#[[Windaria - Land of the Winds

[kazeofthemagun]

Espers - beasts from the Soil's dreams

The Summoner's Arsenal

The Espers are the original children of Bahamut, created before reality had fully solidified into what it is today. As such, they are formless beings, existing as invisible spirits and permeating their respective domains.

So, then, how did these incorporeal spirits become the living creatures we know? An Esper is born twice. First, through the dream of a creator god - Bahamut - or an event of sufficient cosmic intensity to briefly "liquefy" reality, making it malleable and thus bringing dreams and wishes into existence. The latter has notably been observed with the creation of Madeen from the collective dreams of the Moogles who died in Windaria's fall.

The Esper's second birth is their awakening to their name and domain. What element or concept an Esper governs largely depends on mortals' perception of them. For example, many Espers were born out of emotion - fear and reverence of lightning giving shape to Ixion, the gratitude for the sun's warmth giving rise to Phoenix. Some Espers even chose to assimilate or fuse with mortals that had inspired them. In this way, Espers are spirits observing the world around them before finally deciding on the form and name they would then bear for the rest of eternity. Doing so mirrors Bahamut's second awakening as the God of Destruction, born from the mass perception of the Architects.

Before reality had attained its final shape - word and belief itself was divine. To believe and wish strongly was to create. This power was reserved mostly to the God Siblings, though mortals managed to influence the world and even the very deities on their own. That is why the original world was oft referred to as the "Cradle" - not only because it was the birthplace of the Architects and the spirits of Soil and Mist, but because it was the place this malleable dreaming period took place.

Many of the Architects' technologies harnessed and amplified the power of this "dream" before the Soul of All fully delaminated into Soil and Mist. This is how some managed to glean the future or even defy death, existing in a perpetual pseudo-summoned state within crystal vessels. Such practice was looked down upon by Bahamut, the Dragon Lord taking it as defiance of his proper order of death and rebirth. In response, he wreaked havoc upon the Cradle, awakening two Espers to their role as warrior gods. Such deities became known as Odin, the Lord of the Wild Hunt, and Raiden, the Bladedancer, alternatively known in Windarian mythos as Lanmuarach and Barachevelt respectively.

Bahamut's order, as juxtaposed to Tiamat's Straight Line, is the Spiral. Portrayed as a spiral descending staircase, it is the means to rebirth. In Windarian mythos, spiral architecture and particularly staircases were thought of as sacred geometry and commonly utilized in temples. That is one of the reasons the Pillar of Darkness (Black Spear) became a holy symbol among the Wind cult.

Spiral motion is a known catalyst for Soil, bringing out its elemental properties. Most efficient Soil engines utilized rotors and drillers, powered by the Soil and powering it in return. The consistency of motion is a key ingredient, seeing as any fluctuation may destabilize the Soil and result in undesirable energy discharges and engine damage. The technology was first devised by the Architects, notably present in the design of the Magun, the Imhullu of Bahamut and Marduk.

The true form of Phoenix

The Espers answer to Bahamut as their King, but their power can be called upon by mortals with sufficient sacrifice. As spirits of Soil, they are closely intertwined with death and rebirth, the very process of summoning reflecting that truth. To call forth an Esper is to present an offering of three souls and one's own blood - their ritualistic mixing accompanied by song or poetry bringing out a corporeal shape for the beast, essentially dreamed up by the dead. In this way, the summoning is a brief second life for the departed, though bound by the summoner's will and the called beast's purpose. Willpower dictates the power of the summoning - both the mage's, and the triad of spirits. To successfully control the Esper, the summoner's willpower must match or exceed that of the beast, even if the creature chooses to obey willingly. This control is then exercised through the blood link estabilished during the ritual.

However; The act of offering the beast one's own blood is simultaneous with binding it to one's life essence. As such, the manifested monster will now drain the mage's energy, and prolonged summoning may render a person unconscious or even dead. Furthermore, any wounds the Esper suffers will strain that link - and any wounds the summoner suffers will also be felt by the Esper. Any lapse in concentration may prove to be the entire ritual's undoing. This is why simply attacking the person in control of the spirit is often the best idea when combating summoners.

The souls offered in the invoked beast's name must not be randomly selected - their color and essence, or personality, must match the Esper of choice. Souls of fire and steel may be used to invoke Ifrit, for instance, while spirits of water and persistence may be used to call Bismarck. There is a great deal of nuance in the process, which is why summoners usually spend years attuning to the ritual and contemplating the Esper's role in nature.

Kaze's Phoenix sygni

A Windarian summoner's sygni is an oath taken to their Summoner Order and Esper of choice. By custom, the sygni is represented by a tattoo underneath the mage's right eye, invoking the myth of Bahamut's right eyes being used to perceive justice and order and the left eyes being used to perceive chaos (not to be confused with the deity Chaos) and change. Notably, the Soil Missionaries accompanying the summoners (who were also referred to as Soil Adherents) wore their own sygni underneath their left eye, representing the inconstant nature of matter and the spirit's crystallization upon death. Doing so was symbolic of their own purpose as members of the martyr caste, readily offering their Soil - and with it, their life - to their summoner partner in time of need.

Their version of the sygni pattern was most often less complex.

Kupo's "lesser" Phoenix sygni

It was once believed that offering one's own soul to a summoning and thus, becoming part of the called beast was an entryway to Paradise. The act was known as "ascension" and widely idealized by the fanatical Wind cult. This is not true, seeing as souls sacrificed to Espers are eventually scattered and subjected to the Spiral just the same as all others.

[shiroi---kumo]

Misterican Memories || Accepting

@/lady-quen asked:

⏰ + Chaos' invasion of Misterica because you know I had to

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ It all just keeps getting darker.....

Everything time he looks to the sky now all he sees is dead black. This must be the Dragon Lord's coming and he didn't know how he was supposed to stand against this when Lady Tiamat has never told him how.

Usva is dead and he doesn't know what has become his teachers. He can't find Revon either and it's been a few days. Even Usva's teachers seem to have gone missing and he can only pray that none of them were swept up in the torrential winds or that ever expanding dark.

That Musta Pilari has sprung to life on them without warning and it just has to be - it has to be that of Lord Bahamut - isn't it? No. It's something else.

Lady Tiamat is very adamant within the space of his mind that her brother is not the cause of this and nor is Windaria. She keeps calling it The Great Calamity but he doesn't know what she means by that. She keeps telling him he needs to be mindful of himself because he is without His Other but he still doesn't even begin to understand what she means by all this Find your Other nonsense.

She tells him that if the Great Dark finds him, then he's going to be in trouble so he should keeps his wits about him as long as he's alone. Well he doesn't have anyone else. He doesn't know where Mother and Father have gone off to. Usva is dead. Revon is missing and so are his teachers.

He already is alone, so he doesn't know what she's expecting of him.

It takes a large show of skill on his part to manage to not get whipped around in the winds and land on the capital island that has yet to topple from the skies like so many others had. This was the most, he'd ever seen of the Kingdom as a whole and it had to be when the Musta Pilari was busy tearing everything he's ever known as loved limb from limb.

The trees were being shredded like paper as the ground peels apart like the rind on a kastemeloni. The sky has been stained with black ink and the clouds have long since faded away from within it. Remants of the old ruins and the fallen islands are being tossed amongst the winds, as Misterica herself cries out. The Celestial Mother is weeping within him.

She is practically begging him to find his Other because he cannot hope to stand against this without this person.

But she's not the only one he hears begging.

One of the members of the church. One of the higher members, Harmaa Myrsky, has him by the wrist before he has time to register it and the man is weeping.

"Your Eminence." He cries. "Spare me please. Please pardon my Mist by the Celestial Mother's light. Save us from our transgressions so we may be accepted back within the skies."

And it takes everything in his power not to yank his wrist back as he listens and watches this man beg and fall to his knees as he continues to weep.

"Transgressions? What exactly have you done?"

The man gasps as terror fills his eyes and he shakes his head.

"I - we - the papisto - we - I am sorry, Your Eminence - it was the Piipsa's idea. It always has been. It was always his call and he said it was for the betterment of - of Misterica! We- Forgive me, Your Eminence!!!"

He doesn't have time for this and the vague way this man is begging so the lunar royal is yanking his wrist free only to snap his hand forward and take the man by the collar and drag him in close as he growls.

"What was the Piipsa's idea? What has Sumu done? Out with it!"

The man trembles in his whole as he looks deep into jade eyes with terror as if he is looking at the Celestial Mother, herself.

"Forgive me, Celestial Mother. He said it would bring purity to the world and it was our duty to make sure Misterica also had a fit and proper ruler. "

"OUT WITH IT!!!"

His patience is wearing thin and he no longer has time for this man's games when he needs to find Mother and Father. He's giving the man a good shake to make his point as he snarls and mist pours out from clenched teeth.

"The Royal Family!" He shouts in fear. "The Piipsa has been pruning away the weak ones to make sure our ruler is truly fit! Long before the Piipsa. His Father and his father long before him! I - I don't know how long! I'm sorry, Your Eminence. Please spare me! "

He's throwing the man to the ground as he pulls his hand back and both hands ball into fists. A scream tears from his lungs as Mist pours out of like a dragon's breath of hot fury. Myrsky remains frozen in place only for a click to fill the space between them and the Maken rises from it's master's belt as if possessed by a will all it's own.

"I-It's true. " He stammers in fear, as he watches a small pale hand come down on the hilt and he cries. "Please My Lord! Spare me!"

"WHERE IS HE?!"

It's a violent yell as jade fades out and white replaces their color with an eerie glow.

"C-T-The Celestial Mother - L- Lady Tiamat f-forgive me." He's throwing himself to the ground, to bow before the visage of his Goddess reborn.

"WHERE IS HE?!" The Holy Vessel bellows again as he points his weapon towards the man as if to make his point. A turn of his wrist and the blade glows and transforms before the man's eyes to become the truth of all they have worshipped for all these years.

"I - I don't know! Forgive me, My Lord! Lady Tiamat I beg you!"

There is a low growl as white pours out of the body before him in wrathful plumes.

"Useless!"

He hisses as his blood threatens to boil.

"I'll find him MYSELF!!! Get out of my sight and PRAY that the skies will still take you!! I don't want anything to do with your filthy Mist! You're a disgrace on all that represents that of the Celestial Mother!!! Now GO!!!"

It doesn't take another word for the man to find a way to scramble to his feet and run from the scene leaving the heir to the Blood of Salvation to find the man that had scorned his family for the last time.

[kazeofthemagun]

Worth of Wolves

That's right. The monster never called itself a monster. That wretched title only fell from the lips of the mob, raising pitchforks and waving torches. That - was no name. It was an insult. An excuse, so that they may deem him an animal and feel better as they refuse, time and time again, to treat him like a person. By their definition, he was much better off dead.

[First meeting with Silver Storm. The very beginnings of the cursed one’s untold legend. Pre-series, expanded backstory drabble. 7.5k words.]

