice'a swore. Just as ye' swore yer' oaths.” His warpick lowered a touch. His legs parted, his stance widening, as if any moment would be the first blow. “Te' best'a can do is offer ye'a klone's 'ead. But I will maintain my pursuit until it is taken from me, or it is done.” Jiro’s hand did not move from the tsuba. He did not move at all. Only something unseen passed behind his face as he weighed the impasse. “When one is faced with a moral dilemma he chooses one and hopes for the best.” The Book of Five Slots. His hand moved from the tsuba: a coin pinched within it. "Call it. Both are of equal merit." In the Old Faith, coins were not chance. They were arbitration. The will of Morighaen, Chief amongst the Three. Whatever face showed itself was holy. If he lost this coin flip, it would not be just defeat. It would be abandonment. Years of dedication to a faith the world had forgotten, for what? His gaess would mean nothing. His devotion, pointless. "Tails, then." Ping! The coin hung in the air longer than it should've. Victor felt a hard lump in his throat, and his grip on the warpick slacked further, almost dropping. He could not hear the celebration anymore: his eye focused entirely on the end-over-end rotation of the coin. He could only hear his own breath, until the coin struck the dirt. The ouroboros of Azdramoth's faithful. Tails. The pair's heads were craned and focused downward at the coin between them. The raised edges of the coin glinted delicately in the light of fireflies and the moon. Jiro looked at Victor. It was hard to discern if there was relief, or venom, in his gaze, and his tone. "You are banished from Kurai-Kuni, never to return and if I should see you upon these lands, I will take your head. No argument nor reason will dissuade me. Mata ne. Leave at once." "So be it." He'd agree, and the man sighed, a weight off his throat. A great cry broke the silence of the coin toss. "DO VY BELIEVEEEEEEE IN LIFE AFTER LOVVEEEEEEEEE!" A shrill, drunken belt of a love ballad. The ranger looked back towards Jiro, and lightly asked, "Might'a finish te' reception? Ye' won't see me again." A sheepish grin unseen in the helmet, the man beginning to unbuckle his shield, and return it to its resting place. "Iie, do not push it. Farewell, Rorin-san." Victor took a knee, and plucked the potion that threatened his life mere moments earlier from the ground. He'd offer it loosely back towards Jiro, the vial hanging between his pinched grip. "Farewell, Jiro-san. Might we meet on better terms, one day." Another laugh carried from the omen-groom, drunk on love, and drinks with friends. "One day." The cigarette enthusiast replied. The mists of Orsathiael filled the void between them as they parted ways.

i'll kill you

"Not a thing." The man answered, setting his fishing pole somewhere it might forever gather dust.

[A narrative retelling of a conversation between friends, please no metagaming.] A pair of legs hung over the edge of a limestone face. Godrays broke and vanished along the southern shores of Azuras, thin spears of pale light slipping through the bruised seams of clouds. The sky grayed, forewarning a storm, but it still held. Dark-bellied clouds dragged low over the seas, shedding cold, fine rain, clinging to stone, to wool, to hair. “Don’t you think it’s dangerous to meet with him?” his grandson had asked. “Nae,” the bowie had replied. “Probably no un’ a’ trust more on te’ continent." Loose grit clicked down the slope with each step. Rainwater had gathered in the pale grooves of the limestone, making the cliff shine bone-white where the clouds parted and dull gray where they closed again. “... it’s always damn raining,” he uttered, the graying hair of Ser Griffith slick from the spitting skies. Victor idly drew a hand from his tartan, pinching the cigarette from his lips and flicking it once. Ash broke away, darkened in the rain well before it reached the stone. “Always,” he echoed. “A’ think’a said e’ te’ last time’a saw ye: but age took ye’ well.” As well as age could, anyways. “Seems age hasn’t made its mark on you,” Griffith retorted, perhaps somewhat surprised. Without a few hair potions and some finer alchemy, Victor would not have looked near as young as he did. He had avoided the white and gray hairs of an elder Adunian, and the creases of experience that wished to creep upon his features and lay there until his grave. Victor’s hands slipped to his side, where a pair of the Fishing Guild’s finest poles had been