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corvidfeathers · 8 years ago

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kill your heroes

“I fancied myself a hero,” Kynan said quietly. “In the stories, the heroes always cross paths with some old man or women in need of help…” “Who reveal themselves to be a celestial or a god or somesuch, and rewards the hero for their kindness,” Jarrett said. “I’m familiar with them.”

[The ballad of Kynan Leore and Anna Ripley]

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In the fury of the storm, the ship danced.

Kynan’s world had shrunken to the lengths of the wooden craft. Beyond its boundaries, there was nothing but the storm. Even the line between the hungry sea and the clouded sky was blurred; the ocean reached up to the skyline with each wave, caressing the horizon with fangs of foam, and the sky reached back with perpetual lashing rain and caresses of lightning that crackled down into the waves. Behind them, Marquet and the port from which they were sailed was nothing more than a distant memory, long since vanished from the horizon. Their destination was nothing more than a handful of half-remembered stories of drunk old sailors, and Kynan’s anticipation of setting anchor at the Isle of Glass had long since been swallowed by the storm.

For the first time in a day, Kynan had forced himself out on the deck again.

The sailors went about their work with downturned heads, their cloaks and coats pulled up to protect them from the rain. The only words exchanged were hoarse orders screamed over the wail of the wind. Even for these experienced seafarers, thoughts and conversation had given way to the struggle to keep the ship afloat.

Terror had been such a constant companion to Kynan in the last day that it had dulled, giving way to an empty sort of acceptance. Or that was what he told himself. They would survive this storm, or they wouldn’t. They would find the next Vestige, or die trying. It was just a fact of life.

Ripley would never turn back.

She, alone, was unaffected by the storm’s fury.

She stood at the prow of the ship; she’d taken up vigil there when they first entered the storm, and as far as Kynan was aware, she had stayed at her post since. He could see her silhouette against the frothing gray oceans beyond.

He stumbled across the deck, clinging to the ropes the crew had tied at waist-level around the ship to aid in navigating around the ship during the storm. With each wave the bow broke against, water ran across the deck, threatening to sweep any hapless sailor off their feet.

As Kynan approached the figure at the bow, a crack of lightning cut across the sky, illuminating Ripley.

The wind had freed her hair from its usual queue, and it blew wildly, whipping her face and shoulders. Her clothing clung to her body, soaked through by the rain- except Cabal’s Ruin, which seemed impervious to the weather. The stolen cloak was draped over her shoulders, and every few moments, veins of the lightning crackled through the fabric, matching the patterns in the sky.

Ripley’s gaze was fixed on the seas. Her pale eyes reflected all the stormy grays and greens of the water below.

Her teeth were bared in a grin.

The wild joy written across her features brought Kynan to standstill. He had never seen Ripley look so happy before, and in that moment that scared him, more than the sea, more than the lightning, more than the storm. More than whatever lay in wait for them in the island.

Ripley would never accept failure.

He shook the thought off, and maneuvered carefully across the last few feet between them.

Just as Kynan was close enough to reach out to Ripley, something slammed the side of the ship. The deck tilted under his feet as the ship listed sideways. For a moment, the screech and groan of wood pushed to the point of breaking was louder even than the storm.

The ship was maintaining its list, the deck tilted at a dangerous angle. To Kynan’s left, he could see the sea raging, hungry teeth of foam gnashing.

Kynan managed to keep his feet, but he glanced up just in time to see Ripley stumble. She tried to catch herself on the railing at the prow, but the rain-slick wood slipped from her fingers.

He let go of the rope and lunged for Ripley. His hand caught her shoulder, and he managed to steady her before she tumbled down the deck. The ship shook underneath them, the deck righting itself just in time.

Ripley’s eyes met Kynan’s, and she nodded. Her expression was perfectly composed, but Kynan didn’t miss the way her hand trembled as she raked back loose strands of hair from her face.

“What was that?” Ripley called, squinting through the curtains of rain and sea spray, looking back towards where something had impacted with the side of the ship.

The ocean was frothing and churning, and beneath it lurked a dark shape. A geyser of water spewed upwards. Between the distance and the storm, it was hard to tell exactly how high it rose, but Kynan would bet on at least as tall as the ship’s largest mast.

“Some sort of behemoth!” a voice cried back, hoarse from shouting through the storm. One of the sailors.

The storm was worsening, the winds howling to a crescendo-pitch, each wave carrying the ship up and tossing her down into the fray more violently. The old beams and boards creaked and protested around them.

Ripley and Kynan stayed rooted at the prow, eyes focused back on where the ship had been rammed.

Kynan’s eyes tracked the dark shape, trying to see where it began and where it ended. The shifting waves made it impossible. Once or twice he thought he saw something dark and shiny breaking the surface of the water, but it might have been nothing but miscellaneous debris or a trick of the light on the water.

Several minutes went by with nothing but the howl of the wind and the protest of old wood.

Just as Kynan had convinced himself whatever had knocked into the ship wasn’t following it, something rammed into the ship again. The impact wasn’t enough to tilt the ship this time, but the disconcerting sound of cracking wood wasn’t any less terrifying.

