#no rest for Ser Proletius

[uupiic]

out of all the godsdamn characters of Gloryhammer, Ser P has the worst hand dealt constantly

sure he doesn’t die at the beginning of the new album, but he does die at the end together with everybody else

again

[smolsleepyfox]

The princess of Fife

Summary: At the age of 16, prince Angus McFife is expected to find a wife, but he’s less than enthused by the prospect of spending his life with someone he doesn’t even know yet. What does a princess have to do to win his heart after all?

@tellmeoflegends this one is for you.

"Bad news?"

Angus didn't answer, just sunk deeper into his seat, arms crossed. All that was missing was a pout on his face. But as a sixteen year old heir to a great kingdom, that was hardly appropriate, was it?

Ser Proletius gently tapped the prince's leg to have him pay attention. The signal worked – sometimes Proletius was just short of congratulating himself for overcoming the prince's difficulties with discipline with such easy measures. “I understand that you're bored, but as the future king, you must not show such behaviour, there's foreign ambassadors looking on, not to mention your own people.”

For a moment, Angus seemed to contemplate just getting up and leaving, something he'd done more times than the knight next to him could count. But eventually he just grumbled to himself, but sat up, resting his hands on the armrests like a true royal, though the scowl on his face stayed. He refused to look at his mentor and bodyguard, rather sweeping his gaze over the field in front of them, already crowded with people of all ages and classes, ready to see the tournament.

Behind the tents, the warriors were warming up before the games, not few of Proletius' own knights of Crail included.

No doubt would Angus prefer to be out there on the battlefield, proving himself and maybe bringing rest to his racing thoughts like only a worthy fight could, instead of sitting here, wearing a much too warm, ostentatious armour without anything to do but look good.

Ser Proletius mustered his prince for a moment, before throwing a glance at Angus' father, King Alastair. The king was in deep conversation with another chieftain, a big man with dark hair. Next to him stood a no less imposing woman, wearing a simple but excellent blue dress and silver tiara. The swirling blue lines cut into both royals' arms told of them being of the McDougall clan. Proletius sighed. He should have known the problem ran deeper than simply being annoyed by his princely duties.

“Another suitor?”, he asked, lowering his voice so only the prince could hear him.

Angus' shoulders sagged, the expression of a little boy being caught with his hand in the bread basket crossing his features. He lowered his gaze into his lap, hands closing around the much too pompous armrests.

“Ser Proletius?” His voice wavered.

“Yes, prince Angus?”

“What if I don't want to marry?”

Proletius blinked, the question taking him by surprise. “Well, it is expected of a prince to continue the lineage and you're an only child.” He paused, unsure of what to say that didn't sound like an outright “You have to”. “Have none of your potential wives piqued your interest even a bit?”

“No!” Angus flinched and lowered his voice.

“Truly? There were some beautiful women others would envy you greatly over.”

“I don't care if they're pretty!”, Angus hissed. Proletius was shocked to see actual tears glistening in the young prince's eyes. He hadn't expected Angus' torment to run that deep. “It's just... they're all so boring! All they care about is jewellery and clothes and stitching! How can I be expected to spend my life with someone if we can't even talk about things that matter?”

Proletius nodded slowly, turning the prince's words over in his head while he poured them both a drink. “It's customary for a woman to stay home,” he pondered. “And not get caught up in the men's domain of war and politics. But that doesn't mean there's no princess out there who can be a true companion.”

Angus stared off into the distance, hopelessness overtaking his features. “No. No I don't think so. This is the last one. Father wants me to meet her today. If I don't say Yes to her, it's lady Donalda.”

Proletius nearly spat his mead over the entire balcony. Of all the maidens that had come forth to fight for the prince's hand, her father was the most vicious in his attempts to convince the king. Donalda herself was... beautiful. In fact, she was the most beautiful maiden in the country, people said. Unfortunately, that beauty had left little room for anything else, including intellect. How she'd made it to adulthood at all was a mystery. Unfortunately, the McKierans also held large strips of land to the west. A marriage between the two houses would increase Fife's power greatly.

Still, such a fate was nothing Ser Proletius would wish upon the young prince, even in a moment of anger. He now understood the prince's desperation. He was only sixteen, for crying out loud! King Alastair had married at age 29, his father at age 33, why the rush?

“Maybe this one is different?”, Proletius offered with a half-hearted smile. Angus shrugged and emptied his mead. In a wave of sympathy, Proletius filled his cup again immediately. Normally he'd refrain from giving the boy alcohol – it made him even more unpredictable than usual – but he felt like the prince needed the morale boost.

A trumpet announced the tournament to start. Proletius sat up, hailing his knights as they marched into the arena alongside the warriors that had come from afar. The McDougall clan was easy to spot with their intricate tattoos and heavy leather armour. The knights from the McKierans were the loudest and unruliest, wearing the banner of their clan as if they were wild boars themselves.Even the Questlords of Inverness had come, their leader riding on a unicorn that seemed to glow in the sunlight.

Angus watched the parade with a gloomy expression, hand cramped around his cup. The clan chief McDougall and his wife had settled themselves amongst the other royals, but aside of Donalda McKieran, there was nobody nearby that looked even remotely like a princess.

Donalda was gorgeous, no doubt. Long hair shining like liquid gold, porcelain skin, and curves a man could only dream of touching. She smiled wistfully at the scenery, and her eyes told every perceptive onlooker that there was literally nothing going on behind them.

The first discipline was riding. Proletius' own knights, in lack of war horses, had refrained from this challenge. The Questlords of Inverness however, had not, and they crushed their opponents, despite riding regular horses instead of unicorns. Despite not being on great terms with the Questlords, Proletius was amused to see the veins pumping in lord McKierans neck as his own men were overthrown as if they were mere leaves. Pointing it out to Angus even earned a semi-genuine smile from the gloomy prince.

The second game was archery. In this, nobody could beat the knights of Crail. Especially a quite slim and small knight showed himself to be mighty indeed. He bore the banner of Crail on his armour, though it seemed attached somewhat... sloppily. Proletius made a mental note to reprimand him about it later. Small mistakes led to big mistakes, everyone knew that. Well, he would tell him... when he'd figured out who this knight was.

“That knight is quite proficient,” Angus remarked. “A senior warrior?”

Proletius hesitated, then nodded. He didn't feel like admitting he had no idea who this person was. He prided himself on knowing all of his men, even in full armour, but somehow, his brain drew a blank right now and it was as disturbing as it was embarrassing.

Conversation picked up again around them as the battlefield was prepared for the final discipline: fencing.

“Have you seen the princess McDougall?”, Angus whispered, looking around suspiciously.

“Not yet,” Proletius admitted. “Maybe she’s-”

Their conversation was interrupted by the king himself. Both the prince and his mentor immediately shot to their feet, backs straight, and hailed their king in the proper manner.

“This is my son,” king Alastair said warmly, shoving Angus in the direction of the McDougalls. Angus greeted them politely, but his eyes kept darting around, no doubt looking for the princess.

“And this is Ser Proletius, Grand Master of the brave knights of Crail.”

“The mighty eagle warriors,” lord McDougall rumbled. He had a voice that could shake mountains and towered over Proletius like one. “I thought you'd be taller.”

“In flying combat, being light is an invaluable advantage,” Ser Proletius replied stiffly. R u d e.

Lady McDougall let out a very unladylike snort. She spoke the eastern dialect Proletius himself had grown up with. “Iona will like him. She's always wanted to ride an eagle after horses got boring.”

“Will your daughter join us?”, Angus burst out.

The brief silence seemed to stretch into eternity as king Alastair frowned at his son. Angus returned the visitors' gazes, only the reddening of his ears showing he was trying not to squirm.

“She will soon, I believe,” Lady McDougall said with a cryptic smile. She seemed to suppress laughter.

“We have just discussed the details of a possible arrangement, should you two find each other... appealing,” king Alastair said with a pointed glance. “Excuse us for a moment.” He laid a hand on Angus' shoulder and more dragged than led him away, to the back of the royal terrace, exchanging a few quite agitated words with his son.

“Bit scrawny, the lad,” Lord McDougall commented in a low murmur, most likely assuming nobody understood his heavy dialect. Ser Proletius didn't twitch, though he was fuming inside.

There was a reason the McDougalls, while powerful, had a bad reputation, not only because of their barbarian traditions, visible in the blue lines ornamenting their arms.

“Well he seems fiery enough,” the Lady replied, laying a hand on her husband's arm. “Maybe this one won't go running. I'd hope so.”

“My apologies for interrupting,” Proletius threw in, just late enough to pretend he hadn't understood anything. “But allow me to ask, where is the princess Iona? I assumed she would be present to watch the tournament.”

Lord McDougall cranked an eyebrow. “Oh she's... not very enthused by watching this kind of spectacle. We thought it better to leave her be. She has a lot of temperament.”