kept. Handed out freely, of course. He lifted the two up and shook them gently. “Basic skincare don’t ’urt, but ma’ wife and I’ve both our tricks n’ secrets,” he said. “Despite movin’ a bit slower, n’ slower, with time.” The tartan sagged heavier around his shoulders by the minute, drinking the mist. Ser Griffith reached out and took one of the poles. He clearly had some familiarity with it, his hands finding their place with little thought. “Well, you’ve made it this long, being one of the most wanted men in the realms. And to think I just cleared my own status, for joining the Silver Spears…” He trailed off, holding a solid face, before a chuckle rolled off his lips. “I’m surprised the Silver Spears got shit. Aranuir din’nae go ’alf as far as e’ should’a.” Victor motioned his arm free of the tartan and turned, placing a hand down to steady himself. He rose to his feet and rolled his shoulders, stepping a pace back and looking toward the ocean. Fishermen always made this look easy. It couldn't be that hard. “They took issue with us taking money for our deeds. For me, at least, all my proceeds just went back to pay for the rent of our hall,” Griffith chimed, informatively. He brought the fishing rod, turned his hips, and gestured an arc with his arm. The wet grip slipped a little in his palm, and the line hissed out. It hesitated, halfway through the motion… not nearly enough force, an audible sploosh followed, far closer than he had intended. “... mercenary company workin’ for mercenary money… who would’a t’ought… big deal.” “Yes, well, everything is bureaucratic.” A slight shrug. It was not his place to make sense of their decision, it seemed. “Always ’ated that. Ah’m surprised ye’ve returned at all,” Victor said. He tried to move through Griffith’s motions as best he could. He brought the rod back, turned his hips, and gestured an arc with his arm. But it was amateurish. Not nearly the force. Not nearly the distance. An audible sploosh followed, far nearer than he had intended. The fog that circled him seemed to deflate with disappointment. I understand why Griffith suggested fishing… I should've practiced. The Glennmaer tugged at the rod, testing the line. It went taut. He reeled with a practiced confidence that made the huntsman feel blindsided. A dark shape moved in the water. “I could’ve easily taken your path, and the thought crossed my mind. But I spoke to Azruphel, and that gave me a new perspective. Life in Angrenost reminds me of home.” Victor watched the water, and the dark shape beneath it. “I don’t know how to fish,” he murmured, as if to absolve himself of the sins he was about to commit upon the practice. He sighed, before replying. “I ’ope t’ey dun’ ’ate me.” He let out a breath through his nose. “Dun’ ’ate ’em. But’a do ’ate t’ere decision. It’s like turnin’ t’ere ’ome into’a snowglobe.” Beyond them, the rain stippled the sea until the horizon blurred. The shore, the sky, sealed together in gray glass. A slight frown lingered upon his features as he spoke the words. He watched the darkened shape grow, and grow. Could he say he wasn't in his own prison? He'd been spending years hiding, waiting, motionless. Sometimes he wondered if he ever truly was saved, in that cursed gate on Aevos… “Not many of them are old enough to remember why you left. They only see what the Empire wants.” The old knight put his back into the work, ebbing and flowing with the tension of the line. He dug in his heels for the fits, then walked back and tugged with the easing. A flopping shape appeared, dredged onto the shore for collection. A swordfish. He makes fishing look easy. Victor shrugged and began to reel too. He felt something. So he heaved, and tugged, if only to match his brother. Finally, there was a release, though the sight was pitiful and torturous. A rusted chain. Somewhere within the bowie's head, he heard a cruel laugh, somewhere from the corner of his vision where he could still see the peak of the Mountain. It hung from the hook in a rusted length, each link orange-brown and eaten thin. Seawater dripped slowly, patiently tapping away. It smelled of salt, decayed iron, and rot. Victor stared at it in silence, his face contorting into something just shy of a snarl. “... I believe te’ world as’a sense’a ’umor,” he said at last, grave in tone. He took the chain into his hand and tossed it aside. “I should’ve suggested we go huntin’,” he grumbled, more to himself than to the Ser beside him. Then, after a moment, “I