The scariest thing was the impact hadn’t felt violent; it had felt like nothing more than curious nudge from the behemoth. Kynan’s eyes picked up its dark form again under the water… the storm still made it impossible to see the details, but it was far, far larger than anything he had ever imagined. Larger than the dragons that had wheeled through the sky of Tal’dorei the day Emon burned, large enough to make the ship look like toy.

The sea split, and one, single enormous eyes rose from its depths. Waves broke over its form, lapping against the great black pupil that stared up at Kynan.

“Look!” he shouted, grabbing Ripley’s shoulder.

Ripley’s head whipped around. Her eyes widened, a strangled sound escaping her mouth at the sight. The sheer terror that flashed across her face made Kynan’s blood run cold. A month ago, he would have sworn there was nothing in existence that could terrify Ripley.

A moment later, her revolver was in her hand, and aimed out into the sea towards the enormous eye.

Darkness swelled in her eyes, her pupils opening first to swallow her pale irises, and then the whites of her eyes. Darkness poured from inside her shirt and down her left arm, pressing at the leather straps that bound her prosthetic in place until they snapped. The darkness solidified around the stump, creating a shadowy facsimile of an arm and a hand that came to sharp point, more like claws than fingers.

But with the gun in her hands, she couldn’t grasp the railing; the ship was being tossed by the sea, and each sudden movement made Ripley stumble a little, losing her footing on the deck. Her face was bone-white, her flesh-and-blood hand trembling, knuckles white on the stock of her revolver.

The first shot she fired splashed into the waves somewhere far from the eye.

The massive pupil contracted, and shifted, staring up at Ripley.

Kynan let go of his death grip on the railing, and stumbled towards Ripley. He managed to anchor one hand on the railing next to her, and loop the other around her waist, anchoring her for the time being to the deck of the ship.

A moment was all she needed.

Electricity crackled through her cloak, and then sparked through her body, sparking through the shadowy darkness of her strange arm, and then down into Animus. The lightning played across the barrel for a second, before she pulled the trigger.

The crack of a shot split through the storm.

In the distance, a small, dark hole appeared in the eye. Jagged bolts of lightning played across its surface.

From beneath the waves, a great sound rose. It echoed out from the water, a noise indescribable and impossibly loud, even muffled by the water and the shriek of the wind.

The eye disappeared from the surface of the water, sinking back beneath the waves.

Kynan held his breath, sure that something would slam into the ship and destroy it, or some great mouth would open up in the sea below them and swallow the ship whole. The storm raged, but the ocean beneath them gave no indication of anything but waves. No matter how hard he strained his eyes, he couldn’t make out the dark form lurking beneath them anymore.

Ripley didn’t react, showing no triumph, and no fear. Blackish, purplish smoke was still pouring from her body, and her gaze was still inhuman, eyes glossy voids of swirling shadow. He was suddenly very aware of how close he was pressed to her. He remembered well how fickle the thing that had taken up residence in her was, even if she called it an ally. He let go of her and the railing, taking a step back.

A wave broke over the bow of the ship.

A wall of cold water slammed into Kynan. In the shock of the frigid water, he gasped, and then choked as the burn of saltwater filled his lungs. He reached around to find a rope, but in his mad scramble to keep Ripley from tumbling into the sea, he had forgotten to keep himself anchored to the deck. Before he could find one of the ropes, his feet had slipped out from under him, and he was being carried by the water.

He was going to die. He was going to drown. He lashed out, clawing desperately, trying to catch hold of one of the ropes, but to no avail.

And then a hand had his wrist, and was hauling him to his feet. He came up sputtering, coughing up saltwater, with salt-blinded eyes and burning lungs.

He blinked saltwater out of his eyes, and met Ripley’s.

They were full of darkness. Something was biting into his wrist; her shadowed hand was gripping him so tightly her claws dug into his flesh.

Slowly, the darkness in her eyes receded back to her pupils. The shadowy hand dissolved, and Kynan would have fallen, if she hadn’t reached out and grabbed his shirt with her flesh-and-blood hand, pulling him close enough to the railing that he could lean against it.

A grin cut across Ripley’s face. “I think we frightened it, whatever it was.” She laughed, letting go of his collar.

Kynan took a shaky breath, wincing at the protest of his abused lungs. “I… I’m surprised… one little bullet was enough.” Spots danced before his eyes. It took all of his focus just the remain upright.

Ripley’s grin widened. “A shot from Animus is hardly one little bullet,” she said. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

A ragged laugh escaped Kynan. “That’s true,” he said. He stared out into the sea. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop trembling. What else lurked in this perpetual storm? What other sorts of monstrosities? He took a deep breath, and then let it out.

He could feel Ripley’s eyes on him.

“Do you think we’ll make it?”

To his surprise, Ripley laughed. “Of course,” she said, shrugging. “We have to. The fate of humanity is resting on our shoulders.”

“I don’t think this storm cares,” Kynan said.

“You’re right,” Ripley said. “But we’ll survive it. It’s the nature of humanity overcome obstacles, and this is just one more obstacle in our path. We’ll survive.”

