#broadaxes

[braderunner]

For  tabletop role-playing game "Age of Chernobog" based in slavic setting.  

On this illustration you see a brave man evacuates a woman and her property after a fire broke out in her settlement. The blade of his axe shows that he wanted to take a barrel of cherry jam from the basement, but accidentally destroyed it.

Order a picture from me on Fiverr :)

[ca-dmv-bot]

Customer: OLD BATTLE-AXE DMV: A BATTLE AX IS ANOTHER NAME FOR A BROADAX FORMERLY USED AS A WEAPON OF WAR. ALSO SLANG FOR A DOMINEERING AGGRESSIVE SHARP TEMPERED PERSON, ESP A WOMAN Verdict: DENIED

[kana-daydreams]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞

[ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈 ]

cw: violence, mild swearing wc: 2.2k

You stand amidst your marine comrades who bustle around you in a Navy battleship which you boarded after your escort ship was stolen, forcing your group to escape in a smaller boat; Cutty Flam and Robin, the culprits of the crime. 

Apparently, the machine man hadn’t drowned like you thought after the explosion and was able to save Nico Robin from being riddled with bullets after you were forced to leave the scene.

Other battleships flank either side of your own, their cannons firing at what was once a prideful Judicial island, now an island reduced to be one of mass debris engulfed in a sea of flames.

To your right is Spandam, in other words, rotten scum, whose face is heavily swollen from what you’ve heard from one of your comrades was Nico Robin’s doing. 

You glance over at him when you hear him arguing with a navy nurse who attends to his injuries, and you smirk watching as he winces in pain every time she touches a cotton pad to his bruised face. 

Another cannon fires garnering your attention, and your eyes follow it as it charges across at yet another one of Enies Lobby's infrastructure.

Suddenly, the PA system sputters on and a voice announces for all ships to surround the Bridge of Hesitation and your former escort ship as more pirates have been spotted at both locations.

The ship you're on moves in the former route where you see three individuals, their faces sporting determined expressions and weapons prepped and ready for battle.

You recognise them: Zoro and Cutty Flam, and the other, the sniper from the tower of law who ambushed your group with explosive missiles earlier back on the bridge.

Before your comrades can indulge their thirst for a fight, the PA system makes another announcement, this time shouting directives for only the marines ranked higher than Lieutenant commander to engage the pirates, which meant you had to stay put, on board—with Spandam.

How unfortunate.

"Get them!" One of the captains command and dozens of marines shower down like ants from their nest when provoked, from their respective ships to surround the three, but most of them before their feet can take refuge on the bridge, are blown away by an explosion.

You observe the pirates and your fellow marines as they fight, a symphony of cannon fires, gunshots and clashes of swords consuming the atmosphere.

You lean against the railing of the ship, propping a hand under your chin, your expression bored as you continue to watch the chaotic scene that unfolds below you, the marines clearly the losing party.

However, when your eyes happen to randomly land on a green hair individual with a sword in each hand and another which he strangely wields in his mouth, you can’t help but trail his every move in awe.

The former pirate hunter, Roronoa Zoro.

You watch as he easily and with precision, defeats his opponents two at a time, three and sometimes too many for you to count.

"Is there no one with backbone?!" You hear him challenge after he sends one of your squadrons flying away like leaves in the wind with a wave of his swords. 

A male marine three times his size steps forward, brandishing a giant broadaxe and an impressed grin stretches across the swordsman's lips.

The marine attacks him with powerful and consistent strikes and even with what seems like his ace in the hole, but like the rest of his squadron, he is sent plummeting into the ocean in a matter of seconds.

Your heart aches, and the hand which reaches to rest on the hilt of your sword, itches.

A strong yearning begins to overwhelm your senses. One which you eagerly desire to satiate.

Unfortunately for you, you’re not permitted to leave the ship. 

You heave a resigned sigh. "The curse of being demoted." You mumble, reluctantly remaining but a simple spectator to Zoro wrestling the other marines with his swords.

During his fight, you perk up when you notice his figure become motionless, his features mirroring one of pain from one of his hands being imprisoned in a marine’s tight grasp.

Closer inspection allows you to see his hand changing from its tan colour into a rust brown, gradually travelling up his arm and spreading across the rest of his body.

He’s turning him into rust! You gape at the realisation and your eyes glance quickly to your left and right. 

Safe.

Gripping your fingers tightly around the ship's railing, you hoist yourself over, jumping down into the chaotic mess below.

When you land, your feet immediately race towards the direction of the captive swordsman.

There was no way you were going to let him—the man you eagerly yearn for—die. 

Not before you got your chance of crossing blades with him.

Zoro groans from the pain of his body being gradually consumed by decay, his dark eyes darting down with a deathly stare at the musty, rusty piece of shit responsible for his state and who destroyed one of his beloved katanas. 

He swears to avenge his lost Yubashiri…as soon as he’s able to break free from the marine’s tight grip around his arm, or rather his rust.

For the umpteenth time, he tries tugging himself free, but his attempts are futile as the rust has already claimed half his body, rendering him unable to move. 

The marine bursts out in hysterical laughter as he watches his prey wither away slowly, but his grip on Zoro is ripped off when he is sent colliding into a trench mortar beside them, immediately falling unconscious.

Zoro massages a hand over his stiff neck, feeling the rust inside his body recede; the tan colour of his skin returning.

He presumes that Usopp or Franky were the ones to come to his rescue since they were fighting alongside him, but instead he finds in front of him, standing a few feet away, a young woman.

His eyes scan over her marine attire. Was she the one who saved me? Zoro quirks a brow, puzzled at why a marine would injure one of their own to save a pirate.

His eyes suddenly become wide as his senses are overshadowed by an eerie feeling radiating off her. One he was definitely not a stranger to. 

"Ah, I see." He grins and reaches for his swords, the woman’s eyes flickering down to his hands at the movement. 

She reaches for her own sword beside her, brandishing it in his direction and neither bother exchanging pleasantries as they charge at each other with alarming speed.

When your sword clashes against Roronoa Zoro’s, an exhilarating rush consumes your entire being—a sort of high you haven’t felt in years.

His fearsome reputation as a swordsman was common gossip among you marines, one you could now attest to after witnessing for the first time, his skills in action when he defeated several squadrons of high ranks.

You’re grateful to the gods that you finally get the opportunity to fight the former pirate hunter. And no you didn’t have a personal vendetta against him nor were you as interested as your associates in capturing him; you weren’t even interested in finding out who was the strongest between the both of you. 

Your intention was simple, and that was to quench your need for excitement.

You dodge to the left, barely managing to escape one of his swords as it aims for your mid-section, and return the favour with a swift swing of your own.

Zoro raises a sword, blocking your attack. ‘Finally, someone worth fighting!’ His voice brims with excitement, a hungry glint in his eyes and a devilish grin etched into his expression as you both exchange a flurry of hits, the force of your attacks causing clouds of dust to billow beneath your feet.

Boisterous laughter bordering hysterical rips out your throat. "Glad, the feeling’s mutual, pirate."

As you continue to fight, you notice the swordsman's attacks become gradually weaker and to your surprise, it is you who draws the first blood when your sword manages to trace over the exposed skin of his stomach. 

You weren't sure what to make of it. Was it the side effects of the rust or…was he going easy on you because you were a woman?

You frown. 

A chivalrous pirate? Strange. 

You watch as droplets of red trickle down from his cut onto the ground. "Is it the rust, pirate? Or you're easy on me because I don’t have balls between my legs?"

The muscles in Zoro’s face twitch slightly at your words. "Man or woman—my swords know no gender when it yearns for blood."

He lunges at you with his swords raised and you hiss slightly when one of them comes into contact with the right sleeve of your shirt, staining it crimson red.

You soon find yourself exerting more effort to deflect and evade his attacks, but nevertheless, your eyes gleam and your lips subconsciously upturn into a cheshire grin giving you a slightly deranged look.

"That's more like it!"