hope these new lads don’t mind listening to you. I hope they look at you.” Ser Griffith had already drawn back his rod and recast it, his eyes returning to distant horizons. “Some do. Mostly those in Angrenost, save the last Glennmaer I still speak with Angruth.” His shoulders eased, slackening some. “The others, especially the new folk; non-Adunians. They don’t care much for the ramblings of an old Knight. The Royals and I have a mutual distaste for each other. I ignore them as much as I can. The Bastards of Carandir.” The man spat idly to his side. Victor felt his own mouth fill with venom, bittered by the tobacco that swirled in his mouth. The wind shifted, blowing the smoke back into the man's face. He did not blink. “T’at’s Anorhil’s name, aye?” he asked. “Aye.” “Well, if’a get my chance te’ go after Argellion, I’ll try te’ make sure t’ey meet each o’er in ’ell.” A lifetime ago, the man had sworn to come. It remained at the forefront of his mind. Just as soon as he saved himself. “Argellion has abdicated. Did you not hear? His son, Pharazon, sits the throne.” Somewhere, far off, the thunder rolled without breaking. It was too distant to matter, but near enough to be heard. There was a shrug from the bowie. “My oaths defy crowns. A’ dunnae ’es son. But I’ve ’eard eh’s more upstandin’. Maybe one day ah’ll come to ’em and try te’ bury te’ ’atchet.” His mouth made an amused little pout around the cigarette. “Or per’aps eh’ll pike my ’ead? Won’t know till’a try’a guess.” There was a moment of contemplation from the Glennmaer. He slowly reeled the line, no doubt coaxing some underwater critter with actual patience. Victor tugged at his own line and reeled much faster. A boot came up attached to the hook. The boot came loose with a wet suck, its leather swollen soft and blackened by the water. A few strands of seaweed clung to it, like a hair. Perhaps some mermaid's wig holder? He stared at it. Then he took a few moments to carefully unsnag the hook from the drowned thing, as though it were some troublesome and embarrassing creature. An apology for the offense to the inanimate. “Aye, he’s a good lad,” Griffith said at last, “certainly better than his father and grandfather, but won’t be making any major changes to our relations with the Empire anytime soon.” “Te’ Empire will do it on its own,” Victor postulated. “...Now.” Griffith commanded, keeping an eye, and an ear upon the bowie's rod. Victor glanced aside, entirely unaware. “Aww, ye missed one.” “F**k, I did.” He'd hiss. He looked back to the water, lips pressing thin. “... Probably ano’er chain.” “It is only a matter of time...” Griffith began. Then his voice cut sharper. “OI.” Victor’s rod bent with sudden violence. The bowie lurched, startled by the betrayal of the sea, and yanked back with both hands. “... Oh s**t it’sae lobster...!” He drew it up, eyes widening at the flailing shape on the hook. The thing snapped and twisted, claws working with insulted purpose. “Don’t t’ey... don’t t’ey like cages or somethin’...?” “Sometimes, or with snares on a line. But impressive.” Victor watched the lobster snip at him as though it had taken the matter personally. There was something about it. Some strange dignity in the little armored thing, all fury and legs and wet indignation. He set it near him for a moment and watched it flop about. Then his frown deepened. With a quiet tsk, he took it up and idly chucked it back into the waters. “... I think it’s kindae cute ’onestly,” he said, casting his line again. “Unlike fish.” A beat. “Eyes on te’ side’a t’ere ’eads... weird lil’ bastards.” “Good eating.” The Glennmaer observed, as he watched the recast line return just as swift. “Te’ log? Aye, I appreciate it,” Victor snorted. He had hauled one up, somehow. A wet length of driftwood, ugly and useless, hanging as proudly from his hook as any prize catch. “I always said’a was ’alf beaver...” “Wood make a lot of sense,” Griffith chortled out stupidly. Victor choked suddenly at the pun, the cigarette nearly slipping from his mouth. “... Dinnae think you ’adda dad joke in ye.” “Well, I am the fun uncle, to Az and Boromir’s kids.” Victor’s brow lifted. “Did t’ey ah’ve kids?” He seemed surprised but time moves quickly, and waits for no one… a lifetime he had missed in Numendil, for his morals and codes. Then his line snapped him away from the tangent. “F**k.” Another missed catch. “Three of ’em. They take after their mother.” “Per’aps better t’at way,” Victor said, recovering