[cw: blood, war, death, child abuse, child death, trafficking, child slavery mention]

Day of the Ox. Fifth morning hour.

Windaria was waking to life. Like an animal in its own right, stirring with the earliest light. Having rested the previous day, it was time to set to work, let sleep-heavy blood flow faster, open eyes behold a new dawn. Much needed to be done before the first hour of the Sun rendered the cobblestone streets a scorching deathtrap, a forced halt in the bustle of the city. Then, when evening came, once again would the diligent animal of the city toil in blood and sweat.

He awakened along with the very first rays of morning. A boy, eleven or perhaps twelve cycles old. Ask him his exact age, and he would not answer.

In fact, the boy without a name seldom answered to anyone. The Land of the Winds was a harsh nation, prideful like the eternal golden sand. The Winds only ever danced across the heavens, paying little heed to those that dwelled in the dirt. The worm could only reach up, curiosity brought on by rain, rearing a mulch-soft head to gaze at what lay above.

Those who lived below quickly learned to keep their head down. And their hood up. A distant rustle of metal plates and the sound of kivani hooves beating against stone saw the boy's left rise instinctively to pull down the worn fabric that sheltered his features. In his right he held a small, rusted knife. All the polishing in the world would not absolve that wretched thing, reddish-umber patterns clinging closely to the place its handle met metal.

He was not alone here. Blue eyes swept slowly across the church hall, meeting a pair of orange staring back from the half-shade.

"Maru?"

Less a name, more a form of address by necessity. After over a year of living together, it became quite awkward to only call the nameless boy precisely that.

It was one of the rare moments the ever-sealed lips of his moved, stretching out into an almost shy smile, as though the smallest softness came difficult to a creature of sharp edges and hard shells. The persona of silence he had built - it protected him. The animal that made less noise was less likely to be hunted.

"Ïsta."

The foreign name rolled off his tongue in a hoarse voice - one as rusted as the knife he now carried. She smiled, and despite her sunken-in cheeks, it could well be the sweetest smile in the world.

Maruku - the boy branded wolf - lowered his gaze to stare wordlessly at the bandage wrapped over the girl's right hand. The rag was tattered from use, yellowed and reddened in places where friction had sheared skin. She noticed his attention, hiding the injury from sight.

"Hand. How?" There was worry in his tone as he spoke in somewhat broken Lahriktaarese. Granted, considering the Temple had conquered and enforced its ways upon most of the world, the language could well be simply called Windarian. "Does it bleed, again?"

"A little. But I'll be fine, I can still work." Ïsta replied. Despite their shared predicament, fiery amber eyes were as full of passion as ever. Even so, there was a sadness and worry behind them, a maturity so uncharacteristic of a ten cycle old child. "I worry, Maru. Worry that Yani..."

The other children had begun to stir as well, some cries erupting here and there as an old, overworked Priestess of Soil worked to soothe them. In total, there were about ten orphans between two and seven cycles of age. War raged on in the south, bringing refugees to the small merchant-ran city of Tonnavrel. The Wind Warriors of the capital reinforced the army on the front, hoping to secure yet more territory from the struggling nation that had for so long denied their religion. It was clear the Keep Beyond the River would not hold.

Most of the immigrants were either executed for heresy, sold into slavery or converted, still doomed to a life of poverty. Age hardly mattered. In the eyes of Lahriktaar, the people from Beyond the River may as well be animals; Only good for servitude.

Though officially of Lahriktaarese faith, some local temples still believed in the true path of Soil and goddess Alaeyra, the kind bringer of rain. Like rain, they worked to mend the land. All spirits were equal in the Soil - deserving of equal chances at life.

Ïsta was a name from Beyond the River. In the open, she went by another name, one more palatable to the Wind cult. Though she had lost both her father and her mother, her true name was a dearest keepsake. Maruku idly squeezed the wooden clan sigil he wore around his neck, and rose.

"Church is poor. No food, again." He sighed, moving to aid the priestess with the rest of the kids. Loving words and gentle touch could only help the starving so much.

They spent a few hours helping around, both with the refugee children and the building's upkeep. Through washing the tiles and preparing the main chamber for morning mass, they earned what little coin the poverty-stricken priests could spare. Most of it was spent on sustenance, leaving very little to replace the torn clothes they wore. Even that was in short supply with the Wind armies' march south, stripping Tonnavrel of both resources and manpower. The lifeblood of economy ran ill with the plagues carried by war.

Windaria was a land rotten to the very bedrock by ceaseless slaughter. The boy's young mind found it all hard to understand. Politics were a distant, hazy shadow he could hardly hope to grasp when he still sometimes struggled with forming correct sentences. Such was his unfortunate fate after being neglected throughout his earliest years, kept hidden by the Scribe. Only after his reluctant safekeeper’s death did the outside world crash down upon him with all the weight of total indifference.

It had still been better than being left for dead at one cycle old. In the end, he had survived, and met people who looked at him with more kindness than malice.

And for once, the nameless wolf's distant eyes learned to smile. Even when he and Ïsta held Yani's tiny hand as he passed on from illness. Not even half their age, a sickly forgotten son of yet another fallen warrior. It was the best someone like him could do. He could not heal him, for he was useless. Nobody could, when even Alaeyra herself failed. But he could sit there, and attempt to do what Ïsta did best. Comfort.

Even as their statues adorned the walls, chiseled stone bodies at an arm's reach, the gods were so awfully absent.

Ïsta was crying. Now that the others could not see her, emotions flowed freely past ever-strong eyes. He sat with her, unable to do the same. Was there something wrong with him? His heart wept yet his eyes could not. More than sorrow, he felt that strange gnaw again. An insidious gnawing sensation that made the bones itch, brows furrow and teeth grit, fangs on display. The feeling of someone exposed to injustice from his earliest days - to the point it was all he had ever known.

It made him angry. So, so angry.

"Maru..." She sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her dress. It was all she could say. Small hands dug into the dark fabric of the wolven boy's tattered poncho. It was alright. She could cry here, into his darkness, and he would hide her tears from the very world. A weak swallow. "When you finally get out of here, what will you do?"

Ïsta wanted to be a painter. She always said so. When she asked him, he never answered. But this time, he knew. He knew what he wanted to be.

He had seen it, that day. During the annual celebrations, when the military rolled through the city, adorned with ceremonial capes. The weapons they carried were meant to bring death, but in that moment, he was captivated by their gleam and the verses that carried on the Winds like a song of fire itself.

The creature they had called - it was named, "Phoenix." And it was magnificent.

If he were the Phoenix, so brazen and strong, he could eradicate the evil that poisoned the land. He could take flight on blazing wings and burn away the rot and corruption. He could stand against those foul beasts that enslaved children and render them all into ashes, melting accursed chains to usher the wronged towards new dawns. He could become the Sun and shine with kindness, not cruelty.

He wanted... above all, he wanted to be strong.

He was sick of being weak. Sick of being powerless.

"I'll become a warrior." Oceanic blue met amber orange. His right hand found and squeezed the hilt of the knife hidden beneath dark fabric. "I'll... fight. But now, I go." He pulled up his hood once again and walked towards the entryway. "I'll get food."

And like a passing shadow of a hawk, he was gone. A wide-eyed Ïsta wiped the last of her tears and yelled good luck.

The wounds on her hand had opened again, soaking dirtied rags.

---------

Seventh morning hour.

The thief had found himself a target.

Blue eyes observed an elderly Windarian as she opened the back door to the bakery, bringing in crates. There was a muffled hiss of pain as she attempted to lift one, and a wrinkled hand rested on the woman's spine. She remained bent for a little while, massaging her aching back. Everyone in town was simply trying to get by, small businesses hit especially hard by the nearby war. So, too, was he.

It was not personal, never was. A few pieces of pastry would help feed the starving children and the owner would not go hungry herself. Deep down, Maruku hated stealing, but he had little choice in the matter. It was best to desensitize himself.

Especially for things like him, it was a dog eat dog world. And today, the dog had its sights set on as much fresh bread as he could carry.

He waited for the woman to engage in a conversation outside before sneaking behind a barrel, then slipping inside. The smell hit him first, mouth watering in an instant as he practically sprinted towards a fresh batch laid out upon the closest shelf. Good, good - the boy snatched several large loaves, cramming them beneath his poncho, under an arm. He had what he came for - it was time to escape. Blue orbs scanned the room, weighting the pros and cons of using the back door again instead of the proper entrance.

The owner and the man she was talking to were still there, chatting idly about something. Maruku leaned against the wall, listening intently and gauging distance. Yes, they had moved closer. They were now standing close to the wall on the right side of the rear entrance, and the chances they could spot him were high. On the other hand, using the main door meant he would run right out into the crowd - someone was bound to notice his unlawfully-acquired cargo and Tonnavrel had little tolerance for criminals. Especially serial offenders. He swallowed, then decided to peek out the way he came. Just a little.

As his shit luck would have it, the man was looking directly at him. "HEY!"

All rhyme and reason to high hell. He bolted in the opposite direction.

He made it through the storage and leapt over the counter, scattering neatly stacked coin. The man was hot on his trail, fit of body and jumping the counter without much effort. Oh gods, gods - the wolf's small heart drummed loud as thunder as it thrashed wildly against ribs. The chase. In that moment, his insult of a nickname proved hardly accurate. He was no wolf. He was a rabbit, and the man behind him was the predator with gnashing teeth. The people gathered on the street gasped.

Run, rabbit, run. Your life could well depend on it.

He felt a hand clasp over and yank the back of his poncho - pulling down his hood and spilling the bread over pavement. Blue eyes went wide, feral. He had a knife in hand. A rusty shard of metal, the only claw to his name.

The man yelled something, snatching the fabric at his chest and lifting him into the air. Thin legs kicked hard at his captor's stomach, to no avail. He had a knife in hand.

He had a knife.

An ungodly sound, halfway between a hiss and a growl - and in a flash, the shabby blade found its way into the adult Windarian's eye.

The screaming was horrible. He was released in an instant, scrambling to collect at least two of the lost pastries before running like a mad wind, bloodied metal clutched in a vicelike grip of terror. He fucked up. He fucked up. This time, he fucked up. Oh gods, gods. Phoenix..! If only the Phoenix could save him now.

The shrill wail attracted the attention of a patrolling soldier. More yelling, and a set of armored footsteps followed. It was closing in, fast. Agile as the boy was, he was weak from hunger and his legs were still short. It was only a matter of time before his pursuer caught up, a-and then... No, don't think. Don't think. Be like you used to be.

Only silence. And instinct.

Like an animal.

He weaved inbetween passersbies, relying on his speed and others' shocked inaction to bring him closer to escape with each step. The civilians were too confused to stop him and deep down, most of them did not want to contribute to the apprehending - and subsequent punishment - of a thief that young.

Not when it was not their livelihood stolen. If it had been, he was positive they would be more than happy to see him bleed.

What he could not achieve with speed, he would with smarts. The redhead took a sharp turn left into a dark street, catching a glimpse of stacked boxes in the periphery of his sight. A quick assessment, and he leapt, making his way up and clambering onto a stone wall to then make for the roofs. More yelling, including that accursed word.