Oh great, sounds fantastic, Proletius thought with an internal sigh. He felt sorry for Angus, having the choice now between a wife with barely enough brain to keep breathing, and a spoiled brat who would raise hell if she didn't get what she wanted.

But out loud, he only said: “I see, thank you, my Lord. I look forward to meeting her.”

When Angus and king Alastair returned, the prince's eyes were reddened, and he refused to meet Proletius' gaze. They settled in their seats again, the prince kneading his hands in his lap. The trumpet announced the start of the last discipline, and the first pair of knights – a Questlord and one of the McKieran's warriors – faced each other in the arena.

“Have you seen her?”, Angus whispered.

Proletius leaned over, pretending to merely take a more comfortable position. “She's not attending the tournament,” he explained in a low voice. “Her parents said she finds it boring.”

“Oh.” The way he sagged in his chair, the news may as well have been a death sentence. “One like these again.”

The Questlord triumphed, which evoked a furious roar from Lord McKieran and a joyful chorus of shouts from the unicorn warriors. Donalda still smiled into nothingness, her gaze only once sweeping over to her parents. “Is that good? Did we win?”, she asked.

The next opponents were one of house McFife's own soldiers, and the slim knight that had dominated the archery section before.

Proletius stared at the figure, trying to make out anything - anything! - to hint at who he was dealing with. He knew all his men, knew their gait and way of combat. Yet he couldn't even guess at who it was. Ser Morgan would be his closest bet, but he knew his squad leader was at home, protecting the fortress.

“Father said I will marry Iona,” Angus said quietly. Proletius snapped to attention, shock momentarily sweeping away his own thoughts.

“What about the McKierans?”

Angus shook his head. A shiver ran through him, though no tears fell. “They're too... too something. I don't know. Father thinks the McDougalls are the best fit. I missed my chance to choose.”

Proletius sighed and patted his prince's hand. “I'm sorry it happened like this,” he said earnestly. “Let's watch the battles, that will cheer you up.”

Angus merely shrugged, accepting the handkerchief his mentor passed him in an inconspicuous gesture. The knight of Crail triumphed in battle, which earned him a full-on war chorus by his fellow men. One by one, the warriors fought, until in the end, only two were left after a row of victories: Sire Equestrion himself, a seasoned Questlord, and the mysterious knight of Crail.

Proletius had long since waited for this showdown. The Questlords thought themselves superior by virtue of herding the majestic unicorns, but their ego was bigger than any victory they'd ever achieved.

“He's tiny,” muttered Angus. Indeed, against the bulky figure of the Questlord, the knight of Crail seemed almost fragile. Proletius leaned forward in his seat, brows furrowed. Something was off. The armour of the knights was light, to enable swift movements on a flying battlesteed, but this knight was not wearing such armour. The material had a different shimmer, speaking of a material he’d seen in battles far away. It would hold off arrows perhaps, but certainly no sword. A single blow would most likely shatter the armour and cause major damage, if not leathal injuries.

The knight didn’t seem to worry about this. Though being much smaller than the Questlord, he compensated it by being swifter than an eagle in dive, avoiding blow after blow until Equestrion missed one time too many and lost his footing. With a mighty blow to the back of his knees, the knight toppled his opponent, evoking a gasp from the crowd.

Equestrion cursed, rolling over and rammed the pommel of his sword into the knight's leg. They a scream as they fell – a very unmanly scream. Not a man's scream.

“Fucking cunt!” The knight rolled over the ground, not bothering to put weight on their injured leg. Equestrion was so startled by the clearly female voice that he didn't even attempt to parry. The unknown woman hit him so hard he crashed into the ground face-first and stayed down. The knight set the tip of her sword against his throat, looking up for confirmation of her victory.

It was entirely silent for several seconds, before the knights of Crail roared in joy, pumping their fists in the air, close to storming the battlefield to celebrate their champion.

Proletius got up, stepping to the edge of the platform. He signalled the herald to finish the tournament. Trumpets screeched.

“The champion of the fencing discipline is-” The herald hesitated. “State your name, my Lord!”

The knight sheathed the sword again and walked over to the royal podium, limping slightly where the Questlord had caused injury. She stopped before the podium, looking up at the king, before taking off her helmet.

“Iona McDougall,” she announced. “Though I assume that soon will be Iona McFife.”

Proletius was not the only one whose jaw dropped. Angus dropped his cup, spilling mead all over the wooden boards, and even the usually so stoic king nearly choked on his drink.

Iona heaved herself up on the podium. Proletius automatically offered her a hand and took the now useless helmet. Where the hell had she even gotten this?

“Pardon me for not dropping a curtsey, your majesty,” Iona McDougall said with a bright smile. She had an aristocratic face with high cheekbones and full lips, now with cheeks flushed from battle. Her dark hair, once put up in a bun, had fallen apart, sweaty strands clinging to her forehead. “My leg, you see. And pardon me for not attending earlier. I find watching these kind of events rather tiring.” She turned to Angus, who stared at her with his mouth open, face as red as a ripe tomato. “I had hoped you'd participate yourself. But I assume there's still plenty of time for me to test my skills against you either way.”

“Surely,” he croaked. It was silent for several second, before Angus jumped to his feet, suddenly aware how inappropriate his behaviour was. He offered his hand, which she took gracefully, and placed a shaky kiss on her knuckles. “Lady Iona, welcome, I'm- I'm prince Angus. Pleased to meet you.”

“I noticed,” she said with an only half-hidden grin. “Now if you will excuse me, I should probably change into more fitting attire.”

“I'll help,” Lady McDougall offered. She left her seat to steady her daughter as she limped off the podium, vanishing behind the colourful fabric.

Angus stared into empty space for quite a bit, and nobody stopped him. It was deathly quiet for a very long time.

But, perhaps luckily, the attention span of crowds was short, and soon the normal patter returned. The king and Lord McDougall left, followed by their guards, to return to their negotiations, as did the McKierans, not without noisily proclaiming that there had to be something fishy about the entire tournament. Proletius looked down at the helmet in his hands and decided he'd have to have some words not only with his knights, but also himself.

Angus fell down heavily into his seat, the blush somehow not fading from his face. He stared down at his hands, eyes glazed. For a moment, it looked like he'd burst into tears on the spot.Proletius was already planning how to get him away from the public eye when the pricne eventually spoke up.

“Ser Proletius?”

“Yes?”

Angus looked up, the dazed expression slowly making way for the first genuine smile he'd borne in days.

“I think I'm okay with marrying her.”

[spackeets-written-madness]

Of Monsters and Men

The Kingdom of Fife was quiet, so Ser Proletius and his Knights of Crail spread throughout the kingdom to help the people more directly. Proletius had gone to the town of Enest, surrounded by thick forest to see if they had any problems. Turned out that they had a monster problem that needed solving.

On Ao3!

Warning ahead: I got slightly discriptive with describing corpses, and battle

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ser Proletius and his Knights of Crail had been out in the Kingdom to patrol some of the towns and villages to secure then as well as the cities since everything had been a bit quiet. Since they were only patrolling towns, they didn’t need many knights to secure them and had chosen to go in pairs of two or three; except if you’re the Grandmaster who went to the forest town of Enest on his own with only his unicorn as his companion. He would’ve brought Farcry, but the eagle was simply too big to land in the tightly packed forest that surrounded Enest. 

He had been on the road to Enest for a few days now and could now see it in the distance, his unicorn had seen it too for e quickened eir’s pace so that they could get to the town before nightfall as the sky began to darken. As they cantered along the road, they passed a portion of the forest that was felled, a good half-acre, in fact, was simply, gone. It stunned both Proletius and the unicorn enough that e slowed eir’s canter to a trot, walk then full stop to take in the damage.

Normally seeing felled trees or plains isn’t too odd especially near farming towns, but this area is very heavily forested (and he didn’t know that there had been approved logging in this area) so this had been odd to Proletius. What was odder still were the corpses suspended and intertwined in tree roots that pushed their way through the earth, the bodies crushed and pierced. The eyes and faces of the corpses were picked away by ravens and other carrion feeders. In Proletius’s line of work, seeing corpses isn’t rare nor is adding to the corpse count, what was odd about this was the fact it looked like nature itself fought back against the carnage.

The Grandmaster made a ‘hmm’ noise in the back of his throat as he surveyed what happened. He then looked to his right towards Enest a few kilometres in the distance. “I suppose we’ll find out more in the town,” he said aloud.

The unicorn snorted in agreement, turned around and started back up towards the town in a faster canter, but not quite a gallop. With the unicorn’s pace, they got to the town quickly and entered it, heading straight for the inn and had stopped in front of it.

Proletius barely managed to dismount from his unicorn when he heard wheezing and puffing from behind him. He finished getting off the unicorn, turned around to be met with a rather rotund and overweight man with auburn hair, dressed plainly, with a blue cloak and doubled over to catch his breath. Waddling up to stand next to the man was a mastiff-sized wingless dragon: a drake-hound, and a green one at that. The Grandmaster waited for the man to catch his breath.