the line with no small amount of resentment. “Me and Boromir butted ’eads after’a left. For my rhetoric.” A dry snort followed. “Tried te’ get me te’ go te’ Norland after my capture was called for.” This time, when Victor reeled in, an old flag came up from the water. For a moment he only looked at it. It unfurled, halfway in the wind, heavy with seawater. Whatever color it had once had been beaten down into some drowned, uncertain stain. The sea had a strange memory. Stranger than men, perhaps. It spat out chains, boots, flags, and beasts in armor. It offered no answers, only objects, each one wet and ruined and somehow too pointed to ignore. “... Huh.” His mind wandered, free as the gulls, with each memento offered by the ocean's tide. “He’s just trying to run his lands,” Griffith said, “make it look good so they don’t give them away to some boot licker.” Victor stared at the old flag a moment longer, then set it aside. “I dun’ fault ’em,” he said, and shrugged. “Just wish our folk realized t’ey are more, and stronger t’en What they had been. What they had forgotten. What the young inherited without understanding the shape of. Numendil. What once was. Victor drew in a breath and let it out slowly through his nose. “... But, I dun’ wanna keep whingin’,” he said, glancing toward Griffith. “What’s next for ye, Griffith Glennmaer?” His line jerked again. He missed it again. A growl of frustration came from the man, eyes narrowing bitterly. “Not sure,” Griffith answered, “once I finish training my current squire and page. I think I might move into retirement.” Victor’s hand stilled upon the rod. Retirement. The words were heavier than the rain. Even the line seemed to go slack, in Victor's hands. The hook drifted unseen beneath the gray chop. “I ’ad similar t’oughts,” Victor said. “Whether’a die or wha’ever ’appens.” The rain kept falling. The water kept moving. That was the way the world went. For a few breaths, it was almost enough to leave the matter there. But there were names still caught in Victor’s throat. Names he had avoided because asking after them would make their absence real. “... How uh...” He looked left a touch. “What ’appened? With Maeril. And Ed.” The question seemed to pull what little warmth lingered from the air. “An army led by a few wraiths stormed Ildon...” For a moment, the water answered. It slapped softly against the stones below; indifferent, endless. Victor stared outward. “... I see.” There was not much else to say at first. Not because there was no grief in him, but because there was too much to move cleanly through the mouth. Maeril and Ed had loved that place. The thought came before the words did. “... Surprised t’ey din’nae win,” he said. “T’ey loved t’at place. T’ere lil slice’a ’ome.”' The bowie went to suck at his cigarette, and found only stale, damp air drag through… his hands moved to his sporran for a match. “I did my best leading the cannons from most of the horde, but surprisingly the flank of men failed.” “Sieges are brutal,” Victor admitted. He recast after a long pause. The hook cut out into the water, less clumsy than the first time, but not by much. “I dunnae. Ah’ve some hole in my gut about it. Not bein’ able t’e go.” Well before he left, they swore to stay together. They hated Anorhil as much as him, maybe more. Yet all of his friends had some reason to stay: some land, some title, that they clung to. Some notion of a people, better left standing than drifting like a horde. “I think the average age of those I commanded was seventeen… Minus Stinthad who showed up randomly.” “I am sure t’ey fought valiantly.” Then, after the name caught up to him, his head shook as if from a daze. “Stinthad? Ah’ve not seen ’em in’a age.” “He’s still running around.” “Per’aps I outtae write to ’em,” Victor hummed. He thought on that. On letters unwritten. On roads untaken. On faces remembered younger than they were now… could he even recognize those from the days past? Their faces faded at the edges in his mind, like a static. Worse was the alternative: to never see them again. To not say farewell. “... Eh... I miss so many things.” The admission was quiet, nearly taken by the wind before it reached his brother. “I do as well,” Griffith said. “There’s a great many people I miss, being the eldest comes with many burdens.” Victor looked at the fish upon his line. It was flapping its wings… who would've thought? A fish with wings. He stared, having thought he had seen it all. Gods, monsters, magics… they'd