"The kiichimarichuril! Get him!"

His hood was down. No time to fix it, not with the food in one hand and reddened knife in another.

"He stabbed Vrynn! Medic!"

"Little fucking monster!"

"Hey! I know that one! Thief! Thief!"

His heart threatened to burst out his chest like a panicked bird. Flapping straining wings, pushing feathers like needles through ribs, searing pain surging in his lungs. He was just about to faint. But he couldn't.

No, no... He... Not only he... the others... needed...!

There was a sharp impact against his ankle. The dull sound of wood. Oceanic eyes widened, a pounding pulse skipped an entire beat.

His balance was -

A loud clatter signified his messy fall, small body slamming into an empty cart before rolling down onto the ground. Bread went flying everywhere, and so did his knife. His only defense. Maruku - Kiichimarimaruku - tried to force his body to stand, to do anything. Shaky limbs refused to move, a wheezing cough erupting from between dry lips and chipped teeth. His side...!

It hurt to breathe. Something warm pooled in his mouth, dripped onto the pavement.

The soldier approached slowly, smugly. In his hand - oh, the world was spinning - was a long, wooden object with a triangular shape at the tip. A spear. He had been got... swept off his feet by that spear.

A gloved hand reached down, and the boy could hardly fight back. By his hair he was lifted up, weak wide blues staring into the face of death itself. Such a striking visage, tempered by violence and unafraid to deliver it. He yelped, feeling his body dragged out onto the main street.

He wanted... saßu... he wanted to be strong. Stronger than this man. Never would he hurt children like so, even thieves. Surely there could be another way. If only... all that fighting stopped... everyone could live equal and never have to beg or steal.

Saßu...!

"Look what we have ourselves here." Another voice, one gruff as grinding stone. "A flea-ridden runt. Heard ya nearly killed that poor, innocent man." A kick delivered into his side. Another wheeze, and he spat warm blood. His tongue hurt like fire, he could not speak. "Oh, shit." The other soldier commented at the generous mouthful of red now splattered against cobblestone.

It was not the type of "oh shit" one would say when recognizing one's wrong. He learned that much when another kick drove a wedge of agony into his empty stomach; He let out a raspy screech. This time, he found the strength to bare his fangs, flashing wild eyes from beneath a curtain of disheveled crimson.

"Where's ya family, brat? Or are you an asiju?" Asiju. He recognized that word. Clanless. Yet another reason for them to look down on him. He replied not, panting heavily at the military man's feet.

That gnawing sensation... again. He could feel it. It dwelled deep within his bones.

"Weeell?" The warrior lifted him again, one bushy brow rising in mockery.

"Fuck... you." The wolven boy wheezed, and spat right in his captor's face.

The encroaching haze of deathly fear that suffocated him was gone. This was the growl of a living beast. He was alive. He would fight. Nothing else mattered, only the fury powered by his pain.

What blood and spit remained in his mouth all but turned to foam as he began to thrash, fingers outstretched as claws and digging into the exposed skin of the soldier's arm. Thick brows furrowed in a mixture of surprise and disgust, briefly letting go at the boy's display of madness. Maruku heaved, eyes wide those of some disease-stricken mutt. Garlands of thick, reddened saliva hung from an open mouth, teeth poised to strike.

What burst from the depths of his throat was the most inhuman scream he could muster, sending gathered onlookers jumping several feet back in alarm and confusion. It was almost as though he had caught the desert-death. Going insane with illness, striking at anyone in range before going down himself.

Fuck it. Fuck everything. If this was the end, he would go burning like a wildfire.

He could not see her with his sights set on the man before him - he could not see Ïsta as she came running to join the crowd, the old priestess in tow as they heard the infernal commotion. He could not hear their voices nor glimpse the girl's outstretched bandaged hand as she reached in vain for her friend.

Instead, all he could see was a rush of red painting his vision in a singular shade of wrath.

The dark-clad boy lunged with speed he hardly should have been able to muster, grabbing onto the man and digging his teeth into the fabric of his glove. There was a staggered yelp, a deep crease between furrowed brows that only spoke of violence in return.

"This brat is fucking insane!"

Another gloved hand buried into his hair, yanking him off his target and throwing his body ragdoll-like against the pavement. It knocked the wind out of his lungs, and with it, the mad spirit that seemed to possess him. Another cough, and the youth could only focus on the pain.

"Enough with this nonsense! You are guilty of theft as well as a violent attack with a sharp object. Now you're guilty of assault on a Lahriktaarese warrior as well." The last part was added with an ugly grin. This was it. The feeling sank in, a freezing sensation taking hold and stifling the flame that yet burned within his chest. This was it. He would be punished. He would have his hand taken off - perhaps his entire arm. And then he would die, because who would even help a wretch like him?

What fight remained inside would never save him from a grown warrior, let alone two of them. Even if by some miracle he slipped away, the crowd would surely stand wall and capture him again. The situation was hopeless and - oh, gods - he may have just killed a man over a few loaves of bread. What if he did? What if the knife went too deep and that man was dead?

Was this... justice? An innocent's life for one day of sustenance?!

He just wanted to help the church children. He just wanted... to help. For once, not be entirely selfish.

The remembrance of the Phoenix dominated his senses. The scent of soot, the warmth of fire. The brilliance of it all against the starlit sky, illuminating the night as if it were day. Summoners. They called them... summoners. Those who wielded power over those godly creatures. And the creatures were called... Espers. Each time they were invoked, it had to be done with the use of three souls.

A brief, second life before they returned to the earth with the breath of the Winds.

He remembered. He remembered the incantations well. A part of him wondered whether should he recite them, the great beast of fire would descend from the heavens to save him.

The verses... that summoner used.

The hold of the darkest earth, Mother Black.

The pyre of the gods, Fire Red.

The splendor of a living sun, Burning Gold.

The splendor of a living sun. He liked that. He would like to see it again so very, very much. But it seemed it was the darkness of the earth that would embrace him instead.

Once again he was dragged and thrown in front of the gathered crowd, a circle quickly forming. His captor’s boot found and dug into the side of his head, spilling a mess of crimson hair for all to see. He snarled like a beast as the city watched. A hunger for entertainment, eager eyes happy to witness another's agony. It was then that she registered to him.

Ïsta.

...He... had failed her. Had he? What foolish thinking. The notion that he could have even helped at all. What if they find out? That the church gave him shelter? Would they not pay for his idiocy as well? Kiichimarichuril. Little fucking monster. He mouthed her name, daring not speak it aloud.

The soldier’s boot pushed harder. He yelped, biting back tears as his arm was bent, cold steel touching his right wrist. The hand that had carried the knife - the tool of murder now abandoned somewhere in the dark alleyway. This is it. That sole thought raced through his mind, enveloping him in its entirety. He was shaking. His entire body was on fire and his battered side felt like it would split open at any moment. That damned soldier was saying something. Still quivering, with tears of pain welling up in those deep ocean eyes, he spat again.

Come on, get it over with. He fought not to beg. Do it. Spare me. He fought so hard. The metal felt frigid against tan skin.

"Hey! You there."

...Who?

A deep, grizzled male voice hollered from behind the circle of spectators, drawing the soldiers' attention. Maruku could only turn his gaze so much with the way his body was still forced against the ground.

There was a pair of... dark leather boots, the edges of a black cape. The way the newcomer stood was quite nonchalant, weight shifted to one side. "Let him go, I've seen enough. Taking this one."

There was a round of hushed, offended whispers. His captor let go of his arm, relieving the horrid pressure in his shoulder. "You what? Ohnzhejhar, you cannot possibly be serious."

"I am." The man - Ohnzhejhar, Silver Storm - affirmed, a hint of impatience in his voice. "By the law of the Wind Warriors, I choose to recruit this asiju. If he has what it takes. If not, I will return him here myself."

The whispers ceased, a stunned silence following in the wake of the strange Windarian's words. His tormentor saluted and stepped aside, side-glaring all the while but not daring to question a superior in rank. The wolven boy's body was beaten to hell and back and well on the verge of breaking in half - but he grit his teeth and rose, standing on wobbly legs to better see his savior.

The man was... monstrously tall, from this angle. Long silver hair adorned his head, eyes yellow like the Elder Moon staring unfathomable from overneath sharp cheekbones, the right of which was marked by a violet symbol of a crescent. Dark tan skin was painted with a long blue streak across the nose, seemingly sectioning his face into halves. His right arm bore some strange metal cuff - no, not cuff - a heavy engraved bracelet with what seemed to be a port of sorts.

"Done gawking? Then let's go." A gruff rumble, and the man began to walk.

...What? What did just... happen?

The man before him. His rescuer. He was more than a soldier. He was... a Wind Warrior. And what was that weapon upon his back? A gun as intimidating as its owner’s presence. Questions upon questions raced through a weary mind, but he could not help but search for her face in the crowd. Ïsta..!

There. There she was. In that moment, their gazes met.

Terror painted those orange eyes of one he had come to consider a friend. He wanted to reach out, to apologize. His lips moved, silently mouthing her name. The girl's eyes widened, and she stepped back. He glimpsed a brief flash of fear shadow over her features, and she slipped away into the crowd. She was afraid.

Afraid to be discovered; As a friend to the kiichimarichuril criminal.

No, no... he had to talk to her. Back at the church, he could go back and explain - that way, she would not have to be seen anywhere near him. No, he - saßu - he could not just leave them all like that. Even if he...!

I'll become a warrior.

His own words. His very own wish. And at some strange whim of destiny, or as a morbid joke from the gods, it came true.

I'll fight. But now I go.

He had to. Had to go. He had to catch up to that man, battered bones and lost blood be damned. His bit tongue still hurt, a dull throbbing pain seizing his entire form with each step he took. No, no - the chance he was given, he could not squander. The first real chance... in his entire life.

In those blue ocean eyes, the man named Silver Storm became as the very divine; An earthly god extending a helping hand to the wretched omen child.

Kindness, even laced with thorns, would become deified.

A single tear fell from the wolven boy's eyes; He blinked the moisture away, turning his back to the audience that had hoped to spectate his downfall. Turning his back to her.

"W...wait.." He called after the silver-haired warrior, half-running, half-stumbling after his savior. His chest felt heavy, but so long as he could yet breathe, he could walk.

The man seemed to ignore him, continuing to walk at a steady pace on those long legs that rendered his steps closer to a plains lion's leaps. For each of Storm's strides, he had to take four. Droplets of sweat rolled down a dirtied face painted with blood and grime alike. Saßu... what was up with that man? Did he change his mind? Had he already forgotten about the tiny shape following in his shadow? Perhaps he wanted nothing to do with him, after all. Saßu, he couldn't... keep up that pace.

He was going to lose him.

Or so he thought. With quite the massive delay, the warrior reacted to his request, slowing down until he eventually halted, half-turned head staring with a golden side-eye. The way he glared, it sent shivers down the young Maruku's spine. "Hmm..." That voice, powerful as a landslide. "Let me see."

