Plotlogs
The Adventure Begins Sr Vindicta 241215
In the quiet, divided lands where summer and winter clash, nestled beside Mirror Lake's tranquil shores, an adventure of epic proportions began to unfold. Victor, carrying the weight of his own turmoil and technological prowess rendered moot in this world of magic and old ways, found himself drawn into the heart of a conflict that threatened the very balance of the region. In the small mining town of Limton, whispers of danger spurred him into action, a lone warrior against the darkening storm.
Upon arriving in Limton, Victor's attention was quickly captured by a job board calling for brave souls to defend the town against various threats, including a white dragon known as Rhyme, which cast a shadow of fear over the inhabitants. Determined to make a difference, Victor took up the cause, unknowingly setting the stage for an unlikely alliance.
Enter Ash, a figure of mystery and power, weaving through the chaos with illusions and sorcery, a protector moving unseen between the realms of humans and monsters. Their paths crossed in the midst of battle, amidst the fury of orcs and the ice-laden breath of the dragon above. A silent pact was formed, a truce unspoken, as they each fought to preserve what little hope remained.
Victor, with his technological relics and unwavering resolve, took to the town's defense with a strategic mind and a heart fueled by retribution. Ash, with their mastery over the ethereal, danced a delicate line between life and death, their presence a balm to the wounded and a terror to their foes.
The climax of their journey found them beneath the shadow of the dragon Rhyme, its wrath unleashed upon the town in a maelstrom of ice and destruction. Victor, in a desperate gambit, faced the beast head-on, a sacrificial defiance aimed at the heart of the storm. Ash, ever the guardian, maneuvered through the chaos, a force of nature unto themselves, guiding survivors to safety and striking fear into the remnants of the orcish horde.
In the end, it was the combination of Victor's resolve and Ash's sorcery that turned the tide. The dragon fell, its reign of terror ended in a spectacular display of power and sacrifice. The town of Limton, though battered, survived, its people saved by the courage of two unlikely heroes.
As the dawn broke on a day of newfound peace, Victor and Ash parted ways, their bond sealed by the trials they faced together. Their stories, intertwined by fate, would live on in the annals of the Wilds, a testament to the strength found in unity and the enduring light of hope in the darkest of times.
(The Adventure Begins...?(SRVindicta):SRVindicta)
[Sat Dec 14 2024]
In A sunlight-mottled forest on the edge of the Mirror Lake
Sunlight and moonlight both beam through this grove on opposing sides, the land split right down the middle between summer and winter by strife. It is a cornerstone, a boundary, where the lands of the Seelie and Unseelie Fae meet- and yet it is not in turmoil. This area is peaceful, tranquil, as though respected and honored by both sides. Here a silvery-hued lake laps against a grassy shore, its surface rippling with the movement of life beneath, and so pure in its ways that were one to approach it, they would see little more than a reflection of themselves. Here is the Mirror Lake in all of its glory and splendor, with the soft hum of fireflies over its top casting fractals of many-colored rainbow light over the space.
It is noon, about 27F(-2C) degrees,
Nestled in the rocky foothills of the snow-capped Westrend Mountains is the mining town of Limton, which consists for forty or fifty simple log buildings. Crumbling stone ruins surround the newer houses and shops, showing how this must have been a much larger town in centuries past.
Limton's residents are quiet, hard-working folk who came from distant cities and even other territories to eke out a life amid the harsh wilderness. They are farmers, stonecutters, blacksmiths, traders, prospectors, and children. The town has no walls and no garrison, but most of the adults keep weapons within easy reach in case the need for arms should arise.
Visitors are welcome here, particularly if they have coin to spend or news to share. The Stonehill Inn at the center of town offers modest lodging and meals, and a couple of doors down from the inn, posted outside of the townmaster's hall, is a job board for adventurers.
This is where Victor finds himself as he wanders the Wilds- perhaps he was called to arms by whispers of a dragon needing to be slain, or maybe he needed to get away from it all. From life, from the real world, from reality, dipping his toes into this world lost long, long in the past. Whatever the reason, he stands here in the center of this small and unfortified town, watching the life that bustles around him.
Perhaps Victor did. Need to get away from it all. Was it wise to do it? To come here, so far, so alone? Likely not, not while he checks his wrist, a small display of a hologram elevated off of his skin. It flickers, once, twice, then snuffs out, as with many advanced technological marvel in the Other. His body is a machine running on fumes, here, at the height of danger and despair.
It's no obstacle to his drive, however. Not to that retribitional desire to destroy things that are not of mankind, things against his ilk. However laughable to consider him as merely human, at this stage. His rifle is held with both hands again, hanging from a strap around his torso, while he treks further and further through the town that he's finally reached on foot nonethless.
The desire to lay bullets into every strange creature that wanders around him is palpable in his gaze, those wintry eyes that drift left to right, pin from body to body, but that's not the way here. No sitrep, no forward operating base. Just a village. One that he's searching with his eyes before he does what any reasonable adventurer in the Fey wilds does- seeks out the nearest watering hole, the inn, but that is not his direction. He knows enough to go where, and it is the spot couple doors down from there - the job board for adventurers.
Where he'll take the note detailing the mission.
And slay a dragon.
Limton is a town born of ambition and tempered by hardship, a modest collection of weathered wooden homes and sturdy stone structures dotting the rolling foothills of the Westrend Mountains. Despite its simplicity, the town carries an air of resilience, like a steadfast ember refusing to die out in the biting wind. The dirt paths crisscrossing its center are worn by countless boots and wagon wheels, and the occasional splash of mud or hay piles hints at a place where practicality always wins over pretense.
The clang of a blacksmith's hammer rings out from the edge of town, a rhythmic counterpoint to the chatter of merchants hawking wares in the open square. Their voices rise in friendly arguments, bartering over bolts of rough fabric, fresh vegetables, or finely carved trinkets. Nearby, the faint hiss of water escaping from a stone trough fills the air as a merchant rinses her hands, her sturdy mule pawing at the ground impatiently. Limton is alive with quiet industry, a small but determined community that feels like a haven to some- and a starting point to others.
At the heart of the town, the Stonehill Inn dominates the square, its weathered sign swinging lightly in the breeze. The scent of roasted meat and warm bread wafts from within, a tempting promise to any traveler in need of food and rest. Outside, a group of miners leans against the porch rail, their faces streaked with grime but lit with good humor as they share a laugh over mugs of frothy ale. One of them, a wiry man with a crooked grin, pauses his story to glance Victor's way, his gaze lingering for a moment before he returns to his companions.
The inn itself is a squat, inviting structure of dark timber and cobblestone, its windows glowing faintly with the warm light of a roaring hearth. Above the door, the etched words "Stonehill Inn" are painted in a steady hand, the lettering slightly faded but still legible. The steps leading up to the entrance are worn smooth by years of foot traffic, and the door swings easily on its hinges, inviting you in with the promise of shelter and sustenance.
But before Victor can consider stepping inside, another sight draws his attention- a notice board standing just to the right of the inn's entrance. Its wooden frame is rough-hewn but sturdy, and the weathered parchment pinned to its surface flutters slightly in the breeze. The most prominent posting is freshly inked and stark against the worn backdrop of faded advertisements and forgotten requests for help.
Adventurers Wanted!
"The town of Limton seeks brave souls to help defend its people and bring peace to the region. Reports of dangerous creatures in the countryside grow with each passing day, and the presence of a white dragon threatens us all. Rewards offered for tasks completed! Seek Harbin Wester, the Townmaster, for details."
A smaller note underneath, scrawled in hurried handwriting, catches Victor's eye:
Warning to travelers: Boar-headed raiders have been sighted near the Trail. Stay alert and travel in groups when possible.
The messages hang heavy with the unspoken tension that seems to underlie the town's otherwise calm demeanor. Though the villagers go about their day with practiced determination, theres a sense of unease in the way they glance toward the horizon or whisper in low tones as they pass. Even the children, usually so free in their games, seem to keep one eye on the adults, their stick-sword battles subdued and lacking the usual reckless abandon of youth.
Beyond the square, the path stretches out toward the northern hills, where the dark line of Neverwinter Forest rises like a forbidding wall. To the south, the faint outline of the High Road can be seen, its well-trodden route winding toward distant cities and far-off adventures. The horizon is framed by the jagged peaks of the Sword Mountains, their snow-dusted tops catching the light of the setting sun and casting long shadows across the landscape.
A pair of weathered figures emerge from the Lionshield Coster, a trading post known for its reliable goods and fair prices. Their arms are laden with supplies- bundles of rope, heavy sacks of grain, and a crate that rattles faintly with the sound of iron tools. They pause near the notice board, murmuring to one another as they read the postings, their faces drawn with concern. One of them, a stout dwarf with a thick auburn beard, mutters something under his breath before spitting into the dirt and trudging off toward the miners' exchange.
As you stand there, the town begins to unfold around you, every detail presenting an opportunity to learn, to explore, to act. The door to the Stonehill Inn swings open once more, revealing a plump woman with a warm smile and flour-dusted hands. She waves to a passing merchant before retreating back inside, her movements brisk but welcoming. The hum of the blacksmith's hammer continues in the background, a steady heartbeat for this little slice of civilization in the wilds.
Limton feels like a place where stories begin, where paths cross, and where ordinary lives brush against the extraordinary. It is a place where the mundane and the magical coexist, where the weight of history presses against the present, and where every shadow hints at the potential for adventure- or danger.
As the sun dips lower, casting the town in a golden haze, Victor feels the quiet pull of the moment as he takes the job post.
Harbin Wester. Townmaster.
So it is. Victor folds the paper in his hand into a perfect half, and slips it into his pocket. The act is simple enough, but distracted while his eyes wander in search. The sight of the kids playing around has him linger - something forlorn in the depths of those blues, longing, lost, yet shaken away quietly when he begins to move with disregard towards the dwarf and his mutterings.
The woman that passes him by, too, is ignored - just like the whole slice of civilization. It may as well be a fake facsimile of life to Victor. He's here for business. To handle a calamity, one likely far stronger than he is, even though the day-to-day businesses of everyone here tell that it is no grim, world-ending threat. A ray of small hope, against insurmountable hopes.
Others have persevered in similar situations, however. He's lost in thought, mind wandering while he drowns out the world in search of his target. The Townmaster, the man who'll tell him where to go, what to do, even though it is not too difficult to guess that he'll start his journey on the trail. That too, is fine. Easier to move solo, on his own, quietly and with enough ordinance strapped to him to cave in a whole mountain.
The blades strapped to his back jangle and scrape to one another with the motion of his arm, lifting to press onto the door when he's beside his destination - pushing open to enter, and make a straight, firm haste in stride while calling through the half-mask set over his mouth, even though the voice comes modulated through his throat, and augmented enough to cut through the din of everyone present.
"I'm looking for Harbin Wester, tell him someone's here."
The Townmaster's Hall is a modest building near the center of Limton, flanked by a worn cobblestone path that leads to its broad oak door. Its simple exterior- a squat stone foundation overlaid with pale timber and a gently sloped roof- is not so different from the surrounding structures, but the small painted sign above the entrance sets it apart: "Townmaster's Hall" The faint remnants of an old crest, its details long faded, suggest that the hall may once have served a grander purpose.
As Victor pushes the door open, it creaks loudly on its hinges, announcing his arrival before his modulated voice does. Inside, the hall smells faintly of wood polish and the sharp tang of ink. It is lit by a handful of lanterns, their soft glow casting long shadows across a room dominated by an oversized desk cluttered with papers, ledgers, and a half-empty bottle of cheap ale. Behind it sits a portly man who is unmistakably Harbin Wester.
Harbin's round face is flushed, his brow glistening with sweat despite the cool air, and his fingers twitch nervously over the ledger before him. His small, deep-set eyes dart up at the sound of Victor's entrance, widening slightly as he takes in the figure before him. Harbin is not a man accustomed to confrontation, and something in Victor's bearing- the straight-backed posture, the sharp confidence in his stride, or perhaps the sheer weight of the weapons strapped to him- seems to unsettle him further.
"Ah, yes, yes," Harbin stammers, standing so quickly that he nearly knocks his chair over. His voice is high-pitched and reedy, and his hands flutter in the air like startled birds before he forces them to rest on the edge of the desk. "You're- ah- you're here about the dragon, yes? Or the orcs? Or- or some other...trouble?"
Despite his flustered demeanor, Harbin's words come quickly, spilling over one another as though he's desperate to get them out before losing his nerve. "We've had no shortage of trouble lately, you see. Orc- you folk call them boar-headed humanoid- raiders on the roads, bandits to the south, and now- now a dragon. A white dragon, they say! Circling the mountains, sometimes coming closer... Too close! It's terrible for business, you understand. Terrible!"
As Harbin speaks, his hands move instinctively to straighten the papers on his desk, though he accomplishes little beyond shifting the clutter from one side to the other. It's clear he's a man more at ease with bureaucracy than bravery, and his nervous energy fills the room like static before a storm.
After a moment, Harbin seems to catch himself and clears his throat, attempting to adopt a more authoritative tone. "Of course, we've been, ah, coordinating efforts to address these issues. But Limton is a small town, you see- resources are limited. That's why we've been seeking adventurers like yourself. To... To assist."
His eyes flick briefly to Victor's weapons and then back to his masked face. "There's a reward, of course. A very reasonable sum for a man of your talents. And if you're here about the dragon... Well, you'll be doing a great service to the town. To all of us."
Harbin gestures vaguely toward the chair opposite his desk, though his eyes betray a hope that Victor might decline the invitation to sit. "What, ah... What will it be, then? Are you here to help with the orcs? The bandits? The dragon? Or perhaps... All of it?"
The question hangs in the air, the room falling silent save for the faint creak of the building's old wooden beams. Harbin waits, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as though it might offer some measure of support.
Outside, the faint sounds of Limton's daily life filter through the door- children's laughter, the scrape of a wheelbarrow, and the distant clang of the blacksmith's hammer. Yet here in the Townmaster's Hall, all eyes are on Victor. Harbin's, wide and wary. And Victor's, inscrutable behind his mask, poised to decide the town's next course of action.
What happens next is Victor's to dictate.
Winter-blue optics remain poised and burrowing into the man. Victor doesn't move, doesn't flinct. There is immutable perseverence in his bodily form, of a perfect stand still with his index laid underneath his trigger in discipline, while the barrel of his rifle points down, held only by that one hand at the grip. The tension doesn't elude him, the eagerness to be rid of him, the nervousness marking Harbin. They're filtered through his gaze that uncannily continues to watch like he's creating a file of the man at the back of his mind, filtering through a loop of feed that analyzes at a constant, everything.
The sounds from outside, the wheelbarrow, the daily life - he ignores. Tries to ignore. His other hand reaches out for his pocket, to retrieve the simple but perfectly folded paper notice to chuck it ahead- but the laughter has him pause. His hand remains suspended with the parchment between two digits. And, after a single second, where his eyes dip low, then rise back up, he drops it flat on the man's desk, as opposed to throwing it.
"I'm here for all of it. I need a map, and all the information you can give me."
He was here only for the dragon, but, things change. Things change at the worst of times. The offer to sit is denied much to the relief of Harbin, while Victor waits for what he's demanded. "The map takes precedence. Mark where I need to go, I'll handle it all, tonight." Will he? Could he? He's essentially behind enemy lines, and even though he doesn't lack for equipment, he does lack in resupplies. Conservative play, then.
Harbin Wester visibly deflates at Victor's response, though whether it's from relief that Victor isn't here to waste time or sheer resignation to the magnitude of his task is unclear. The Townmaster fumbles briefly with the clutter on his desk, shoving ledgers and loose papers aside in search of a map. His fingers tremble slightly as he works, betraying the cracks in his bureaucratic facade.
"A-All of it," he mutters to himself, almost incredulously, before finally locating what he's looking for- a rolled-up parchment secured with a frayed string. He tugs it free with the urgency of a man drowning in his own inadequacy, unrolling it on the desk with a flourish that nearly tears the edges.
The map of the surrounding region is simple but serviceable. Limton sits near the center, with the Westrend Mountains looming ominously to the west and the Triboar Trail snaking through the northern expanse. Harbin hastily pulls a quill from a nearby inkwell, his movements jerky as he begins to annotate the map with quick, uneven strokes.
"The dragon- Rhyme- is here," he says, tapping the quill against Herald's Hold, a jagged icon near the mountains. "At least, that's where it's been sighted most often. It flies further afield sometimes, hunting... Terrorizing." His voice falters for a moment before he clears his throat. "But the orcs- they've been seen around Wyvern Tor." Another mark, this one southeast of Limton.
"The bandits," Harbin continues, his voice growing quieter as he moves the quill to another location along the Triboar Trail. "They've taken over an old ruin... Conyberry, I believe. A wretched bunch- cutthroats and deserters, the lot of them."