all become commonplace, but a fish with wings was something special. “... Guess so,” he said. “Didn’t think ah’d make it to 'eldest'.” “Neither did I, of all the adventures and wars we’ve been through. I’ve seen more in this lifetime than I would have imagined.” Victor held his line still, bringing the rod back to rest against his shoulder. He looked left. “Can’a tell ye’ somethin?” Griffith looked over to Victor. For a moment, Victor watched the rain bead along the old knight’s face. The gray in his hair. The set of his shoulders. The familiar shape of a man who had stood in too many storms and somehow had not yet been carried off by one. “Climbin’ t’at Mountain was te’ most fun I ever ’ad,” Victor said, dry-toned as ever. A break formed in the gray of the clouds, narrow, and sudden. Pale gold touched the water, the wet stone, and the sides of Griffith's face. It made the world seem briefly kinder than it truly was. “... Lost my soul, and folk think ah’ma monster. But, I’d do it again.” Aruzond had told him that it would be a one of a kind adventure… that it would change everything. It surely did. “Aye...” Griffith said. “A shame we will not meet in templar heaven.” Victor snorted. “Don’t count me out yet.” Griffith raised a brow. Victor did not see it, but continued regardless. “I promised te’ come for Argellion’s white flame. I would’nae wit’out some avenue te’ try.” Then his line yanked. A pufferfish came up. “AH! AH! AH!” He shrieked, twisting the line sharply to throw the thing back, plainly unwilling to grab it with his hands. The thing vanished with an offended plop, and the rain immediately erased the ring it left behind. “Argellion grows fat and sluggish,” Griffith said, “licking the boots of the emperor has done him well.” Victor watched the water settle where the pufferfish vanished. “I dun’ take glory from battle, nor do’a threaten death lightly. But I grow old, ma’self.” He drew in a breath. “It’ll be even. If I get the chance.” “I did not see him much unless he was with some representative of them.” “We went on’a adventure when e’ was young,” Victor said. The memory sat strangely in him. Argellion, younger. Different. Perhaps that was a projection on the once prince, once king. “I actually thought e’ would not be anythin’ like ’es father.” Griffith sighed as the sun went down. He placed his rod down and sat against a rock. “Seems he had his own agenda.” Victor exhaled smoke through his nose and shrugged. “It seems so.” The two sat there for a little while, beneath the rain and the fading light, with the sea making fools of them both in different measures. Then Griffith stirred. “I think I best be off for now...” By then, the light had thinned to silver. The godrays were gone. Only a seam in the west. The rain had grownbold enough to drum against the stone, rather than whisper so the men might speak. Victor glanced aside. “... I was gunnae say: I don’t mean te’ keep ye’ till ye’ grow roots n’ fall still.” The words came easily enough. Easier than the next. “I worry a’ may not see ye’ again t’ough.” His line tugged. He reeled. A second chain came up from the water. Victor stared at it quietly. Of course. He nodded once, slow and humorless, then looked off to that stained portion of his eye the Mountain claimed in his monocular vision, and held up his rudest finger wordlessly. “I still have some duties,” Griffith said. “I’m sure I will see you before either of us goes. If it is to be me, I will seek you out.” If you can. We don't decide our day. It is written on us. Victor lowered his hand. “Aye,” he said. “And I ye.” The old knight rose. “Go well Victor...” His words ended abruptly, seeming to hold in a small sniff as the elder knight templar turned back north. His footsteps carried him a small distance away before they paused. “Flame guide.” The words hung there with his breath, pale in the growing cold. Victor watched him quietly. There was more to say, wasn’t there? If he just kept talking, filling the void, the moment might remain frozen there. He could yap away the sunset and save someone from fading. He did not want to look upon the man one last time, only to find static growing around the fraying image of another friend. … but that was a dream. An unreal one. So he nodded his head. The sea kept moving below, the clouds kept closing above. Nothing in the world had the decency to pause. “What once was, will be again,” he offered. It did not seem unique as words. They were a farewell, too.

