#horncleaver content

[commanderhorncleaver]

[commanderhorncleaver]

Meant to post this earlier, but

The old man is officially 60/2 years old!

Help the old guy celebrate!

[commanderhorncleaver]

A Basic Timeline to the Life of Gaius Horncleaver

1275 AE: Iron Legionnaire Stella Silvershot’s warband is captured by Flame Legion and taken as prisoners of war. 1277 AE: Sired by Oryen Crimsondew, a high ranking shaman, Gaius is born to Silvershot. 1279 AE: Stella escapes captivity with her cub, unaware if any of her warband remain. She eventually makes it to the Black Citadel. Stella relinquishes Gaius to the fahrar, and goes on her final patrol. 1280-1294 AE: Gaius attends the Black Citadel's Fahrar of Young Heroes, having committed himself to the idea of living up to the ideal of the perfect Iron soldier. Though he struggles to apply himself in Iron-typical fashions, with no talent for engineering or marksmanship, he does excel in strategy. His magic comes in, and he begins to have nightmares. He hides both his magic and his nightmares from his peers and primus. 1295 AE: Gaius graduates the fahrar as an Iron soldier of the Black warband, taking the name Blackhorn, second to Legionnaire Venus Blacksmoke. 1298 AE: Gaius’ warband is wiped out during a routine patrol near the Decimus Stones that interrupted a ritual by a group of Flame Legion. 1299-1300 AE: Gaius goes gladium. 1301 AE: Gaius is invited by Romeo Shanktooth to join his Blood legion warband. 1302-1305 AE: Gaius spends these years as Shanktooth’s lieutenant, acting as the brains of most missions. Gaius meets Carvecia Brightshadow of the Ash Legion. After Shanktooth is killed in a tavern brawl, Gaius transfers back to Iron Legion. Augustus and Fulvius are born to Carvecia. Raevik is also born.* 1305-1320 AE: Gaius climbs the ranks and is eventually made centurion as an administrative position. 1323 AE: Gaius meets Rytlock Brimstone 1325 AE: Gaius meets Lucasta, his half-sister. The events of Personal Story and Core take place.

*The births of Gaius' other cubs has been omitted.

[commanderhorncleaver]

In the aftermath of becoming Vlast's champion via the Mists, Sigmund has grown out of his need of mobility aids. However, he's well aware that in the legions, there are plenty who still need them, and remains devoted to helping figure out implements that aid others. Additionally, he's taken on the surname Brighthorn.

However, given his newfound mobile freedom, he tends to roam the office in something Horncleaver might call less than modest, but August has assured him that so long as he's not hammering steel with his cheeks in the wind, he's free to wear as little as he pleases.

[commanderhorncleaver]

New outfit for the old man while I chug along doing LWS1 and 2!

Circa now, he'd still have his soul knife (zenith kris) and not Solana, but shruggle. He also wouldn't have the eyepatch, tbf.

[commanderhorncleaver]

Time to take Kettle on some walkies through the Citadel

*tfw your ceramic husky decides it's time to sing the song of his people in the middle of the market and you gotta remind him everyone knows he's your favorite kid*

[commanderhorncleaver]

this is all only a journey

August stood with his knife at the ready, his former mentor watching from across the field. The older charr scrutinized him carefully before raising his sword and shield–but still he didn’t move. It was almost painfully nostalgic; at a glance, Zerek hadn’t changed much, from his simple garb to his plated helm. Beneath it, the sandy-furred charr’s black mask had grayed, but given his experience with his own sire, August doubted the passage of time had dulled the old cat’s senses or reflexes much, if at all.

“What are we waiting for, old man? I know you aren’t afraid I’ve improved that much.”  The click of Zerek’s tongue was audible from twenty paces away, and August didn’t fight the grin that brought to his muzzle. “The match will continue until one of us is at the other’s mercy. Use the spells you’ve honed since we last met, but don’t involve bystanders. Weak-minded souls won’t always be at your disposal.” 

