ahensaanmyr

[ahensaanmyr]

The Story of Iron

( Something I wrote on a whim, trying to make a reason for the Fey/Fae/Faei/Faeoveryouwantospellthis to have a weakness to Iron that isn't just 'lol industrialism metaphor')

Long ago in the days before we kept books and scrolls and records and anything else with our names, the Fae ruled the world. No one ever called them by their names. They were the Gentry, the Neighbors, the Lords and Ladies, the Folk, we had a thousand names for them. They were cruel, capricious rulers, and ruled the world with a tight grasp that they swore they would never let go. They knew, and we, before we forgot as well, that all things were alive. Wind, Fire, Stone, Water. And then, deeper, those were alive as well. The Cardinal Winds. Gemstones had Names, Metals had Names, the Water formed into Rivers and Seas and Oceans and Creeks and Ponds. The Fae ruled them all. One day, Humanity, who had long suffered and fled and begged for mercy from the Gentry, decided enough was enough. They stood their ground before them, and a great war began.

Humanity had few allies. Gold, capricious and traitorous, had always been the pet of the Neighbors. Silver, the blood of the moonlight, was too pure to choose a side. Tin and Copper were pretty but weak, and even when combined into Bronze were still easily beaten into desired shape. The Rivers flowed to the path of the Winds, who whispered secrets into the ears of the Gentry wherever they were. Stone stood, immovable, before the paths of Humanity. The Beasts chafed underneath the cruelty of the Lords and Ladies as well, but they had their own kingdoms, and feared that they would lose them if they rose up. There were only two that stood before Humanity.

Fire roared at their side. Once, Fire was at the Gentry’s beck and call, bringing them light, warmth, and calling destruction upon their enemies or, at most times, whomever they didn’t like at that moment. But Humanity showed Fire that it was more than destruction. Fire consumed, but in doing so could create- food, tools, weapons, sculpture. With Fire at their backs Humanity created great weapons to battle the Gentry and their allies, kept warm into the dark, fearful nights.

There was another ally. It was a metal, though it had not yet been named. It was dull, grey, hard, and not very pretty. They had found it deep within the earth while searching for other allies, and it had called out in fear for help. Everyone else, every other Thing in the world, had left it in the deep darkness of the depths. It was scared. It was sad. It was alone. Humanity scraped it away from the stones and brought it up with them to the surface, where they warmed it by the fire. It was harder than Stone. It could hold an edge as sharp as Obsidian. It allowed them to form it into whatever shapes they wished, and they thanked it for it and brought it with them everywhere.

The bloody war continued. Many Things were lost, their names forever scattered to the endless pages of a book never written. Fire roared valiantly, but Water and Rain sent it fleeing to the darkness. Humanity fought with weapon and wit and tooth and nail and strength of arm, but arrayed against them was every Thing in the world, driven to battle by the promise of reward or retribution by the Gentry.

Finally, they had been nearly beaten. Fire flickered barely. Humanity bore itself upon a knee, barely alive. Only that other ally stood as the Neighbors arrived, barring their way. Humanity’s ally was harder than Stone, as sharp as Obsidian. And it remembered. The Gentry raised an eyebrow at this, shaking their head at a Thing they had not seen. They were unstoppable. They were the world. They commanded all things. With a wave of their hand, Humanity’s ally was shattered, their body broken to pieces, scattered before them.

Humanity’s sadness spilled from them as they picked up the pieces of their friend. Their friend had built them cities. Their friend had kept them safe from the Beasts and the Monsters and sometimes, the Gentry. With their friend’s help they had carved the earth into farms and fields and homes and cities, and their friend had always smiled. They were cold, and dull, and hard, but they were their friend nonetheless.

“I’ll never forget you, Iron.” Humanity said, cradling the dull, broken pieces. Iron had never had a name before, but they deserved one. Humanity would never let them pass without being known.

The Gentry sneered. How dare they? It was their job to name things. No one else had ever named something. Their Glamour rose, roiling around their body like hissing snakes. Their rage was like a blazing inferno. Their body towered over Humanity like the boughs of looming redwoods. Their claws, as sharp as bronze knives, lunged forward towards them like-

Like-

Like-

Their hand stopped, inches away from Humanity’s throat. They were like so many Things. Things that had names. Things that… they had Named. And even when they had seen themselves and called it a Reflection it was still something else, something that was not them. What were they? What were they? What were they?

In the beginning, there was nothing but them and the darkness, and the darkness was not a Thing, the darkness was the lack of them. They wandered, sniffling, shivering. They were scared. They were sad. They were alone. Then they saw a Thing and they called out to it, calling it Light, and Light was a good friend, because Light helped them to see other Things, they helped them to see the Earth and the Winds and the Waters and Fires and Trees and Grass and Beasts and Clouds and Fruits and

They made so many friends. They laughed and played with them in the Fields- fields! Those were such fun to run around in! They thanked them every day. For a long time, They were so happy, they were surrounded by nothing but friends, and they were no longer alone.

But as they made more friends, they began to grow conceited. They saw Things and Named them, and then those things became their friends, and so obviously, they were the ones giving them life. And if that was so, then they were first, and if they were first, that meant they were the best, they deserved to be the most perfect and the most beautiful and the most strong. Whenever anything challenged them, they forced it into submission. Most things learned not to challenge them. But Humanity had. But Fire had. But Iron had.

They remembered. They took Light with them into the Earth, driving away the darkness as they sought pretty things to hang in their hair and on their walls. There they found an ugly little metal, that wasn’t pretty, that was too hard, that wouldn’t do what they told it to do. And so they left it there.

Scared.

Sad.

And Alone.

In an instant, their glamour rushed away from them, every bit of mystique, magic, and power vanishing from them. The Fae- as that was their Name -fell to their knees, sobbing. They looked at the broken body of Iron and cradled it. “I’m sorry!” They cried, tears falling from their face. “I’m so sorry! I’m so so so sorry!” They wished that they could turn back time to that moment in the darkness. They would pick up Iron and say

Hello friend! I’m going to name you Iron. You might not be as shiny as Gold or Silver, but you’re pretty in your own ways! You’re stronger than Stone, and not many Things can say that, and you’re very sharp too! We’re going to have so much fun making things! My name is-

The Fae screamed. The sound shook the entire world. They broke down, squeezing Iron close to themselves, even as the pieces of Iron’s shattered body pierced them and dripped blood to the ground. It hurt so bad, but the pain in their body was nothing compared to the pain in their hearts. They screamed their name. It flooded into Iron, and Iron became the only thing that knew the True Name of the Fae. But Iron was gone. Life no longer lived in Iron, as the Fae had driven it to darkness. Their tears never stopped. How could they? How dare they?

They wanted to die. They wanted to go away. Perhaps Iron would be there, and they could drop to their knees and beg for forgiveness from the friend they should have made. Their head whipped around to everyone, to every Thing, but even Fire was too afraid of them to do the work. Finally their eyes rested on Humanity and they lifted Iron to them, sniffling.

Humanity took Iron in their hands. They had no Fire, but they worked Iron cold, using the warmth of their heart. They formed Iron into a mighty sword and stared at the Fae as they dropped their head, ready for the killing blow…

And Humanity set the sword down, embracing the Fae.

They were scared.

They were sad.

They were alone.

Just like Iron had been.

The war ended. The Fae apologized to every Thing, but they still feared them. That fear would fade with time the Fae knew, but until then they would go away, and leave the Things to their own lives. To Humanity they said:

“Iron will never forget you. We will never forget Iron. If ever we forget what we have done, if ever we return to cruelty and majesty and conquest, take up the sword of Iron and do battle. Dispel the glamour we weave around ourselves and remind us of the friend we lost. Of the friend we should have made.”

[ahensaanmyr]

Art  done by my Brother in Law, @doctor-slegbot, of my family’s Hunter: The Vigil group, along with their current antagonist, the abyssal mage known as Twist.

[ahensaanmyr]

Art  done by my Brother in Law, @doctor-slegbot, of my family’s Hunter: The Vigil group, along with their current antagonist, the abyssal mage known as Twist.

[ahensaanmyr]

you have been visited by the seven magic dragon balls your biggest wish will be granted but only if you reblog

[ahensaanmyr]

what i thought being a dm would be: cool storytelling, good opportunity to write something magical

what it really is: wrangling strong magical toddlers

[ahensaanmyr]

SORRY FUCKER, YOU DON’T GET TO BE IT

White Wedding - Billy Idol

Superstition - Stevie Wonder

Hot Dog Wolf - Yoko Kanno

Johnny B Goode - Chuck Berry

Another One Bites The Dust - Queen

Black Dog - Led Zeppelin

Where’s Rocky? - Yoko Kanno

Tequila Sunrise - Le Matos

Luv(Sic.) Part 3 - Nujabes

Promise (Reprise) - Akira Yamaoka

Some nerdy tag you’re it thing

Tagged by @emptiness-and

something about songs and wantin 10 at random from a playlist. Here you go. 

Taken from my youtube playlists.

Journey of the Sorceror

Farewell

Mannish Boy

Retrograde

Moonlight Serenade

The Trooper (Protomen cover)

Gotta Knock a Little Harder

Guns Are Drawn

Gonna Need A Grave

The Chain

Ain’t taggin nobody. I’m stayin it. 

[ahensaanmyr]

You know who you are.

[ahensaanmyr]

Buried Part 1

It was a rare sunny day in the gray country, the dripping roofs of sharp angled homes and puddles between flagstones shooting rainbows as the bright daylight shined down and illuminated lands that rarely got it, drying out the pits that never once been dry. The people of Gilneas City were out in force as well, soaking in every drip of the blazing sun that shined, wearing barely anything more than shirts, trousers, and loose dresses. The market was abuzz with activity, chaotic and frenzied as people made and lost cash they had been saving, ironically enough, for a rainy day. Mages peddled fresh ice cream for the summer heat, barkeeps sold fresh cold beer from their cellars, but none were more profitable than the clothiers who had seen this day coming and sold a number of widebrimmed caps and parasols, the typical drab blacks and grays replaced with solid whites.

However, less profitable was the Conrose stand, where even now the three young brothers sat and sold their families wondrous wares. Guns, Gadgets, and Glasses, all adorned with that flowery rose design, hung on hooks and lay on tables in full display, though people didn’t seem too interested today. Who cared for a personal clothes heater in the middle of a dry summer’s day? Who needed a gun in such a bright and happy occasion? Who needed glasses when the sun shined their way? Two of the brothers seemed to have taken this to heart. One of them, of middling age, was preoccupied with a book, turning its pages with intense interest, a pair of his family’s pride on the end of his nose as he poured over the words. The other, younger than the two, focused his spectacles more on the pile of brass and bolts in his thin hands, making sure screws were screwed tightly enough. The last and eldest stood behind the stall’s counter and crossed his arms, unkempt beard only assisting his angry and foul disposition.

“HONESTLY! You’d think people stopped shooting each other just because the damn sun’s out…”

“It’s truly a blessing of the Light, dear brother.”

“Shut up, Falsy. A blessing of the Light’d be us selling all of these damn rustbolts today.”

“They’re not RUSTBOLTS!”

“I’ll go upside your damned head, Walter!”

The three brothers bickered and shouted for hours, unaware that maybe a big part of their customers were driven off by this childish brotherly battle. Thought they might have been unaware of THAT, they weren’t unaware as someone ran up and snatched a pistol off of the table, dashing off into an alleyway.

“OH, FOR HELL’S SAKE- Walter! Go get him!”

“But-!”

“We have to mind the shop!”

Walter dropped his device with a clatter and vaulted over the counter with a whing pout, jogging after the thief. “GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE BASTARD!” The nails in Walter’s shoes- standard for any paranoid tinker, meant to help grounding- clacked against the stone and echoed off of the walls, giving people plenty of time to get out of his way as he ran, his hand only feet away from the thief’s collar at any given time. He dove to try and tackle him, but his skinny body was hurled off and his glasses clattered to the cobblestones. He grabbed them and put them back on, giving a grateful huff as he noticed they were only scuffed before picking himself back up and starting off again. The thief ducked down behind an alleyway and Walter shouted, turning the corner himself.

It happened very quickly. Walter couldn’t have been more than a few yards away, but in the time it took him to turn the corner, the walls of the alley had been painted red. The empty click of the unloaded pistol snapped a report across the stone walls to either side and mingled with the dripping of blood. The beast that had caught the thief in his hands loomed over him and stared at him with drool dripping from it’s muzzle before turning to Walter and grinning wider, lips curled back against the teeth as it dropped the thief to the ground, the body crumpling as it advanced…

Walter’s glasses fell off as he tripped, falling onto his rear and backing off further. He saw a large mass of brown fur, and that was all.

 Walter jerked awake again, snorting lightly as his hazy vision focused back and gave him the same damn view of his cell as he had seen a dozen times already. The grey light of a cloudy day streamed in from the barred window and did little to brighten up the cold black stone as he picked himself up off the floor with a groan and a yawn, scratching the back of his head. The movement sent the chain attached to the wall shaking. The foot wrapped up in the iron had long since gone dull, but not quite numb. It was probably a problem, but he hardly had the time to worry about that.