Kynan didn’t say anything. His head was still swimming from his brush with drowning, and it felt like the cold water had sapped all energy from him.

“Kynan,” Ripley said. “Kynan. I’ll get us there. Trust me.” A hand settled on his shoulder.

“I do.” Kynan shut his eyes, trying to shut out the storm. Focusing on nothing but the small point of physical contact and the memory of Ripley facing down the behemoth.

That would be a story for the ages.

Finally, he had a handle on the fear. “I’ll be glad to reach this Isle of Glass. Compared to this, whatever waits there…” He cut himself off. “I shouldn’t tempt fate.”

“Tempt fate all you like,” Ripley said. “I’m glad you didn’t accidentally take a swim before we reached the Shrew.” She laughed. “It seems the sea has already taken a liking to you.”

Kynan grimaced. He wasn’t looking forward to the dive Ripley had planned for. No matter how many times they tested the potions and found them trustworthy, there was something viscerally wrong about voluntarily breathing in water. Add to that the task of diving down to some wreck buried gods only knew how deep, amidst the wreckage of countless other ships…

“Remember,” Ripley said. “The ship is likely not the only obstacle we’ll face in the days to come. Vox Machina is on our trail as we speak.”

That, at last, made Kynan smile. “We’ll be ready for them.”

Ripley’s grin was wicked. “We will.”

Kynan traced patterns on the wooden table with his fingers. The bar in Whitestone was quiet; it was long past the hour where most respectable people headed back to their beds, and the city hadn’t had the opportunity to develop much of a nightlife yet. Or that was what the sleepy bartender had told him and Jarrett, when they had roused the man from his nap behind his bar to buy drinks.

Jarrett’s expression was still caught between amusement and awe. “You might be one of the only people in the world to have survived a violent encounter with one of those beasts,” he said. “I never was much of a seagoing man myself, but everyone in Marquet’s heard stories.” He laughed. “You’re damn lucky the creature didn’t take offense at your employer poking it in the eye.” He shook his head, taking another swig of ale. “I’d be blown away by the sheer arrogance, but then, I think our current employers share the alarming tendency to poke big, nasty things without thinking it through.” He grinned. “How do we fall in with such careless folk, eh?”

Kynan nodded numbly. The question was clearly supposed to be rhetorical Jarrett didn’t know the whole story; exactly who Ripley was, or all she had done. Or at least, he didn’t think Jarrett knew, and he wasn’t going to ask, because it was a relief to let the words out. During the day, he threw himself into the task he had been given: training the soldiers of Whitestone how to use Ripley’s guns. When he wasn’t doing that, he was sparring with Jarrett, or guarding Cassandra, and the tasks at hand were enough to distract him from the thoughts that threatened to consume him.

But at night…

Well, he was glad Jarrett had invited him out like this. Jarrett never asked him questions about where he had come from, or how he had come to be here. He didn’t really seem to care one way or another, but he did like trading tales. And he was a good listener.

“I fancied myself a hero,” he said quietly. “In the stories, the heroes always cross paths with some old man or women in need of help…”

“Who reveal themselves to be a celestial or a god or somesuch, and rewards the hero for their kindness,” Jarrett said. “I’m familiar with them.”

Kynan stared into his mug and swirled the dark liquid around, bracing himself to take another sip. A taste for alcohol was something he had never tried to acquire in Emon; his father did enough drinking for the both of them, and all the money Kynan had managed to save had gone to equipment and tools for the day when he would finally leave to become a hero.

That thought was more bitter than the dark ale.

He lifted the tankard and took a long draw. It was all he could do to swallow it all, but he managed it, coughing only a little. It felt like the eyes of the whole tavern were on him.

There wasn’t much entertainment to be found in this tavern, not tonight. The whole of Kymal was under a pall of fear. The Cock’s Crow, one of the many disreputable establishments in the thoroughly disreputable town, was a shadow of its former cheer. Most folk had opted to stay at home, with their families or friends, in light of the events at Emon, and the enormous shapes that had flown over the city just days before.

To the west, on the horizon, Emon glowed, set aflame by the rage of a great red dragon. Scattered reports had trickled in from survivors who escaped the conflagration. The city had fallen under the attack of four or six or eight enormous dragons, working together to reduce the city to ruins, so the survivors claimed. Some had dismissed their stories as the ramblings of shock, until dark shapes had begun to fly overhead, heading east, and north, and south.

Kynan had dreamed of fighting a dragon one day- what kid didn’t, raised on the tales of Allura Vysoren and the other heroes of Emon?- but when he’d seen a great black form swoop over the city, glittering in the light of the dawn, his blood ran cold. For a full minute he had been frozen, staring up at the sky.

By the grace of the gods, or simple luck, Kymal had been passed over.

On the horizon, Emon still burned.

Father… Kynan shook his head. His house, the slums, he had vowed to leave all of that behind him when he left Emon. He would return to the city as a hero, or not at all, he had pledged under the shadow of the gates, still smarting from the rejection of his heroes.

Well, it looked like ‘not at all’ was looking more and more likely. It was likely his home didn’t even exist anymore. It was likely his father was dead.