Zoro is taken aback when you start matching the force of his strikes and soon finds his feet buckling under the weight of your sword; the pressure forcing him down onto his knees and breaking into the stone beneath him.

She's strong! Zoro groans, both your swords humming a metallic harmony as their blades grind against each other.

To his far left, Zoro notices Usopp preparing to attack you with one of his gadgets, but warns him not to intervene with a gesture of his head.

In a blink of a second, you stumble back when he pushes you off him.

He doesn't give you time to recuperate and you're unable to brace yourself for his aggressive strings of attacks.

You fall.

Your sword is knocked out of your grasp and Zoro's blade is aimed at your neck.

"I guess you really are the best swordsman."

"Not yet, but I will be." He smirks.

Robin’s voice suddenly comes from behind you, grabbing both your attention.

"Stop Zoro, don’t hurt her!"

"I wasn’t gon–" Zoro is cut short, falling over with a grunt when you swiftly sweep a leg across at his feet.

"Hey, pirate!" You tower over his form on the ground. ‘Let’s do this again, if you’re still alive.’  

You don't give Zoro time to respond and his eyes follow your figure as it retreats in the direction of one of the marine ships.

Having returned back onto the ship without anyone noticing your absence, you watch in anticipation at the cannons preparing to fire at the straw hats particularly at the dilapidated building where their captain lies paralysed after defeating CP9’s number one sociopath, Rob Lucci.

"Three seconds!" You hear the Vice-Admiral of your ship roar.  

You sigh. There’s no way he’ll escape this one. 

The Vice-Admiral bellows out the remaining seconds and all cannons aim their fire in Luffy’s direction, though it only targets stone when he’s unexpectedly tossed into sea, and his crew follow suit, leaping off the bridge with who you assume are their hostages and Cutty Flam in tow. 

"They jumped?!" You stare wide-eyed as the group dives into the ocean, the thought of the pirates having suicidal tendencies never once having crossed your mind.

"There’s no way they’re gonna survive that." Someone gasps beside you. "They’ll be swept into the current of the whirlpool!"

However another surprise awaits you when you see them pull themselves onto the deck of a smaller ship whose presence you hadn’t noticed before.

"Huh? Where’d that ship come from?" You mumble.

Spandam’s voice, laced with anger and annoyance, suddenly rings across the ship. "All ships prepare to fire your cannons!" 

No one moves at his command, hesitating since their initial order is to capture Nico Robin alive. They only comply when Spandam mentions Admiral Akoji’s name, and unlike the rest of the marines, you know he uses the Admiral's authority as a pretext for his revenge.

You watch them as they buzz around, Spandam continuing to bark out commands, thankful that he’s seemingly forgotten your existence in his pursuit to kill the straw hats.

You however weren’t so keen on letting them die just yet—for personal interests.

You walk further out to the deck where you notice the straw hats themselves occupied, bustling about their ship preparing to set sail to escape being blown into smithereens.

I’ll help you one more time. You make a wide gesture with both arms which goes unnoticed by your crew too concentrated on the pirates, and when all ships fire at them they aim at each other instead. 

It also didn’t help the marines' situation when the gates of justice had unexpectedly begun closing, creating multiple whirlpools below the ships; the strong pull of their currents causing the ships to collide into each other.

Shortly after, you keep a tight grip onto the railing of your ship as it struggles to stay afloat, explosive projectiles zipping in every direction and Spandam's painful cries engulfing the entire atmosphere.

The final thing you notice before your sight is clouded by thick, dark smoke is the straw hats’ ship propelling into a sky of endless grey; your lips quirking into a satisfied smile.

Till we meet again, straw hats.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Part I - Part II

© 2023 kana-daydreams

[ask-healthy-light]

Fight for Our Home

No matter how immense and sudden the change was for both of us, nor how much I rebelled against him for the first few years, I do not remember a single moment that Pa- I mean, Jarl Dark treated me as anything less than an equal, be it at home, in training, in our daily lives, or even during battle.

The day that I first truly understood how dearly Dark cared for me and Dusk was the latter of these moments, when I opened my eyes to look upon a blanket of white clouds. Countless snowflakes floated down to land on my face, but I did not yet know why I still felt warmth, despite the wind and snow.

My blurred vision diminished as I started to come to my senses, when I realised that the warmth had spread to my right hoof. I sat upright to look over my body, when I found that both my coat and the snow-covered ground around me had been stained dark red, and I found a gash across my entire chest.

Fortunately, it had solidified, and was no longer bleeding, and I breathed a sigh of relief, when I heard the unmistakable sound of clashing metal close by. I did not know the peril I was in, until I turned to face whence the sound came, only to see Dark standing mere hooves away, wielding his axe.

It felt like I was looking at him swinging his broadaxe with both hooves for an eternity, and I did not understand what was going on, until my stained hoof brushed against the hilt of my sword. In an instant, I remembered the bridge we were defending, the advancing army, and the blade that hurt me.

Biting through the pain as best I could, following in his hoofsteps, I grabbed my sword, and slowly rose from the ground to stand by his side once again. With my buckler on one arm and my sword in my hoof, I narrowly managed to parry another Stallion's greatsword that nearly struck him in his side.

A mere moment later, after I had defeated the Stallion, and pushed his lifeless body into the river far below us, did Dark see me by his side, and he froze where he stood. I was concerned that he had been hit, and I asked him if he was all right, to which he merely dropped his axe, and embraced me.

Yet again, I could feel my coat becoming wet, but when I heard Dark's breathing quickened, and felt his embrace tighten as his voice started to break, I knew it was not because of a wound. Only after he told me he thought I had been slain did I realise it was the tears he wept that stained my coat.

By the grace of the Heavens above, not a single Pony dared to cross the bridge for as long as I was in Dark's embrace. Only after Dark let go of me, and nodded with teary eyes and a euphoric smile on his face, did somepony approach us again, quivering in fear as they slowly stepped onto the bridge.

It was clear to us both that the Pony now in front of us, clad head to hoof in armour, and wielding a great weapon, had seen far too few winters to be here. When Dark picked up his axe, he caused the Young Stallion to quiver even more, until he quietly told him to lay down his arms, and to go home.

The rest of the force, who were all unfit for battle, surrendered, and Dark stepped towards them to ask what they needed, so he could see what they could spare. As he led the few surrendered soldiers back to town, I saw past the great warrior I admired, and saw the noble Pony Dark was trying to be.

After the last soldiers left, we were just glad to return home to find Dusk sound asleep.

I know Dark remembers when he was in their place, fighting for his own home, and those he loved…

(Thanks for reading this bonus! If you'd like a story of your own, feel free to send a request!)

Featuring: Morro, Dark and Dusk from @askdarkpony

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #19: Taken

Locke walked away from the merchant feeling quite pleased with himself. Showing up without the culprit of the crime was underwhelming, he had to agree. The Wood Wailers hadn't seemed pleased with him, nor were they impressed with his truncated version of events, wherein he found the merchant’s stolen goods and chocobo in a nondescript clearing, no masked Miqo’te in sight.

The merchant, however, had been overjoyed. Everything was returned, all was well, and though he’d lost a day of travel to the incident, what was one day if it meant continuing his journey with all of his wares returned to him?

So he’d gifted Locke one of his many fancy-looking rings, a silver piece bearing glittering gems of red, blue, and black. Locke strung the ring onto a leather cord, knotted it to make a necklace, and wore it under his shirt. He had no clue what the ring was worth, but that was a problem for later.

For now, he was content.

He would have been smart, perhaps, to return to Coerthas and his nook of a workshop. He could repair his arm there, and then he could resume his travels or even return to his boss. He’d earned two coin purses full of gil. It was more than he’d had in a good while. Surely it would cover rent. But the ring around his neck looked valuable, and he knew of no better place to get it appraised than Ul’dah. So he journeyed southward.

The next several days were comfortably lonely. Locke followed the road, through the fringes of the Twelveswood and down into Thanalan. Without a job to spur him forward, or a companion to drag him along, he traveled at a lazy, easy pace.

