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imagine-darksiders · 3 years

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Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 18 - ‘Til Death Do Us Part...

Summary: ʸᵒᵘ'ᵛᵉ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ᵗᵃᵏᵉⁿ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ʰⁱᵐ‧‧‧

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It had been Eideard who once imparted some wisdom onto Karn, many, many centuries ago, when the youngling stood barely a few inches higher than his elder's knee.

As was often the case, the wisdom had only come after Karn had gone and gotten himself roughed-up by a couple of prowlers who had caught the lad off guard while he was snooping around the fjord, hunting - like all great explorers do - for the long-lost secrets of his realm.

“For stone's sake, Karn,” Eideard had scolded gently as he fussed over the youngling's arm, pressing a calloused palm to the gash that travelled the width of his wrist, “If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times. The Fjord is off-limits to you younglings for a reason.”

Karn remembers feeling especially proud that he would have a scar to match Thane's, perhaps he'd even show it off to the other youngsters whose skin remained unmarked by battle wounds. But Eideard's proficiency at healing spells soon squashed that little hope of his. Karn had pursed his lips and pouted down at the elder's hand as it weaved his skin back together with a simple incantation.

The gash, dug out of his arm by demonic claws, was stitched back together perfectly in a matter of seconds, muscle and skin melding seamlessly until no trace of a cut remained except in his memory.

“I was just 'sploring,” he'd mumbled back, lowering his head further under the weight of Eideard's stern eye.

Back then, long before Karn shaved all the hair from his head, it tumbled in long, mud-brown curls around his face, hiding his drooping ears from view.

Eideard blew out the sigh that all of the older makers seemed to sigh whenever the boy was around - the sigh that toed the line between fond exasperation and weary resignation.

All of the escapades, all the trouble Karn used to get himself into...

An injury was just... inevitable.

Expected, even.

“I know you were, lad,” the elder replied, “You've got a mind for adventure, that's for certain. But your mind tends to wander off, doesn't it? Gets lost. You don't always think things through before you jump into danger willy-nilly.” He raised one, snowy brow and fixed the boy with a pointed look before he added, “If ever you want to be a true explorer, you've got to start listening to your head, and your heart. Do that, and you’ll learn to spot danger before it gets anywhere near you.”

The youngling had dragged his eyes up to squint at the old one and he cocked his head to one side, nose scrunched in confusion. “How'm I s'posed to listen to my heart?” He paused, tilting his head down and frowning at his own chest, prodding it with a finger. “S'all the way down here. Not near my ears at all!”

Letting out a soft chuckle, Eideard had withdrawn his hand from Karn's arm and moved it to rest on his shoulder instead, causing the young maker to feel even smaller than he already was compared to the ancient giant.

“Ah, true enough,” he nodded sagely, “But there are ways to hear it without using your ears, you know.”

Karn stared up at his wise, old elder, mouth hanging slightly agape in childish wonder at the prospect of learning these 'ways.'

“There are?” he breathed.

Eideard's smile had turned secretive and mysterious, only spurring the youngling's curiosity until it threatened to gallop away with him on the hooves of possibility.

“Oh yes,” the old one murmured, “Ways which I've no doubt you will learn, in time.”

Karn had learned. And just as Eideard predicted, it took time.

--------

At the mouth of the tunnel that leads to the Tree of Life, with his back pressed to the moss-covered wall, Karn folds a pair of burly arms over his chest and sends yet another, anxious glance past the undergrowth and into the gloomy depths.

A gentle night has followed in the storm's wake, and with the last of the suns’ rays barely peering over the far horizon, darkness sweeps eagerly across the vale, dragging a chill behind it that nips at the youngling's ears and turns his every breath into great, billowing clouds of white air.

In reality, he knows that it hasn't been an inordinately long time since you and Death left to venture down the tunnel. But for a maker with his heart and mind so wrapped up in the safety of his best friend, time seems to drag its heels, stretching a mere half hour into an eternity.

He isn't even aware of his boot tapping against the dead grass underfoot.

Expelling an unhappy sigh, the youngling lets his head thunk back against the wall behind him and shoves his hands into his pockets.

'Just a few more moments,' he tells himself sternly, 'Then you can go and check...'

You're taking too long for his liking. If it grows any darker, you might not be able to find your way back through the brambles and thorns standing in your way, a thought that causes his pulse to quicken and a sweat to form between his palms as he clenches and unclenches his fists apprehensively.

The wind begins to pick up around him and he tears his eyes off the tunnel, swivelling his head towards the valley instead to watch as the grass bends and swishes gracefully in sweeping swathes, flashing silver underneath the fading light.

Over and over again, he replays your parting words in his head.

'Love you too, big guy.'

He finds they soothe at least a little of his trepidation, and he very nearly allows himself to relax.

And that's when he feels it.

Nothing tangible, nothing knowable.

He doesn't see anything, nor does he hear anything, save for the wind moaning through the passageway like a despondent ghost.

It starts as a prickle on the nape of his neck that sweeps down his spine and spreads to every appendage, raising the fine hairs along his arms until they stand to attention.

All at once alert, Karn's head snaps back in the direction of the tunnel.

His heart, which until now had been drumming with a steady, predictable beat, suddenly gives an urgent lurch, which is odd, he briefly muses, given that absolutely nothing seems to have changed except the strength of the wind.

If he was asked to put it to paper, he'd be utterly stumped as to how he should describe it - but something is definitely wrong.

Logic tells him that he's imagining things.

But it was Eideard who had taught him that listening solely to his head isn't necessarily the best course of action. There’s a sinking sense of dread coiling inside his belly that he just can’t convince himself to ignore.

Besides, when it comes to you, Karn would rather be safe than sorry.

Pushing himself up and off the wall, he hikes up his belt, sets his jaw into a hard line and marches straight into the darkening tunnel, easily trampling over any foliage that gets in his way. Several times, he feels his trousers catch on sharp thorns, but he merely sneers at their attempts to slow his progress.

He hurries, partly because the light is fading fast, though mostly because of the nagging ache in his chest that feels more and more like apprehension with every step he takes.

He doesn't meet you on his way through the tunnel, which only fuels his alarm and drives him to pick up his feet, and by the time the young maker bursts out of the passage and emerges before the Tree of Life, night has finally arrived in all its velvety glory, and you are still nowhere in sight.

....It would be a foolish thing, to resort to panic right off the bat simply because he doesn't immediately lay eyes on you or the Horseman upon his approach to the Tree’s titanic trunk.

And Karn is no fool – … for the most part.

It's a battle regardless to keep his composure, lest you appear from the shadows and catch him looking so flustered. But when he reaches the door to the Well of Souls and sweeps his gaze from left to right, trying and failing to spot you through the night's peaceful gloom, he feels justified in letting a little panic slip through the cracks in his toughened hull, creeping slow and cold as a glacier into his chest.

“Y/n?” he calls out tentatively, wetting his lips and pricking his ears up to listen for a response.

Maddening silence is all that replies, interspersed by the whispering of ten million leaves that rustle in the wind as it flows through the glade.

...A dose of slowly dawning horror consumes another inch of his courage...

Trying to maintain a calm exterior, Karn turns back to the root he'd clambered up and raises his voice. “Horseman!?”

…

Nothing.

‘Stone’s blood... No...’

Wheeling about on his heel, the youngling tosses his tentative hope aside, throws his head back and all but bellows, “Y/N!” Then... “DEATH!?”

The heart in his chest has begun to thunder far more loudly than the leaves that shiver overhead.

“No.. No, no, no! Please!” he begs into the dark night, uncaring if he looks ridiculous now. He'll take that. He can handle looking ridiculous if it means you'll answer him!

It's...

Pathetic - that a maker is reduced to pleading, but Karn would rather be seen as a pathetic, blubbering fool for the rest of his long, long life than have to accept the truth that is gradually becoming more and more apparent the longer he goes without hearing your voice calling out to him.

The youngling's wild, frantic eyes drop to the ground in disbelief as something – probably fear, he doesn't know... doesn't particularly care either – shoots straight through his gut, chilling him down to the bones.

You're...

Gone?

No... You can’t be... You wouldn’t have just...

“Y/n!” Your name bursts out of him again, but it's tight and thin as the air he tries to gulp into his enormous lungs, both of which now seem inadequate, because he can't breathe.

“Please, don't.. don't be gone! I can't – Not you too!”

You said you wouldn’t leave him...

Karn’s gaze drops lower and he clenches his fists, glaring hard at the wood near his feet when suddenly, his eyes light upon something that doesn't quite fit with the rest of his surroundings, and after he squints down at it for a few moments, he jolts, feeling the whole world sputter to a messy halt.

There, on the ground in front the beautifully carved door that leads to the Well of Souls, is... a lingering trace of you.

At once, Karn is on his knees and a trembling hand moves forwards, hovering just above the faint, but oh so recognisable scuff marks stained into the wood underfoot, as though you've left behind a clue for him to follow.

There's mud on the ground. Long-dried, but out of place, in the form of tiny boot prints that are undeniably yours. Nobody else in this realm wears shoes that small, not even Death.

The mud from the valley, after the storm churned it all up... it must have followed you here, clinging to the soles of your boots, only to flake off in identifiable streaks that stop right in front of the Tree's doorway.

Karn is no tracker. Eideard used to say that the lad's head was too busy getting stuck in the clouds to be able to see anything below his feet.

Thane's twin brother – Ulthane – had tried to teach Karn, before he'd even outgrown his training sword, perhaps assuming that coupling the boy's love of adventure and exploring with the ability to track and hunt would be invaluable.

But despite the smith's best intentions, it soon became clear that he was teaching a lost-cause.

It wasn't that Karn didn't want to learn, it was just that he lacked the patience to be taught.

There were simply far more exciting things for a youngling to do than to sit in one place and search the substrate underfoot for trails.

So, no.

Karn is not very good at identifying tracks.

But he doesn’t need to know the distinction between yaw marks and boot prints to recognise what he’s looking at right now.

The youngling's forehead contorts into a look of abject horror, mixed with a confusing blend of consternation.

The pads of his leather-bound fingers touch reverently to the dried mud, as if he's afraid that disturbing it would wipe away any trace that you ever existed in this realm at all.

Your feet had been planted sideways here, parallel to the tree, and you were dragged - helpless - right up to the doors by... something so much stronger than you. He can only imagine that you’d been pulled inside the Tree. But obviously, you hadn’t wanted to go...

You'd put up one Hell of a fight, if the deep grooves your heels have dug out of the wood are anything to go by.

Collapsing back onto his calves in a daze, Karn tries to compartmentalise his racing thoughts.

You didn't leave him.

He... He needs a plan.

Muria would tell him to be pragmatic in this situation. Thane, that he needs to focus and take stock.

What does he know?

... He know's that you're gone.

That's the first thing he has to accept – as much as his stupid, soft heart wails like a caged animal, crying out for its best friend to come back. He has to accept that you aren't here anymore. You hadn't passed him coming back through the tunnel either.

Karn's eyes squeeze shut, trapping the sliver of moisture that had threatened to slip out from between his eyelids.

'Makers don't cry,' he reminds himself, rubbing a glove roughly down his face, 'That's a human thing.'

… Isn't it odd? He'd never even come close to crying before he met you.

F O C U S.

Right... You're gone.

You didn't leave – that much is clear - and not just because you promised him you wouldn't, and he believes wholeheartedly that you’d never go back on your word.

No... The scuffs left behind indicate that you've been taken.

But by who? Or rather, what?

'Does it matter?' a little voice slithers out from the back of his mind to make its presence known, 'Why do you care who took her? Only that they did.'

The anger is unexpected. It sneaks up on him like a pad-footed stalker, sinking its claws into his heart and giving the organ a horrible twist.

This isn’t fair...

This isn’t fair!

The youngling suddenly lurches onto unsteady legs and throws his head up at the Tree of Life. In lieu of anyone else to blame, he clenches his hands into fists and peels his upper lips back into a ferocious snarl, aiming his jagged burst of outrage at the Tree itself.

“Give-” His voice quivers, throat tight as he takes a heavy step towards the doors.

“Her-” A pair of titanic paws raise into the air over the maker's head and he sucks in a long, rattling breath, blasting it out again in a roar.

“BACK!”

With all the terrifying power of a siege engine, Karn hurls his arms forward and slams them hard into the doors, shaking even the mighty Tree of Life from the tips of its roots to the uppermost leaves hanging from its canopy.

The wooden behemoth shudders and groans as if it had been struck by a bolt of lightening instead of a desperate maker. It creaks noisily in protest, affronted by the unprompted attack.

Karn could hardly care less for the sacred Tree's indignation.

Again – WHAM! - he pummels his closed fists against the wood, screwing his face up and baring his tusks until he more closely resembles a beast than a son of stone.

Each hit lands harder than the last, coming in quick succession. Wham! – WHAM! – WHAM!

“GIVE HER BACK TO ME!” he howls as the first leaves begin to flutter down around his head, knocked loose by his fists that continue to wail against the doors like two, devastating battering rams. “Y/N!” Your name leaves his throat in a strangled shout.

It feels as though a part of his soul has been stolen right out of his chest.

He doesn't even know if you've made it to the Well.

What if, whoever stole you, took you somewhere else?

Are you afraid?

More alarmingly, are you hurt?

The awful, gut-punch returns, and the thought alone has him abandoning his clumsy but powerful punches. Emitting a low growl from somewhere so deep inside his chest that even he isn’t sure where it comes from, Karn drags his palms roughly across the doors until he finds the tiny, inch-wide seam that sits between them, wasting no more time in digging his thick, trembling fingers into the gap and trying to pull the very entrance open by force.

Through teeth clenched so tight his vision starts to swim, the maker heaves at the doors, wrenching backwards with all his might – straining against a threshold that he knows won't be opened by will alone.

When that too fails, he gives a last, anguished roar and lets his aching fingers slip from the gap, aiming a furious kick at the doors instead, huffing steam through his nose that lends him the look of a raging buffalo.

“Please,” he croaks this time, uncertain as to whether he's speaking to you, the Tree of Life, or some other deity that resides inside it, “Please, I can't lose her! She's – She's my best friend!”

Incoherent rambles topple off his tongue with no audience to bear witness to his breakdown except for the Tree of Life and the lunar thrips that bob lazily through the air around his head, all unconcerned with the maker in their midst who is trying so desperately to stop his heart from cracking straight through its centre.

With his shoulders heaving up and down, the youngling collapses onto his knees, hardly caring when his forehead thunks audibly against the solid doors.

He clutches at his heart with one, enormous hand, the other shakily lifting to press itself against the tree trunk. “Come back,” he breathes, his voice hoarse, “I'll do anything, just.. please, come back?”

There's no doubt that he's talking to you now, as if you're sitting just on the other side of that door - Maybe you’re even listening to him pour his soul out to the dead air.

There was still so much he had to show you.

You were both supposed to be adventurers together.

Y/n and Karn - The fearless duo who would conquer any dungeon, hunt for any treasure, unshaken and inseparable. Friends, even long, long after the pair of you are dead and gone.

He was going to show you his world. He wanted so badly for you to show him yours.

But now?

Weakly, the maker rolls himself over until his spine is resting against the wood of the trunk, one hand rummaging idly through the pocket at the front of his tunic until his fingertips close around a small, delicate scrap of fabric. His stomach turns over at the familiar feel of it.

He pulls it out and opens his palm, staring bleakly down at your jumper – the only piece of you he's managed to actually hold onto.

'She's gone,' that slithering little voice insists again in his ear, 'She's never coming back...'

Karn's nose twitches and he carefully brings your jumper up to his face, hesitating only for a second before his will finally breaks, and he bends his head down to bury his nostrils into the soft, familiar scent.

You're lingering here with him, the smell of you, still strong enough that he can almost picture you sitting up on his shoulder, smiling at him, always happy to keep him company.

Maybe... you'll come back... Death must still be with you, after all - your terrible and terrifying protector. Whatever dragged you through the tree has probably already met its sticky end.

'Unless..'

Karn's eyes peel themselves open and he leans back a little, reluctantly putting some space between him and your jumper as a strange, uninvited thought occurs to him, one that speaks in a voice that's so nearly his own, it catches him off guard for a moment and he tips his head sideways to let it wash over him.

'What if it was the Horseman who took her?'

The moment that thought occurs, the maker is quick to banish it with a shake of his broad head, frowning at himself. 'No..' he muses, 'No, Death's a good sort. He wouldn’t take her. She told him she wants to stay here. And he knows it's safer for her with us...'

He's so caught up in his own head, trying to convince himself that you'll be back before he knows it, that he doesn't feel the wind drop, nor does he see the lunar thrips as they blink out one by one, flurrying away from the base of the tree like prey running from a predator.

'Maybe Death didn't trust you to take care of her...'

…

... Maybe?

This feels so much like defeat. But then, Karn was bound to reach the end of his tether sooner rather than later. Perhaps Death was right in stealing you away from him!

The youngling exhales a rough, trembling sigh and drags a hand slowly down his face, letting his skull clunk backwards against the doors.

He just... wishes you were here to remind him that not everything is crumbling to dust around him.

His friends who fell to Corruption.

His village, destroyed during the Guardian's rampage.

Eideard - a victim of his own power.

...You... Gone.

Just... gone.

Taken.

When did he start to feel so tired?

Deep down in his bones, there's an ache of fatigue that keeps his limbs heavy and laden like he's put down roots, and no amount of effort or force will get them unstuck from the cold, hard ground underneath him.

Perhaps he ought to rest here whilst he figures out what to do...

Yes....

That sounds easier than having to go back to Tri Stone and break the news... break their hearts.

Lost in a haze, Karn lets his muscles go slack and he sags heavily against the unopened doors behind him, feeling cold carvings dig into his spine.

Any fight he had left in his system has fled him.

Because what's the point of fighting if he isn't fighting for you?

At the very, very back of his mind, past the shadows pressing in around his psyche and the disorienting swell of hopelessness building in his chest, a small, swiftly-fading voice tries to pipe up, 'This isn't right! I can't give up!'

Karn swats the thoughts away like annoying lunar thrips.

All he wants is to be still and quiet, and to have you here with him.

He needs you.

He has to find you.

He doesn't have to worry... You're his friend. He will find you.

He'll find you and he'll bring you home.

He'll be a hero.

Your hero.

The more Karn lets the idea fester, the more tantalising it becomes until his skull is overflowing with thoughts of you, and of the future you'll have together.

Sirens – each image of you, whispering in his ear, promises of your safe return, of earning the adoration of his village.

He grows drunk on the bliss his own subconscious is feeding him.