August charged the moment Zerek finished stating the terms. He swung his blade upwards as he ran, releasing energy along the ground to sweep towards his mentor–as it exploded forward, bright luminescent magic mixed with dirt and stone, he shrouded himself and ducked away. Zerek charged through the wave of earth and magic as it hit him, and three copies of the old charr materialized in formation around him on the other side of the resulting cloud of debris, on watch for August’s attack. He could hear the other charr’s thoughts like his old mentor was shouting them aloud, Come out, Augustus. Where will you strike from?

A clone of August took form and shot forward towards Zerek, and as it ran forward, three phantasms split from it. Zerek responded without hesitation. Two of his phantasms intercepted August’s clone, running it through the neck and chest with their swords, and the third threw his shield, charged with magic, in a powerful arc that punched through the psychic projections August’s clone had generated. As the phantasms shattered into glimmering purple shards that danced and glistened in the air, the shield slowed before returning to its owner’s paw.  “You know that’s not enough to distract me, Augustus!” The Zereks called out together. “I’d have thought you’d be better at facing your enemies by now, after so long with your sire?”

“Of course,” August said, stepping out of his shroud, knife in paw, behind the group of Zereks. “Let’s dance, old man.” August slashed with his knife, freeing one phantasm of its sword arm, and stepped into the group of Zereks. A Zerek jumped away while two others swung at him–their attacks were brutally cut short as streaks of amethystine light shot through their chests, shattering their magic as August mentally tugged at the remains of his projections which Zerek had just destroyed. 

The magic of Zerek’s apparitions destabilized and August blinked forward as they exploded, lunging his knife forward at the older charr’s torso. The gleaming pink blade was parried away by the other charr’s sword, and there their dance began in earnest. He slashed and stabbed while Zerek blocked and evaded–anytime the older charr would attempt a strike of his own, August would simply allow the blade to glide through him as the amethyst needles that floated in an array behind him winked in and out of existence. August had learned a lot in the twelve years he’d been working alongside his sire, but the most important thing his old man had imparted upon him, perhaps, was patience–this, he hoped, was enough to handle Zerek’s precognizance. Whenever Zerek’s form blurred and a clone would appear, he would launch a needle out to destroy it, all while continuing to press his advantage against his former mentor. This, however, was only a means to an end: Zerek’s first lesson to him, after all, was that a mesmer’s greatest strength was the array of weapons at his disposal. 

The telltale ticking of Zerek’s chronomancy began slow and echoing in August’s ears as the older shaman’s eyes glowed bright behind the visor of his helmet. The younger charr had tried to replicate it himself many times in the previous months–he knew its distinctive sound as well as he’d memorized the older charr’s lessons, but as of yet, he’d been unable to reproduce the specific unraveling of chaos that Zerek could unleash.  “Your old man really has been a good influence, hm?” Zerek grunted as he weaved away from a swipe of August’s knife. “I have to admit, I didn’t approve at first.” “Suppose so. It was bound to happen eventually,” August answered as he shot his needles away from him in a fan, one behind them and one to his left and right. The old man’s shield shattered the only one that went for him, and August ceased his barrage of spellcasting and blade swinging. 

Zerek’s magic reached its zenith, and August could see the smirk stretch across the older charr’s muzzle–his old mentor knew he’d won. His stomach shifted as the spell activated and his eyes flared: Gaius had never fully explained how his spell-jacking worked, but he’d seen it in play numerous times during the early days–as with most things, that was generally enough for him to pick up on how something worked enough for him to replicate it. Unlike his sire, he had to stop his own casting whenever he stole someone else’s spell, but if the situation was right, it wouldn’t matter that he was defenseless for a moment.  Here and now, time slowed to a halt around he and Zerek: airborne debris, sweat, and even both charr’s breathing decelerated to an almost imperceptible crawl. Exactly two seconds relative stretched into ninety seconds experienced–and then August jerkily finished his breath as his spell took hold of the well of magic beneath them, releasing him from its grip on space-time. He doubled over, paws on his knees from the exertion, and two more seconds passed before August teleported back to where one of his needles waited where their magic had clashed earlier, and then he transmuted his two remaining needles into clones. He peered through their eyes and saw from three angles the bright dome of pink light. Each version of him raised his paw, and as the well finally began to pop from bottom to top like a bright bubble, they let loose a torrent of needles into it. 