He approached, and the redhead boy froze in place. His eyes sparkled with pure wonder, even as his body would much rather seize up in primal terror. Becoming stiff as a log, tense with anticipation, each and every one of his instincts trained to brace for danger.

The warrior knelt down, both hands enveloping the asiju's sides, forcibly rotating him once, then again. He could only stand there, allowing his body to be guided by that monstrous man's hands, a little inspection of his form he would endure until his rescuer was satisfied with what he saw. Moon-yellow eyes looked on with an utter absence of emotion, an all-encompassing boredom painting steeled features. Another hmm resounding, a guttural noise, as though excavated from the belly of a beast.

A hand left his side, reaching for a satchel hanging at the warrior's waist. A pinch of what seemed to be... shimmering emerald dust, set into motion by a circular movement of the Storm's wrist. "From life's ether... Evergreen."

A press of an enormous hand against his chest, startled gasp forcing its way past the wolf-child's lips as he watched the Soil itself glow and take hold of every ache in his body - snuffing them out like dying candlelight. Suddenly, his side no longer stung like so. He gawked.

The youth's awestruck expression must have prompted the mage to speak. "Close that mouth before a hornet flies in." Was that... a joke? Told in a deadpan dryer than the Sand Sea itself? "Here." A bottle of water was passed his way, snapping him out of his stupor as greedy hands immediately brought it to parched lips, chugging the clear liquid in large and messy gulps.

"Do you have a name, boy?" One silvered brow rode higher, the Storm's question hanging heavy in the air. The mage resumed walking, just a little slower than before.

A name...? A name.

The redhead lowered the bottle, staring with wide, shining eyes. The light within slowly dimmed as he finally looked down, burying his gaze into the dirt. "No... no name. They only call me Maru..ku." A pause, and the boy considered. He may as well give the full version - the brand he had carried since his earliest days. "Kiichi...mari...maruku."

The Red-Haired Wolf. The Windarian word for red was interchangeable with blood. The very blood that supposedly granted his hair that rich crimson hue, a mark of the calamity that followed in his wake.

The Wind Warrior walked in silence for a moment - weighting his words behind yellow eyes. "Kiichimarimaruku, huh? That is a curse you carry. One that runs deep in your veins. You cannot escape it. But you can fight it."

"Fight...?"

"You have iron in your eyes and fire in your heart, churil." Stated the silver warrior. "A blade is what you will make. With the Ladnajredvi as your crucible. If you want to survive in this land, that is."

Was that... the name of the Wind Warrior's clan? A word for the sea and another he did not yet recognize. Yes, it must have been. In a way, was the blue line across the soldier's face not like the calm surface of water? Perhaps, one day, he could venture out to see the sea with his own two eyes.

The lively main street eventually gave way to farmland; animals kept for milk, meat and hide alike mooing, cooing and yowling their way as they passed by. What little grassy fields clung to Tonnavrel's walls like a babe to its mother soon reclined into gravel, life-giving soil metamorphosing into rocky desert.

At the final city gate awaited the distinct shape of a wagon, a beast of burden standing in front and eating out of the basket attached to its muzzle. The kivani's long tail swayed to-and-fro as they approached, a low rumbling noise offered in greeting as Storm's left hand smoothed over its head, tracing overneath its ink-black eye and the ridged base of a horn. "Steel Shrike!" He called out. A warrior - painted similarly upon the face - turned to salute her elder. "Prepare the kivani. We're moving."

There was another quick salute and the Ladnajredvi soldier set to work; Dark eyes briefly falling on the boy in Storm's shadow. She did not question, attention focused entirely on her task; Removing the feeder, double-checking the harness. She, too, was tall. Maruku seemed to shrink further the more people drew near to greet their returning leader.

"Alihkar. Good to see ye. Who's this?" Another voice inquired, expression unreadable behind a helmet. The hefty warrior peeked around his chieftain's side - and the redhead simply walked out from behind Storm. Though uncomfortable he was, his eyes turned into a picture of conviction. Appearing pathetic in front of the people who offered him kindness was the very last thing he wanted to do. The man seemed pleased. "Oho! A brave lil young'un. What a crazy shade of hair you have there."

Maruku scowled, inciting the warrior into a bout of belly-laughter. Silver Storm let it go on for a while before raising a hand and prompting the man to stop. Hearty chuckling eventually calmed down. "Look at 'im face. What a threat display. I like 'im, Ohnzhejhar-vahree, I like 'im. Kinda bloody though, 'e aight?"

"Stabbed a man." The mage casually replied. Ah yes, knife violence. The absolute most normal thing in the world. "The hunter-zealots wrung out the kid's hide."

A head of crimson promptly whipped round, large blues staring dumbfounded at the man whose intervention prevented his own, rather untimely, slaughter. Yellow eyes looked down, quite unphased. "What’s the matter?" Storm seemed to know exactly what hid behind shocked silence. "I saw. The man will live, though short an eye."

The boy could only open his mouth like a fish, searching for words that never came. Instead, he closed it and sank lower into his tattered poncho, making a show of averting his gaze. Well, at least he had confirmation now. He was glad... he was no murderer, after all.

But.. did that mean Storm had seen everything?

The armored man whistled, head bobbing up and down before his gaze returned to his leader. "A criminal?"

The elder nodded. "Thief. Swift on his feet and not afraid to sting."

The boy's hand instinctively went to trace over his knife's handle only to find it missing. Though its condition was terrible, it was the only weapon he had ever owned. Thanks to it, he managed to peel back shells and kill small animals he would not be able to otherwise. With it gone, a part of him felt he had just lost a faithful companion. A fragment of himself. Now he truly was a wolf without its fang.

"You look proper hungry." The jovial warrior commented - reaching for a satchel to retrieve some dried meat. He knelt down and held the scraps out, a little offering of peace. It was then that Maruku's stomach growled loudly, only deepening the scowl already painting his features. The food was promptly snatched up, much to the man's amusement.

The warriors - including Silver Storm, there were four in total - quickly finished their preparations for departure. The supply cart began to move and so did armored feet, aiming to reach the nearest village before the height of the hours of the Sun. From there, they would continue westward as soon as the searing heat gave way to evening.

"You've been through a lot today. You can go sit on the wagon." It was an offer he had to accept, lest he faint from too much excitement. The wolven boy climbed up, positioning himself in the front of the vehicle, a sheet of dark green fabric stretching overneath to provide much-needed shade. From there, he simply stared on ahead, observing the slow change of the landscape and listening to the quiet crunching of gravel under hoof and wheel alike.

Before long, weary lids began to droop, and he laid upon his side, lulled to sleep by exhaustion.

---------

Day of the Rabbit. Ninth morning hour.

The journey to Keep Ladnajredvi lasted three days in total. They moved by early dawn and evening and rested by noon. The west of the province offered relatively safe passage, the only risk worth considering being wandering bandits but even they had long since moved further south to exploit the raging war. The trip was uneventful; Interrupted only briefly by a passing rock drake. Still, the beast knew better than to start a fight with four grown, armed Windarians - instead ignoring them as it dragged its scaly belly across the road and disappeared into a cave.

It was because of the long, boring hours on the march that the youth’s mind began to wander. From his earliest memories to the still-fresh scene of bloodied cobblestone and heavy boots and mocking gazes. And her. Disappointed, having learned of the violence that lived inside him. In the end, that gnawing anger shared its nest with guilt.

And from then on out, he would do his best not to dwell on the life - the lives - he left behind.

Rocky desert once again began to change; Almost as though Windaria herself was a dragon shedding scales. Sharp stone fell away to reveal a kinder, softer land, a stretch of plain peppered here and there with trees. In the distance loomed heavy, coiling spires, a special type of natural formation shaped by Soilwind.

The boy walked at Silver Storm's side, gazing in awe at the fortified Keep rising from the horizon. The longer they marched, the closer the city drew, a fortress built from chiseled stone dominated by a single circular tower.

"Welcome to Lir Hassan, churil!" Announced the heavily armored man - whom he now knew by the name Rurvakannu, Roaring Gale. "The Third Gate to the West, home to our people."

Strange-looking engines set to work on either side of the main entryway, extending a slab of metal over the dry moat that further protected the fortress-town. Storm's group rolled in, signalling for the passage to close. Stationed soldiers saluted, framing their little procession before returning to scheduled patrols. The metal drawbridge folded with the sound of turning machinery.

The town was not as big as Tonnavrel, but it could withstand an army. Ladnajredvi were a warrior clan - knowing just how to fortify their den to keep out unwanted visitors. From the very dawn of civilization, people had drawn teachings from nature. Like a rock drake piled sharp stones round its nest, so, too, did man raise walls and line moats with pikes. Lir Hassan was a city ready to meet violence with violence - it was made further evident by the various vehicles of war stationed inside the walls - rough and brutal looking hulls decorated in blue war paint.

The imagery of the sea. The boy's brows furrowed in confusion. He didn't recall seeing the Grand Blue anywhere near. Was it... a hidden sea, somehow? This made no sense. Why would the Ladnajredvi be named that if their Keep wasn't even beside water?

"Ohnzhejhar-vahree," He addressed the silver-haired mage. His broken Lahriktaarese had improved owing to his time in the church, but the phrasing could still be awkward at best. Particularly if he just blurted things out without thinking. "Why clan Sea-Risen if no sea?"

The Storm's head turned to allow a steeled gaze to fall on his pupil.

"This is not our original home. We were driven from our land, Malatuur, long ago." Unmoving moonlit eyes seemed to fill with a certain melancholy. "Ladnakutri Malatuur lies at the precipice of the Jewel of Windaria. Our ekkti and syajhiri, among other things, reflect the spirit of the waves."

"Ekkti... syajhiri?" Maruku asked, head tilting slightly to the side.

"The ekkti is the facial tattoo worn by warriors. If you do well in the eyes of Clan Elders and the Holy Beast himself, you too will bear your own." It was clear the man was not too keen on speaking this much a day - and yet, doing so was inevitable with a trainee such as the young Red Wolf. "A syajhir is a cape worn for ceremonies."

Indeed, this child was simultaneously the most ignorant and most curious one he had come to tutor. Even if something prevented him from speaking properly. A foreigner, perhaps? It mattered very little when he was already branded kiichimarichuril. "Come."

Maruku's time to awe at the city was short as the four warriors ascended up a stairway leading into the tower. The gate loomed tall, protected by twin stylized statues of mandible-bearing dragons. Their wings looked as though suns - propellers..? - had been fit into their wrists.

He could recognize the depiction of Lord Bahamut anywhere. He was the Ro Alihkar, after all. The Chieftain of the Gods, Lord of the Soil and Forge Patron of Firearms. It was this very dragon who lived within the Magun, locked in the central spire of the High Temple. Why would somebody imprison a deity? Even the God of Destruction was a part of nature.