Kynan took another swallow of the ale, turning that thought over in his head. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he blinked them away. There was a tight, painful knot in his chest that hadn’t eased since he had heard of Emon’s destruction. He left home without looking back, and the thought of returning… well, facing his drunkard of a father sounded no more appealing than it had before. But… His father was dead, along with most of his friends, more like than not. And… countless others.

I should have stayed. The thought pried its way into his mind, for the thousandth time that evening. He pushed it away. If he had stayed, he would have been dead too. What good would that do? Of course, he had vague heroic notions of facing down the dragons by himself, but if all the heroes of Emon had not been enough to fight off the dragons, what use would Kynan, the drunkard’s boy, have been?

He was useless now. That had been proven to him well enough.

No, he wasn’t quite useless. He was better than he had been before. He had been practicing, with daggers, and with a short sword he had gotten from one of the vendors in the marketplace in exchange for ridding his family’s basement of an infestation of particularly large and nasty rats. The ugly gashes he’d gotten on his hands and ankles from that job had been more than worth it. The weapon was of good, sturdy quality, and he’d even gotten a few pointers in how to use it from one of the mercenaries who frequented the Cock’s Crow.

So he was… slightly less than useless. Still not good enough to fight four or six or eight dragons.

“Are you going to drink that ale, or just brood into it?” a scratchy voice interrupted his introspection.

Kynan started and sat up. The old mercenary who had been sitting beside him before had left, and in his place an old woman had come to stand at the bar. Her rounded ears marked her as human; her deeply-lined face and ragged gray hair put her on the far side of seventy. The clothes she wore were travel-dusty and worn down to a uniform drab gray. They looked like they had been patched even more than Kynan’s garb.

Kynan started to snarl something rude, but something in the old woman’s gaze killed the words before they made it to his tongue. Her eyes were pale and flint-grey, and too piercing for the rest of her face. He turned away from her, and took another gulp of his ale, opting for the dignity of a stony silence.

The ale really wasn’t so bad, after getting through most of the tankard.

“Don’t sulk, boy,” the old woman rasped. “If you can’t take the jests of an old woman, you’re not like to make it far in this world.”

Kynan clenched his teeth, and gripped the handle of his mug tighter. To his mortification, tears were welling up at the corners of his eyes again. He tugged at the edge of his hood and used the gesture to covertly wipe his face. “What do you want?” he said.

“Just a little information,” she said. She eased herself down onto the barstool, moving slowly and bracing her weight on one of her knobby hands. Kynan’s eyes were drawn to the outline of a dagger that just showed under her coat. Armed, but what could a woman of her years do with a dagger? “I haven’t been in this town for quite some time, and I find myself in need of some supplies and without the knowledge to acquire them.” A grandmotherly smile flickered across her features. “Everything is much more… complicated now, than it was before.”

Kynan shrugged. “It’s not that big of a town,” he mumbled into his mug. “You’d do better asking someone from around here.” He glanced around the bar. Anyone else.

Admittedly, Kynan was probably the least intimidating person in the bar.

“Another traveler, are you? Where are you from, boy?”

Kynan gritted his teeth. “Emon,” he said. “Though it’s none of your business.”

The woman’s smile faded, but before she could say anything, Kynan cut in. “Look, there’s a general store a few streets over. The owner’s a bit of a bastard but if you get on his good side he’s usually willing to cut you a good deal. And there’s a marketplace a bit further down. That’s about all there is in terms of buying supplies.”

The old woman nodded. “Are there many smiths in town?”

“A few. Mostly they make plows and farming things, I think,” Kynan said. He’d been by a few blacksmith’s shops in his first few days in town, in search of good daggers, but the sound of metal on metal and the smell of the forge put him too much in mind of his father’s shop. Plus, most of the weapons to be bought in Kymal came second-hand from larger cities, whose smiths could make a living crafting weapons for adventurers.

Emon…

The old woman was quiet, not looking at him, but Kynan was suddenly struck with a thought. “Hey, look,” he said. “If you’re looking to buy provisions and well… much of anything, but especially provisions, you’ll want to buy them now. And probably skip town as quickly as possible. You’ve heard about the attack on Emon?” Kynan’s ears flushed as soon as the words left his mind. Of course she’d heard about them. No one could ignore the conflagration on the horizon.

The woman’s eyes glinted. “Of course,” she said. “I never could have imagined such destructions… what a tragedy.”

Kynan blinked quickly. “Yeah,” he said, swallowing. “Well. Um. Most of the produce comes from, uh, the farms around Emon, I think.”

“And they’ve likely one up in flames,” the woman said. “Food is going to become very costly shortly.” Her tone was musing. “Thank you for your advice.”

Kynan nodded. Now that it had occurred to him, he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it earlier. In the scope of everything else it seemed so… small, but things were going to get harder for him. He was barely scraping by as it was, rooming in this hovel of an inn and doing odd tasks for the townsfolk.

Fuck.

The woman seemed to have forgotten him entirely, lost in her own thoughts. She had turned partially away from him, and was resting her chin on one of her hands, gazing contemplatively at the wall.