The sense that someone — something, more likely — stood just over his shoulder didn’t entirely vanish, regardless of how peacefully his days passed. It was there as he napped beneath the shaded boughs of a large apple tree, there as he fished from a secluded pond, there as he hunched by his campfire and watched the perch he’d caught cook to a perfect golden brown. It was a fact of the Twelveswood, as certain as the sun would rise and the seasons would change. He kept a fire burning low whenever he set up camp for the evening and slept with his arm slung over the scabbard of his Doman sword as if it were a stuffed toy, but otherwise, he accepted the forest as it was.

As he left the Black Shroud behind, the abundant trees thinned out, the paranoia of being watched dissipated, and the ground beneath his feet grew harder. The square silhouettes of distant buildings cropped up on the horizon.

The shadows had grown long by the time the road took Locke into the little mining town at Thanalan’s edge. The homes there were small, squat things, made with function rather than form in mind. He looked about as he ventured further, searching for anything resembling an inn.

The closest thing he found was one of two larger buildings. Unlike its similarly sized counterpart, it had a sign near the door — not that Locke could read it — and lacked a fence or gate, appearing more welcoming for it. He strolled up to the front and reached for the door.

On the other side, something thumped against the floor, footsteps rumbled, and metal clanged against metal. A gruff voice shouted. The noises rolled forward.

Locke took two steps to the side just as the doors swung outward, forced open by a crumpled figure thrown through the air. He hit the dirt hard, rolled once, and groaned but didn’t get up.

A wide silhouette darkened the doorway before lumbering forward. As sunlight fell on the Roegadyn, Locke noted muscular arms laden with scars, bloody knuckles, and a notched broadaxe slung over his shoulder, gray metal glinting. He spared Locke only a glance before continuing on to crouch by the man and rummage through his pockets.

The sounds of fighting rang through the building and spilled out of the open doorway, a cacophony of shouts and splintered wood and whistling steel. Though the action called to Locke, he followed the Roegadyn and squatted by his side.

“Whatcha doing?”

He didn’t look at Locke this time, eyes set instead on the few coins he’d collected from the man. “Taking what the cur owes,” he rumbled.

“Oh. Don’t look like a lot.”

“He’s short,” the Roegadyn explained.

“Huh? What’s that got to do with it?”

“You ask a lot of questions that don’t concern you. It’s annoying.”

Locke shrugged. “I’m curious.”

The Roegadyn scoffed but didn’t say anything else. His eyes settled on a thin band on the man’s left hand. He reached for it with heavy fingers and bloody knuckles.

Locke smacked the Roegadyn’s hand away. “Shouldn’t take that,” he said. “It’s an Eorzean thing, they got emotio— ah!”

He yelped and twisted away, avoiding the back of the Roegadyn’s fist. He half-scurried, half-dragged himself back and out of reach. The man’s thick fingers grabbed at empty air.

“This isn’t your business, boy,” the Roegadyn growled. He stood and squared his shoulders, throwing a shadow over Locke. “Back off.”

A thrill ran through Locke’s stomach, and his hand crossed his abdomen, coming to rest on the sword sheathed at his hip. He widened his stance, one foot in front of the other. Though he didn’t draw his sword, or even speak, it was an obvious challenge.

The Roegadyn grabbed his broadaxe, the leather braid holding it across his back slipping away from one shoulder. He hefted it and charged forward, a bellow erupting from his throat.

Locke didn’t need to See to slip past the axe. It was a sloppy, reckless swing, all brute force and no technique. He stepped in and ducked his head for the sake of his ears, felt and heard the rush of air above, and drew. His sword rasped against the sheath before carving through the air, striking as sure as a scythe harvests wheat.

But rather than flesh, metal found metal, sending a reverberation through Locke’s fingers. A Hyuran man had materialized between him and the Roegadyn, twin scimitars in his gloved hands, capturing Locke’s blade. Dark eyes flicked between Locke and the Roegadyn.

“Mind stepping back?” he asked Locke. A hollow smile flitted across his sun-kissed face, utterly humorless. “I’ve got business with the big guy.”

Locke frowned, considering. On one hand, he’d had a quiet few days and was itching for a fight, and the Roegadyn seemed like good practice. It would keep him sharp in case something more dangerous came up.

On the other hand, those swords the Hyur carried were nice. There wasn’t much in the way of embellishment, just a small maker’s mark on the base of each blade, but at a glance they were well-maintained.

I want to see how he fights.

“I’m still here,” the Roegadyn snarled, bringing the axe back around and swiping it at the pair of them. The arc was predictable, but the axe-head came in fast, strong as the man was.

The Hyur released Locke’s sword from between his own and dodged back in a smooth motion. Locke caught the axe with the flat side of his blade and retreated with the momentum of the blow, shoulder jarred from the impact.

Locke released his breath through his teeth with a small hiss. “Give me a show then, and he’s all yours.”

The Hyur looked at Locke, then back at the Roegadyn. “That’s an odd request, but if that’s what it takes. As you wish then.”

Locke sheathed his sword and trotted over to the man on the ground. He seized him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him along, away from the combatants. The man whimpered and kicked once in protest, but otherwise, he went along with it.

If the axe-wielding Roegadyn had an issue with Locke bowing out of the fight and pulling his quarry a few yalms away, he didn’t — more likely, couldn’t — do anything about it. His eyes were on the Hyur with the twin swords.

The Hyur darted in, quick as thought, swords flashing under the Thanalan sun. They bit into the Roegadyn’s leg once, twice, then they were gone, carried away as the Hyur danced back. The Roegadyn advanced, trying to close the distance, and the Hyur rushed in to meet him. He parried, dodged, slipped past the Roegadyn’s offense in a blink. Steel kissed the taller man’s side and arm, the swords coming away tinged red. Then the Hyur was gone again, graceful as a dancer, as hard to snatch from the air as a raindrop.

Locke felt a smile growing on his face. He sat back and watched the Hyuran man work, bright blue eyes following every elegant step and every flash of a blade, thoroughly taken with the display.

[kultofathena]

Langeid Viking Sword – Windlass

The Windlass Steelcrafts Langeid belongs to its MasterCraft Collection of higher quality swords which have elevated detailing and scabbards. The well-tempered blade is crafted from 1080 high carbon steel which has been sharpened. The guard and pommel to replicate the original Viking sword are of iron which is plated in silver and completed with real copper and gold. The grip is wood is bound in intricately braided silver wire. The sword comes with a wood core scabbard which is bound in etched leather and completed with an integrated sword belt and silver plated fittings.

When a new road was being constructed in Langeid in southern Norway’s Setesdal valley in 2011, workers discovered an ancient Viking burial ground. Along with coins and a broadaxe, an archaeological team exhumed a startling, unique sword that hadn’t seen the light of day for over 10 centuries. Thousands of Viking era swords, in various states of completeness, have been discovered in Norway, but not one of them has an elaborately inscribed hilt like the one exhibited by the weapon they found that day.

Whether the sword originated in Norway or is possibly an Anglo-Saxon weapon that was acquired elsewhere is a matter of conjecture, but there’s no doubt this was an expensive example of deadly artistry that was highly prized by the Viking warrior who owned it. The pommel and downsloping guard are emblazoned with gold and copper, displaying a mixture of Latin characters, Christian and runic symbols whose exact meanings are lost to time, with some characters apparently reversed for the sake of symmetry.

The Latin letters are among the hardest to interpret but may be meaningful abbreviations for Christian messages. They could be anything from Bible verses to worship of Christ in Greek or Latin, somewhat equivalent to Christograms. A cross or “X” may represent Xristos (Christ). “R” occurs in several places and may stand for Rex (king). “H” appears once, and its meaning is rather uncertain. The “E” sign is depicted in various orientations, but its meaning is also mysterious. One character that appears to be a rune might be a stylized “S”. The top of the pommel in portrays a hand holding a cross, possibly representing the hand of Jesus or God. The cross in the hand combined with the “S” sign may, if interpreted loosely, be read as Xristos Salvator (Christ the Saviour), but would then represent a mixture of Greek and Latin.