He stood up and looked to the table in front of his straw cot, picking up the bowl of porridge and eating it with the splintered wooden spoon he always ate it with. He had been half tempted to just make himself a better spoon, but they didn’t want him wasting resources on something as trivial as that. Wood would be fine, even if he occasionally had to dig slivers out of his food. He finished the bowl of near-tasteless gruel and set it aside, sighing heavily. He dragged over the iron pipe he had been drilling the night before and got to work on it again.

All in all, he supposed it wasn’t the worst work he had ever done. Walter was just doing what he had done before, just the sides had flipped and now he was making guns for the dead rather than the living. Still, it gave him a bit of a twinge of regret to see the Forsaken carrying his guns by the barrel, knowing they’d be back in a week for maintenance because the idea of cleaning was as alien to them as life itself… Walter’s hand slipped and the hand drill cracked off of the pipe, slashing across the back of his hand. He quickly shot his hand up to his mouth to suck on the wound, hissing softly in pain. The polished steel at his neck gave a low beep. That had been the one thing he had convinced them not to take. The silver and steel alloy collar had tubes and wires tracing through that dug deep enough in that he imagined he’d probably die if he took it off, and he certainly didn’t plan to! He didn’t even usually try to fix the little cracks or issues in it, either, terrified that the wound it covered up would prove something he’d been denying for months.

He sucked on his hand until it stopped bleeding as badly and picked the drill back up, working on the iron pipe diligently. Maybe if he finished this one by tonight, they’d give him some meat with the porridge. It was slow going without a proper workshop or any sort of testing to make sure he was doing it right. At least, proper testing that didn’t involve someone coming back after a week and smacking him around because something he didn’t foresee happened. Despite that, he had a reputation to uphold! Conrose equipment was supposed to be top of the line, even if it was being used by monsters. Walter spat red blood on the floor and sighed. His hands ached and his back popped when he moved too often, but he supposed it could be worse. He might fear a beating, but at least he wasn’t going to be eaten.

The walls shook. He blinked and looked up from the rifle, setting it down on his workbench and looking around as dust fell from the ancient ceiling. He guessed they had to be running drills upstairs. He wished they’d keep it down, because he didn’t like dirt falling on his head while he-

Walter exploded.

To be fair, the wall behind him did. The stone took most of the impact, but in the process a machine-gun hail of bricks struck his back and head, sending him bowling forward over his table and rolling, groaning in pain and shock. His back ached and he could feel cold fluid dripping down his forehead and face as he shook his head, trying to get his bearings. Casually, a monster stepped through the hole in the wall. He was tall, with razor-sharp claws and black, rotten fangs that filled an elongated mouth, gray and black fur taking up every inch of his body. Walter’s eyes widened and he screamed as the worgen leapt forward and over him, grabbing the bars of his tiny cell and ripping them off of the wall with bestial, unholy strength to toss them aside.

“ALL CLEAR! Leave this one. From the smell of him, he’s not long for this world.”

The worgen’s voice was deep and bellowing as he padded forward, over the ruined cell door and up the stairs as the sounds of clattering weapons and shifting armor echoed both from Walter’s cell and the floor above the cold dungeon. Soldiers with light armor, guns and swords, and wearing tabards with clawmarks through them charged past him and sounded up a battlecry, the cacophony of battle sounding from upstairs as Walter was left alone. He breathed heavily, urging his heart to calm down as the collar on his neck beeped furiously, the tinker grabbing his chest and panting heavily as the device worked. He counted down from a hundred as his heart beat so fast he was afraid it would rupture from the wires stuck in it. CALM. CALM. Calm. Caaalm. He gave a low sigh and covered his face with his hands. It still took him a half a minute to pick himself up off the floor, looking at the ruin of his cell with disdain. He stepped to the edge of the room and looked outside, regretting it quickly as he was pelted with the eternal Gilnean drizzle outside. He also regretted looking down and noticing the sheer hundred-foot drop with jagged rocks and churning waves below him. Grappling hooks had been embedded into the solid earth and their ropes whipped and flailed down below like hempen snakes. Walter jerked his head back into the cell and had to will his heart to stop beating again.

How long was I in here?! He thought, looking around frantically. That was a wheat field a month ago! Picking up the discarded drill from the floor, he stepped carefully to the cell door and moved over the ruined gate, making his way up the stairs. He couldn’t rightly stay there with the big old hole in the wall, and he couldn’t even find what was left of the gun he was making. His only recourse was to escape in the confusion. The Forsaken might have been undead monstrosities, but surely even they had to have steeds or a carriage he could steal. He heard the clatter of wooden wheels on stone nearly every morning, there had to be. Plus, if the Forsaken saw him, maybe he could convince them that he was just trying to help. Yeah. He just wanted to help! He crept up the stairs with the drill in hand, swallowing with a mouth full of grit as he took every step quietly, probably unnecessarily quiet considering how loud the battle was upstairs. Every step nearly made him jump but he managed to climb to the top without giving himself a goddamn heart attack and that was good for him, at least for the moment.

Bodies strewn on the floor gave him plenty of reason to be afraid, both rotting and fresh with dripping red blood. Not only undead and human, but worgen as well, the werewolves occasionally turning to him with a sick look and moving away, as if they were more afraid of him than he was of them. That was definitely not the truth. Walter made his way down the hallway, poking his head in temporarily to look at the lord’s dining room where he had first been dragged in and processed. Guns fired, steel clashed, worgen roared, undead screamed and spells flew and Walter decided he didn’t have anything to do with this fight and stepped right by it, ignoring it entirely as he made his way forward to the immense double doors at the end of the hall, pushing on them to find them mercifully unlocked. They creaked too much for him to be comfortable, every inch he pushed them another centimeter that the hairs on the back of his neck stood higher, but the combatants in the other room were too focused on killing and dying to pay any attention to one wayward tinker sneaking his way out onto the yard. It was a heavy heave that tossed the two of them open and pelted him with rain and wind, but he ground his teeth and pushed forward through the torrents, pulling the scraps of coat around himself tighter.

Mercifully, there was a carriage there, and even a pair of still-living horses latched to it underneath an overhang that had been patched up a dozen times. He leapt into the carriage’s driver’s seat and nearly gagged as he smelled something foul in the back and looked back, noticing the piles of rotting flesh and molding bodies stuffing the corpse wagon full. He did end up gagging, covering his mouth with his shirt and breathing cloth for a long time to regain his composure. He might’ve stayed there forever, stunned by the utter foulness lying behind him, if it wasn’t for the fact that behind him, the sounds of combat steadily died down and left him with nothing but the patter of rain on the roof over his head. He grabbed the reins in a panic and snapped them, letting the smell of bodies die down in the face of raging wind as the horses whinnied sharply and lurched forward in their harnesses, yanking the cart out of the overhang and into the beating rain. Immediately they were drenched along with the carriage, but they dashed forward along the road at a breakneck speed, the carriage wobbling and leaning on two wheels for a moment. Walter panicked and grabbed the side of the carriage’s seat, holding the reins tight with his other hand before the wheels came down on the ground with a BANG and the vehicle righted itself, screeching and clattering down the road.

Walter breathed a sigh of relief and leaned forward, keeping the reins loose. There weren’t any other horses in the stables, so maybe, just maybe, he’d be safe for now… if the Forsaken had won, at least. If the Worgen had won, they might jump him thinking that he was one of them…! The relief washed away from him just as quickly as it had come and he sat back up straight, keeping his eyes on the road. A quick run to his workshop and maybe he’d be able to figure out something to be safe with. He had guns there, and money enough to maybe charter a boat out as quickly as possible… hopefully. His thoughts briefly flashed to his brothers and family, but they were dead. …Probably. He hadn’t made sure, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to stick around when a bunch of zombies swept through the building!

Speaking of.

A cold, thin and bony hand grasped Walter by the shoulder as an inhuman moan escaped the corpse’s throat, the zombie groaning loudly in the tinker’s ear. Screaming loudly, he jerked the reins, more on accident than anything else, with the horse’s whinnying loudly in protest, refusing to follow his command as they barreled down the road at top speed, Walter forced to twist and turn in the driver’s seat to try and escape the rotten undead that held onto him. He smacked at his hand frantically in a panic, pathetic little strikes not doing much more than irritating the rotten ghoul as it bit and scratched at him. Walter shoved his other hand in its face and forced it back, grimacing and gritting his teeth in fear before there was a bump and he turned back to the road, eyes widening. The carriage bumped again as the horses screeched and the carriage went over the side of the ravine, bodies hurtling past him and crunching in the dirt and rocks a moment before he struck as well and the world went black.

Walter woke up in not much pain, which was odd considering the fall was at least twenty feet and he was covered in body parts. Gasping for breath in a mad panic he whipped himself up to the top of the pile, panting heavily as he crawled free, hands and knees in the mud and muck below as the rain pelted down on his back and neck, soaking him even further. Breathe, he thought, breeeeathe. He forced himself to, calming down a little. Really, it was very odd that nothing hurt. He should have broken something at the very least. He stood up, the ringing in his ears persistent until he heard a crack of thunder. Slowly, he lifted a hand up to his neck. The ringing wasn’t from the crash. The collar around his neck gave off a high pitched whine, and he could feel shattered metal and dented steel beneath his nervous, shaking fingertips. He told himself to breathe again as he turned the device off with a click and started forward, moving as slow as possible, keeping his pace, and his pulse, as low as possible. It was broken! That was fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. All he had to do was keep calm.

The ravine was thankfully not a pit, and at the end of it he spotted a field, probably once used for wheat but now only blanched black with dead crops and thick mud. At the side of the field was a barn. He started towards it, breathing heavily. Calm. Calm. Thankfully, the groans of the corpses behind him died off as he continued onward. He might not have broken anything, but they did, and they wouldn’t be crawling out of that pile any time soon.

The barn door was wide open, and the faint and aged smell of hay stung his nostrils a bit, only blanketed by the oppressive muck of mud and torrential downpour. He stumbled in, tripping and burying his hands in gods-bless-it dry dirt, the dust running through his fingers as he stood back up and slid into one of the barn’s stalls, settling down. He was tired, more tired than he had ever been before, though he imagined part of that was the fact that his heart wasn’t being jolted awake every few seconds. That sent a shiver down his spine that he quieted by curling his arms around his chest, Walter forcing his breath to even. The device was broken, but that wasn’t the end of the world. All he had to do was figure out how to fix it! A mirror, some tools, it’d be fine… he drifted asleep thinking of the details.

He dreamt that something was pinching on his earlobe and then woke up to see a man pinching his earlobe. Walter gasped sharply and jerked back, sharply crying in pain as the Forsaken’s grip stayed solid and kept him from moving around all too much. The rain was still dripping outside, but it had died down a little with the coming of the night, the only light in the barn the lanterns that the rotters were carrying at their sides. He glanced up slightly, eyes wide in fear as he looked into the face of one of the guards to his personal prison, the jovial face of his tormentor just as gleeful as usual. Walter was dragged out of the stall by his ear, stumbling and tripping over his own legs as he scrambled, grabbing the man’s hand only to get backhanded to the floor. There was a thump from his chest and a rush of adrenaline. He tasted blood in his mouth.

Not fresh. Not good.

Walter ignored the voice and dropped to his knees, clasping his hands and holding them up. There were three of the Forsaken here. He remembered all of them, from the tossed bowls of gruel to the beatings when he got a rifle’s sights or stock wrong for them. “H-hey hey, it’s all good here, right?”

“You broke out. They came in from YOUR cell, meatbag.”

“I swear- I swear I had nothing to do with that! I just left because I was scared, come on! I didn’t even do anything besid-“

“You wrecked our cart!” The Forsaken in front of him clenched his fist and swung it hard into Walter’s cheek, a quick pop echoing through the dark barn like thunder and sending the tinker to the ground on his rear, attempting to skitter back onto to be caught by the front of his shirt. Another fist came in and smacked into his nose, sending spots in Walter’s vision and blood dripping from his nostrils as he panted for breath, groaning in agony. “We should kill you for that… maybe eat you, ha!”

Do it. Try it.

“No! Nononono! Look, I’ll go back wib you, okay? I won’t fight or try to escape!” His hands clasped in plea were clapped in irons and jerked forward, sending him from his back to his stomach with a squelch as he landed in the mud and was dragged through it, the wind knocked out of him again. The collar beeped again and again before finally resigning itself to a low whine, sending sharp green sparks as it malfunctioned.

LET ME LOOSE.

“Just- wait, pl- please- walk slow-“

The undead yanked him further and sneered as Walter started to clamber to his feet, only for another of the Forsaken to kick the poor tinker’s feet out from under him, sending him crashing back into the mud. His head hurt, throbbing with pain, but even with a broken nose he could smell the rich earth and dripping blood surrounding him, as well as the rotting corpses of his enemies around. It turned his stomach, but also excited him, his fingers curling as the sound of laughter pierced through to his brain, sharp and clear. “I don’t even care if we have to carry him back.” One of them said, cracking his knuckles and stepping in towards Walter to send a hammerfist that put the recovering man’s face right back into the dirt below. “He’s had this coming for a while.”