Kynan took another drink of his ale and eyed the other patrons. The hour was getting later, and more patrons were crowding the bar. It was still eerily quiet; everyone seemed content to speak in hushed whispers or drink in silence. The bartender was moving back and forth between patrons even more quickly than usual, but drawing significantly less cursing and heckling than usual. All in all, the atmosphere was remarkably subdued.

Which made the two men in the corner stand out.

Kynan didn’t recognize them. That didn’t mean much; Kymal was an ever-shifting city, full of all sorts of travellers. But in the solemn atmosphere of the tavern, they were just a little bit too bright-eyed. One of them kept throwing glances at the exits: the door to the main street, and the smaller door behind the bar that led out to an alley.

The other one had a hood up, and his head down, but seemed to be staring intently at… something. Kynan leaned forward slide another copper coin across the bar to get another drink from the bartender, and managed to shift into just the right position to follow the man’s gaze.

He was staring right at the old woman beside Kynan.

Kynan glanced at her. She seemed oblivious to the scrutiny. She had ordered something from the bartender, and was sipping it. Her striking gray eyes were still staring out at the wall, fit to bore holes in the wood.

The men looked like woodsmen; maybe rangers from the nearby forest, in town to resupply and sell deer pelts and basilisk teeth. There were plenty of people just like them who passed through Kymal every day.

But something about them felt… off.

Kynan forced his attention back to his fresh mug of ale. He was jumping at shadows. Or, worse, jumping at chances to be a hero. His father had always accused him of that, of living with his head in the clouds. Of wanting a life out of the legends. Those sorts of lives were for the rich and the supremely gifted. Kynan should have been content to be an apprentice blacksmith.

Maybe he would have been, if his father wasn’t such a bastard.

He shook his head. Well, he was here. Living the life he had always wanted. He hadn’t managed to get far from home, but what did that matter, when home had been utterly destroyed?

By the time the old woman finished her drink and stood up, Kynan had gone through another mug and a half of ale, and was pleasantly buzzed enough that some of the edge had been taken off his dark thoughts. He glanced up idly to watch the old woman leave, vaguely disappointed he hadn’t learned the slightest thing about her.

He threw another glance at the men. One of them was definitely watching the old woman. Sharp eyes tracked her across the room of the bar, to the door.

One beat. Two beats. Then one of the men stood up and stretched. His movements were unhurried, but just a little bit too… purposeful for someone casually deciding to leave after a few hours at the bar. A little too quick.

He slipped through the crowd with ease and was out the door in a few moments.

The second man headed for the doorway that led to the alley a few moments later.

Kynan was on his feet and heading to the door before his reason could catch up with him.

Stepping into the street, he caught a flash of the first man disappearing around the corner, into the alley that the back entrance of the tavern led into. Kynan quickened his pace, slipping through the semi-crowded street as quickly as he could without causing a commotion. One hand as already reaching for one of the daggers he wore on his belt.

The alley was shadowed, lit only by the faint flicker of a lantern outside the tavern, but Kynan made out two figures immediately: the man he had followed, who was pulling a crossbow from his belt, and the old woman, a few steps ahead of him, ignorant of the danger.

The other man would be wait further down the alley, somewhere in front of the old woman. There wasn’t time to look for him now.

“Look out! Ambush!” Kynan shouted, and threw a dagger at the first woodsman. Just as he shouted, the man’s hand jerked outward to aim the crossbow between the woman’s shoulders.

Kynan’s dagger hit him just as he pulled the trigger. His hands were jolted, and the crossbow bolt went wide, glancing off the old woman’s shoulder before pinging against the stones of the neighboring building.

The woodsman spun with a yell, reaching for the dagger that had buried itself in the back of his shoulder. Blood was already beginning to soak the back of his tunic, but he seemed more enraged than angry. In the low light, Kynan could just make out the gleam of his eyes as he reloaded his crossbow.

Kynan dove into the fight, trying to pull out his shortsword. The damned thing stuck in its scabbard for a moment, and he had to duck to the side to avoid getting a crossbow bolt in the neck.

Finally he managed to yank the shortsword from its scabbard. He lunged at the man, trying to stab him before he could have another chance at reloading the crossbow. The blow glanced off the side of the man’s armor, but Kynan couldn’t afford another one; there were two men in this fight, and he doubt the old woman would be much help, even with her dagger.

He hit the ground and rolled, springing to his feet beside the woman. The other woodsman had come out of the shadows, and had a crossbow levelled at her chest. At Kynan’s sudden appearance, his focus wavered for a second.

That was, apparently, all the opportunity the old woman needed.

She pulled… something from her belt, and pointed it at the second woodsman. In the shadows of the alley and the heat of the moment, all Kynan saw was a flash of metal in her hand.

Something exploded, loud enough to make Kynan’s ears ring, and the second woodsman fell. Something had torn a chunk of his chest away. He didn’t rise.

Kynan froze, stupefied for a moment.

He realized his mistake a moment later, and ducked. A crossbow bolt grazed the top of his left shoulder. In his panic, he lost hold of his shortsword, and had to scramble for it, knowing that each second brought him a second closer to a painful death. But the old woman spun, and the thing in her hand made an ear-splitting noise again, and something- someone- hit the stones of the alley behind him with a stifled scream.