They walked in silence. The only noise that accompanied their quiet ascent was the sound of reinforced boots meeting stone. The tower was not only tall, but wide. All around, the stairwell branched out into corridors, each leading to separate parts of the Keep. The stone walls, lit by what appeared to be veins of light carved parallel to the summit, displayed various scenes from history and mythology alike. Ancient figures and splendid creatures fought side-by-side, challenging a great darkness and its horned servants.

Eventually, however - the upwards spiral came to a stop, a singular opening remaining before the stairwell cut off with one final mural. The shape of a man holding a golden gun, with the same white dragon from before standing behind with claws perched protectively upon his shoulders. The hero's face was blurry, indistinct, and completely unremarkable. There was an ornate inscription below - not that he could read it.

Maruku's gaze was forcibly pried from the artwork when they walked out into the room sitting at the very top of the Keep.

The circular space they found themselves in was mostly overtaken by a long, wooden table of rather remarkable craftsmanship, seats lining both of its sides - some of which were already taken. The gathered Windarians' eyes fell on them in unbroken silence, awaiting for their alihkar to speak first. Silver Storm stepped in front, striking moongold gaze sweeping over his subjects, satisfied with what it was seeing.

"I greet you, warriors of Lir Hassan, my kindred. Today I return with the intention to acquaint you with the asiju I had recruited in the name of the Winds. May the Four Winds bless our Soil."

"May the Four Winds bless our Soil." Maruku caught on halfway through, reciting the greeting alongside the others. A greeting he already knew.

Once again did that same hum rumble in the Storm's throat. Before he knew it, yellow eyes fell on the gathered once again. "He is a warrior in spirit. A survivor. Henceforth, he will join the warband I mentor."

So... the man who had saved him would be the one to train him, after all. Blue eyes looked up, gazing at the warrior as though he were the Elder Moon. The wolf's very first guiding light.

He could feel Storm's hand rest upon his shoulder not unlike Bahamut’s claws did on the champion’s. A subtle, but clear enough, nudge to step forward.

So he did.

The other elders observed him with piqued interest, one that weighted heavy on the boy who had grown up always on the run. A long stare like that had only ever spelled trouble; His heart picked up the pace, adrenaline pumping to prepare the young wolf to bolt. He swallowed back instinctive alarm, remaining as unshakable as he could muster.

"What is your name?" An older, feminine voice eventually inquired, a grizzled veteran of war with a scarred eye leaning forward upon her elbows. Only one orb of green bore into his soul.

"I have none." He replied. There was no point thinking those words his name, anyway. Doing so was synonymous with granting his earliest tormentors the right to define him.

That's right. The monster never called itself a monster. That wretched title only fell from the lips of the mob, raising pitchforks and waving torches. That - was no name. It was an insult. An excuse, so that they may deem him an animal and feel better as they refuse, time and time again, to treat him like a person. By their definition, he was much better off dead.

Ïsta, she... against the odds, chose to define herself. Even in the shadows, unheard by others; Diligently did she remember her true name.

But then, why had he never defined himself..? What was his true name? Did he ever have one?

There was a round of exchanged whispers, many pairs of eyes - ones both complete and incomplete - continuing to bear into his form. Like hawks, gazing on from above upon their newest meal. Don't think like that.

"Very well, nameless child. Soon, if your strength of will and the Lord of Espers allow, you shall have one."

A name... his true name.

The Ladnajredvi elders turned towards Storm and saluted. The alihkar responded with a slight bow of his head, an acknowledgement and a thank you. As feral as he appeared, the young wolf knew better than to leave without paying respects. For the first time in his life, he found himself lowering his head alongside the man who would become his mentor. Copying his movements, learning even now from the smallest motion. Even beasts could recognize authority and he was no beast.

He was ready to define his worth.

[kazeofthemagun]

👤 for a muse headcanon ; 🌍 for a worldbuilding headcanon - specifically when it comes to romance, both personally for Kaze and in Windarian culture :>

Worldbuilding

Romance and intimacy in Windarian culture

Love in an age long past

[Heeeyyy!! Thank you for the ask! It really made me think. Windaria is both canon in name as well as an original world crafted by me almost entirely from scratch, much like Kira's Misterica. It warms my heart whenever people want to learn more about our boys' worlds and cultures. It's definitely a good exercise for me as well. Making these people so very alien and yet, so very human in the metaphysical sense of the word.]

Romance among Windarians was an important aspect of life as it is for us, especially considering how harsh both the planet and society were. Before the unification of the warring clans by Lahriktaar and subsequent uniformization of culture, each sovereign clan with a large enough territory had its own patron spirits, customs and social expectations. Smaller clans typically served the sovereign clans and adhered to their cultural norms and rules. There were many different ideas of how both romance and sex life should look like, but polyamory was widely practiced, seeing as more children usually meant better survival. Mingling between feuding clans, however, was considered a grave offence, as well as a blood curse. Any Romeos and Juliets were typically met with a rather grim fate, as were their children. It was a prime example of Windaria's various superstitions, dominating the people's subconscious even well into the Unified Era.

After the end of the Warring Clans period, the state of Lahriktaar's culture became the dominant one on Windaria. In Lahriktaarese custom, there was no official marriage. Furthermore, there was no stigma on homosexuality, but a man (especially a warrior) was still expected to father a child, so gay couples with a concubine (or concubines) were commonplace. Likewise, female warriors too were expected to "spread desirable genes", and infertility among either gender was stigmatized, although some warrior clans refused to conform to reproductive standards out of pride and valued bodily autonomy higher than the opinions of the religious caste. Depending on family status, certain dogmas were unenforcable and powerful clans typically retained some of their own beliefs and laws.

Relationships were based on mutual, consensual attraction and it was not too uncommon to date more than one person at a time. Whether that resulted in polyamory or rivalry was up to the individuals involved. Dueling over a partner (with the partner's consent) was legal, if eccentric and primarily practiced among quarreling Wind Warriors. Gift giving was an important love language, and sharing food could be considered romantic if it was eaten from the same plate.

The Windarian goddess of love and fertility was Inaret, one of the Mistresses of Rain and Drought alongside Alaeyra and Kaahtentuuri. Her blessing could be earned by ritual consumption of svachka meant; Smoking the rabbit-like animal and serving it upon its own cleaned hide. Certain herbs were also considered Inaret's holy plants and consumed around the Lahriktaarese Festival of Rain, acting as mild hallucinogens and aphrodisiacs.

Inaret also possessed her own tattoo designs, traditionally passed throughout the generations within clans devoted to her worship. Young Windarians in love frequently sought out these so-called "heart painters", having their bodies marked with an ink produced with a mix-in of the goddess' herbs. Another sign of deep devotion (extending to romantic and platonic love alike) was the gifting of blood jewelry, cast from a person's own blood and mixed with special tree sap.

Kaze and love

Black Wind grew up with a skewed view of love as a concept, but ultimately was very much capable of falling in it. As a precious few of you know from the buried canon, Kaze's first and only love was ill-fated, as it was his own sister, Golden Aura, with whom he had been separated at birth and thus the two were oblivious of their true relation. Having met Aura during a celebratory ceremony in the capital, he was captivated by her beauty. From there on out, they talked often, and grew mutually fascinated with one another. As a young clan warlord rising to fame, Kaze harbored dreams of forging a peaceful life for his people and fell hard for Aura's selfless devotion to the same ideal. Her kindness hit close to home, considering Kaze himself most likely would not have survived the sun-scorched streets of Tonnavrel without the charity of a small local temple.

Throughout his days and all his hardships, Black Wind grew bitter and disillusioned, especially after having his dreams simultaneously fulfilled and shattered by being appointed as the next Champion of Magun. Nowadays, years after the fall of Windaria and Aura's death, Kaze is not thinking of romance in any degree. As the now-immortal Hunter of Chaos, he is unable to ever again live a remotely normal life and thus, unable to provide any kind of stability to a partner. Furthermore, the trauma and dishonor from his and Aura's relationship still haunt him, making him unwilling to seek out emotional intimacy. Though he experiences close to zero romantic attraction, he does have a sex drive, but any such activities with him will never result in anything "more".

[kazeofthemagun]

Anonymous asked the summoner:

☕ + Windarian Government

Honesty

A long stare of blue eyes fell on the traveler, before the Wind let out a small sigh from behind the rim of his cape.

"The world that I come from was tainted in many ways. The Priest Elders were one such plague. Lahriktaar had subjugated other nations by force and taken the people's rights. Taken their names, their customs, their beliefs. Purged based on heritage of blood. Deemed whatever it saw unfit as heresy. Such a system is not built to last forever. A reign based solely on fear only seeds and nurtures animosity. Yes, I had been a warrior in my time. I know what it means to manipulate and take by force. I also know that the wronged will always fight back. Only so much can be endured before the chalice overflows."

He paused, seemingly just to gauge the other's response. Was it strange to hear the gunmage speak in such detail? It was to most. Black Wind rarely entertained such questions. After all, what did one lost world matter in the face of Wonderland? What did the Destroyer's story matter to anyone, in fact? His words were just as good unspoken. There was no inherent value to them when they changed nothing.

Just like he did when he failed his people. Even before the coming of that devil - he had already failed in more ways than one.

"...The High Temple had its Hounds, the Inquisition that continued to oppress Windaria over hundreds of years. Enacting judgement no longer in the name of the gods, but wealth and control. Acting no longer for the betterment of the land, but driving it to stagnation."

"...Stagnant waters only breed vermin and disease. We could have been more than what we were. We could have been better."

A crease between dark red brows, framing a steeled gaze that for the briefest moment betrayed pain.

"We could have been better. But we were not."

The Black Spear was their stairwell to promised heaven. Temple doctrine claimed it would lead sinners to hell. Instead, it doomed them all. Had he known any better, he would have simply said it was due punishment. But it was not. All those good people, shackled by oppression, they...

They had never deserved to fall into Chaos' claws. Kaze's stare took on a certain sharpness, and the gunmage turned away before it could cut.

It was all meaningless nonsense now, anyway.

[kazeofthemagun]

More about names and Wind Warrior customs

Worldbuilding for a dead people.

Names are simultaneously a complicated and simple thing to a Windarian. At their core, they are a descriptor of who you are in your truest form, and changing a name to reflect you as you discover yourself is something commonplace in the culture. Especially Wind Warriors value willpower and direction greatly. It is not uncommon for titles to become as names to members of Windarian society - take a craftsman for example. A set goal in life and devotion to it may lead a person to name themselves after their pursuit. For example, a descriptor name such as "Shaper of Gold" may be found in an artist craftsman devoted to creating only the finest jewelry. Taking up a name after one's life mission can unfortunately have the adverse effect of leading a person to depression or even suicide if they cannot fulfill their vision, though. Another option is changing one's name back/to something else, but this is often seen as a dishonor and admittance of failure. Changing names too often will get you deemed "water-willed" and disrespected by more orthodox families.