Interestingly, the grip of this sword is one of the shortest known, only a hair over 3-1/2″. Short grips are very common among Viking swords that have severely down-sloped guards like this one. The owner had either to rest his pinky on the pommel or possibly let his index finger and thumb embrace the guard (as an aside, Viking warriors were known for letting the pommel slide into their palms during a swing to extend the effectiveness of a blow).

This faithful replica is a fully functioning sword with a carbon steel blade that’s battle capable like the original. The pommel and guard are made of iron and silver-plated like the original, and the markings are emblazoned in real gold and copper. We’ve widened the grip slightly for the sake of comfort, but the wire-wrapping is twisted in the same patterns that a prominent Viking hand wielded centuries ago.

The original scabbard had long since deteriorated, so we created one of high-quality leather and laser-engraved it with a pattern created from the pommel imagery. The scabbard comes with its own belt.

[helluva-world-innit]

Also have it in my head that all imps have family names after weapons and things that cause injury and death most often. Not necessarily a family speciality or anything but just something that acts as a symbol of the overall family values and qualities and such.

For instance, Blitz, Barbie, and Fizz's family name is "Wire" as homage to the original show, a callback to their circus past, and also because it used to be "Razorwire". The family just became so poor they couldn't afford to put the whole name on memorial plates anymore. So, they shortened it in the 70's. Razorwires tend to be sharp, need care to navigate, and are adaptable imps like the trap wire they're named for.

Millie's family name is "Hache", which is French for "Axe". No one is quite sure why it's in French instead of Satanic, Latin, or English but it's an older weapon so it's got a history as an older name and there are several branches and variations of it within her long family vine. All with their own takes on what it means to be proud, Wrathian imps, such as "Hache D'armes" (Battleaxe), "Pic" or "Pioche" (Pickaxe), some that said 'fuck the French' and went with Broadaxe and Double-Bit Axe, etc. When you ask around to see "them axe kids" you gotta be specific or the whole clan might just turn up.

Moxxie's last name is "Rapier". Like the sword, which is precise, quick, and gives indications of being from a higher class of imp (which he is). He actually took his mother's family name as he got older (a common practice). Imps get to choose this on the birthday of their 13th year, along with being presented with their first gun, traditionally, whether they use it or not (they get their first blades and are taught to use them at 6). If that seems young...we are talking about demons here. They can handle it, I'm sure.

The point is weaponry is important to imps, okay? Jesus may have said "peace! be still!" but peace was never an option with imps because they've always got a peace of still piece of steel. Somewhere. Even totes naked. No, we don't know how either. I hope it's hammerspace. Please, gods, be hammerspace.

[saltminerising]

Staff I am once again asking for a big fucking broadaxe. Give it to Me.

[yearningaxe]

meg, calling from mothers dwelling on the vintage rotary phone the entity gave them: babe come home

Anna, pulling a broadaxe out of Nicolas Cage’s skull: i am in the middle of mori

Meg: Izzy’s asleep… and i’m wearing that dress you made me…

Anna:

THIS IS TOO CUTE 🥺😭😭🤭🤭💗💗 Anna WOULD do that omgggg

[aquadestinyswriting]

A Circle None Can Break: Part Thirteen

Summary: His Majesty is brought into the Royal Vaults to see the message left for him there. He sends his Kingsguard to find the thief and vandal responsible, only to have a heart to heart with the Archlector

Words: 2,332

Warnings: None that I can tell. Let me know if I'm wrong

Notes: Second to last chapter folks! This has been a journey and a bit. The message being referred to can be found at the end of the Flash Fiction entry A Mother's Wrath

tags: @druidx, @strosmkai-rum, @homesteadchronicles, @warriorbookworm, @odysseywritings, @sparrow-orion-writes, @blind-the-winds, @writeblrsupport, @writeblrcafe

King Storri glared at the moulded runes on the wall of the Royal Vault. He sniffed and turned to the captain of his Kingsguard,

“Do we have any idea how the culprit even got into the vault?” he asked lightly. Captain Bloodvein stroked his beard thoughtfully, mulling the question over,

“Not yet, Your Majesty. All we know so far is that the doors weren’t forced open and none of the guards, or any of the rest of the staff, have seen anyone skulking around the palace.” he replied. The taller dwarf glanced at the runes on the wall. They had been too perfectly moulded onto the surface to have been the work of some random thief and vandal. He cleared his throat as his king fumed,

“Your Majesty, perhaps we need to consider the possibility that this was not the work of a mortal being,” he ventured warily, “The Vault has been thoroughly protected from all manner of teleportation magic and the runes are confirmed to be physically present and, by all accounts, appear to be part of the wall. The language used is also indicative of-” he was cut off as Storri raised a hand,

“I will confer with the Church with regards to this message, Captain. However, if the disappearance of a potentially sacred or heretical artefact was the work of the gods, then how do you explain that?” he asked, pointing to a scuff mark on the floor next to the shelf and a faint footprint next to it. Captain Bloodvein heaved a sigh and nodded,

“I’ll send out a search party for the individual responsible at once, sire.” he said, turning to the small troupe of guards he had brought with him, “Broadaxe, Silverhand with me.” he called, starting to lead the two other dwarves out of the Vault, only to be stopped by the appearance of a tall, thin figure in the doorway. The Kingsguard stumbled to a halt and bowed deeply as the Archlector quietly sauntered into the cavern. He nodded to the Kingsguard and smiled,

“Please, don’t stop your search on my account.” he said mildly, stepping aside to allow the Kingsguard to leave. Captain Bloodvein bowed once more, frowning in consternation, but quickly recalled himself and left.

Storri turned stiffly and inclined his head at the sound of the Archlector’s voice behind him,

“Archlector, to what do we owe the pleasure?” he asked. Archlector Vanskleig said nothing as he glided across the cavern, peering at the runes moulded onto the wall his king was standing next to. The elderly dwarf cocked his head,

“It’s curious, don’t you think? That we should be so troubled by earthquakes, and that some random miscreant manages to gain entry into the Royal Vault, of all places, to steal a random sacred item mere hours after you dismissed Lady Frigidwake from the mountain?”

Storri tensed. The Archlector’s voice was soft, gentle even. However, even Storri could not miss the undercurrent in the elderly dwarf’s words. The king turned back to the wall, shaking his head,

“What should I have done instead, Archlector? Sent one of our own out on what amounts to a suicide mission when we are only barely recovering from a disaster that Lady Frigidwake, and her companions, were responsible for?” Vanskleig sighed, leaned on his staff and laid a hand on the young king’s shoulder,

“I just don’t want to see ma people suffer any more.” he murmured. He huffed a sigh and shook his head, “However, I will concede to yer wisdom on this matter. The tablet still needs to be returned, however.” Vanskleig squeezed the younger dwarf’s shoulder,

“I understand your reluctance to get involved, Your Majesty, I do.” he said quietly, “However, inaction on our part will have graver consequences than can possibly be imagined.” He gestured to the runes, “Not a one of us, not even I, can deny the Call of Kherillim or even Dànadas.” he added. Storri hung his head,

“Aye, that it does. So long as yer Kingsguard don’t do anything rash, then there won’t be any further issues.” 

Edwin and Selene raced through the streets of Fangthane, Gruk in tow, while Snorri kept the patrons of his bar in their seats. 

“What in all the Hells is the lassie doin’?!” Gruk despaired as he skidded around the corner and onto the street leading out to the main entrance to Fangthane. Edwin shook his head,

“It’s not Meredith, Gruk. Throff has had enough and is making a Statement. I just hope we find your daughter before the Kingsguard do.” he muttered. Selene said nothing, guilt squeezing at her heart. While she was more than aware that getting Gruk’s daughter involved in her city’s problems was the Will of the Gods, that didn’t stop her from wishing that there was another way to solve the problem.