Just like that, it was over.

Kynan blinked, staring at the two dead men in the alley.

The old woman cursed. “Damn. I was hoping to get something from them.”

Her voice sounded… different. Sharper.

In the low light, Kynan hadn’t noticed at first, but the old woman had… changed. In fact, she wasn’t an old woman at all.

In place of the wizened old matron he had spoken with in the tavern was a much younger woman. She looked somewhere in her late thirties or early forties; her hair was black, and pulled back, and her clothing looks much finer and in better repair than it had before. There was nothing feeble or wavering about this figure; her body was lithe, with all the tension of warrior wound up in a tight coil, ready to snap.

Her eyes were the same light shade. In the low light of the alley, they seemed almost to gleam with their own glow.

One of her hands was gone.

In the other hand, she was holding a familiar weapon.

“That’s… that’s a gun,” Kynan blurted, before he could stop himself. The momentary pride that he had recognized the exotic weapon- one of the weapons wielded by Vox Machina, so he should know it- was overwhelmed by embarrassment, and then horror.

Surprise flashed over the woman’s features. “How do you know… Never mind. It’s not important now,” she said, glancing at the bodies on the ground, and then at the mouth of the alleyway, and then at Kynan.

Kynan saw the woman doing the arithmetic in her head, weighing the factors. Her eyes went from the knives at his belt, to his face, to the gash on his shoulder.

He could already hear inquisitive calls, and the heavy footfalls of guards approaching the alleyway. The woman’s gun- how had she gotten one, anyway?- wasn’t exactly a subtle weapon. It wasn’t an indistinct weapon, either, but if Kynan was found in the alleyway with the two murdered men, one of his daggers still stuck in one of them, it was unlikely the guards would look too deeply into the strange nature of the woodsmen’s other wounds.

Kynan stood there for a moment, totally helpless. Again, at the mercy of someone of greater skill and power.

The moment stretched, and snapped, and the woman lowered her gun.

“Come on,” she said, stepping towards him. Her good hand reached out to him, and plucked a dagger from his belt. Kynan stepped back, lifting his shortsword, ready to defend himself, but the woman’s attention had turned away from him and back to the bodies.

She flipped one over quickly, and drove the dagger into the circular wound in his chest. She plunged the dagger in again and again, until the damage caused by her gun’s ammunition was entirely covered up. Kynan moved to do the same to the other corpse. His limbs seemed to move without any input from him; it just seemed a natural thing to do.

Covering up murder.

Well, he had helped kill at least one of them.

The deed done, he stepped back, and looked to the woman. She glanced down at his work, and nodded. “Come on,” she said, reaching out and seizing his wrist. She pulled him further back into the alley, and pulled him into a small alcove. As Kynan watched, her image shimmered and then vanished. A voice whispered some incomprehensible syllables, and something tingled against his skin. When he looked down, his body, too, was invisible.

A shudder ran through him. He could feels his hands, and knew where they were… and yet he couldn’t see them. The dissonance was making his head spin.

Footsteps made their way down the alley, and several loud voices called out. One of the investigating figures was holding a torch, throwing the alleyway into much brighter light.

Kynan’s heart hammered in his throat. Every instinct was screaming at him to run, to run and not look back. But his clothing was splattered with blood, and he was at least complicit in the death of those two men. These flimsy illusions were his best bet.

The woman was utterly silent. Her light eyes were focused on the light further down the alleyway. The spot where the crossbow bolt had scraped her shoulder was beginning to bleed more heavily, the blood taking on the appearance of dark water as it coursed down her stone-pattern coat, but she didn’t seem to pay it any mind.

They waited there an agonizing amount of time, listening to the guards confer about the two bodies in the alley.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, two of the guards left to get someone. The woman tugged on Kynan’s wrist, and they crept further down into the alley.

In only a few paces, they were in another alley, and heading back towards the main streets of the town.

Before they stepped out of the alley, the woman murmured something and made a gesture with her hand. Her form shimmered and shifted into that of the old woman Kynan had met in the tavern before.

The woman glanced back at caught him staring. Her face twisted into a smirk that was entirely unsuited to the kindly, grandmotherly face she wore.

“Care for a drink, boy?” she said. “Perhaps we can help one another.” Her smile widened. “You certainly know certain things… and I’d guess that I could give you a thing or two you’re seeking too. Especially if you’re looked for justice for your city.”

“What?” Kynan said. He followed her out of the alley. In the street, they didn’t draw a second look, but he couldn’t help eyeing each guard they passed nervously.

The woman sighed. “We’ll speak of that later.”

Kynan blinked, but didn’t question it. He could, he realized, just stop following the woman. He could leave. She couldn’t risk picking a fight with him in the middle of the relatively busy street, especially if she was trying to keep her unusual weapon a secret.

But… it wasn’t as if he was doing anything important.

He followed her.

The woman’s name was Anna Ripley.