As Victor remains perfectly still, his winter-blue optics tracking each movement with unnerving precision, Harbin looks up briefly, meeting that gaze for just a moment before hurriedly returning to his work.
"There's also... Ah, yes, the Dwarven prospectors," Harbin adds reluctantly, as though hoping Victor might dismiss it as a lesser concern. "A pair of brothers- rockbreakers, you know? They've gone missing. They were last seen heading toward the ruins of the Dwarven Excavation, south of here. It's likely just bad luck, but..." He doesnt finish the thought.
The quill hovers over the map for a moment longer before Harbin sets it down with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. "That's... Everything, I suppose. Everything I know, at least." His gaze flickers briefly to the paper Victor had laid on the desk. "You'll want to be careful, of course. The dragon... Rhyme isn't just a beast. It's clever, ruthless. And the others- well, they're no less dangerous."
Harbin's words hang in the air, his attempt at authority undermined by the faint tremor in his voice.
Victor's unyielding silence presses down like a weighted fog, making the moment stretch unbearably. Harbin looks ready to burst under the pressure, his fingers drumming nervously on the edge of the desk. "I- I can have provisions sent to the Stonehill Inn if you need," he offers hastily, as if desperate to contribute something more tangible. "Or... Or anything else. Just say the word."
The town outside carries on, oblivious to the exchange within the hall. The clinking of steel on steel at the smithy, the idle chatter of merchants, the laughter of children- all of it feels strangely detached from the gravity of the map now marked with danger at every turn.
Harbin's eyes dart to Victor again, waiting for his next move, the tension in the room coiled like a spring. Whatever Victor decides, it's clear that Limtons fragile peace hangs in the balance.
"No." His modulated, metal-tinted voice is calm in spite of it all. "That is all." That's all it takes, all he needs. After the long stretch of silence on Victor's part waiting for Harbin to finish, Victor takes the paper, inspects the marks, the locations- all of it with argent attention. He's not merely doing that, but the paper is most likely placed in some mental record, scanned and saved, just in case.
At the end of it, Victor rolls it up flat, grabs the edge of his vest to pull a velcro strap and lay it inside an inner pocket before closing it shut for safekeeping. "Have a good day, Townmaster." His adieu bid, Victor doesn't waste even a second longer than he has to by the man wrought with wrecked nerves. His own don't fare so well, to give his word so easily, to tackle such insurmountable odds - but he'll persevere anyhow.
The doors cringe upon his exit, pushed open slowly when he leaves, and takes to the road. His destination is one of deliberance. He'll ignore the dwarves. The mountains, the caves- whatever or wherever they've been, it'll take too long to navigate and his ordinance would be useless in such close confines. And it is mundane work. He can't handhold the whole town.
But the orcs, bandits - and worst of all the dragon? Victor can do somthing about that. Starting with the bandits. In his mind's eye, he's tracking the directions, consulting an in-built compass in the display at his wrist, and taking march into the woods. The keep they've usurped cannot be that far, right?
The journey to Conyberry offers no respite. The well-worn path Victor follows winds like a thread through the endless thicket of the Neverwinter Woods. The towering canopy above casts shadows that shift with the subtle movement of the sun, dappling the ground in faint patches of light. There's a stillness to the forest that feels unnatural- not quite eerie, but unsettlingly muted, as if the world were holding its breath. Birds flit silently between branches; squirrels pause mid-scamper to stare before darting away.
Each step crunches against fallen leaves and twigs, their snapping muted by the thick moss blanketing the forest floor. The smell of earth is heavy in the air- loamy, damp, and tinged with a faint metallic scent.
Despite the tranquil facade, the tension is palpable. The ruins of Conyberry lie ahead, their sinister reputation whispered by the townsfolk lending a weight to the otherwise quiet woods. Bandits have claimed the settlement, their presence a blight on the already desolate remnants of what was once a modest hamlet. Stories of their raids- brutal and merciless- linger like a warning, and it's clear their occupation is no mere idle venture.
As the trees thin, Victor comes upon the outskirts of the ruins. From his vantage point, the ancient village spreads out in a fragmented collection of moss-covered rubble. Stone walls, once proud and tall, have collapsed into jagged piles, with only a few structures standing intact, their interiors dark and foreboding.
A faint trail of smoke rises in the distance, barely visible above the treetops, mingling with the heavy clouds that loom overhead. The scent of charred wood mingles with the natural musk of the forest, betraying the presence of a campfire. Voices carry faintly on the wind- gruff, laughter-laden tones interspersed with the occasional shout.
Drawing closer, Victor reaches a ridge overlooking the camp. From here, the layout is starkly clear, etched into the ruins like a stain.
At the center of the ruins sprawls a cluster of tents, hastily erected from patchwork cloth and tattered tarps. Nearby, a firepit blazes, surrounded by logs and upturned crates used as seating. Bandits sit haphazardly around it, their forms silhouetted against the orange glow.
To the east, a collapsed building forms a crude barricade, its stones piled high to create a makeshift wall. Two sentries lean lazily against it, bows slung across their backs. They seem inattentive, their post treated more as a chore than a responsibility. Their idle conversation floats faintly into the air, though the words are too distant to discern.
The northern side of the camp is bordered by an even greater ruin: the remains of an old chapel, its stone faade adorned with faded carvings of forgotten deities. The roof has caved in, leaving the interior exposed to the elements. A narrow gap in the chapel's wall leads into the camp, but it's dangerously close to the bandits by the fire.
Scattered throughout the camp are crates and barrels, likely filled with stolen goods- everything from food and supplies to whatever treasures the bandits could pilfer from their victims. Weapons are strewn about as well, though most lie near the firepit, suggesting that the bandits feel little need to keep their arms at the ready.
At the firepit sit eight figures, all armed but relaxed. Their clothing is a mismatched array of leathers and furs, suggesting a lack of uniformity but an abundance of experience. They drink from flasks and pass around chunks of roasted meat, laughing uproariously at some crude joke. Their voices are coarse and boisterous, lacking any sense of urgency.
The sentries at the barricade are younger, less hardened. They fidget as they talk, occasionally glancing toward the forest but never for long. One of them kicks at the dirt absently, while the other balances precariously on a stone, his arms spread wide like a child playing a game.
Calming, sure, but that is not what Victor looks for. He's locked in on his task, his decision. Poise and purpose. The ruins laid there not too far form his spot are noted with uncanny vigilance, skipping optics focused and sliding from target to target, then, vantage to vantage. He dips out silently from the worn and beaten path, into the thicket, into the darkness where his eyes are all but faint glowing dots.
His rifle is slung over his shoulder to free his front, leave himself prepared to grab hold of a large trunk with a good vantage. The plan is a simple one- but simple often works best, often what is necessary. The surface of the centuries old wood groans and cracks while he tears through in ascent, climbing up to the canopy where he can fashion himself a sniper's nest.
And he does. A thick branch supports his weight, and his rifle is drawn to him again while he sits there on it, reaching behind into his armaments to retrieve a silencer and affix it to the barrel of his weapon, extend its bipod next - then lay low, forward-facing and preparing. The cold is shiver inducing, but Victor burns at a constant. An overclocking of his body whirrs it silently, and specks of frost that deign to lay on him only moisten his attire when they melt upon touch.
His gaze behind the scope, Victor takes a deep breath, starts to inspect the camp with air in his lungs held tight. The tip of his barrel moves subtly, target to target. Starting from the guards first, those youths - the ones who knew what they signed up for with illusions of grandeur. His finger is already on the trigger, ready, and in the next set of breaths he takes and exhales to completion, in compelte stillness..
Victor takes his first shot, right between the brows of one.
Then more, in rapid succession, of everyone in his sights.
The rifle whispered once in the night, a muffled cough, and the first sentry crumpled where he stood. The bullet took him between the eyes, snapping his head back with a wet spray that painted the barricade behind him. He slumped lifelessly, his body folding into an awkward heap, as though sleep had stolen him mid-watch.
Victor didn't move. His breath was slow and measured, his finger steady as it shifted minutely, sighting the next target.
The second sentry turned sharply, his face alight with confusion. His lips parted as if to shout, but the sound never came. A second shot, just as quiet as the first, punched a hole clean through his temple. He collapsed beside his companion, his body joining the dirt in the same abrupt surrender.
At the firepit, laughter stuttered into uneasy silence. Figures sat straighter, their postures sharpening as unease rippled through the group. One man stood, his gaze darting toward the treeline, suspicion warring with the dull glaze of drink.
"What was that?"
The question hung unanswered in the air. The bandit's head snapped sideways a heartbeat later, a crimson mist blooming as the third shot found its mark. His body toppled forward, crashing into the fire. Flames leapt higher, casting wild shadows against the ruins.
The bandits erupted into chaos. Some dove for cover, scrabbling behind crates and barrels. Others stumbled for their weapons, the clatter of steel on stone loud in their haste. Shouts of alarm mingled with panicked curses, their voices disjointed and frantic.
From above, Victor remained a phantom. His barrel swayed with deliberate ease, a predator tracking its prey. A figure broke toward the chapel's ruins, his sprint uneven, desperation in every step. A sharp *pop* from the rifle, and he fell mid-stride, his body rolling lifelessly to a stop in the dirt.
Two more bolted for the northern treeline, their panic driving them into the open. The rifle coughed twice more in quick succession. The first fell instantly, clutching at his chest as he crumpled. The second let out a sharp cry, his leg buckling beneath him as the shot grazed his thigh. He collapsed into the brush, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps.
Silence returned to the camp. It pressed against the ruins, heavy and unnatural, broken only by the crackling fire and the faint, pitiful moans of the injured.
A figure stirred from behind a stack of crates, a boy clutching a rusted sword in trembling hands. He stepped cautiously into the open, his eyes wide and darting, searching for a threat he couldn't find. The weapon shook visibly in his grip, his knuckles pale where they clung to the hilt.
Somewhere nearby, the wounded man dragged himself toward the treeline, his hands clawing at the dirt. A wet trail marked his path, dark and glistening, as he whimpered through clenched teeth.
The air stilled. Even the fire seemed to quiet, its crackle subdued as the faintest breath of wind teased the treetops.
Victor watches.
And after following the familiar sound of gunshots, so does Ash.
Frightened child or not, wounded man or otherwise. Victor is a vigilant force of destruction railing his bullets. The barrel of his rifle steams at the end while he stays lingering between the dazed duo. Then, two more pulls of the trigger. An empty magazine falls to the ground from the canopy above. The whole camp is cleared, no survivors, no one to tell the tale of what transpired. An empty ruin, nothing more. Another click sounds while Victor reloads, then sits upright to take a breath to fill his empty lungs.
When he hisses it out, it comes out a sickeningly hot mist of steam from vents buried into his half-mask. Not only that, but he steams. A fine mist rising off of his shoulders, the exposed skin of his neck and throat, the backs of his hands, from between the seams of every digits drawn black. The machine burns from within while he hangs his rifle over his shoulder, then begins the slow climb down.
No more enemies to face, Victor simply takes back to the road. One out of three locations he's deigned to handle, and his head is held low while he holds his rifle from the strap of it on his shoulder, walking by slowly, silently, down the beaten path back to the village so he can use it as a checkpoint, a marker that leads to the next spot. The Orcs that trouble the village. One last stop, before he has to tackle the inevitable. The White Dragon plague upon the area.
Ash is not too far from a phantom themself, a whisper, a shade. They move without a sound, hazel eyes calm as they past through the forest, favoring the trees themself. After all, when one has no reason to fear the monsters in the woods, one can travel more to one's whims. Crossbow in hand spear drawn at the sound of gunfire, they pause when they find someone walking away from the sounds.
Someone in the modern battle gear of Earth, not the Wilds. Someone likely well used to that gear. Someone... with a stylized sun pin. Which means... an enemy, a danger. If seen in Haven, Ash would continue to watch and avoid... but here, now? In this wide, new world where Earthlings are few, the chances of him coming for the same reason is high. So, a greeting is appropriate.
Dragons, slender and long, slowly glide into Victor's vision, twirling in the air. Small - more like winged lizarrd, truly, they curl through the air, silver, blue, white... until they form some words: Venetian truce? Until we handle this dragon - it's why you're here, no?
The dragons, they draw Victor's ire immediately. His eyes dip up. Faintly glowing optics of raw, peerless blue to follow the slendere dragons twirling in the air with vicious intensity. His hand dips at his holster immediately, but stays there, given their size, and the nature of the location, but the words that they form - that makes Victor still. He's not aloof enough to miss that they're not what he seeks, but they give him pause nonetheless.
Until he speaks aside. From a distorted voice that comes not from his mouth but from his throat, past the faintly visible lines embedded into his skin that still expel gouts of slender steam from heat within. "Show yourself." Is the first thing he says to the ether, with a glance around, not yet immediately finding the perpetrator hidden away. Yet, there is something else to his pause too, in between his words. For which he adds, "I accept your terms - but only if you also help me with a task on the side on our way." Because another hand makes things easier, even if it is not exactly an ally hand. Beggers can't be choosers.
Ash pauses a moment - then they're in front of him, as if they were always there. Really, not very bright, knowing who they are dealing with - or, at least, his faction - but it's certainly far more fun. A bit of illusions, a bit of pathing, and Victor sees the slight and androgynous form before him. They wear a gas mask and hood, but it's offset - so that they can breath better, clearly. They adjust it, so that the voice scrambler mostly hides the drawl in their voice, as they promise, "Sounds fair to me. What's the task?"
The air shivers for a brief moment, a flicker of movement that catches Victor's attention just as it might be too late to react. Ash appears before him, as though they had always been there, a distortion of space and shadow that somehow melds perfectly with the surroundings. The slight form stands, hooded and masked, with just enough visible to reveal their androgynous frame. The contrast of their presence- a mixture of deliberate uncertainty and deliberate showmanship- creates a ripple through the stillness around them.
Victor doesn't flinch. His gaze moves, cold and calculating, but there's an unmistakable twitch of recognition in the way his eyes flicker beneath his visor. This isn't the first time he's encountered someone who toys with illusions and misdirection. The unpredictability of it, though- it's a challenge, something he hadn't expected. And, in some twisted way, it amuses him.
Ash stands there, seemingly unfazed by the weight of Victor's presence. The low hum of his mechanical body fills the silence between them, and his hand twitches toward his weapon. But his fingers never close fully around the grip. They don't need to, not yet. Not for this.
Ash adjusts their gas mask, the slight clicking of the mechanism audible as they make sure the voice scrambler is aligned to conceal their drawl. The low, steady distortion of their voice dances through the air, an artificial barrier that does little to hide the tone beneath. "Sounds fair to me," they say, their voice a modulated hum with that slight edge of playfulness- something that belies the gravity of the situation. "What's the task?"
Victor's optics focus on them for a moment longer, not just scanning the external, but weighing the intentions behind the words. Ash's confidence is brash, a quality he recognizes in the more unpredictable members of his circles. Still, their approach isn't an outright threat- more like a challenge, or a game. Victor knows the type. He's dealt with people like them before. Still, the question lingers. He isn't naive enough to believe anyone is without their hidden motives.
The world seems to hold its breath as the tension stretches. Trees creak slightly in the wind, the soft rustle of leaves like whispers in the distance. The scent of wet earth and growing moss fills the air, mingling with the distant scent of burning wood that Victor can faintly detect. This forest, ancient as it may be, is far from quiet tonight. It waits- just like the strange figure before him.
The task before them is simple, but the journey will not be. The dragons may have made their demands clear, but Victor's patience is limited, and Ash's involvement remains yet another variable in the equation of his mission. There's no trust yet, only a temporary alliance bound by necessity.
Behind them, the forest pulses, every tree a silent sentinel, watching. And above, the wind shifts, carrying with it the murmur of something greater than either of them could fully understand, just beyond the veil of sight and sound. The road ahead is treacherous, and while the path is clear enough, the destination is still shrouded in darkness.
Quite limited in patience, in fact. Victor cuts to the chase. He reaches up, palm open to display that he's not doing anything threatening, or doing something as foolish as breaking a truce. Not that anyone would know if he did, out here, in their lonesome, right? A velcro strap of his vest is pulled open to reveal an inner pocket, from which he retrieves a worn and inked map, folded in half. With the pocket closed again, Victor throws it at Ash.
"I had three locations. One ruin full of bandits." He took care of them, already. "I'm heading to the orcs, the next location on the map, soutwest of the town. They've been tormenting the village." Very righteous of him, to handle all of their tasks. The reasons may be unclear to Ash, for now, but Victor doesn't say as to why he's here, undertaking more and more herculean efforts as opposed to doing his business and moving on. "After that, the lizard's mountain shouldn't be too far, we'll go up the mountain when the orc tribe is dead." Orc, boar-men, whatever they are. Victor doesn't seem to care for their nature, beyond their eradication.