There are self-given names and the names accepted from others. Children named by their parents typically choose whether to keep or change their name, and whether changing is seen as a slight to the family is an individual matter - with Forgemaster families being the most prideful and least accepting of such. Craftsman clans may often seek to direct their offspring onto a certain career path, especially if in need of an heir to a traditional practice. Some accept their fate, some rebel, seeking another way of life. It had always been a part of Windarian customs. Changing a name can be seen as part of that rebellion, but does not have to be.

A part of Wind Warrior initiation always involves the change of a name - the clan alihkar (chieftain) naming new initiates personally or, in the case of bigger clans, a warband's vahree naming them. This is important to establish allegiance and devotion, as initiates are expected to accept their name in the same vein as they will later accept orders. Unquestioning obedience to one's superior is part of the Wind cult's traditional ideology - in reality, the warrior caste had always been full of infighting and alihkars unable to rule with an iron fist were often assassinated, which eventually led to the Temple introducing officially issued Challenges as a more legal, honorable way to fight to the death over leadership. To Wind Warriors, might makes right, and only the strongest and most respected can hold dominion. Respect makes it much less likely to have your subjects raise their weapons against you in their first place, after all.

Whether you choose to break or uphold it, as a Windarian, your very name is an oath; To your family, your warband, or yourself.

[kazeofthemagun]

Anonymous asked the summoner:

You mirror your home world

Break the Summoner

The Wind's eyes widened for a moment - oh. He had almost forgotten. How the phantoms of this land knew things they never should.

Windaria. A world that fell, leaving behind only two. And now, only one remained. Yes, all who walked with the Destroyer were doomed to death. What did they know? About his home.

About his life, his secrets, his failures. His delusions, trying to take the reins of a land of wolves. To lead the pack, he had to be one of the beasts. And his teeth had to be sharp. What did they even know....

About his sins.

A half-turn, crimson strands parting to reveal a single, glaring eye visible from overneath a darkened lens. It was hate that moved this heart. A hatred for his life, his home, his fate.

But also love. Boundless, yet so closely intertwined with loathing. Yes, love and hate were such close siblings, after all - like the harvest and the wildfire. Him and Aura were proof enough of that.

He mirrored his world, and now he carried it inside him.

[shiroi---kumo]

@lunaferrous || [ X ]

⋆˖⁺‧₊��◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ Her words are filled with both truth and ignorance. He should expect that not all creatures in this world, this universe that know of beings like him. Death is only inevitable to those who are privileged enough to stay within her grasp and dance her pas de deux for the rest of eternity. He knew no such life and that was the trick of it. The Death he knew only came in glimmers and she held his hand through everything as they walked.

It was obvious that Miss Luna knew not of the deathless and he doesn't know if he's quite willing to shatter her reality of believing it just yet, but he has only half come to join her. She's come to perch on this roof - sitting on the lower rungs of the railing that surrounds this tower. He's sitting next to her and jade eyes glance over to her after he pulls himself out of his daze of memories.

Her words are those of someone who knows death as a tool and a consequence but not in the way he does. At this point, she was an old friend that comes to wrap him in her arms from time to time so he can find momentary rest before he rises thereafter once more. He will always rise thereafter. He is eternal. He is the deathless.

She speaks to him with disbelief in her voice. Does she think him so young that there is no possible way he could have seen such a thing? He's blowing mist out into the night air for a moment as he heaves a sigh at the question. What death has he seen? Too Much.

Äiti. Isä. Isoveli. (Mother. Father. Big Brother.)

They've all left him and he's even so vile, he's struck down his brother with his own hands. The circumstances be damned, he's still the one who swung the sword that took his life. Again.

He doesn't know what to tell her because he doesn't know what she'll believe. He doesn't know what she'll say. He simply stated the truth. He's learned to watch everything around him die. Even if Chaos didn't follow him around stripping him of every thing and everyone he's ever loved like a cruel joke - even if - everything around him will still die far before he does.

That was the curse of the Unlimited.

The only absolute he has in this life is Black Wind.

"No, not everything. There are some beings that have been taken from the spiral and not every thing is always as it appears. "

He sighs as bare shoulders drop in a slump as he allows himself to lean just a bit too far forward. He could drop. He could let himself drop from this tower and hang in the air for a moment. Being grounded is such an awful feeling anyway. So the prince lets himself do exactly that. Leaning forward enough until his body falls from the place he was setting, catching himself in the air so he can linger in space for a moment to let all his thoughts process.

He's floating just before the railing, just before her as the cool night wind whips against his face and he sighs again.

"I have seen too much death to detail. Some I have caused. Some I have sought out. Some I could do nothing about. Some I could not stop in time. Some by my own hand and some who didn't deserve it... but the worse death I have watched was home."

He hangs on the word the same way he hangs in midair as if his silence is to serve as way of emphasizing the word choice.

"Of all the deaths, including my own, that my mind lingers on the most - it is always home. I have seen Misterica die in my dreams more times than I can count. To watch as the planet itself was torn apart and to hear her cry as the ground split and the skies wept black ink. I can't get the thought out of my mind. The oceans roared and the mountains crumbled into dust. To watch the land die.... it has stayed with me in all my years and I think it will for the rest of eternity.

Windaria was much the same. I - don't wish to ever experience such a thing again. It's a terrible frightening experience. Truly Chaos at it's core. The beast is named justly. I can hear the planet cry and see the kingdom crumble. Islands fell from the very skies they lingered in for millennia. I can always see it when I close my eyes. It's worse when the night is so ... quiet... like tonight."

Those same jade eyes fall closed for a moment as the Lunar Royal sighs and allows a small puff of white slumber to escape him only to be swept up by the night winds. Slowly they open again, still slightly hazed over as if he's caught in some form of twisted nostalgia.

"Death is not what things do... not when they are forced in such a way. The path was interrupted, the spiral was broken and such a thing should never be attempted by mortal souls. Death is a consequence of Chaos.... or it is an unattainable privilege for those who are cursed. Death is... far more complicated than it appears to those who have not tasted her kiss."

[shiroi---kumo]

A Prince’s Secrets || Accepting  

@lady-quen​​ asked:

☕ + Black Wind's cooking

“Whatever that is, it is not food. I refuse to even acknowledge it as such. Black Wind believes in consumption to survive and nothing else. I was spared from his lacking talent in this field when living on Windaria because Aura handled the task but now it's just the two of us so he thinks it necessary to even attempt to cook when I already know how to do so perfectly well. 

It is a waste of effort on his part because whatever he spends his time in trying to make a poor excuse for food, have been some of the absolute worst tasting dishes I have ever forced myself to eat. The number of times I reminded myself 'You need to eat something. You can't just eat nothing no matter how bad it tastes.' is simply uncalled for.

If he would just stick to hunting, I would gladly take over the other half of the task. He taught me how to hunt properly and Aura taught me how to cook. Now, I admit that when I landed myself on Windaria, I was missing what most would refer to as some life skills but this lapse in knowledge was quickly remedied. They both made sure of that. 

Due to my background, I had no need to know how to do such things as hunting or making my own meals. There were many things I simply did not know how to do and I admit there are still a few of those things now. As a royal prince, everything was done for me and due to this, it led to Black Wind to refer to me as spoiled on more than one occasion.”

”At the time, he was far from incorrect. I simply didn't understand much of the world when Misterica fell and nearly everything I'd been taught about Windaria was a lie. So this landed Aura and Black Wind with the task of making this little do nothing prince into someone who could actually do something.

I - I must admit I was quite ignorant. He taught me so much. So did Aura. They both taught me volumes of information, I never would have even begun to have access to from within my home. They both had every chance to kill me. I am the crowned prince. I was next in line to ascend Misterica's throne. I was the next in line to become ruler of my world. 

I was scared when I woke. I was terrified when I figured out where I was. They both had every opportunity to end my life. Multiple times they did have that chance. They could have just made it easy and killed me while I slept. They could have just ended me. They could have abandoned me but instead they taught me how to survive. 

I owe everything to them. Even with Aura gone now I still owe everything to them both. They taught me how to cook. They taught me how to hunt. They taught me how to hide and they taught me how to live off the land. They taught me how to keep my head on my shoulders in more ways than one. I would have been lost if it wasn't for two awkward Windarians who decided it was better to take me in.

So no matter how insufferable it is. No matter how inedible. No matter how tasteless and bland a dish that he serves me is, I keep my mouth shut and simply eat it like a good little do nothing prince, because without him I would hardly be alive and I would hardly be away from the monster that's hunting for me. 

I can set here and complain to you all day about how Black Wind's cooking is some of the most disgusting things I have ever consumed but instead I will simply keep my mouth shut and eat that’s given me regardless because without him, I'd be in a much worse position.” 

[kazeofthemagun]

Kiichimarichuril - the story behind Black Wind's curse

“If you raise one who only knows war, without love, and the only way they find acceptance is by becoming a weapon and fighting tooth and nail to find worth, and they find worth through the blood of others, can the war-child be to blame? How can you birth and mold an animal of bloodshed and then abhor it when it only acts in accordance to that nature? Can you blame the mistakes of a society on an individual? Where does fault lie in the eyes of the dog? What does love mean in the eyes of the dog?”

[Blood-hair curse, Windarian folk tale drabble. Headcanon. Windaria background lore.]

[cw: blood, death, war, abuse, the usual.]

Kiichimarichuril (Windarian: Kiichi-red, mari-hair, churil-child) was one of the oldest folk tales of the Windarian people, originating even before the time the Temple was established and the clans unified. The dark age of the planet was a particularly brutal one, considering how naturally vicious her inhabitants always were.

Before the rise of the summoner caste centered around the wielders of Magun, various warrior orders fought incessantly for supremacy. Windaria was a land of weapon cultists, her artisans' pursuit of perfection in form and function reflected in particularly developed war technologies while other crafts fell behind. Bloodshed seized the planet in a chokehold, endless fighting and extreme animosity preventing any meaningful attempts at progress. Bloodline purism blocked mixing between conflicting families, and it was even considered dishonorable among warriors to so much as speak to members of non-allied clans, giving rise to an (accurate) saying that there were no truces on Windaria. How could proper diplomacy ever develop when orhodox beliefs nipped it in the bud whenever it tried to sprout?

While the exact historical circumstances of their birth remain hazy (and now, impossible to uncover), the one first nicknamed kiichimarichuril was born as a result of an affair between a warrior and a craftswoman from feuding clans. It seems even their gender had been expunged from history, a derogatory Windarian equivalent of "it" being used in tales instead. Presumaby male, they could have just as well been female as it was not unheard of for women to be warriors before the involvement of the Temple, which sought (to varying degrees of success) to reduce such occurences in favor of a more patriarchal model.

The child, their identity as an unlawful descendant covered up, was adopted into their father's clan, though their mother unfortunately died giving birth. Despite being a freak with the color of their hair tainted as though by blood, they grew up somewhat normally (outside of constant abuse, an unfortunate but common part of a warrior’s childhood, especially one who looked and/or acted different), not knowing their nature, and trained as a warrior themselves, joining the clan's military. Their notably aggressive and conflict-seeking behavior proved a hassle to keep in reins, but their natural strength meant they emerged triumphant from the many fights they had incited.