Walter’s palms dripped with blood and his mouth heaved, hot breath spilling out with a distinct scent that the undead’s decayed senses didn’t pick up. His teeth ground and flaked, mouth squeezed shut. Something forced his lips apart, and rows of yellowish white were overtaken with frightening white. His eyes closed.

He dreamt of a nice, but a little tough, steak.

[ahensaanmyr]

To Spite Gods: Part 2 (End)

I think you’ve spent so much time alone that you’re used to it by now.

Still went with you guys, didn’t I?

The stone walls around him were constantly cold. Up here in the snowcaked mountains, the only thing you ever got was cold. The blanket gripped at his shoulders did nothing to alleviate it, and neither did the thick clothes over his scratched and bruised form. The iron shackles certainly didn’t help. What was greater the shame, he wondered… was it his capture and imprisonment here, or was it his failure to assist his queen? He had known the risks, of course. When the demons had finished the murals, the monster they summoned with the blood of his subordinates was enough to prove that there was terror in mind for Verte’s world. He and the priestess had fled the temple and let the monster run amok in the forests of Ashenvale, the beast befouling the earth and slaughtering the locals for weeks before the forces of the Moon Guard managed to subdue and obliterate it.

Meanwhile, Verte went to his Queen’s aid. He stood by the side of her armies as they summoned demons and made pacts with devils, preparing for the coming of the one they called Sargeras. It was a name he heard the priestess speaking in her foul tongue when she said her prayers. Apparently, it was the lord of the them all. They expected to see him very soon. Verte was looking forward to it. He had never really seen a god before, not a true one, and perhaps this one would not disappoint.

His sword cut down many of his former brothers and sisters as they stormed the palace. The sky had ripped open and rained fire on the earth, and the atrocities of his station bled into Azeroth as its protectors rose to defend it. He had gone far beyond the point of no return. Where before he needed comfort and excess to clear his mind every night, now he slept like a babe, barely feeling more than the weight of his sword. The battles were ruthless, with the defenses of Azshara’s palace chipped away by day only to be reinforced by hideous monsters by the night. Verte had even seen the corruption of Neltharion and the destruction wrought by that black dragon’s actions. It all seemed over for Azeroth. He followed his orders and with nervous anticipation waited for the arrival of the Dark Titan.

It was during one of those waiting nights that the world tore apart.

He was resting against one of the palace’s ramparts, waiting for the next call to go out for defenses, when the alarm gongs echoed throughout the gilded halls, shaking the stone and metal beneath their feet fiercely. All were rushing to the Queen’s aid at the shores of the Well of Eternity, and he was nearly there when he saw the first cracks in the palace. At first he thought it was an attack by the druids again, but when the earth split open and lava spewed out from the fissures, only to be flashed solid by roaring ocean waters, he knew it was something worse, something far, far worse. He got to the antechamber and caught only a glimpse of the heathen druid lord and his queen in combat, and the Well between them churning and twisting. Arcane light flashed as fire consumed forests of vines and rain extinguished the flames, frozen solid by spellwork only for the ice to burst as moonlight and sunlight beamed and burned away magic. Verte favored his queen to succeed of course, until something above him crumbled and a piece of the palace the size of a kodo fell on him.

He had not expected to wake. A miserable way to die it would have been, dying to a chunk of falling rubble, but he supposed he could have accepted it. When he felt the pain from a hundred wounds and the rope of vines twisted around his ankles and wrists, he wished he could have. They had argued for hours on whether or not to kill him as they had killed all the others, and it almost seemed as if he’d meet an executioner’s axe before someone stepped in and vouched for him. He would learn the error of his ways. The man who supported him and stayed the blade looked him in the eyes, staring with a face all too similar to his own.

Then they had dragged him up here to the cold. Food came through a slot in the door, just as chilly as the dungeon cell every time. There was nothing to do here but to wait for the decision to come down- would that worthless lowborn bastard brother of his let him rot in a cell, or was there some other purpose in store? The sharp edge of the cuffs shined in the low light of the room. Bored, he had ground one side of them down to make a weapon, but nobody bothered to open the door long enough for him to use it. Now he scratched at his scraggly and unkempt chin with them, contemplating dragging them across his throat. It wouldn’t be an honorable death, or even one for any history books, but what else did he have but his life? He could wait here in this cell for the lowborn to decide his fate or he could take it in his own hands. The cuffs shifted slightly as he slid his hands lower, to his shoulders. The keen line of shining iron in the otherwise black and bleak room tempted him. It was like the light at the end of death’s tunnel, only at the entrance. How easy would it be to get the last laugh like this?! Take that, you traitorous bastards. You can’t even have me!

The gleam reminded him of a different shimmer, a shimmer he had seen months ago. His oath was to his Queen, yes, but she was dead. He had another oath. That demon had made him swear in blood to make an enemy of the gods. He swore, but it was with cold terror in his heart. He had seen one of them kill a thousand. But seeing the battlefield, seeing their numbers routed by a single one, that cold terror was replaced with nervous anticipation. Oh, they could die. It wouldn’t even take him a thousand to kill one. They were made of flesh and blood. He lowered the cuffs. Getting out. He swore an oath. He longed to see their blood run. They called him a monster, now. What would they call him when he was a man who killed gods?

The door of the cell shook and clicked and Verte pushed his hands into his lap, staring at a wall. The wood swung open and gave the Moon Guard his first real burst of heat since he had been locked in this place, the fire warm on the other side as an elf in shining armor stepped inward, his helmet off as he frowned down at him. In many ways, the two of them were exactly alike, right down to the ears, the black hair, the azure skin, even the turn of the lip so valued in the Highborne circles. What Verte’s horrid excuse for blood lacked was the golden eyes that the Baldassares valued so greatly. Verte noticed he had also spent the time carving new tattoos into his face, perhaps to separate himself even further.

“Dangal. Come to hit me again?”

The armored elf clenched his fist a bit and chuckled, shaking his head.

“Please, brother. I want to know if you’ve learned the error of your ways. Queen Azshara is dead. With her passing she took the damned world with her. There’s nothing left now but to pick up the pieces.”

“In all of your hands, of course. Was this ever anything more than a coup, Dangal? Now the druids are in control, the Highborne are hunted and chased across the forests and fields, and how do you treat magic, our race’s lifeblood, our inheritance from the Well itself? How many have you executed so far?”

“How did you know all that?”

“Little birds come to the window.”

Dangal looked to the side of the bare, unadorned wall. “What choice do we have, Verte? That magic brought the demons here, it brought the world to ruin. I might not approve of it being punished so harshly, but in order to protect what is left, we have to do whatever it may take.”

“Even if it means killing your family? How is dear father doing?” Verte grinned, but Dangal smiled back.

“Quite alright, actually. He’s given up his staff and books and is working as a farmer.”

“He was a master arcanist-

“Was, Verte. We all have to make changes.”

Verte frowned and lowered his head, going quiet. Dangal spoke up again but was quieted as the elf before him sniffed.

“If father was given up the spell, maybe...” He shifted around, holding his hands closer to his knees. “I don’t know, brother.” The word was acid on his lips, but he said it anyways. To his glee, Dangal squatted down beside him, looking at him intently. “Maybe it is time. The Queen did such wicked things.”

Dangal leaned in further, nodding. “It’s alright, Verte. We’ll get your name cleared, our family won’t have to live in squalor, either. We can work together t-“

It was a quick motion. Verte’s hands came out of the blanket the moment that Dangal went in for a hug and swept across the guard’s neck, the sharpened edges of the cuffs swiping across. Drops of red blood splattered on the dungeon floor, Dangal’s eyes widening as he stammered and sputtered, trying to speak as Verte rose and bode him to the ground by his chest, forcing his arms away from his neck every time he tried to grab it to stop the bleeding. The gash spilled a torrent of crimson, flapping and squeezing as he tried to gasp and breathe, only making the wound worse.

“Shh. Shh, bastard. I’m sure you’ll serve as good mulch for your druid friends. Lie back and die a traitor’s death. Shh.”

The grabbing hands at Verte’s own grew weaker and weaker, and soon they fell to his sides, fingers but twitching as the flow of blood slowed and pooled beneath the cut elf. His eyes rolled backward, and his facial tics were reduced to nothing more than lip twitches and the flare of a nostril. Verte searched Dangal’s still warm body, finding a key and undoing the blood-drenched shackles, tossing them into the side of the cell with a clatter as he rubbed his wrists, sneering.

Escape was important, but for now he sat beside the sorry, dying fool that called himself his brother and watched every bit of life drain from him.

That doesn’t mean much, considering the situation you were in.

 I wasn’t THAT bad off.

Glaslem couldn’t feel much of anything. Oh wait, no, that was just numbness for a moment. There was the feeling. Correction. Glaslem could feel everything. His already injured hand throbbed, the soreness of it churning his stomach. It was definitely worse off than it had been, probably broken, but he couldn’t tell from the mass of cloth it had become. At least it was only dirty and not bloody. His right leg was sprained, definitely. Every time he moved it, it shot pain through his body that felt like an explosion. He landed on it, that’s what he remembered. His side trickled even more blood, and with his uninjured hand he touched at it, wincing as he felt a rib sticking against his breastplate.

Three stabs had been enough to convince the dragon that it wasn’t a good idea to be attacking this particular castle anymore, and it had flown off at a speed that made him nearly black out. He had held on bitterly, grinding his teeth with the sword buried in the lizard’s back, getting ready to stab again until it tucked it’s wings inward and rolled so fast that he was flung off. He righted himself as quickly as he could and thought to tumble the moment he hit the ground, but his right foot landed first and that was all for the story before unconsciousness.

He sat up (to his immediate regret) and looked around, wincing. Where was he? He didn’t recognize these particular rolling hills apart from any of the others in Arathor. Slowly he crawled up to his feet, leaning against his sword for support and sighing. Standing up took him nearly a minute. Walking was going to be hell. Still, he couldn’t just lay there and wait for someone to find him. A wandering patrol from the Empire could find him and they might recognize him. He might be a mercenary, but that wouldn’t matter if he was bloody and beaten. If it wasn’t a military patrol, he might be found by trolls. He didn’t worry about trolls usually, but he’d make a good meal for a tribe of them, the way he was now.

He limped forward, shifting his sword around so that it acted as a crutch. The movement made him cringe and he gagged on sour agony, but he took another step, sliding along the grass that occasionally turned from green to red with droplets of his blood. It took him an hour to reach the crest of the hill and then another hour getting down it, something that normally wouldn’t have taken more than a few minutes. The constant starting and stopping ground on his nerves, but any faster and he knew he wouldn’t be moving very much at all. He crossed more hills as the sun died down, finally finding a tree in the endless highlands that he could hunker down beside as the day turned to night. In the darkness, his barely focusing eyes spotted smoke in the moonlight, and a campfire far to the east. He pointed in that direction and fell asleep, exhaustion winning out over pain.

He woke up before dawn to find the campfire still roaring and blessed his luck, hoisting himself up to his agonized feet and sliding along towards it, using the flame as a beacon. The sun rose as he crossed another few hills, the smell of woodsmoke and charring meat sharp in the air and causing Glaslem to drool, wiping his mouth with his bandaged hand. Every step was new suffering, but his body got used to it eventually. It was noon when he finally arrived on the outskirts of the camp and thankfully found the fire still burning and people still wandering around in it. He found somewhere close and hid as well as an eight-foot elf could. His body ached and his stomach growled, but he’d do no good stumbling in to a possible Arathi camp and hoping for mercy.

The soldiers moving around the camp wore no colors and flew no flags, but the rich smell of their cooking betrayed how much they were working with. Rosemary, Thyme, Basil, Yeast, Sugar- all of these things filled the air around the camp, and they weren’t that common around this area of the highlands. He was surprised he could pick up that many different scents. Maybe the fall had fixed his broken nose again. Glaslem’s ears twitched, picking up subtle sounds. The tuning of a lute somewhere there, the crackle of the fire, soft conversation. He heard the word ‘Lordaeron’ used a lot, but couldn’t quite tell if it was being used in a good way or a bad way.

There was a familiar voice among them. Glaslem smiled, standing up and limping towards the camp, whistling loudly to make sure they knew he was coming. Swords were drawn from scabbard and the distinct tug of a bowstring sent his ear flapping, but he continued forward slowly.

“Who the hell’s that?”

“Wait, I think I saw him at the fight. Was he on our side?”

“He was killing Arathor troops, but who knows with the elves…”

“Glaslem?”

There was that familiar voice again… A short ginger-haired girl made her way through the throng of soldiers, having to squeeze a little to get by. Eight soldiers in total not counting Agerio, and he was too injured to wait until they were asleep to grab what he needed. He leaned heavily against his sword, making a pitiful image, partly for sympathy and partly so they wouldn’t see him holding his knife under his cloak. Trust was a valuable commodity and one he wasn’t so willing to give away.

“Agerio, what do you know. Small world. Could you do me a favor and fix this shit?”

“Were you the one who-“

“Jumped on the dragon? Yeah.”

The soldiers blinked, staring at him with a mixture of awe and suspicion. Their weapons didn’t lower any. Agerio moved past them though, slowly and cautiously as she looked over his wounds, turning her eyes and mouth down in worry and shock.

“You WALKED here like this…? Okay, I c-“

“No.” Said a voice from the crowd.