The man caught his breath and stood straight, he took the time to brush himself off and gather his nerves before he spoke to Ser Proletius. “Evening Ser Knight! I am Munroe, the local logger overseer, that came down to this town about a little over a week ago to clear out some of this wood,” he started to explain.

The Grandmaster had interrupted whatever Munroe was going to say next. “Enest supplies the kingdom with mushrooms and truffles, not wood,” he said.

Munroe blinked and floundered. “Well, Uhm, not yet the town won’t be. I came to change that and brought some men with me from my village to help out, locals haven’t been helping us, which isn’t a problem, the problem is that three days ago a monster that slaughtered half my men and rendered the rest too afraid to work!” the man finished, a bit flustered.

“A monster? See anything that would make you think that?” Proletius asked. Something had seemed off about this man.

“Oh, I wasn’t there, but I heard it from the surviving men - in the midst of fearful babbling mind you - that they were attacked by wolves and ravens, the men ran, and the ones that apparently didn’t get away in time were crushed by tree roots that had risen from the ground. I went down to the location awhile ago. So yes, it was a monster,” Munroe expanded as he patted the drake-hound at his side.

Proletius thought back to the sight he saw back before the village, the empty forest floor with the corpses of lumberjacks crushed in intertwining roots, their bodies covered in wolf bites and their eyes pecked out by ravens. It did look like a monster had attacked them, but why would it attack now? Proletius decided not to ask Munroe, he only arrived a few weeks ago, he wouldn’t know. “Thank you, Munroe, I’ll look into it,” the Knight said respectfully to the man.

“Please try to hurry, Ser, I don’t mean to rush a distinguished knight such as yourself, but I fear that the rest of the men may leave the town if the threat of this monster keeps up,” the overseer said.

Proletius gave a curt nod and Munroe waddled off with his drake-hound hot on his heels. The Grandmaster turned back around to face the inn that was his original objective and looked at the squat wooden building that sat upon a foundation of carved stone, the sign to this inn had a goblet with a crack in it and words that read ‘The Cracked Chalice’. He checked to make sure that his unicorn was alright and walked up the three steps to get inside. The barkeep will have more information he figured.

When the Grandmaster walked through the door, he was met with a remarkably clean establishment, the tables were well taken care of, the chairs and stools had some furs on the seats to add a bit of comfort and it was well lit with candles. There were a few patrons already seated at some of the tables and bar that turned to look at Proletius when he came through the door, all a bit in awe that the Grandmaster himself had come to their village. He walked up to the bar and sat down at one of the stools in front of it, his armour clanking and rubbing against itself as he sat down, his sword on his hip bumped slightly against the bar.

The barkeep saw Proletius walk in and had waited for him to get situated before he spoke to the Grandmaster. “Evening, Ser, what brings you to Enest?” he greeted.

“Making sure that everything is alright in the kingdom. Now I heard from a man called Munroe that you have a monster problem?” Proletius said.

The barkeep and several of the patrons grumbled about Munroe under their breath. The barkeep then spoke up. “We never used to have a problem with nature before Munroe and his men came to fell our woods,” the barkeep began, “but they didn’t listen to our druid when she told them to clear the woods she marked, because of animal homes and the like, and they didn’t listen, felled some trees not where she marked and got what was coming to them.”

“So even you don’t know anything about this monster?”

The barkeep shrugged his thick shoulders. “Nope. Though I saw it’s carnage, everyone did. Some kind of nature beast or spirit that they pissed off. Best to talk to Alina about it.”

“Alina?”

“The druid I mentioned earlier. She knows nature. Though it’s best you go visit her in the morning, she doesn’t like visitors this late,” the barkeep advised.

Proletius turned around to look out the window and sure enough, the sky was a lot darker than earlier. Well, he should probably sleep then. “I’ll grab a room for the night, then. As well as something to eat and drink,” the Grandmaster said.

“Sure thing, what would you like to drink?”

“Mead.” came the Grandmaster’s answer. He figured it’d be okay to have one drink.

The barkeep turned around to the counter behind him and grabbed a cup and a bottle of mead poured it into the cup, and set it down in front of the Grandmaster. “Something to eat? The cook has prepared a nice steak with some mushroom gravy for the day,” the barkeep offered for something to eat.

One of the things Proletius liked when he travelled the kingdom is trying the different foods of the villages and towns. “That sounds perfect, I’ll have that,” the Grandmaster said as he sipped at his drink.

The barkeep nodded and walked to the back to give Proletius’s order to the cook. The barkeep stuck his head out to check on the front before ducking back to attend to something else. This left Proletius alone, which he didn’t mind of course.

While he waited for his meal, he thought about the things he saw and started to pile the evidence about what this ‘monster’ might be. Admittedly he wasn’t sure, monster hunting wasn’t his expertise. Now, goblin and chaos wizard hunting, on the other hand, was in his expertise. He was brought out of his thoughts by his food being placed in front of him, that brought his focus to enjoying some food.

The barkeep stood back behind the bar and looked at Proletius as the Grandmaster ate. “So, what are you going to do when you talk with Alina?” he asked. He sounded concerned for the druid’s well-being.

“Callum, let the knight finish his food,” someone else at the bar scolded the barkeep.

Proletius simply chewed his mouthful and swallowed before he answered. “Talk to her. Listen to her, see if she spoke and negotiated with Munroe, try to help negotiations. This monster issue sounds like a relatively easy fix,” he said. At least, he hoped that it was an easy fix.

“Ah, I see. Sorry, she’s been a big help here ever since she moved here five years ago. Helping us fell the right trees and not change the landscape drastically in the process. She’s not like most other druids,” Callum - the barkeep - said. 

Proletius had been quietly eating his food while Callum talked. He swallowed his last mouthful. “What do you mean ‘not like other druids’?” he questioned.

“You’ll see.”

“Is it that hard to explain?” Proletius asked in a slightly joking tone.

Callum chuckled. “Well, no, it’s just easier to see what I mean when you actually meet her.”

“I see.” Proletius went back to his food in silence and Callum left him alone to finish the meal and sleep. The Grandmaster ate his food, paid for both the meal and the room and left to the said room after the keys were given to him.

                                                            ***

The Grandmaster slept well that night and awoke to the sun shining in his face, which, for a knight is not unusual but no less annoying. He got up and got ready for the day, washed his face a bit, got dressed and donned in his armour, that kind of thing. After he did that, he went to the bar to grab a quick bite to eat before he went to talk to Alina. Callum talked to him a bit while he had eaten.

After that, the Grandmaster asked Callum where Alina lived and went on a nice walk to the druid’s house to go talk to her. When he approached the house (which was five minutes off the outskirts of the village) it looked like many of the other houses in the village: squat, wooden and small. The differences to this house where the garden beds, the many ground-bird coops and feeding stations. Yep, this was a druid’s house. Proletius walked up to the door and gave it a good loud knock since he heard something fall inside the house.

“Just come inside!” came a feminine voice in answer to the knock.

Proletius nudged open the door and stepped inside to be met with a lot of red birds and a bit of chaos. There were birds on the rafters, the sills, everywhere and they looked very similar to ravens in size and shape though were a brilliant shade of red with the tail and wingtips gradient to blue, all the feathers had an iridescent sheen with the beaks and feet of the birds being yellow.

A young-looking woman wearing a plain beige shirt, brown pants and slippers came into view carrying a box with what looked to be yarn-nests in her slender yet lithe arms. Her build wasn't small or terribly thin, but it wasn't muscular either. Her long blonde hair was haphazardly brushed and pulled into a loose tail, her green eyes focused on the birds and not her guest. She set the box down and began to hand each bird pair a nest from the box, the pair flying off through the window and the next pair stepped up. They were queueing. 

Proletius could see that she was immediately busy and stood near the door to wait for her to finish her job. He looked around the room he stood in, there was a small round table to his left, a desk near the table with piles of loose paper scattered on it, herbs, a mortar and pestle, other plants, a few loose feathers and quills. Above the desk were a couple of shelves that held books and a few potted plants.

“Here, Big Miss Muffet wants to go outside,” the lady said as she passed briefly by Proletius and shoved something into his hands to no doubt put outside. She still didn’t seem to notice him as she disappeared behind a corner in the back to get something. (Probably more nests, since she ran out of the ones in the box she got out.)

Proletius looked down at his hands to see a decently sized tarantula in them that the druid gave him. The Grandmaster stared at it for a few moments before he leaned down and let the spider crawl outside the open door. When he stood back up, he saw the woman standing in the opening she went into, staring at him. “Alina, I presume?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes… Sorry for pushing a spider into your hands, I thought you were someone else,” she apologised. She held a box with more nests in her arms.