One day, however, they wronged a shaman. They did not know whom they had insulted, for the shaman lived a hermit's lifestyle and did not disclose her gift openly. Instead of retaliating, the shaman asked a simple question. She doubted the red-haired warrior's ability and requested they hunt down with their bowgun a distant bird. Kiichimarichuril laughed at her doubt, saying they would easily kill the bird, and fired, but the shot animal was seized at the last second by a sand centipede, and taken underground while the hunter boasted. Even though the target was struck, the kill did not count as a successful hunt, for it was stolen. The warrior had celebrated too early. Now, filled with rage, they lashed out at the wise woman.

"You may have proven your aim, but mere physical prowess does not mean what you seek will not slip out of your grasp. You already have power, but you lack clarity of mind." She said, suddenly cryptic, and asked what it was that kiichimarichuril wanted the most. More power, the most power, they answered without hesitation. "And what will you use it for?" She pushed, irritating the short-fused warrior. "So that my clan can be the greatest and I can be its heße-alihkar (warrior chieftain)."

"And how will you achieve it?" The shaman continued. Kiichimarichuril hollered, "Like my forefathers and foremothers, through blood. Like the blood that marked me at birth. I will become the greatest warrior Windaria had seen."

The shaman fell silent. "Even if you suffer? Even if you cause suffering? I can offer you something more valuable than glory ever will be. I can help you find love, for I can tell you were never truly loved."

Fangs showed, the warrior finding themselves hurt in an unexpected way. The shaman pressed and pressed. "What do you seek at the top? What will you do at the summit?"

In that moment, they could not answer. With furrowed brows, they reaffirmed their previous request. Power, to see for themselves -

What lies at the top of the world.

With a quiet laugh, the woman agreed. "Very well," she whispered, "I am wise in the ways of the Soil of old Espers, and with that Soil I can grant you the means to grasp your destiny... if you promise me one thing and one thing only." And she created in her palm a ball of pure light.

Intrigued, kiichimarichuril asked. "And what is that one thing?"

"To prove you are a true future heße-alihkar, you must embrace the warrior's path completely. Promise you shall never take in hand a dethorned flower* - and I will let you go with my blessing. Break that promise, and great misfortune shall befall you."

(*Dethorning the sturdy Windarian rose by hand, thus bathing it in blood, and gifting it was an old custom meant as a peace offering. Many proud warriors looked down on such a gesture, for, according to them, only the weaker clan ever had a reason to strive for peace.)

Hearing such a ridiculous condition, the warrior laughed! They would rather die than be disgraced by taking from another a flower of peace, so the bargain was accepted gleefully. The shaman smiled and bid them farewell, disappearing into crystalline dust.

From that day onward, kiichimarichuril never missed a shot, their blade cut stone itself, and their legs carried them fast towards their prey so that it was never again pilfered. Quickly they rose through the ranks of their clan, becoming one of the heße-alihkar's most trusted. Respected as a powerful member of their family, they explored their opportunities within and outside of their circle. Winning glory, finding lovers, basking in their reputation - one of a hero, a prodigy. One adored by many, and feared by many more.

They fell deeply in love with a painter, or so the rumors say. Enthralled by the beauty of the upper continents laid out on the canvas, they decided to one day conquer them and bring with them their soulmate. The artist begged them not to lose themselves in their pursuit - "But then, I will be able to give you all," kiichimarichuril thought. Maybe what they wanted at the top of the world was not meant for one. I found my meaning, they thought. I will attain power in the name of love.

(There are gruesome painted images of kiichimarichuril facing a crossroads, and a dog is split in half length-wise by the signpost, but continues onward nonetheless, walking (flying?) in separate directions.)

Eventually, after many successful campaigns, they faced a formidable enemy that defended themselves well. With a fluid slice, the foe's commander ended the life of the red-haired warrior's clan leader, but that was also an opportunity in the ambitious Windarian's eyes. With monstrous strength, they decimated the enemy force, and faced down the killer of the heße-alihkar.

"Heed me, o great and fearsome warrior," Their opponent shouted, proposing a customary duel. "Should I defeat you and claim your blade, your forces will retreat from our stronghold. Should you defeat me and claim my blade, my warriors will stand down. In this way, we can preserve our honor and spill no more blood."

As the fallen chieftain's second, kiichimarichuril was now the leader. There would be a duel - in this way, they could avenge the honor of their predecessor. And they knew they would not lose.

Under the smoke-grey skies, they duelled. Even with the red-haired warrior's blessing of Soil, the fight was even. The time when the centipede seized their prey that one day was suddenly fresh in their mind, and they refused to be dishonored by defeat. They jumped forward with a powerful swing of their sword, and the enemy attempted to guard, holding the pommel with one hand and blade in another. All in vain, for kiichimarichuril’s strength was great indeed. The foe's weapon shattered into tiny shards, maiming his fingers and face. Unable to continue, he looked up at the victor who claimed and lifted his broken weapon in triumph, and he spoke his last words.

"To see one strong enough to break the sting of the White Rose... the holy weapon of my family..."

Having slain their enemy, the kiichimarichuril felt a painful sting inside their heart. The words of the shaman replayed themselves in their head - they had, through winning the duel, accepted the customary gift of their opponent's weapon. A weapon named the White Rose, whose blade broke off and bathed itself in the blood of one who gave it up. A dethorned rose, to spare the lives of the defeated.

And so, the kiichimarichuril had sealed their fate, as dictated by the geas placed upon them. Their lust for power would be their downfall, and the sharp pain as though a rose thorn lodged inside their heart only intensified. The battle was won, but at what cost?

An intense curse struck like a bolt from the blue: every day, the new heße-alihkar's loved ones and subjects died in horrific accidents and by horrific illness, their territories were raided by bandits and flooded by locusts, their castles conquered by many enemies.

There are two variations of the story from this point onward. One dictates that the painter ended up leaving the warrior in the end, realizing how blinded by madness they have become and the divine punishment befalling them as a result, and the rose thorn in kiichimarichuril's heart somehow turned them into a tree, covered in the very same flowers as if though in a desperate plea from the spirits of the bloodsoaked land to pluck them, take their thorns, and strive for peace as war brings nothing but insanity and pain. A strange moral, for a society such as Windaria. Naturally, it failed to shift the warlike worldview.

The other variation of the story had the shaman return in the warrior's dying hour, take the thorn from their heart (which is drawn like a shard of a blade, a fragment of the White Rose) and turn them into a two-headed, red-coated dog, which proceeded to wander the land and lurk at the crossroads mournfully. It was said that one head bit and raged, while the other remained calm and peaceful. One could never know which head was which. Meeting Orthrus and being either bit or licked was thought to be prophetic in nature, an indicator of the fate that awaited down the line. The dog was thought to see right into the heart of another.

In another tale, Orthrus is portrayed as the crimson dog who guards the crimson cattle of the sun. The cattle were beautiful, but gazing too long upon their coat brought out the worst in people, and the ruminants were hunted mercilessly. Orthrus was there to make sure his charges would be protected from such danger. One head always observed the fields of the sun, while the other gazed at the realm of man. Some sources claim the creature was half-dog, half-Esper, but no modern summoners have managed to commune with it, suggesting it is mere fairytale and not a real spirit. In the end, Orthrus was supposedly slain by another hero, and the fate of the red cattle was left ambiguous.

The tale of kiichimarichuril was notably used among the Temple's teachings as a cautionary tale to prevent warlords from pursuing glory independently from the Temple's Wind cult. While the new order succeeded in more-or-less unifying Windaria, faithless heathens were hunted mercilessly under the watchful gaze and cruel hand of the Hounds of Lahriktaar. Kiichimarichuril themselves, born rarely as they were, were seen as an omen of sin and misfortune, and it was widely believed that they were only born from bloodshed, which gave their hair the unnatural color it had. Similarly, were they left alive, more would continue to die around them so that they could maintain their cursed hue.

With time, the tale fell into obscurity, but the disdain, fear and still the occassional killings of kiichimarichuril persisted.*

(*Black Wind's old, pre-clan nickname, Kiichimaruku/Kiichimarimaruku (Red Wolf/Red-Haired Wolf) had unfortunate implications and the curse followed him diligently throughout his entire life. His personal shotgun is named Orthrus.)

[kazeofthemagun]

@shiroi---kumo asked the summoner:

"Don't chase the rabbit"

Do not chase it into the dark.

Kill for you, live for you

WARNING: To best understand the drabble, I strongly advise to read Child of Wolf first.

“It was him who intercepted them. It was him, the heretic, the kiichimarichuril chosen of Magun. He and his sister, who had taken in the unholy child of Tiamat. No, Seejvariil was holier than all of them. Holier than any of this mess because he had never been made to murder his own kin in an attempt to cover his sins.”

[Shared dream/memories drabble; The duel over White Cloud, 2k words, pre-series]

[Content warnings: heavily mature themes, blood, gore, mental abuse, torture, cultlike behavior mention, incest mention, suicidal ideation, brainwashing, self-objectification, rage issues]

It was the dawn. It was the seventh morning hour of the Day of the Serpent, and the awakened sun's rays painted the paved ground gold. Long shadows cast by the surrounding totems extended like prowling beasts, eager to observe the fateful match that would decide the future of clan Ladnajredvi.

To any commoner living in town, it was simply yet another day, yet another morning. The region was peaceful at the time, and a regular person cared very little what the Wind Warriors were doing. Though held firmly in the iron grip of the Temple, the province lived their lives in somewhat blissful indifference. As long as they had bread, they ate. As long as the springs were generous, they drank. The matters of what to them was a war cult did not concern them in the least.

There were men, and then there were dogs - lapdogs of Lahriktaar. He was one of the latter. And any old fool knew dogs had rules to follow and masters to obey. His masters were the Priest Elders and his code was written in the olden blood. Traditions were what held Windaria together, and traditions were what shackled him to this path.

Those particular shackles had been shut around him the moment Kaadhavriija issued the Challenge.

...Rushing Stream was no moron. He was not idiotic enough to challenge the Destroyer's right hand to a duel over the position of clan alihkar and yet, here they were. The only thing that separated the Wind from one of his closest friends now were the spears crossed on either sides of the arena. A symbolic obstacle, set to part upon the Ringmaster' word. A word that had not come just yet, so he still had time to prepare.

...Rushing Stream was no moron because he was his friend and Black Wind did not forge friendships with fools. No, he was no moron; He was desperate.

All because that foolish boy did not wear his hood at night.

Blue eyes opened; A sixth sense forewarning him to rise as the Ringmaster's lips parted, and the horn was blown. The spears parted with a click of metal against metal. Boots stepped forth into the arena and sunlight reflected off of gold.

...This would not have been their first fight, but it would be their last.