~Too bad, there isn’t.~ came Chrackle’s voice in her head, ~Anyway, you’re a bit late. The girl’s surrounded by Kingsguard. Giving you a heads up that she’s very upset so you might want to duck and cover.~ he said. Selene grimaced, realising only now that she could feel the pull of magic towards the front door. She grabbed Edwin and Gruk and pulled them behind a pillar just as a loud Crack! Echoed around the hall. Loud shouts of fear and partial outrage quickly followed suit, along with the muffled voice of a young, female dwarf yelling something. Selene couldn’t make out what the young cleric was saying over the ringing in her ears. She could barely hear Edwin’s swearing. She glanced over to Gruk, who had gone white under his beard. The smith looked up at the human wizard and gestured in the direction of the front door with a determined grimace. Selene shook her head, but Gruk could not be swayed and he snorted, got up and marched out from behind the pillar to confront whoever got in his way first. Selene swept her gaze over to Edwin, who shrugged and got up to follow the dwarven man. The ringing in her ears abated slightly as Selene rounded the pillar, only to find Captain Bloodvein standing next to a wary looking young dwarven girl wearing clerical vestments and clutching a stone tablet in her arms. The Captain of the Kingsguard was waving for the other dwarves with him to stand down as he approached Meredith, glancing up at the doors at the girl’s back. Selene followed his gaze, jaw dropping open at the sight of the huge crack  spread across the massive, granite slabs that made up the front door. Selene quickly recalled herself and brought her gaze back to the two dwarves at the foot of the doors.

Captain Bloodvein held up his hands in the most placating manner he could,

“Alright hen, point made. I’m just here to get that tablet and take it back where it belongs.” he said, keeping his voice level. The young woman glared at him, tears brimming in her eyes,

“And I just telt ye that I couldn’t.” she snapped. Captain Bloodvein heaved a sigh,

“I can’t let ye keep it.” he said patiently, “If ye’re worried that ye’re in major trouble, don’t be. I saw the message yer Mistress left fer us. I’m no’ daft enough to get in Her way.” Meredith frowned, concerned,

“Ye swear I’m not in trouble fer this?” she asked. Captain Bloodvein clasped his hand to his chest and bowed his head,

“On my Oath and Honour as Kingsguard, ye have my word.” he said. Meredith’s frown lifted into a look of shocked surprise for a moment, before she grimaced, nodded to herself and held the tablet out,

“I’m not even sure why She wanted me to take this anyway.” she muttered. Bloodvein smiled as he took the tablet from the girl’s hands,

“I’ve got a vague idea as to why, but let’s wait to see what happens next, eh?” He turned around and nodded to the half-incensed, half- worried Gruk, who had stopped in his tracks halfway up the entrance hall, “My apologies, Mr Ironforge, I’m gonna have to borrow yer daughter fer a bit longer. I rather think there are some folk that want to have a chat with her first.” he said, glancing over to Selene, who bowed her head in embarrassment. Gruk snorted, crossed his arms over his chest and nodded,

“Of course, Captain, I’ll no’ get in the way of that.” he agreed. He glanced over to his daughter, his expression softening slightly on seeing the scared and anxious look she was giving him,

“We’ll have a chat with yer mum when ye get home.” he said, “We’ll sort something out. In the meantime, mind yer manners.” he told her. Meredith slowly nodded, a small smile finally gracing her features. Edwin sighed and ran a hand through his hair,

“I suppose you’ll be needing someone to get word back to Snorri and his pub about what’s going on?” he asked, “I dread to think what kinds of rumours are making their way around the place by now.” Gruk slapped the Abouna on the arm,

“Dinna panic, I’m comin’ with ye, ye daft blithy.” he sighed, “It’s not like I want any of those rumours doing the rounds, and I know what’s being said in that bloody taproom.” the smith looked over to Selene,

“You make sure to take care of ma wee girl, aye?” he said, voice stern once more. Selene chuckled and nodded,

“Of course. I’ll, hopefully, see you later. Provided His Majesty doesn’t throw another hissy fit and throw me out immediately.” 

“Be an idiot if he did.” Chrackle squawked, fluttering onto Selene’s shoulder, “Already need to repair door. Will need replace if he that stupid.” Selene glanced to the crack in the door again,

“Quite.” she murmured. She waved Gruk and Edwin off and turned to Captain Bloodvein, who had finally managed to coax Meredith down the stairs. The kingsguard quickly created a square around their Captain and his two guests and quickly marched back towards the Palace, making every attempt to keep ahead of the slowly gathering crowd that was congregating near the front doors.

Firetome seethed as he read through the latest report that was hurriedly placed onto his desk. He, and his his master, had both been most pleased when word had reached them of the theft from the Royal Vault. The High Inquisitor had been hopeful that, once the girl had been arrested, he’d be brought in to question her. This latest report, however… He threw the parchment onto the fire with a frustrated grunt. Now that the Archlector had become involved, there was little to no chance of stopping Moradin’s little pet from getting to Toreguarde. He didn’t bother looking up at the knock on his door.

“Yer Eminence, ye have a visitor.” Vera called from the door. Firetome schooled his expression into one of weariness,

“May I ask who it is?” he asked with a resigned sigh. Vera stepped to one side as another, feminine figure appeared in the doorway,

“Thank you for bringing me here dear.” came a familiar, lilting voice, “I believe I can take it from here.” Firetome nodded at the dubious expression on Vera’s face and smiled as Lady Copperheart walked into the office,

“Lady Copperheart, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” he asked, smiling broadly at her. Vera sighed, shrugged and left, closing the door behind her. Ionah waited until she was sure the trainee Inquisitor was gone before she replied, sitting down smoothly in the chair opposite Firetome. She smoothed out her dress,

“It’s recently come to my attention that His Majesty has agreed to have one last meeting with Lady Frigidwake, despite insisting that she leave the mountain earlier today.” she sniffed, “As I understand it, there were some…ecumenical developments that led to his change of heart.” She glanced up at Firetome, “You happen to know anything about that?” she asked sweetly. Firetome huffed a sigh,

“Aye, disappointingly. Apparently Throff Herself saw fit to get involved.” he replied, “T’would seem that our attempts to prevent help from reaching Toreguarde have been thwarted for the time being.” he grumbled. Ionah shook her head,

“Disappointing.” she tutted, “However, we are not entirely out of options.” the noblewoman took out a compact mirror and checked her reflection, “The girl is young and inexperienced and there are rumours afoot about other forces encroaching on Toreguarde, which I’m sure will be more than enough to take care of her.”  she added. Firetome snorted,

“Given that she seems to be a favourite of Moradin and Kherillim both, I doubt anything else that wants to throw itself at her will be enough.” he muttered, “I’m of a mind to ask Grimbeard to keep an eye on her. See if he can’t cause her some trouble while she’s there.” 

Ionah smiled,

“You speak to dear Grimbeard, and I’ll see what my own connections in the city can do. A word or two in the right ears should be enough to keep her too busy to deal with what she’s there to do.” she said, leaning back in her seat. Firetome grinned at her,

“Well then, my lady, I think we both have rather a lot of work to do. I’ll make sure to tell my Inquisitors to allow you entry whensoever you need to speak to me again.” he added, getting up from his chair and offering his arm. Ionah beamed at him, took the proffered arm and allowed herself to be escorted back to the door,

“Thank you, High Inquisitor. Do endeavour to keep in touch, won’t you?” she simpered. Firetome kissed her hand as he opened the door,

“Of course, my lady. Until next time.” he said. The High Inquisitor watched the noblewoman go, feeling a little better about the situation and returning to his desk to get on with the mountain of paperwork that was waiting for him.