---

The night is placid and gentle around the Forge Lands, settling down to rest upon a world as dangerous as it is bucolic.

In the village of Tri Stone, a family of makers gather together to celebrate the life of their eldest member, huddled close to one another for comfort, they wait for the return of their two youngest - One who has been part of their family for his entire life, and the other who is new to the fold, but no less a part of it.

A brother shows his sister a beautifully crafted vambrace, stronger than steel and lighter than silk, small enough that it could only fit a human's arm. A gift, for you. He worries you won’t like it. His sister reassures him that he has nothing to fret about.

Nearby, a warrior slumps back against a low, stone wall to rest his injured leg, but in his hands he holds a stick of charcoal and his trusty, old book of combat techniques. He’s busying himself by circling and marking out footwork manoeuvres he thinks are safe for a human to try. It's been many a century since he's had a protege, after all.

There's a shaman and an old construct sitting side by side on a stone bench near the anvil, conversing in hushed tones about the little human who had helped to save their world and how much their old friend, Eideard, had spoken of her as fondly as if she was his flesh-and-blood daughter.

And the final maker, a pup in both nickname and temperament, sits far away from his family in the shadow of an ancient tree.

Alone. Isolated. Devastated...

A broken heart is susceptible to all manner of twisted things that creep in the dark.

Now, Karn’s heart lays utterly silent in his chest, and though it does still beat, it may as well be nothing more than a useless lump of flesh and tissue stuffed between his ribs.

All the years that Eideard had spent guiding him, edifying his childhood through gentle lessons that taught him how to listen to his instincts and trust his gut...

...Wasted.

The voice in his head has drowned everything else out. Its saccharine presence plugs up his ears and keeps his mind captive like a Venus fly trap snapping shut around a bug that had been lured in by its sweet-smelling nectar.

One of the maker’s hands sits limply at his side, palm tipped towards the silver moon that hangs overhead.

And the other hand, clenched into a crushing vice over his heart, is secured unyieldingly around a tiny, cashmere jumper.

#chwh #cold hands warm heart #darksiders #darksiders 2 #Karn #reader #angst #From the bottom of my heart #my bad

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antiquecompass · 5 years

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A little bit more of Journeys ‘verse background/history

The Games were supposed to be about friendly competition and to bring all the various groups of the borderlands east of Ville together. It was to be a gathering where politics were pushed aside and each family or town or court showed off their best and brightest. A panel of judges decided the winners. The prizes were pride, bragging rights, and a small gift made by the head judge.

All three of the Prides of Yunmeng were competing at this year’s Games. Playing to their different strengths.

Jiang Yanli would handle the spell tasks: making small things grow, transfiguration, and one of her best weapons: her distraction spell, delivered while performing a dance, it lured the audience in before freezing them in place until she dropped the enchantment.

Wei Ying would run the Gauntlet. He’d won every year he’d competed, his quick reflexes, quicker thinking, and sheer dumb luck always an advantage. He’d also volunteered for any of the fire magic events. While not technically a wizard, and certainly not a fire demon, he did have a gift for making things explode. For his distraction spell he would be using his flute. He promised the Elder Judges that no, he would not be raising the dead from their graves this time. Again. Hopefully.

Jiang Cheng would perform in the elemental spellwork challenge. He was connected to the earth and the air and, of course, the water. He didn’t have a knack for fire, but he did have lightning. For now he stood in front of the large lake that would serve for one of the water challenges.

As he stood at the water’s edge, a hand in the water to greet it and thank it for allowing them to use its space, he heard unending bits of gossip.

"How can the Sidhe not have their newly appointed Winter King on the judging panel?"

"He is courting the youngest wizard of the Jiangs. The youngest boy. That one there at the water’s edge."

"I heard he's not much of a wizard."

"I heard he's not even a wizard. Siren blood in him, through and through. He's not his father's child. That's what they say."

"They have a fair point amidst their nonsense," Prince Eideard said as he knelt down next to Jiang Cheng. He put his hand above the water and an entire ripple took over the pond, greeting the Siren Prince. "You are far more Siren than Wizard and it's foolish to hide your innate talent and power for fear of a little public shaming."

"Is it?" Jiang Cheng asked. "Even you keep your markings hidden. Even here.”

“I am wed to a--”

“A sidhe royal?” Jiang Cheng asked. “I am being courted by the Winter King.”

Prince Eideard grinned, his sun-worn skin wrinkling under the freckles dotting his nose and cheeks. “So those rumors are true. We heard them even in Merrymec, but I thought surely, you, who once told me you would marry for nothing less than love, your family’s plans be damned, would not agree to such an arrangement.”

“It is not an arrangement,” Jiang Cheng said as he took his hand from the water.

“Oh?” Prince Eideard asked. “It is love then?”

Jiang Cheng turned, feeling the familiar weight of Xichen’s eyes on him, and smiled as an ice cold breeze stirred his hair and wrapped around him briefly before turning into a magnificent bird of ice and snow, dusting a group of laughing children with a light flurry before disappearing into the air.

“I think it will be,” he said.

Prince Eideard shook his head. “I think it already is,” he said. “Xichen is a good soul. The Sirens will accept him.”

Jiang Cheng had never completeled the rituals to fully become a member of the Siren Court. Yes, he had shown more of an affinity for that part of his bloodline than any other Jiang or Yu in recent memory, but he was still, by law and line, a Wizard.

“See me after the Games are over,” Prince Eideard said. “We have much to discuss.”

#verse: journeys #fic: in the woods somewhere #my ridic writing #fandom: the untamed

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sabrerine911 · 7 years

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Started playing some Darksiders 2 newgame plus and felt like doing this goofy sketch thingy. I mean sure death does a lot of stuff before reaching the final boss,but I do find it funny how he litterally kills corruption with a blade and when you immediatly start game plus after that elder eideard tells you this. Hopefully I will start coloring it tommorow

#Darksiders #Darksiders2 #death #war #maker #corruption #absalom #nephilim #funny #art #sketch #game #darksiders 3

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the-makers-daughter · 2 years

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*slides Nyörun a hunk of roast meat* 🍖

Been looking for an excuse to draw her without her disguise and this was perfect. Thank you!

#Darksiders #Darksiders 2 #Darksiders 3 #Elder Eideard #Eideard #Nyorun #anon ask #digital art #Darksiders oc #the makers daughter #themakersdaughter #angst #oc angst #original character

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the-makers-daughter · 2 years

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Pick a character from a cartoon you liked as a kid that reminds you of your oc!

I couldn't get the thought out of my mind that Nyörun, considering her age in the grand scheme of things and the overall nature with her relationship to Elder Eideard, Nyörun is basically

Frankie Foster!

The casual attitude while also being incredibly temperamental. (I haven't watched Foster's home for imaginary friends in literal years and I still remember that when Frankie gets angry everybody runs lol)

Her relationship to Elder Eideard as previously mentioned helps. If I remember right, Frankie was going to take over the family business when Madam Foster passes on. And that's something I can see for her is that Elder Eideard was training Nyörun to take his place one day as Chief.

Thank you for the ask! This was a fun thought experiment!

#the makers daughter #darksiders oc #darksiders #nyorun #ask #themakersdaughter #oc #nyörun #oc ask #anon ask

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the-makers-daughter · 2 years

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What a Day To Spend Inside

Just a short drabble since it’s getting colder where I live. Just Nyorun experiencing the seasons on Earth for the first time without anyone else.

Putting under the cut for the strong start!~

TW: Mentions of blood and gore in the beginning

The air stunk something vile. The sinew from the undead mixing with demon blood. The angel blood and gore was no better. The dragoness thought it was amusing that the angels thought so highly of themselves when they smelled the same in death. Sure there were differences, but the soil in the earth did not care. It was all absorbed back to nourish the ground. Or rather, what little was left to be nourished. Luckily for the cobalt she-dragon, there was another scent carried on the wind.

Rain.

This would be perfect, she thought to herself. Her fur protecting from the cold chill that the wind was bringing. It seemed the Earth was trying to return to some sort of equilibrium. She was told before from some of the human survivors about how the seasons on Earth happened. The first few rainstorms Nyörun experienced with the humans, the rain was disgusting. It was rusty red, and stung to the touch. The storms did not seem to carry those chemicals anymore, and she assumed this is was rain was supposed to be like, as some of her human wards remembered how fond they were of the sounds and smells.

The feathers on her wings ruffled in excitement as her long tail swept the ground, uncaring of the refuse it dragged along. She tried her best to keep herself cleanly, but some days there just was no point. Besides, she had a working bath in her den. One of the benefits to the knowledge her family gave her growing up. Her blue eyes turned upwards towards the sky as she heard the distinctive rumble, accompanied by even stronger winds. She was close enough to her den she would not need to fly. There was also an incident where she did try to fly through a storm.

A shudder went up her spine as she thought about it once more. A human told her that that storm was not the norm and that she had nothing to be afraid of. Yea right. Like she’d ever try that again.

As the first drops hit the soil, she caught the scent that humans seemed so fond of, and she had to admit... when the rain was clean, it was nice. Almost comforting. It was starting to smell like home, if only barely. Her muzzle raised up to the sky as she let the water hit and soak up into her fur as the storm centered over her location. It was cleansing. Not just her fur and claws, but her spirit. She felt revitalized. Arising from her seated position, Nyörun slinked to her den. It was a rather sturdy underground cave. It had a humble beginning, such as a crevasse opening that was almost too narrow for her natural form to slip through, so she knew The Destroyer would not be able to squeeze his own stocky body through. It separated her just enough from the outside world that most demons or angels would not even bother exploring it, and if they did? They were disposed of ruthlessly.

“Father, I’ve returned.”

The dragoness murmured softly as she entered into the main chamber of her den. It stayed consistently warm, as Nyörun manipulated lava flows to help heat things. It took her a lot longer than she would have liked to admit to craft the elegant pillars holding up the walls. at the center of the main chamber was a hall the went into an altar room, and at the end, a statue of the maker Elder Eideard. Crafted to look just like him. Such care went into the statue one would think it was the real thing. If it was not at least twenty feet tall. her claws softly tapped against the stone floor as she headed towards the bath chamber. It was the size of a very large pond, as it was large enough to cradle the dragoness in a way that she could submerge her body and lay her head on the floor surrounding the oversized sunken in tub.

Despite the depth of Nyörun’s lair, she could hear the rain outside washing away today’s grime and worries. It was a soothing sound that lulled the dragoness off to sleep with a heavy sigh.

Tomorrow would be a new day.

#Rainy Day #oc fanfiction #oc fan fic #drabble #oc life #text post #oc text post #the makers daughter #themakersdaughter #Nyorun #darksiders oc #darksiders

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elyslesnothing · 6 years

Text

Headcanon - Eideard

Imagine that one of the Wardens that War meets on Earth is actually Eideard, now under the form of one after his death.

#darksiders #darksiders war #war #four horsemen of the apocalypse #darksiders death #darksiders fury #darksiders strife #horseman #horsemen #darksiders ii #elder eideard #darksiders eideard #makers #darksiders warden #earth

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the-makers-daughter · 2 years

Note

Oops I messed up having so many blogs open DX

Was Nyörun affected by the End War in any way?

I would say her entire character arc begins from the End War.

She came to Earth with the rest of the Makers who volunteered their services. At first, they would not let her join them because she was like Karn. Still only a pup in both age and experience. Despite this, Nyorun felt that she HAD to be on Earth. They needed the Makers' help. Who knows what would also happen to her family if she left them on her own? So Nyorun tried for many days to convince her father that she should go, and Elder Eideard still refused her. Eventually, Nyorun got sick of being turned down due to her lack of experience. She used their path to Earth right as it was closing and got spat out with her brothers and sisters in arms. No one was happy about that decision, but she proved to be a great asset in the end. Able to fend off Abaddon and his demons, along with angelic warriors who would use humans as collateral. In between everything going on, she stayed with her family and humans she collected in Sanctuary until the final raid where she was forced to flee to another hiding spot to recover from the loss of her family, friends, and almost her very own life.

So yea. I would say Nyorun was affected by the End War! Thank you for this ask!

#Themakersdaughter #the makers daughter #OCask #OC #Darksiders OC #darksiders #Darksiders 3 #lore #Nyorun #Nyorun lore #story time

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imagine-darksiders · 4 years

Note

Just like. Head canons. For our lovely Dad Guys. Whoever you want. Whatever you want. I don’t care. Just. The Fluff Beast. 😫 Getting too strong...! Help! (I’m sorry 😂 Seriously, just do whatever you want. It’ll be beautiful and I’ll love it regardless)

Well, I’ve had this little Eidad fic on the back burner for a while now, sitting in my drafts and not doing a while lot. This seems like a good time to post it <3 <3 <3

It’s a sick fic. Nothing too drastic, just an old maker getting worried about his human friend.

---

Eideard has always been an especially unflappable maker, a trait that tends to come with the territory of being the village elder.

He never gets flustered, and he always maintains the poise and composure expected of him.

Unless, of course, one of his fellow makers is under threat. Only then, by his own admission, does decorum fly out of the proverbial window and little else but worry takes over him, mind, body and soul.

Recently, he's come to discover that the same rule applies to a very specific, little human.

----

“I'm cold.”

That ought to have been their first clue.

You're sitting in the maker's forge, seemingly content to remain still and quiet beside the roaring fire whilst Alya and her brother, Valus, are hard at work at their anvil.

“Cold?” the former twin laughs incredulously, glancing up from the sword she's forging to turn and fix you with a raised brow, “You're sittin' close enough to that fire!”

Her brother though, always the more perceptive of the siblings, ambles around her and makes his way towards you, tugging at the green cowl that sits around his neck. You may be vastly smaller than him, but even behind that visor, he can see the shivers you're trying to suppress. Blinking, you watch him as he bends onto one knee in front of you and holds his treasured garment out, uttering a low, almost undetectable whine.

“I'm okay, big guy,” you murmur, sounding far from it, “Think I've just got a bit of a chill.”

At that, Valus doesn't wait for you to reach up and take the cowl from his grasp and instead, with a huff, he leans forward to drape it around your shoulders, his thick fingers tucking it up underneath you as carefully as he can. Once he's finished, he sits back on his haunches to inspect you, satisfied when you snuggle further into the fabric and give him a shy smile.

“Thanks.”

Pacified, the burly maker returns your smile with a nod and pushes himself onto his feet, turning back to his sister and the anvil.

With their attention elsewhere, you allow your smile to fade, burying your face into Valus's scarf.

You're loathe to tell them the whole truth, that accompanying your chills is a raw throat that feels as though it's been rubbed tender by sandpaper, and an ache in your limbs that only grows worse and worse by the hour.

There's no denying it.

You've come down with something.

At the very least, the makers don't know a lot about human biology, so you're relatively hopeful that you'll be able to pass this off as a mundane occurrence – definitely not anything they should be worrying about.

There is an unspoken rule amongst the giants, one that came about the moment they first laid eyes on you – a small, cowering little thing whose world had been destroyed only a few days prior.

The rule, never spoken aloud, yet understood by all, is that you are a youngling – despite your insistence to the contrary – and younglings are to be protected, especially those who have yet to reach their first century of life.

It also doesn't help that you're a human, and consequently only stand about as high as the makers' knees.

But for as endeared to you as they all are, there are none who are quite so taken as Eideard.

The village Shaman, Muria, speculates that their elder has seen more younglings and friends die off over the centuries than any of them, and thusly, that's where his protective tendencies stem from.

Thane, on the other hand, attests that Eideard has always been enormously tender-hearted, long before grief softened his edges.

If he were to find out that you're sick, you can't imagine he'd take it well.

Bottom line? You'd hate to worry him.

Unfortunately for you, there are some things that can't be kept from a group of watchful makers.

It's impossible to hide glassy eyes, tremors that rattle your whole body and a sudden, explosive sneeze that causes both Alya and Valus to jump out their skin, tools clattering to the stony ground.

“Stone's blood! Bit of warnin' before you go makin' noises like that, please!” Alya exclaims, resting a hand over her heart whilst Valus hurries over to you again.

“It was just a sneeze,” you try to protest, but the forge brother isn't buying it. Without a word, which isn't unusual, he clenches his fists and heaves himself about on a heel, marching purposefully towards the forge's entrance, deaf to his sister calling after him.

“Oi, Valus? Where are you off to?”

It's hardly a surprise that she doesn't get a response.

He disappears through the doors and you share a look with his sister, who hesitantly asks, “You.. sure you're okay?”

The fake smile you plaster on your face is apparently as unconvincing as it feels, judging by the flat look you receive from Alya in response.

A few moments later, the doors swing open once again and your ears pick up two pairs of resounding footsteps thumping through the forge.

Valus appears first, lumbering up the short flight of steps onto the raised dais where he's soon followed by the second maker, a particularly concerned-looking Eideard.

As soon as the elder's pale, grey eyes lock onto you, you slump forwards in defeat, any hope of riding this illness out in privacy now dashed. Of all the makers in Tri Stone, Eideard is the most well-versed in anthropology.

Shooting Valus a glare for his betrayal, you swallow your cough and groan, “Valus, I told you, I’m okay. You didn't need to bother Eideard.”

“I for one, am very glad he did.” From underneath his bushy, furrowed brows, the old maker studies you closely until you duck your head, weighed down by the heaviness of his stare, the whole while, your throat burns with the need to cough. Then, in a blink, his eyes widen again and the fingers clutched around his golden staff turn white as he breathes, “You're sick...”

At once, Alya shoots upright from where she'd been leaning casually against the anvil. “Sick!?” she blurts, her gaze snapping between you and her elder, “Why didn't you say somethin'?!”

“Because!” you argue, hating that Eideard’s face now appears almost twice its age thanks to the worry lines permeating his forehead, “It's not a big de-” As fate would have it, the raw spot at the back of your throat finally chooses its moment, and before you can stop yourself, you're lurching forwards into a vicious cough that burns at the tenderness like acid, bringing tears to your eyes and shame onto your clammy cheeks.

You become vaguely aware of a vast hand coming to rest on your back and fingers that pat you gently until you can catch your breath. Even after you've hacked yourself silly, you push Eideard's silken, blue sleeve away and try to get to your feet, hoping that if they see you standing, they'll be less inclined to fret. But the moment you begin to move, the same hand is cupping around your trembling body and you find yourself being lifted up and nestled against a broad chest by a maker who is wholly undeterred by your feeble resistance.

“I'm not a baby, Eideard!” you complain, trying to wriggle free as the maker presses delicately on your chest, forcing you to lay across his forearm, “Put me down! I can walk just fine.”