"Let's go." The modulated, calm voice speaks through his throat again with no movement to his jaw beneath the half-mask, and those cruelly piercing blue eyes drift from Ash to the road ahead again. One hand at his side, the other holding the strap of his rifle, he's heading back whence he came. Village first, then southbound, intending to strike while the iron's hot. Who knows, maybe all the carnage will call to attention the dragon itself.
Ash pulls open the map, looking over it carefully, turning to walk besides the man - neither ahead, nor behind. "Mmm, yes... I take it you handled the bandits by the shooting. Orcs... I *was* told of a raid. Your task is very agreeable." They take out a flip phone, taking a picture of the map with their shitty camera, before putting it away and tossing the map back to Victor with a small grunt to indicate that they're doing so.
As they travel Ash shifts their mask for breathability again, paying attention to their surroundings while a hand is never too far from their spear, or from their crossbow - which is quick-clicked into a strap next to their medkit thigh bag.
Partly correct, indeed, the carnage of the bandits calls the attention of one thing, though not the intended target. As the duo make their way south towards the Orcish infestation, the sensation of, not being watched, or followed, but coming closer to danger grows. It starts with the silence of the landscape- no birds chirp, or fly, no insects nibble on leaves, no squirrels dart through the foliage playfully.
It's a too-silent sort of thing that should naturally cause the nerves to go on guard and the hair to stand on end. Then it's the rumbling of the earth beneath Victor and Ash's feet, like several small explosions that cause small rocks and stones to jump up in the air an inch or so. The marching of a thousand hooves, perhaps, or- the cause of that shadow that flies in from overhead.
In the distance down the road, a storm of dust kicked up by a hoard of too many orcs to count- it's a warband, fully armed and armored, and marching the same path north that the party marches south. The roar of battle and encouragement amongst themselves is palpable, even if the language is rudimentary and barely-understood. Ash would likely understand the faint dribbles of Wildling more than Victor, but the inflection, the emotion behind them is the same as it is in any language: Pillage, kill, plunder, rape, take what they please and leave nothing behind. Limton is in trouble a second time.
And with the flap of leathery wings high over head, circling the valley, there's no telling what will ensue- is the dragon working with the Orcs, or stalking them? Sand kicks up with another powerful flap of those wings, and the gust of wind that exudes from the motion of the great white beast's flight nearly bowls our wouldbe adventurers over, striking them in the face with twigs and debris and stones, but thus far the two seem overall unnoticed. Then comes the screech- one of hunting, and from on high a pillar of pure ice sorcery beams straight down from betwixt the thick, milky clouds- right into the center of the boar-headed army.
Destruction ensues.
Ash leaps into action, falling back into the treeline, out of the road - wind should travel more difficultly there, though falling trees might be a concern. Still, they seem willing to trust their luck in the forest - a trust that is rewarded with them just so happening to step out of the way before the signs of a flying branch or falling deadwood is even seen. It's as if Fate itself has blessed Ash with good luck.
Ash's focus is getting closer to the warband... closer... yet, closer. No - they stop, waiting for them, now, to reach them. They're waiting, as they pull out their spear, in order to summon the Glow Cloud within their midsts. A massive, powerful pastel will 'o wisp that feeds on every orc and mount in a 10 foot radius from the more interesting orc that can be spotted in the middle of the army.
All hail.
The paper Ash has thrown Victor is caught and put where it belongs, under his clothes - but the motion is done with the distraction unfolding up ahead. Victor is silent through it, watching, walking, until he has to stop and the expression on his face - contained only to the sight of his eyes in sight, is harsh with vindictive vigor. No doubt there is a tense jaw beneath that half-mask, because even while the gust of wind strikes to skid him backwards, his hands are curled into fists at his sides.
His voice, modulated as it is, augmented, comes with a rising hiss of steam not from his mask but from several striations around Victor's throat, "Let's split." He covers the ground he's lost, unstraps his rifle from his shoulder, back into his two-handed grip to hold it tight, with wintry eyes arching high to meet the trajectory of the cruel breath of the dragon that rains upon the warband. "The orcs are distracted," A change in plans, but one that's not so bad to adapt to. He metallicaly hisses more demands while Ash works their magic; "Distract them more." Of course he means in lieu of Ash's penchant for that display of illusions. They can manage. "Lead them in circles if you can, make sure they don't escape the dragon. You're creative enough, si?"
Throwing orders around is an easy feat, but perhaps because of their Venetian Trust, Victor trusts his back to Ash enough to do so, and deigns upon him to take the more dangerous of the tasks. The Dragon itself. "Once they're near that building," The barrel of his weapon with the silencer is lifted one-handed, pointing at the Town Hall in the distance, the tallest of the building. "Keep them there. I'll be on top of it, covering you from above while I wait for the dragon to land." For what purpose is easy to guess. He's intending something very reckless, very dangerous.
Ash is given little chance to talk things through, Victor has already grabbed his rifle with both hands, and he takes off at a rapid pace, a land-eating stride making a beeline into the town from the other end of the roada from them and through the last vestiges of the forest, straight for the side of the building he gestured and around the warband in disarray - to leap up and start to dig metallic fingers in with a creak of steel, carve his way up to the top of the building.
Ash sucks their teeth softly as yet another person misunderstands the capability of illusion magic - but now is not the time to let their inner professor wake to scold this stranger. Instead, they start work on doing as he said - after all, they're very naturally attuned to following orders.
This takes the form of a stick - the All Mighty Glow Cloud, as it subsumes orcs from the edges, pushing and corralling them with the pain of a burning light that sucks their life force. And it takes the form of a carrot. A human woman with porcine curves and muscles, trying to escape the horde. No, just one? Two - no, this must be several households of woman, mostly young, though the older ones are fat and juicy.
They carry warm food the orcs can almost (almost) smell over the dust and turmoil - meats and pies, strings of sausages - in a hurry to the designated building. Some carry more than food, their family jewels, gold, magical weapons of their husbands that the women, being but human, are not capable of wielding themselves.
Different orcs see them at different times, though the dust cloud obscures them from sight again and again. The orcs at the front, any that look like scouts, they take glimpses in turn - then bamph, there goes the Glow Cloud again. All hail. Ash has no choice but to find a particularly sturdy tree to climb to maintain a good look at the orcs to cast their illusions. Distractions, a bit of doubling, proper illusions - they have to cycle through them and time them carefully, as Ash simply cannot cast them out one after another. They're forced to focus fully on their task, leaving all else to Victor.
Ash darts into the treeline while Victor starts to climb the tallest building he can find: the belltower atop the townmaster's hall. Metallic fingers find the wooden logs that comprise the building easy to breach and pierce with tier strong grip, and over his head the bell rings out the danger to the town's folk, men coming to arms, farmers shooing their families into cellars, women gathering children, theirs or otherwise, and fleeing into places where they might find the most security. Some of them flee into the surrounding forests, too, opting to face head-on the beasts of the trees rather than the assured, inescapable destruction of the dragon and the hoard of orcs that it harasses. The aftermath of this, to be caught up in it, would be a death sentence for any purely-human Wildling.
Townmaster Harbin does not flee- not yet. He is in the thick of it all, guiding evacuations, helping up those citizens that have been trampled by the mob, helping the weak and injured find their footing to escape the incoming danger to their homes. "I understand that we are all in a panic!!" he shouts out, all of the nerves from his prior interactio nwith Victor gone in the face of saving his people. "But the worst thing that any of us can do is cause someone else to be left behind!"
"Secure your loved ones! Help your neighbors! Material possessions can be replaced!!" he insists, running against the grain of the riot to ensure that each and every single one of his townsfolk makes it to safety. "The children!!" he cries out, running towards the building that serves as the town's school: Alderfield Orchard, which is in the direct path of the encroaching hoard.
He almost doesn't notice Victor scaling his place of work with all of that weaponry, and he certainly doesn't notice the stealthy shape of Ash slipping amongst the trees- though he does doubletake that massive opalescent cloud of light. Victor is given another glance then, the townmaster's eyes steeled- and a level of trust laid upon the Templar's shoulders before he continues his half-limped sprint towards the orchard.
Meanwhile, how could the Orcs be distracted by women and gold and food when they are beset upon by a dragon? Some of them, surprisingly easily, assuming the mass of their kin will handle the beast as the lesser-minded dribble drool down their fronts and start to eagerly give chase in the wrong direction of their initial goal.
Briefly, just briefly, Victor makes note of the Townmaster. The moment they lock eyes is when Victor has scaled to the edge of the building, hanging on a precarious edge. When he's pulled up fully, to sit at the edge, and watch with argent attention of the situation with an assessing gaze, there is a pang of hurt to his eyes at the orchard. It steels his visage, those eyes flare. Without a word yet, he stands up - and that plan of waiting until the horde is distracted and the Dragon besieging them alongside the town lands on solid ground is cast aside.
"Harbin!" That augmented voice, steel laid within it, echoes over all the combat, all the strife - and Victor is untangling a fragmentation grenade from his mass of arsenal. With its pin still contained, he rears his arm back, throws a near-perfect shot, straight for the man. His aim isn't for him to catch, there is no time for that- he'll hit him, and he'll hope he'll get it. "Pull the pin, and throw it at them!"
That's enough ruckus to call attention to himself, surely, but he doesn't stop there. His rifle is slung over his back once more while he turns away from the Townmaster and Ash doing their best, to instead reach for the blades affixed in a cross at the back of his waist. Handles within his grip, they're drawn with a hiss of steel, swung aside in testing arcs, all as he strides to the center of the roof he's on. He is not mere brute force and raw, mechanized speed - but acrobatic agility too. Each precarious step is taken carefully, while his voice roars louder, to the sky, to that behemoth.
"Dragon!" They're smart, right? Capable of speech, even. Maybe even enough to take a challenge, because he poses one now, here, with arms stretched, frost at the backdrop of him in his taunt, as steam slowly rises from every exposed skin in a more severe overclock. He's a prime cut of meat, that one could just swoop down to steal a bite in plain, open view- with his own tooth picks to get the sinew out of one's teeth, to boot. "Come and get it."
Ash sees that their tactics fail for many, but they don't let that stop them. Instead, they switch tactics - the stick remains, but what if... the dragon had babies? Dragonlings, who are chasing down the humans? Dragonlings that an orc, maybe a small group, could take down and slay... and surely the dragon will want to stop attacking once its children are being threatened? Just like any other animal.
At least, that's the frame of mind Ash uses to set up their illusions this time around. Little wyrmlings, just a little away from the warband, so that it's reasonable to swerve just a bit, away from the attacks, to get this easier kill. Sure, it keeps running away... you have to get closer. Not that far away, it's not *really* a chase....
Storytelling, where Ash comes alive, is made easy with illusions. Well, easy in some way... not in term of exertion, which drains them as they focus on the gift their bloodline gives. But, they have to maintain the cloud, too... ah, what's the Templar doing? They remove their mask completely as they gasp for breath, sweat dripping down their draw- face, as they focus their eagle-eyes upon him. He... really is trying to take it alone.
Ash doesn't truly understand what the plan was to understand what's off - they like to hyper-focus on their part, and worry about the rest when they have time. But... the townspeople... the horde... they narrow their eyes and try to focus again, redoubling their efforts. They believe that Victor wants the boars gathered so that his fight with the dragon will take out a more concentrated group trying to get him - kill the dragon while it kills the orcs, a triangle of violence.
The thought is so amusing that Ash almost forgets - knowing where the orcs should be, they can tell the people how to best escape. The Townsman, the fool trying to see the panicked - he sees a path formed of calming mists winding the quickest path out of time, and away from the worst of the orcs. Vaelys, the Brumal Empress, raised as the Protector of the Wilds, plays a part to save Her people, and has chosen him to lead them.
Which is all the focus Ash can spare on them, back to carrot, stick, carrot, stick....
The town square was a battlefield. Orcs swarmed through the shattered streets, their guttural war cries blending with the anguished screams of townsfolk. The icy breath of the dragon above turned cobblestones to brittle, frozen shards, the massive beast circling overhead like an omen of death.
The belltower of the town hall, partially crumbling from the earlier assaults, now bore an ominous presence. A shadow moved atop its creaking heights, smoke curling into the air from unseen mechanisms. Below, Harbin was in a desperate fight against time, shepherding children and villagers to a semblance of safety within the fragile walls of a collapsing inn. Each step was frantic, his broad-brimmed hat flapping wildly in the freezing winds, his coat rimed with frost.
The air vibrated with the high-pitched clink of metal hitting stone. A grenade rolled to Harbin's feet, gleaming faintly in the firelight. His head snapped upward, his eyes meeting the faint glow of the figure high above. The signal was unmistakable; the demand unrelenting.
Harbin bent low, his hands trembling as he scooped the grenade from the icy ground. It felt heavier than it should, though the weight was as much psychological as physical. With a sharp motion, the pin was pulled, and the townmaster swung his arm back, his aim unpracticed but desperate. The grenade arced through the air, its path cutting toward the densest part of the orc horde.
The explosion was immediate. A deafening roar shattered the air, and the ground quaked as fire and shrapnel ripped through the ranks of the charging orcs. The bodies closest to the blast were flung apart, their brutal momentum halted by the sheer ferocity of the detonation. Harbin staggered backward, shielding the children behind him as the blast's heat rolled outward. For a fleeting moment, the square was free of its attackers, though the respite would not last.
Above the chaos, the dragon roared. Its icy wings sliced through the smoke-filled air as it turned its attention away from the town center, seeking out a more singular threat. Its frosty breath misted with each snarl, the promise of another devastating assault.
Beyond the square, in the dense woods framing the town, movement was a blur amidst the trees. Shadows flickered unnaturally as if the forest itself conspired against the invading orcs. One moment, a hulking orc charged toward the town, its heavy axe raised high; the next, a sharpened bolt pierced its throat, the body collapsing without a sound.
Other orcs spun in confusion, their brutish senses unable to pinpoint the source of the attacks. Their ranks became chaotic as another shadow appeared, this one darting low to the ground. The glint of a spear flashed in the firelight as it struck, the weapon's wielder dancing through the melee with a fluidity that defied comprehension. The illusion of numbers scattered the orcs further, each attacker seemingly multiplied in the dim light.
High above, the dragons shadow passed through the trees, casting long, jagged streaks of darkness that sent the remaining orcs scrambling. The frost from its breath coated branches, turning patches of the forest into brittle, glimmering wastelands. Still, the figure in the trees moved with precision, untouchable amidst the chaos.
Outside the towns boundaries, a ridge rose from the landscape like a natural wall against the night. Smoke and fire from the burning buildings below rose in lazy spirals, obscuring the stars. The dragon's roar pierced through the sounds of the battlefield, its massive form beating its wings to gain altitude. It hovered briefly, its long, serpentine neck craning as it surveyed the town with icy malice.
The ridge wasnt empty. Shapes shifted against the uneven terrain, occasionally catching the faint glint of the dragons piercing gaze. The frost from the dragons wings sent shards of ice tumbling down the cliffside, crashing onto the rocks below. The air grew colder with each pass, the temperature dropping unnaturally as the dragon prepared its next move.
The dragon banked suddenly, its attention locking onto a new threata single, small figure. Its wings stretched wide, blotting out the pale light of the moon as it dove, frost building in its open maw. The frost formed in dense clouds that spiraled out from its snarl, freezing every surface in its path as the massive beast descended. The confrontation, inevitable and ferocious, loomed just over the ridge.
Below, the fires still burned, and the battle for the town raged on. The dragons wings sent freezing winds cascading down into the valley, where they collided with heat from the scattered fires. Ice and flame churned together in an unnatural storm, a reflection of the violent, chaotic night.
Exactly. That's what Victor wanted. It's attention. Even with the cold drawing on higher and higher with each second enough to even dent the overclocked and searing heat of his skin, Victor doesn't waver. One more step, one more lean, he's facing forward and digging his heels in to stand stalwart against the looming threat descending in a straight and narrow path for him. It is all here and now, now or never. Death or victory, no room for retreat. Victor frees one of his hands.
The slender saber is lifted and Victor brushes his fist against his jaw first, pushes off his mask, lets it drop and tumble before biting down on the hilt of his weapon tightly, and the hand is extended aside. Fingers click once into a fist, and the seams around his digits crack with the release into an open palm, where each hand is extended by metal through the joins. Whirring machinery underneath the skin nearly roars in anticipation, of anything to grasp on and lock in place- even if he lost that arm, it would stay clutching.