That was the only answer he managed to get from her at first. Questions slid off of her like water off the back of a duck, and each stab he made at asking just what she wanted with him was parried and deflected back. In the low light of her rented rooms, her gaze was softened from flint to warm silver, and between the sympathy in her eyes and the stinging liquor in the flask she shared with him, it wasn’t long before he told her everything.

In light of Emon’s destruction, his own personal tragedy was almost comedic, but it still was painful to recount. Even with the pleasant burn of Ripley’s alcohol in his throat and the accompanying haze settling over his mind, he was acutely aware of how ridiculous his story was, and was sure, any minute, that Ripley would start laughing.

But she didn’t. She listened to him talk in silence, her expression attentive but closed-off, giving no clue to her reasons for asking. The inn room had only one chair, so Kynan had forgone chairs to settle in front of the fireplace. Ripley was settled in the chair, looking at easy and regal as a reigning queen.

She had put up her illusory persona for a time, when they made their way through Kymal, but in an alleyway she had dropped it and walked to rest of the way to the inn wearing what Kynan had to assume was her real appearance.

He finished his story with “And I’ve been in Kymal ever since.” Ripley was silent, taking a sip from the flask, and then handing it back to him. Kynan took a sip self-consciously. He had put too much himself on the line for the silence to be comfortable.

At last, Ripley laughed.

Kynan flinched, color rising to his face. He had a hundred arguments to defend his actions ready, but before he could start any of them, Ripley began to speak.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, Kynan. I just find it amusing that the mistakes of Vox Machina led our paths to cross. Fate is not a force I generally reckon with, but perhaps it had a hang in our meeting.” Ripley ran her thumb thoughtfully over her bottom lip, her eyes turning from him to the fire. “You were led astray. The heroes you worship- Vox Machina- aren’t heroes at all.”

“What do you mean?” Kynan asked, giving her a hard stare.

In the comfort of the inn room, he had his first opportunity to really get a good look at her, sans illusions. Her pose, chin resting in her singular hand, gave him a good view of her. Her dark hair was shot through with gray, and a few strands of hair had escaped their tight queue in the fight. They fell around her face, giving her a bit of rakish look. Her piercing eyes were framed by thin lines that spoke of her age and shadowed her dark circles that spoke of little sleep.

Nothing in her appearance gave much of a hint as to who she was, or what she did. Nor was there much in the room in way of possessions. Most of the furnishings looked like they had come with the room; the only thing that looked out of place was a toolbox sitting on the table at the far corner, with a few strange tools and pieces of equipment scattered around it, and a few metal fragments. Perhaps she was a tinkerer of some kind? That would fit in with the unusual weapon she carried.

“What I mean,” Ripley said. “Is that you’ve been duped. Don’t feel too bad about it- you’re hardly the only one. I believe Vox Machina have gotten quite good at it, over the years. They’ve perfected the art of looking like heroes to advance their own agendas.”

Kynan blinked. “Their own agendas?” he said. His feelings on Vox Machina were… complicated, but… “They saved Emon. They saved the Sovereign, too. I mean… you can’t really argue that they’re heroes.”

“Certainly not, if you believe that,” Ripley said. “But don’t you find it convenient? One tragedy after another strikes, giving this group of nobodies just the right sequence of opportunities to work their way into the good graces of Emon?”

“I… guess I didn’t really think about it,” Kynan said. “I mean… that’s the way it is. Anyone could have come along and saved the city ot the Sovereign. I mean, not anyone. But any hero. It just happened to be Vox Machina.”

“And yet, when these dragons attacked the city, Vox Machina did… what? Did they rush to the aid of the citizens? Did they drive back the dragon threat?” Ripley said, then shook her head. “No. Isn’t that strange? The heroes of the city, letting dragons stroll in and set the place aflame?”

“Well… nobody knows for sure what happened yet,” Kynan said, trying to keep his voice even. Trying to pretend it was someone else’s city, someone else’s hometown. “For all we know… they could have tried to defend the city, and been defeated. Killed.”

“That’s true,” Ripley said. “If they were any ordinary group of heroes, that would be perfectly plausible. But as it happens… I know more of them than you do.” Her hand went to her belt, and she pulled out her gun. Kynan’s heart jumped into his throat, but she made no threatening moves with it, just held it out to show him.

Kynan knew very little of these strange weapons, but this one looked like a marvel. It was all streamlined, straight lines of steel. The butt and sides were inlaid with a smooth-looking stone, so white it almost seemed to glow in the lamplight. The overall aesthetic of the weapon wasn’t overly ornamented, but it was… beautiful.

“You know what this is,” she said. “I heard you say it.” Her lips curled into a smile.

Kynan nodded. “Vox Machina calls them guns.”

“Percival- you know him?- named them that. He built the ones he carries,” Ripley said. “He’s… responsible for their invention. After a fashion. It’s more complicated than I originally thought.” Her eyes lit up for a moment, and Kynan got the impression that there was much more she could say on the matter. “But that’s not the issue at hand. They’re fascinating weapons, they really are. In the hands of a talented fighter- like Percival or myself- they are terrifyingly effective, but in the hands of a talented fighter, any weapon can be. Their real strength lies in their simplicity.” She produced a small metal ball from a pouch at her belt, and showed him how the gun was loaded. “With a bit of tinkering, they could easily replace crossbows. They’re easier, and quicker to use, once one understands the basics. And they don’t require the raw strength of a bow. Arm a small force of men with them, and give them rudimentary training, and they would be a problem for any creature that comes to threaten civilization.” Her smile widened. “Or an enterprising magic-user.”