“Easy, now. You'll only hurt yourself further if you keep that up,” he rumbles in a tone that's far too gentle for your pride to withstand.

Embarrassed, you wilt down behind his fingers when you hear Alya's stifled giggles, but the old maker doesn't pay her any mind, simply turns away from the anvil and begins to shuffle down the steps, heading for the entrance. Almost immediately, you miss the fire's warmth and Eideard feels your shivers turn violent, his heart seizing at the sound of your teeth chattering together like rapid gunfire.

“You – you're not going outside, are you?” you croak, pulling Valus's cowl up to your neck, “It's freezing!”

“The weather is perfectly mild. You, on the other hand, are burning hotter than forge-fire.”

You open your mouth to protest but find yourself cut off when he continues, “I’ll not have this sickness turning into something worse. We may belong to separate species, but I wasn't born yesterday. A little fresh air will do you some good.”

“Ugh. You sound like my mum.”

His reply comes in the form of an affectionate, rumbling chuckle that you can feel travelling up through his palm and into your bones. Letting out a final huff, you flop backwards and turn limp in his hand.

It isn’t as though you can fight your way out of the Old One's grip, after all. For such an ancient maker, Eideard is powerful, and his age does little to detract from that strength. The meagre resistance you put up is also proven ineffective by the silken softness of the fur trim on his sleeves that you run between your fingers.

Perhaps if you'd been looking at Eideard's expression instead of the doors as he pushes them open, you'd take notice of the disquiet lingering at the edge of his eyes.

He plans on taking you to see Muria in the hopes that she might have a remedy that can alleviate the fever spreading through your delicate body, and, failing that, he will sit with you in the peace of the night air and keep you still and safe until your tremors cease and his old heart stops trying to beat its way out of his ribcage.

You're more than welcome to resent him for this, he muses quietly, but after seeing so many of his people lost to corruption, it isn't such an easy feat to quell the pervasive anxiety that writhes like an impatient, snarling beast in his stomach, and he would much rather endure your resentment if it means keeping you out of harm’s way.

The village elder is supposed to protect his own, and glancing down at you and seeing that you've buried your face into the fabric of his robe to escape the cold, Eideard realises with a sudden surge of paternal drive, that you fall under the scope of those he considers 'his.'

The old maker clutches you possessively against his chest and hurries as well as his tired legs can carry him up towards the Shaman's gazebo, knowing that his soul will never know peace until you’re well once again.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #Eideard #Eidad #super rushed #sorry #Sick fic #reader #g/t

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imagine-darksiders · 4 years

Note

I’m in the mood for angst so how bout a scenario where Karn takes Deaths human charge (Death has feelings for but hasn’t confessed) to explore since Reader used to hike and something happens to make Reader get hurt badly and get knocked out cold, Karn breaks down and picks them up and runs back to the forge and cries and yells for someone to help. Death sees his hurt and unconscious charge and completely looses it on Karn and when Reader wakes up, they tell Karn it’s not his fault?

Thundering footfalls resound off the walls of Tristone, each embellished by a wet splash as a young maker staggers through steadily pouring rain, his breath escaping in short, ragged gasps that send clouds of condensation billowing from his parted lips like smoke.

There’s an unmistakable urgency to his gait and a wild-eyed look about him that bears a close resemblance to one beset by hysteria, or mania.

Such a volatile state doesn’t come without reason however, as the Horseman - Death - soon discovers upon emerging from the makers’ forge. The old Reaper’s mood perfectly reflects the gloomy skies overhead, his dourness due in no small part to the absence of one, irrepressible human.

It isn’t your absence itself that has him irked, rather, it’s the fact that you’ve once again disappeared from TriStone without a word or a trace as has been a habit, of late. One that you seemed to have adopted after meeting your newfound friend, Karn.

Grumbling, Death shakes his head and allows the door of the forge to slam shut at his back, wondering where in the nine realms you and the maker could have scurried off to this time.

The Horseman is so preoccupied with his own thoughts, he barely takes notice of the rain that begins cascading down his spine, only glancing up when something utterly enormous barrels down the stone steps towards him and in the blink of an eye, he finds himself nearly run over by a panic-stricken youngling.

“Pup,” the Horseman drawls, a raised brow the only indication of surprise at the sight of the giant careening to a halt just in front of him, with arms cradled against a broad chest as though there’s something immeasurably delicate that he’s trying to hide behind his hefty biceps, “I don’t suppose you’ve seen that blasted human, have you?”

The youngling doesn’t respond at first, merely stares down at the Horseman with the same, fraught stare that’s so uncharacteristic of Karn, Death is instantly suspicious.

“Pup…”He drops his voice to something low and dangerous, eyeing the flash of hair that pokes out above the maker’s arm. “Where is Y/n.”

At last, Karn’s eyes stop darting and settle properly on the Horseman, his pale pupils slowly coming into focus.“It… it was an accident,” he stammers miserable, bending down onto one knee and, with more care than the Horseman has ever seen him exert, unfurls his arms.

What he reveals ignites an icy rage in Death’s chest, born from an uncomfortable pang of alarm that he’d rather not acknowledge.

In the maker’s arms lays the very human Death had once pulled from the ruined Earth, the same human who has been his unorthodox companion over the last few weeks and who has been so, unwaveringly determined to make a friend out of him, the Horseman begrudgingly let his guard down and allowed a friendship to be cultivated, against his better judgement.

“Y/n?” he breathes, reaching a hand over Karn’s forearm and hovering the appendage warily above your head, from which rivulets of glistening blood trickle down into the creases around your eyes, each screwed tightly shut. The youngling’s broad chest is keeping you shielded from the rain, butDeath almost wishes it would fall on you just to wash away the crimson liquid running down from your hairline.

The Horseman almost succumbs to the immediate, knee-jerk reaction to find out how this happened, yet he reminds himself that standing in the rain and grilling a rattled maker for answers won’t get you the help you so clearly need.

So, swallowing down the urge to tear Karn’s head from his shoulders for allowing you to get hurt, Death grits histeeth and growls, “Eideard. Now.”

Then, as less of an afterthought and more of an instinct, he leans over Karn’s arm and slides his cold, raw-boned hands underneath your fragile, little body scooping you gently out of the maker’s hold and never once taking his eyes off your face.

Although Karn bridles a little at having you taken from him, he doesn’t argue, instead staggering to his feet and once more uttering, “It was an accident…”

Death, at least for the time being, ignores him to spin on a heel and march back towards the forge, his grip on you growing firmer as you roll your head floppily into his chest.

————————

A concussion, Eideard had eventually deduced after a brief minute of chaos ensued once Valus and Alya caught sight of you laying unresponsive and bleeding in Death’s arms.

The village elder had ushered the twins out fairly promptly with much protest and reluctance on their part, and then he’d had Death place you on the anvil where he set about trying to determine the cause of your injury. In the meantime, Karn had remained as close as he could get to the anvil, wringing his hands over one another and chewing a deep welt into his bottom lip.

With steady hands and softly murmured words, Eideard wove together a few healing spells, watered down to their most basic level of power to accommodate for your delicate, human frame. Every now and again, you would try to crack your eyes open and speak, but your words made no sense and blended together into an incomprehensible noise that Eideard would gently shush, reminding you to keep your eyes closed, lest the light cause you any more pain.

Finally, after far too long, in Death’s opinion, the wound on top of your head stops oozing blood as ancient magics stitch your skin back together and Eideard raises his eyes to give the Horseman a reassuring nod, his own relief palpable in the sagging of his titanic shoulders.

It’s only then that Death feels the immediate danger has passed.

Slowly, with the threatening glare of a predator, he turns his gaze to the youngling.

Death barely hears Eideard’s sharp warning not to take his frustrations out on Karn, he’s too sunken into his own fury and desperation.

It’s with a primal kind of ferocity that he rounds on the young maker, his Reaper form rippling underneath the surface of his pale skin like a brewing storm, just moments away from exploding outwards into a full-blown tempest.

Karn feels a raw pulse of sickening energy hit him square in the chest and he’s forced back a step, tearing his gaze off you with a dull sort of resignation painted across his features as he turns to face the bristling Horseman.

“What. Did. You. DO!?” Death roars, each word pervaded with tremulous power and preceded by a rattling hiss, every neuron in him firing off impulses that tell him to protect the human on the anvil behind him. Yet without an immediate threat present, his rage redirects its attention to the next best thing; the one who’d let this happen to you.

Karn however, even in the face of what could well be a dangerous situation, doesn’t even flinch. He merely stands there as the Horseman bears down on him, his ears drooped and arms dangling limply at his sides.

The decidedly non combative stance doesn’t deterDeath though, who continues to stalk right up to the youngling’s boot and once again shouts, “WHAT DID YOU DO!?”

If Karn hadn’t been feeling so guilty about yourinjury, he might have noted how unusual it is for the Nephilim toexpress this level of concern for another.

Dropping his gaze ashamedly to the stoneunderfoot, the maker heaves an unsteady sigh. “We were only inBaneswood,” he murmurs, more to himself than the room, as though hestill hasn’t quite come to terms with the events, “I was on thelookout for demons, not the damn trees!” Peeling his lipsback with a despairing whine, he scrapes a hand over his sparsedusting of hair.

“What?” Death hisses when he doesn’t elaborate, momentarily thrown bythe notion that now, apparently, even the trees can pose a risk toyour safety.

Karn’s eyes drift down to the ground and theHorseman can’t help but notice that they’ve clouded over, stuckbehind a memory of whatever had occurred in those dreadful woods.

Death doesn’t have to wait for long however beforethe maker reveals what he’s seeing with his mind’s eye.

“Was a branch that did it,” he mutters,“must’ve already been barely hangin’ on, what with the wind andrain. When we passed under it, it – it just…. fell..”Shuddering back into himself, he blinks and glances sorrowfully overtowards you, quietly adding, “By the time I heard it snap, Y/nwas… was….” Karn’s unsteady voice peters out and hesubconsciously rubs at the spot on his own head that mirrors theplace where your wound is.

Unfortunately for him, his explanation does littleto soothe the ire roiling in the Horseman’s chest.

“Why did you take a human out of Tri Stone inthe first place!?” Death barks, “You know it isn’t safe!”

Karn’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly, wettinghis lips. “I… I thought I could keep ‘er safe…” he utterssoftly, ducking his head when Death brusquely snaps, “Well, youthought wrong. Y/n was hurt on your watch. The lasthuman in the Universe could have died, all because of you!”

Chest heaving with barely restrained contempt, theNephilim ignores a disapproving hum that warbles out of Eideard’sthroat and lowers his voice to a much darker, somehow far morefrightening pitch, holding Karn prisoner beneath his poisonous glare.The youngling looks as though Death might as well have torn his heartasunder right then and there. “Might I make a suggestion, Pup, thatso long as you value your life, you’ll keep Y/n out of it.”

He isn’t sure what he expected the youngling tooffer in response. Perhaps a meagre protest, perhaps a flat outrefusal to stay away from you, as Death had just not so subtlysuggested. However, what he certainly doesn’t expect is for Karn tooffer up nothing more than a resigned nod of his head before turningabout and trailing slowly towards the doors at the far end of theforge, dragging his feet with each, heavy step.

Death waits until the stone entrance slides shutin the youngling’s wake, then, heaving a weary sigh, he twists aboutand focuses his attention on the anvil, or more importantly, thehuman laying quiet and still at its centre.

“That,” Eideard grumbles, furrowing his bushybrows until they almost form an uninterrupted line across hisforehead, “was an unjustly cruel thing to say…”

“I notice you didn’t interject.”

The Old One’s chest rises and falls around anindignant puff of breath. “Mark me, I would have, had Ithought you posed any real threat.”

Death can only give a humourless huff, feigning disinterest and wondering when he’d grown so soft that the maker wouldn’t see him as a constant source of danger.

Apparently, Eideard has him all worked out.

——-

The dark blanket of night gradually begins torecede with encroaching rays of sunlight that emit their faint,orange glow from behind the far-off mountain peaks, chasing the starsback into darker corners of the sky.

Almost immediately after leaving the forge, Alyahad accosted Karn and bullied a confession from his lips, after whichshe’d subjected him to an admonishing that had been strikinglysimilar to Death’s, although hers was accompanied by a swift cliparound the ear, doubtless the very least she wanted to do tohim.

After that, she’d left him to sulk, alone in thedead of night where he could torture himself by imagining all theways he should have protected you from that falling branch.

Now, he sits slumped upon the east-facing wallthat looks out over the distant peaks, his mind far from the goingson of the world around him. Rain still falls from the fat, blackclouds overhead and serves to dampen both the ground and Karn’salready dreary mood.

How had everything gone so wrong so quickly? Yes,he knows the dangers of the Forge Lands, perhaps better than most.It’s a wild and unpredictable place. But… he’s Karn.

If anyone was going to be able to protect you, itwould be him….

… Wouldn’t it?

Raindrops cling to the youngling’s eyelashes, buthe can’t even bring himself to blink them away.

Sagging further into himself, Karn drops his chinonto his knuckles with a grunt, expelling all the air in his lungsand focusing on the burning sensation it brings rather than the stingbehind his eyelids.

He’d been so sure he was doing the right thing.

You were sad. You’d been sad ever since you firstarrived in Tri Stone. Then, one evening spent sat amongst the giantsin Muria’s garden, you had made a comment, something throwaway andforgettable to the others, but not to him. Karn had vowed never toforget a word you said from the day he met you.

You told him how much you loved exploring.

“I used to go and hike the local trails all thetime back home,” you’d murmured as a wistful smile tugged atyour lips, “Just me, my music and the open road. It was so muchfun, even if I was doing it on my own...”

Hearing this, Karn had leapt at the opportunity tocheer you up, inviting you to explore Baneswood with him in the hopesthat it would take your mind off the fate of your home world. And ithad…

…At least for a little while.

Groaning, Karn buries his face in a pair of gloved hands, pressing harshly against his eyelids until specks of colourbegin to invade the darkness.

Even with the best of intentions, he still managedto mess it all up. Death was right, after all. You very well couldhave died back there. The first, real friend Karn had ever had, andhe almost got you killed.

The youngling’s ear twitches at the sudden soundof approaching footsteps, almost imperceptible among the drumming ofrain on hard, grey stone. Too light to be a fellow maker, too heavyto be the Horseman’s….

The maker’s heart lurches and he keeps his facecovered stubbornly when a small voice calls his name.

“Karn? There you are!”

Ashamed as he is to admit it, his first impulse isto leap off the wall and put a safe amount of distance betweenhimself and you.

What are you doing out here? Not that he isn’tdelighted to see you conscious again, but surely neither Death norEideard would have allowed you to be up and about so soon after thatkind of injury.

The footsteps trail to a stop at the wall besidehim where a brief pause ensues before he hears a grunt and the soundof hands and feet scrabbling for purchase on the slippery stone.Seconds later, a tiny, shivering body presses up against his leg andstartles a sigh out of the maker. You’ve climbed up to sit next tohim, evidently.

“Karn?” Your voice is so soft and mellow, asthough speaking too loudly causes you pain. “You okay?”

He doesn’t reply, but the rain cascading down fromabove coupled with the tremors he feels through the thick leather ofhis trousers is enough to make him pull a hand away from his face andlower it slowly towards you, cupping his colossal palm around yourfragile frame as closely as he dare. Karn’s spare hand slides downhis stubble until it drops heavily into his lap whilst he stares outinto the distance with a glum expression ageing his otherwiseyouthful features.

It must have perturbed you that Karn – of allmakers – isn’t trying to fill the silence, because you promptlytake it upon yourself to answer at least one of his unspokenquestions. “Death doesn’t like that I’m out here talking to you,”you mutter gently, noticing how the maker tenses against your side,“I don’t think Eideard likes it either, but he wasn’tactively trying to stop me.”

Chewing pensively on your lip, you lean furtherinto the maker’s palm, feeling the minutest twitch of his thumb as heresists the urge to brush it over your head. After a few seconds oflistening to the rain patter off his shoulder pauldrons, you openyour mouth and carefully say, “When I woke up, Death wouldn’t tellme where you were, but… I wanted to make sure you’re all right….

Something about that tugs at the maker’sheartstrings and his eyes dart down to you before snapping away againonce they spy the faint traces of blood still clinging to your scalp.

Dimly, you watch his fingers curl towards you inchby painfully gradual inch. “Eideard said I could go and find you,provided you were still in the village, and under thecondition that I rested for a couple of hours first, which I did.”You throw a smile up at the side of his downturned head, hoping thathe’ll catch your attempt to lighten the mood. “So, you know, theykind of had to let me go. That’s not to say Death didn’t throwa temper-tantrum about it beforehand though, the drama queen…”

It is both disquieting and frustrating to see themaker’s ear flick down at the mention of the Horseman’s name, yet, toyour surprise, he finally, finally opens his mouth to speak. “Youcould have died,” he utters, sounding far older than hisyears suggest, “He’s not bein’ dramatic.”

“I’m afraid he is,” you retort, “Andfrankly, you sitting out here by yourself in the rain is prettydramatic as well, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Karn scowls at that and for the first time, aspark of ire ignites in his chest and turns its burning gaze ontoyou, frustration growing like mould around his ribcage. You seem fartoo nonchalant about the situation, in direct contrast to his own,tumultuous flurry of emotions. “I – I thought I damn well killedyou!” he chokes out, at last twisting his head around to glare atyou, rain pouring down his cheeks in much the same manner as tearsmight, “So… So I do mind you sayin’ that, thanks.”With a huff, he tears his eyes off you and fixes them straight aheadonce more.

With a demeanour that’s so typically laid-back andfriendly, his clear burst of agitation doesn’t seem to suit the youngmaker in the slightest. Even more worrying though, is that he seemsto be under the impression that somehow, in some way, your injury washis fault.

Reeling back a little until your spine knocksagainst the heel of his palm, you spare him an incredulous huff oflaughter and blurt out, “Karn, you… you understand that it wasn’tyour fault, right? Why would you say you nearly killed me? Youdidn’t do anything!”

“Exactly!” he snaps, “I didn’t doanything to stop that branch fallin’ on your head! If I’d 'ave beenfaster, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt!”

“If you’d’ve been - Karn! That is themost ridiculous thing you’ve said yet! Of all the dangers in thisrealm, who could predict a branch would be the thing to watchout for? Nobody! Because it was just a freak accident!” As if inwarning, your head suddenly gives a painful throb and you let out agroan, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment and breathing deeplyuntil it passes. Getting worked up is helping no one, least of allyou. So, inhaling through your nose and releasing it slowly, you leanforwards to try and catch Karn’s eye again, finding that hestubbornly twists his head away, hand balling into a fist in his lap.“Karn. Will you look at me, please?”