Glaslem raised his head up a bit from the small priestess tending to him, who was glancing back as well. Oh, for the love of- well, at least the raptor head was deflated. That was a little funny. Zaburo’s shiny armor was dented and tarnished with smoke, soot, and scratches, and from the patches of shine visible on the surface, he had tried to scrub it away with polish to no avail. He still bore that pompous, irritable look on his visage that yelled out to the world around him that he was better than you, and had the deeds to prove it. He marched over, standing behind his troops and spitting.

“He pays if he wants services.”

“Are you kidding, Zaburo?” Glaslem sneered, staring him down. The noble shifted around uncomfortably, but didn’t move. He had soldiers to protect him. “After what I did at the keep and to the dragon AND after you underpaid me?”

“You, were paid adequately, elf. Money grubbing, ungrateful. What can anyone expect?” Zaburo laughed and his lackeys nervously laughed with him, their weapons half lowered. Glaslem grit his teeth, eye twitching with anger and the pain from his injuries. Didn’t really have time for this.

“…Fine. Fine. How much for her to heal me and to get some rations?”

“Oh, you want to be FED too?! Typical! Ah, alright. After all, money talks to your kind. Fifteen gold.” Glaslem sighed, shutting his eyes and frowning. Well, guess it would be time to start over- “Per wound.”

“Excuse me?” That had been from Agerio, the priestess shooting a look back at the commander. Glaslem’s response was less polite.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“-per wound, with an extra five for the rations. That should get you well enough to leave my camp. It’s the least you can do for the destruction of the League.”

“You’re blaming me for that?”

“You’re an elf. You should have known earlier what we were getting into.”

Glaslem didn’t look at Zaburo. Another look at that smug face and he would have ignored the sharp arrows notched in bowstrings in front of him. If he just left, he’d die. Exposure would kill him if the blood leaking out of his wounds didn’t attract a REAL raptor. At the same time, Zaburo’s idea of ‘five gold rations’ was probably a loaf of stale bread. Even if he healed the side wound so that he wasn’t going to bleed out, he’d starve to death with his limited mobility. Not that he actually had the gold for the rations anyway… Glaslem looked down at Agerio, chewing on the inside of his lip. She was worried, shifting and rubbing her shoulders in anxiety and disgust The soldier’s arrows were pointed down. They weren’t as tense with the priestess in the way.

Bad move.

Glaslem ripped his knife out from his cloak and wrapped his arm around Agerio’s chest, the priestess yelping as he yanked her up into his chest, pinning her with the knife at her throat. The bows went back up just as quickly, but they shook worriedly. Zaburo snapped to attention, sneering.

“Bad idea, elf! Shoot him.”

“Sir, she’s in the way.”

“I don’t care!” Glaslem grinned. The soldiers didn’t seem to take that as a command to open the volley.

“Sir, we can’t. She’s a priestess.” Glaslem stared them down, his knife hand steady despite his injuries. Pain was forgotten for adrenaline. Agerio didn’t so much as wince, frozen in terror.

“Yeah, that’s right. Any of you want the death of a priestess on your hands? I doubt it. Prospect of Hell doesn’t sound too good, right? Not to mention what those priests’ll do to you and your families.”

“You dirty elven coward!”

“Glaslem-“

“Heal my leg, Agerio.”

Shifting around a bit, she panted in his grip and shakily slid her hand down, grasping his thigh. A flash of light later and he could feel the tension and agony of his twisted leg fade away. The elf let out a sigh and hitched her closer to himself, backing away slowly, dragging his sword with him and pinning her between it and him.

“SHOOT HIM! I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT A PRIESTESS! I WILL PAY YOU EACH TEN GOLD TO SHOOT HIM!”

They didn’t. They also didn’t follow, letting Glaslem and Agerio wander off backward into the rolling hills. He couldn’t really walk with her, so he limp-dragged her along, keeping the sharp blade close to her flesh. They really are cowards, he bitterly thought, watching as they lowered their bows and backed away into the camp. Glaslem glanced back and found a tree, putting his back against it.

“Alright. Heal the rest of me, quick.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

Glaslem went quiet, staring back at the camp. The fire was still lit, smoke spilling up into the sky. His eyes searched for moving figures, but found none.

“What? No. You thought I was going to stab you or something?”

“You still have a knife to my throat!” Her voice was a high-pitched squeak or worry and panic.

“…Oh. Oh! Shit, sorry. Force of habit, I’m used to unwilling hostages.”

“You are?!”

“Look-“ He took the knife away and even dropped it for good measure, holding his hand up. He would have held both, but his sword weighed down the other. “-it’s a long story. Heal me.”

“Alright, but I’m coming with you.”

“That’s probably a bad idea-“

“Better than staying with them. Zaburo had me give up the gold you gave me as a travel expense and confiscated all of my books.”

Agerio turned now that she was free, her hands glowing with light, the pain and agony of his wounds fading as bones knit, muscle mended, and flesh sealed. As she healed him, he bit down on and ripped the bandages off of his hand, freeing it from the sword handle just in time for the magic to snap it back into place, the elf squeezing his eyes shut in response to the sound and pain. He rolled it, gratified at the lack of ache as he tested every bit of his body, giving a happy sigh.

“You priests are something else.”

“Yes, but don’t get hurt again. I don’t think I could manage it again until we rested.”

Glaslem sighed, hoisting his sword up and setting it onto his shoulder. He knelt down and picked up his knife, flipping it in his hand to hold it to her. She took it. “You’re sure about this? Means I’ll have to make a detour.”

“Where are you going?”

“Gonna go kill that dragon.”

Agerio stared at him dumbfounded as he pushed off the tree and started off down the hill, much faster now that he wasn’t having to use his massive sword as a crutch.

I suppose so. It was rather impressive…

 I’m just naturally impressive. Heh.

Verte squatted down beside the body of a slain Lordaeron troop, looking it over. It was covered in claw and bite marks. Bodies were the only bounty to be found here at this keep, bodies so mutilated and burned that it was obvious where the dragon’s rage had been centered. Everything else was gone. There was nary a gold coin or tiny gemstone left, and even the bodies had been stripped of armor and weapons. It had been a massacre from the inside out, but the corpses stopped piling up once they left the keep. He sighed and stood up, looking at the wall and blood still drying on it’s surface. One of the soldiers had smeared out a symbol on it, some plea for aid for any listening god. Verte smirked. They’ll probably think this place is cursed after this.

A cloaked figure stepped out of the keep itself, slinking forward like a shadow with the black cloth covering the body. “Any alive?” The elf asked, staring at the figure for a moment before two metal-clad hands reached up and pulled the hood back, revealing a near-white face with small, pointed tusks.

“No. There’s a dead drakonid in there, though. Took about four of them…”

“Tch. Maybe next time they won’t charge into a dragon’s den.”

“I don’t think they knew.”

“No foresight. Don’t have any sympathy for them, Orenga.”

Verte put two fingers into his mouth and whistled sharply. From the ramparts a whistle came back. A tall human figure, hair gold and body lanky, strolled down from the wall, taking every step with a droop that made him seem either tired or just suave, and from the look on his face, it was likely the latter. The man put his hands on his hips and cocked his back, smirking insufferably. The elf frowned.

“Got a trail, Sekot?”

“Headed north towards Lordaeron. Looks like she had the drakes gather up her loot, because she flew off in a hurry.”

“She devastated these people. Once they were inside, the Drakonids and spawn tore the soldiers apart and dropped the gate while she scorched the army outside so badly they had to retreat. I would be shocked if any of the ones inside were left alive. Maybe she had another hoard to hunt down?”

“No.”

“…No?”

“No, because she was injured. From the sense of it, right in her back.”

“Orenga, get the horses. We need to move now!”

Oh, you’re such a braggart.

 ONE of us has to be. You’re all so damn humble!

Agerio kept quiet through the rest of the journey, trailing behind Glaslem with a look of worry until they finally arrived at a small village in northern Arathor. The town had been occupied by Lordaeron forces, not that it mattered much; traveling with the priest was something Glaslem would have to do more often. The angry glares were cut short when the symbols and robes were seen, with heads bowing in reverence and respect to the young priestess who, to anyone just glancing about, might’ve had the massive elf as a bodyguard. They even got some free bread!

“Hell, I should just join the church. Think I’d make a good knight?”

“You are too much a fool.”

“Mshmarter then ‘oo.” He said, mouth full of bread.

They approached a small chapel at the far side of town, some of the peasantry giving bows to the priestess and worried looks to her pointy eared escort. Agerio stepped to the doors and gave a happy sigh, leaning against the heavy wood in reverence, muttering a prayer. Glaslem occupied himself by leaning back against the doorframe with his arms securely crossed over his chest. She picked her head up off of the wood and looked over to Glaslem with a frown, one hand on the door’s handle.

“Are you sure about this? Really? Glaslem, it’s a dragon!”

“Yeah, it’s not a big deal.”

“…It’s a DRAGON!”

“Look, don’t worry about me, alright? I’m a mercenary, you shouldn’t care about people who get paid to kill people. Go in there and settle into a world apart from my bullshit.”

“I will pray that you remain safe.”

“Ah, don’t do that. Then I’d be out of a job.”

They stared at each other for a moment before Glaslem jerked his head upward in a motion for her to continue in. The door swung open and then shut. The elf took a deep breath in through his nostrils and stepped down the steps, rolling his shoulders and keeping his sword on his back. He knew this area, and he knew there was a pass through the mountain nearby he could use to get into Lordaeron proper. From there, he’d spend the little bit of his gold on a guide, maybe a tracker to hunt it down. A brief thought of just picking up more work popped up. The war was still going after all, and there was always need for more soldiers on the front lines. He shook the thought out of his mind. Slaying a dragon was just too enticing. Stupid sure, but enticing. With any luck it’d still be injured! With one of his gold pieces he bought a bag’s worth of bread and rations, filling his waterskin at the well.

As Glaslem left the village, he didn’t notice a woman in rags watching him from behind one of the buildings, waiting for him to leave before she disappeared.

The sun slid down over the horizon by the time he reached the pass. His body was fresh and still spry, but without a torch or a lantern there’d be little use trying to go through the mountains in the dead of night. Thankfully it was the midsummer. It’d be cold up on the mountain but down here at the base it was calm and quiet, the wind barely blowing save for a slightly damp breeze from the top of the mountain. Camp for Glaslem was nothing more than a large enough rock for him to sit against, wrapping his cloak around tight and leaning back as he shut his eyes, letting his ears twitch and pick up the sounds around him, his sword leaning against the rock.

It was too bad that Orenga was too quiet for him to pick up, even with his elven ears open wide. She climbed up atop the rock he was sleeping against, leaning down to look his face and features over with a soft smile. Her gauntleted fingers came down, claws almost brushing across his cheek before she stopped and turned her face in a frown. She leaned back up and huffed silently, pouting as she slid off of the rock and away.

The camp was dead still when Orenga arrived back, Verte and Sekot looking up at her in the darkness.

“So who is he?”

“Don’t know. No symbols, simple armor, big sword’s about the only special part of him besides the fact that he’s an elf.”

“That alone is enough to set him apart h-“

“Cute, too.”

Silence. Verte sighed heavily, and Sekot grinned and buried his face in his hands. Orenga blinked. “What?! You know that’s not why I want him here, anyway. Are we going to take him with us?” The elf ran his hand through his feathered white hair, shaking his head.

“Not likely. He’s just another rogue element in the chase.”

“But you know lone wolves don’t last long without a pack…”

“Lone wolves also choose to be alone, Orenga. Sekot, you’re sure she went this way?”

The human leaned forward, his arms over his thighs, nodding. “Aye. Still illusioned, though moving fast. I don’t think she can fly very high with her injury.”

“Did you see where it was?”

“Back I think, from the limp.”

Verte shifted around a bit and sat cross-legged, holding his sword in his lap. This sword had stayed with him for a long time, through nicks and breaks, across centuries, across two continents that had once been one. It had been newly tempered in the blood of Gods. Ever since he had come to this land though, it had been dull. Not a single scale had been chipped by his blade. He’d fix that with this one. Admittedly, that was what he had been saying with every new one they found…

“We’ll wait for a while, let the stranger go up the path first. If she kills him, we’ll be able to get the drop on her while she’s distracted.” Sekot nodded, but Orenga frowned, furrowing her brow at Verte. He turned to her. “We’re not heroes, Orenga. You know that.” The troll said nothing, turning her nose up and moving to her bedroll with a low ‘hmpf!’ Verte sighed and looked over his sword.

 Glaslem awoke to a bird chirping, picking through his bag. With a shout it leapt and flew away, with a small piece of bread in its beak. “You little shit!” He called after it, sighing and settling down, rubbing his hands across his face. It was a gentler morning than the one before, but his back cracked from the rough bedding, really nothing more than his cloak draped over the front and back of him. Maybe he’d get a night with a bed once he crossed the border, with any luck. He definitely still had the gold for it. With a yawn he picked himself up off of the ground and stretched, his body a cacophony of creaks and pops as he worked circulation back into limbs that’d been pinched by his posture on the ground. He spat and grabbed the piece of bread the bird had been nibbling, taking a bite right out of it and washing it down with a mouthful of bland-tasting, lukewarm water from his waterskin. Then he picked up his sword, propped it on his shoulder, and started up the pathway, tugging his cloak tighter and pulling his hood over his head to block out the chilling winds that were whistling down from the narrow passage.