Proletius waved a hand dismissively, “It’s alright, I’m alright with spiders. I’m Ser Proletius, Grandmaster of the Knights of Crail. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the apparent nature spirit or monster that attacked some of Munroe’s men,” he said, getting to the point.

Alina looked pissed at the mention of Munroe’s name. She set the box that was in her arms on the countertop with a bit more force than what was necessary. “I told him and his men not to cut down that area, I even showed and marked an area for them to fell because those trees were all old. But no, he chose the young trees that a critically endangered bird species were nesting in, or rather, managed to adapt to nesting in,” she said with annoyance.

Proletius looked at the red ravens that helped each other get the nests out of the box. “Are those the critically endangered birds?” he asked for clarification.

“Yeah, Pheonix Ravens, thought to have been pushed to extinction fifty years ago but I found two dwindling and barely surviving flocks. I’ve been trying to help them adapt to living in a different area, but it’s not easy. Nature often tends to be stubborn,” she said exasperated. “I’ve spent the last three days trying to help them after Munroe felled the trees that they managed to call home.”

The Grandmaster looked at the red birds in surprise.  Even he thought that the Phoenix Ravens went extinct. It made him consider telling the King about it. “Even I thought these birds went extinct, I’m glad they didn’t. I can help you talk to Munroe to work something out and I can even talk with the king to make them protected to help them,” Proletius said.

Alina’s tired face suddenly lit up. “You will?” at his nod, she couldn’t hold back a smile. “Thank you! If you let me tidy myself up a bit more, we can go talk to the man now?” she asked.

“Sooner is better. I can wait outside for you,” Proletius offered.

“Oh no, it’s alright, you can wait in here if you want. I should have some biscuits if the birds didn’t eat them all that is,” she said off-handed and reached for a jar on the counter next to the nest box. She opened the ceramic jar to check inside it. “Oh nope, they didn’t eat all of them,” she commented as she set the jar down on the table and put the lid back on before a Phoenix Raven tried to take a biscuit.

Ser Proletius shook his head at her offer for him to stay in her house. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll wait outside for you. I do want a biscuit though,” he said. The Grandmaster picked up the jar to get a biscuit, upon doing that, he felt a weight descend on his right shoulder and twisted his head to see a phoenix raven looking at him. “I get the feeling that if I open this, this one with dive for it.”

Alina looked a bit done with the antics of the phoenix ravens. “Yes, she will.”

Proletius had an idea. He put the jar down, reached into his pocket and brought out a bit of jerky (a treat he normally gave to Farcry), broke a decent sized bit off the strip and gave that to the raven. The piece was a bit too large for the raven to swallow whole which gave the Grandmaster enough time to take a biscuit out of the jar and eat it. He managed to do all that while the raven was trying to break the jerky upon his shoulder in order to eat its snack.

When the raven realised that the Grandmaster tricked it into eating a healthier snack and not the sugar biscuit it wanted, it looked at him very offended. Alina had laughed at the Grandmaster tricking one of the phoenix ravens. After the raven had gotten off Proletius, the Grandmaster went to wait outside while Alina made herself more presentable.

Proletius didn’t have to wait long for the druid to make herself more presentable since she had come outside wearing the same things as before, but her hair was neatly brushed and braided, laying against her neck. She also had a staff that was made of simple wood, the top of the staff was gnarled and twisted like a dead tree. "Are you ready?" the Grandmaster asked just to be sure. 

She nodded. "Yes, I am, let's go find Munroe and talk to him. The nature spirit should stop killing his men if we manage to negotiate with him," she said. Alina did not mention what would happen if they didn’t.

Proletius nodded and both set off back to the village side by side to talk to Munroe. They walked in silence for the first half of the trip while they looked for Munroe after they got into the village. 

"So what brings the Grandmaster to this little town?" Alina asked. 

"The kingdom has been quiet. No problems from the neighbours, no chaos wizards, no goblin issues. So I told the knights to secure the kingdom by assisting the people with their problems, and I myself went out as well," Proletius answered. 

"I see. Oh, there he is!" Alina pointed towards Munroe, the man's figure had set him apart from the norm. 

Both the Grandmaster and the druid made their way to the overseer, who had turned to face them. When he saw that Alina was with Proletius his whole body seemed to huff in annoyance. 

"I see that you went to talk with the druid…" Munroe said when they got closer. 

"The monster that attacked your men was a nature spirit, defending the loss of habitat of critically endangered birds," Proletius started. "She tells me that she talked to you and even showed you a place to log. Why did you choose to cut down the trees in the unmarked area?" 

Munroe huffed. "Those trees were old, young trees are better." 

"For what? Older trees have a lot more wood in them to be used for everything!" Alina argued. 

"Furniture requires the delicacy and lightness of the young wood!" he countered. 

Alina's features hardened. "And why so picky? Wood is wood, older trees have already lived their lives. They are suited for home building or furniture!" 

Proletius could see that this would only escalate and so interrupted the pair before they continued. "Enough! We came to you, Munroe to reach an agreement. You want wood, Alina has already shown that she is willing to help as long as you listen to her," he said with a slightly commanding tone. 

Proletius's command caused both to shut up and listen to him. They both shared a glance with each other. 

"Well, now that you say it like that, I suppose that I can agree with the druid and will go remove the trees she marked herself," Munroe relented. "And the birds?" 

"They will be fine. I'm headed back to the capital and will tell the King about the surviving Phoenix Raven flocks. They will be protected," Proletius said to Munro's concern. 

Munroe faced Alina and held out a hand to shake on it. "I suppose that we have come to a deal?" he asked. He had a kind smile while he took the deal. The drake-hound that was always at his side, wandered off. 

Alina took his hand in her own and shook it. "Yes, we have a deal," she said, something felt off to her though. 

Proletius nodded, outwardly glad that they had gotten along, but he felt like something would go wrong. "Glad that this will be solved and no more monster or nature spirit problems for you, Munroe," he said. 

"Of course! I will deal with selling older wood, but I'll live. Now, Ser, you're probably going to head off soon, aren't you?" Munroe asked. 

The Grandmaster nodded. "If there's not much more for me to do now, I was going to head back now." 

"Of course! I won't keep you any longer, Ser," Munroe said, letting the knight know that he can head off. 

"There is nothing more I need from you, either, thank you," Alina said. 

"Well, farewell to you both and I hope all will be well," Proletius said, then called for his unicorn. The unicorn was quick to answer the whistle and stood next to the Grandmaster to allow him to get on. He climbed onto the unicorn's back, and both headed off to the exit of the village. 

                                                            ***

Proletius and the unicorn had been three hours away from the village when the Grandmaster’s gut feeling got worse, even his unicorn slowed eir’s walk and tilted e’s ears to listen to the forest. Ser Proletius scanned the bushes and drew out his blade just in case. 

Both had heard a tree suddenly snap and fall. It crashed and shattered where the pair had been. They were no longer there because the unicorn had leapt forward when they heard the suspicious crack. 

An arrow flew out from the bushes but was deflected by Proletius’s sword just as several people, armed with swords jumped out of the bushes and rushed the pair. Both the unicorn and the Grandmaster focused on the people that attacked them.

A green blur tackled Proletius of his unicorn and onto the ground. The knight lost grip on his sword when he fell but managed to use his armoured bracers to stop the drake-hound’s powerful jaws from going around his neck. It still hurt like hell when the jaws snapped down on the metal around his arm and he punched the animal’s nose to get it to let go. Hang on, he recognised this green and the drake, this was the same animal that was at Munroe’s side. The bastard had staged an ambush. He knew something had felt off.

He managed to throw the drake-hound off after he had stunned it and got up, retrieved his sword and went to help his unicorn battle the men that crowded around it. The Grandmaster struck the men down, even as a few more had come from the bushes.

A howl echoed from the forest in a radius and suddenly a pack of wolves, as well as a flock of ravens, exploded from the foilage to attack the men that assaulted the Grandmaster. That made the remaining men focus on the animals as well as flushing out the rest - including Munroe - from the bushes. There had been a lot of screaming from the men as they got attacked by the wolves and ravens.

Munroe fired his crossbow at a few of the ravens - which killed them - then took aim at Proletius and fired, but the bolt was deflected into one of his men. “No hard feelings Ser, but I can’t let you go report to the king on this,” he said with his familiar smile and good-natured attitude.

Proletius was not pleased. “I will still go to the king about this and will now include how you had attacked a Knight and the Grandmaster. Death will not be easy for you, Munroe,” the Grandmaster warned.

Munroe took aim again in answer and prepared to fire. Proletius closed the gap quickly, disarmed the crossbow from the man’s arms and prepared to engage the man as the overseer brought out a dagger. The drake-hound also bounded towards the pair and leapt at Proletius again, though the Grandmaster dodged it. 