The psionic blades sang as they flew along the wind, shredding the air itself as they shattered the bubble and pincushioned the charr inside. Five seconds passed before he dropped his paw–his clones dissipated with the last of the blades, and August called, “If you’re gonna counter, I think now’s a good time for it!” Dust obscured his vision, and August realized he had indeed gone a bit overboard when the shifting of sand alerted him to Zerek’s movement. The older charr stepped out of the dust cloud entirely nude, armor shredded except for his helmet, and growled, “No, I think you’ve made your point.”  August whistled appreciatively. The older charr sighed as he pulled off his helmet and situated it to protect his modesty. “What is it that you want from me after so long, Augustus?” August sighed, but kept his smile as he looked at Zerek. “I need your help, I think.”

[commanderhorncleaver]

Horncleaver comes into the office, early as usual, to find...

He opens the parcel and stares at what's inside--it's apparent what exactly is expected of him. With a sigh, he sets Gloryana into his chair and turns it around so that she faces away from him. Dutifully, he changes clothes.

He expects Marcus will be by later in the day, or sooner if the day proves uneventful or the other charr is otherwise too excited. Gaius will be sure to say thank you when he does.

(Thank you @brightwingedbat for this gift)

[commanderhorncleaver]

On the topic of Gaius, @evilpol/@the-blazing-light drew him! I love it so much!

[commanderhorncleaver]

Introduction: Cain Flametongue

Cain Flametongue, formerly known as Brutus Quietflame, is the cub of Gaius Horncleaver and an unremarkable dam who did little for her cub aside from provide him with a younger brother named Jullus nine months after he joined an Iron Legion fahrar.

The cub grew up in a difficult time for Iron cubs with shamanist tendencies, and unlike Augustus, he wouldn't have Gaius' proximity to the fahrar to protect him physically nor through reputation.

He didn't so much take the name 'Quiet' so much as have it foisted upon him by his bandmates to emphasize his nature. He spoke little and stayed to himself. Being a larger sort, and steadily reliable even with his pyromancy, he was a strong lieutenant. This wouldn't last, though, as he was eventually scouted by Flame looking to sow seeds of discord--rumors of Baelfire's aspirations for godhood were known years before the actual ritual, after all, and the Legions needed to be distracted while the shamans worked and studied and prepared.

Brutus took the first opportunity to accept recruitment, leaking details of raids and plans, small things to help Flame with infiltration or avoiding patrols. When he was asked to assist in a strike against Blood and Iron, wiping out several warbands at once, he again eagerly accepted, and personally wiped out his own warband, including his own brother who had been assigned as his guard.

Though Flame appreciated him, and seemed to offer opportunities for his growth and development, once again, this wouldn't last, as eventually, the Citadel of Flame would take place and Gaheron would be slain by the commander and his comrades. Knowing Brutus' ties to Horncleaver--and having conveniently not been present at the slaughter of shamans--it was assumed that he had been playing the long con. Brutus was tortured: his tongue was burned out when it became evident that he wouldn't talk, and eventually it became clear he would be killed.

So he killed them all first, flaming arrows finding their marks and white-hot illusions luring his captors to their deaths. Finally free, Brutus cast off his name and ties, and swore vengeance on the name that's plagued him all his life, Gaius Horncleaver.

