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banjoker · 5 years

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Hallowed Ground

A story for my Grave Wardens, but not one with particularly significant lore. Just a short for two characters, William and Dutch.

The Warden's sleep was mostly dreamless, save for memories of a distant youth and an old cobblestone wall beside the road. For some time even after being awakened, the Warden just laid in bed with his hound next to him and taking up most of the cot. The Warden stroked his companion's short, coarse fur as he looked up at the ceiling. His old eyes were worn by still precise enough to find that spider up in the corner he likes. Carnegie, the Warden had named the crawler for its industrial use of the corner for its webs.

The dog raised its head, revealing the Doberman mutt's head to the light that filtered through the aged blinds. Dust hovered about in the beams, but that was expected in such a place as that. Taking heed, the Warden slowly sat up in his bed, eliciting creaking from both his own and the bunk's joints. The hound huffed and stood, stretching its legs quickly before hopping for the bed to the use-smoothed plank floor. As the dog's clacking nails wandered off towards the places known, the Warden swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

The tapping of raindrops against the glass of his window now became clear to the Warden as he left his night daze behind. Walking methodically across the old-as-vintage wooden floor, the Warden found himself at his wardrobe. Within was a collection of clothing that mostly all had the same colours; brown, black, or dark green, but with smatterings of other colour too. The Warden, previously wearing only a yellowed set of thermal undergarments, drew a grey flannel and a set of threadbare, blue trousers. The Warden dressed himself shakily as he woke up, joints protesting but not too terrible given the weather to come.

Ready for the day, the Warden hobbled through the door his hound had already traversed as he tucked in his shirt, deftly taking his holster belt and black revolver from a hook on the wall. The Warden's hair was a steel-grey shade and had a noticeable sideways and back style despite not having been combed. The Warden's stubbled face and neck too would need care, he imagined, if he were to have to do anything. Turning through his dingy kitchen, the old Warden reminded himself to get more firewood for the stove. Stepping through a heavy oaken doorway, the Warden found themselves in the midst of his own little church. Some twenty meters long and about half as wide, the church was even older than his house. There were several pots collecting the water that came through the roof above.

Maneuvering between the surprisingly well-maintained pews, the Warden headed for the central aisle, where his hound stood in stance facing the front doors and rumbling slightly menacingly. The Central aisle, being carpeted with a faded red band of fabric, had many tears and repairs from the dog, but the Warden didn't hold it against him. The Church was falling apart faster than it could be fixed anyway.

Spanning the distance between him and his dog, the Warden breathed heavily as he patted the hound's head, bringing about a whine of stress from something. "Bleib," The Warden ordered, and the dog shifted but did not move as the Warden neared the door. A loud set of knocks for the gates' knocker thundered through the church, but the Warden did not flinch. A light roll of lightning in the distance followed. Struggling with his legs forward, the Warden reached for the doors' bolts and undid them, gripped the two brass handles, and heaved the doors inward with a heavy grunt.

As the doors opened, and as the old hinges screamed, the figure beyond them came into view. A young man, damp by alive, and with a pale complexion. "Hello sir, my vehicle has stopped working," the man pointed to a old automobile down on a trail, barely visible in the misty rain. The Warden subconsciously turned his eyes to the graves to the side of the Church from where he stood within the door. There was nothing but stone heads there. The Warden returned his gaze to the pale man and the visitor continued, "M-may I come in, out of the rain?"

The Warden stepped back and turned, hobbling back into the church and away from the chilly air as he replied in a voice showing signs of prolonged age and past tobacco use, "No need to ask, boy," The Warden beckoned the man forward. The traveler paused as he saw the holster and its contents, but he eventually followed the Warden into the chapel carefully, sighing in relief as he made it through the doorway and out of the rain.

Finding an set of old chairs nearby, the Warden dragged two of them towards the man. Sliding one seat to the visitor, the Warden sat on the other. Both chairs strained under the weight, but they held. The Church was warm enough despite its holes that the nervous man soon began to dry somewhat. "Don't mind the pup," The Warden offered warmly but gravelly as he nodded towards the tense hound, "He won't hurtcha."