Roots broke from the dirt and entangled the men, crushing and piercing them - or in Munroe’s case, simply restrained him - which caused the battle to die down as a woman wearing leather armour, a staff, familiar braid, hair colour and eyes walked out from some roots herself. Alina faced Munroe. “I knew you were up to something, Munroe,” she said bitterly.

Proletius looked at the roots, the birds and wolves while he checked on his unicorn. He thought back to the scenery he had seen yesterday. So that was her. She was a powerful druid that’s for certain.

Munroe had a mixture of fear and frustration written on his face. “Surprised that you didn’t call me a rat, monster!” he insulted.

“That’d be an insult to rats,” she countered back.

“You’re a powerful druid, Alina,” Proletius complimented, ignoring Munroe.

She turned to him and smiled. “Thank you. Thank you for also not listening to Munroe,” she said.

Proletius nodded. “It’s no problem, something didn’t feel right about it and I did what I had to,” he said.

“So what about him?” Alina pointed her staff at Munroe who glared daggers at both the druid and the knight.

“Well, I don’t have the necessary equipment needed to arrest him, so I’ll need to get back to the capital for that,” he mentioned, then looked around at the roots. “Think you can hold him in someplace temporary until I get back?”

“Of course I can.”

Proletius turned towards his unicorn and got back onto eir’s back. He looked at Alina. “Thank you. Also, next time something like this happens again, get us,” he advised.

Alina grinned. “Certainly, but come quicker next time so I don’t have too,” she countered. The druid then remembered something, “wait, Ser, did Bush’s teeth break your armour and skin?” she asked, the green drake-hound sat obediently at her side. The drake then snorted.

Proletius checked the bracer that faced the brunt of the bite, while it was malformed a bit and punctured in places, he didn’t feel any skin broken. “It didn’t get past my armour enough to break the skin, why?” he asked.

“Forest drake-hounds have deadly venom, they use it for defence,” she answered, relieved.

The Grandmaster made an ‘ah’ sound, glad that he dodged that arrow. “Thank you for the information. What will you do with the drake-hound?”

“I’m going to keep him,” she said proudly. “And rename him, he needs a better name than ‘Bush’. Probably Surthian.” She gave the drake a few good scratches while Munroe vocalised his annoyance at that. He was left ignored.

The Grandmaster shrugged. “Fair enough. Farewell, Alina, I’ll be back later to pick up Munroe.”

Alina nodded. “Yes, see you then, Ser Proletius.”

Both then parted ways, more permanently this time, Alina took Munroe back to the town and Proletius went back to Dundee to report to Angus McFife I about what had happened at Enest.

[uupiic]

Ralathor: Look, I really don't care where you all ended up, but is everybody alive and not in jail?

The Hootsman: Oh no, no worries! Nobody is in jail!

Ralathor: ...

Ralathor: ALIVE?!

[uupiic]

Proletius: I accidentally ate Angus' cookies. How long do you think I have, to live?

The Hootsman: Ten.

Proletius: Ten - what?

The Hootsman: Nine.

[uupiic]

Tonight in the gh reverse au, Ser Proletius has a theological crisis.

[uupiic]

For drabble list meme: 52, GH-verse, characters of your choice.

Lot #52 it is, then.

"Watch how a professional does this!"

When Ser Proletius descended, during his stay in Dundee, to the castle’s kitchens, he was merely looking for a pitcher of water for his room. Instead, as the fates would have it, he had now become an unwilling observer (thankfully, not a participant) of a scene that had begun unfolding before he had set his foot in the room and which he had no context for. In general, it appeared that neither His Royal Highness, the Prince of Fife, nor His Majesty, the King of Unst, had enjoyed the supper that had been served a couple of hours earlier, and thus, eventually, they had found their way to the kitchens and the pantries there.

In his defence, Ser Proletius had attempted to leave, once he had come by the aforementioned pitcher; however, both monarchs had their own opinion on the matter – and that opinion was, they merely thought him as dissatisfied with the feast as they had been - and thus the Grand Master of Crail now found himself seated at the far end of the long table that took up most of the room, as his two companions prepared what they called, a feast of their own.

(In the Grand Master’s opinion, the food served earlier had been perfectly adequate, but he could see how royalties might feel different about it, for he was not certain what exactly constituted as “good”, in Crail, did so in Dundee as well.)

Far as he was concerned, Ser Proletius was not sure if multiple cans of beans rumbling, threateningly, unopened, on the stove, could be considered a feast, and would probably express his concern, were he only asked. As such, nobody bothered to inquire about his opinion, and, him being too polite of a man, it thus remained concealed from the rest of the world.

Truth to be told, he was not certain what exactly he was observing, either. His Majesty, the King of Unst, also known as the Hootsman, had declared, they were supposed to “Watch how a professional does this!”, before proceeding to do everything exactly the way it was not supposed to be done. Or, at least Proletius had never seen anyone poke a tin can that was sitting on a hot stove and shaking furiously, with a knife.

- Hoots, are you sure this is how it’s supposed to be done? - Angus inquired.

- Of course! On Unst, we do this all the time!

Ser Proletius thought, with great sadness, about his bed upstairs that was ready and waiting. He wondered if it would be rude of him to simply leave.

- I got it, I got it!

One of the cans shot first past the Hootsman’s head, then very near Proletius’ ear, hit the wall and clattered onto the stone floor, leaving a dent in the aforementioned wall.

- I don’t got it?!

Ser Proletius stood and left, taking the pitcher with him.

[uupiic]

Hey, so I got so inspired by @foxwinterart‘s Gloryhammer reverse AU that I wanted to write some fics based on/inspired by it (with the permission of the OP, of course).

Here’s an example (actually the longest part I’ve written so far; life’s crazy RN).

The working title/summary? “How Hoots and Proletius told Angus about The One Wizard That Got Away™ and how well that went.”

Now, please remember it’s just the 1st draft and 1) has, therefore, not been edited and 2) might/will change at some point.

________________________

- So, - the Hootsman’s voice went down to an ominous whisper, - who’s going to tell him?

- You do, - not a single grimace betrayed Ser Proletius’ state of utter disbelief and disturbance right now, - he likes you better.

- Yes, but your lads were responsible for the most bodies, so you do it!

- But you have brownie points as a mighty ally—

- You know I can hear you both, don’t you?

Both men froze in their place for a second, shrinking under the gaze measuring them, before the barbarian cleared his throat, decided to take the duty upon himself to inform the crown prince of such sudden… ill faiths.

- Well, the soldiers have finished counting the fallen.

- And?

- And… we… I mean, me and Proletius, we were able to find the list of magicians living in Auchtermuchty. The magistrate had strict rules, and everybody was accounted for with them. No way anyone could get past unnoticed.

- And? – The expression on McFife’s face betrayed annoyance beyond imaginable. Almost a Legendary annoyance that told them his patience was thin as ice and he would not hesitate to let his anger loose.

- And… the thing is… - the Hootsman swallowed, loudly so, hoping to hold the gaze of steel as the green eyes bore into his, - the body count does not match.

- What? – The prince made a step closer, and both men unwillingly cast a gaze at the corner where the hammer rested peacefully against the wall. Young as he might be, last night they had witnessed the unbridled violence this body contained, and they were well aware he would not hesitate to lash out on own people as well. Lives no longer carried a meaning to him, if they ever had.

- Dear husband, perhaps we ought to let our dear allies finish?

Princess Iona sat on the opposite side of the room, hands neatly in her lap. Her light blue dress was embroidered, and thin iridescent seashells covered her chest and shoulders, looking like she was encapsulated in ice - a contrast to her husband's armour with the lively green tint. She had a presence about her – the presence of a person who had the power to destroy their opponents at the slightest whim and who knew it – and, when she graced the two men with a smile, it was as beautiful as it was cold and calculated to the last, most miniscule detail.

Her presence did, however, dwindle her husband’s anger, for, when she finished speaking, there was no longer the threat of sudden and much less than epic death for both of their allies on Angus’ face.

- The body count does not match up with the lists, - the barbarian repeated, him and Proletius both having gone pale, - we checked three times.

- Then check again!

- There is no reason for us to deny that somebody got away, - the Knight of Crail found his voice.

- Then search the damned city! Top to bottom! Tear the place apart, brick by lousy brick, if you must! Find them!

- Search parties have already been dispatched. We’ll find and deal with them.

- No, - Angus turned to look at the window, hands behind his back, his shoulders square, tense, back straight like the string of a bow, - bring them to me.

When the door closed behind the Hootsman and Ser Proletius’ backs, Iona rose from her seat and crossed the room in silence, her dress the only thing to make a sound as the expensive fabric dragged across the floor.

- We’ll find them, - soft hands rested on Angus’ shoulders, the whisper in his ear soothing his anger. – It’s just one wizard.

- Imagine how powerful they must be, to evade being noticed!