The other saber is twisted in a reverse grip as seconds stretch on slower and slower, poised to bite into flesh, to clutch on-- and should the dragon make that fateful descent, Victor is going to duck forward. Drop his centermass, balance on the edge, gather force like a coiled spring. Just before the imminent collision, he leaps, straight for the behemoth, at anywhere he can hold, at anything he can grasp with its throat as his goal- to wrap fingers in between scales, hold on tight if he can, even if the protection of the dragon is sharp enough to dig into his flesh and bleed him with his effort. If he can manage at all, his hold is consolidated by the descent of steel. Twisted to bite down, shove it through the scales. A likely meaningless assault, but that is not the intention. The intent is to create a foothold. Bury his blade in, and pull himself with it to scale the insurmountable wall that is the assailant of this town.
All in search of a weak spot, any spot, where the scales are weakest, or non-existent.
Ash moves fluidly to adjust to the flow of battle, as the orcs are blown apart and scattered. The glory of the dragon is out of reach, practice for Gonthorian out of reach. Still, theirs is not the world of glory, it is the role of shadows, quiet, and getting shit done. And these straggling piles of shit need to get done. Can't stop, won't stop, silvery threads with gleaming beads of gemstone and wood leave a trail like winter's mist as with one step, Ash plays arbalist, and with another, souhei, bolts and blade at play as they're there, then not.
Silver, gray, black, the color of ashes, amidst the flicker of flame and the dark red of blood. What they can do now, what they can accomplish now, who they can save now - that's what's on their mind as they fade in and out of the battlefields, cloaked, disguised, tricked, distracted. An orc attacks his brother, thinking it a shadow, while another attacks a shadow, finding nothing but a blade at the back of his neck.
And, when they can, a glance up. A dragon, and a man waiting - make it a meal, too delectable for ice, prime for teeth or claws. Plumper, juicier, and certainly not dangerous to the dragon's health - a pork dinner pretending to be a hero.
And then, Ash leaves it to said pork dinner - Victor. They slay orcs, clear them out, try to guide and protect any townspeople that survive. Cloak the children, bandages at hand - always - to tend to wounded, should an opportunity present itself.
Their patch, revealed, might be familiar - especially to those of Navorost. As well as their silver hair, golden-green eyes, and dusky brown skin - they might have heard of this lord, this noble from another world. Not that Ash voices it. A look is all they can afford to advertise - lives are more important.
The wind howled through the shattered remains of the belltower as Victor waited at its peak. The stone beneath him, cracked and brittle, seemed barely capable of holding against the gale stirred by the circling dragon above. The night sky was cold and vast, the light of the moon faint and pale against the frost-covered scales of the dragon.
Each beat of its massive wings sent another frigid gust rolling across the battlefield, carrying with it the sharp scent of ice and blood. The dragon's body twisted with precision and grace as it wheeled in the air, its form an unnatural fusion of elegance and terror. Frost trailed from its claws, and its maw dripped with freezing mist, curling downward to envelop the distant ruins and burning remains of the town below.
Victor stood unmoving, perched like a hawk on the thin edge of the highest point. His stance balanced, poised, ready. The saber in his hand caught the fleeting light, its blade gleaming faintly, while the second rested between his teeth. The frost that clung to his coat and hair glimmered as he remained still, the wind tugging at him like an impatient specter. Above, the dragon twisted again, its direction shifting, its gaze focused. It had chosen its moment.
The descent was swift, a thunderous rush of wind and shadow as the dragon hurtled toward the belltower. Its claws, vast and jagged as spears, extended forward, reaching with lethal precision. The ice clinging to its body seemed to amplify its size, creating a frozen storm in its wake.
Stone cracked and groaned as the belltower shuddered under the onslaught. A section of the structure crumbled beneath the force of the dragons approach, cascading down into the darkened square below. The beasts jaws parted, unleashing a deafening roar that seemed to pierce through the freezing air and shake the very foundations of the battlefield.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath as the moment of impact neared. The tower trembled, fragile against the immense power bearing down on it. The dragons eyes glinted, frost and fury melding into a single, terrifying focus. It closed the distance in an instant, its claws reaching.
The belltower groaned. The dragon struck.
Victor found himself clenched surprisinly loosely between teeth as sharp as shards of ice and as long as his own forearm, still frigidly cold from the blasts of frozen air the dragon had unleashed upon the town. Blood and oil, flesh and metal, the beast goes crashing down through the bulk of the townmaster's hall with its meal in maw, unsuspecting of the sharp bite of weaponry that pierced the tender inside of its mouth, that soft, malleable roof of flesh that brought quickly-freezing tears of pain to the beasties' eyes.
Not at it's neck, but between its teeth then. Victor proved just a tad too slow to do what he wanted - but this, this didn't mean all was lost, either. As he's caught between the jagged sharp razor of massive teeth, laying on a massive, frigid tongue, with the sides of his body scratched and bleeding, his resolve is only more fueled. In spite of the rough debris impacting what part of him hung out, he acts, pulls himseld through the disorienting haze of the imminent collusion that landed him where he did.
The blade inside the beasts's maw is a fleeting hope. A stray bit of luck- maybe something rubbed off on him from Ash, but it is enough. His teeth are grit around the blade, with a single rivulet of blood running down the edge of his mouth while his expression is hardened in kept-pain and fury while they hurl through the building. A deeper stab is shoved in, at the roof of the creature's mouth, and the blade is left there-- but Victor's time is fleeting.
One breath attack, and he'd be done for, truly, for good.
So he does the least reasonable thing, and slips past the teeth, slides in on his back into that cavernous maw. The blade he's affixed into flesh is used as a crutch. A leanto support where he hooks the crook of his arm through to stay against the current of a mouth trying to swallow him in hole. His other hand detaches the line of grenades at his vest, one by one - unpinned with his thumb and chucked in in quick succession down that gullet. Half a dozen, with half a second in between.
As soon as he's done, and as soon as clock begins to tick, Victor grasps the blade in his mouth. Twists it, and stabs it downward through the tongue underneath him and further below to pin it against the inside of the Dragon's mouth. One arm hooked around each hilt, gears grind and steel creaks. His body resists the tempting pull of destruction down the throat of that monster while his teeth are grit with a steam-erupting hiss as he stands firm, waiting, counting.
All for the inevitable explosion that'll line down dragon's throat, all the way to its stomach. Will he come out unharmed? Will he even come out? Probably not, where he's stuck behind a bar of teeth serving as his prison. All he does is hold his breath.
Await the inevitable.
Ash looks up at the dragon and their shape blurs for a moment. The Path teeters at their fingers, beckoning them up with him. But, what could they do inside? They can't path with him unless they tried to carry him like a pack of potatoes... besides, he was a Templar. There was nothing *to* do to help him... this fight, should he do it right, is his.
So, they focus on the wounded, the survivors, the stragglers. The soothing aura that pervades the air around Ash along with their medical expertise, helping them into the forest, away from town, away from the dragon, and what orcs may have survived both the grenades and Ash's sorcery and battle-mancing. Ash even summons Briar - A man-sized bipedal vulpine jackalope to help, protecting and clearing them away. They drink deep of the fear and anger pervading the fear - they can't help it, in some cases, but they don't allow themself to savor the taste. That can wait.
It is neither a gulp nor a swallow that sees that steady stream of grenades falling down the throat of the young white dragon that Victor currently tantalizes the tastebuds of. It is the opening of its throat.
It's the frigid feeling ov frostbite threatening Victor's toes as the temperature of that maw suddenly plummets to sub-zero temperatures in an instant. It's the feeling of gooseflesh creeping up the human flesh of his legs and causing his musculature to shiver against the steel of his bones.
It is death, ice cold, as liquid nitrogen, or dry ice, maybe, starts to bubble deep within the dragon's gullet. One by one those grenades fall, and with each drop into the monster's throat, the thick fog of finality climbs closer and closer to the Templar's core, threatening his internal body temperature as ice begins to form on his clothing, both in a Rhyme, and in a rime.
Ash lends a Helping Hand as they always do, too, collecting the townsfolk that flee, and those who can't, and rounding them all away from the carnage, the destruction, the imminent doom. Briar soaks up as many arrows and swears as it feasibly can from the assailed horde of orcs that continue to trample through the town, though the majority are less focused on pillaging and far more focused upon downing that dragon. They are centered upon it. Beneath it. And the end of it all?
It comes from a single bang.
The grenade that the townmaster had thrown into the thick of them all suddenly bursts- preceeding a twinkling of orange and yellow light in the deepest internals of the dragon, which starts to suddenly bulge in odd places. In odd ways. It tries to swallow, but it can't- Victor has made sure of that, tongue pinned as it is. But now... All Hell is about to break loose, in the form of a blood rain.
In five
Four
Three
Two...
One
The clock ticks, down to zero.
In spite of the frost biting at his skin, and not just the frigid breath building up freezing him, Victor feels it in his bones. The steel encasing them reacts viciously with it, and his body temperature drops far worse, but all needs release, and he can't focus on it. Frost-laden limbs are forced to move, expend every ounce of strength left in his body to shove against the maw on either side. Push into the blades at the crooks of his arms, one above and one below, in a herculean effort to spread the mouth of the beast.
Shrapnel, explosion.
He's not quick enough. He's not strong enough. All that is seen from the outside is the swelling that comes in bursts from the dragon's stomach. Ascending higher and higher with each muted thud and ruined internals as fire climbs up and out, warmed further by where he dragon fell, straight into the mass of orcs that the townmaster had thrown his grenade- and as all happens at once, it too is caught in the crossfire.
It's hide is too thick for the shrapnel, the enhanced explosive ordinance to do much at all beyond singe, but it is disorienting, the transition of force that slams like a brickwall and transfers the built up energy of an explosion through the skin to rattle everything on the side. Possibly Victor too, still out of sight locked within a massive mouth.
The culmination of it is at the throat of the dragon, where the built up tension sizzles. All the force turning its insides into mush is contained by that tough exterior and bone structure, scales that provide cover can't hope to let it go, so, it does what Victor tried to do. The inverse scale, situated below the beasts throat. It vibrates, comes undone, and the one outer weakness of the young dragon is the seam that spills it all, cracks it like the shell of a tortoise. A loud, fleshy snap, and its whole head is severed from excess pressure, preceding an earth-shaking thud as it fully collapses onto the ground and crushes several orcs on the ground.
The severed head skids, slides upon the ground, then comes still. Very still. With no sight of Victor while everything comes to a damning standstill of silence and frost. The clock keeps ticking, seconds upon seconds. Moment upon moment, up to a minute. Surely some orcs are fleeing, whatever is left of them. Surely the villagers are cowering in fear, trembling with trepidation.
Then, movement.
The serpentine head upon the center of town starts to shift, and the slack, lifeless jaw is slowly pushed up by sheer force. A smidgen first, then more before it briefly quivers in threat of closure- but it is Victor, right beneath those fangs. Upholding the roof of its mouth like Atlas carrying the earth, just until he can throw himself out through the small gap and fall on the ground just as limply as a corpse. Exhaustion, with a drained complexity. His left arm is mangled, his legs up to his waist is covered in frost-laden icicles and jagged ends, while his armor is torn up. Electrical malfunctions create sparks out of the joints upon his mangled limb, while blood is a stark contrast upon his features, pallid as he is, rivulets running from his mouth, under his eyes, out of his ears.
For now, to turn around and lay on his back is the most Victor can muster. Stay there. Breathe, and stare up at the sky that swirls with the cold clouds, as vast as its namesake, heaven itself, where the void weighed by stars shines radiance down upon the scene. Victor coughs, barely, sputters blood, then sighs. Something of relief, of endurance. With an Italian expletive spilled soon after.
"Cazzo."
Ash has their work, as there's always another survivor to lead away, another orc to stab or blast or bolt - and then the moment is as frozen as everything else in this damned winter-warped world. Hazel eyes follow the explosions, shielding the weak with a vulplope's back - who doesn't appreciate this one bit, Ash notes - and then onto the dragon. The bulging, the pressure, it blows - and it falls.
knows that they should bask in victory, driving off the last orcs if they don't flee, speaking warm words of safety, even if it cuts off their feeding... but their other, weaker bloodline moves within them. The maw shifts with the unsettling movement of something dead being pushed around - and Ash is there. They don't remember pathing, but they're there to help him out.
Perhaps Victor would realize, then - that the truce is over. This clearly supernatural person - now showing the colors of a supernatural sect - is standing over his broken body, with weapons in easy reach... and as if they needed it. After all, Victor had seen the sorcery. Ash has the opportunity to murder him right now.
Ash's angelic blood then twinges, and their face contorts. In the gap between human and monster, where corruption has tainted them, yet has not taken hold - there's a struggle on their face. The blood surges again. Ash bends down... and reaches into their medkit. A pill for the pain is placed on his lips - which means he would likely either take it, or keep his mouth shut. Or... turn his head to the side, but it seems that Ash hasn't considered that. A splint for the arm, anesthesia stabbed into him if he doesn't fight back, as Ash brings up all the Spanish curses they can recall.
Victor's mouth is dry. The world spins. It's all a haze. The faint snowfall that falls on his faint countenance, it drifts as water to join the blood on his skin and travel down like rain-stricken tears over his face. The blot upon the heaven's light, Ash, is what drifts that tattered attention to them. He stares up, blue optics slow, barely any energy to them, barely anything. He is truly in the mercy of them, very much defenseless. All it would take is a single blade, a single bullet, or even less, a stomp to the throat and Victor would be dead.
He knows, it shows. There is recognition in Victor's eyes, but there is also a faint smile too, directed at Ash. So faint that it is the ghost of a smile, memory of a memory, jaded, broken- as haunting as a wraith. He swallows dryly, and his chest heaves quietly to simply speak.
"Are the kids safe?"
It matters little whether its a blade, a bullet or a fist coming for him. Victor's vision is so blurred by a faint mist around his eyes that he can't tell whether he's being assisted or damned, whether that thing pressed to his mouth is poison or absolution. There is little fight in Victor, for better, or for worse.
Ash pauses mid- "Guacala cabron" to listen to the man before reaching back into their medkit. It's a bottle of water, pressed to those lips again. "Yes, as many as I could." They have an irritated Tejano staccato in their words, rather than the lazy drawl - who Victor likely wouldn't have associated them with, anyways - they usually use. "We saved them, you and I. Thank you."
They continue their work, their angelic presence soothing the pain and the wounds as well as slowly knitting them together. This isn't a hospital, and Ash doesn't bother to try and path him to one. But, simple basic treatment, keeping him from dying, is their gratitude. Perhaps his arm will remain useless forever. Perhaps the frosbite will take his toes, and he can never walk again. Perhaps many things.
But, in the end, Ash dances across the line between monster and human, unable to settle on either side. Today, this man saved their people. And so, they are human. After they've done what they can, they go back to help and heal the others. Perhaps there will be time to skin the dragon. They introduce themself to the townsman in time as the Border Lord of the Wilds, of Navorost, and part of the Forged Fortune, as well as dropping, at some point, that they are the last Scion of the Heralds of Winter's Grasp. All the Whisper stuff, the important details, the business.
Much of what Ash says is amiss to Victor. All he hears is that the kids are safe, and that is enough. It is what he wanted, it is all he wanted, and a low sigh escapes Victor where he lays after Ash is gone. Shaking breath misting in the air. A few tears, simply of uncontained pain slide down the corners of his face - hard to tell whether it is the moisture of snow, of water, or anything but tears - but they are that, and he offers a simple, quiet prayer that borders on a slow drawl that eventually falls on deaf ears, and mute lips when he closes his eyes along with them.
He'll finally pass out, having finished his task. It wasn't done great. It wasn't perfect, but many were alive, the dragon, gone, the bandits, the orcs- he did what he could, with what he had. For now, though, barely tended, Victor will rest. Stay motionless, lay where he is, in restorative sleep, despite the fact that his life is in the hands of others, be it Ash, or by villagers - or by anyone at all who may have a nefarious purpose. He's too unconscious to care, too exhausted to even do anything about it. Maybe someone will ferry him home, or he will hobble on himself, upon waking. But for now, this is it for Victor.
What orcs remained in the township are little more that statues now- some frozen solid by the initial blast of cold that escaped the dragon's explosion, and others roast- nay, burnt- into solid bricks of black that occasionally break off into chunks of ash. The severance of that head was surely Victor's saving grace, for it it had not been blown off and instead weathered the storm of hot and cold, of fire and ice, there would be nothing left alive for Ash to mend.
Slowly as silence befalls the town, heads begin to poke out of cellars, eyes begin to peer out from the treeline, children begin to slip out of the big farmhouse on the hill where half of the building had caved in long, long ago. The townmaster takes in the details Ash gives to him, and grateful townsfolk tote Victor back to Haven, those more knowledgeable of Earth guiding the unconscious cyborg to the hospital, perhaps, to rest and to heal more properly. Regardless, that is it for now. The dragon is dead, the orcs are slain, the bandits have been brought to justice, and Ash and Victor are heroes of the Wilds- though one's praises are sung more highly than the other's thanks to their verbal business card.