Perhaps it’s the unexpected gentleness that’scrept into your tone, or the fact that he would do almost anythingyou asked of him, but reluctantly, the youngling moves his gaze downtowards you again, where it lingers briefly on the slight welt lefton top of your skull. With the rain weighing down your hair, he cansee far more of the wound than he’d like to, although you’re quick todivert his attention by ducking until his eyes lock with yours andthere, you hold him, a stern frown on your face when you firmlystate, “It was notyour fault.”

For a few seconds, you manage to hold hisbewildered stare before his face suddenly falls and he shakes hishead, a retort on its way out of his mouth. But before it can reachthe open air, you put a halt to it. “I mean it, Karn. Stop blamingyourself for what happened. It could have happened if I was out withDeath, or Eideard or Alya – anyone! It was just…. bad luck.”

The heat radiating off Karn’s palm keeps most ofthe rain’s chill at bay, yet for the sake of a friendship, you dareto venture outside of the meagre cover and stand up on the wall,curling your fingers around the top of his belt to hold yourselfsteady. All the while, he carefully watches your every move lest youslip and take a tumble off the side. In fact, he’s so preoccupiedwith making sure your feet are firmly on solid stone that he nearlymisses the moment when you press yourself against his side, your armsspread as wide as they’ll go to encompass even just a fraction of theyoungling’s girth.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself for things youcan’t help,” you mumble, your voice nearly lost against the fabricof his tunic, “And besides, I’m still here, aren’t I?”

At long last, the maker’s lips give the smallesttwitch, indicative of a smile. “Huh… Aye,” he breathes, liftinghis hand until it lands against your back, pinning you against himwith the barest amount of pressure and you have to roll your eyes,realising that he’s still filled with trepidation at the prospect ofaccidentally injuring you further.

So lost in the ethereal peace that the rainfallbrings to Tri Stone, neither you nor the maker notice a figurestanding at the Forge’s entrance, cloaked in shadow and indifferentto the icy water making tracks down pale skin pulled taut aroundsinew and muscle and bone.

An old, long-buried part of the Horseman is urginghim to lose his temper, to march over to you and rip you away fromKarn, who likely has no idea how fervidly Death has longed tohave your arms wrapped around him in the same way you havethem slung around the maker’s bulky torso.

But… what would separating you possibly achieve?He had already tried that once, and now it appears that you and theyoungling are closer than ever…

Casting his luminous eyes to the glistening stoneunderfoot, the Nephilim shoves his childish fantasy down and grindsit viciously into dust, hoping that it’ll never raise its ugly headagain. For a bitter-sweet moment, it had been… rather nice topretend that he might be given the chance to feel the warmth of asmall, compassionate human pressed against his side.

Wrenching himself away from the scene, Deathbegrudgingly pushes open the door to the maker forge and, aftercasting a last, lingering glance over his shoulder at you, he slinksinside once more, resigned to a night spent reevaluating everything he thought he knew about humanity.

#darksiders #oneshot #karn #reader

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imagine-darksiders · 4 years

Note

Consider that Karn and the human do something to annoy Death. When the Horseman goes after her, she runs to hide in Eideard’s beard. How would the Elder react, especially if the tactic actually works?

Wow! I’m finally getting around to the older asks. X

===

Eideard stiffens in anticipation of a threat when you come charging into the Forge as if the hounds of Hell are snapping at your heels. He takes a step towards you, ready to intercept your pursuer when he suddenly falters as he sees the mischievous grin plastered on your face. “Y/n?” he asks, “What?-”

At that moment, you skid to a halt in front of him, dancing on your toes and taking rapid glances over a shoulder. “Hey, can’t talk! Gotta hide!”

And before the Old One can decipher where exactly you plan to do that and why, you suddenly leap at him and latch your hands on top of the satchel hanging from his belt. Taken by surprise, Eideard goes utterly still, forever mindful that his immense size could easily injure you if he makes the wrong move. “And just what in the name of the Stonefather are you up to?” he calmly inquires, though his voice doesn’t reflect his rapidly beating heart.

Instead of a proper answer, he receives a sharp, ‘Ssh!’ from you, followed by a series of grunts and strains whilst you frantically pull yourself up until you’re balanced precariously on the thick rim of his leather belt. From there, the maker is only rendered more perplexed when you promptly shove yourself behind the soft, white beard that hangs from his chin all the way down to the top of his knees.

It’s at this point that Eideard realises he has a lot more research to conduct regarding human behaviour.

Carefully, the Old one reaches a hand towards his beard, seeking to extract you from the bristles, but just as his fingertips skim his braid, the door to the Makers’ Forge bursts open and in between them, simmering like a volcano on the brink of erupting, is the Horseman, Death.

Humming curiously, Eideard retracts his hand and lets it join the other one around his staff.

“Where. Is. Y/n?” The Horseman’s seething ire is palpable, rolling off him in waves as he stalks purposefully through the Forge and right up to the maker’s boots, his eyes burning hot enough to scald. Though, his eyes aren’t what catches the Old one’s attention. Rather, his attention is drawn to a spot on the bone mask around the circumference of Death’s eyes, where someone - who’s identity is becoming more and more apparent - has painted a pair of thick, dark circles. The human word ‘spectacles’ springs to mind.

One of Eideard’s brows raises. He feels the slightest shift against his chest when you press backwards against him, burying your hands into his beard and giving it the most gentle of tugs. A silent plea.

The Old one’s advanced mind takes all of a second to consider the situation, and then, in a moment so rare, so extraordinary that even the Universe itself seemed to blink in surprise, Eideard opens his mouth…

…and lies.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you,” he says honestly, “She sped through here not a minute before you entered.” Careful not to shift too much, he casts a large hand over his shoulder, gesturing to the doors at the far end of the Forge. “I thought perhaps she was seeking the Warden.”

For a strained moment, Death scrutinises the Old One through narrowed eyes and all the while, Eideard is aware of tiny hands kneading his beard.

He has to take care not to release a sigh as the Horseman spits something in Nephilim and grunts before striding around him and bee-lining for the Forge’s other entrance, no doubt to interrogate what is sure to be a highly confused construct.

Only once the Horseman disappears around the other side does Eideard exhale through his nose, a disapproving hum bubbling up through his chest and sending subsequent tremors up and down your body. “As bad ideas go,” he chides gently, treading in the opposite direction as the Horseman, “defacing a mask meant to represent Death’s role as executioner of his brethren is certainly at the top of the list.” He reaches the door and swings it open with the barest push and steps out into the sunlight, showing off a strength beyond his age.

“It wasn’t just me!” you exclaim, your voice muffled by the many bristles draped around your head. Eideard waits expectantly for you to elaborate, but you must have realised you’ve given away an accomplice without meaning to, so you remain silent, although the Old One doesn’t have to think too hard on who would be your partner in this devious crime.

“Anyway-” You seem eager to move on and when Eideard strains his neck to peer down, he finds you poking your head out from behind his braid, a shy smile on your face. “-Thanks for not giving me up.”

Unable to hold back his smile at your antics, he tries to at least disguise it by shaking his head and replying, “I would not thank me just yet. You’re going to have to come out and face him eventually.”

You purse your lips in mock thought, humming for a moment before you swiftly duck back into the safety of the maker’s beard. “Maybe I’ll keep hiding out in here then, just until Death cools off.”

Eideard’s gaze travels heavenward, exasperated, yet he doesn’t move to retrieve you from your hiding place, secretly concurring with your decision. “Of all the places you could have hidden though,” he blurts out all of a sudden, earning an excitable giggle from his passenger.

#Darksiders #imagine darksiders #darksiders 2

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imagine-darksiders · 4 years

Text

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Chapter 11 - What are friends for?

AAAAT LAAAAAASSTTT! I am so sorry it’s taken like, half a year but life has been getting in the way a bit. I’m really going to try and be a bigger presence on this site from now on. x

Shit’s been so freaking terrible and depressing lately but hopefully this will cheer at least some people up and it’s the longest chapter by FAR. So, distract yourself for a while <3

Words: 18,204

Tags: Panic attack, anxiety, bruises, hurt/comfort, found family, the power of friendship™, subtle flirting with a giant woman ;), fluff, hugs, angst. OMG the angst.

-----

There's an undeniable air of unease cloaking the village of Tri Stone as Eideard trundles up the steps to Muria's garden - one, wrinkled hand tugging mercilessly on a beard that has been subjected to the rough treatment since Death had returned several hours earlier.

Any elation at seeing the Tears flow through their home for the first time in years evaporated when the makers saw what state the old Horseman was in. Eyes wilder than a hurricane, the rippling muscles of his shoulders pulled taut enough to snap with just a little more pressure, he'd strode rigidly down into the village and the air behind him seemed to waver in the heat of his molten rage.

And then, hushed uncertainty shifted into horror upon seeing the tiny, limp figure he had cradled against his chest.

Eideard met him first at the centre of the bridge, a hundred questions ready to fall off his tongue, only to be abandonned as Death passed you wordlessly into the maker's hands, exerting a degree of care that took the Old one by surprise.

Then, quite abruptly, he turned on his heel and stalked back the way he'd come, leaving behind no further an explanation than a single word hissed like poison between gritted teeth.

'Karkinos.'

And just like that, he was gone, back up the stairs and out through Tri-Stone's boundary, doubtless aiming to work off some of the rage he'd carried in with him by massacring a dozen or so constructs unfortunate enough to cross his warpath.

Meanwhile, Eideard was left with an armful of unconscious human and a mob of his fellow makers converging on him and demanding to know what had happened, a question he only wished he knew the answer to himself.

A bloody nose and shallow breaths were hardly good news, but at least the Horseman hadn't handed him a corpse. After futiley trying to calm the others down and assure them that, yes, the human is still alive, Eideard's elbow was caught by Muria and together, they made off for her garden where they laid you down on a trim of soft leather and then, the shaman set to work.

Half a day later and you have yet to come around.

---------

“How is she?”

Muria glances up from crushing another herb into a glass vial, her lips stretching to send a humourless smile towards the sound of Eideard's voice as he steps inside her garden for the fourth time in as many hours.

“No broken bones,” she informs him, pinching the vial's neck and swirling it in delicate circles to mix the potion that sloshes within, “Which, in itself, is a miracle, I do not mind telling you.”

Eideard nods sagely. “Aye, that she survived an encounter with Karkinos at all is cause for wonder.”

“Oh, naturally.” Lowering her voice, Muria inclines her head to a part of the gazebo behind her. “But I was actually referring to the fact that she hasn't been broken by our youngling yet.”

At that, one of Eideard's feathery eyebrows slides up his forehead, perplexed by her statement for a moment, at least until she steps aside.

Had the last few hours not drained him of all good humour, the elder would have let out a soft laugh at the sight before him. “Ah,” is what he utters instead.

Karn, having snuck into the gazebo only minutes after you were brought there, has settled himself right on the garden's rear flowerbed and it seems that at some point during his fretful vigil, he's managed to doze off, hunched over with his chin tucked up against his chest, And there, nestled in the young maker's arms, almost lost behind the swell of his biceps, lays a very tiny, very fortunate human. Fortunate to be alive, that is.

Sparing a second to throw Muria a bemused glance, Eideard steps up to the youngling and places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle shake.

Despite a lifetime's worth of well accrued wisdom, the Old One still isn't prepared for the reaction he receives. His hand is knocked violently away as Karn's eyes snap open and his elbow flies up out of nowhere, lips peeled back into a snarl. Momentarily stunned, the old maker braces himself against his staff whilst the youngling curls an arm around your body, his fingers splayed out and hooked over to resemble thick-set, meaty claws.

Although aware that he's probably supposed to be intimidated by this display, Eideard's main concern is for the injured human who is now tucked securely beneath a heaving chest, Karn's grip on you tight enough that his knuckles begin turning white.

Eideard can't remember ever having seen him so defensive before.

“Steady Karn,” he says, an authoritative edge to his tone, “Jostle her too much, and you'll undo all of our hard work.”

At the sound of his Elder's voice, the fog lifts from Karn's mind and he blinks, eyes coming into focus on a familiar, white beard. In a flash, the youngling's fierce expression is wiped away and a dark flush blooms across his cheeks in its place. “E-Eideard!” he sputters, “Sorry! Didn't mean to nod off!”

“I imagine you didn't,” The Old one replies evenly, “Just as I'm sure you're not meaning to smother our young friend here.”

“Whu-” Karn's face scrunches up, baffled until he looks down and realises that one of his ungloved palms is cupped around your fragile, little back, crushing you securely against the coarse fabric of his tunic. All at once, the colour drains from him like water from a leaky barrel.

“Oh, Stone!” he curses and rips you away from his chest, wincing at the way your head flops around against his fingertips. After scrutinising your face for any inkling that you're in pain but finding no change, he lifts his head up to stare beseechingly at Eideard, his features contorted by anguish and desperation. “Did I...Did I hurt her?” he croaks.

Eideard's face softens and he lays a reassuring hand on the young maker's shoulder. “I'm sure she'll be alright,” he says lightly, “If she can survive a run in with Karkinos, she can survive being squashed by a heavy-handed pup.” His effort to cheer Karn up is met with a half-hearted smile that soon disappears as swiftly as it had come. Shifting his gaze back down to you, Karn sighs and raises a single digit to brush tenderly along your jawline, his brows gradually creeping closer and closer together. “Eideard?”

“Mm?”

There's a long pause. Then, “Why hasn't she woken up yet?”

Mulling over an answer that'll ease the youngling's nerve, the village elder opens his mouth to respond but finds himself beaten to the chase by Muria. “I imagine because she so desperately needs this long rest,” the shaman explains, sweeping around Eideard and coming to a stop once she senses Karn directly ahead of her. There, the maker sinks to her knees until she's level with his hands and offers him a patient smile. “Give her time, Karn. Her body is far more fragile than yours or mine. I've done all I can . Eideard's magic stitched the cracks in her bones and the poultices I've applied will keep the pain at bay. Speaking of which...” Trailing off, Muria produces a strip of cloth, suspiciously similar in colour and texture to the hem of her sleeve, and holds it over the opening of the potion she'd been mixing. Then, after tipping the contents upside down to soak the rag, she motions for Karn to lift your jumper.

They've been through this routine a lot over the last few hours, yet Karn's breath still hitches every time his thumb peels back your clothes and reveals the soft expanse of your midriff. Although the sight of your exposed skin admittedly sets his heart racing, it's the bruise staining your left side a livid purple from hip to sternum that causes it to stop beating in its tracks. Each time he sees the injury, he can't stop himself from imagining the pain you must have been in and he has to avert his gaze, ashamed that he could have been there to protect you, yet he wasn't. Because he was afraid. Afraid of messing up again as he had with Alya and Valus, almost costing them their lives.

Swallowing, Karn stares at a spot far off in the distance, his thumb still holding your jumper out of the way as Muria blots gently at your injured side.

After another minute of the quiet ministrations, she pulls away and rises to her feet. “There, that should suffice, I think. There's no way to tell for certain until she wakes up, but it might at least help.”

“Knowing you, I'm confident it will,” Eideard tells her.

The shaman smiles warmly but waves his compliment aside. “As I said, we shall simply have to wait and see. Now...” Pausing to fasten the vial back on her belt, she asks, “...Tell me, is Valus looking this way?”

“Is-?” Baffled, Eideard glances across the courtyard to Alya's forge and finds that – yes - the forge brother has indeed put his work on standby to stare towards the garden, though once he sees he's been spotted, he recoils, jerking his head away and lumbering as inconspicuously as possibly to a cooling barrel that stands in the corner of their forge.

The old maker chuckles at the display and returns his attention to Muria. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he is. How did you guess?”

“Valus - for all his stolidity - is a notorious worrier, try as he might to hide it.” A resigned sigh slips from her and she takes up her staff, turning to the steps with a flourish of blue robes. “Well, I suppose I'd better go and let them know there's been no change over here.” Waving a brief farewell, the shaman lifts the hem of her skirts and, swinging the staff out in front, makes her way down the stone staircase, leaving the eldest and youngest makers to occupy themselves in her garden.

Eideard watches her leave for a moment longer before he turns back to Karn, who's attention has once more been claimed wholly by the human in his arms.

Something in the Elder thrums at the sight, a stirring, a memory, pushing to the surface until it breaks through and spills over into his mind's eye. Slowly, one corner of his mouth stretches into a sad smile.

He remembers a time when he himself was young and earnest, so long ago now that the surrounding mountains were almost half their height and the stars he knew had come and gone. His eyes were once as full of devotion as Karn's are now, gazing into the face of a friend.

Traipsing up to the youngling's side, Eideard grunts and leans himself back against the low wall, throwing a sideways glance at his companion, who hasn't taken his eyes off you at all.

Seconds trickle by slowly and a gust of wind drifts through Tri Stone, rustling the plants and herbs that Muria had proudly raised from the dirt. Eideard's eyes slip closed and he languidly raises his head to meet the breeze, enjoying the feel of it carding through his heavy beard. For one who considers his words diplomatically before he voices them, he barely thinks too hard on the next ones that flow out of his mouth. “You're fond of her.” The Old one really did try to make it sound like a curious inquiry rather than a stated fact he already knows to be absolute. Still, it's too late now. The wind has already carried his words too far for him to retreive.

Oddly enough though, Karn remains uncharacteristically quiet for some time, so long, in fact, that Eideard is just about to open his mouth and repeat himself when the youngling at last murmurs something, softer than he's ever heard it. “She's nice to me.”

The old maker blinks.

Dragging his eyes off your face to peer up at his elder, Karn adds, “She laughs at my jokes. She called me amazing! No one's ever said that to me before. And....she never tells me to stop talkin'. I – I know she ain't been here long enough to be sick of me yet -” he blurts hastily, and before Eideard can reassure him that nobody is 'sick' of him, he presses on, “- but it means a lot.”

“I understand, lad,” the Old One reassures him, noting that the young maker's voice has shot up the same way it always does when he's getting defensive, “I'm not accusing you of fondness. In fact, I concur. There's a lot of value to be placed in creatures of a kind inclination. It's a shame more species don't see this worth.” He pauses to study your eyelids and frowns when he sees there's no movement behind them. You must be too exhausted to even dream. “A human among makers....It is astonishing, really. To think, in a mere matter of moments, she's managaed to endear herself to most, if not all of us here. I shall certainly miss her company when she leaves.”

At his side, Karn stiffens. “If she leaves.”