- They cannot keep avoiding the Knights of Crail forever, - one of the hands travelled up, and the prince leant into the warm touch, his shoulders relaxing. – Let Ser Proletius’ men hunt them down. You have more important things to worry about.

___________________

“How powerful”... or just how well knocked-out. Proletius should invest in glasses for his order :P

[smolsleepyfox]

That Fateful Night (part 3)

Alright, now I’m ACTUALLY done lmao. If this was a full story, I’d say end of first or second chapter. Yall are too nice tbh. Read here how Zargothrax escaped the ruined Auchtermuchty, at least for now.

Warning: mild gore, death (?)

When Zargothrax woke, he only knew two things: darkness and pain.

It took him an insurmountable time to even realise he was awake, let alone assess the situation. He didn’t know where he was, didn’t remember what had happened after he’d been dragged away from the exit by what he could only assume were the attackers. His face sent bolts of pain into the rest of his body, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He was surprised he wasn’t screaming, or at least could not hear it right now. He remembered an explosion, and light. Had he gone deaf maybe?

Something clattered in the distance, a sound that made his lowest instincts jump into overdrive. Armoured footsteps. No, he wasn’t deaf, and neither blind, for in his panic, he had opened his eyes. One of them, at least, the right one. The other one refused to work, and answered with another mind-numbing pulse of agony when he tried to open it.

What he saw let him forget the pain in a wave of horror.

There were bodies everywhere. Neatly lined up, row by row in the courtyard of what had once been Auchtermuchty‘s proud university. He recognised the painted windows of the lecture halls, now shattered, and the broken spire of the main building. And bodies, an endless line to his right, all tattered, blood-stained robes of every color imaginable. The light blue of the healers, green of the scholars, his own dark blue, the transfiguration specialists, the red of the Magisters. Even the sunny yellow of the first-year students, no more than lost teens, was now darkened by dust and blood.

He hastily closed his eye when he heard footsteps approaching and prayed his rapid, panicked heartbeat didn’t give him away. He didn’t know how they’d missed him, how they’d mistaken him for dead, but it was his only chance. He needed to find the other survivors, and get out of here.

„For someone with that meticulous lists, their handwriting is terrible,“ someone grumbled. He was answered by a vague grunt. With horror, it dawned upon Zargothrax that he knew the voice.

Ser Proletius, the very commander of the Knights of Crail. But why in the world had the Knights attacked the town?

His thoughts flew back to the rumours, the stories, the laughter. The great prince of Fife, publicly rejected by the Magisters to attend the university. He didn’t have magic abilities, pure and simple, how were they supposed to teach him something? Angus had not been happy. But just how unhappy, maybe they hadn’t guessed.

„It’s about time we can get this over with, my men are exhausted. I just want to fly home and take a bath before I have to confront the prince tomorrow.“

The other voice chuckled and Zargothrax had the uncomfortable feeling that it belonged to the Hootsman. He’d heard the stories, seen the retellings in magical, colourful pictures. If he as much as twitched, he was as good as dead.

His lungs felt like they’d burst any moment but unlike in a campfire story, they didn’t stop right next to him. Their steps and voices faded in the distance and after a moment, he allowed himself to let his breath flow out and in again, even though it was agonising to force them to be shallow.

He needed to get out of here, and fast. He had no clue how the Knights of Crail handled a raid like this, if they buried the victims here or just torched the entire town. He had to swallow to keep himself in check. He couldn’t allow himself any feelings right now. He couldn’t worry about his friends, or his teacher, or his cat...

He needed to survive.

His first measure was to numb the pain from his injured eye. He didn’t know how bad it was, or what it looked like, but he had no time to check. Biomedical spells had never been his specialty, but he managed to at least dial the pain down from a 15 to a 4. Then he just lay still and listened. No footsteps, no voices. It didn’t mean there could not be a guard on duty, but even with a wisp of magic, he could not make out any living presence.

He suppressed any thought towards the implications of this information. Survive.

Getting up was though nearly impossible. His body was stiff and nearly frozen solid in the autumn night. Every inch of it seemed covered in bruises and scratches that he just had no time to tend to.

Zargothrax heaved himself in a crouching position, surveyed the surroundings and then limped towards the nearest shadows, the remains of what had once been the main buildings. In the direction of the town‘s gate, he could see the warm glow of fires, and cheerful voices. His depth perception was clearly off, the blinding light of the faraway fires wobbling precariously in his field of vision. Whatever had happened, his left eye was entirely useless right now.

He stumbled against a wall when his legs suddenly gave out. He stayed there for a moment, bent over, physically unable to continue while he fought back tears. Was this grief? Rage? Or simply the physical pain and exhaustion?

How could they celebrate after what they’d done? How could they sleep, knowing they’d murdered so many defenceless citizens of their own kingdom?

The wind picked up, howling between the broken stones like an aggressive werewolf and Zargothrax realized he was freezing. His robes hadn’t been made for staying outside in the first place, but now they were tattered, entire parts burned, some strips even seemed torn off deliberately.

Gods, he just wanted to wake up in the dorms. He didn’t care if the others laughed at him if he cried. Just wake from this nightmare.

He wiped his eyes, which was immediately answered by pain that made him nearly pass out. Gods, what had happened? He leaned against the rough wall to focus himself. No time right now. He wrapped his arms around himself against the cold and walked on, keeping in the shadows of the buildings, listening even for the slightest sound. It was hard to tell in the chaos, but wasn’t the laundry room somewhere here?

He instinctively wanted to touch his necklace to draw a little of the stored power.

It wasn’t there.

He tapped his chest, for a moment convinced it was merely misplaced under his robes but no. It was gone.

They. Had. Taken. His. Necklace.

Rage was not sufficient to describe the emotion that roared within him. With a tiny rune, he had the ancient buildings lead him the way to the laundry rooms, where he cast a spell over the door not unlike the one that had protected his wooden chest from curious eyes. He’d clean up, get whatever he could find in the rubble, and then leave. For now.

They’d pay for this.

They would regret the day they had laid eyes upon Auchtermuchty.

The room was a mess, clothes both dirty and clean thrown about, but the basins had survived the explosions, being fastened directly to the walls and floor. Even one of the mirrors was still intact. A magical light ensured his secure footing, but Zargothrax avoided looking in the mirror for now. He limped over to the basin and to his surprise, there was still water in it, clean one at that.

The next few minutes were excruciating at best, even with the help of his magic. He was no healer and while he knew the basics, he sported more injuries than he wanted to think about. Washing the blood off his face proved to be torture, but eventually, he was more or less clean.

Under a pile of dust - undoubtedly from the cracked ceiling - he found a pair of sturdy robes. Even in his magical light they shone with a deep exquisite red. A Magisters robes.

Well, he was the only one left, he might as well get a little promotion.

The sob came unexpected as it was violent, and he faltered on the dusty floor. The pain from his injured eye - the gods knew what was wrong with it - blended in with the ache in his chest and the gaping emptiness there. The last one, dear gods. They were all gone.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, curled up in the rubble, sobbing helplessly into his bruised arms. It didn’t matter. If they found him now, he’d join his friends sooner than expected. Maybe that was better. He wouldn’t be alone then.

Sylphea would have never surrendered without a fight. She would have made their life hell, and then gone down with all guns blazing. Gods, he hoped she’d killed at least a few of these bastards.

Gideon had not been a fighter, but he knew some mean charms. He’d have distracted them, hexed painful warts upon them, unleashed spectres and disease.

Even Jelisia could have gotten a few mean hexes in, even though she was a healer. She’d never been exactly rude-abiding.

Zargothrax laughed at that, a little bit. Oh yes, they wouldn’t have surrendered without first raising hell. He wasn’t like them, not a fighter, not brave, but he was smart and learned quickly. By whatever cruel fate, he’d survived, and now he had to make do.

He heaved himself up, the lastbshivers of grief running through him like icy water. For the first time, he met his own face in the mirror. He didn’t flinch back from the sight, he was too tired for fear or horror by now.

Most of the blood had come from a gash on his forehead and a long, jagged tear running from his temple over his nose. He might as well be one of the pirates of old with that kind of injury.

His left eye was blood-shot and awfully red under what seemed like a layer of milky glass. Even keeping it open was painful, but now that the blood was gone, he realised he wasn’t entirely blind. Some light spots remained in his vision, though the pain they caused made him wish differently. He’d need to find a skilled healer to take a look at this. The cuts he could heal, but eyes were sensitive and tricky, he’d rather not make it worse with his lack of training.

His hair was scorched and uneven, but that wasn’t the first time. A flick of his wrist restored it to full curly glory and now he almost thought he recognised himself in the mirror again. The smile he forced upon his face may as well have belonged to a corpse.

His hands shook when he donned the blood-red robes, fastening them with a belt that bore the majestic adornments of the highest sorcerers, as well as some loops and a bag that would come in handy to hold his possessions.