"Catchy." Mused Numendil's #1 Homeless Terrorist.

The Hexwraith of Martyrdom has finished casting Morion within the Herald's gullet: those final words ringing true through the air. Hail the King who is; Hail Azdramoth. Fire within, fire without. The form of the ferverant, the dead, dropped with a heavy thunk to his knees, in Ildon... it warmed the dead's cold heart to see some truly willing to die for their beliefs.

Somewhere, the bowie sat beneath a canopy, a cloak buttoned up around his throat, the hood pulled over, and low. He stared quietly at a fire, and wiped his lone-eye, wordlessly. Two of his oldest friends... They'd never get to meet up, and perhaps, settle their differences now. The man would quietly get to his feet, to send a pair of letters.

this art is ******* tight.

[This information is freely knowable: spurned on through the rumor mill of taverns and gossipers in Azuras; as part of the 'First Light' eventline.] ═══════════════ ──⬤── ═══════════════ The Unmade World ═══════════════ ──⬤── ═══════════════ A devilry is afoot. The autumn leaves that sweep Ildon’s cobbled paths turn to mulch beneath the wind. A corruption brews in the distance, its tendrils threading through the soil—creeping ever closer. Nature grows disquieted. A silence hangs in the branches. Only the sound of footsteps remains. An umbral ichor stains the maw of the Rook, and rots along its shores. Martyr yourself. Homes are shuttered. Doors are barred. When neighbors knock, there is no answer. Only the fading rumble of a cart, clouded with flies, heavy with death. All will prostrate themselves before an unliving sky. A devilry is afoot. And soon, it comes. ═══════════════ ──⬤── ═══════════════

[The following is a narrative retelling of some roleplay, please do not metagame.] · · ────── ꒰✦꒱ ────── · · · · ────── ꒰✦꒱ ────── · · The Faceless Tormentor https://pin.it/2Yxjbt5pD The sounds of a taut rope creaking under the weight of the heavily armored Bowie could be heard, a pulley straining against the cord. Lower, lower the lift went. Even the entrance to Wynomere felt like a crypt: a trio of skulls all staring, empty-eyed and unjudging, like the keeper's to some foreboding hell. Though, there was no lamp-lit underworld. The cavern felt as if it was its own lush, unearthed paradise, forgotten by some absent God, as a lost terrarium. Proof that life could indeed flourish where we lay our dead. He quietly eyed the bulletin board as he entered. No outsiders until the war is over. … At least he wouldn't be breaking the law. The gate was even open, though he did feel a quiet chill creep up his neck as he spied it. Perhaps some sixth sense, though it was more than likely the manifestation of that blind foresight he was tormented by. Even in the cramped cave, a figure greater than the room cramped itself, knees tight to its chest, hands holding up the ceiling, and its hollow, swirling face whispered what might happen next. It told him he'd die. It always told him he'd die. … there was no greeting, the cave reached out to him in utter silence. The waters of Wynomere were crystal, and clear, the soft and weathered stones beneath them holding them up like cupped hands. It felt a place unperverted by the corruption and tyranny of the topside world. The wise would merely plug the gate, and continue to exist with their head in the sand, blissfully. But the Bowie-knight had purpose here. As much as he appreciated the cerulean stillness and the sanctuary it offered, he would have to ruin it for someone. He drew in a long inhale and glanced about, soon spying a crackling fire atop the hillside. At least he could begin there. Step by step, he began his climb, armor clanking softly as he went. His mind drifted, as it always did, from thought to thought: the Emperor of Humanity has seized the reins of fate. All of the world had crumbled, or knelt, before them. He was a hunted man with no refuge in the world: no safe haven, and no home. There weren't even allies to protect him in these moments. It was a conscious effort to stave off the dread of his greater situation: to keep his mind from sinking further. But, as with all