The wielder of Magun assumed a practiced stance, adjusting his center of mass according to the Weapon which now rested in place of his right arm. His one remaining hand grasped the hilt of his dagger firmly, curved crimson blade angled outwards like a viper's fang. It was far too long for a simple dagger and yet too short to be called a sword. A breath in; And a breath out; Wordless, they circled one another, completing a silent gauntlet. The witnesses remained just as quiet, masks of impartiality adorning their faces. Literal ones, made out of polished wood and featureless. Yet another tradition. Yet another shackle upon his kin. They couldn't smile nor cry, they couldn't speak either. Too distracting. To divert a duelist' focus and hasten their demise was to unleash a blood curse everlasting.

Or so the superstitions said, anyway. He was sick of them, frankly.

He was sick of being told what he can and cannot do. The Gun Beast had claimed his life already, let him at least protect Seejvariil before he goes. Let the knowledge of his heresy be buried - with Kaadhavriija, if it must. Because Kaadhavriija himself could not bear the thought of serving under a traitor and put on the line his life. A line that would now need to be cut.

"Svaardzjetrorahm." His name, falling from his foe's lips. Kaadhavriija's own red eyes were focused, his face half-hidden beneath the rim of his dark-blue cape. The Wind Warrior had both of his hands. Each one wielded a sword. Two swords that would set out to fell a God's vessel. Attempt to, anyway.

Of course, he would not unleash Soil upon the man. His only tools in this duel were a dagger and quick reflexes. No magic would be used.

It was hardly needed.

Black Wind said nothing; All the words had already been spoken that horrid night. Instead, he struck.

Steel met steel in a flash of lethal speed, the killing dance of two Windarian soldiers, warriors from birth and until death. There was no release from this destiny, not any that existed for him. Whoever had been forged into a weapon was condemned never to find peace, and though the Temple fancied it a blessing, the highest martyrdom in service of Windaria herself, he had long known this all to be but a farce. They were pawns; Played forever by a greedy hand. Yes, he was a sinner. He had believed their lies for so long. He believed in the hidden justice in the blood that reddened the sands. In reality, he had simply been sifting dust and hoping for gold.

Until the gold found him, and claimed his flesh as a throne for a beast.

The Magun was an excruciating burden, a prison to his soul, a testament to his hubris. But it sure made for a damn good shield.

Rushing Stream's stance faltered when his strike was deflected, panicked glint of red eyes reflecting in the pristine metal of Black Wind's right arm. And just like that, the viper's fang struck, so quickly it may as well have gone unseen. The witnesses failed to react, sitting still as ever. Perhaps they missed it.

Perhaps Kaadhavriija himself missed the lightning-fast sting underneath his ribs, the way metal hooked into flesh and sought inner organs. His gaze betrayed confusion when he went to swing another time and found one blade sailing through the air as his right lung caved in.

They stilled. Both of them. No more movements, just mutual staring. Ocean blues into blood reds. Like the blood that bloomed upon denim-colored fabric. The wounded Windarian's eyes showed no fear, no. There was a sort of acceptance, a resignation to his fate. He never could quite win against Black Wind, after all. Not many could.

This was not a Challenge, this was a suicide. The hollow-eyed masks did not know this, but the two warriors did. They knew. They each knew how much pride could destroy a man. In a way, it hurt deeply to know his friend wished to die out of his disappointment in him.

A gurgle and a wheeze, a soft whisper sounding above the edge of the swordsman's cape. The slightest upwards crease of straining lips, a taste of insanity in iron-scented foam.

"Even so. The truth will find you. It will find us. It will doom us."

...Kaadhavriija tried to save their clan. Even if he hated him to hell and back for what he did. A disgrace of a chieftain, a disgrace of Bahamut's gunman. His hatred was only logical.

The eve Seejvariil was found, it was Kaadhavriija alone who saw his glow. The Demon Swordsman of Misterica, their enemy - or so the Temple claimed. But in reality, he was but a scared child; And it was Aura who made him see it. Misterica was no more. That boy, he who wielded the Maken - that foolish boy had not even been taught how to kill.

Kaadhavriija could have killed Seejvariil. Not because his skill was greater, no. But because Seejvariil was ready to sacrifice his own life if only to not have to take another's.

It was him who intercepted them. It was him, the heretic, the kiichimarichuril chosen of Magun. He and his sister, who had taken in the unholy child of Tiamat. No, Seejvariil was holier than all of them.

Holier than any of this mess because he had never been made to murder his own kin in an attempt to cover his sins.

Black Wind's gaze softened, a look halfway to sadness and halfway to pity. With both swords now strewn across the floor, Rushing Stream was heaving. Each breath was more difficult than the last and a Wind Warrior's pride forbade him from displaying weakness. A swift death would serve to spare his old friend's honor. It would be a thank-you; A parting gift in return for the greatest gift Rushing Stream offered him. Silence. In front of the ears of Lahriktaar itself, silence. He could have gone and confessed the truth himself. Spoken aloud of what he found. But he didn't. He was too proud for that and telling the Temple would only stain all of Ladnajredvi.

And put them all to death for his heresy. Once again the blood curse would have cost the lives of his family; Instead, it now cost only one. A price Black Wind would pay gladly.

He took a step forward, knife held with the clearest of intents. "Fenlai." Friend.

But red eyes did not return kindness. The red eyes he had known since they were but children did not return any of it. The only thing now staring through those familiar orbs was seething rage. "You are no friend of mine. I curse you. Kill me, Svaardzjetrorahm. Do it."

...He did betray them all. He was a dog who stepped out of bounds. He was a heretic, yes. It was only fair his name would be cursed.

The red knife pressed to the defeated warrior's neck, preparing to deliver mercy. But Rushing Stream had one last idea. A venomous whisper shared only between them and no one else.

"You don't deserve a family, Red Wolf. I doubt a man who fucked his own sister can be trusted with a son."

The heirloom pendant - the revelation; from strangers to siblings - twenty one years they had lived ignorant - 

It was blood loss and anger. It had to be. Red eyes staring into those of death itself, all clarity lost. His mind had already gone with the Soil and for this he could be forgiv -

Black Wind's eyes shot wide. Something snapped. Something snapped. Something snapped.

Something snapped.

He would not suffer old scars to be named. Not again. Not ever.

The knife shifted in his hand. Tip curved upward. And before he could have even registered what was happening, he had already gutted Kaadhavriija like a fish.

The featureless figures gasped. Someone stood up, but those fucking traditions bound all equally. He hoped all of Lahriktaar would choke on sharp sand. Even if his curse was real. Even if the white masks with dark slits for eyes seemed so awfully familiar.

...Even if he now saw himself shoving the knife into Seejvariil's abdomen instead. Staring into those wide green eyes with narrow pupils. Hands slick with crimson blood and heart pounding madly in tune to the rhythm of the war machine. That's right, Black Wind Red Wolf. Rushing Stream was only right. Misfortune follows you and you have already doomed all that you loved. So what, if you did not know? So what, if you were raised to kill? The old tales still ring true. A dishonored dog who thought to adopt a child of a pure white glow. Red and white. One who curses others and one who curses himself. Of course only suffering would follow.

W̶̢̔r̶̩͐ȃ̶̯ṯ̴̈h̴̺̅ ̷̗͒H̶̭̅ǎ̸̞t̷̨͌e̷̡͋ ̶̦̀K̷̮̾ḭ̶͝l̸͇̽l̷̞͒ ̴̩̈ ̷̥͐M̷̪̐a̵̺̎i̵͕̒m̵̰̀ ̵̗͊S̵͙̅c̴͉̀ṟ̶̒e̷̡̔a̸̖͆m̵̝̽ ̶̤̆

Seejvariil -

It would have been best if you had killed White Cloud all those years ago. See? Instead you betrayed them all. Demon Gunman of Windaria, the destined enemy of the Demon Swordsman of Misterica. What laughable notion; To love the lost prince you were supposed to end. Bahamut's vessel does not need a family. Does not need a son. He does not deserve it.

Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Eviscerate him, you know the motions. You sleep with the knife ready to draw, no? You wake first. It will be easy. He’s so perfect. So sweet, sweet, and perfect. Don’t you hate it? Don’t you wish you could just carve all that perfection out, hollow out his chest just like the Gun Beast did to you?

He could feel Chaos' laughter. The same atrocious sensation that seized the Gun Dragon when pale scales turned to black. Where the audience stared on in shocked silence, it seemed to congratulate him.

...You don't deserve to remember his moonlit smile. You may have killed your old friend for his sake, but I do not recall giving you permission to reach into your memories. And thus, once again, when you awaken, you shall forget and be left only with a warbandmate's corpse at your feet and a curse on your and Aura's names.

....He wanted to die. Bahamut..! Just let him die. Should have gone through with it after he found out Aura was his sister. He only rested once every three to five days and still he was plagued by these nightmares. Nightmares he could never run from. So he desperately tried to postpone sleep. But he could only go so long with eyes wide open. So he clung to one memory, the singular promise to Aura he could still keep.

Live.

For her. And for Seejvariil.

Black Wind flicked the blood off the blade of his knife, and left his once friend to writhe and cry out for all to witness.

That day they exchanged dishonor for dishonor; Their final parting gift to one another was hardly silence.

[kazeofthemagun]

On Windaria's Military, Gunmages, Kaze's Warband

[I will soon start including more Windarian NPCs in backstory drabbles, so I thought it would be best to explain some lore first. ^^]

[The Wind Warriors organized into legions made up of individual clan armies each under an alihkar (a chieftain; think something loosely similar to a Japanese daimyo) and then a province's clans + alihkars served under generals in times of war. Kaze's rank at the prime of his military career was a general, and he was an alihkar of his own clan. This means he served directly under the Temple's priest council, because Windaria in its final era was a theocratic cesspit. =_=]

[The smallest unit within a clan was called a warband. Those were the closest among the Wind Warrior caste who trained and lived together. Warbands usually consisted of 5-10 warriors and Moogles. Kaze's warband was as follows:]

Silver Storm (gunmage, attuned to Fenrir, previous alihkar and Kaze's vahree/adoptive father and teacher) M + Miko, Moogle, F

Swift Flight (gunmage, attuned to Garuda) F + Pelo, Moogle, F

Black Wind (gunmage, attuned to Phoenix, later attuned to the Magun, alihkar after Silver Storm) M + Kupo, Moogle, M

Rushing Stream, M

Sing with the Breeze, F

Heavy Rainfall, M

Lights at Dusk, M

Hawk Wind, M

Sharp Dagger, F

[Only select warriors could train as gunmages (also known as Soil Adherents) and utilize the sacred substance of Soil to summon Espers. Typical calling guns were crude imitations of what the Magun could do and required special bloodletting bracelets to fill blood flasks to use together with Soil (as solvent). These guns could only summon one type of Esper.]

[A gunmage marked their attunement beneath their right eye, and their partnered Moogles did the same under their left, with a 'lesser version' of the pattern. Soil Missionaries like Aura also partnered with Moogles to mutually strengthen their Soil and meditate together. They were, however, not warriors, and belonged to the religious caste. This did not mean they did not carry weapons and could not fight, though. Most of them could also be considered warriors in everything but caste.]