[commanderhorncleaver]

Papaoutai--unfinished fic

A gentle breeze swept through the valley, bringing with it a swath of ashamed-looking soldiers that all seemed to be making their own ways back from the Ash encampment. It was a grim sort of march–in spite of the scents wafting from each and every one who passed, no charr looked particularly pleased about the activities of their night. Gaius supposed he could understand–Carvecia had gotten him in much the same way, years ago.

“You’re a hard one to read, Commander,” Imperator Smodur said beside him as the pair marched on, soldiers dispersing like ants as they passed. “Can’t tell if you’re disappointed in the chumps or if you’re sad you missed out on the inaugural songbird competition.”

Gaius chewed on that before shaking his head, as if to relinquish himself of the memory’s cloying webs. “I think it’s in my best interest not to answer that, sir.”

“Ha! And Kindleshot says you’ve no sense of humor; I can’t help but notice that Ash Legion cub of yours isn’t at the rally.”

Gaius felt his eyes narrow, and remained quiet. The paths diverged; the pair kept to the right, away from where the road led deeper into the valley, and towards the smoking quarry of the Flame encampment. He felt his blood sing in a way that was oddly familiar, though he couldn’t quite pin the cause. 

“Anyway, Horncleaver, I do thank you for coming with me to speak with the New Flame Imperator.”

“And I appreciate the invitation,” Gaius responded dutifully, despite having received no such invitation and instead being intercepted moments after taking his morning piss. He had been handed a uniform in the colors of Iron, and without question buckled it on.

The dusty brown charr barked another laugh as he led them along their way. “It’s important we make a show of Iron’s finest.”

Gaius watched the ground beneath their footpaws shift from pleasant, springy grass to harsh dirt and stone. There was a time when hearing those words from his imperator would have been a highlight. “And I’m Iron’s finest, sir?” 

“Humor and skepticism.” Smodur gestured to a lone charr heading the same direction they were, decked in the colors of Flame. “You’re better than most chumps.”

The rest of their trek was made in silence, naught but the crunch of packed dirt beneath their paws and the clinking of armor punctuated their march. As they grew closer and the ground turned to stone, Gaius recognized that the singing in his blood was becoming electric as they closed their distance with the Flame camp. It was an uncomfortable feeling, particularly because he was so sure he’d felt it before, but he couldn’t focus on it; he had to make nice, show not only that Aurene wasn’t a threat to anybody, but also that he was a loyal soldier.

Charr milled about in an unremarkably normal fashion. The primary camp of New Flame was built into the wall of the quarry, various overhangs and outcroppings creating tiered space for the charr to make shelter, as well as a large jutting throng of stone connecting to three strips of ground that seemed to hang over an open pit. As they approached, Gaius peeked over and saw, perhaps unsurprisingly, that the bottom of the quarry was filled with lava. 

He frowned. “Did they renovate the place themselves?” 

They were noticed before Smodur could respond; Gaius looked up from the pit as a voice hailed them. 

A pale ginger charr in shaman garb waved to them from the uppermost tier of the quarry wall–Gaius shielded his eyes, following the charr’s approach, noting that he was shadowed, slowly, by several other shamans. His fur began to prickle, and the blood roared in his ears and as they drew nearer, it became harder for Gaius to focus on the individuals in front of him.

“Welcome,” the golden-brown charr greeted them with a dip of his head. “Imperator Smodur the Unflinching of Iron Legion, to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“The pleasure is mine, Imperator Greetsglory.” Smodur purred smoothly. “I’ve merely been parading around the Commander–it’s his first time in the Valley, and I thought it’d be a good opportunity to introduce him. He does have a habit of keeping himself under the radar,” the imperator added with a glance at Gaius, who shrugged indifferently. “You caught a glimpse of his elusive dragon, and so here is the even more elusive Gaius Horncleaver.”

The shaman stepped forward, and Gaius clasped his offered paw, finding his grip to be comfortably warm. “On the contrary, I’m not the Imperator of Flame, I’ve merely organized this faction, and done my best to broker this opportunity for us.”