“Karn...” Eideard swivels himself around to properly face the youngling and stands there with his lips slightly parted, caught in the vestiges of a response. He thinks for a moment, sucks in a breath and releases it slowly, body sagging as his mighty lungs deflate. “...You know you can't-”

“There're so many things I can't wait to show her!” Karn suddenly exclaims as if he'd known the Old one was trying to tell him something he doesn't want to hear, “Soon as she's better, o' course.”

“Please, listen to-”

“I bet she'd like to see that old construct out in the fjord, now Death's cleared that area up.”

“Karn!-” Eideard tries again, only to be talked over once more.

“A-and she hasn't even seen my hut yet! You know, she really liked my journeyman dish. I've got to show her some of my newer-”

“KARN!”

Like a clap of thunder, the Old one's voice explodes across Tri Stone and sends several birds squawking into the air from a nearby tree. Karn flinches at the sound of it, jamming his mouth shut. Once the last echo fades on the wind, the village is plunged into a terse silence.

Eideard - patient and soft-spoken as a mountain brook - never raises his voice, hates doing so in fact, unless absolutely necessary.

Hearing such a loud noise emit from the Old one's mouth is enough of a sign to Karn that he'd pushed his luck just a stone too far. Slouching, he sinks in on himself and gazes down at your restful face, his jawline set stubbornly so it doesn't quiver when Eideard gently tells him, “You can't keep her, Lad.”

Crestfallen, the young maker continues to observe you, his pale eyes sweeping from the delicate hands resting on your stomach to the soft hair that caresses his fingertip. “But -” He swallows thickly and can't help but feel childish as he croaks out, “- but she's my friend!”

It's in that one, small comment that Eideard recalls just how much younger Karn is than all of the other makers.

Breathing out a sigh only the world-weariest can produce, the elder begins to reply but all of a sudden finds himself interrupted yet again. This time however, it isn't by Karn.

Both makers give a start when the human amongst them lets out a series of wheezing coughs, convulsing abruptly in Karn's hand before falling still. The young maker holds his breath, ears flicking up an inch or two and he waits, hoping, willing his friend to come around.

-----------------------------------------------

There's no doubt about it.

You're getting fairly sick of waking up with absolutely no idea where you are.

And that dull but irksome ache in your side is not instilling much confidence in your drowzy mind.

Something is nagging at you, something important and wrong, although you can't even summon the willpower to try and think what it might be. Whatever it is promptly fades into the background as you become aware of a noise buzzing from a spot above your head and echoing down through your whole body, pulling you further out of the realm of sleep.

God, your side really doesn't feel right.

Soon, the buzzing is joined by a low warble and as your brain kicks into gear, you finally recognise that what you're hearing are voices. Their presence helps to chase away the last vestiges of sleep and a strong scent of leather saturates the air in your nostrils, becoming stronger with every inhale until, with herculean effort, you finally pry your eyelids apart.

To begin with, you can't even make out what you're squinting up at. There's only a large, blurry mass of shapes that shift and bulge and block out the meagre light trying to shine out from behind them. It's only after you do a few more, droopy blinks that anything starts to make sense.

A flash of white teeth, the twitching muscles of a broad, blockish nose and eyes grey as a morning mist.... 'That's a face', your brain helpfully supplies.

An enormous face, looming over you and filling your whole field of vision. Not the most concerting thing to wake up to unprepared.

Jumping out of your skin, your eyes widen and you let out a gasp, arms raising instinctively to protect your head.

“Ey! Yer alright, s'just me, Karn!”

Your lips part and you attempt to speak but all that comes out is a wheeze and you have to swallow several times before you feel prepared to try again. “K...Karn?”

The face above you pulls away a little to nod and when you see the features brighten, you can immediately tell who it is. A gushing sigh flows out of you and you allow an arm to slap heavily across your eyes. “Hey, big fella.”

Relief strikes the maker like a tidal wave, sweeping away the previous hours of anxious trepidation. Shoulders slumping, he takes a second to thank the StoneFather before breathing a sigh that ruffles your hair. “Hey,” he returns, a soft grin quirking at his mouth.

Sagging even further in the warm skin at your back, you begin to scrub groggily at your face, a low groan bubbling to the surface. “Ugh, where am I?”

“You are safe, in Tri Stone,” a new voice thrums from your side and you manage to roll your head over to catch a glimpse of a familiar white beard and wize, ancient eyes.

“Eideard,” you breathe languidly, trying to return the smile he's giving you.

There's an aura the Old Maker exudes simply by existing in close proximity that lessens the uncomfortable squirm of fear in your gut. You're glad he's here.

All too soon though, the smile crawls off his face and a crevass appears between his eyebrows instead, so deep it makes his other bags and wrinkles seem shallow in comparison. “Does anything hurt?” he asks.

On a reflex learned through years of playing down the severity of a situation, you shake your head, avert your gaze and answer with a subdued, “I'm fine.”

Somehow, Eideard's face grows even more stern. “I would prefer,” he rumbles, disapproval dripping from his tongue, “that you don't lie just to spare me from concern. I need to know if you're in pain.”

Suddenly very sheepish, you turn your head to look at Karn and find him already staring down at you imploringly. So, still groggy and confused, you heave a sigh and come clean. “M'not hurting that much. It's more like, I'm really, really stiff? And um, my side -” Here, you waggle your hand vaguely up and down your ribs. “- feels weird.”

Weird is admittedly an understatement. It feels as though it should hurt, but your brain isn't registering the pain properly. Just as you open your mouth to ask what's going on, Karn cuts you off. “Weird's better than hurt,” he says and glances up at the older maker, “In't it?”

“Do you remember what happened?” Eideard urges, deaf to the youngling's question.

Bits and pieces of fragmented memories dance teasingly around in your head and it takes a surprising amount of strength to reach out and snatch them up, piecing them all together as you would a jigsaw puzzle. You recall the grey stone of an ancient, crumbling temple, plants growing in through cracks in the ceiling and water – lots of it. It made sense as to why there were so many bugs zipping about -

'Wait. Bugs...?'

All of a sudden, with that one thought, your eyes fling open wide, the fog lifts and the rest of the memory hits hard enough to leave you reeling. Everything comes flooding back. From losing your temper with Death to the fight with Karkinos and -

“Oh my god, Death!?” you blurt out, shooting up in Karn's hand and almost knocking yourself out again on his chin.

“Whey! Steady now!” he frets, “must'nt try movin' yet!”

Unfortunately, you figure out just why that is a second later when your left side abruptly seizes up and you cry out as if someone had just stuck an electric prod to your ribs. Throwing an arm out, you're forced to grab onto Karn's thumb just to remain upright. Quick as a flash, the young maker shoots out his free hand to steady you, barely hovering close enough for the pads of his fingers to brush your skin as if afraid that touching you will only cause more distress. The pain however, is already beginning to dissipate, and if you weren't so focused on reaching for your jumper's hem, you'd notice how Eideard's lips move swiftly but quietly, murmuring words too old for comprehension. To your relief, the agony fades to a mere twinge by the time you swat Karn's fingers away and peel your clothing back, eyes doubling in size once you register the impressive, purpling bruise that covers the entirety of your side.

“Oh...Oh, God,” you whimper, pressing a few fingers to the tender spot, “Karkinos.. I – I...How?”

You knew you'd be hurt after the colossal bug launched you into a solid, stone wall. Hell, laying there on the ground, you'd been convinced you were about to die.

“Where's Death?” you cough instead, aware that your throat has begun to close up, “Is he okay?”

“The Horseman is fine,” Eideard promises, impressed but perturbed by your concern for someone other than yourself when you've obviously suffered the worst. He shakes his head. 'Humans.'

“How am I still alive?”

“Perhaps you are more resilient than you thought.” Leaning heavily against his staff, he adds, “We do not know what happened to you beyond what Death told us when he brought you here – that this was Karkinos's doing.”

Around you, Karn's fingers start to curl inwards and his chest rumbles in the wake of a deep growl. Even you can't deny that the name itself sends a shiver down your spine. Swallowing, you plant a hand against your chest and rub absently at it, trying to soothe the heart that has suddenly begun to thunder beneath your fingertips. Eideard continues to speak, though his voice gradually diminishes until all you can hear is a pounding between your ears. Confused for a moment, you blearily peer up at the Old one, noting how far away he seems, though he's standing mere feet away, clasping his staff in a white-knuckle grip. He calls your name, that much you do hear, and you meet his eye, forcing yourself to concentrate on his words despite the growing tightness in your chest.

“Are you alright?” he seems to be asking, “You have a look as though you've seen a ghost.”

You open your mouth to reply, only to fall silent when you notice you've begun to tremble, barely noticeable from an outsiders standpoint, at least at first. A moment later however, and you suddenly buck in Karn's hand, the shivers spreading from your hands to your feet. But it isn't the shaking that disturbs you into silence, it's the resounding 'ba-dum,' 'ba-dum,' 'badum!,' in your chest that grows faster and faster, harder and then even harder still until you begin to wonder if your ribcage is strong enough to keep your heart in place.

“K-Karn,” you force out, sitting rigidly in his palm, “put me down.”

Instead, the young maker hesitates, a reluctance in his movements as he draws you a little closer to his chest and frowns, asking, “Why? What's wrong?”

His presence is suddenly all around you, encompassing you in his smell, a suffocating warmth pressing in from every angle and his voice rings deafeningly in your ear as he calls your name over and over again – it's too much. He's too much and far, far too close.

Inhaling a breath that doesn't quite feel deep enough, you squeeze your eyes closed and interrupt him snappishly, “Karn, just shut up and put me down!”

You barely notice his flinch while you're so preoccupied by your own, full-bodied shudders. It's as though you'd struck him with a fist rather than with your words.

'Shut up?' he mouths, his ears tilting dejectedly towards the ground. Still, obediently, he does fall silent, getting up and turning to place you on the wall he'd just left, allowing you to slide gently from his palm onto the cool rock before he withdraws his hands and kneels in front of you.

Oblivious to the maker, you continue to fight for a regular breath but the air you do manage to suck in barely feels like it'll suffice, so you take smaller, faster breaths and hope they'll compensate, disappointed yet unsuprised to find they don't. You've been through this before several years ago. It didn't work then and you're almost certain it won't work now.

“What's happenin' to her?!” Karn twists his head towards Eideard, his face white as a sheet. The older maker, who'd been about to call Muria back over, suddenly hesitates and takes a second to observe you a little more closely, his eyes sharp and keen in spite of their age. You're still shaking fit-to-bust, your little chest heaving in and out as though you've just run a mile and your eyes are blown open wide, fixated on hands that curl into fists only to spring open again spasmodically. 'Okay,' you tell yourself, 'okay, okay, it's okay,' and then, because you can't form any other coherent thought, 'okay.'

After another minute of watching, the Old one grunts conclusively. “I believe,” he begins, “that she's only just realised how close she came to death, and now that truth is catching up to her.” Then, noting Karn's slumped shoulders and sullen expression, he adds, “I doubt she's in her right mind at the moment. Fear can cloud our judgement in many ways, make us say things we perhaps don't mean.” Eideard knows better than most that while the youngling likes to pretend his skin is as thick as stone, he secretly takes a lot more to heart than he lets on. The old maker can only hope he understands, and judging by the weak smile that flashes across his lips, Karn does.

“I also believe,” Eideard raises his voice and interrupts the youngling, who'd since turned back to you and had been in the process of reaching out, doubtlessly seeking to comfort, “that giving her some space might be better than not.”

The young maker chews his lip, despising how helpless he feels that yours isn't a problem he can simply blast into smithereens with his hammer, and in spite of the Old One's warning, he brushes a finger against your arm. “But she's-” However, the moment he makes contact, he's cut off by a strangled shout that leaps out of you as you wrench yourself away from his hand, gasping wetly, “Stop it! Get off!”

In an instant, the maker recoils, hands curling up against his chest and he casts his eyes to the floor, thoroughly admonished.

“Stop,” you repeat and hook your arms tightly around yourself, eyes unfocused as they stare past Karn, past the stone walls around you and into the face of a horror apparently only you can see. “You're not gonna die, stop it.”

And Eideard, ever the voice of sense and clarity, clasps both hands around his staff and thunks it's pommel on the ground. “No, you are not,” he agrees, “Muria and I made certain of that. There is nothing in Tri Stone that can hurt you now, I give you my word.”

Unfortunately, for all his good intentions, the Old One's word isn't worth a lot whilst you feel as if the ground could open up and swallow you whole at any moment, just as the jaws of Karkinos had done hours earlier. Even thinking about her cragged jaws sends another pang of fear sweeping through you and, without warning, you propel yourself onto your feet, struck by the urge to run away but finding your legs too unsteady to attempt such a deed. So, trapped in the darkest hollows of your own mind, you can only stand there, trembling on the wall, sweaty fingers pulling at the sleeves of your jumper until they're stretched while at the same time alternating between wanting to sit down and discovering that moving an inch is the most terrifying prospect in the universe right now.

The two makers meanwhile, can do little else but wait - one drawing from his boundless well of patience to refrain from pacing back and forth, and the other a fidgeting, restless mess of nerves.

Seconds tick into minutes and those minutes trickle by until almost fifteen have passed and it's only when the sun has reached its peak in the midday sky that the world ceases to fall apart around you and the pit of dread that had opened up in your stomach shrinks until it disappears altogether and you're left wondering why on Earth it had ever appeared in the first place.

Gradually, the glaze in your eyes also diminishes enough for Eideard to pinpoint the moment you regain your usual cognizence. It isn't difficult, considering the grimace you adopt before collapsing onto your backside in the dirt, utterly spent.

“Y/n?” he calls, “How are you feeling?”

For a few moments, you don't respond save for drawing your knees up and burying your head behind them. Karn's mouth falls open and closed several times whilst he tries to think of something that can fill the silence, eventually clearing his throat and settling on reiterating the Old one's query. However, he's cut short when a muffled groan is pushed through the fabric of your skirt and catches their ears. “You weren't s'posed to see that.”

All around you, the world starts cutting through the exhausted haze clouding your brain and funnily enough, now you wish the ground really would open up to swallow you whole. It's a mortifying thing, to be caught in the throes of panic, worse still when there are witnesses present to see you at one of your lowest moments.

Eideard has too much self restraint to let out his pent up sigh of relief at hearing you speak, whereas Karn all but melts into an oversized puddle on the floor.

“I think, given the circumstances, a reaction like that is more than deserved,” Eideard tells you, perhaps recognising the shame that rolls off your body in palpable waves. The Old One's headpiece clanks softly as he shifts his weight, a frown hanging heavy above his eyes when the attempt at reassurance isn't enough to draw you out from behind your knees, much to his dismay. “Would you...prefer to be alone?” He's highly reluctant, of course, a primitive instinct telling him that he ought to stay, but if solitude is what you require, he would provide, and he even leans down to place a steady hand on Karn's shoulder, prepared to drag the youngling away by force if need be. So it comes as a relief that you hesitate briefly, then shake your head and mumble, “No,” into your skirt.

Eideard's face breaks out into a relaxed smile.

Letting go of Karn, he pulls away and nods, leaning back against the wall once more, content – for the time being - to watch the plants around him unfurl as their roots feel about for the first taste of water they've had in years.

In the meantime, Karn's attention is fixed on the flecks of dirt trapped beneath his fingernails and he busies himself with trying to get at it, every now and then stealing glances up at you. After another few minutes of peaceful quiet during which you get your breathing back under control, he looks up once again and promptly stiffens, his eyes locking with your own.

The maker stares, mesmerised by the way your irises stand out brightly against a red-tinged scelera. Then, realising he's staring openly, he drops his gaze down to his knees.

The sound of a raw throat being cleared twitches his ears. “Karn?”

Your voice is so gentle, evidently subdued by exhaustion. It's a stark contrast to the clipped staccato you'd hit him with earlier. Falteringly, the young maker lifts his head, bringing the two of you eye-level with each other.

Scratching sheepishly at the back of your neck, you wet your lips to speak, however, before you can utter a sound, he unexpectedly blurts, “M'really sorry! I didnae mean to be a nuisance! I-”

Eideard sighs without taking his eyes off an especially blue flower. “Let the girl speak, Lad,”

With a click, the youngling's jaw snaps shut and he ducks his head with a grimace, looking so put out that you somehow find the energy to offer a sympathetic smile, which remains for a moment before fatigue shoves it off your face and you exhale, feeling a hell of a lot older than you really are. “I told you to shut up,” you begin, biting a loose piece of skin on your lip.

Letting out a nervous huff of laughter, Karn twiddles his thumbs in his lap, deliberately avoiding your eye. “Heh, yeah....”

He's too proud. Too bolshie and self-conscious to ever admit how much it hurt to hear those words, and especially to hear them from you, although he knows he should be neither surprised nor upset. Silently cursing himself for becoming so attached that he could be affected like this, he almost misses your next words.

“I'm really sorry, Karn.”

At last, the maker's head lifts.

“I didn't mean that, I didn't mean it at all,” you continue, each word packed with conviction, “Listen, you didn't know what was going on, so it is not your fault. It's just ...Sometimes, humans do this thing where we, like...Well. We just panic – totally out of the blue – and when it happens, we stop thinking, uh-” You snap your fingers, “-rationally! That's the word. It's hard to describe, but, shit just gets so overwhelming and all I wanna do is be somewhere quiet and safe where nothing and no one can touch me. You know?”

Karn – who'd been listening with rapt attention lest he forget any detail you tell him – nods vigorously, his eyes busy mapping the lines and movements of your face. He doesn't want to forget that either.

“It isn't personal, I promise,” you say, oblivious to the scrutiny you're under, “I once told my best friend in the whole world to eff off. So, yeah.”

Despite the pang of jealousy that zooms through his chest at the mention of your 'best friend,' Karn allows his shoulders to slump, relief pouring over him like a soothing balm.

You don't hate him.

The maker's face brigthens around a toothy grin which you return, albeit with a less exuberance. There's still a hesitancy to him though, an angle to his ears that doesn't sit right with you in spite of his jovial smile.

After pondering this for a moment or two, you slowly push yourself onto your knees and shuffle forward, arms opening up invitingly.

Karn loses his smile almost immediately, his lips pulling together instead to form a small, 'o,' and he blinks, caught off guard as you twitch your hands to beckon him closer.

Gulping, the maker tentatively raises his palms and clasps them over the lip of the wall you're knelt on, bracing himself to lean towards you until his stubbled chin brushes against granite and he can feel your breath wash over his nose. The youngling doesn't quite know what to expect when you promptly reach out and place the very tips of your fingers on his flushed cheeks, both of which swiftly turn crimson at the contact. Terrified but filled with an exhilaration he's never known before, Karn remains utterly still, helpless and vulnerable under your touch despite his immensity.