Fresh dawn sun did little to warm him as he trudged upward, his boots crunching in frost and scattered pebbles. The path sloped greatly after only an hour of travel, the journey growing perilous as he was forced to keep only one hand on the handle of his sword to catch himself every time he stumbled. Glaslem’s boots were heavy, but they struggled to find a place in the slippery earth. Eventually he switched to just burying his sword in the damned ground and ice, using it as a pick to drag himself further and further upward. After hours of grueling travel, he finally found a place covered over by a lip of rock on the mountain peak above, keeping it dry. Glaslem rested there, finishing off the bread and glancing out over the land. Below him the Highlands stretched over like a green quilt concealing a pudgy giant, hills and mounds pushing the land upward and making a mess of what could’ve been clean, straight emerald. The elf pulled his cloak tighter around himself and sighed, the breath freezing in front of his lips. How did this mountain get this cold this fast? It wasn’t even that high up… His fingers shook, and he huffed on them to warm them, working blood back into the digits during his short break. All the way up here he could even trace his steps and see the ruined keep he had been in the other night, still spilling black smoke up into the sky from the flames caught by the dragon’s rage.

“The hell am I thinking…?” Glaslem said to the chilling air, frowning. Pride? Eh. He didn’t care what people said about him, whether they thought he was mad or if they thought he was brave. It’d be nice to be able to set his shoulders a little higher and snobbily say ‘Heh yeah, I managed to kill a dragon’, but that’d only put food on the table and women in his bed for a few months. He didn’t have anything particularly AGAINST dragons, big scary scaled monsters they may have been, at least not enough to make it his mission usually. Everything told him to just get over the lizard, let her go her way. He’d almost be over the thought and the word would pop up again.

Mortal.

Mortal this. Mortal that. Mortal trespasses, how dare the mortals do such a thing… like every step he took he should be kissing a scaly claw for the chance to breath that day. He didn’t like people, but they didn’t make him as angry as Gods did. People were at least people. Gods were supposed to be better than that. It was hard enough living without dealing with something that didn’t trying to tell you what to do.

He sharply gasped, wincing. He hadn’t realized that he was clenching his teeth. He rocked his jaw around a bit, breathing on his hands again to warm them as he continued along the path, sticking close to the side of the mountain to keep himself from looking down. The frost was less prominent as he went higher, giving him a hell of a lot less trouble walking, but it wasn’t much comfort. The air grew colder and colder even as the sun hung directly over his head, the daylight’s warmth doing little to keep the shake out of his shoulders and wrists. The wind here was heavier too, forcing him to keep his cloak pulled tight with one hand as the other kept his sword comfortable. He STILL managed to slip a few times, though not on ice but from exhaustion. Step after step he climbed until he finally reached the point that the path sloped back downward, grateful to have a downhill.

There was also a rounded clearing here, bearing a single long dead tree with its branches like spines trying to catch light to protect it from the bitter cold. Glaslem trudged to it and sighed, leaning his sword against it and breathing heavily, grinning. Only a few more hours and he’d be back in summer warmth, back somewhere the weather made sense, with green trees and fresh grass, and a few hours past that a bed that he could sleep a year in. Yeah. That sounded nice. He looked down, noticing a pile of burlap below him and a pair of yellow eyes glaring up at him.

“SHIT!” The elf stumbled back, startled and leaning forward to prop his hands on his knees. “You scared the hell out of me… sorry. Didn’t see you there.” The pile of burlap shifted slightly, the bag-like coat wrapping tighter around the figure as she stood and looked at him, still glaring. “Look, I’ll be out of your way in just a second. Just need to catch my breath and I’ll be down the mountain.” The woman strode forward towards him, limping slightly. Her eyes glowed gold, still narrowed towards him. Mage, maybe? He thought, frowning. “I’m not trying to start trouble-“

“RUN!” Glaslem jerked his head back at the voice and saw a troll get yanked back behind the stone wall. Well, that was weird. He looked back as he heard cracks, and a faint arcane pop. The dragon was staring back at him.

Fire pooled in it’s mouth and he dove, instinct taking over as his cloak was singed by flame, the clearing taken up almost entirely by the dragon’s form. He low-crawled away, trying to get away before a claw punctured his healed side and reversed that, sending him flying and crashing into the tree, the wood and his body snapping as he went through it and into the stone wall behind. Blindly he reached out, his vision swimming and head throbbing as his hand clasped around something hard and heavy and he stabbed it forward, hearing a screech as it plunged into something soft, but the object snapped. Glaslem blinked, finally able to see properly. His sword was beside him on the ground, while a branch from the broken tree had been jammed into the dragon’s gum when she tried to come down on him. Taking the moment, he picked himself and his sword off of the ground, tasting heavy copper and spitting out the mouthful of blood that had pooled there.

The dragon crunched through the branch and spat it aside, swinging down on him with her claws. He blocked it with his sword, but it was like blocking a battering ram, sending him stumbling and tripping aside before he managed to catch his feet again and turn to face her. He ran to the side but breathing was difficult, his side dripping down and staining the gray ground red. Glaslem swung blind, managing to slash across the dragon’s palm and duck another swipe, rolling out of the way of another blast of fire. With a sweep he slashed across her scaly cheek, the dragon roaring in anger and lifting back. He watched her carefully. If she breathed fire close, he could attack her face. If she swiped, he could get her in the palms of her hand, though the backs were too heavily armored. The neck as well was too tough to go for, which was a damn shame because that was his go to for lizards and raptors. There wasn’t enough room to hit him with her tail, and from the way her wings curled on her back to cover her previous wound, he wouldn’t have to worry about her flying.

“ELF.” The dragon said, curling her lips back in a sickly smile as he stared her down, gripping his sword tightly.

“Oh, now you want to talk?!” He clenched his teeth in a grizzly smile, more for grit than glee.

“HOW FAR CAN YOUR KIND FALL BEFORE THEY JUST DIE?”

Glaslem froze, which was a mistake. She charged forward before he could react, ramming him in the stomach with her snout and shoving him forward. His boots scraped and scrambled on the stone, unable to find a place. She had all four claws planted on the ground and now her head dangled over the side, shaking violently. He glanced down and immediately regretted it, the jagged chunks of rock that would meet him below calling for him. He still had his sword, but one hand was occupied with gripping a scale with dear life, trying to keep from flying off.

The wind picked up harshly, the dragon’s eyes shutting for a moment of surprise as it buffeted against her, sending her crashing to her side and rolling with the force of the gale, off the edge of the mountain. She scrabbled at the side with her claws, digging them in deep to keep herself from falling. Glaslem looked over to where the wind had blown from and saw nothing, but didn’t look a gift dragon in the mouth; with a scream of rage he plunged his sword down between the dragon’s eyes.

The last image in her mind before she died was going crosseyed as she stared up at the mortal that killed her. Then, they both fell into the rocks.

 Verte frowned, stepping to the edge of the cliff, careful not to slip in the splattered blood and scale. He gripped his sword’s handle tightly, though the shaking of his hands wasn’t from the cold. This was nothing compared to Winterspring. His sword was securely in its scabbard and completely, utterly, clean. His eyes cut down at the corpses below. The dragon had landed first, her wings skewered and body pierced by the rocks. The giant elf lay on the bottom of her jaw, gripping his sword even in death.

“What a fool. He could have just leapt off, landed on the rocks. Why did you warn him, Orenga?!”

“I couldn’t just let him die!” The troll woman looked at the edge as well, though with less frustration than her elven companion. Her fur coat was wrapped tight around her shoulders and she sniffed.

“It didn’t matter in the end, did it? Idiot. He could have at least had the decency to die BEFORE he fell.”

“That’s cruel, Verte.”

He sighed. It was, wasn’t it? After all, the elf had just done their job for them. They went to kill the dragon and the dragon was dead. Mission accomplished, right? It didn’t keep the black hole in his chest from roaring louder at every chance he had and every chance he slipped…

“Well, at least be cruel to his face.” Sekot said, smirking as he looked over the edge with arms crossed over his chest. Orenga gasped, her hands shooting to her mouth as Verte whipped his head around.

“What?”

“He’s not dead.”

 Glaslem pulled his sword free with a grunt and screamed. Some would say that it was a primal or animalistic sound, but it wasn’t that. There was shaking from fear, gurgling from pain, and a squawk at the end as it died off. It wasn’t the scream of prey killing a predator. It was directed at the heavens, at the shining sun. It wasn’t telling the people up on the cliff that he was still alive. It was telling the Gods that he was.

 “Humility is a virtue, isn’t it?” Verte said, smiling. The campfire crackled lightly. How long had it been since then? Twenty years? Twenty decades? Time moved so fast when you had a well and proper job to do. Orenga, Sekot, and Orogal were all asleep in their tents, leaving only the two elves to sit by the fire. Verte just sat with his sword in his lap, shining in the flickering light, while Glaslem drank heartily from a metal cup of coffee.

“It won’t be when this is all over, I think. Plenty of stories to tell at taverns across the world! But yeah… sleeping. Sleeping will be good when we’re retired.”

“I think I’ll keep that in mind, Glaslem. It might be a good thing to do.”

“In between spending time with your wife?”

“…Can I be honest?” Verte’s lackadaisical smile drooped down to a worried frown. “I don’t think I want to just settle down.”

“Tch, I figured not. What do you want to do instead, then?”

“I want to rule something.”

[ahensaanmyr]

THE MORE YOU BITCH, THE LOUDER I CHEW CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH

WHY THE FUCK DO PEOPLE EAT ICE

[ahensaanmyr]

buss bettle.

[ahensaanmyr]

Spooky Halloween Thing

((Another unrelated to WoW thing. Happy Halloween))

Murphy: “The first thing that most people think about when they walk into a crime scene is the blood. When there isn’t any, it sets cops on edge. They get a little worried. The first thoughts in their heads are the irrational ones, vampires and demons and whatever, because when freaky shit goes down, the first thought is always irrational. It makes the sensible notion a little harder to swallow, though. Instead of some bloodsucking bastard from Bram Stoker, you just have to deal with the fact that some human being strung a kid up by their ankles, cut their throat, carved them up like a turkey, and didn’t spill a single drop on the linoleum.

A couple of the new folks went and threw up behind the house, which left me and my partner to deal with the brunt of it. We took pictures and searched the room and made chit chat to pretend that what we were looking at wasn’t that bad. It was. Neither of us were really all that keen on looking right at it, and we had Chinese for lunch, so the usual jokes we’d have been making about pork we weren’t too good making.

But, we did find something worthwhile in the drain. The blood was there, so we were a little at ease knowing it hadn’t just fucking disappeared, but we also found a clump of gray hairs there, knotted up around the grate. The kid was a brunette, so it was a lead. We bagged it up, sent it to the lab, made the men in white suits clean up the rest- hazmat, they had got called once the body had been called in- and went out for takeout. Pizza, this time. If I had to eat any pork, I’d have thrown it up all over the goddamn car.”

Amanda: “It took a week for the hair to get back from the lab. Me’n Murphy were both pretty antsy, we wanted to find who had done this and get them quick, I mean it had all the screaming of ‘Serial Killer’, and nevermind what’d do for our careers, we just didn’t want the ‘Fat and Blood Collector’ to be top page news, y’know? Some old bastard makin’ coats or stew or whatever the fuck like, we’ve all seen that Hannibal show, we know how all this shit goes, only…

The hair came back pinged on somebody, alright. Former resident of the apartment, good woman livin’ there for years, no complaints about anybody- problem was, she had died of a heart attack.

Eighty years ago.

So that was some fucked up shit. The only reason we had her DNA was because of a catalogin’ system the state had put out to make sure dead people weren’t followed up on. Scared us for a bit, got us thinking, this guy’s been working that long, maybe she was a friend, but nah. Turns out the basement’d only been made in the 70s, so that wrote out her working on it. On a hunch, we had ‘em exhume her… and there was nothing in her coffin.”

M: “That was scary enough, but it had a rational explanation. Now this woman, Margaret Kosky, was our number one suspect, or maybe her kid. She could’ve faked her death or the numbers had gotten screwed up, and that was good enough for us, so we started asking around about her. Everybody we chatted with had a different opinion. Most of the ones that knew her name wanted her dead and gone for good, but it was for varying reasons. Some were pissed because apparently she went creeping after kids in the old days, some of the people we talked to were terrified because they WERE those kids… but eventually we got the hint that there was an old house in the suburbs that would have what we needed.

A: “We go out there an’ it’s spooky as hell, for sure. None’a the lights are on but we expected that, the house is older’n dirt, but it’s perfect, creepy perfect, like the windows are boarded up and the door locked with some big padlock but there ain’t no dust on the boards and the padlock ain’t even rusted, not even a little, and we’re in humid air here, iron’s GONNA rust. We break it, ‘cuz turns out the property got turned over to the city when Margaret supposedly ‘kicked it’, and we go in… house is spotless. Lights are all immaculate’n shit, floors’re swept, even the rugs are clean, and we go into the kitchen…

You know, the movie, the one with Brad Pitt and that one old black guy with the nice voice, what’s his name-“

M: “Morgan Freeman.”