“Then I’d say ‘acting-Imperator’ is fitting,” Gaius grunted through narrowed eyes at the discomfort swathing him. “I’m sure we all know how difficult it is to organize charr for much of anything.”

“You do me an honor, Commander.” Greetsglory chuckled. He had a humble, if tired, air to him that Gaius could empathize with. Though he didn’t expect to engage with him much–if things went to plan–it was somewhat a comfort to meet a charr who’d put in the work but was leery of the credit and power that came with it. He was, briefly, made curious as to how Greetsglory came to such a position, but before he could ask, another charr spoke up.

“You certainly deserve the honor, given what you’ve given to get us here,” a voice said, deep and sonorous, not unlike Gaius’ own. The humming beneath his skin crescendoed into an awful chorus of tingling across his skin–he felt, as he turned, the disgusting urge to yank out his fur in an attempt to quell it. As he faced his sire, the pain and irritation came to a sudden end–he stifled as a growl as he finally recognized it as the pull of Oryen’s blood magic.

Greetsglory frowned, but Gaius’ attention was no longer on him as his vision tunneled on the black-masked eyes of his sire. “It was a sacrifice…” Curiosity prickled at Gaius’ mind for the barest moment before Oryen takes the group's attention with a clap of his paws.

“The prodigal son does return!” Oryen Crimsondew wore shaman’s garb that matched the acting Imperator’s, his deep russet fur, just shades lighter than Gaius’ pelt, glossy in the sun. “I did promise you we’d meet again.”

[commanderhorncleaver]

Have there been any notable attempts from the warband to learn a crafting profession? Are some more willing to learn than the others? (@telltalecoyote)

The Horns are mostly all pretty into their own professions just naturally with being Iron!

Gaius himself doesn't have much going on (one could consider Scribe, actually).

Sigmund and Oberon are weapon and armorsmiths!

Terang Bulan is a chef (that's another one Gaius might take).

August doesn't have anything because he does not care!

Phlunq would be the group's artificer, though he's more involved with alchemy and potionmaking than things like enchanting.

[commanderhorncleaver]

apologies in the sun

“You already apologized,” Sigmund sighed. His voice was hoarse, and Augustus passed him the waterskin. That electric hum thrummed across the gap between their fingertips, from claw to claw, as he took it. He tried not to worry about the dragon–the dragon wasn’t his priority, not at this moment–but he wondered if it might make things harder for Sig.

“I know that, but it doesn’t make me feel better about it.” The sun beat down on them from a shockingly cloudless sky, and Augustus looked out over the stretch of sand that surrounded them. Gaius and Oberon had split off to find a spot they could contact Taimi, and once again August fretted about the consequences of his outburst the day before. He hadn’t been paying attention to where Gaius had sent Brimstone, though he knew the tribune’s separation from the group was intentional.

Sigmund leaned against him; their fur mingled together pleasantly, and Augustus felt his tail lash. “I already said I forgave you.”

“I know that, too,” Augustus started. Gaius and Oberon hadn’t broached the topic of what had happened–but it wasn’t out of character for either of them to do so. Gaius was as business-oriented as ever, and though he hadn’t voiced it, Sigmund’s sire hadn’t seemed particularly torn up about being puppeted to attack Rytlock. Rather, the older soldier had almost seemed disappointed at losing the opportunity to tear out the tribune’s throat, which in fact was another reason for why the group had separated again.

Augustus wondered if, perhaps, there was some deeper cause of Oberon’s malice towards Rytlock, but given he had no intention of asking, and less intention of skimming it from his mind, he’d likely never know.

“It’s just that–”

“So what’s the problem?” Sigmund asked at the same time.

Augustus breathed in the scents of the desert, a slow and calming action, the start of an exercise he’d been taught years ago to keep his emotions in check. There wasn’t any threat of an outburst now, but it let him arrange his thoughts and push them into order like ants in a line to figure out what it was he wanted to say. In the distance, some mile or so from them, he watched a hyena attack a choya.