Still, those who were there, those who saw Victor, those who spoke to him from the beginning, know the true story, and perhaps both tales will be passed down for generations to come.
Upon arriving in Limton, Victor's attention was quickly captured by a job board calling for brave souls to defend the town against various threats, including a white dragon known as Rhyme, which cast a shadow of fear over the inhabitants. Determined to make a difference, Victor took up the cause, unknowingly setting the stage for an unlikely alliance.
Enter Ash, a figure of mystery and power, weaving through the chaos with illusions and sorcery, a protector moving unseen between the realms of humans and monsters. Their paths crossed in the midst of battle, amidst the fury of orcs and the ice-laden breath of the dragon above. A silent pact was formed, a truce unspoken, as they each fought to preserve what little hope remained.
Victor, with his technological relics and unwavering resolve, took to the town's defense with a strategic mind and a heart fueled by retribution. Ash, with their mastery over the ethereal, danced a delicate line between life and death, their presence a balm to the wounded and a terror to their foes.
The climax of their journey found them beneath the shadow of the dragon Rhyme, its wrath unleashed upon the town in a maelstrom of ice and destruction. Victor, in a desperate gambit, faced the beast head-on, a sacrificial defiance aimed at the heart of the storm. Ash, ever the guardian, maneuvered through the chaos, a force of nature unto themselves, guiding survivors to safety and striking fear into the remnants of the orcish horde.
In the end, it was the combination of Victor's resolve and Ash's sorcery that turned the tide. The dragon fell, its reign of terror ended in a spectacular display of power and sacrifice. The town of Limton, though battered, survived, its people saved by the courage of two unlikely heroes.
As the dawn broke on a day of newfound peace, Victor and Ash parted ways, their bond sealed by the trials they faced together. Their stories, intertwined by fate, would live on in the annals of the Wilds, a testament to the strength found in unity and the enduring light of hope in the darkest of times.
(The Adventure Begins...?(SRVindicta):SRVindicta)
[Sat Dec 14 2024]
In A sunlight-mottled forest on the edge of the Mirror Lake
Sunlight and moonlight both beam through this grove on opposing sides, the land split right down the middle between summer and winter by strife. It is a cornerstone, a boundary, where the lands of the Seelie and Unseelie Fae meet- and yet it is not in turmoil. This area is peaceful, tranquil, as though respected and honored by both sides. Here a silvery-hued lake laps against a grassy shore, its surface rippling with the movement of life beneath, and so pure in its ways that were one to approach it, they would see little more than a reflection of themselves. Here is the Mirror Lake in all of its glory and splendor, with the soft hum of fireflies over its top casting fractals of many-colored rainbow light over the space.
It is noon, about 27F(-2C) degrees,
Nestled in the rocky foothills of the snow-capped Westrend Mountains is the mining town of Limton, which consists for forty or fifty simple log buildings. Crumbling stone ruins surround the newer houses and shops, showing how this must have been a much larger town in centuries past.
Limton's residents are quiet, hard-working folk who came from distant cities and even other territories to eke out a life amid the harsh wilderness. They are farmers, stonecutters, blacksmiths, traders, prospectors, and children. The town has no walls and no garrison, but most of the adults keep weapons within easy reach in case the need for arms should arise.
Visitors are welcome here, particularly if they have coin to spend or news to share. The Stonehill Inn at the center of town offers modest lodging and meals, and a couple of doors down from the inn, posted outside of the townmaster's hall, is a job board for adventurers.
This is where Victor finds himself as he wanders the Wilds- perhaps he was called to arms by whispers of a dragon needing to be slain, or maybe he needed to get away from it all. From life, from the real world, from reality, dipping his toes into this world lost long, long in the past. Whatever the reason, he stands here in the center of this small and unfortified town, watching the life that bustles around him.
Perhaps Victor did. Need to get away from it all. Was it wise to do it? To come here, so far, so alone? Likely not, not while he checks his wrist, a small display of a hologram elevated off of his skin. It flickers, once, twice, then snuffs out, as with many advanced technological marvel in the Other. His body is a machine running on fumes, here, at the height of danger and despair.
It's no obstacle to his drive, however. Not to that retribitional desire to destroy things that are not of mankind, things against his ilk. However laughable to consider him as merely human, at this stage. His rifle is held with both hands again, hanging from a strap around his torso, while he treks further and further through the town that he's finally reached on foot nonethless.
The desire to lay bullets into every strange creature that wanders around him is palpable in his gaze, those wintry eyes that drift left to right, pin from body to body, but that's not the way here. No sitrep, no forward operating base. Just a village. One that he's searching with his eyes before he does what any reasonable adventurer in the Fey wilds does- seeks out the nearest watering hole, the inn, but that is not his direction. He knows enough to go where, and it is the spot couple doors down from there - the job board for adventurers.
Where he'll take the note detailing the mission.
And slay a dragon.
Limton is a town born of ambition and tempered by hardship, a modest collection of weathered wooden homes and sturdy stone structures dotting the rolling foothills of the Westrend Mountains. Despite its simplicity, the town carries an air of resilience, like a steadfast ember refusing to die out in the biting wind. The dirt paths crisscrossing its center are worn by countless boots and wagon wheels, and the occasional splash of mud or hay piles hints at a place where practicality always wins over pretense.
The clang of a blacksmith's hammer rings out from the edge of town, a rhythmic counterpoint to the chatter of merchants hawking wares in the open square. Their voices rise in friendly arguments, bartering over bolts of rough fabric, fresh vegetables, or finely carved trinkets. Nearby, the faint hiss of water escaping from a stone trough fills the air as a merchant rinses her hands, her sturdy mule pawing at the ground impatiently. Limton is alive with quiet industry, a small but determined community that feels like a haven to some- and a starting point to others.
At the heart of the town, the Stonehill Inn dominates the square, its weathered sign swinging lightly in the breeze. The scent of roasted meat and warm bread wafts from within, a tempting promise to any traveler in need of food and rest. Outside, a group of miners leans against the porch rail, their faces streaked with grime but lit with good humor as they share a laugh over mugs of frothy ale. One of them, a wiry man with a crooked grin, pauses his story to glance Victor's way, his gaze lingering for a moment before he returns to his companions.
The inn itself is a squat, inviting structure of dark timber and cobblestone, its windows glowing faintly with the warm light of a roaring hearth. Above the door, the etched words "Stonehill Inn" are painted in a steady hand, the lettering slightly faded but still legible. The steps leading up to the entrance are worn smooth by years of foot traffic, and the door swings easily on its hinges, inviting you in with the promise of shelter and sustenance.
But before Victor can consider stepping inside, another sight draws his attention- a notice board standing just to the right of the inn's entrance. Its wooden frame is rough-hewn but sturdy, and the weathered parchment pinned to its surface flutters slightly in the breeze. The most prominent posting is freshly inked and stark against the worn backdrop of faded advertisements and forgotten requests for help.
Adventurers Wanted!
"The town of Limton seeks brave souls to help defend its people and bring peace to the region. Reports of dangerous creatures in the countryside grow with each passing day, and the presence of a white dragon threatens us all. Rewards offered for tasks completed! Seek Harbin Wester, the Townmaster, for details."
A smaller note underneath, scrawled in hurried handwriting, catches Victor's eye:
Warning to travelers: Boar-headed raiders have been sighted near the Trail. Stay alert and travel in groups when possible.
The messages hang heavy with the unspoken tension that seems to underlie the town's otherwise calm demeanor. Though the villagers go about their day with practiced determination, theres a sense of unease in the way they glance toward the horizon or whisper in low tones as they pass. Even the children, usually so free in their games, seem to keep one eye on the adults, their stick-sword battles subdued and lacking the usual reckless abandon of youth.
Beyond the square, the path stretches out toward the northern hills, where the dark line of Neverwinter Forest rises like a forbidding wall. To the south, the faint outline of the High Road can be seen, its well-trodden route winding toward distant cities and far-off adventures. The horizon is framed by the jagged peaks of the Sword Mountains, their snow-dusted tops catching the light of the setting sun and casting long shadows across the landscape.
A pair of weathered figures emerge from the Lionshield Coster, a trading post known for its reliable goods and fair prices. Their arms are laden with supplies- bundles of rope, heavy sacks of grain, and a crate that rattles faintly with the sound of iron tools. They pause near the notice board, murmuring to one another as they read the postings, their faces drawn with concern. One of them, a stout dwarf with a thick auburn beard, mutters something under his breath before spitting into the dirt and trudging off toward the miners' exchange.
As you stand there, the town begins to unfold around you, every detail presenting an opportunity to learn, to explore, to act. The door to the Stonehill Inn swings open once more, revealing a plump woman with a warm smile and flour-dusted hands. She waves to a passing merchant before retreating back inside, her movements brisk but welcoming. The hum of the blacksmith's hammer continues in the background, a steady heartbeat for this little slice of civilization in the wilds.
Limton feels like a place where stories begin, where paths cross, and where ordinary lives brush against the extraordinary. It is a place where the mundane and the magical coexist, where the weight of history presses against the present, and where every shadow hints at the potential for adventure- or danger.
As the sun dips lower, casting the town in a golden haze, Victor feels the quiet pull of the moment as he takes the job post.
Harbin Wester. Townmaster.
So it is. Victor folds the paper in his hand into a perfect half, and slips it into his pocket. The act is simple enough, but distracted while his eyes wander in search. The sight of the kids playing around has him linger - something forlorn in the depths of those blues, longing, lost, yet shaken away quietly when he begins to move with disregard towards the dwarf and his mutterings.
The woman that passes him by, too, is ignored - just like the whole slice of civilization. It may as well be a fake facsimile of life to Victor. He's here for business. To handle a calamity, one likely far stronger than he is, even though the day-to-day businesses of everyone here tell that it is no grim, world-ending threat. A ray of small hope, against insurmountable hopes.
Others have persevered in similar situations, however. He's lost in thought, mind wandering while he drowns out the world in search of his target. The Townmaster, the man who'll tell him where to go, what to do, even though it is not too difficult to guess that he'll start his journey on the trail. That too, is fine. Easier to move solo, on his own, quietly and with enough ordinance strapped to him to cave in a whole mountain.
The blades strapped to his back jangle and scrape to one another with the motion of his arm, lifting to press onto the door when he's beside his destination - pushing open to enter, and make a straight, firm haste in stride while calling through the half-mask set over his mouth, even though the voice comes modulated through his throat, and augmented enough to cut through the din of everyone present.
"I'm looking for Harbin Wester, tell him someone's here."
The Townmaster's Hall is a modest building near the center of Limton, flanked by a worn cobblestone path that leads to its broad oak door. Its simple exterior- a squat stone foundation overlaid with pale timber and a gently sloped roof- is not so different from the surrounding structures, but the small painted sign above the entrance sets it apart: "Townmaster's Hall" The faint remnants of an old crest, its details long faded, suggest that the hall may once have served a grander purpose.
As Victor pushes the door open, it creaks loudly on its hinges, announcing his arrival before his modulated voice does. Inside, the hall smells faintly of wood polish and the sharp tang of ink. It is lit by a handful of lanterns, their soft glow casting long shadows across a room dominated by an oversized desk cluttered with papers, ledgers, and a half-empty bottle of cheap ale. Behind it sits a portly man who is unmistakably Harbin Wester.
Harbin's round face is flushed, his brow glistening with sweat despite the cool air, and his fingers twitch nervously over the ledger before him. His small, deep-set eyes dart up at the sound of Victor's entrance, widening slightly as he takes in the figure before him. Harbin is not a man accustomed to confrontation, and something in Victor's bearing- the straight-backed posture, the sharp confidence in his stride, or perhaps the sheer weight of the weapons strapped to him- seems to unsettle him further.
"Ah, yes, yes," Harbin stammers, standing so quickly that he nearly knocks his chair over. His voice is high-pitched and reedy, and his hands flutter in the air like startled birds before he forces them to rest on the edge of the desk. "You're- ah- you're here about the dragon, yes? Or the orcs? Or- or some other...trouble?"
Despite his flustered demeanor, Harbin's words come quickly, spilling over one another as though he's desperate to get them out before losing his nerve. "We've had no shortage of trouble lately, you see. Orc- you folk call them boar-headed humanoid- raiders on the roads, bandits to the south, and now- now a dragon. A white dragon, they say! Circling the mountains, sometimes coming closer... Too close! It's terrible for business, you understand. Terrible!"
As Harbin speaks, his hands move instinctively to straighten the papers on his desk, though he accomplishes little beyond shifting the clutter from one side to the other. It's clear he's a man more at ease with bureaucracy than bravery, and his nervous energy fills the room like static before a storm.
After a moment, Harbin seems to catch himself and clears his throat, attempting to adopt a more authoritative tone. "Of course, we've been, ah, coordinating efforts to address these issues. But Limton is a small town, you see- resources are limited. That's why we've been seeking adventurers like yourself. To... To assist."
His eyes flick briefly to Victor's weapons and then back to his masked face. "There's a reward, of course. A very reasonable sum for a man of your talents. And if you're here about the dragon... Well, you'll be doing a great service to the town. To all of us."
Harbin gestures vaguely toward the chair opposite his desk, though his eyes betray a hope that Victor might decline the invitation to sit. "What, ah... What will it be, then? Are you here to help with the orcs? The bandits? The dragon? Or perhaps... All of it?"
The question hangs in the air, the room falling silent save for the faint creak of the building's old wooden beams. Harbin waits, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as though it might offer some measure of support.
Outside, the faint sounds of Limton's daily life filter through the door- children's laughter, the scrape of a wheelbarrow, and the distant clang of the blacksmith's hammer. Yet here in the Townmaster's Hall, all eyes are on Victor. Harbin's, wide and wary. And Victor's, inscrutable behind his mask, poised to decide the town's next course of action.
What happens next is Victor's to dictate.
Winter-blue optics remain poised and burrowing into the man. Victor doesn't move, doesn't flinct. There is immutable perseverence in his bodily form, of a perfect stand still with his index laid underneath his trigger in discipline, while the barrel of his rifle points down, held only by that one hand at the grip. The tension doesn't elude him, the eagerness to be rid of him, the nervousness marking Harbin. They're filtered through his gaze that uncannily continues to watch like he's creating a file of the man at the back of his mind, filtering through a loop of feed that analyzes at a constant, everything.
The sounds from outside, the wheelbarrow, the daily life - he ignores. Tries to ignore. His other hand reaches out for his pocket, to retrieve the simple but perfectly folded paper notice to chuck it ahead- but the laughter has him pause. His hand remains suspended with the parchment between two digits. And, after a single second, where his eyes dip low, then rise back up, he drops it flat on the man's desk, as opposed to throwing it.
"I'm here for all of it. I need a map, and all the information you can give me."
He was here only for the dragon, but, things change. Things change at the worst of times. The offer to sit is denied much to the relief of Harbin, while Victor waits for what he's demanded. "The map takes precedence. Mark where I need to go, I'll handle it all, tonight." Will he? Could he? He's essentially behind enemy lines, and even though he doesn't lack for equipment, he does lack in resupplies. Conservative play, then.
Harbin Wester visibly deflates at Victor's response, though whether it's from relief that Victor isn't here to waste time or sheer resignation to the magnitude of his task is unclear. The Townmaster fumbles briefly with the clutter on his desk, shoving ledgers and loose papers aside in search of a map. His fingers tremble slightly as he works, betraying the cracks in his bureaucratic facade.
"A-All of it," he mutters to himself, almost incredulously, before finally locating what he's looking for- a rolled-up parchment secured with a frayed string. He tugs it free with the urgency of a man drowning in his own inadequacy, unrolling it on the desk with a flourish that nearly tears the edges.
The map of the surrounding region is simple but serviceable. Limton sits near the center, with the Westrend Mountains looming ominously to the west and the Triboar Trail snaking through the northern expanse. Harbin hastily pulls a quill from a nearby inkwell, his movements jerky as he begins to annotate the map with quick, uneven strokes.
"The dragon- Rhyme- is here," he says, tapping the quill against Herald's Hold, a jagged icon near the mountains. "At least, that's where it's been sighted most often. It flies further afield sometimes, hunting... Terrorizing." His voice falters for a moment before he clears his throat. "But the orcs- they've been seen around Wyvern Tor." Another mark, this one southeast of Limton.
"The bandits," Harbin continues, his voice growing quieter as he moves the quill to another location along the Triboar Trail. "They've taken over an old ruin... Conyberry, I believe. A wretched bunch- cutthroats and deserters, the lot of them."
As Victor remains perfectly still, his winter-blue optics tracking each movement with unnerving precision, Harbin looks up briefly, meeting that gaze for just a moment before hurriedly returning to his work.