things; We persevere, and move one step at a time. His thoughts split off, at the sound of grunting, and steel, and death. He stepped onto the road between the fire and the branching path, and saw the fighting to either side of him. A hulking red Uruk, bone exposed in places, wielded a great and wicked halberd. Opposite him, a figure clad in dark plate, their face shadowed, raised a hammer to strike the outnumbered armored man between them. And near the fire, a smaller armored figure reared back… it seemed to be striking a child. "What's going on here?" Victor called out, though his hand had already drawn Kieran's warpick: wrought, black metal of high-density volatite that shifted low in his grip, and a rokodra shield that misted in the humid, damp cave air. The uruk answered with motion, halberd swinging down as he barked out, "Lat muvz, lat die." "Sounds like if'a dun' move, ah'm dead too." The bowie retorted. He couldn’t reach the armored man in time, not without losing something else… but he could reach the child. He watched as an armored boot kicked the small figure closer to the fire, though they rolled with surprising agility. Victor stepped in, placing himself between the attackers and the child, his gaze flicking between the smaller form and the larger threats closing in. The halberd soon turned and the Uruk made his way for Victor, and in those rushing movements, it was hard not to think that the dead Uruk looked a lot like Tide'rippa. “Whub wi du knyght?” The voice snapped Victor from his thoughts, as he realized the child was a goblin. But that realization only lasted a heartbeat; any life is a life worth saving. His left-arm reacted on instinct, catching a downward motion. An axe made a heavy clang into the Rokodra of his shield: rending a slash through the Mountains of Solgaard emblazoned upon it, like some terrible beast carving the countryside. He shoved upward, and a swift smack from the warpick announced its strike with a matching boom, the force of which shuddered up the knight's arm as he backpedaled around the fire; the flames recoiled away from the shockwave, ash spilling across the stones. “Try'te find'a way te' disengage kid.” He urged. But there were few safe avenues to escape from. He was already slowing under heavy-plate and mail. He looked to the goblin briefly, and spied the red-faced Uruk rush forward, lifting their wicked halberd, “KRUUUUUG” they cried. The dwarf broke for the goblin; the bowie-knightstunned by their killing intent for something so small. "Nub ah kub!" The goblin shrieked, diving backwards and landing on their heel, spinning in place. Victor followed their gaze to the cliff’s edge. It was difficult to judge the drop, the distance, but there was water below. Perhaps drowning was kinder than what waited here. Seeing the goblin make for the edge: he followed. His foot left the ledge, and for a moment he felt weightless—before the fear seized him whole. Men were not meant to be birds. The water rushed into his armor as he struck it, flooding through the gaps and into his helm. His gambeson soaked through at once, his cigarette snuffed out, And then came the snap. · · ────── ꒰✦꒱ ────── · · · · ────── ꒰✦꒱ ────── · · The Caverns of Wynomere https://pin.it/1eTzNmbpy His right shin broke with the cold embrace of the waves. Pain lanced up his leg, sharp, overwhelming. He gargled a scream in his helmet at the shock of it. He couldn't even notice the pain in his left leg. His left-foot found stone, not yet deep enough to vanish it seemed. His hands scrambled, and he pulled upon a lip, and gasped as he felt his ears pop: and water drained from his armor. Limestone-silt silt his helmet and emptied from his lungs. He began to crawl, dragging himself like an alligator through the waters as a wounded beast. His hands reached for the corner of a rocky outcrop, where he might simply vanish from. Above, where he had come from, a smoke-signal of sorts followed after a crash. The uruk's great halberd had sent up a black plume, rising as a thin, ominous column. A silent death-knell. But there was a second impact. The dwarf had followed him. They struck the