[holy-slushies]

Grehaent wears thread worn leggings and heavy plate mail over it

He has gentle hands covered in thick callous

Smiling doesn’t look like it comes naturally to him, but he laughs easily

His name is long and tricky on the tongue but his friends call him Ducky

He has always wielded the heavy broadaxe and the darning needle with equal precision, because he knows love is protection but protection varies from person to person, and whether it’s a hot meal or a bear hug or someone at your six, he is always there to provide

[portmacquarieaustralia]

Brand new modern Custom Designed four bedroom family home is ready for you to move into now

[attractthecrows]

Yes im a bloodthirsty bitch Yes i wear tube tops if my Titties flop out and get covered in blood, well. that is simply beyond my control. BROADAXE TO THE FACE

[thequeendomhq]

NAME. Alrik Hart AGE & BIRTH DATE. 28 & December 7th, 2996 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him NATIONALITY. Iskaran SPECIES. Witch FACTION. Hidden Ones OCCUPATION. Street Performer / Skald FACE CLAIM. Kit Harrington

biography

( tw: death, torture, mental illness, imprisonment )

i. CHILDHOOD

Born in the Southlands under the black wings of the ravens that were native to the region, in a small home on the outskirts of Hrafntun, Asbjorn Hart, a berserker, weary from years of war, laid an infant son in a makeshift cradle for the first time. Born on foreign shores in the Kingdom of Astoria, The Hidden was a child of war, a witch entrusted into the arms of the soldier that his mother had fallen for ten months prior. A blacksmith by trader and a berserker by raiding need and profession, in the Southlands the old Iskaran traditions ran deep. Alrik was yet unnamed, but a runecaster divised under the warm glow of a naming ceremony that it would be an auspicious name to protect the child in the years ahead.

An infant armband, forged from the iron of his father’s forge was placed upon him, inscribed with the sigils of the Hart family line, and the ravens of Hrafntun that had watched over the Southlands since time immemorial. Children swelled in the region over the coming years as men returned from wars, and widows were made from those who did not come back from the war in Astoria. Naming ceremonies abound, his father’s forge never went cold as bands were created, sigils were inscribed, and good fortunes were placed upon the children that would come. Again, Asbjorn found love, a Lysaran woman from across the sea - and from this another child was born. Alessia.

Those who could weave always would, it was inevitable when power was so intrinsically tied to strong emotions, but in the Kingdom of Iskaldrik there was nothing more shameful than the act of spellcraft. Illegal in any region and punishable by imprisonment in the mines; in the throws of childbirth the air itself howled in protest as it hummed with the telltale charm of magic that left a metallic taste across the tongue. Alrik was still small then, held in the arms of a neighbor as another child was soon entrusted to them.

Witchers would come and the woman that Alrik bore no memories of was dragged away in irons - how Asbjorn protested, if he did, wasn’t something they’d ever know. Just the crime, and the secret that both Alrik and Alessia would come to carry for the years to follow, children of witches would likely beget more witches, more magic, and more crimes that were easily punishable under the eyes of Iskaran law.

Still, Alrik was a child, bright, precocious, and eager for the light. Life in the Southlands was difficult and arduous, the harsh winds off of the Veiled Sea crashed against the rocks of the shore, but old traditions ran deep. Son of the tides and the forge, clever as a pike and just as troublesome. As a young boy he was always finding himself in places that he shouldn’t be, in the neighbour’s pantry, out long after dark listening to the howl of the wolves, climbing the steep cliffs of Valkyrie’s Rest, and skirting his duties around the homestead to disappear alongside the other children. Alrik would drag his sister around with him, barely any older, he appointed himself the de facto leader of their varied expeditions. They met the son of an aged performer, and in the fields they’d learn to walk on their hands, or balance between a pair of ropes, laughing as they tumbled to the ground. Children that were free to fall as many times as they needed; children that continued to rise and try again, no matter how many tries it took. In the early hours and the late wandering of dusk he’d tend to the forge until his arms were strong enough to swing the hammer himself.

Over the mantle the pair of broadaxes that Asbjorn had once bloodied time and time again sat unused, though the blades themselves never dulled or began to rust, their father made sure of that. While Alrik’s daily life was arduous, it was rich with tradition, storytelling, and paternal bonding with the man who’d put violence behind him in order to be the sort of father that both children needed. Their mothers were dead and the magic that flowed through their veins meant that the future that lay ahead of them would be difficult, patience was all but a necessity, as was the immersion into every aspect of Iskaran culture. Where the laws were harsh and violent, their traditions were rich and proud.

ii. BOYHOOD

At twelve Alrik had learned to beat iron into steel, heard the whispers from the flames and the forge as the pattern echoed the call of ancient weaves that had the potential to stir the air, to gather the earth, to call upon the tides, to sing to the fire, and give rise to the spirit. Still young, already his hands had begun to harden under the weight of the hammer that he swung upon the anvil, his palms had calloused from climbing the jagged rocks, from hunting and weaving nets for fishing or trapping small game. This was a coming of age; enter the wilds, the mountains of Valkyrie’s Rest, and return with a feather from a falcon’s nest.

Alrik returned with not one, but three, one to keep, one for his father, and one for his sister. Birds of a feather that would flock together. He was considered a man after this, allowed more agency and responsibility, to trade in Hrafntun on his father’s behalf, the first of what would be a series of familial clan tattoos already laden across his skin. Bright, thoughtful, and charismatic - Alrik used this agency to do more of what he wished, he’d entertain with iron balls that he’d pressed at the forge, juggling their significant weight or trading them for small, edged daggers instead. Children would laugh, they’d praise him, and somehow that fed something in him. His reputation was a good one, strong but kind, wistful with a tongue that had the charming gift and knack for flyting. Poetry, tales, and the regaling of oral tradition in the insightful way that his father had when he’d grown.

Still, a witch would inevitably weave, just as surely as a fish would make roe. Alrik was in the forge one morning, working the bellows when his arms began to tire, air wrapped itself around his limbs as he wove it together and the flames surged. A metallic tang resounded across the tarmac of his tongue as Alrik’s ears rang slightly, his father knew at once and sent him away immediately. To the village he busied himself selling a few wares, to a neighbor’s home with horses that needed shoes, to homesteads that needed minor repairs, and to the docks to work on the boats for a fortnight. No witchers came, but the fear that they would be there was always there and something Asbjorn feared more than anything, something that Alrik feared as well.

It was a lazy afternoon some time later when Alrik and Alessia sat on a plateau overlooking the valley, stacking stones into cairns and trading stories of Iskaran heroes and gods, their deeds and their follies. The trick was to stack them high and wide, the first to topple would lose and the other’s would stay standing, though on occasions when neither fell, they both won. Commotion from Hrafntun below brought them down to see it firsthand, there a woman had thrown herself at the feet of a witcher and their envoy as a wailing toddler was restrained in their arms. Stunned and knocked unconscious, when she came through Alrik would hear about how she was inconsolable. Disease had made her a widow, magic had taken her child from her, never to be seen again. She’d spend the rest of her days looking out at the sea, in the years to follow Alrik would visit on business, to sell or try to entertain. She was polite, she’d smile, but there was something dead within, something that ached so loud Alrik could hear it screaming without the woman needing to say a word.

iii. SOUTHLANDER

At eighteen Alrik was not just a man with responsibilities, but an adult, and as was tradition in the family he forged a blade of his own. It was one of rudimentary make, neither he nor their forebears had the talent or mythical knowledge of the Iskaran smiths of Yggdrasildal, but it was a blade as fine as any other, and once it was completely, Asbjorn gave him an armband to symbolize his place among them. Emblazoned with runic symbols of the Hart family, and adorned with the ravens of the Southlands, this was when Alrik began to see himself not just as a man but also where he fit in in this world. Patience and temperance from the forge and the cairns made it easy for him to hear when weaves were calling to him at the edge of his consciousness, and Alrik could see that this was where he would remain. Someday, when the mind of his former-berserker father was too addled to continue alone, Alrik would take up the mantle over the forge, continue their traditions, and find a quiet life to settle into.

For years Asbjorn’s mental health deteriorated, this was common with berserkers, and the poisons they ingested for battle took a toll on the body over time. It ate away at their memories and chipped away at their identity. Alrik would awaken some nights to find his father in his night clothes standing at the cliffside, looking out over the thundering tides of the Veiled Sea, where the Gulf of Taravell ended and the unknown world began. He’d mutter about the realm of gods and giants, demons and worse. Helheim and Asgard, glimmering cities of gold - he’d ask who Alrik was when the man was disturbed, and to this, the young witch would only place his hand on his father’s shoulder and remind him, “Dad, it’s me. Alrik, your son.” Most often it would come back to him, but sometimes there’d be an uncomfortable smile, polite and ashamed because in the small hours of the dark, even Alrik’s voice did not prompt Asbjorn to recall.