She tipped the ammunition back out of the gun. “Of course, that’s all in theory. In practice, these inventions are a bit too unreliable, and far too rare. But if dozens of inventors and smiths had their hands on the instructions, it wouldn’t be long before these things were a boon to humanity.”

Kynan nodded, not quite following her. “What does this have to do with Vox Machina?”

Ripley put the metal ball back into the pouch at her belt, and holstered the gun. “Percival’s a smart man,” she said. “He’s thought this through just as I have. He knows the power he holds, and the potential that is has for humanity and civilization. He’s probably dreamed up things far more ambitious and clever things that could be done, if he spread his inventions. But he’ll never do that. He’s more interested in holding that power for himself.” She smiled. “He’s a coward, and an egotist. He thinks he can use these inventions for his own gain, and then take them from the world when they no longer serve him.”

“The rest of them are the same. They wear the guise of heroes because it serves their purposes, not because they want to help humanity. All the good they have done up to this point has been only to gain the trust of Emon, and of others,” she said. “They gained that trust to betray it. They are the people responsible for the destruction of Emon, and all the other civilizations that are now falling under the attack of these dragons.”

“Your interaction with them was no coincidence. What sort of man nearly kills a boy to make a point?” she said. “Not a hero. That’s the actions of tyrant, someone in love with their own power.”

As she spoke, she leaned closer to him, resting her chin in her singular hand. Her pale eyes reflected the flickering hearth in front of them, picking up the oranges and yellows and reds of the flames. He had heard Sovereign Uriel speak before, at Winter’s Crest and other yearly events; he had always thought that the Sovereign was the epitome of charisma, with his regal appearance and his deep voice that could reach the back of a crowd without the aid of magical projection. The Sovereign could give a speech like no other.

But all of those speeches, all of those grand words and regal posturing seemed hollow in comparison to the way this woman talked.

She told him more of the details of Vox Machina’s scheme; she played for him what she had overheard from a spying spell she had on one of Percival’s guns, which he had stolen from her. Kynan was spellbound, listening to the familiar voices of the heroes he had loved talking of their responsibility for the destruction of Emon.

There was only one question left in his mind.

“Why are you telling me all of this?” he asked at last, when she was finished talking. “Why did you bring me here?”

Ripley’s expression was suddenly serious. “I will be honest, Kynan,” she said. “I’m not a hero. I’ve done a thing or two in my life that most people wouldn’t be proud to recount. But I’ve decided to stop Vox Machina, and that, at least, is a heroic goal. But I can’t do it alone.” She ran her thumb over her bottom lip, looking at him inquisitively. “I need someone with fast hands, a light tread, and a mind keen enough to keep up with me,” she said. “I’m not a hero… but if you help me thwart the tyranny of Vox Machina, you could be.”

Kynan considered her words, turning them over in his mind. A hero… That was all he had ever wanted to be. All he had ever strived to be. It seemed almost too easy.

“I’ve been betrayed before,” Ripley said, drawing Kynan’s attention back to her. Her posture was still relaxed, but there was a weight in her expression that hadn’t been there a moment before. “I’ve had my trust broken many times. I know this endeavor will require a great number of people- perhaps it will require bringing one of my ideas as to the use of guns to fruition. In doing that, I will likely have to employ people I can’t and won’t trust.” She sighed. It was a tired sound. “In order to pull this off, I need someone someone I can trust. Someone to watch my back.” A faint smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “You fit those criteria.”

“I… I do?” Kynan asked.

“You came to the rescue of a rather rude old woman who you didn’t know,” Ripley said. “That says something about you.” Her smile widened. “You’re not bad with a blade, either.”

“So, what do you say?” Ripley asked.

Nobody had ever seen Kynan like that before. He tried to think it through, but his mind was already made up. Staying in Kymal, eking out an existence trying to be an adventurer, compared to being a hero? Getting revenge for Emon?

… Going with Ripley?

His mind flickered back to the moment in the alley, in the moments between the fight and their escape. In those moments, Ripley had leaving him. How close had she been to this heroic, naive boy take the blame?

He looked up at her. Silhouetted in the faint light of the hearth and the candles, her eyes were molted like metal. Each etched line of age and smudge of weariness around her eyes stood out in definition. Her eyes met his.

Someone to trust…

She wasn’t claiming to be a hero. She was a force of vengeance, a destroyer of tyrants, a leveler. She was the sort of person who would weigh the lives of people like him against her own life, against the continuation of her quest, and, if convenience demanded it, would throw people like him aside for the sake of herself and her goals.

But she had judged him, and found him useful. Trustworthy.

“I’m yours,” he said, and held out his hand to her.

#critical role fanfiction #critical role fanwork #kynan leore #anna ripley #critical role fic #critical role #corvid writes #my fic

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