stone outright, legs shattering beneath them as they crumpled, yet even then their hand reached for a javelin, their focus unbroken. The determination of the dead was confounding and terrifying There was a razor focus behind the visor of the dead: no pain, only a murderous thirst. A jealousy of life. Victor pulled himself further along the rock, slipping around the corner as the tide began to drag at him. His fingers strained for purchase along the slick stone, and he glanced back just as a javelin slammed into the edge where his head had been moments before. He'd nearly lost his grip, as he tried to spy the goblin. Unfortunately, he found them: plummeting, a bola wrapped to their feet, and the Uruk above had ushered them off the edge. There was no time to think, but a hollow weight settled on his chest, and the strength from his fingers waned. His grip relaxed, and the tide took him. In moments like this, it was easier to fade away. · · ────── ꒰✦꒱ ────── · · · · ────── ꒰✦꒱ ────── · · Drowning https://pin.it/25qUKng9j His armor did not feel so mighty, or impervious, as he was dragged into the abyss. The jagged throat of the cavern swallowing him, armor grinding against slick, smooth stone. He felt like a can, spiraling in a maelstrom. Water flooded back through the gaps, sloshing in his helmet. His ears felt muffled beneath an assailing tide. His broken leg dragging behind him dead and limp. Each impact shook him, and reminded him he was not dead yet. Fingers stretched out, clawing things trying to find any handhold in any direction. It was hard to even tell which way his momentum was going: let alone to find an edge in the dark. It was a fool's errand. The more he resisted, the more he turned, and rolled. The more the pain forced the air from his breath, and silty-water flooded back into his chest. The man did not give up. He simply eased. He did not surrender, merely adjusted. He did his best to orient as he was tossed, and focused on getting his head above water: consistently, so he might breathe. His hands continued to stretch out, his back to the waters. The dim light of Wynomere faded behind him. All that remained was relentless water. The fled passage grew tighter. Closer. His head smacked off a rock, a dull metallic clang from it, his ears ringing once more as he grimaced. A nausea welled in his stomach, almost immediately, and his eye fluttered against a brief flash of white. He thought he could make something out through the brightness of it; a shape in the dark, almost as if it was embossed upon the fabric of the shadows. A hollow-faced figure, crunched and cramped within the tunnel, where the water otherwise filled, and it leaned forward as he passed by. He watched as the goblin fell, small, and diminutive: its feet tied, and the panic on its face. Was it better that it wasn't a child? It was hard for him to split the two, or weigh their life, at this moment or any other. There was no path to success, then and there. He had chosen. But it still felt like he had chosen wrong. … the man came to consciousness. He'd hack and press his hand to his chest, rolling to his side. The plate smooshed into the dirt, and mud, and pebbles beneath himself as he fiddled with his helmet shaking. Water sloshed out and down his chin, before light took place where water once was. The man gasped, and spit foam, looking around. The shores of the North. He had half an idea of where he was let out… somewhere near Kaer Sköllreach. His breathing slowly became measured. There was no sign of Undead. There was no sign of life. There was no sign of the goblin. The giants had left him, alone. He sat beneath the gray expanse of the frigid North, and looked to his broken shin; a hand stretching out for a rock he might press himself back upon. We persevere.

what the freak!!!!!!

The woman's old mentor read the missive as he passed a board upon the less-traveled highways, and his eye honed in on the name in red. He quietly bit on his cigarette butt, "Te' **** did ye' get yer'self inte' now."

I've heard the Dwarves were going to blow themselves up, but evidently they're sending themselves back to the stone age.