"There's also... Ah, yes, the Dwarven prospectors," Harbin adds reluctantly, as though hoping Victor might dismiss it as a lesser concern. "A pair of brothers- rockbreakers, you know? They've gone missing. They were last seen heading toward the ruins of the Dwarven Excavation, south of here. It's likely just bad luck, but..." He doesnt finish the thought.
The quill hovers over the map for a moment longer before Harbin sets it down with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. "That's... Everything, I suppose. Everything I know, at least." His gaze flickers briefly to the paper Victor had laid on the desk. "You'll want to be careful, of course. The dragon... Rhyme isn't just a beast. It's clever, ruthless. And the others- well, they're no less dangerous."
Harbin's words hang in the air, his attempt at authority undermined by the faint tremor in his voice.
Victor's unyielding silence presses down like a weighted fog, making the moment stretch unbearably. Harbin looks ready to burst under the pressure, his fingers drumming nervously on the edge of the desk. "I- I can have provisions sent to the Stonehill Inn if you need," he offers hastily, as if desperate to contribute something more tangible. "Or... Or anything else. Just say the word."
The town outside carries on, oblivious to the exchange within the hall. The clinking of steel on steel at the smithy, the idle chatter of merchants, the laughter of children- all of it feels strangely detached from the gravity of the map now marked with danger at every turn.
Harbin's eyes dart to Victor again, waiting for his next move, the tension in the room coiled like a spring. Whatever Victor decides, it's clear that Limtons fragile peace hangs in the balance.
"No." His modulated, metal-tinted voice is calm in spite of it all. "That is all." That's all it takes, all he needs. After the long stretch of silence on Victor's part waiting for Harbin to finish, Victor takes the paper, inspects the marks, the locations- all of it with argent attention. He's not merely doing that, but the paper is most likely placed in some mental record, scanned and saved, just in case.
At the end of it, Victor rolls it up flat, grabs the edge of his vest to pull a velcro strap and lay it inside an inner pocket before closing it shut for safekeeping. "Have a good day, Townmaster." His adieu bid, Victor doesn't waste even a second longer than he has to by the man wrought with wrecked nerves. His own don't fare so well, to give his word so easily, to tackle such insurmountable odds - but he'll persevere anyhow.
The doors cringe upon his exit, pushed open slowly when he leaves, and takes to the road. His destination is one of deliberance. He'll ignore the dwarves. The mountains, the caves- whatever or wherever they've been, it'll take too long to navigate and his ordinance would be useless in such close confines. And it is mundane work. He can't handhold the whole town.
But the orcs, bandits - and worst of all the dragon? Victor can do somthing about that. Starting with the bandits. In his mind's eye, he's tracking the directions, consulting an in-built compass in the display at his wrist, and taking march into the woods. The keep they've usurped cannot be that far, right?
The journey to Conyberry offers no respite. The well-worn path Victor follows winds like a thread through the endless thicket of the Neverwinter Woods. The towering canopy above casts shadows that shift with the subtle movement of the sun, dappling the ground in faint patches of light. There's a stillness to the forest that feels unnatural- not quite eerie, but unsettlingly muted, as if the world were holding its breath. Birds flit silently between branches; squirrels pause mid-scamper to stare before darting away.
Each step crunches against fallen leaves and twigs, their snapping muted by the thick moss blanketing the forest floor. The smell of earth is heavy in the air- loamy, damp, and tinged with a faint metallic scent.
Despite the tranquil facade, the tension is palpable. The ruins of Conyberry lie ahead, their sinister reputation whispered by the townsfolk lending a weight to the otherwise quiet woods. Bandits have claimed the settlement, their presence a blight on the already desolate remnants of what was once a modest hamlet. Stories of their raids- brutal and merciless- linger like a warning, and it's clear their occupation is no mere idle venture.
As the trees thin, Victor comes upon the outskirts of the ruins. From his vantage point, the ancient village spreads out in a fragmented collection of moss-covered rubble. Stone walls, once proud and tall, have collapsed into jagged piles, with only a few structures standing intact, their interiors dark and foreboding.
A faint trail of smoke rises in the distance, barely visible above the treetops, mingling with the heavy clouds that loom overhead. The scent of charred wood mingles with the natural musk of the forest, betraying the presence of a campfire. Voices carry faintly on the wind- gruff, laughter-laden tones interspersed with the occasional shout.
Drawing closer, Victor reaches a ridge overlooking the camp. From here, the layout is starkly clear, etched into the ruins like a stain.
At the center of the ruins sprawls a cluster of tents, hastily erected from patchwork cloth and tattered tarps. Nearby, a firepit blazes, surrounded by logs and upturned crates used as seating. Bandits sit haphazardly around it, their forms silhouetted against the orange glow.
To the east, a collapsed building forms a crude barricade, its stones piled high to create a makeshift wall. Two sentries lean lazily against it, bows slung across their backs. They seem inattentive, their post treated more as a chore than a responsibility. Their idle conversation floats faintly into the air, though the words are too distant to discern.
The northern side of the camp is bordered by an even greater ruin: the remains of an old chapel, its stone faade adorned with faded carvings of forgotten deities. The roof has caved in, leaving the interior exposed to the elements. A narrow gap in the chapel's wall leads into the camp, but it's dangerously close to the bandits by the fire.
Scattered throughout the camp are crates and barrels, likely filled with stolen goods- everything from food and supplies to whatever treasures the bandits could pilfer from their victims. Weapons are strewn about as well, though most lie near the firepit, suggesting that the bandits feel little need to keep their arms at the ready.
At the firepit sit eight figures, all armed but relaxed. Their clothing is a mismatched array of leathers and furs, suggesting a lack of uniformity but an abundance of experience. They drink from flasks and pass around chunks of roasted meat, laughing uproariously at some crude joke. Their voices are coarse and boisterous, lacking any sense of urgency.
The sentries at the barricade are younger, less hardened. They fidget as they talk, occasionally glancing toward the forest but never for long. One of them kicks at the dirt absently, while the other balances precariously on a stone, his arms spread wide like a child playing a game.
Calming, sure, but that is not what Victor looks for. He's locked in on his task, his decision. Poise and purpose. The ruins laid there not too far form his spot are noted with uncanny vigilance, skipping optics focused and sliding from target to target, then, vantage to vantage. He dips out silently from the worn and beaten path, into the thicket, into the darkness where his eyes are all but faint glowing dots.
His rifle is slung over his shoulder to free his front, leave himself prepared to grab hold of a large trunk with a good vantage. The plan is a simple one- but simple often works best, often what is necessary. The surface of the centuries old wood groans and cracks while he tears through in ascent, climbing up to the canopy where he can fashion himself a sniper's nest.
And he does. A thick branch supports his weight, and his rifle is drawn to him again while he sits there on it, reaching behind into his armaments to retrieve a silencer and affix it to the barrel of his weapon, extend its bipod next - then lay low, forward-facing and preparing. The cold is shiver inducing, but Victor burns at a constant. An overclocking of his body whirrs it silently, and specks of frost that deign to lay on him only moisten his attire when they melt upon touch.
His gaze behind the scope, Victor takes a deep breath, starts to inspect the camp with air in his lungs held tight. The tip of his barrel moves subtly, target to target. Starting from the guards first, those youths - the ones who knew what they signed up for with illusions of grandeur. His finger is already on the trigger, ready, and in the next set of breaths he takes and exhales to completion, in compelte stillness..
Victor takes his first shot, right between the brows of one.
Then more, in rapid succession, of everyone in his sights.
The rifle whispered once in the night, a muffled cough, and the first sentry crumpled where he stood. The bullet took him between the eyes, snapping his head back with a wet spray that painted the barricade behind him. He slumped lifelessly, his body folding into an awkward heap, as though sleep had stolen him mid-watch.
Victor didn't move. His breath was slow and measured, his finger steady as it shifted minutely, sighting the next target.
The second sentry turned sharply, his face alight with confusion. His lips parted as if to shout, but the sound never came. A second shot, just as quiet as the first, punched a hole clean through his temple. He collapsed beside his companion, his body joining the dirt in the same abrupt surrender.
At the firepit, laughter stuttered into uneasy silence. Figures sat straighter, their postures sharpening as unease rippled through the group. One man stood, his gaze darting toward the treeline, suspicion warring with the dull glaze of drink.
"What was that?"
The question hung unanswered in the air. The bandit's head snapped sideways a heartbeat later, a crimson mist blooming as the third shot found its mark. His body toppled forward, crashing into the fire. Flames leapt higher, casting wild shadows against the ruins.
The bandits erupted into chaos. Some dove for cover, scrabbling behind crates and barrels. Others stumbled for their weapons, the clatter of steel on stone loud in their haste. Shouts of alarm mingled with panicked curses, their voices disjointed and frantic.
From above, Victor remained a phantom. His barrel swayed with deliberate ease, a predator tracking its prey. A figure broke toward the chapel's ruins, his sprint uneven, desperation in every step. A sharp *pop* from the rifle, and he fell mid-stride, his body rolling lifelessly to a stop in the dirt.
Two more bolted for the northern treeline, their panic driving them into the open. The rifle coughed twice more in quick succession. The first fell instantly, clutching at his chest as he crumpled. The second let out a sharp cry, his leg buckling beneath him as the shot grazed his thigh. He collapsed into the brush, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps.
Silence returned to the camp. It pressed against the ruins, heavy and unnatural, broken only by the crackling fire and the faint, pitiful moans of the injured.
A figure stirred from behind a stack of crates, a boy clutching a rusted sword in trembling hands. He stepped cautiously into the open, his eyes wide and darting, searching for a threat he couldn't find. The weapon shook visibly in his grip, his knuckles pale where they clung to the hilt.
Somewhere nearby, the wounded man dragged himself toward the treeline, his hands clawing at the dirt. A wet trail marked his path, dark and glistening, as he whimpered through clenched teeth.
The air stilled. Even the fire seemed to quiet, its crackle subdued as the faintest breath of wind teased the treetops.
Victor watches.
And after following the familiar sound of gunshots, so does Ash.
Frightened child or not, wounded man or otherwise. Victor is a vigilant force of destruction railing his bullets. The barrel of his rifle steams at the end while he stays lingering between the dazed duo. Then, two more pulls of the trigger. An empty magazine falls to the ground from the canopy above. The whole camp is cleared, no survivors, no one to tell the tale of what transpired. An empty ruin, nothing more. Another click sounds while Victor reloads, then sits upright to take a breath to fill his empty lungs.
When he hisses it out, it comes out a sickeningly hot mist of steam from vents buried into his half-mask. Not only that, but he steams. A fine mist rising off of his shoulders, the exposed skin of his neck and throat, the backs of his hands, from between the seams of every digits drawn black. The machine burns from within while he hangs his rifle over his shoulder, then begins the slow climb down.
No more enemies to face, Victor simply takes back to the road. One out of three locations he's deigned to handle, and his head is held low while he holds his rifle from the strap of it on his shoulder, walking by slowly, silently, down the beaten path back to the village so he can use it as a checkpoint, a marker that leads to the next spot. The Orcs that trouble the village. One last stop, before he has to tackle the inevitable. The White Dragon plague upon the area.
Ash is not too far from a phantom themself, a whisper, a shade. They move without a sound, hazel eyes calm as they past through the forest, favoring the trees themself. After all, when one has no reason to fear the monsters in the woods, one can travel more to one's whims. Crossbow in hand spear drawn at the sound of gunfire, they pause when they find someone walking away from the sounds.
Someone in the modern battle gear of Earth, not the Wilds. Someone likely well used to that gear. Someone... with a stylized sun pin. Which means... an enemy, a danger. If seen in Haven, Ash would continue to watch and avoid... but here, now? In this wide, new world where Earthlings are few, the chances of him coming for the same reason is high. So, a greeting is appropriate.
Dragons, slender and long, slowly glide into Victor's vision, twirling in the air. Small - more like winged lizarrd, truly, they curl through the air, silver, blue, white... until they form some words: Venetian truce? Until we handle this dragon - it's why you're here, no?
The dragons, they draw Victor's ire immediately. His eyes dip up. Faintly glowing optics of raw, peerless blue to follow the slendere dragons twirling in the air with vicious intensity. His hand dips at his holster immediately, but stays there, given their size, and the nature of the location, but the words that they form - that makes Victor still. He's not aloof enough to miss that they're not what he seeks, but they give him pause nonetheless.
Until he speaks aside. From a distorted voice that comes not from his mouth but from his throat, past the faintly visible lines embedded into his skin that still expel gouts of slender steam from heat within. "Show yourself." Is the first thing he says to the ether, with a glance around, not yet immediately finding the perpetrator hidden away. Yet, there is something else to his pause too, in between his words. For which he adds, "I accept your terms - but only if you also help me with a task on the side on our way." Because another hand makes things easier, even if it is not exactly an ally hand. Beggers can't be choosers.
Ash pauses a moment - then they're in front of him, as if they were always there. Really, not very bright, knowing who they are dealing with - or, at least, his faction - but it's certainly far more fun. A bit of illusions, a bit of pathing, and Victor sees the slight and androgynous form before him. They wear a gas mask and hood, but it's offset - so that they can breath better, clearly. They adjust it, so that the voice scrambler mostly hides the drawl in their voice, as they promise, "Sounds fair to me. What's the task?"
The air shivers for a brief moment, a flicker of movement that catches Victor's attention just as it might be too late to react. Ash appears before him, as though they had always been there, a distortion of space and shadow that somehow melds perfectly with the surroundings. The slight form stands, hooded and masked, with just enough visible to reveal their androgynous frame. The contrast of their presence- a mixture of deliberate uncertainty and deliberate showmanship- creates a ripple through the stillness around them.
Victor doesn't flinch. His gaze moves, cold and calculating, but there's an unmistakable twitch of recognition in the way his eyes flicker beneath his visor. This isn't the first time he's encountered someone who toys with illusions and misdirection. The unpredictability of it, though- it's a challenge, something he hadn't expected. And, in some twisted way, it amuses him.
Ash stands there, seemingly unfazed by the weight of Victor's presence. The low hum of his mechanical body fills the silence between them, and his hand twitches toward his weapon. But his fingers never close fully around the grip. They don't need to, not yet. Not for this.
Ash adjusts their gas mask, the slight clicking of the mechanism audible as they make sure the voice scrambler is aligned to conceal their drawl. The low, steady distortion of their voice dances through the air, an artificial barrier that does little to hide the tone beneath. "Sounds fair to me," they say, their voice a modulated hum with that slight edge of playfulness- something that belies the gravity of the situation. "What's the task?"
Victor's optics focus on them for a moment longer, not just scanning the external, but weighing the intentions behind the words. Ash's confidence is brash, a quality he recognizes in the more unpredictable members of his circles. Still, their approach isn't an outright threat- more like a challenge, or a game. Victor knows the type. He's dealt with people like them before. Still, the question lingers. He isn't naive enough to believe anyone is without their hidden motives.
The world seems to hold its breath as the tension stretches. Trees creak slightly in the wind, the soft rustle of leaves like whispers in the distance. The scent of wet earth and growing moss fills the air, mingling with the distant scent of burning wood that Victor can faintly detect. This forest, ancient as it may be, is far from quiet tonight. It waits- just like the strange figure before him.
The task before them is simple, but the journey will not be. The dragons may have made their demands clear, but Victor's patience is limited, and Ash's involvement remains yet another variable in the equation of his mission. There's no trust yet, only a temporary alliance bound by necessity.
Behind them, the forest pulses, every tree a silent sentinel, watching. And above, the wind shifts, carrying with it the murmur of something greater than either of them could fully understand, just beyond the veil of sight and sound. The road ahead is treacherous, and while the path is clear enough, the destination is still shrouded in darkness.
Quite limited in patience, in fact. Victor cuts to the chase. He reaches up, palm open to display that he's not doing anything threatening, or doing something as foolish as breaking a truce. Not that anyone would know if he did, out here, in their lonesome, right? A velcro strap of his vest is pulled open to reveal an inner pocket, from which he retrieves a worn and inked map, folded in half. With the pocket closed again, Victor throws it at Ash.
"I had three locations. One ruin full of bandits." He took care of them, already. "I'm heading to the orcs, the next location on the map, soutwest of the town. They've been tormenting the village." Very righteous of him, to handle all of their tasks. The reasons may be unclear to Ash, for now, but Victor doesn't say as to why he's here, undertaking more and more herculean efforts as opposed to doing his business and moving on. "After that, the lizard's mountain shouldn't be too far, we'll go up the mountain when the orc tribe is dead." Orc, boar-men, whatever they are. Victor doesn't seem to care for their nature, beyond their eradication.