A: “Yeah. You know that movie? How it starts all freaky? That was the kitchen. Glass jars piled up to the damn ceiling, filled with just- just anything you could think of. Eyeballs, fingers, teeth, globs of fat, whole jars, whole fucking jars, full of blood and vacuum sealed. Really wanted to throw up but just when we turn to leave, who’s there, some chick looks 20 years old, rack like a pair of- whatever, she’s standing there in nothing but a bathrobe drying her hair off and asks what we’re doing here. We don’t say nothin’, but she starts listin’ off excuses, oh all that’s just nicknacks, don’t worry about ‘em, they’re just curios, just ‘ole bits and pieces that she bought at auction, and we almost fall for it, but she goes for this knife on the coffee table and both of us were in no mood for that shit-“

M: “She grabs it off the table, and we tell her to put it down, but she charges us with it. Amanda gets her sidearm out first and dumps the whole mag into her, and she drops back, bathrobe goes flying off… she isn’t twenty years old. She isn’t even really eighty, she’s got to be a long, long way past all that, covered in wrinkles and lesions and bedsores. The holes in her chest don’t so much as bleed as much as ooze, and instead of red it’s just a thick black that bubbles up out of the nine .45 wounds. It’s only there for a second, then the skin’s gone, turning to dust that kicks up around us and makes us cough like crazy, swear we must’ve inhaled her, then bones, then nothing but the bathrobe left behind. You know what I said, about the mind going to crazy first, then rational second? We should’ve just stayed at crazy.”

A: “So yeah. We write the report up and head on back, and hazmat deals with it again. They condemned the house, but the locals all burned it down before the demolition crew could get there. They were pretty pissed off at her, still.

M: “Hope old Margy’s rotting in hell, after all she did.”

A: “Margaret. Her name is Margaret.”

[ahensaanmyr]

Reverse Boss battle.

[ahensaanmyr]

Send me “Boss Battle”, and I’ll post the music that plays when your muse fights mine as a boss.

Alternatively, send me “Reverse Boss battle”, and I’ll post the music that plays when my muse fights yours as a boss.

[ahensaanmyr]

To Spite Gods: Part 1

               What’re you going to do when this is all over, Glaslem?

The bodies weren’t cold yet. How could they get cold when the weather was like this? Sweat beaded on his brow and on his cheek and on his legs and arms and everywhere that could sweat. Highland summers were supposed to be pleasant. He stared up at the oppressive yellow ball above him and sighed, wiping his head with the back of his hand. It gave him a better view. The dead were stacked five by five in the wooden pallets they used to burn them, but not out of any respect. They had tried burning them in piles, and it took days. This way, there was more air, and they could feed the fires between the stacks with more wood.

“HEY, ELF! Give us a hand with that magic of yours over here?!”

“Not a magister!”

“…Uh, uh-“

“You see robes or a staff on me, human?”

“Come on, you can’t expect me to-“

“Relax, I’m joking. What’d you need?”

“These stacks won’t light properly.”

“Well, you’re using the wood from over by the river…

Sleep, maybe. It’s been a long time since I slept.

 What about you?

He could still smell them if he closed his eyes and focused, just under the smell of lavender perfume and apple incense. Blood had a sharpness to it in a large quantity, and it didn’t matter how much you covered it up unless you cleaned it up completely. He leaned back against the wall and smelled it, his eyes shut. He wasn’t going to forget this. He wouldn’t let himself. It was blasphemy against the Goddess, and he had to remember that in case they came calling. What was he, now? A murderer? A demon? Or perhaps he was just as he had always been, a soldier? There were still red spots on his sword that refused to scrub out no matter how much polish he applied. It was a cruel joke, deciding to use his sword for the ritual. What loving Goddess would allow this to happen?

“Do not worry, my child. All will be fine.”

“I hope you are right, priestess.”

“Our lady will show us the way.”

Oh, I don’t know. Maybe settle down and marry someone.

That’s it? You’re such a sucker.

And you? -Sleeping-?

The sword was hard to carry with an injured shoulder, but he was managing. Greatswords were a hassle. What scared most people away was using it in a fight, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Once you got used to the weight and momentum, it was like any other weapon, hell, maybe even more satisfying. The worst of it was the march. You couldn’t reasonably have it on your back- it’d drag up the road- so you had to prop it on your shoulder and carry it that way. If you took a hit in combat though, it was going to be hell just getting it to the next battlefield. Cleaning it took too much water and polish, and you’d be up twice as long making sure the edge stayed. On the bright side, it gave him a lot of time to think.

He stumbled lightly, but managed to play it off as he switched from the injured shoulder to the other, laying the sheathed blade down carefully. These were strangers, not his usual troupe. They weren’t likely to take a sign of weakness well, especially not from him. An elf walking with humans was suspicious. The band were some fifty or so in number, not including him. No dwarves, no gnomes, nothing but pureblood humans here in the forests that separated Lordaeron and Arathor. It was a border war from what he had heard. Nothing much more than that. A noble got pissy that his servants weren’t the ones with the best grain and got himself a posse together, only the ‘posse’ was an army and the ‘grain’ was a series of gold mines right in the middle. Currently, it was under Lordaeron’s command, which meant that they had the coin, which meant he was marching with Lordaeron southward.

The last battle had been a hell of one. The Arathor people had locked themselves up tight in a fortress on the end of the border and the band he was with had been sent in to clear it, only nobody told his people about the mages they had waiting on the ramparts, and by the time the ladders hit the side of the walls, they were caught in a blizzard. He had got up just in time to kill a few of the damn sorcerers and open the gate, but it didn’t matter. His group was either dead or captured, and his band’s leader decided he was going to go back to the hills to ‘regroup’. More like beg daddy for some more coin to hire more grunts… but unfortunately, that left the elf in a predicament. He didn’t have nearly enough money to survive on either side of the border.

So, he signed on with a new band. ‘League of the Raptor’, they called themselves. He wondered if any of them had even seen a raptor. But they were there after the siege and they looked scraped up enough to know their way on the battlefield, so the least he could do was walk with them for a while, maybe get into a few more skirmishes before he had enough money to head back to the capital. Their leader, Zaburo, didn’t trust him, but Glaslem was big and carried a big sword and had opened the gate in the first place, so he promised him seventy percent of the usual pay for infantry. The elf had sparred with Zaburo’s best man and put him flat on his ass. It was full pay, now.

But putting that pompous spear-twirling jackass on his back had cost him an injured shoulder, and it wouldn’t be good if someone decided to jump them right then and there. He had been forced to wrap the cut up himself, and he wasn’t a medic. None of them tried to help. He could only hope it healed up before something serious went down.

“Hold it! We’ve got movement up ahead.”

Glaslem stopped and pushed the sword off of his shoulder, slowly lowering it to the ground so that the tip was to his side. He wondered if fate hated him hoping for things. The raiding party all put hands on their weapons as well, but kept them sheathed for the moment as the scout who had called out the movement put a hand over his eyes, peering forward with hawk’s eyes.

“Lordaeron or Arathor?” Said a voice from the bushes, not yet revealing itself. The elf’s hands tightened on his sword’s handle, his teeth clenching as he searched around, his ears twitching. The leaves of the bushes didn’t shake in the wind, and that was suspicious enough without the sound of a fire crackling somewhere nearby. Could be a campfire. Could be a pyre. His sense of smell was off since the last time it broke, so who knew?

“Lordaeron.” Said one of the League. Glaslem’s knuckles paled white as he looked to the bushes, waiting for the inevitable arrows to come flying…

“Good. We’ve got camp nearby, we’re under General Otagen.” The entire league let out a sigh of relief. The scout came out of the bushes and brushed the leaves off of himself, and the troupe walked behind him with the worry sloughed off of their shoulders. They didn’t need to walk far. With a faint blue snap, the scout disappeared and the rest of the troupe followed behind, Glaslem frowning as they passed within.

“Wow, you managed to convince a Dalaraner to come help?” Spoke one of the Raptors, staring around at the wall of blue and purple surrounding them.

“Money talks, even if you’ve got your nose in a book.”

The camp was absolutely filled to the brim with soldiers, all in a state of preparation for the upcoming battle. Saltpork and vegetables bubbled in cauldrons on every fire, the smell of that nameless stew wafting through the camp and mingling with the smell of sweat, blood, and steel polish. The crackle and pop of fire Glaslem had heard on the road was clear now, joined with grunts of exertion and the ring of swords, loud and boisterous conversation, and the stropping of knives on leather and the crunch of swords on whetstones. He was thankful he had already sharpened his sword before, it’d give him a bit of a chance to rest. While Zaburo went to meet with the general, the League of the Raptor filed out to the various places within the camp, maintaining their weapons, getting food or drinks, and generally making themselves at home. It was rare that a mercenary couldn’t make themselves at home at a war camp.

Glaslem did much the same. It was still early fall, and the cold hadn’t settled into the valleys, so he didn’t park too close to the fire. He picked a spot off of the campfire circles and shrugged the sword off of his shoulder with a low grunt, putting a hand over his shoulder with clenched teeth to feel the damp through the formerly-white bandages. At least he didn’t have to walk with it for a while, but it still throbbed. Intent on rewrapping it, he unbuckled his leather breastplate and plopped his satchel on the ground, pulling out his knife and a roll of white cloth. He froze as fingers hovered over his bare flesh, the dark flesh twitching at the stranger’s inquisitive touch. He snatched the offending hand and yanked it forward past his arm, holding the knife against the wrist threateningly and got a high-pitched yip of panic in response.

“Why’re you fondling my goddamn wound?” He didn’t bother looking back. The other soldiers nearer to the fire glanced over at the yip and scowled at him, putting their hands on their knives and swords. That wasn’t a good sign. The elf weighed the options and let go of the frail hand, still holding his knife tightly in his hands. “Well? Speak up, kid.”

“I am trying to help! I am not a kid…” The voice was sweet and songlike, and if Glaslem wasn’t used to human voices by now, he’d have sworn it was a child. Still, he lowered the knife back into its sheath. “I can mend you, elf!” It was unsure and a little shaky, as if trying to drag up confidence from a reservoir that had been dry for years.

“Yeah? Glaslem. Don’t call me ‘elf’.” He dropped the knife into the bag and leaned back a bit, pressing his muscled back against the soft cloth behind him, hands going to his shoulders to stop him from flopping back completely. He rolled his head back on his shoulders and stared up at her. Even with him sitting, she barely stood past his head, red hair curly and unkempt, stained with any manner of blood and herbs. Her freckled face was dabbed with sweat, and her eyes stuck in the moment between overwhelming exhaustion and overbearing stress. The clouds rolled in the sky over her head. “Am I paying for this?”

“What?! No! You’re a soldier, right?”

“Mercenary. So, like I said, am I paying for this?”

The healer’s eyes flicked to the soldiers, as if for confirmation. Her eyes widened, her nose shifted a bit, and she huffed, looking down to Glaslem.

“No. You are NOT. You fight for Lordaeron, you don’t have to pay!”

Glaslem grinned. He didn’t have to imagine the looks on the soldier’s faces, as the exaggerated ‘baaaah’ from across the campfire was resolute enough.

“Alright, girl. Work your magic.”

“Ageria. Don’t call me ‘girl’.”

“Whatever you say, girl.” Ageria pouted down at him, but Glaslem shut his eyes and leaned further into her, his body propped up by her frail, white-robed form. He heard the soft chime of bells near his ear, the flesh at his shoulder knitting together once more, taking the pain with it. Her hand lingered on the tight muscle and flesh a little past what was necessary… Glaslem cleared his throat. “Mmm… how long you planning on admiring?” He laughed and sat up again as Ageria moved around his side at a frenzied shuffle, cheeks red and head lowered a bit as she ducked into one of the tents. Glaslem smiled and sighed, digging through his bag to pick out the polishing cloth as he pulled his sword over into his lap.

Better than getting someone to sleep with me, eh?

The thin elf followed the priestess closely, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword for comfort. He found that his hand rarely left it now as he followed the thing that pretended to be the moon-robed daughter of Elune around the desecrated temple. Verte knew at least that it wasn’t going to kill him, and the shadows hissing and grabbing at his armor’s tails weren’t either, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable with their presence.  

It had been a week since his blade had been coated with the blood of the woman he was sworn to guard. Her screams had all but faded from his mind now. It was her death rattle that stuck with him and woke him in the night, that last gurgle of breath. The physical stains were gone from his clothes and his sword, but he swore he could still see her handprint on his armor’s gorget when he glanced in the mirror to fix his hair. The armor still bore the scratches from the abrasive cloth he had scrubbed at it with, but was otherwise as clean as usual.

“How are you enjoying your accommodations?”

“They are… wonderful, priestess.”

He smiled. When it was clear that he wouldn’t be able to settle with his sin through loyalty alone, the demon had ensured that he was well taken care of through other means. He had been rather utilitarian before the ritual – a bedroom was a room to sleep in, nothing more – but when it became clear that he wouldn’t be able to sleep without fitful tossing and screams in the middle of the night, the priestess had sent up a few ways for him to calm down. The hookah seemed to endlessly flow, the wine came by the barrel, and the cloven-hooved woman that wore only his flowing sheets as dressing ensured that his sleep was devoid of terrors. He was a loyal soldier in the day, dutifully following his orders, but when the door to that smoky lamp-lit room closed, he drowned out his sorrow in the hedonism of his new status.