Whatever those were.

In one corner, he dug up a slightly dusty, but intact woollen cape that would protect him from the cold and help him blend into the darkness. Lastly, he wrapped a clean white cloth around his eye as a makeshift bandage. That was it.

He pulled up the cape‘s hood as he advanced to the door and listened. He let his magical light flicker out before he carefully opened the door. It didn’t make a sound and he slipped out into the night on unsteady legs.

The walkways and corridors, the gardens and pavilions he had known for so many years were gone, reduced to no more than dust and stones, their ornaments broken, the beauty of centuries, destroyed.

„What do you mean the list doesn’t match?!“

The young wizard froze in his tracks. Proletius‘ voice boomed over the bleak stretch that had once been a town. Ah. The archives. They must have found the registers. He needed to leave before they decided to search for him.

Steps in front of him. Zargothrax dashed into the nearest crevice and held his breath. He wanted to cast a hiding spell, but his energy was running out. Without the reserve his necklace had provided, he needed to save the last shards of his strength - if he was found, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

„Everybody is bragging how easy this was.“ There were two of them, Knights of Crail still in their worn, dirty armor. But their swords were sheathed, and neither of them looked around as they walked. „Have you seen what that red-headed beast did to Korveus and Obras? And the other kid nearly spooked the shit out of me with whatever that ghost thing was.“

The other knight laughed. „Pity they wouldn’t surrender. I think even the commander was impressed.“

„A woman in our ranks? You must be joking.“

„Don’t say that. It wouldn’t be the first time. Have you never heard of Commander Morag the great? She was the fiercest knight in all of Dundee’s empire.“

„Pfft, a fairytale. Come, let’s finish our round and head back to the fire, before my balls freeze off. I just hope we can burn this godsforsaken place to the ground and never come back.“

Zargothrax smiled, feeling fresh tears burn in his eyes. He couldn’t know this had been Sylphea. But it sounded so much like her. He wished he’d gone with her. He should have gone with her and fought, instead of staying with his dumb experiment that didn’t matter and now she was gone and-

He took a deep breath.

Survive.

Avenge them.

The knights gone, he hurried to the next shelter. The main entrance would be blocked or guarded but that didn’t mean anything. Even aside of the dozens of visible doors, there were more hidden paths in the wide premises of the university than those barbarians could ever dream of.

Looking back, Zargothrax didn’t remember how he left Auchtermuchty behind. He followed secret passages, untouched by the violence, avoided a few patrols that probably wouldn’t have noticed a rhino tapdancing in front of them, and eventually reached the northern pavilion, long outside the city’s walls.

They’d met here countless times, to hang out, scheme, play games and drink. He’d gotten his first kiss here (it hadn’t been a particularly good one), his first drink (which only tasted good in the knowledge of just how illegal it was), the first time he had realised he’d found true friends. The pavilion was not on any map, for it had been abandoned long ago and was nearly hidden by looming willows and creeping fern. They’d made it their home, their refuge, repaired the holes in the roof and guarded it with spells from any possible danger. No outsider would even find this place, unless they had serious magical firepower. And of These, none were left. Only him.

The scent of cigarettes and rum from their last meeting enveloped him when he stepped under the beautiful ornaments of the roof. The sides were nearly covered by shadow ivy, creating a cave, warm and welcoming. There was a table and some chairs, all stolen from the workshop‘s junkyard and restored in a collective effort. There was a bottle of branberry mead on the table, unopened. For a moment, he seriously considered just drowning his sorrows with the liquor, but the leaden weariness made even that seem like too much effort.

Using his last magical energy, he hid the pathway he had come through. The bed they’d stored - for the times when one had to get away for a while - was not luxurious, but comfy. He curled up in the warm sheets, felt the soft fabric on his face and the scents of old, the ghosts of a life that would never be again. He did not feel the tears on his cheeks falling before darkness took him away and he knew no more.

[smolsleepyfox]

Interlude: Winter

...listen I had a lot of time today. Happy Halloween, or whatever?

I like Ser Proletius. He needs more screentime.

The first day of winter, both Zargothrax and Ser Proletius spent in ways quite similar to each other, though they resided at opposite ends of the country. Brooding over papers was not a favourite activity of either though, especially if the solution seemed to slip further away with every hour.

Proletius was glad he was in Crail, truly. Staying in Dundee, the citadel even, would have turned him into a nervous wreck. The search through Auchtermuchty - the first, second AND third - had not turned up the missing dead body. They’d found scorched and torn clothes in a room with two huge basins, so it was possible their escapee had changed there. After that, nothing. With no magical practitioner to trace the sorcerer - damned be their loyalty, and pride! - , the trail had gone cold. 

Prince Angus was not happy, to say the least.

The Hootsman had departed with the proclamation he had business to attend to, and since then, Proletius had been faced with both Angus’ wrath and also the difficulties in his own ranks without the barbarian’s support. Their negligence and the death of the peasant had caused uproar throughout all of Auchtermuchty, which hadn’t exactly helped their efforts to clean up. Even more, the more uncanny deaths of their comrades had startled the knights more than was desirable.

He himself had seen the sorcerers’ curses dissolve a knight in maggots, the summoning of a being he could only call demonic, and many more things he didn’t get enough of a glimpse on to remember. It was most likely for the better. But still, a warrior should not let himself be scared by some dead wizards and peasants with sticks. 

Every second the knights showed hesitation, the peasants got bolder, too. The boy’s death had been his own fault - what did that fool snoop around in the knights’ business? Much more important was that prince Angus was breathing down his neck, while Proletius was no closer to finding the escaped wizard, and that he had to fear for a riot should he dispatch more of his knights to that dreaded city. It made him furious and no short of terrified.

Cursed peasants, cursed sorcerers, to hell with all of them!

The princess at least seemed to understand his predicament, for she kept her husband busy enough he couldn’t focus his anger on what he no doubt would consider Proletius’ personal failure. Undercover research had turned up a rather quarrelsome relationship between the Questlords of Inverness and the sorcerers. With them gone, Angus - led by princess Iona no doubt - had taken up negotiations with the Questlords. Their support would ensure Dundee’s eternal glory and make future expansions child’s play. Proletius didn’t care much for the lords of unicorns, he didn’t care much for riding on land at all, but he was grateful for the few days of grace it bought him.

Proletius rubbed his face and dropped his head on the table, a bit harder than planned. He grumbled a curse, but stayed in the position, enjoying the rest the darkness brought his strained eyes. 

Instead of burning the entire damned place to the ground, they’d painstakingly identified all bodies, trying to narrow down who they were looking for. The problem was that while the magical lists were neatly organized and even sported pictures, not all of the bodies were in any shape to be identified. The explosions had done one part, whatever unholy business those wizards had been cooking up in their studies the rest. In some cases it wasn’t clear if the body parts even belonged together. And now he’d been here for two days, going over the lists again and again, trying to figure out where to even start looking. There were about a dozen bodies that could not reliably be identified, and of the names left on the list, only four seemed plausible suspects: Three students of the fourth form, whatever that meant, named Sylphea Isadora McDuffie, Gideon MacIntyre and… something something McKenzie. He could not for the life of him decipher it. Number four was the one he wanted to focus on first. It belonged to a magister that somehow must have slipped prince Angus’ wrath. Either he’d not been in the circle they’d found those fools in, doing whatever, or he’d slipped away unnoticed. A sorcerer of many years, the highest in the ranks, perhaps. Someone powerful. Truly, if anyone should be able to escape the knights of Crail, then it had to be him.

Ralathor. A strange name, though not too strange for a wizard.

The name rang a bell, though Proletius had no idea why. He’d turned it over in his head again and again, but had not gotten any closer to the solution.

He shot up as his door was opened, feeling a little guilty as to be seen sleeping. He covered it with a scowl. “Yes?”

Morgan, one of his squad leaders, blinked at him from the doorway, clearly unsure of himself. Proletius really didn’t want to know what he looked like to evoke such a response. “Ser, there’s a… visitor. He says his name is Sire Equestrion, of Inverness.”

Proletius attention snapped into full swing again. He got up and tried to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror without making it too obvious. “A Questlord, here in Crail? Did he say what he wants?”

“Only that he wants to speak with you, Ser. He says he may have… information.”

That could mean anything and nothing, but keeping in mind the ongoing negotiations and the Knights’ role in vanquishing the Questlords proclaimed enemies… it was worth a try. 

“Thank you Morgan, bring him into the courtyard, I’ll meet him there. And saddle one of the eagles, just in case I need to fly to Dundee tonight.”

“Yes, Ser Proletius.”

As Morgan marched away, Proletius saw to making himself presetable. He took off his crumpled jacket, and seeing the stains on the sleeves, deemed it a problem for later. He washed the ink stains off his hand, and subsequently face - the gods knew how they’d gotten there. Lastly, he donned his parade coat. Not the GOOD good parade coat, of course, the one for royal functions, but the one he wore when riding with the prince. He wanted to show his rank, not seem like an arrogant prick. 