Charming still, hardship was a way of life, but Alrik made time for entertainment and games. Because he’d always been fit and flexible, he’d walk on his hands, jump from the branches of trees, and support Alessia as she stood on his shoulders. It was childish and stupid, but these were moments of reprieve and as their friends had aged and grown, so too had the siblings who’d known nothing but strife. Entertainment aside, there was an ego under Alrik that liked the attention, and he wanted to show off - his tongue would curve over a well-articulated flyte, shaming grown men and sages alike over a horn of ale in the hall of Hrafntun. Festivals with too much drink saw him walking on his hands to the applause of raucous drunks and, more importantly, to the compliments of the eligible women of the Southlands. Interests aside, he’d need a kid someday, the homestead was his inheritance, but he’d need his own to take over someday, just as he would for his father. It helped that she was beautiful, and it helped that she was kind and had the wit to match his own.

He’d fallen in love then; at least, it was what he assumed was love at the time. Dagda was the miller’s daughter, and it was with her that his defenses could come down, her that he felt less guarded and less cautious. In the years that followed Dagda bore witness to the magic that flowed within the Hart siblings, that brother and sister that would inevitably weave, and those siblings that brought ruin upon their family.

The two weren’t children anymore; they did not hide in a neighbor’s cupboard when the witcher came, and they did not look on as they pressed their attack. Children of a blacksmith and a berserker, stubborn Iskaran blood pumped hot through the veins of the three; Alrik saw firsthand that day how a witcher could turn the tide of the spell; a mediocre and mundane weave of air was reversed and sent him flying with greater force than the young witch could have conjured at the time. Their home burned as their father was cut down before them, the siblings were manacled, and to the mines they were hauled away.

iv. PRISONER

Alrik had fought, of course, he had fought, because what else was there to do? In the back of the carriage that rolled forward, the irony of the iron bars that surrounded them was not lost on him. The manacles that bound his wrists were unlike anything he’d known, simply metal but inscribed with complex, intricate runes that overlay one over another in patterns that Alrik had never seen. What they looked like hardly mattered, what they did was far worse because for the first time in his life, he could not feel the One Power. Cut off from magic, Alrik could no longer hear the subtle threads of air or the sparks of spirit that resounded in the hearts of any creature - living or dead. He knew it was there, just beyond his reach, hovering above him like a static that refused to discharge; this was a madness that Alrik would come to live with, one that spoke of what those who were cleaved of their magic entirely were forced to feel.

There was no trial, the witcher that arrested them had found them guilty and their word was proof enough. That face was one that Alrik would commit to memory, in the years to follow he’d remember them as appearing young - barely any older than Alrik himself, but he was cruel. Merciless. The silver mines of Sølvgruve were only a few days journey from their home, but they might as well have been on the other side of the world. For thousands of years Valkyrie’s Rest had been dug into, deeper and deeper the miners of Iskaldrik dug into the ground below; deep enough that the earth grew cold and warm again. The dark of the caverns were dimly lit by torches and stones etched with runes cast alight by the pattern itself. Home was a wet hay on a damp, cavern floor, a damp blanket and shadows so pronounced they had a will of their own. Prisoners piled together in rows, murderers, thieves, and worse, in the night the sounds of violence kept sleep largely at bay, and by what Alrik assumed was day they worked. Tirelessly and endlessly. Lightless save for the glow that was cast for them, whether the sun was up or down was unknowable. This was home now, this would be his life.

When sleep came Alrik dreamt of the foolish act that had brought the witchers down upon him, the horror of his father’s bloodied face, and his screams as their homestead was left to nothing but the forge he’d been raised over. His hands were used to the swing of a hammer, but the pickaxe felt heavier, colder in a strange way. It rattled his bones with each swing, the glinting silver they chipped away from the caves piled in carts to be taken to the surface above. Some Jarl’s finishings, some Merchant’s horde, a prize for a lady of the Lysaran court, or a common bauble for a Sinarian trader. It was his dreams that staved the nightmares away that were cruelest, the truth of his hardship was a kindness, but dreaming of Dagna’s laughter, or the feel of the sea around his waist, the feel of an ax leaving his hand as he hurled it with accuracy towards a target - mountains beneath him, trees around him, sky above and fresh air in his lungs - these dreams were cruel. These lies were devastating because when Alrik awoke the truth came crashing down as another day, or night, began. Fresh horror and fresh misery served over the grool that was dolled out within the caverns.

Desperation bred cruelty from the dredges of society, Alrik offended, and in the night they came for him. Sharpened tools poised to strike, but instead he found scarlet beneath his wrists as Alrik’s manacled hands bludgeoned the skull of an attacker again and again. Transformative like how water became ice, you’d look at it and wonder how it was ever water to begin with; iron ore pounded as the molecules realigned, steel from feeble, brittle metal. Blood splattered the cave, gray matter and a body remained and whispers followed his name while the corpse was dragged away. There was no chance of release and the harshest punishment they could conceive was a beating and the missing of meals - each were motivation enough to stay in line.

In the beginning Alrik imagined escapes, he believed that someone would come, that someone would save them. He didn’t know who, all he had were stories from days of flyting and entertaining. Could Heimdall see them so far below the earth? Had the Valkyries come to carry his felled father away to a golden hall and the warriors of Asbjorn’s youth? The Norns predicted when and how a person would die, it was up to the individual to discern what to do with their life and what to do with the time that was given to them. Alrik would die down here. That much became clear. Days, months, and years lost meaning. There was only the dark, there was only the swing of his pickaxe, and there was only the misery that denoted his existence now. The boy had died, killed by the mines, what was left now was a shell of the man he’d been, a conglomerate of ruins.

v. FREEDOM

Freedom shouldn’t have been possible, but it happened, occasionally. One of the newer prisoners became violent, they struck out at a guard and while it was foolish to resist - it was vindicating to watch their captors bleed. Pickaxes became weapons, carts became methods of clearing through fortifications. The prisoner population of Sølvgruve had swelled and in the vast network of mines and catacombs that stirred within the foundation of Iskaldrik, the caverns broke out. A raucous eruption of rebellion that saw the shackles of many freed, and those who were still in chains only moved to run. Alrik and his sister did just that, they fled through the network as fast as their feet could carry them, fighting as they needed to, killing with prejudice. It felt easier now and while the miner would deny it, there was a satisfaction to it.

Light broke across Alrik’s features for the first time in what felt like an age; the warmth of the sun illuminated his pale skin and washed over the course of his filth-ridden and malnourished frame. Bones that had never healed properly, scars that laden his skin, and abuse that haunted the hollows of his eyes. For a moment there was a reprieve, Alrik wept at the feet of liberation - in grief and in mourning of the people he’d known, the father that he lost. He cried for the mother who’d likely been put to the torch, for the infant that had been dragged away from the arms of the fishwife. Alrik cried for that same woman who’d died that day because he too now knew what it meant to be gutted and cleaned, made hollow.

They would not go back there again.

Together, they ran, ran towards whatever freedom they could find. Somehow the pattern had shifted them, mountains they did not recognize and ranges they did not know, still they continued to flee. The madness of the mines bunched the fabric of this world upon itself, shaken by an age they did not know - that would come to be their explanation, because while they’d been imprisoned in the mines of Valkyrie’s Rest, they’d emerged on the other side of their rotted Kingdom in Ymir’s Spine.

Behind them still, the witcher pursued with an entourage of beasts and guards. They were expert hunters, masters of this terrain, and the hounds that were set loose for the siblings had a scent for blood and an acute sense for taking down those who’d been audacious enough to not just escape, but run. Upon the back of a drake, the witcher crawled over hills and lept from rocky cliff faces, unencumbered by the terrain. A day passed and through the night the siblings continued to run as their pursuers took the dark for a time to rest; the witcher was certain they would close the gap the following day and they did, because in Alrik and Alessia’s path the witcher now stood.