“Still calling me that, hm?”

“Old habits die hard. Apologies, do you wish to be called something else?”

“That is fine, I suppose…” She sighed exasperatedly as she led him down the stairs and through the atrium.

He had a feeling that if he wasn’t still half dazed from the hookah, he wouldn’t be nearly as alright with what they were doing to the temple. The pool in the middle, once shining white and humming with the life of the moon, was now stained a faint red. The water within was nothing more than a bloody mosquito’s breeding ground, but the insects miraculously buzzed only around it and the broken skylight. The walls, once painted with murals depicting the Ancients in blessed prayer to the Pale Lady, were covered with gore and filth, half-painted with foul and blasphemous iconography. One mural depicted the ancients being ripped apart by monsters. Another showed Elune being violated by a horned beast. The last one, the one that was not yet completed, depicted elves pulling their own eyes out of their heads in reverence to… something, that had not been painted in yet. All of these depraved paintings still dripped with the paint and blood they were illustrated with, and the fallen dyes had brushes dipped within them and lines drawn to the pool. Verte barely recognize the spellwork, but looking at it made his head hurt.

The sun and moon both no longer shined down on the profane temple. Black clouds gathered over the atrium and blotted out the sun, forcing them to work by torchlight, giving the awful sight even more of a frightening appearance. The priestess cleared her throat, snapping Verte from his daze as he quickened his pace to catch up with her, the two moving around the pool carefully to avoid stepping in the line work.

“You shouldn’t become so enamored with just this, Moon Guard. It is barely a taste of what hell our masters bring.”

“What is to become of this temple? Are you creating a gateway?”

“Astute! I did not think you to be a sorcerer.”

“I am not, but I have studied it a bit…”

“Yes, a gateway. Once the paint is dry, we can begin. There is one issue, however.”

The possessed woman led the soldier down a spiral of stairs. It was stuffy here, and his brow beaded as they continued into the hazy basement. Hers did not. He had never been here before, even in his time as a guardsman. The smell was not entirely unpleasant, but the heat was nearly unbearable. They descended in complete darkness for what felt like hours before finally coming upon a light. It was set into an immense two story tall door, the entranceway gilded and shining as the torches on either side of it roared. Vines and flowers traced across the steel and gold, adorning it like a wedding archway.

“My child, you have proven yourself loyal enough for our masters to assign you a new task. It is one of utmost importance, and it will carry on until your enemy is gone.”

“I will serve as is my duty.” Verte frowned lightly, sliding his hand from the pommel of his sword to the handle, gripping it tightly. The priestess smiled wide, gripping the handles of the door. They flashed a brilliant emerald and almost seemed to sear her flesh red, but the wounds were healed in a moment as she dispelled the enchantment on the door, pulling it open with a low rumble.

What slept inside caught Verte’s breath in his throat. His hand shook, but he gripped his sword tighter to keep it from that.

“Th-this is to be my enemy? You would make me an enemy of the gods?”

“That is your mission, Moon Guard. Do not fear, my child. They are made of flesh and blood, just as you are.”

You are so crude. Can you honestly say there is no desire for romance in you?

 Honest, kind of. Too much of a hassle.

The waking bell rang out over the camp before the sun came up. The only elf in the camp struggled to a sitting position, hissing at the ache in his shoulders and back. He slid the sword off of his lap and blinked a few times at the pinpoints of lanternlight that illuminated the camp, scratching the side of his head. He hadn’t even bothered to get his bedroll out. He hadn’t realized he was that exhausted. Glaslem stood up and stumbled a bit, using his sword to catch himself before rolling his shoulder, gratified at the lack of soreness from the wound that had been there. That healer wasn’t half bad, after all. With a quick jaunt over to the water barrel for a long swig, he hoisted his pack over his shoulder and strolled towards the League’s tents.

The Raptors were preparing. All the work Glaslem had done the night before they were settling into now, sharpening swords, tightening bowstrings, and polishing armor. The elf spotted a man with a bandage over his nose and flashed him a grin, the soldier sneering at Glaslem and moving his spear into his lap. Glaslem kept an amiable smile and rolled his eyes, stepping over to a crate and sitting against it. He glanced over to the main tent, contemplating just heading in and asking Zaburo when they were heading out.

The two guards at the tent’s entrance likely wouldn’t be huge fans of that. They weren’t done up in the same gallant pageantry that their commander wore, and from the droop of their eyes, didn’t get much rest in the night. He didn’t want another wound so quickly after the last one was fixed. At the very least, there was movement inside the tent. Some merc captains that Glaslem had served under were content to let their troops wake hours before they did. Someone jogged to the tent’s entrance and stopped as the guards put their hands on their swords, the runner hastily raising their shoulder to try and show off the crest of Lordaeron emblazoned there. The guards let him through. It didn’t take him five minutes before he burst out again, jogging back to the main campground. He was followed a few minutes later by Zaburo, his shiny and polished gold-and-silver armor shimmering in the low light. Glaslem sighed to himself. The raptor’s head on the smug bastard’s pauldron wasn’t even real.

“Ehem.”

The camp didn’t look up.

“Eherm.”

Still nothing. One of the guards stomped his foot, plate shifting as the report echoed through the camp. The League stirred, turning to their commander and putting aside their preparations for the moment.

“Very good. We are going to sally forth immediately. We and General Otagen’s forces will bolster the currently lacking forces at the siege of Seltra Castle, and help them to overtake the fortress from the brigands, the Arathor dogs, currently defiling it! It will be a most glorious battle, for sure!”

There was no cheer or clamor of excitement. Glaslem kept his face straight, but inwardly cackled.

“Erm- yes! So prepare your things, we are moving out!”

The mercenaries gave a generally united ‘Yes Sir’, though with little enthusiasm as they started to strap their armor and put away their materials, getting into the task of taking down their tents and snuffing out their fires. As the blue light of dawn flooded the plains, they got into a loose formation with Zaburo and his two guards in the middle, saddled up on their steeds, and joined the marching Lordaeron forces. Glaslem dug in his satchel and broke a biscuit in half, popping the tasteless half of tough bread in his mouth to suck on until it softened up enough to chew. That was the only breakfast he’d get.

 There were castles that Glaslem expected to overrun easily and castles that he knew would take weeks, but for the first time in his life, an easy castle was proving to be an absolute headache. The fortress was in the middle of a soft grassland, surrounded on all sides by open fields, and the walls weren’t even forty feet high and barely even a yard or two thick. How they stood up to catapult shot was beyond him. The Arathor defenders were something else, as well. The Lordaeron forces had fielded five thousand men, while the fort barely had two hundred. They had put half of that out in the battle. The Lordaeron troops had already lost two hundred themselves. Nobody could say for sure if  any of the Arathor soldiers had fallen.

During the day, Glaslem didn’t even get the chance to fight. He had told Zaburo to let him, but the League of the Raptor only stuck back and let the Lordaeron loyals soak up the arrows and hot oil from the defenders. Soak up they did. By the time the hundred fielded defenders had lost six men, the Lordaeron troops were down by eight hundred assorted dead and injured, and no sign to point to why the defenders were so goddamn hard. The gates opened to let the defenders back into the fortress, and only then did Zaburo heft his sword and call a charge.

The League took the spearhead, the rest of the Lordaeron forces charging behind them as they spill out into the courtyard of the castle. Glaslem listened for orders from the commander, only receiving battlecries and shouts of condemnation for the dastardly highland scum, so the elf marched up the stairs to the ramparts. Same as before. The gates had to stay open. He got to the stop just in time to see a soldier in white armor jogging towards the lever release and hurled a chunk of stone at him, the rock turning to powder as it smashed against the wall.

“Hey hey hey, can’t have you go and do that yet, can’t be rude to your guests-“

Glaslem had his sword off of his shoulder and in his hands the moment the soldier turned. The guard was human. He had to be. His ears weren’t pointed and he was too tall to be a dwarf or a gnome, and he’d never seen a troll with that color skin. The way his back arched for a moment and his eyes narrowed set off every alarm in Glaslem’s head. He wasn’t. He just wore a human’s skin. The soldier put a hand on his longsword and dove towards the elf, drawing it and bringing it down with a crash on the elf’s own sword. Glaslem was big and mean, but this scrawny little human’s blow unbalanced him completely and nearly sent him sprawling before he caught the floor with his pommel and spun around, greatsword pointed to his right. That was strange…

The soldier dove again and Glaslem drove the pommel upward into his gut, striking with force that had driven horses to the ground. The soldier didn’t budge, turning the longsword in his grip and chopping it down towards Glaslem’s shoulder. The leather armor held, chips of metal from the rusted weapon flying off and scattering on the floor. The elf bore forward and drove the soldier to his back, bringing his sword up to bring the pommel to the man’s unhelmed face, but his sword handle was caught and he and it were thrown off of the guard. Sliding his foot on the floor, Glaslem arched around and swung the sword around, catching the guard in the middle with its crushing weight and sharpened edge, the shining armor of the soldier crunching and cracking from the blow.

He caught a plate boot to the face for that trouble.

The elf stumbled back towards the rampart and caught it with a hand, holding his sword against the ground with the other. The soldier’s side was split wide, armor rent, cloth torn, and side mangled, but only a small trickle of blood dripped out of the wound, hissing once it hit the ground.

“You, ha, ha, some sort of demon?”

The soldier tossed his rusted sword aside, bending his back upward. He seemed taller, somehow.

“Impudent mortals. You trample on so many lives on your way to the grave.”

“Uh-huh, save the philosophy.” Glaslem pushed off of the stone and rolled his shoulder, gripping his sword tightly in both hands. “Human or not, you’re still in my goddamn way.” He moved forward and swung for the soldier’s legs, anticipating the easy backstep as he kept the sword in motion, grunting with effort as he lifted it up over his head and brought it downward in one fluid blow. The soldier’s eyes finally widened and he dodged to the side, Glaslem’s sword pounding into the stone with a crunch, shards of rock and dust thrown up in the blow. The guard closed in to try a hammerfisted blow, but the elf backstepped, grasping the soldier by the collar with both hands and giving a roar as he turned on his heel and threw the man over his shoulder. He stumbled as the soldier crunched into the floor only four feet away, taking a big gulp of air to catch his breath. There was no reason for the human to be that heavy.

Just as quickly as he had dropped, the soldier kicked to his feet. Glaslem grabbed his sword and dashed past him, scooping up the rusted hunk of iron the soldier had thought to defend himself with before and ramming it down into the gate’s mechanism, slotting it in as far as he could put it. The gears ground and whined, but the sword held.

“There. Gate’s open, now-“

It was very rare for the giant elf to be thrown. The last time he could remember being airborne from something other than a fall was decades back, but sure enough, harsh hands grabbed the back of his breastplate and he went flying, slamming into the wall of a rampart, his vision going white for a moment before he shook the haze away. He gripped his sword again and panted, staring at the monster of a man stepping towards him.

“Just surrender, mortal. It is folly to throw your life away.”

“Doesn’t look good on my reputation, sorry.”

The soldier scowled and charged forward. Glaslem waited for only a second before hefting his sword up and doing the same, driving it forward into the soldier’s stomach. He felt the crunch of steel and give of flesh, even saw the twisted metal turn around his sword’s point, but the soldier only hissed. Barely any blood trickled out of the stab wound that Glaslem KNEW had hit at least four organs and an artery. The sword stuck all the way through and out the back, but from the sour look on the man’s face it was less like a six-inch-wide piece of sharp steel and more a splinter. The soldier grabbed the sword and started to pull. Glaslem ducked, turned, and put his shoulder up against the blade of his sword, screaming with effort as he lifted with his whole form, sending the sword, and by extension the soldier skewered on it, in an arc behind him and over the side of the castle wall. The momentum carried the ‘human’ off of the sword and down into the ground below with a crash that Glaslem heard over the clash of swords and shouts below. Just to make sure, he looked over the edge. The soldier below wasn’t moving.

He sighed heavily and jogged to the side of the wall, putting his hands to the side of his mouth and shouting-

“THE GATE’S OPEN FOR GOOD NOW! CALL THEM ALL IN!”

 The sun ducked down below the field’s horizon, the grasslands going from a rolling green to a pale blue as the two moons rose over it and cast their light over the world. The lanterns and braziers were lit and the castle filled with the laughing and cheering of soldiers, their massive losses forgotten over good food and better loot. In the end, nearly a thousand Lordaeron soldiers and mercenaries had been dropped in the attack, the remaining four putting the deaths and maiming of their comrades at the back of their minds as they ransacked the castle’s stores. Stabled cattle and pigs, fresh fruit and vegetables, enough grain and bread to last for months, and even good liquor kept cool in the basement was plenty cause for merriment enough, but the real joy came when the ones inside the castle had broken into the treasury and seen just how much gold and jewels were stored there. Zaburo had moved quickly and demanded that his troops be allowed to rest in the castle along with the others, and in the process the League made out with thousands of gold. Glaslem had tried to get in and swipe a few handfuls of treasure, but Zaburo’s guards had stopped him and handed him twenty coins for his ‘valiant service to the League of the Raptor and Lordaeron’.