There's a minute twinge in your side as you raise your arms that reminds you of your injuries, but it's easily brushed aside. Frankly, you've been in more pain than this before. Hell, a skimmed knee on the playground gave you more grief. Whatever Eideard and Muria had done is working wonders. Besides, the prospect of a comforting touch is too tempting to pass up. Suddenly, your eyes slide shut and you tip forwards, a groan catching in your throat as you realise how much you've missed basic, human contact. You've taken for granted how often you used to receive physical touches from your fellow humans. Even animals. When was the last time you stroked a dog? Or gave one of your friends a hug?

You're vaguely aware that Karn is worrying aloud, though his words fall on deaf ears.

You miss breathing in the smell of your mother's cardigan when you hugged her and the traces of perfume that lingered on her skin after she returned from a dinner party. Floral. You always hated that perfume. Now, you'd give anything to be able to smell it just one, more time.

“I'm sorry,” you croak whilst a teardrop slides down to the tip of your nose. 'What the hell am I doing? First a panic attack and now an emotional breakdown?'

'You almost died,' a softer voice whispers at the edge of your mind and for once, you try listening to the latter.

Something presses briefly to your spine before disappearing again a split second later. Then, you feel rather than hear Karn murmur, “Is it happenin' again?”

Laughing wetly, you shake your head. “No, no. This is just...another weird thing humans do.”

“I don't think it's weird.”

You don't respond.

“Y/n?”

“Mmm?”

Through heavy-lidded eyes, you watch him catch his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying at it for a little while before he asks, “Can I-...?” The pressure on your back returns, barely there. A question, a gentle request.

It's enough to break the spell of hesitancy that's been lingering in the air and before you can even think to be embarrassed, you've placed the flats of your palms upon the maker's cheeks and pulled yourself closer, severing any distance between you. Karn, for his part, actually shivers as you drape your entire weight against him, your head nestling comfortably into the side of his nose and setting his face ablaze at the sudden act of intimacy. However, he only allows a mere second of dithering to pass, and then he wastes no more time in sliding his fingers around your delicate torso, ever mindful of the enormous bruise tainting your side. A hefty thumb pushes into your stomach and at the same time, your back is gathered up by Karn's fingers, pinning you inside a loose and tentative grasp and drawing you as near as possible so that you're pressed flush to the youngling's skin.

It isn't the most conventional hug. In fact, it's one of the strangest embraces you've ever been a part of. But it is just that. An embrace: Something you've been unconsciously seeking after you left Earth. Karn's attempt doesn't fix the lonely hole inside your chest, not by a longshot. But by God, it helps just having a hand with the power to topple mountains at your back and the comforting warmth of a friend against your cheek. Right now, it's as close as you're going to come to having the arms of a fellow human wrapped around you whilst they in turn are nearly suffocated by your crushing grip.

For the first time in days, a very small shard of glass untwists itself from your heart and its absence prompts you to expel all the air from your lungs in a sigh as enduring and steady as the stone underfoot.

Karn in the meantime, can barely breathe for all the oxygen in the realm. He'd heard of humans' legendary capacity for expressing and receiving affection – so unusual that other species had marked it as one of their predominant traits, not far behind 'weak' and 'cunning.' The makers are a hardy race, and like many other species, solely express intimacy within their own, close-knit circles. So, in Karn's opinion, the fact that you're kneeling against him with your arms enveloping his face and your scent percolating through every receptive pore speaks volumes to the young maker. In his eyes, this is you trusting him entirely - the highest declaration of friendship you can give.

The youngling hums pleasantly and a dopey smile stretches from cheek to cheek, his eyes slipping shut in clear contentment.

Across the way, standing silent and still as a statue, Eideard's discreet gaze has turned to survey the exchange, melancholy haunting the lines between his eyebrows. The Universe rarely deals a fair hand to those who've already known struggle, and although you've faced more than your fair share of hardships and tragedies, the Old one is willing to bet with utmost certainty that there will be further grief in the coming days.

'But not now,' he reminds himself, appraising the scene before him, 'Not at this moment.'

At this moment, here in Tri-Stone, tucked against the mountainside beneath warm suns and a pale, blue sky, there exists a rare peace that emanates directly from the two beings knelt together in a Shaman's garden. In the distance, the clashing of steel can be heard as Thane lays his frustration out on some, unfortunate training dummy, the warrior's grunts and restrained battle-cries mingling with the soft, gurgled harmony of lava and water tumbling from their respective pipes in the mountain.

For the first time in a great many years, Eideard dares to permit a flicker of hope to ignite in his weary chest.

Things are finally, finally changing. And he dare say they're changing for the better.

Just then, a disappointed groan snags his attention and he swivels his head over to Karn, noting that the youngling's features have screwed up into a childish pout for the fact that you've pulled away at last, severing the connection between you and drawing your hands from his cheeks. Blowing out a whoosh of air, you let your arms drop into your lap before inhaling again, long and deep through your nose until your lungs are full to the brim. “Phew, thanks for that,” you say, tilting your head at the maker in front of you, “Are we good?”

Karn doesn't hesitate in nodding enthusiastically. “Aye! We're good.”

“Good, good.”

“Good, good, good.”

A grin quirks at the edge of your mouth and you snort softly, falling quiet soon after, the amusment fading from your eyes. There's a peculiar expression tugging at the space between your brows that deepens as you start glancing around, first over your own shoulder and then over Karn's. “So, where is Death?”

With a grunt, Eideard pushes his heavy bulk up and off the wall, hands wrapped around his staff and he tramps steadily into the centre of Muria's gazebo. “The horseman took off not long after he brought you here,” he explains, sweeping his gaze along the length of the village.

“Oh...” Pulling your legs from underneath you and swinging them out over the wall's edge - in turn forcing Karn to back up unless he wants his jaw kicked – you consider your hands for a while, thumbs twiddling over one another until, falteringly, you ask, “Did he, um...Did he seem....off, to you?”

Eideard blinks. “He was a little out of sorts,” he replies, “Said hardly a word bar the name of your assailant.”

Letting out a breath that must have somehow become lodged in your chest, you relax a fraction. If Death had turned up in Tri-Stone parading as that....that Reaper, then it'd be among the first things Eideard would mention, surely. If truth be told, deep down, you'd been as terrified of Death in that moment as you were of Karkinos. In your mind's eye, you can still clearly see the dark, empty hood, hear the rattling breaths that emanated from somewhere within that blackness, and the cold!...

Goosebumps prickle along your arms after you recall how that oppressive chill had sunk through you and clung to your bones. You'd heard of the icy embrace of death but you never thought for a second you'd actually experience it and live to tell the tale. Not many humans can claim that accomplishment.

Realising that you've unconsciously wrapped yourself up in your arms, you give a start and force them down to your sides, all the while watched by a pair of curious makers, Eideard in particular, who studies you carefully from the corner of his eye. He takes your lack of verbal response to mean – rightly so – that you're currently trapped in your own thoughts. So, hoping that a gentle nudge will prompt you into speaking your mind, he clears his throat, waiting for you to look up at him before he says, “You must have worried the Horseman greatly.”

You don't mean to let a snort slip out, but it does so anyway. “I don't know about worried,” you mutter, leaning forwards to measure the distance between your feet and the ground below, “he's more likely to be pissed off with me for not listening to him again, pardon my french.”

The old maker shoots you a pointed look and you assume it's because he doesn't approve of your vocabulary until he asks, “You don't think anger and worry can exist side by side?”

You'd been in the process of sliding yourself over the lip of the wall but his words suddenly give you pause.

He's not wrong.

As a child, if you were ever caught doing something your parents considered dangerous, your father would always sit you down and reprimand you with a stern lecture, a deep frown on his face yet concern interwoven into his voice. At the time, you assumed he was furious. Now that you're older and somewhat wiser, you know better.

But just the prospect of Death worrying, about you no less, conjures such a bizarre image, you struggle to visualise it properly.

“I guess they could,” you shrug noncommitally and push yourself off the wall, dropping a few feet to the ground justs seconds before Karn's hand whips out and he balks, a warning just shy of his tongue. It's too late for that anyway.

You hit the ground and immediately buckle, a sharp gasp ripped from your lungs as the impact sends a spasm harpooning straight up your side. “Mother f-!” Dropping to a knee, you bite down hard on your tongue and hold in the scream you'd almost let slip.

Large hands appear on either side of you, though they're swiftly waved away. “I'm alright, I'm fine,” you grimace and draw in a steadying breath, remaining on one knee until the pain dulls to something manageable. It only takes a moment, and when it's ignorable, you clumsily stagger back to your feet and glance over a shoulder at the wall. “Well, that was stupid, huh?”

“Pushing yourself may prove detrimental,” Eideard says, tactfully neglecting to agree or disagree.

“No need to be so polite, Old One,” a gruff and familiar voice calls out from the entrance of the gazebo, causing all three of you to swivel your heads around and stare at the figure emerging up the steps. “If she's being stupid, tell her so. Creator knows she'll never learn otherwise.”

For a sliver of a moment, every other thought flees your head, replaced entirely by mind-boggling relief.

“Death!” you shout and stumble around Karn towards the Horseman, any fear you might have harboured cast aside for the time being in the wake of suddenly seeing your friend again.

'Friend?'

The word trips you up and brings you screeching back into yourself and you shake your head, trailing to a halt just a few feet from the Horseman, your smile withering and dying with one glance at your 'friend's' face. From this angle, you can spot how the underside of Death's jaw quivers as its muscles work over one another, like he's grinding his teeth to Oblivion under there. Trailing your gaze tentatively upwards, you find he's fixing you with a hard glare, the fires of his irises burning hotter than Alya's forge. If anything, he looks as if he's as far from 'friendly' as it gets.

He gives you a slow once-over, his glare lingering on your bad side and the leg you're unconsciously favouring.

Behind you, Karn gets to his feet and his shadow falls across you.

“You're alive then,” the Horseman finally says, an edge to his voice suggestive of a simmering pot that's about to boil over.

The tightness in your chest returns but you swiftly gulp it down. You may be standing in front of Death made flesh, but you're ninety nine percent certain he won't hurt you.

Slowly, his hands curl into tight fists.

...Ninety seven percent.

“Yeah, I'm alive,” you smile weakly and throw a thumb over your shoulder, “Thanks to Eideard and Muria, and you, of course.”

“Of course.” He draws in a breath, like he wants to say something else but then peers up at the makers standing behind you and stops, jaw clicking shut audibly.

The village Elder must have sensed the growing tension, for the next thing you know, he's sweeping forwards and places his boot deliberately close to your side. “Horseman,” he greets, bowing his head, “You never gave me the chance to thank you, for restoring the Tears to our land.”

The only acknowledgement he receives comes in the form of a gruff, “Mmm,” and Death nods sharply, at last tearing his eyes off your jumper and fixing Eideard with a scrupulous stare. “Not to be abrupt, Old One, but I'd rather skip the pleasantries for today. Tell me I'm getting closer to the Tree of Life?”

In response, the maker lifts a hand and beckons for everyone to follow him as he trundles past Death and out of the gazebo.

Stepping aside, the Horseman roughly gestures for you to go ahead of him. There's something about having a grumpy Nephilim at your back that feels vaguely threatening, but you traipse by nonetheless, keeping your head down as his eyes follow you unblinkingly across the garden. Unbeknownst to you however, once he falls behind you, Death instantly switches his attention to your weaker leg and takes note of each faltering step you take, his teeth bared of their own accord.

Once the entirety of your little group emerges from the garden, Eideard inhales and releases a keen, melodious whistle that splits the air and rings out across the village, prompting Alya, Valus and Muria look up. Quick as a flash, the twins drop what they're doing and bid farewell to their fellow maker, who gracefully dips her head and ushers them out of their forge.

Eideard meets them in the centre, just in front of the great door that leads into their old makers' forge, already alive and roaring inside due to the fire and water now flowing through Tri-Stone, a welcome sound, like the voice of the Stonefather himself.

You fall into step beside the Old One with Death stalking around him to stand nearest the door while Karn brings up the rear.

“It is time,” Eideard says, sweeping an arm to the entrance and casting his eyes over Alya and Valus, “I trust the two of you know what must be done?”

The Forge brother merely grunts, whereas his sister bounces on her toes, grinning like a true youngling and apparently the most excited of the bunch. “I cannae believe we're about to use a proper forge again!” she beams. At her side, Valus rumbles in agreement, his helmet swivelling around idly between each person until he stops, does a double take and elbows his sister in her ribs.

“Oi! What?” she gripes, following his line of sight down to Eideard's boots. Suddenly, Alya lets out a delighted gasp. “Y/n!”

You'd been so preoccupied with scowling at the ground and analysing Death's behaviour that her exclaimation jerks you back to reality and you have all of a second to clumsily blurt, “Huh? Wha-” before you're swept up into the air, your stomach lurching as it's left behind.

Clutched between two rough and weathered hands, the excitible maker swings you in a circle and holds you out in front of her, eyes sparkling like the sun on water.

“You're okay!”

“I will be once my head stops spinning!” you quip, grinning through the dizzyiness and the uncomfortable twinge beneath her fingertips.

Just then, to the shock of all involved, Death's hand flies out towards you and he barks, “Be careful!”

Slowly, every head turns to regard him as if he's sprouted an extra head.

Realising what he'd let slip, the Horseman darts his gaze to the side and leans back onto one leg, arms folding curtly across his chest. “You keep spinning her around like that and she'll empty her stomach all over your apron.”

“I will not!” Your lower lip sticks out indignantly, though your ribs are quietly grateful when Alya smirks, flashes you a wink and plops you back onto the ground.

“Keep your hair on, Horseman, I weren't gonna drop her!”

From the corner of your eye, you watch Death bristle. “That is not what-”

“If I might interrupt?” Eideard thunks his staff on the ground assertively and even the pride-wounded Nephilim holds his tongue, instead settling to glare at Alya from afar.

The Elder shoots her a withering look that somehow lacks any kind of real bite before he turns and starts for the doorway, calling over his shoulder, “Perhaps it would be best not to waste any more time? I for one, am rather anxious – as I'm sure we all are – to see the Forge breathe life once more.”

“Hmph, about time.” Death's shoulders gradually fall to their usual height as his anger wanes.

The Old one shuffles up to the door with Valus striding ahead and holding it open for the rest of the group. However, as soon as Eideard has his back turned, Alya swivels her head down to Death again and, to your amusement, sticks her tongue out at him, then saunters into the forge, flicking her hair as she goes and earning herself an offended sputter from the wounded party.

You share a glance with Karn which proves to be fatal, for the next moment, you're both trying to muffle snickers behind your hands. At least until an extremely heated Horseman whips his head around to glare daggers at you, rendering the two of you silent with nothing more than a look that promises endless suffering if you don't zip your lips.

He holds the two of you captive under his stare for a moment longer and then with unnerving slowness, he spins about and heads after the others, and after tossing one more tight-lipped smirk at Karn, you follow suit and pass through the open door. You thank Valus for holding it and the burly maker tips his helm at you curiously before he releases the heavy stone, allowing it to swing back into place with a raucous creak.

-------------------------------------

There's no denying, the makers' forge is sweltering.

Lava bubbles and broils through a canal that spans the entire length of the chamber and basks everything in its warm, red glow. At the very centre, encirled by a smooth, stone wall and toiling away at their enormous anvil like a well-oiled machine, Alya and Valus have set to work forging...something. Despite their size, the siblings move around each other with a fluidity and practiced ease that's as mesmerising as it is impressive.

From your perch on the wall, you watch them forge, entranced, with your jaw hanging almost to the floor as if you were seeing the world's most heavy-footed ballet.

Valus tosses his sister a hunk of grey metal and she catches it gracefully, transferring it into the blazing fire. Faster than you anticipate, the metal burns red hot and when Alya leans close to retrieve it with a pair of tongs, her glistening face is cast in an ethereal, golden glow. Although seemingly transfixed on her task, she flicks her eyes over in your direction and catches you staring.

Smirking, the maker saunters back to the anvil and deposits the still shimmering slab down on top of it. Then, sparing another fleeting glance to ensure you're still watching, she grabs a hammer from her brother and raises it above her head. Immediately, your eyes wander to the quivering muscles on her arms that bunch and twitch under the strain as she slams the hammer down onto the piece of metal, filling the forge with a resonant clang that leaves your ears ringing. It isn't just your ears that suffer though. At the point of impact, you're abruptly forced to throw a hand over your eyes when a searing beam of blue light bursts from the metal and shoots straight up to the ceiling, fading just as rapidly as it had come. The next time she strikes, the light becomes a little more bearable until eventually, you can return your gaze to Alya's task. Over and over she shapes the slab while Valus drags a barrel over to the nearby trough of water and dips it inside, filling it almost to the brim.

“What's the matter?” The forge sister's question breaks your awestruck study of her impressive biceps, “Never seen a maker at work before?”

Wiping a bead of sweat from the tip of your nose, you return her sly grin and reply, “Oddly enough, I can't say I've ever had the pleasure. It's like watching a dance!”

A low chuckle rumbles out of Valus's helm and Alya huffs, inspecting the metal closely, then lifts the hammer once again. “A dance? Don't know if I should take that as a compliment or not. Makers do not dance.”

You wait until the following smash of steel on steel fades before elaborating. “Well, I meant it as a compliment. I just mean you two make it look so effortless, but beautiful too, if you get me.”

The young maker's eyelashes flutter, letting you know you've caught her off guard. “Beautiful?” she echoes softly, letting go of the hammer with one hand to tuck a thick plait of auburn hair over her shoulder. The sharp smirk has vanished too, and in its place, something warmer takes root. All too soon though, with a rapid shake of her head, that familiar cockiness returns. “Flatterer,” she accuses kindly.

Smiling at your crosstalk, she picks up the now moulded hunk of metal and hands it to her brother, the thick, leathery gloves helping to protect her palms from the heat. Obediently, Valus takes it, and even when you strain to get a better look, his meaty paw obscures the object from view.

You can't even begin to guess what they're making.

Unable to help yourself, you raise your voice to reach Eideard, who stands silently close by and observes the forging as a teacher would oversee his students. “So, what is it they're making?” Your question is almost drowned out as Valus chooses that particular moment to dunk the metal into a vat of water where it cools with a vehement hiss.

The Old One raises a finger at you, the universal command to 'wait,' whilst he steps up to Valus and reaches out a hand with the palm turned up, ready to receive the finished product.

“At last....at long last.”