"Let's go." The modulated, calm voice speaks through his throat again with no movement to his jaw beneath the half-mask, and those cruelly piercing blue eyes drift from Ash to the road ahead again. One hand at his side, the other holding the strap of his rifle, he's heading back whence he came. Village first, then southbound, intending to strike while the iron's hot. Who knows, maybe all the carnage will call to attention the dragon itself.
Ash pulls open the map, looking over it carefully, turning to walk besides the man - neither ahead, nor behind. "Mmm, yes... I take it you handled the bandits by the shooting. Orcs... I *was* told of a raid. Your task is very agreeable." They take out a flip phone, taking a picture of the map with their shitty camera, before putting it away and tossing the map back to Victor with a small grunt to indicate that they're doing so.
As they travel Ash shifts their mask for breathability again, paying attention to their surroundings while a hand is never too far from their spear, or from their crossbow - which is quick-clicked into a strap next to their medkit thigh bag.
Partly correct, indeed, the carnage of the bandits calls the attention of one thing, though not the intended target. As the duo make their way south towards the Orcish infestation, the sensation of, not being watched, or followed, but coming closer to danger grows. It starts with the silence of the landscape- no birds chirp, or fly, no insects nibble on leaves, no squirrels dart through the foliage playfully.
It's a too-silent sort of thing that should naturally cause the nerves to go on guard and the hair to stand on end. Then it's the rumbling of the earth beneath Victor and Ash's feet, like several small explosions that cause small rocks and stones to jump up in the air an inch or so. The marching of a thousand hooves, perhaps, or- the cause of that shadow that flies in from overhead.
In the distance down the road, a storm of dust kicked up by a hoard of too many orcs to count- it's a warband, fully armed and armored, and marching the same path north that the party marches south. The roar of battle and encouragement amongst themselves is palpable, even if the language is rudimentary and barely-understood. Ash would likely understand the faint dribbles of Wildling more than Victor, but the inflection, the emotion behind them is the same as it is in any language: Pillage, kill, plunder, rape, take what they please and leave nothing behind. Limton is in trouble a second time.
And with the flap of leathery wings high over head, circling the valley, there's no telling what will ensue- is the dragon working with the Orcs, or stalking them? Sand kicks up with another powerful flap of those wings, and the gust of wind that exudes from the motion of the great white beast's flight nearly bowls our wouldbe adventurers over, striking them in the face with twigs and debris and stones, but thus far the two seem overall unnoticed. Then comes the screech- one of hunting, and from on high a pillar of pure ice sorcery beams straight down from betwixt the thick, milky clouds- right into the center of the boar-headed army.
Destruction ensues.
Ash leaps into action, falling back into the treeline, out of the road - wind should travel more difficultly there, though falling trees might be a concern. Still, they seem willing to trust their luck in the forest - a trust that is rewarded with them just so happening to step out of the way before the signs of a flying branch or falling deadwood is even seen. It's as if Fate itself has blessed Ash with good luck.
Ash's focus is getting closer to the warband... closer... yet, closer. No - they stop, waiting for them, now, to reach them. They're waiting, as they pull out their spear, in order to summon the Glow Cloud within their midsts. A massive, powerful pastel will 'o wisp that feeds on every orc and mount in a 10 foot radius from the more interesting orc that can be spotted in the middle of the army.
All hail.
The paper Ash has thrown Victor is caught and put where it belongs, under his clothes - but the motion is done with the distraction unfolding up ahead. Victor is silent through it, watching, walking, until he has to stop and the expression on his face - contained only to the sight of his eyes in sight, is harsh with vindictive vigor. No doubt there is a tense jaw beneath that half-mask, because even while the gust of wind strikes to skid him backwards, his hands are curled into fists at his sides.
His voice, modulated as it is, augmented, comes with a rising hiss of steam not from his mask but from several striations around Victor's throat, "Let's split." He covers the ground he's lost, unstraps his rifle from his shoulder, back into his two-handed grip to hold it tight, with wintry eyes arching high to meet the trajectory of the cruel breath of the dragon that rains upon the warband. "The orcs are distracted," A change in plans, but one that's not so bad to adapt to. He metallicaly hisses more demands while Ash works their magic; "Distract them more." Of course he means in lieu of Ash's penchant for that display of illusions. They can manage. "Lead them in circles if you can, make sure they don't escape the dragon. You're creative enough, si?"
Throwing orders around is an easy feat, but perhaps because of their Venetian Trust, Victor trusts his back to Ash enough to do so, and deigns upon him to take the more dangerous of the tasks. The Dragon itself. "Once they're near that building," The barrel of his weapon with the silencer is lifted one-handed, pointing at the Town Hall in the distance, the tallest of the building. "Keep them there. I'll be on top of it, covering you from above while I wait for the dragon to land." For what purpose is easy to guess. He's intending something very reckless, very dangerous.
Ash is given little chance to talk things through, Victor has already grabbed his rifle with both hands, and he takes off at a rapid pace, a land-eating stride making a beeline into the town from the other end of the roada from them and through the last vestiges of the forest, straight for the side of the building he gestured and around the warband in disarray - to leap up and start to dig metallic fingers in with a creak of steel, carve his way up to the top of the building.
Ash sucks their teeth softly as yet another person misunderstands the capability of illusion magic - but now is not the time to let their inner professor wake to scold this stranger. Instead, they start work on doing as he said - after all, they're very naturally attuned to following orders.
This takes the form of a stick - the All Mighty Glow Cloud, as it subsumes orcs from the edges, pushing and corralling them with the pain of a burning light that sucks their life force. And it takes the form of a carrot. A human woman with porcine curves and muscles, trying to escape the horde. No, just one? Two - no, this must be several households of woman, mostly young, though the older ones are fat and juicy.
They carry warm food the orcs can almost (almost) smell over the dust and turmoil - meats and pies, strings of sausages - in a hurry to the designated building. Some carry more than food, their family jewels, gold, magical weapons of their husbands that the women, being but human, are not capable of wielding themselves.
Different orcs see them at different times, though the dust cloud obscures them from sight again and again. The orcs at the front, any that look like scouts, they take glimpses in turn - then bamph, there goes the Glow Cloud again. All hail. Ash has no choice but to find a particularly sturdy tree to climb to maintain a good look at the orcs to cast their illusions. Distractions, a bit of doubling, proper illusions - they have to cycle through them and time them carefully, as Ash simply cannot cast them out one after another. They're forced to focus fully on their task, leaving all else to Victor.
Ash darts into the treeline while Victor starts to climb the tallest building he can find: the belltower atop the townmaster's hall. Metallic fingers find the wooden logs that comprise the building easy to breach and pierce with tier strong grip, and over his head the bell rings out the danger to the town's folk, men coming to arms, farmers shooing their families into cellars, women gathering children, theirs or otherwise, and fleeing into places where they might find the most security. Some of them flee into the surrounding forests, too, opting to face head-on the beasts of the trees rather than the assured, inescapable destruction of the dragon and the hoard of orcs that it harasses. The aftermath of this, to be caught up in it, would be a death sentence for any purely-human Wildling.
Townmaster Harbin does not flee- not yet. He is in the thick of it all, guiding evacuations, helping up those citizens that have been trampled by the mob, helping the weak and injured find their footing to escape the incoming danger to their homes. "I understand that we are all in a panic!!" he shouts out, all of the nerves from his prior interactio nwith Victor gone in the face of saving his people. "But the worst thing that any of us can do is cause someone else to be left behind!"
"Secure your loved ones! Help your neighbors! Material possessions can be replaced!!" he insists, running against the grain of the riot to ensure that each and every single one of his townsfolk makes it to safety. "The children!!" he cries out, running towards the building that serves as the town's school: Alderfield Orchard, which is in the direct path of the encroaching hoard.
He almost doesn't notice Victor scaling his place of work with all of that weaponry, and he certainly doesn't notice the stealthy shape of Ash slipping amongst the trees- though he does doubletake that massive opalescent cloud of light. Victor is given another glance then, the townmaster's eyes steeled- and a level of trust laid upon the Templar's shoulders before he continues his half-limped sprint towards the orchard.
Meanwhile, how could the Orcs be distracted by women and gold and food when they are beset upon by a dragon? Some of them, surprisingly easily, assuming the mass of their kin will handle the beast as the lesser-minded dribble drool down their fronts and start to eagerly give chase in the wrong direction of their initial goal.
Briefly, just briefly, Victor makes note of the Townmaster. The moment they lock eyes is when Victor has scaled to the edge of the building, hanging on a precarious edge. When he's pulled up fully, to sit at the edge, and watch with argent attention of the situation with an assessing gaze, there is a pang of hurt to his eyes at the orchard. It steels his visage, those eyes flare. Without a word yet, he stands up - and that plan of waiting until the horde is distracted and the Dragon besieging them alongside the town lands on solid ground is cast aside.
"Harbin!" That augmented voice, steel laid within it, echoes over all the combat, all the strife - and Victor is untangling a fragmentation grenade from his mass of arsenal. With its pin still contained, he rears his arm back, throws a near-perfect shot, straight for the man. His aim isn't for him to catch, there is no time for that- he'll hit him, and he'll hope he'll get it. "Pull the pin, and throw it at them!"
That's enough ruckus to call attention to himself, surely, but he doesn't stop there. His rifle is slung over his back once more while he turns away from the Townmaster and Ash doing their best, to instead reach for the blades affixed in a cross at the back of his waist. Handles within his grip, they're drawn with a hiss of steel, swung aside in testing arcs, all as he strides to the center of the roof he's on. He is not mere brute force and raw, mechanized speed - but acrobatic agility too. Each precarious step is taken carefully, while his voice roars louder, to the sky, to that behemoth.
"Dragon!" They're smart, right? Capable of speech, even. Maybe even enough to take a challenge, because he poses one now, here, with arms stretched, frost at the backdrop of him in his taunt, as steam slowly rises from every exposed skin in a more severe overclock. He's a prime cut of meat, that one could just swoop down to steal a bite in plain, open view- with his own tooth picks to get the sinew out of one's teeth, to boot. "Come and get it."
Ash sees that their tactics fail for many, but they don't let that stop them. Instead, they switch tactics - the stick remains, but what if... the dragon had babies? Dragonlings, who are chasing down the humans? Dragonlings that an orc, maybe a small group, could take down and slay... and surely the dragon will want to stop attacking once its children are being threatened? Just like any other animal.
At least, that's the frame of mind Ash uses to set up their illusions this time around. Little wyrmlings, just a little away from the warband, so that it's reasonable to swerve just a bit, away from the attacks, to get this easier kill. Sure, it keeps running away... you have to get closer. Not that far away, it's not *really* a chase....
Storytelling, where Ash comes alive, is made easy with illusions. Well, easy in some way... not in term of exertion, which drains them as they focus on the gift their bloodline gives. But, they have to maintain the cloud, too... ah, what's the Templar doing? They remove their mask completely as they gasp for breath, sweat dripping down their draw- face, as they focus their eagle-eyes upon him. He... really is trying to take it alone.
Ash doesn't truly understand what the plan was to understand what's off - they like to hyper-focus on their part, and worry about the rest when they have time. But... the townspeople... the horde... they narrow their eyes and try to focus again, redoubling their efforts. They believe that Victor wants the boars gathered so that his fight with the dragon will take out a more concentrated group trying to get him - kill the dragon while it kills the orcs, a triangle of violence.
The thought is so amusing that Ash almost forgets - knowing where the orcs should be, they can tell the people how to best escape. The Townsman, the fool trying to see the panicked - he sees a path formed of calming mists winding the quickest path out of time, and away from the worst of the orcs. Vaelys, the Brumal Empress, raised as the Protector of the Wilds, plays a part to save Her people, and has chosen him to lead them.
Which is all the focus Ash can spare on them, back to carrot, stick, carrot, stick....
The town square was a battlefield. Orcs swarmed through the shattered streets, their guttural war cries blending with the anguished screams of townsfolk. The icy breath of the dragon above turned cobblestones to brittle, frozen shards, the massive beast circling overhead like an omen of death.
The belltower of the town hall, partially crumbling from the earlier assaults, now bore an ominous presence. A shadow moved atop its creaking heights, smoke curling into the air from unseen mechanisms. Below, Harbin was in a desperate fight against time, shepherding children and villagers to a semblance of safety within the fragile walls of a collapsing inn. Each step was frantic, his broad-brimmed hat flapping wildly in the freezing winds, his coat rimed with frost.
The air vibrated with the high-pitched clink of metal hitting stone. A grenade rolled to Harbin's feet, gleaming faintly in the firelight. His head snapped upward, his eyes meeting the faint glow of the figure high above. The signal was unmistakable; the demand unrelenting.
Harbin bent low, his hands trembling as he scooped the grenade from the icy ground. It felt heavier than it should, though the weight was as much psychological as physical. With a sharp motion, the pin was pulled, and the townmaster swung his arm back, his aim unpracticed but desperate. The grenade arced through the air, its path cutting toward the densest part of the orc horde.
The explosion was immediate. A deafening roar shattered the air, and the ground quaked as fire and shrapnel ripped through the ranks of the charging orcs. The bodies closest to the blast were flung apart, their brutal momentum halted by the sheer ferocity of the detonation. Harbin staggered backward, shielding the children behind him as the blast's heat rolled outward. For a fleeting moment, the square was free of its attackers, though the respite would not last.
Above the chaos, the dragon roared. Its icy wings sliced through the smoke-filled air as it turned its attention away from the town center, seeking out a more singular threat. Its frosty breath misted with each snarl, the promise of another devastating assault.
Beyond the square, in the dense woods framing the town, movement was a blur amidst the trees. Shadows flickered unnaturally as if the forest itself conspired against the invading orcs. One moment, a hulking orc charged toward the town, its heavy axe raised high; the next, a sharpened bolt pierced its throat, the body collapsing without a sound.
Other orcs spun in confusion, their brutish senses unable to pinpoint the source of the attacks. Their ranks became chaotic as another shadow appeared, this one darting low to the ground. The glint of a spear flashed in the firelight as it struck, the weapon's wielder dancing through the melee with a fluidity that defied comprehension. The illusion of numbers scattered the orcs further, each attacker seemingly multiplied in the dim light.
High above, the dragons shadow passed through the trees, casting long, jagged streaks of darkness that sent the remaining orcs scrambling. The frost from its breath coated branches, turning patches of the forest into brittle, glimmering wastelands. Still, the figure in the trees moved with precision, untouchable amidst the chaos.
Outside the towns boundaries, a ridge rose from the landscape like a natural wall against the night. Smoke and fire from the burning buildings below rose in lazy spirals, obscuring the stars. The dragon's roar pierced through the sounds of the battlefield, its massive form beating its wings to gain altitude. It hovered briefly, its long, serpentine neck craning as it surveyed the town with icy malice.
The ridge wasnt empty. Shapes shifted against the uneven terrain, occasionally catching the faint glint of the dragons piercing gaze. The frost from the dragons wings sent shards of ice tumbling down the cliffside, crashing onto the rocks below. The air grew colder with each pass, the temperature dropping unnaturally as the dragon prepared its next move.
The dragon banked suddenly, its attention locking onto a new threata single, small figure. Its wings stretched wide, blotting out the pale light of the moon as it dove, frost building in its open maw. The frost formed in dense clouds that spiraled out from its snarl, freezing every surface in its path as the massive beast descended. The confrontation, inevitable and ferocious, loomed just over the ridge.
Below, the fires still burned, and the battle for the town raged on. The dragons wings sent freezing winds cascading down into the valley, where they collided with heat from the scattered fires. Ice and flame churned together in an unnatural storm, a reflection of the violent, chaotic night.
Exactly. That's what Victor wanted. It's attention. Even with the cold drawing on higher and higher with each second enough to even dent the overclocked and searing heat of his skin, Victor doesn't waver. One more step, one more lean, he's facing forward and digging his heels in to stand stalwart against the looming threat descending in a straight and narrow path for him. It is all here and now, now or never. Death or victory, no room for retreat. Victor frees one of his hands.
The slender saber is lifted and Victor brushes his fist against his jaw first, pushes off his mask, lets it drop and tumble before biting down on the hilt of his weapon tightly, and the hand is extended aside. Fingers click once into a fist, and the seams around his digits crack with the release into an open palm, where each hand is extended by metal through the joins. Whirring machinery underneath the skin nearly roars in anticipation, of anything to grasp on and lock in place- even if he lost that arm, it would stay clutching.
The other saber is twisted in a reverse grip as seconds stretch on slower and slower, poised to bite into flesh, to clutch on-- and should the dragon make that fateful descent, Victor is going to duck forward. Drop his centermass, balance on the edge, gather force like a coiled spring. Just before the imminent collision, he leaps, straight for the behemoth, at anywhere he can hold, at anything he can grasp with its throat as his goal- to wrap fingers in between scales, hold on tight if he can, even if the protection of the dragon is sharp enough to dig into his flesh and bleed him with his effort. If he can manage at all, his hold is consolidated by the descent of steel. Twisted to bite down, shove it through the scales. A likely meaningless assault, but that is not the intention. The intent is to create a foothold. Bury his blade in, and pull himself with it to scale the insurmountable wall that is the assailant of this town.