Alrik still saw the man as young, his skills more refined, his conscience even more cutting and ruthless. He wouldn’t kill them, no, he would bring them back to the mines because that was what the law dictated. The witcher mocked them, their grubby appearance, their inability to do any magic while still confined by their manacles, but if the Norns had already decided how they would die - then Alrik was resolved to let it be here. It was better to die on his feet than as a forgotten slag on the doorstep of the Abyss.

They fought, ruthlessly and endlessly. The witcher had gone ahead of his hounds and his entourage, leaving them behind with what he’d assume would be an easy catch. Alrik was changed now, no more skilled than he had been before, arguably weaker given his state of malnourishment and exhaustion; they had no magic available to them and the witcher was a trained killer. A knight of the realm, the symbol of order, justice, and death within Iskaldrik. Where they differed was that the pattern had decided long ago that only one of the three would die that day, Alrik and Alessia left nothing but gray matter and a corpse behind them. There, barely clinging to life, the witcher’s poisons coursed through their bodies as they limped or crawled away. In the elements they should have died, meat for orcs, carrion for the vultures that circled overhead, but instead the siblings pressed forward - called without knowing who or what they were answering.

vi. HIDDEN ONE

Into a structure the two crawled, sheltered walls with an open ceiling above, no rocks to hold them, no cairns to bury their bodies or mark their gravesite. Alrik recounted the story over his dry tongue of Balder’s death, Loki’s deception and the mistletoe that felled him; he spoke of how Frigg had made everyone vow to never harm her son, and when he died, she demanded that all the world weep in order to save him. She bid the mountains to cry, the wind, the tides, and the ground beneath them. All the animals of the land, air, and sea; gods, heroes, and mortals alike were bid to shed tears for her son. Beneath the stars of Ymir’s skies Alrik remembered that there was one who refused, whispering their name into the open air, the trickster and the child of giants.

Alrik dreamt of threads of air, woven through spirit as it circled about his hands, water rising from the underground streams buried deep beneath the earth. He dreamt of a woman’s regret and promise, of a debt that would be repaid, and an oath sworn with a dying breath that echoed across space and time. When he awoke it was under the harsh light of day, his body had been healed, the poison was gone, the wounds had been closed, and his bones had been set. For the first time in years he didn’t feel hungry or thirsty, but in the distance he could hear the telltale current of a running stream. Alrik saw his face reflected in the pool and without sparing a thought, he jumped in; summer’s warmth made the cool stream from the mountain’s peaks a jolting shock that reawakened something that the witch long thought dead. He felt at his aching wrists, the manacles were gone, he could feel the threads of air around him, the water, the One Power called out to him and a sound that was foreign to his throat echoed about the current: Alrik laughed.

Every Iskaran child knew the story of The Old Woman in the Mountain and it was only at a distance that Alrik and Alessia thought they could see her, she was the mountain itself, her face etched into the slopes of the cliff face, her noce protruding with the haunt of her brow and the force of her jaw. It was within that there was the palpable air of magic and traces of those who’d come here before, this was a roost for countless ravens that circled the cliffs, and a home for the chosen few that had been plucked from the pattern to stand amidst the halls of long-fallen giantess.

These mountains were their proving ground, they could have left and put it behind them, but what did they have to go back to? The Norns decided how a person would die and this was their chance to make their life meaningful for those that would come after them. Someday the wheel would turn out the souls of their mothers, the soul of their father, and by then the siblings Alrik and Alessia would have made the world a better place. They adopted an adage, No Mourners, No Funerals. When they died there would be no noble mourners at their funerals, there’d be no marble columns to decorate their graves, and no one would thank them for what they would come to do. A thankless mission, one that promised they’d spend this life at one another’s side, and then hopefully find each other in the next.

They were given nothing but what they could make for themselves, the elements were the first threat to overcome, but here in the remote mountains Alrik could reach towards the One Power and work out the weaves that had been calling to him since his days upon the forge. Simple, mundane, and mediocre; there was nothing refined about them, but they were useful to survive, and when they dreamt of a band of marauding goblins a short ways away, they knew what it was they had to do. Within there were creatures that had been captured, these were what the siblings liberated, killing the vile green-blooded beasts that stood in their way. Fashioned in the leathers that they stripped off of the bodies and wielding the crude weapons that the goblins had carried, they outfitted themselves with their haul and hunted to stay alive. Trapped, tanned, and laid offerings at the desiccated hollow of the giantesses’ heart.

Again they dreamt of mines below Ymir’s Spine, mines carved away by the minions of orcs, where the beasts feasted and dined. Within was the leader of the tribe, a marauder and warlord that had scrambled together a small legion of creatures under one cruel umbrella. His death would mean anarchy among their forces and the collapse of what was being built, to live would mean they’d come to threaten the range, the creatures within, and the small settlements that had cropped up in the dangerous territory. Together the siblings crept within, weaves of air to muffle their movements and conceal their scents, light footsteps and skillful hands to clamber walls, cliffs, and fling from one ledge to another. Limber, spry, and strong. A scuffle would have set the horde into a frenzy and the siblings never would have made it out alive, but a quick flash of a blade across his throat left little noise but a few short gurgles as his blood pooled across the floor of his tent.

Alrik continued to hunt in this region, fighting the brutish creatures that dominated Ymir’s Spine, here he dreamt of the darkness that they had clung from. Here the lies and the truths muddled together into a madness that made it difficult for him to discern what was real and what was false when he awoke. Alrik would dream about the mines and fear that liberation was the error, then awaken and be uncertain of himself. He’d remember his mumbling father at the edge of the world, remember how he died screaming and bloody. The boy was gone but the miner remained.

The Old Woman in the Mountain asked for their blood and as they dribbled it over her altar, they felt her contentment. Hidden Ones, blades of the pattern, warriors of fate - they left with an unmarked iron coin and wondered if a day would come when their names would appear upon it.

personality

+ charismatic, confident, patient – argumentative, manipulative, spiteful

played by shane. est. he/him.

[stinkbeck]

she tells me she loves me + i have no idea how 2 respond so i lick the edge of her broadax until i cut myself + then keep licking it bc literally how the hell would u respond 2 that??

[ultraheydudemestuff]

Church Hill Road Covered Bridge

41725 OH-154

Lisbon OH 44432

The Church Hill Road Covered Bridge is a covered bridge located on dry ground at Elkton, OH, in Elkrun Township, Columbiana County, off State Route 154. The bridge was constructed in 1870, one of the shortest covered bridges for public highway use in the United States, and was originally located over Middle Run Fork of the Little Beaver Creek on Church Hill Road. Spanning 19 feet 3 inches, the bridge is a 2-panel single kingpost design. It was relocated in 1963 when Church Hill Road was realigned, was added to the National Register of Historic Places on June 11, 1975, and was again moved in 1982 behind a restaurant on Ohio State Route 154 in Elkton, Ohio.

Timber Covered Bridges were vital links in the early road, railroad, and canal systems of Ohio and contributed greatly to the growth and development of the state. They were covered with roof and siding to protect the heavy timber trusses from the weather. Many of them have carried their loads and served their communities for well over a century. Fine craftsmen, using broadax, adz, pitsaw, and froe, were able to construct by hand, these sturdy bridges.

Today, the Church Hill Road Bridge is the shortest covered bridge in the United States still standing on a once-used public highway. It is an example, rarely found covered, of the simplest, most basic truss design, the two-panel king post truss. It has withstood the rigors of time and traffic since the 1870s and stands in eloquent testimony of the fine craftsmanship of the early Ohio bridge builders. The Historical Marker was erected in 1963 by The Columbiana County Historical Society and The Ohio Historical Society. The marker and bridge are located at the Elkrun Township Tourism Bureau and Museum on Ohio Route 154 east of Scroggs Road (Local Route 795), near Lisbon, Ohio, in Columbiana County.