“I shouldn’t have done it in the first place,” he breathed. He could feel Sig’s eyes on him, waiting for him to finish the thought. Memories of Gaius asking him if he understood why it was wrong threatened to overlap with memories of his mentor in Ash teaching him why he should, and he nudged at them to remain where they belonged. His teachings were oil and water; they didn’t mix, didn’t belong anywhere near one another.

“It isn’t just because it was you, but I can’t kick the thought that you’ll worry I’ll do it again. If we’re comfortable with it, why would I stop? How would that make me any different from–” he paused, and considered his words. Instead of who I used to be, he heard himself finish the thought as from Flame?

Sigmund’s answer was quick as he snaked his paw into Augustus’, intertwining their fingers. “You’re different because you know it’s wrong, and because I trust you to be responsible.”

Sig’s voice had deepened since he’d found the first of Vlast’s crystals, and now that he was the dead Scion’s champion, if August paid attention, he sometimes heard both their voices when Sigmund spoke. He tried not to worry about that–even if he didn’t like the idea of it, the dragon had made Sigmund hardier, healthier. He still needed breaks, only less frequent; he still leaned on Augustus for comfort and support, but now he seemed more confident in that. Augustus was glad for it, even if sometimes Vlast felt like an unwanted intruder in these moments–even if he couldn’t hear him, he knew the dragon spoke.

In the quiet, Sigmund continued, “I wouldn’t have volunteered for it, but I would have taken the shot for you, August. You know Obie would have, too. We’re not mad at you.”

A stiff and hot wind blew into Augustus’ face–he turned away and found himself gazing into Sig’s mostly-gray eyes; the yellow of Vlast’s brand flecked them now, bursts of sunlight behind a shelter of clouds. Augustus exhaled. The doubts hadn’t quieted, but looking at his mate, it was harder for them to run amok. He squeezed Sigmund’s paw.

“I’ll be mad at you if you don’t kiss me right now, though,” Sigmund grinned through sharp teeth.

Augustus obliged, pressing his muzzle against Sigmund’s and bringing his other paw up to hold him there as their rough, flat tongues mashed against one another for a long, sunbleached moment.

“I’ll do my best, then. Thank you, Sig.”

[commanderhorncleaver]

Brighthorn Enters the Fray

Though he prefers to channel Light through Brand-tipped arrows, Sigmund is more than proficient in close-quarters combat when push comes to shove. After all, he's had some of Iron's most tenacious (and cantankerous) teachers!

[commanderhorncleaver]

the edge of something final (we call life)

Summary: While the Commander finds his way back to the land of the living, he ruminates on some frustrations he while pays the kindness forward.

This is… a huge skip in context, from the beginning of personal story to the middle of the second expansion, but I don't care! I just wanted to explore some stuff I found interesting.

Spoilers for PoF Story Chapter 9: The Departing

Preview:

Around the domain more ghosts have appeared–the regurgitated meals of the monster Balthazar set loose here–but they’re all as lost as he was, and he can’t help them anymore; he has places to be and a ticking clock. It’s impossible to know how long he’s been dead–even the brief experience of not having memories feels like it lasted forever, but he doesn’t expect it could have been too long. There’s no point in sending him back if it’s too late to save anyone, after all. 

As he turns to trace his way back up the cobbled path towards Nenah and the Judge, he glimpses between the starkly solid trees the pale form of the charr from earlier, and pauses. He can’t help the others, but her, he considers, he might be able to do something about.

She bristles as he approaches, crunching foliage beneath his massive feet, and her eyes narrow even as he raises his paws placatingly. 

“What did you do?” She asks quickly. “You found a way out of here, didn’t you?”

He blinks, surprised, but ignores her question. “Do you know your name?

Check it out on Ao3!

[commanderhorncleaver]

i just realized i never showed him here

I oughta get around to making an "other characters" tab for ocs who aren't directly in the warband, but anyway, here's Gaius' awful dad

This is Oryen Crimsondew