All in search of a weak spot, any spot, where the scales are weakest, or non-existent.
Ash moves fluidly to adjust to the flow of battle, as the orcs are blown apart and scattered. The glory of the dragon is out of reach, practice for Gonthorian out of reach. Still, theirs is not the world of glory, it is the role of shadows, quiet, and getting shit done. And these straggling piles of shit need to get done. Can't stop, won't stop, silvery threads with gleaming beads of gemstone and wood leave a trail like winter's mist as with one step, Ash plays arbalist, and with another, souhei, bolts and blade at play as they're there, then not.
Silver, gray, black, the color of ashes, amidst the flicker of flame and the dark red of blood. What they can do now, what they can accomplish now, who they can save now - that's what's on their mind as they fade in and out of the battlefields, cloaked, disguised, tricked, distracted. An orc attacks his brother, thinking it a shadow, while another attacks a shadow, finding nothing but a blade at the back of his neck.
And, when they can, a glance up. A dragon, and a man waiting - make it a meal, too delectable for ice, prime for teeth or claws. Plumper, juicier, and certainly not dangerous to the dragon's health - a pork dinner pretending to be a hero.
And then, Ash leaves it to said pork dinner - Victor. They slay orcs, clear them out, try to guide and protect any townspeople that survive. Cloak the children, bandages at hand - always - to tend to wounded, should an opportunity present itself.
Their patch, revealed, might be familiar - especially to those of Navorost. As well as their silver hair, golden-green eyes, and dusky brown skin - they might have heard of this lord, this noble from another world. Not that Ash voices it. A look is all they can afford to advertise - lives are more important.
The wind howled through the shattered remains of the belltower as Victor waited at its peak. The stone beneath him, cracked and brittle, seemed barely capable of holding against the gale stirred by the circling dragon above. The night sky was cold and vast, the light of the moon faint and pale against the frost-covered scales of the dragon.
Each beat of its massive wings sent another frigid gust rolling across the battlefield, carrying with it the sharp scent of ice and blood. The dragon's body twisted with precision and grace as it wheeled in the air, its form an unnatural fusion of elegance and terror. Frost trailed from its claws, and its maw dripped with freezing mist, curling downward to envelop the distant ruins and burning remains of the town below.
Victor stood unmoving, perched like a hawk on the thin edge of the highest point. His stance balanced, poised, ready. The saber in his hand caught the fleeting light, its blade gleaming faintly, while the second rested between his teeth. The frost that clung to his coat and hair glimmered as he remained still, the wind tugging at him like an impatient specter. Above, the dragon twisted again, its direction shifting, its gaze focused. It had chosen its moment.
The descent was swift, a thunderous rush of wind and shadow as the dragon hurtled toward the belltower. Its claws, vast and jagged as spears, extended forward, reaching with lethal precision. The ice clinging to its body seemed to amplify its size, creating a frozen storm in its wake.
Stone cracked and groaned as the belltower shuddered under the onslaught. A section of the structure crumbled beneath the force of the dragons approach, cascading down into the darkened square below. The beasts jaws parted, unleashing a deafening roar that seemed to pierce through the freezing air and shake the very foundations of the battlefield.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath as the moment of impact neared. The tower trembled, fragile against the immense power bearing down on it. The dragons eyes glinted, frost and fury melding into a single, terrifying focus. It closed the distance in an instant, its claws reaching.
The belltower groaned. The dragon struck.
Victor found himself clenched surprisinly loosely between teeth as sharp as shards of ice and as long as his own forearm, still frigidly cold from the blasts of frozen air the dragon had unleashed upon the town. Blood and oil, flesh and metal, the beast goes crashing down through the bulk of the townmaster's hall with its meal in maw, unsuspecting of the sharp bite of weaponry that pierced the tender inside of its mouth, that soft, malleable roof of flesh that brought quickly-freezing tears of pain to the beasties' eyes.
Not at it's neck, but between its teeth then. Victor proved just a tad too slow to do what he wanted - but this, this didn't mean all was lost, either. As he's caught between the jagged sharp razor of massive teeth, laying on a massive, frigid tongue, with the sides of his body scratched and bleeding, his resolve is only more fueled. In spite of the rough debris impacting what part of him hung out, he acts, pulls himseld through the disorienting haze of the imminent collusion that landed him where he did.
The blade inside the beasts's maw is a fleeting hope. A stray bit of luck- maybe something rubbed off on him from Ash, but it is enough. His teeth are grit around the blade, with a single rivulet of blood running down the edge of his mouth while his expression is hardened in kept-pain and fury while they hurl through the building. A deeper stab is shoved in, at the roof of the creature's mouth, and the blade is left there-- but Victor's time is fleeting.
One breath attack, and he'd be done for, truly, for good.
So he does the least reasonable thing, and slips past the teeth, slides in on his back into that cavernous maw. The blade he's affixed into flesh is used as a crutch. A leanto support where he hooks the crook of his arm through to stay against the current of a mouth trying to swallow him in hole. His other hand detaches the line of grenades at his vest, one by one - unpinned with his thumb and chucked in in quick succession down that gullet. Half a dozen, with half a second in between.
As soon as he's done, and as soon as clock begins to tick, Victor grasps the blade in his mouth. Twists it, and stabs it downward through the tongue underneath him and further below to pin it against the inside of the Dragon's mouth. One arm hooked around each hilt, gears grind and steel creaks. His body resists the tempting pull of destruction down the throat of that monster while his teeth are grit with a steam-erupting hiss as he stands firm, waiting, counting.
All for the inevitable explosion that'll line down dragon's throat, all the way to its stomach. Will he come out unharmed? Will he even come out? Probably not, where he's stuck behind a bar of teeth serving as his prison. All he does is hold his breath.
Await the inevitable.
Ash looks up at the dragon and their shape blurs for a moment. The Path teeters at their fingers, beckoning them up with him. But, what could they do inside? They can't path with him unless they tried to carry him like a pack of potatoes... besides, he was a Templar. There was nothing *to* do to help him... this fight, should he do it right, is his.
So, they focus on the wounded, the survivors, the stragglers. The soothing aura that pervades the air around Ash along with their medical expertise, helping them into the forest, away from town, away from the dragon, and what orcs may have survived both the grenades and Ash's sorcery and battle-mancing. Ash even summons Briar - A man-sized bipedal vulpine jackalope to help, protecting and clearing them away. They drink deep of the fear and anger pervading the fear - they can't help it, in some cases, but they don't allow themself to savor the taste. That can wait.
It is neither a gulp nor a swallow that sees that steady stream of grenades falling down the throat of the young white dragon that Victor currently tantalizes the tastebuds of. It is the opening of its throat.
It's the frigid feeling ov frostbite threatening Victor's toes as the temperature of that maw suddenly plummets to sub-zero temperatures in an instant. It's the feeling of gooseflesh creeping up the human flesh of his legs and causing his musculature to shiver against the steel of his bones.
It is death, ice cold, as liquid nitrogen, or dry ice, maybe, starts to bubble deep within the dragon's gullet. One by one those grenades fall, and with each drop into the monster's throat, the thick fog of finality climbs closer and closer to the Templar's core, threatening his internal body temperature as ice begins to form on his clothing, both in a Rhyme, and in a rime.
Ash lends a Helping Hand as they always do, too, collecting the townsfolk that flee, and those who can't, and rounding them all away from the carnage, the destruction, the imminent doom. Briar soaks up as many arrows and swears as it feasibly can from the assailed horde of orcs that continue to trample through the town, though the majority are less focused on pillaging and far more focused upon downing that dragon. They are centered upon it. Beneath it. And the end of it all?
It comes from a single bang.
The grenade that the townmaster had thrown into the thick of them all suddenly bursts- preceeding a twinkling of orange and yellow light in the deepest internals of the dragon, which starts to suddenly bulge in odd places. In odd ways. It tries to swallow, but it can't- Victor has made sure of that, tongue pinned as it is. But now... All Hell is about to break loose, in the form of a blood rain.
In five
Four
Three
Two...
One
The clock ticks, down to zero.
In spite of the frost biting at his skin, and not just the frigid breath building up freezing him, Victor feels it in his bones. The steel encasing them reacts viciously with it, and his body temperature drops far worse, but all needs release, and he can't focus on it. Frost-laden limbs are forced to move, expend every ounce of strength left in his body to shove against the maw on either side. Push into the blades at the crooks of his arms, one above and one below, in a herculean effort to spread the mouth of the beast.
Shrapnel, explosion.
He's not quick enough. He's not strong enough. All that is seen from the outside is the swelling that comes in bursts from the dragon's stomach. Ascending higher and higher with each muted thud and ruined internals as fire climbs up and out, warmed further by where he dragon fell, straight into the mass of orcs that the townmaster had thrown his grenade- and as all happens at once, it too is caught in the crossfire.
It's hide is too thick for the shrapnel, the enhanced explosive ordinance to do much at all beyond singe, but it is disorienting, the transition of force that slams like a brickwall and transfers the built up energy of an explosion through the skin to rattle everything on the side. Possibly Victor too, still out of sight locked within a massive mouth.
The culmination of it is at the throat of the dragon, where the built up tension sizzles. All the force turning its insides into mush is contained by that tough exterior and bone structure, scales that provide cover can't hope to let it go, so, it does what Victor tried to do. The inverse scale, situated below the beasts throat. It vibrates, comes undone, and the one outer weakness of the young dragon is the seam that spills it all, cracks it like the shell of a tortoise. A loud, fleshy snap, and its whole head is severed from excess pressure, preceding an earth-shaking thud as it fully collapses onto the ground and crushes several orcs on the ground.
The severed head skids, slides upon the ground, then comes still. Very still. With no sight of Victor while everything comes to a damning standstill of silence and frost. The clock keeps ticking, seconds upon seconds. Moment upon moment, up to a minute. Surely some orcs are fleeing, whatever is left of them. Surely the villagers are cowering in fear, trembling with trepidation.
Then, movement.
The serpentine head upon the center of town starts to shift, and the slack, lifeless jaw is slowly pushed up by sheer force. A smidgen first, then more before it briefly quivers in threat of closure- but it is Victor, right beneath those fangs. Upholding the roof of its mouth like Atlas carrying the earth, just until he can throw himself out through the small gap and fall on the ground just as limply as a corpse. Exhaustion, with a drained complexity. His left arm is mangled, his legs up to his waist is covered in frost-laden icicles and jagged ends, while his armor is torn up. Electrical malfunctions create sparks out of the joints upon his mangled limb, while blood is a stark contrast upon his features, pallid as he is, rivulets running from his mouth, under his eyes, out of his ears.
For now, to turn around and lay on his back is the most Victor can muster. Stay there. Breathe, and stare up at the sky that swirls with the cold clouds, as vast as its namesake, heaven itself, where the void weighed by stars shines radiance down upon the scene. Victor coughs, barely, sputters blood, then sighs. Something of relief, of endurance. With an Italian expletive spilled soon after.
"Cazzo."
Ash has their work, as there's always another survivor to lead away, another orc to stab or blast or bolt - and then the moment is as frozen as everything else in this damned winter-warped world. Hazel eyes follow the explosions, shielding the weak with a vulplope's back - who doesn't appreciate this one bit, Ash notes - and then onto the dragon. The bulging, the pressure, it blows - and it falls.
knows that they should bask in victory, driving off the last orcs if they don't flee, speaking warm words of safety, even if it cuts off their feeding... but their other, weaker bloodline moves within them. The maw shifts with the unsettling movement of something dead being pushed around - and Ash is there. They don't remember pathing, but they're there to help him out.
Perhaps Victor would realize, then - that the truce is over. This clearly supernatural person - now showing the colors of a supernatural sect - is standing over his broken body, with weapons in easy reach... and as if they needed it. After all, Victor had seen the sorcery. Ash has the opportunity to murder him right now.
Ash's angelic blood then twinges, and their face contorts. In the gap between human and monster, where corruption has tainted them, yet has not taken hold - there's a struggle on their face. The blood surges again. Ash bends down... and reaches into their medkit. A pill for the pain is placed on his lips - which means he would likely either take it, or keep his mouth shut. Or... turn his head to the side, but it seems that Ash hasn't considered that. A splint for the arm, anesthesia stabbed into him if he doesn't fight back, as Ash brings up all the Spanish curses they can recall.
Victor's mouth is dry. The world spins. It's all a haze. The faint snowfall that falls on his faint countenance, it drifts as water to join the blood on his skin and travel down like rain-stricken tears over his face. The blot upon the heaven's light, Ash, is what drifts that tattered attention to them. He stares up, blue optics slow, barely any energy to them, barely anything. He is truly in the mercy of them, very much defenseless. All it would take is a single blade, a single bullet, or even less, a stomp to the throat and Victor would be dead.
He knows, it shows. There is recognition in Victor's eyes, but there is also a faint smile too, directed at Ash. So faint that it is the ghost of a smile, memory of a memory, jaded, broken- as haunting as a wraith. He swallows dryly, and his chest heaves quietly to simply speak.
"Are the kids safe?"
It matters little whether its a blade, a bullet or a fist coming for him. Victor's vision is so blurred by a faint mist around his eyes that he can't tell whether he's being assisted or damned, whether that thing pressed to his mouth is poison or absolution. There is little fight in Victor, for better, or for worse.
Ash pauses mid- "Guacala cabron" to listen to the man before reaching back into their medkit. It's a bottle of water, pressed to those lips again. "Yes, as many as I could." They have an irritated Tejano staccato in their words, rather than the lazy drawl - who Victor likely wouldn't have associated them with, anyways - they usually use. "We saved them, you and I. Thank you."
They continue their work, their angelic presence soothing the pain and the wounds as well as slowly knitting them together. This isn't a hospital, and Ash doesn't bother to try and path him to one. But, simple basic treatment, keeping him from dying, is their gratitude. Perhaps his arm will remain useless forever. Perhaps the frosbite will take his toes, and he can never walk again. Perhaps many things.
But, in the end, Ash dances across the line between monster and human, unable to settle on either side. Today, this man saved their people. And so, they are human. After they've done what they can, they go back to help and heal the others. Perhaps there will be time to skin the dragon. They introduce themself to the townsman in time as the Border Lord of the Wilds, of Navorost, and part of the Forged Fortune, as well as dropping, at some point, that they are the last Scion of the Heralds of Winter's Grasp. All the Whisper stuff, the important details, the business.
Much of what Ash says is amiss to Victor. All he hears is that the kids are safe, and that is enough. It is what he wanted, it is all he wanted, and a low sigh escapes Victor where he lays after Ash is gone. Shaking breath misting in the air. A few tears, simply of uncontained pain slide down the corners of his face - hard to tell whether it is the moisture of snow, of water, or anything but tears - but they are that, and he offers a simple, quiet prayer that borders on a slow drawl that eventually falls on deaf ears, and mute lips when he closes his eyes along with them.
He'll finally pass out, having finished his task. It wasn't done great. It wasn't perfect, but many were alive, the dragon, gone, the bandits, the orcs- he did what he could, with what he had. For now, though, barely tended, Victor will rest. Stay motionless, lay where he is, in restorative sleep, despite the fact that his life is in the hands of others, be it Ash, or by villagers - or by anyone at all who may have a nefarious purpose. He's too unconscious to care, too exhausted to even do anything about it. Maybe someone will ferry him home, or he will hobble on himself, upon waking. But for now, this is it for Victor.
What orcs remained in the township are little more that statues now- some frozen solid by the initial blast of cold that escaped the dragon's explosion, and others roast- nay, burnt- into solid bricks of black that occasionally break off into chunks of ash. The severance of that head was surely Victor's saving grace, for it it had not been blown off and instead weathered the storm of hot and cold, of fire and ice, there would be nothing left alive for Ash to mend.
Slowly as silence befalls the town, heads begin to poke out of cellars, eyes begin to peer out from the treeline, children begin to slip out of the big farmhouse on the hill where half of the building had caved in long, long ago. The townmaster takes in the details Ash gives to him, and grateful townsfolk tote Victor back to Haven, those more knowledgeable of Earth guiding the unconscious cyborg to the hospital, perhaps, to rest and to heal more properly. Regardless, that is it for now. The dragon is dead, the orcs are slain, the bandits have been brought to justice, and Ash and Victor are heroes of the Wilds- though one's praises are sung more highly than the other's thanks to their verbal business card.
Still, those who were there, those who saw Victor, those who spoke to him from the beginning, know the true story, and perhaps both tales will be passed down for generations to come.