Your ears twitch, picking up the wistful sigh that flows from his lips when he holds it and uses the fingertips of one hand to stroke reverently over the object from end to end before eventually swinging about and holding it up for you to see. “This, Little one” he begins, “is a Makers' key.”

Without noticing, you've somehow slipped off the low wall, treading cautiously across the forge towards Eideard, your eyes never once leaving his hands. It is indeed, upon closer inspection, a key. And an enormous one at that, about as long as you are tall. Staring up at it from the maker's feet, you give an appraising whistle. “I've got to see the door that unlocks!”

At your back, Karn snickers but he's quickly shushed by Alya.

“You will find no door to fit this particular key,” Eideard patiently explains in spite of the interruption, “Rather, it is used to unlock stone.”

“Stone?” you repeat, one side of your nose scrunching up.

An icy chill prickles at the skin of your arms when Death looms out from whatever shadow he'd been lurking in and moves to stand beside you. Drawing your brows together, you try to ignore the fact that his proximity raises the hairs on your skin and his long shadow eerily resembles the hooded figure you now know lurks beneath the surface of his skin.

“Aye,” the old maker replies, “Namely, the Guardian. Meant to be our greatest weapon, and capable of clearing the forest around the Tree.”

Using his staff, he gestures towards an enormous door on the far side of the forge, one you have yet to venture beyond and, admittedly, hadn't even realised exists until now. “Beyond those doors lays the Foundry,” he explains once he notices the newfound curiosity on your face, “It is where we began his construction, but alas, an earthquake drove us out and, now, I fear something else roams within.”

Eideard stills a moment and a darkness appears in the space under his eyebrows, his whole body seeming to sag, its bones simply too old and too weary to keep the maker standing up straight. “The Guardian,” he thrums, eyes lost in a memory, as though he's forgotten anyone else is in the room, “was never finished.”

Disarmed by his sudden look of fraility you'd never have expected from the Elder, you take a step towards him, caught under some, misguided impression that you would actually be able to hold him upright. Eideard spots the movement, regardless of how small it is, and some of the weight does lift from his shoulders as he endeavours to stand a little straighter, a tender expression softening his wizened features.

Raising his voice, Death chooses that moment to address one of his concerns. “If the Guardian is your masterwork, then how am I to complete him?”

Briefly, you wonder if he'd deliberately avoided using the term, 'we,' but soon enough, Eideard's reply is distracting you from the nagging thought.

“In the forest lies another construct,” he explains, “One of the few remaining who have not fallen to Corruption. He is not as vast as the Guardian, but his heart is strong. Seek him out, and he will guide you to the Foundry. There, you may activate the Guardian, using the Makers' Key.”

“So this key-” Death gestures loosely to it, still clutched in the maker's steady grasp. “- It... awakens the constructs?”

The Old One bows his head. “Yes. Constructs do not have a soul, like you or I... not until that soul is given. This key unlocks the stone, and prepares it for the ebb and flow of a maker's life force.”

At your side, the Horseman shifts, a scoff of laughter shaking his shoulders. “And what makes you think I have a soul, Old One.”

And without missing a beat, Eideard raises a brow and replies, “Isn't that what troubles you?”

The click of Death's jaw snapping shut is loud enough to be heard above the forge's ambiance and a pensive silence follows, just begging to be broken. You risk a glance at the Horseman, only to find he's turned his head away from you and the maker. Frowning, you contemplate how it hasn't ever occurred to you that Death doesn't have a soul. It simply isn't something you've called into question, easier to assume that – yes, he's alive, and therefore, he must have one. Now though, with the query lingering in the air like an unpleasant smell, you can't help but wonder as to the answer. After all, can Death technically be considered 'alive?' You only have to puzzle over it for a moment before swiftly deciding that you know too little of souls and the universe to try and philosophise it, so instead, you ask another question that's been burning at the back of your mind. “Wait, how exactly are we supposed to find this construct?”

You can't be sure, but you think you can hear the Horseman breathe a sigh of relief that the attention has been directed away from the matter of his 'soul.'

Eideard however, looks a little perturbed. Brows furrowing, he sucks in a breath and gives you a quick up and down glance. You don't miss the way his eyes briefly flash towards Death before coming back to land on you once more. “There is a temple,” he begins slowly, “out in Baneswood, to the east. If he is anywhere, that is where you will find him.”

“Then that's where I'm going,” Death suddenly pipes up and jerks his chin towards the maker key in Eideard's hand. After drumming his fingernails over its metal surface for several beats, the old maker finally relents. “Here, Horseman. Take it-” He holds his precious cargo out for Death, muttering as an afterthought, “-Before I come to my senses.”

Letting a rare and genuine chuckle grace the air, Death lifts the Maker Key out of Eideard's hand and slips it safely inside a trouser pocket. “You seem more likely to lose them, Old One.” With a good natured click of his tongue, the maker shooes him away and the Horseman turn and readies himself to leave, only to freeze in his tracks when he comes face to face with you.

For the better part of a minute, Death's focus stays on you and the rest of Tri Stone fades away as his eyes rove down to your side once more, lingering a fraction too long. There's a tightness in his chest that wasn't there before.

Then, just as easily as he'd become trapped by your trusting gaze, he feels his mind kick back into gear. Blinking, Death snatches his head to the side and forces his legs to carry him through the forge, past the central dais and on towards the main entrance, zipping by Alya, Valus and Karn without a word.

In his stead, you crane your neck back to send the oldest maker a reassuring grin. “Don't worry, we'll be back in no time.”

If the Old One had meant to object, he's too late in calling out, too late in stretching his withered hand after you, as if to hold you back. You've already spun away from him and hobbled after Death, sparing Alya and Valus a wave goodbye and missing the troubled fang she stuffs into her lip, the urgent huff her brother emits.

You can, however, feel their eyes on the back of your head as you leave.

Before too long - and completely as expected - another heavy set of footfalls begins to shake the ground under your boots.

You’re able to tell without even looking that Karn is following as well.

The doors ahead of you have already thudded shut by the time you reach them, so you habitually press a shoulder against one and try to shove it open. But all of a sudden, a white heat sears across the bruise on your ribs with such ferocity, it brings you to your knees, stealing a ragged gasp from you as well.

Another gasp, this time from a different source, alerts you to Karn's distress and seconds later, his hand is looming in front of your nose, palm tilted towards the ceiling. Lifting your head, you shoot the maker a grateful smile and rest your own hand over his proffered thumb.

“Maybe don't try openin' any maker-made doors while you've got that thumpin' great bruise on yer side, eh?” he teases, pulling you to your feet again, “Might be askin' a wee bit too much of yourself.”

“Duly noted.”

Smirking, the youngling stretches an arm over your head and places his palm flat on the door where, after giving it a single push, throws it open, letting a stray beam of sunlight warm your face.

Inhaling a breath of fresh, mountain air, you peer outside and immediately spot the elusive Horseman, sweeping up the steps onto Tri Stone's central courtyard with his indigo cowl pulled high around his neck, and – to your pleasant surprise – a familiar crow perched upon his shoulder. You'd been wondering where he'd gotten to.

“Hey,” you call out, “wait up!” A few tentative steps reassure you that the previous burst of pain had only been fleeting. So, emboldened, you break into a slow jog, eventually pulling up alongside Death and peering at him from the corner of your eye, though his own remain fixed ahead, to the gate leading out of Tri Stone.

Letting out a brazen caw, Dust hops around to face you and flaps down onto your shoulder, landing heavily enough to almost tip you off balance. “Dust!” you chirrup, reaching up and brushing the back of a finger down his chest, “Where've you been? I missed you!”

In response, the enormous crow flares the feathers around his neck and nips playfully at the tip of your ear, deep warbles emanating from his throat. “Aw, were you worried about me?”

In a fashion that reminds you entirely of the Horseman, Dust twists his beak away stubbornly and the claws on your shoulder give a cautioning squeeze, but his warbling doesn't cease as he settles himself down close to your neck.

You grin fondly at the bird for a moment before Death recaptures your attention, prompting you to lean forwards and peer at him around the crow. The air between you feels thicker somehow, the distance twice as long as it had been in the Drenchfort. Something has changed, and for once, you wish he would be a little more direct, rather than subject you to this ominous silent treatment.

'Silent...' You hum pensively, brow pinched. 'The creature Death turned into yesterday was eerily quiet too.' It suddenly strikes you that you know very little about the Horseman. As disturbing as that cloaked spectre was, you are still a human, and prone to the occasionaly bout of curiosity.

“That...monster, i-in the Drenchfort,” you ask carefully, ”that really was you, wasn't it?”

The only indication that he'd even heard you comes from the tightening of his jaw, one of the few features on his face that isn't concealed by a bone mask. Your gut twinges guiltily. Perhaps 'monster' was an insensitive term to use. Rushing to assure him that your comment had been nothing more than a Fruedian slip, you press on, “Well, I'm glad you had that nifty little trick up your sleeve. Scared the life out of me before I realised it was you though.”

Silence is all that follows, broken only by the steady clomping of the maker following behind you.

“In any case, I've been meaning to thank you, for saving me. Things were looking very dicey at the end there...” Once more, you trail off to chew at a loose bit of skin on your lip, though mainly, you're leaving time for Death to say something. Anything would be better than nothing at all. An acknowledging grunt, a scornful huff, it doesn't much matter, you only wish you didn't have to keep filling the uncomfortable quiet. Instead, disappointingly, Death pushes on ahead, outpacing you easily with his longer strides until he's several feet in front, leaving you to stare at the back of his head and wring your hands before trotting up behind him. “It wasn't all bad though, was it? I mean, before everything went totally 'A Bug's Life', it was actually kind of...fun-”

Without warning, the Horseman stops dead in his tracks. Thanks to the jarring change of pace, you collide with him painfully and Dust shoots from your shoulder into the air, away from potential danger. Once you've staggered backwards to right yourself, he rounds on you, fists clenched at his sides and a dangerous arch in his spine. “You have no idea what this is, do you!?”

Bowled over by the viciousness of his turn, you try to backpeddle, almost tripping on your own feet until Death snatches his hands out and grips the front of your jumper, hauling you off the ground and up to his mask. “This. Is not. A game!” he bellows so loudly, your eardrums rattle, “This is not some – some fun little adventure where you can get yourself beaten to a pulp, then fixed up by a maker, only to go out and do it all over again!”

Horrified, you try to stretch your toes to gather purchase on the ground, gasping out, “Why are you getting so worked up about it!? I knew the risks! So did you! You let me come with you!”

“That-!” For a fatal moment, he falters, shakes his head. “That is not the point!”

But you know you've been heard. His tone has already lost some of its bite and he lowers you back to the ground, fists gradually unfurling from the front of your jumper.

Stumbling several feet back once you're free, you stare up at him incredulously. “Then what is the point? Why are you being so prickly all of a sudden?”

“You,” he seethes, “are always doing stupid things that almost end up getting you killed!” Eyes flashing, the Horseman raises a rawboned hand in front of your face and begins counting off on his fingers. “You throw yourself at a corrupted construct outside the Cauldron, you try to take on a corrupted construct inside the Cauldron, you attacked Karkinos! Who – need I remind you – was hundreds of times your size!”

“She was hundreds of times bigger than you too,” you try arguing, only to find yourself rudely cut off when Death's hands fly out again, this time grasping your shoulders and digging sharp fingernails into the skin beneath your jumper.

“She almost killed you, you foolish human!” He punctuates his words by giving you a hard shake, his tone overwrought and strained....Just as your father's had once been....

It hits you like a sack of bricks that maybe Eideard had been right all along. Maybe the Horseman does care, at least a little more than he lets on.

The fingers still fastenened around your upper arms are beginning to hurt however, and it must show in your expression because after glaring into your face, Death blinks, his luminous eyes growing wide and he instantly jerks his hands back, staring down at you as though he'd only just remembered you're human.

Miserable shock still coursing through your veins, you eye the Horseman warily as he forces his hands down to his sides and wheels about, marching determinedly towards the staircase next to Thane's arena. After hesitating for a few seconds, you cautiously follow.

Upon your approach, the old warrior lowers his hammer - giving the training dummy he'd been whacking a well-deserved break – and lets out a booming laugh that almost seems powerful enough to rattle the pebbles at your feet. “HA! Bloo~dy Hell, yer a stout one, eh Lass? Didn't think I'd see you up and walkin' about again for a while!”

You take a moment to throw Thane a distracted wave. “Y-yeah! Muria and Eideard worked their magic! Um – Death!? Wait!”

Throwing his hammer over one, titanic shoulder, Thane watches bemusedly as you chase the Horseman right up to the bottom of the stairs where he abruptly draws to a halt, one foot on the first step and his head hung low.

You slow down behind him too, eventually stopping in his shadow and tipping your head at his back. Heavy footfalls to your rear signal the hesitant approach of Karn who at least has the sense to maintain some distance, just enough that you and Death aren't overwhelmed.

Unsure of yourself and of what the Nephilim before you is thinking, you press your lips together, hardly daring to say anything that might sour his mood even further. Somehow, you only imagine you'll make things worse.

Evidently, Death doesn't like the quiet any more than you do, for all of a sudden, his head snaps up. “Karn?”

The maker behind you straightens attentively and stammers, “Uh, aye?”

Without turning around, Death jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “She is not to follow me out of that gate, do you understand?”

“O-oh, er...” The youngling blanches, his gaze switching between you and the Horseman and feeling very much like he's caught between a rock and a hard place.

At his feet, your jaw hangs open, eyebrows gradually closing in on one another as incredulity replaces hesitancy. “Uh, excuse me?!” you sputter.

Death's neck stiffly pivots around until one, fierce eye lands on the youngling. “Karn? Am. I. Clear?”

Although his heart is nearly begging him to appease the little human he's grown so fond of, the maker's head takes a stand, and for the first time in his life, he decides to go with the safer option. Defeatedly, he lowers his eyes to the ground, conveniently failing to meet your gaze when you throw a pleading look up at him. “Aye,” he mumbles, “She'll not follow you...”

“Karn!” you exclaim, causing the maker to flinch, his ears drooping.

But the Horseman isn't satisfied and he calls out to the warrior standing nearby as well. “Thane, make sure he holds to that.”

With a roll of his eyes, Thane waves his concern aside. “Aye, I got it,” he replies, lowering his voice to add, “You bossy so-and-so.”

With a scoff, you spin around to Death again. “What's this about? Why can't I go with you?!”

“You're injured,” he states coldly, “You'll only slow me down.”

“But... but what if something bad happens to you again? Let me come so I can help you!”

“Let me make this perfectly clear.” With an invisible power rippling just below the surface of his skin, he twists himself around to face you properly and growls, “I neither need, nor want your help. Have you forgotten what I am? That I've been surviving just fine without your interference for my entire life?”

“I know that!” you press, frustrated, “Saying I want to help you is not the same as saying you're incapable!”

“Why would you want to help me though, when you know I don't even need it?”

“Wh-!” A disbelieving scoff blows past your lips. “Gosh, I don't know! Maybe because that's what friends do? They help each other!”

That word, that dreaded word is out and off your tongue before you even realise what you'd just admitted. Stillness settles over the three of you as the weight of your blunder sinks in and Death's eyes fling open, alarmed.

Throughout his life, he's convinced himself that the concept of a friend is to have a weakness that can be exploited, it's to paint a target over their heads that tells enemies who to go after if they ever wanted to get to Death. He had hoped – prayed to a Creator he no longer knows exists – that you were sensible enough not to see him as anything more than the grim and glowering Horseman. Because if you ever saw him as a friend, he'd be plagued by that persistent glow in his chest which insists that being called 'friend' doesn't sound completely terrible. He'd have to acknowledge the question he's so far managed to refrain from answering; What does he consider you? What does it mean if he'd rather have you hate him but remain safe, than put you in danger yet stay on good terms? Karkinos had almost killed you, and that had been what it took to bring his Reaper form out of hiding - something that only happens under the most climacteric of circumstances.

Something in Death's chest constricts, which is odd, he thinks, given that there shouldn't be anything in there at all.

With the eyes of both you and Karn still fixed on him, the Horseman backs away further up the steps, shaking his head and uttering in a solemnn breath, “I'm not your friend.”

Then, without waiting to see your face crumple, he whirls about and storms towards the gate.

You swallow thickly and nod, lips pursed, unable to pretend that didn't hurt. It chips away at the confidence you've meticulously been building up since you arrived, leaves you suddenly unsure of yourself and wondering what you'd done so wrong that Death would rather leave you behind than have you as company.

Still....

You watch the Horseman's swiftly diminishing form until he's halfway up the steps. Although surly, tactless and belligerent to boot, Death has also shown you that there is a more amiable side to him, albeit buried deep, deep below the surface. He's saved your life, a lot. He seemed relieved that you weren't corrupted by a rogue construct and annoyed that you chose to try and save him. There've been certain things, patterns of behaviour here and there that clue you in to his softer nature, even though he might have tried to remain hard and distant at the time. One could say, however infrequently, that he's even behaved as a friend would.

Perhaps then, the difference in species is at fault here. Your definition of what a friend ought to be could very well differ wildly from his. He always seems surprised that you can take a liking to those around you so quickly, whereas he strikes you as a Horseman that's glacially slow to trust others. Perhaps it makes sense that it would take far longer for him to make a friend. He has, after all, been alive for a very, very long time. Certainly far longer than you have.

'Maybe,' a tiny voice in your ear whispers, 'Maybe I just need to try harder.'

A renewed sense of determination rises in your gut and your nostrils flare around a deep inhale, but below that, below the sudden drive that lights a fire in your belly, something else begins its arduous crawl to the surface, though you don't notice it yet. Something you've been tragically devoid of ever since the world ended and you were thrust onto this journey you have no desire nor right to be privy to. Looking back, you'd probably wonder how you didn't instantly recognise that first glimmer of courage - a quiet sort of courage, the very beginnings of a roar, but yet so soft and mellow that it barely rings louder than a whisper.

Common sense – a far more insistent presence - screams for you to be reasonable, you've been injured and it's very likely that you will be again if you follow Death out of that gate. However, the image of him crushed against that wall by Karkinos' horn is burned into the forefront of your mind's eye and lurks there, an ugly reminder that even Death himself can be vulnerable, and with that vulnerability comes an aspect of humanity.

Without even meaning to, you've humanised Death.

You square your jaw and try to march up the steps, almost catching up to the Horseman when you're suddenly plucked off your feet and hoisted back, clutched in a familiar fist.

“What the – Karn!” you yelp, battering uselessly on your captor's knuckles, “What're you doing?!”