Now he sat with a bowl of food piled high, munching madly at it as he leaned back against the stable wall. The beasts had been led outside of the castle for the butchering and the stable cleaned out, and now it served as the infirmary. Both Zaburo and Otagen’s guards kept the wounded out of the castle itself, no matter how convenient it would have been to have them in say, the dining room, because they’d be damned if they split that treasure with a bunch of healers and medics. The groaning and moaning had died down since the end of the battle, and now it was mostly home to stray coughs and idle chatter.

Agerio stepped out of the stable, pale-faced and sweating, just as Glaslem finished his food. He threw his spoon at her to get her attention, the healer whipping around in anger only to stumble slightly and almost fall over. The stare she was giving him was probably supposed to portray anger and frustration, but from her exhausted features, it just screamed panic. The elf laughed at her and rolled his eyes, putting his bowl aside.

“How are you, you so, so, IMMATURE?! Aren’t elves supposed to be wise?!”

“Nah, I’m a tuskless troll.”

“…are you really?”

“Tch, no, but it’s one of the better insults people have used on me. You get paid yet?”

The healer blinked and shook her head slightly. After a moment’s though, she shook her head much more raggedly. “I am paid by the church, Glaslem. I am not a mercenary.”

“Still, you deserve some of that kicked back.” Glaslem stood up and dug in his coin bag, procuring five shining gold coins and stepping over to hold his hand cupped out to her. She looked up and shook her head at him again. He looked down at her, his eyes narrowing into a harsh glare. Despite there being a bit more of a shiver to her fingers, she shook her head again.

“I cannot accept money from you! It is against my creed!” Glaslem sneered, grabbing her wrist and yanking her hand up to shove the coins into her palm and close her fingers over them. Never before had he had this much trouble giving away what a peasant made in six months.

“Fine. Donate them to the church or something, give them to beggars, something, but don’t leave them with me. I’ll just spend them on whores and liquor, so consider it ‘holy’ to take them.”

She stared at him for a bit, but eventually her hands squeezed around the heavy metal in her palm and she nodded.

“I-I will give them t-“

“I don’t want to hear about it. Take care of yourself, Agerio.”

He patted her on the shoulder, nearly bowling the poor girl down in the process, and headed towards the gate as he heard her scamper back into the stables. He was about halfway to the portcullis when movement by the castle’s interior entrance stopped him, and he stepped over to look along with the eight other soldiers that had started to crowd around. There was something in the middle that Zaburo’s looting crew had dragged out.

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s solid, too. They dropped it on the way out and it didn’t crack or dent.”

“Maybe there’s gold or something inside.”

“It’s probably something magical, best to ask- oh, hey, elf!”

Glaslem stared at the thing on the pile of straw in the middle of them, peering over their heads to get a decent look. It certainly looked fancy. It was made of some solid material that shined in the light, with cracks flowing around its surface in an unrecognizable pattern, almost like scale. The elf didn’t know if the humans noticed it, but it dimly gleamed with a faint red light. It was definitely magical somehow.

“Turn it around a bit.”

One of the guards obliged, with a heavy grunt of effort. Horns jutted from the side that he been buried in the hay. Glaslem stared down at it, his eyes wide as saucers as he reached back to grip his sword.

“Put it back. Put everything back. Every gemstone and coin-“ The soldiers guffawed and scoffed.

“Pfft. Come on, Glaslem.”

“Big bad elf gets spooked by a little magic?”

“I don’t know, lads, he is an elf. Maybe he knows something?”

“With that big sword he’s probably just a soldier like us, what’s he know?”

“We didn’t lose a thousand troops to not get paid!”

Everything was making a lot more sense to him, now. The low amount of defenders, the field, the soldier on the wall- he dragged his sword off of his back, the troops moving around him in sudden shock. On top of that, how many of the defenders had they actually killed? Not many. They had surrendered. An immense black shadow passed over the moons, engulfing it for a moment before flying closer to the ground.

“Get back from it, you bloody idiots! IT’S A DRAGON’S EGG!”

The soldiers froze. Outside of the castle’s walls, a roar shook he earth and a scream went up through the ranks of soldiers. DRAGON, they shouted. Glaslem moved quickly first to the stable as the other soldiers got to work as well, one of them grabbing the egg and trying to drag it inside. The elf slammed on the side of the door, spooking some of the nurses who had come to the exit to watch the commotion.

“Get everyone in here to somewhere with a stone covering, now. Inside. Do it now. DO IT NOW!”

He slapped his hand twice against the wooden wall for emphasis, the medics quickly getting to work as he moved for cover himself, heading towards the castle jail. His boots kicked up dust as he drew his sword onto his shoulder, hoping, praying, that he still had some time. Maybe he could kill them while they were still chained up, before they had the chance to change…

A soldier stumbled into him as he got to the door, bleeding profusely. His chest was a fountain of red, pooling and dripping beneath him as he grabbed the elf’s shoulders and painted his brown leathers crimson. Glaslem glanced down, the claw marks along the man’s chest deep as rivers. The man gagged and choked, then fell limp to the floor in a crumpled heap of armor. Quickly Glaslem stepped back, but not fast enough as a claw came through and grabbed him by the middle, white claws punching through his leather armor and into his side. The elf screamed in agony and ground his teeth as the monster stepped out of the jail, shoving the elf out further with him as it stood to its full height, two heads taller than Glaslem. He could see white bandages wrapped around its middle.

“What did I say, mortal?”

The red-scaled creature leaned into Glaslem’s face, grimacing with a mouthful of jagged teeth. The elf clenched his own and brought his sword down HARD, catching the drakonid’s wrist at the bone. With a howl it threw it’s arm aside, sending Glaslem flying off to crash into a pile of straw.

“YOU WILL ALL DIE HERE, MORTAL! YOU HAVE TRESPASSED AGAINST OUR LORD!”

Bit late to say ‘our mistake’, Glaslem thought bitterly as he got to his feet, his vision swimming in front of him as he spat red out on the courtyard. His side throbbed and ached, and he could feel trickles of blood dripping down from the holes the dragonkin had made. It’s own blood flowed freely from the wound he had made, the creature grinding it’s teeth in anger and breaking into a jog towards the elf, swinging a hammerfist around for his head. Glaslem ducked and drove the flat of his sword into the lizard’s stomach, knocking the wind from it as he grasped the handle loosely, turning it end over end to spin his sword in an arc and hit the other side of the monster’s wrist. This time, the wound splattered dragon’s blood all over the elf and the monster screamed as he stumbled backward, gripping at the stump with his other hand. Glaslem roared and dove forward in the monster’s pained daze, plunging his sword into its gut. It pierced through, rending scales out of the way as the dragonkin gasped for air and fell backwards. He was still breathing, but wasn’t moving around anywhere near as much.

It was a lot easier to fight these things when he knew what they were, and more specifically where they were. The illusory human that had tussled with him on the parapet could have had vital spots in his shoes for all Glaslem could have told, but once he saw it for what it was, it got a lot easier to handle. Heat at his back caused him to turn to the stables, already roaring with dragonfire but thankfully evacuated. Ignoring the pain in his side as best he could, Glaslem started up the stairs back to the top of the wall. High ground was better. A deep, primal part of him was screaming to run for his life, find cover inside the keep itself, but he hushed it as he took the steps two at a time. Fifteen gold, plus the expenses that Zaburo owed him from the fight, that might last him a few months. He wanted at least a year, and what better way to earn that than by taking down a dragon? At least he could make a mark on it, tear some scales loose to use as a trophy for a bounty.

He was halfway up the stairs when the dragon passed overhead, cloaking the base in it’s shadow as another roaring stream of fire screamed out of its mouth, engulfing a line of shields that had tried to cover crossbowmen. The flying lizard wasn’t an animal, wasn’t a fool. It targeted anyone that had a chance at hurting it. Glaslem glanced over the side and saw the rows of catapults already smoldering, the ballista reduced to nothing but ash. That primal voice screamed again, louder this time, as he made for the gatehouse and started upward into the turret, ducking inside swiftly as a stream of orange heat blazed across the walls of the keep. Sweat soaked his clothes beneath the armor and he could feel warmth radiating off of his leather chestplate – that had been far too close. He stuck his head back outside experimentally, looking up to see the dragon flying off to another section of the battlefield, unconcerned with him. Sighing with relief, he started up the narrow steps to the roof.

They were slick with blood, spattered along the floor and walls. The further the elf climbed, the more was there, as well as bodies scattered along the stairs wearing Lordaeron colors, their armor punctured and melted and their weapons broken. Glaslem kept his eyes upward and his hands squeezed around his sword, watching the steps and the trapdoor that led to the roof above. It was open, the hinges broken in pieces that littered the stairs, and the sounds of battle echoed down from beyond. With a grunt of effort, half to help ignore the pain in his side, he climbed up onto the roof.

Another of the giants was here, facing the rampart. It swung hard downward, it’s claws clanging violently against some manner of metal and mixing with the roars of defiance from both the dragonkin and the man he was attacking. Glaslem dove forward and thrusted his sword upward, skewering the monster by the back. There was a lot of resistance from the scale on the other side, but with a scream of his own he shoved it through, the inhuman screech of the beast ringing in his ears as it swiped his tail and struck him in the wrist. A bone popped and his arm throbbed as he let go of the sword, hearing the screech die down to a gurgle as the dragonkin drooped and fell to its knees, then to its belly. Glaslem’s hand was twisted oddly. He gripped it with his other and swallowed hard before snapping it back the right way, crying out in agony and falling to a hunched form, panting and gagging from the pain.

“That was stupid as hell.” He glanced up to see the soldier the dragonkin had been pounding throw his ruined shield aside, blood trickling down his forehead and mingling with the sweat and dirt. “Why’d you do that, you daft elf? We’ve got healers-“

“No time. Got any bandages?” Glaslem gripped his sword and pulled it loose with both hands, putting a foot to the dead monster’s back to yank it free with a squelch. He grasped it with his injured hand, grimacing at the weakened hold. “I need you to wrap my hand up with the handle.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Well, I’m going to jump on the dragon, so probably.”

The soldier panted heavily, catching his breath and glancing off of the ramparts at the dragon making a roast of the regiments below. Sneering, he stepped over and grabbed a roll of bandages from a dead friend’s satchel, stepping over and winding the brown cloth around Glaslem’s hand and the sword, wrapping some around his side as well for good measure. The elf ground his teeth and winced at the pain of it, nearly screaming as the soldier made a knot at his wrist and yanked it tight.

“There, you crazy bastard. A shame to waste bandages on a dead man.”

“If I live, it’ll be a hell of a story to tell.”

“You won’t.”

The soldier wasted no time in dashing down the stairs, his sabatons clanking against the cobble. Glaslem panted heavily, leaning against the wall and struggling to breathe as the pain made his vision swim and his stomach turn. He threw up the meal he had earned after the battle and leaned against his sword for comfort, shutting out the screams and roars below him.

Why was he even bothering? Fuck Zaburo. He was a pompous ass, probably just in it so he could brag to the nobles back home. Fuck the League of the Raptor. They didn’t like him any more than he them, they were just a means for him to get some extra coin. Fuck this keep. It wasn’t even strategically useful; it’d be better to run like hell. Fuck Lordaeron. Fuck Arathor. And especially, without a doubt, just as he remembered…

There is always something bigger than you, Glaslem. There is always something that will make you afraid. There is always something that you can’t fight with a sword. Faithless dogs die like them, and when that bigger thing comes you will do nothing but cower before it and pray, regretting every move you made to anger that worthy god.

Well, mon. I don’t think this is it.

The dragon arced around and flew towards the keep again. Glaslem stood up from the wall and scrunched down, getting ready as its wings burned black holes in the moonlight and the orange flame swirled in its mouth. It was going right for the keep, and didn’t pay any attention as an eight foot elf screamed, sprinted, and leapt off the side of the turret, driving his sword down into its scaly back. ((Part 1. Criticize the hell out of it, especially those fight scenes. Felt like they were a little weak.))

[ahensaanmyr]

there are two types of GM, planners and improvisers

[ahensaanmyr]

25, 26, 27

 25. What do they find funny? Do they have a good sense of humour? Are they funny themselves?

That Nirilia thinks that she’s competent OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH

Ahensa finds plenty of things funny. It’s not too hard to make her laugh at a good joke, or even a bad joke timed right. As for herself, she’s not, really. She’s tried to be once or twice, but it’s just not her forte.

26. How do they act when they’re happy? Do they sing? Dance? Hum? Or do they hide their emotions?

Ahensa will smile and close her eye more when she’s happy. If anyone told her to sing, she’d probably yell at them. She doesn’t like showing emotion really that much at all, besides anger. 

27. What makes them sad? Do they cry regularly? Do they cry openly or hide it? What are they like they are sad?

Most of the things that make Ahensa sad, she keeps bottled up nice and tight, because that’s clearly the only healthy way to handle that emotion! I think she’s cried a grand total of... three times, in the time I’ve been RPing her? When sad, she’s usually more standoffish and frustrated than normal, and will sometimes lash out at others.