Brushing a hand through his beard, he checked himself over one last time, before blowing out the lantern and leaving his chambers. The Questlords didn’t particularly like the Knights of Crail and they surely would not bother to come all this way if it wasn’t important. Whoever this Sire Equestrion was, Proletius was more than curious what he had to say.

[smolsleepyfox]

Reverse!AU: That Fateful Night (part 2)

Once more unedited flow of consciousness writing. I could also title this „how did Z survive this massacre in the first place?“

WARNING: death, graphic description of violence, gore

The sun setting over Auchtermuchty drenched it in golden light that failed to contain even a shred of warmth. The once proud town of Auchtermuchty, high seat of sorcerers far and wide, was today no more than a pile of rubble dripping with blood. The Knights of Crail who were not busy tending to their own injured and fallen, were dragging bodies clad in robes from the ruins, stacking them for easier counting later on.

Prince Angus McFife did not pay any mind to trivialities like this. After personally assuring the highest Magisters had been dealt with, he was getting ready to return to Dundee. His hammer leaned peacefully against his horse’s side, already cleaned of the blood it had spilled today.

“I wonder,” he said. “Why my dear father was so afraid of them.”

“I beg your pardon, your Majesty?” Ser Proletius shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t allow himself to look around for the Hootsman’s presence. Not that it would have helped. The Hootsman was no man of words. At this point, Proletius wasn’t sure if he was, either. “I’m not sure I can follow.”

Angus turned around, his lively green armour without a single speck or scratch a strange contrast to the bleak violence of their surroundings. He grinned at Proletius as if he’d just cracked an excellent joke.

“Why, my dear friend, would a king fear wizards so much? The deadliest wizards in the entire kingdom, the world, maybe. And yet they could not even parry a single swing of my hammer.”

“Indeed they could not.” Proletius returned the smile, relaxing a little. “I feel honoured you would join us in this quest, my prince.”

Angus waved it off. “I will ride back to Dundee now. Where’s the Hootsman?”

“Right here.”

Proletius flinched a little. He hated it when the Hootsman did that. A barbarian of his size should not be moving this quietly.

Angus mounted his horse and slung the Hammer of Glory over his back.

“I’ll leave the rest to you both. Meet me tomorrow at eight and report.” He rode off before either of them could answer.

Proletius shook his head and sighed - when the prince was well out of sight and hearing range. “I suppose it’s time to organise the cleanup then.”

The Hootsman grunted, but didn’t answer. They walked past the remains of the town’s gate towards the university buildings - or what was left of them. The city, according to their logs, was well-warded, ready to withstand any attack - as long as it was a magical attack. The very much non-magical explosive matter had blown the ancient walls clean through, toppled the gate and the main tower, buried a building marked as grand hall under tons of raw stone within the first minute.

They spotted a few knights gathered around a figure in a dark green robe and approached them. The mage was neither old or young, with blond hair and a moustache spotted with blood from his undoubtably broken nose. He had more bruises and scratches than intact fabric on his body.

“What is the matter, Lieutenant?”

The knights immediately straightened up when they heard their commander’s voice. Their leader, a short, stout man with impressive shoulders, saluted Proletius.

“We found a survivor, Ser. What should we do with him?”

Proletius considered for a moment. The wizards had been a thorn in his eye for decades. They were arrogant theoreticians who merely scowled upon the great Crailian Eagle Batallion. But the prince’s orders were to secure any alliances they could.

“What’s your name?”, he asked the green-clad mage.

“Azerion, my lord,” came the whispered answer. His voice shook so badly the words were barely intelligible.

“I will make you an offer: Swear loyalty to the throne and your life will be spared. We will need a guide to count the fallen and rebuild this town for the glory of our kingdom.”

The blond sorcerer hesitated, his eyes nearly blank with terror, before an expression of disgust crossed his bruised face. “We already served the throne. Auchtermuchty has been loyal to Dundee for centuries. Swear loyalty to Angus, though, after this betrayal? I’d rather die.”

Proletius mustered him coolly. “Well, that is your decision then.” Swifter than an eagle’s claw, he drew his dagger and plunged it into the mage’s throat. The body twitched, his eyes widening, and then crumpled while blood soaked his robe.

Proletius sheathed his blade, not caring about the bloodstains. There were so many on his armour, a few more didn’t matter. “Make this offer to any survivor. If they swear loyalty to the prince, let them live and round them up. If not, kill them. Back to word, lads, we don’t have all night.”

The Knights saluted and immediately rushed back to their respective tasks. Proletius found the Hootsman looking at him with a strange expression. “What?”

He didn’t immediately receive an answer. They continued their walk, past ruins and bodies, without laying much notice to details. Two knights carried the lifeless body of a short, young mage with red braided hair. The mage was clad in armor no knight of Crail would wear, but the thought of a mage trying to battle like a knight was amusing anyway.

“I remember a younger Proletius who would have spared that man’s life. Who idolised the old king. What happened?”

“I became a realist, rather than a dreamer, old friend. If you let enemies live they come back to do more harm. It’s simply reducing the overall damage.”

The Hootsman smiled, a rare occurrence indeed. “I thought you’d never learn it.”

“Ser Proletius!”

They stopped in front of the ruin that had been the mages’ main gathering hall. The majority had been at dinner, which had made the roundup ridiculously easy. Angus was right - some mages had put up a fight, but most of them hadn’t even been able to fight back out of sheer panic. Pathetic.

They turned to see a young knight jogging towards them. “Yes?”

The knight stopped and saluted, with a nervous glance at the Hootsman. “We found the town’s archives, Ser. You might want to take a look.”

“Lead the way.”

They rounded the building and followed what was left of a long, winding path between the buildings. Multicoloured mist rose from a pile of rubble to their right, accompanied by the occasional hiss or sound they couldn’t place at all. Proletius found himself instinctively holding his breath until they had passed.

“What’s that?” They stopped dead in their tracks, if only because the Hootsman had decided to speak. The barbarian nodded towards a dark corner near the rubble, that, now that a Proletius looked closer, gave off a soft blue shine. He ordered the knight to go first with a gesture, which he did, albeit hesitantly.

He vanished behind the rubble for a moment, before jumping backwards with a nearly comical expression of shock. Proletius was ready to rush in, but found no enemy to fight - only two dead bodies that were in terrible shape.

„Oh, they’re... they’re dead,“ the knight said with a nervous laugh.

Proletius sheathed his sword again without answering and surveyed the scene.

Looking closer, the bodies had been a mage, judging from his blue robes, and a knight of Crail. Something must have exploded and catapulted them both out of the building before it had collapsed, for the knight‘s armour was torn clean off, including his clothes, skin and part of his flesh. The mage looked nearly untouched in comparison, had the left side of his head not been covered in blood. The knight even had his hand still buried in the mage‘s wild mane.

Proletius sighed. „Dear Gods....“

The Hootsman grunted in agreement, but didn’t comment.

„Get someone to clean this up. Take someone who won’t gossip, I don’t want rumours going around about the Gods know what these heathens have been doing in their laboratories.“

„Of course, Ser, immediately.“

„What about that archive you talked about?“

„It’s right over there. It seems they documented all visitors and resident mages.“

„Excellent. Go get this mess sorted, I’ll take care of the lists.“

„Yes, Ser Proletius.“ The knight hurried off.

„Ugly way to go,“ the Hootsman said with a glance at the bodies. „Wonder how they got here.“ He rolled the body of the mage over with his foot.

He was shockingly young, no older than 25, with a round face and faint stubble on now pale cheeks. The left eye seemed entirely gone under a thick layer of dirt and blood. His tousled black hair on that side followed the dead knight‘s hand when it hit the ground with a wet thud. Proletius wrinkled his nose in disgust.

„Is there a problem, Hoots?“

The barbarian was silent for a moment while his unreadable gaze scanned the body. The mage‘s blue robes were scorched, but surprisingly intact. Blue meant a student in one of the last years, or something like that. Proletius snorted. What a useless system. All that counted was skill, not age.

In their struggle, the knight - he couldn’t even make out who it was anymore, poor bastard - must have taken the bulk of the blast, but not enough to spare the mage. Tough luck.

„Nothing,“ the Hootsman said.

„Then let’s look at the archive. If I don’t have this report ready tomorrow there will be hell to pay.“

They turned their backs on the lifeless bodies and went forth to the archives indicated by the knight. Prince Angus had been in a stellar mood thanks to today’s victory and they both knew they’d better make sure it stayed that way.

For their own good.

———

If you wanna know what happened at the meeting with Angus the next morning, head over to @uupiic , as far as I’m concerned, what they wrote is canon.

This is all I’ve got right now, no idea how the story will go on after that. So have fun I guess.