The maker falters for a fleeting moment, his fingers twitching open by an inch before he summons his resolve and lifts you higher off the ground. You can feel his reluctance though, his hand gripping you gingerly as if he's afraid you'll shatter at any moment. It encourages you to wriggle with more fervor than ever in the hopes that you might slip free and escape.

But it's no use.

You may as well be trying to break out of a concrete cell – though stone might be more easily moved than an overprotective maker.

There's nothing, nothing you can do except to go limp in Karn's hand and stare dejectedly after the Horseman, a strange concoction brewing in your chest that's two parts hurt and two parts furious at him for leaving you behind like your presence has so far meant nothing to him.

Once he reaches the top of the stairs, you blink back a gathered wetness on your lashes and crane your head around, hitting Karn with a look so drenched in betrayal, the maker's immense heart wails.

“Now, now dun' look at me like that!” he whines, turning away from the steps and blocking your view of Death with his bulk. Despite his plea, you subject him to a few more seconds of hard scowling before swivelling your head forwards once more and blowing out a huff.

Karn stops once he deems the distance between you and the village gates is large enough and places you delicately on the ground. The moment his fingers slide off your back, you march several yards away and glare fiercely at the Makers' Forge, willing the entire mountain to crumble if only to alleviate some of the frustration building in your gut.

Behind you, Karn lingers where he came to a stop, tapping the pads of his forefingers together whilst his brain tries to come up with something to say. “Y/n?” he settles for after some hesitation. Staring down at the back of your head, he watches you give it a few, deliberate shakes. Then, you're facing him, your brows tilted up in such a way that feels like a punch to his gut.

“I can't believe you just did that,” you snap.

The maker grimaces, but tries to argue, “Death told me to-”

“I don't care what Death said!” Cutting him off with an exasperated laugh, you throw your hands up and continue, anger blemishing your sentences, “It – it shouldn't be up to Death what I do! It shouldn't be up to you!” Your voice suddenly cracks, yet you press on. “I'm sick of feeling like everything is out of my control! The world ended and I thought I was gonna die! I couldn't – I...I couldn't get home! I couldn't go back for the people in the church and I didn't even get to say goodbye to mum and dad and...and I....” Whatever burst of indignation had suddenly overcome you dies away along with your words and you blink, caught off guard by your own epiphany.

Seconds later, you let out a strangled sound and scrub at your eyes. “Ugh. I hate feeling so useless.” You abruptly turn away from him and look wearily to the forge again. It doesn't take long before Karn's heavy presence sidles up next to you and he falters, eventually sucking in a lungful of air before lowering himself noisily onto the steps beside you. His rucksack clanks and rattles with all the treasures he's stuffed in there.

“I don't think you're useless,” he mumbles and swipes a brusque thumb underneath his nose.

“Well....That makes one of us.”

“....”

“Karn?”

“Mm?”

You shift your gaze sideways and up, your jaw set. “I'm still mad at you.”

He swallows so thickly, you can see his adams apple bob like a fisherman's float. “Aye,” he nods, “S'posin' that's fair.”

There you sit, the oddest pair in the universe – a young maker and the last human – both of your heads resting heavy in your hands as a sigh whispers past your lips in perfect unison. To the right, lava oozes a lazy path into the makers' forge whilst in contrast, the river of crystal-clear tears gurgles by on your left. Neither seem in any particular hurry. They simply plod along as nature decrees, unhindered by such concepts as fear or doubt. They know exactly where they're going, and how to get there. They simply march on. And on and on and on, and those who don't move are removed. And those who won't stand aside are cut through. It may take thousands upon thousands of years for one, or mere minutes for the other, but both the river of fire and the river of water are of the same power. They go where they are needed without fuss or fight. You can't help but to envy them their surety. Sometimes you wish someone would guide you so concisely.

A shift in the air tugs you from your thoughts when the giant sitting next to you finally drops his hands into his lap and eases out a warm chuckle.

Glancing up at him, a question puckering your forehead, you ask, “What's so funny?”

Karn's eyes are swimming with a complex amalgamation of expressions. Amusement, fondness...pride. “Ah, nothin' much,” he huffs through a smile, “S'just, nice seein' your spine, is all.”

“My spine?” More baffled than not, you try to look back over a shoulder before his meaning catches up to you. “Oh.”

“Couple days ago, you were flinchin' from your own shadow, if I remember. Now look at you! Gettin' manhandled by the Horseman and you still call him 'friend' and want to go off lookin' for the Guardian with him. Ye've changed. I-In a good way!” he adds hastily.

Shrugging, you wet your lips and stare at the door ahead of you, anything to avoid his appraising eyes. “I haven't really noticed a difference.”

“I have,” he answers simply and leans his elbows back on the stairs behind him, head tilting to watch the clouds roll by.

You ponder his observation for a moment, then follow his example and look to the sky alongside him. “I guess if there has been a change, I have Death to thank for it.” After a pause, you add softly, “I've got a lot to thank him for, now that I think about it.”

One of your canines digs mercilessly into your lip until it begins to hurt and you're forced to stop, heaving a loud sigh instead. “You know, just because I want to go with him doesn't meant I'm not scared. You roll your gaze away from the maker's face to stare idly at the shiny buckle of his rucksack strap. “To tell you the truth Karn, I'm terrified.”

Wearing a baffled frown, he asks, “Well, why'd you want to go so badly?”

Your mouth opens, shuts, and then your lips part with more care, only just opening wide enough for you to whisper reverently, “Because, he's my friend. I might not be his, but he is mine. Karn, I've lost everything. My home, my friends, my family...I really – like, really – don't want to lose anyone else.”

“You'll struggle to lose the Horseman,” he tries out a laugh, hoping to ease your fears, “He's small, aye, but tougher'n old boots!”

Eventually, you indulge him in a tiny smile. “Yeah, I know. But I still worry.”

Once again, your head finds itself resting on your knuckles as you lean forwards, elbows propped up on your knees. Next to you, the youngling tilts his own head and frowns at your sullen expression and pretends he doesn't envy the Horseman for consuming so much of your attention. But soon, he shakes the thought off and clambers to his feet, hands clapping together with enough force to jumpstart your heart. “Well!” he exclaims, “No point troublin' yerself. Tell you what, why don't we pack up those worries of yours and go do somethin' fun?” As you listen, he becomes more and more animated, his excitement evidenced by the hands that fly about to properly illustrate his ideas. “Maybe I can show you the rest of the village! You haven't even seen our-”

“Wait, what did you say?”

Karn pauses, his hands frozen in the air above his head. “Er....we could...do somethin' fun?”

“No, no. Before that!” Now it's your turn to jump up and stare at the maker, waving a pointed finger up and down at him. “Something about, 'packing up my worries...'”

An idea comes to you, a risky idea, but an idea nonetheless. The trickiest part of which will be convincing Karn to get on board, but you're hoping that without the literal threat of Death staring him down, he'll be more easily swayed.

Bouncing up onto your toes, you look the maker right in his eye and ask, “You and me, we're friends, right?”

The moment your question sinks in, his ears pin back. He appears nervous, tentative that you'll rescind his friendship status at any moment. “Course,” he nods a little too hard, a little too eagerly, “Yeah, o'course we are.”

“Are you sure?” Deep in your soul, you know it's awful and cheap to use manipulation tactics on the youngling, and it does leave a particularly sour taste in your mouth, but you simply don't know how else he'll agree. Folding your arms over one another, you cock a hip and drawl, “You sure weren't acting like it just then. On Earth, friends don't usually keep their other friends prisoner.”

The maker nearly crashes to his knees, pleading, “I-I'm not keepin' you prisoner! I'm keepin' you safe!”

“Same difference! I want to leave, but you're not letting me! How is that not imprisonment?”

“I-...Well, I....” His jaw snaps shut and you can practically see the resolve crumbling off him in chunks.

“Karn, please.”

An enormous fist is clenched at his side, hanging low enough for you to step right up to the maker and plant both of your hands on his knuckle, giving it an impoloring tug for added measure. “I need to get out of this village but I can't do that without your help.” The skin beneath your fingers grows warm and his hand twitches towards you, inadvertently pushing you back half a step. Karn draws his head up to stare at the mountain, at the working Forge who's voice is finally ringing out after so many years of silence. A silence ended, thanks to you and Death.

“Friends help each other,” the youngling breathes, echoing the words you'd spoken earlier before he drops his eyes to you once more, a grimace pulling at the corners of his mouth. A further several seconds drag by in which you remain under the intense scrutiny of that misty-grey gaze, and then, having apparently weighed the loss of a friend against the wrath of a Horseman, Karn makes his decision.

“What's your plan?” he grumbles, ears lain flat against his skull.

In return, you give him the broadest grin your can muster, which makes it very difficult for him to be too disgruntled.

“We-” you drawl suggestively, flicking a thumb between yourself and the increasingly apprehensive maker, “-are going to walk right out of that front gate.”

His sharp bark of surprise comes out as a comical squeak. “Eh!? You want to waltz right by Thane!?” he sputters for a moment before clearing his throat to add, “Trust me, there'll be no convincin' that old crosspatch, he'll never just let you walk! Not after Death told him to make sure you stay put!” He drives his point home by jabbing a meaty finger towards the ground.

In direct contrast to his fretting however, you don't even seem in the least bit concerned and an impish smirk sweeps across your features instead, to which the maker quirks a brow. “What? Whassat look for?”

“How much room have you got in that backpack of yours?” You raise your eyebrows at the object in question.

“Er...” Thrown off by the out-of-nowhere subject change, Karn glances over his shoulder and replies, “Bout enough space for a few more treasures.” He trails to a stop and eyes you suspiciously. “Why?”

“What if one of those treasures was, say...roughly the same size as a human?”

The maker's hand reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck and he blows out his cheeks. “Well, that depends on what it is. If I juggle some things around in the ol' bag, I could prolly squeeze in another trinket or two.”

“...Karn.”

“What?” he asks before finally catching the flat look you're giving him. “Oh.” A slow blink, and then, “Oooh!” Realisation lights up his eyes and they grow round as saucers, even as he takes the straps of his rucksack in hand and works the cumbrous load off his shoulders, plopping it down on the floor next to you and immediately seeing how easily you could slip inside. It towers above you, its shadow engulfing your every inch. The image only reaffirms to Karn just how tiny you really are.

Quick as a flash, you leap up to try and unfasten the top, only to come up about three feet short. Before you can try again, your jumper is pinched between two, thick fingers and you're pulled back, away from the bag to face Karn.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he frets, glancing over his shoulder to check that Muria and Thane are within neither eye, nor earshot. “Y'know Death won't be too happy when you show up at the temple.”

“He won't hurt me,” you reply with more conviction than you truthfully feel.

“Oh, aye! You'll be fine and dandy!” the maker scoffs, “S'actually me I'm worried about.”

Pausing to give his finger a consoling pat, you pull out of his grip and motion for him to open the lid of his rucksack. “Come on, Karn. What's an adventure without a little peril?”

The grumble that ensues pulls a laugh out of you, albeit a nervous one. You're well aware of the danger that lurks outside that enormous gate. The bruise on your side is testament to it. But whatever has swept in and washed away a part of your fear – however small that piece may be – is at least enough to keep you from changing your mind and staying in Tri Stone. So when Karn flips the lid and tips his bag down, you waste little time scrambling inside, squeezing yourself in amongst the bric-a-brac and trinkets he's stuffed down there. Once you've settled in between a familiar dish and some kind of gigantic, leather gauntlet, you look up through the opening to find Karn peering back at you, a hand scrubbing anxiously at the stubble on his chin. “This'll never work,” he warns in a sing-song voice, “Thane's got a nose for sniffin' out a lie.”

“It'll work. Trust me. Just show no fear, act like you know what you're doing and stroll right on through that door.”

The maker opens his mouth to argue, but soon shuts it again, gulping his words down and finally giving you a reluctant nod. Then, using a single finger, he closes his rucksack back up, plunging you into total darkness. There's a moment of stillness before you suddenly find yourself hoisted off the ground and swung through the air, coming to a jarring halt when your body collides with what you can only assume is a sturdy back, the trinkets around you rattling and clanking noisily as they too are subjected to the same treatment.

The solid surface your feet have been resting on abruptly shifts and you let out a squeal as you plummet a foot or so down further into the bag. Unfortunately, that squeal becomes a hiss after your side is bumped roughly against the rounded edge of Karn's journeyman dish.

“Y'alright?” a muffled whisper-shout reaches you from outside your temporary hiding place.

After taking a second to right yourself again, you reply in hushed tones, “Yeah, you?”

“Oh, sure,” comes his reply before you're promptly shifted again, this time into steady, swaying motions accompanied by the impact of mighty boots hitting stone and rumbling through your chest, letting you know he's on the move. Through the thick canvas of his bag, you hear the maker continue, “I'm right as rain, me. No worries here.” His sarcasm is palpable.

“You can do this, Karn. I believe in you.”

The youngling doesn't reply to your motivational yet concise words. However, you feel it clearly when he draws himself up high, each step he takes from then a little more sure and nimble. Following his example, you fall silent as well.

For several, long seconds, you hear nothing around you except the maker's heavy footfalls and the gentle clinking of metal all around you. But then, as you'd feared it would, Thane's distinctive voice booms out, low and commanding. “PUP!”

Karn freezes and turns slowly turns to face the old warrior, plastering on his most innocent grins. “Oi, Thane! Didn't see you there. How can I help?”

The older maker thumps to a stop before him and eyes the foot Karn has placed on the first step that leads to Tri Stone's gate. His bushy moustache twitches and, in an agonisingly slow fashion, he drags his eyes up to fix the youngling under his stern glare. “Where're you off to in such a hurry?”

“Er, just...goin' to check out the fjord!”

All of a sudden, Karn feels as though someone has painted the word 'liar' right across his forehead. “Now it's clear, I figure s'a good place for some explorin'.”

Thane's expression doesn't budge an inch, though he does glance and the ground near his feet, searching. “And, where's your little friend?”

“She's in the Forge.”

The warrior's eyebrow hikes up his forehead. “Oh? And you're not with her? Thought you said you weren't leavin' her side, 'no matter what?'”

If Karn doesn't end up giving himself away, the pink blush creeping into his cheeks soon will. He'd made the proclamation while you were in Muria's garden, still unconscious. “O-oh! Yeah, I did say that...”

Inside his rucksack, you have your fingers crossed so tightly, any more tension could well snap them off. But just as you're mentally willing him to be a better liar, Karn surprises you by releasing a sigh so soft and forlorn, he gives the impression of a maker far more advanced in years than he is.

“She... don't exactly want t'be round me at the moment.”

Taken aback, Thane blinks, shifting his weight and waiting for the youngling to elaborate. “Turns out she don't appreciate me keepin' her here. Said I was bein' a bad friend, so...So, yeah.” He trails off with a shrug and scratches at his nose, eyes trained on the ground.

Jesus. You're in on the lie and even you feel awful for what you'd supposedly said. Hell, now that you think about it, is that how Karn had interpreted the things you said to him earlier? Sure, you hadn't outright said he was a bad friend but you had insinuated he wasn't behaving as a friend should. 'Ah...Shit.' You wince and absently press a hand flat against the rucksack wall, feeling the solid muscles of Karn's back warm on your skin. They bunch at your touch, relaxing seconds later and you can only hope your apology is conveyed in the simple contact.

Suddenly, you're tugged from your thoughts by Thane, whose gruffness has been all but buried underneath a rare moment of sympathy. Exhaling a rough breath, he claps one, brawny hand on the younger maker's shoulder and gives him a well-intentioned jostle. “Ach, well, I'm...sure she'll come around soon, eh?”

“I hope so.”

Thane presses his lips into a tight grimace and nods awkwardly, patting Karn's back a few more times before he clears his throat and gives the other maker a shove towards the gate. “G'wan then, go take your mind of her for a bit.”

Trying not to let his mouth gape open in disbelief, the youngling tosses his thanks to Thane ��and makes his escape, feeling the warrior's eyes on him all the way into the tunnel.

It's only once he turns the first corner and breaks Thane's line of sight that Karn releases the lungful of air he's been holding onto and breaks into a lumbering trot, easily traversing his way through the tunnel until eventually, he steps out into the sunshine on the other side. Trembling with the adrenaline of disobeying his elders so brazenly, he has to take a minute to collect himself, breathing in the crisp air of the vale and feeling the wind on his face before he reaches back and carefully removes his rucksack.

Light floods your cramped hidey-hole and you briefly shy away from it, having to shield your eyes until a large shadow falls across the opening and you squint up into the face of a stupefied maker. His grin is slight and he emits a bewlidered laugh as he reaches inside the rucksack and scoops you out. “I can't believe that worked!”

Sliding comfortably into the centre of his palm with your legs dangling over the side, you return the laugh and reply, “What did I tell you? You're a natural!” You fall silent, losing your smile and looking down at your hands. “A little too natural if you ask me.”

“Karn...What I said back in Tri Stone, about you not acting like a friend-”

“Ach! Weren't nothin' by it!” he dismisses with a chuckle that doesn't quite sound genuine, “You were right, friends shouldn't be holdin' each other back like that! S'pose I'm just out of practice is all. S'been a while since I've had a real friend.”

“Surely the other makers....” you begin, but Karn is already shaking his head.

“Eh, they're more family than anythin' else,” he explains brightly, “But family don't always get along, you know?”

Guilt makes itself at home in your gut like a malevolent parasite. Your friendship obviously means more to him than you realised. Regarding the youngling with a newfound understanding, you nod slowly. “Yeah....Yeah, I get you.” Then, “Karn?”

“Yeah, what?” he replies, lifting you up and depositing you on his broad shoulder amidst the tangle of his warm, wooly scarf.

“You are a good friend.” It hardly feels like enough from where you're sitting, but judging by the toothy grin that breaks across his features and lifts his cheeks, it's at least enough for him. You allow a few more moments for him to sheepishly scratch at his neck with his unoccupied hand before you lean forwards and raise a brow at him.

“Um, I can walk you know.”

“Wha? Oh, I know!” he says a little too quickly, “Just thought it'd be faster this way.”

You give him a suspicious hum but ultimately drop the matter, unwilling to argue. After all, he does have a point. And it wouldn't exactly do to arrive at the temple already exhausted from jogging all the way there, trying to match the maker's enormous strides.

So, drawing in a breath too deep to allow room for trepidation in your lungs, you wrap a hand up in Karn's scarf and the two of you set off towards Baneswood, both safe in the knowledge that, no matter what happens next, neither of you will be facing it alone.

#Darksiders #Darksiders 2 #Imagine Darksiders #chwh #cold hands warm heart #Karn #found family #friendship #hurt/comfort #whump #fluff #angst #panic attack #anxiety

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