The large canine rumbled nervously at the visitor and the Warden spoke once more, "Beruhigen." The hound turned its gaze and ears to the Warden and huffed passively. The dog laid down, but it continued to watch the two men.

Sitting anxiously, the visitor perused the old house of worship turned house of a Warden. The wood was old but still solid, the stained glass was beginning to fade, and the air was drearily still. It smelled like old leather and older paper to the man, but that wasn't all he smelled.

Smiling tiredly, the Warden rose his calloused hand to his rough chin and scratched the itchy stubble he found. His razor was getting dull. "Where ya headin', boy?" The old Warden asked curiously. He leaned forward in his chair, but mostly out of habit; out of bad habit he knew.

The traveler timidly responded, measuring his words around the old man. There was something dangerous about the fellow, but the visitor assumed it was just the firearm at the man's hip. "Pittsburgh, I think." The vagabond replied. That was still quite a distance east, but his vehicle was in little condition to travel, and the trains don't run that far very often anymore. It was a miracle the traveler had gotten this far in his vehicle really. It was far from a miracle why he needed to do so though.

The Warden nodded knowingly. He had never been there, but he knew where it was and probably how to get there. That city was no better off than most though, the Warden guessed. "Aye, but that auto'll not get you there," the Warden explained gruffly.

The pale traveler lowered his head. That vehicle was going few places for now. "C-can you fix it?" He asked his so-far gracious host. The visitor covered his mouth with his mouth in some worry for what may come next.

"Thinking I'll shoot you?" The Warden responded suddenly, and with some perceived menace that had not been audible prior. Surprised, the visitor stood, nearly toppling his chair. The Warden did not move, but the hound stood, growled, and stepped forward eliciting a stern order from the older man, "Nein, warten." The hound did not move further.

The visitor turned towards the closed church doors and spoke quickly, "I think I should leave," He began walking towards the door as the Warden rose his hand.

With his hand raised, the Warden spoke with unusual softness give his previous tone, "Have no fear from me, nor this place," The man slowed but his mind remained at the door. A distant rumble of thunder shook the glass panes in the windows.

The man looked around once more and asked, "W-what do you mean?" The visitor asked the question but he knew already the answer.

The Warden shook his head and smiled grimly before he began, "Did ya' think I wouldn't see yer teeth?" The Warden stood now, but he did not reach for his weapon, "Or yer eyes when you came in?" The stranger averted the Warden's brown eyes as his eyes flung about the floor. "I ain't gonna hurtcha neither," The Warden reassured as he gestured to his hound who remained intent upon the visitor.

The Warden stepped forward towards his visitor, and the stranger didn't move, mostly out of some terror. "This place don't care bout what's in your blood boy, and neither do I," The Warden explained as best he could, "only bout what's in yer heart." the Warden added as he pointed his aged finger towards the traveler's chest.

The frozen stranger tried to speak for a few seconds but only managed a few words at first, "S-so, you're n-not going to kill me?" He swallowed down some of the butterflies that flown up from his gut.

The Warden chuckled deeply before he replied, "I ain't gonna kill ya, I already said so," And the Warden doesn't like to mislead people. "Yer ain't any less human than me," The Warden offered. Stepping back to his seat, the Warden returned to his previous position with a grunt. The hound whimpered and the Warden beckoned to it. The Dog padded towards the Warden and sat down beside his chair where the Warden proceeded to scratch the dog's head.

The visitor hesitantly sat down again, now tired from the day's events. The visitor was honestly and truthfully surprised by the old man's demeanor. The voyager asked with similar confusion, "Why?"

The Warden smiled coolly before he responded, "I've many plenty of your kind who were bad, my boy, and even a few good ones," The Warden looked down to his companion, "and some were better men than me," he added with a hint of sadness.

The visitor was astounded, in a strange way. "What happened to them?" The traveler asked his host, still nervous but beginning to feel surprisingly calm.

The Warden's smiled faded as he replied, "I killed em," the visitor's face matched the Warden's, but the tip of his fangs showed. "But, I'm tired of that." The Warden added, "I'm done." The Warden had anticipated the question, but it didn't make answering it easier. A flash of lightning gleamed through the stained glass followed by a crack of thunder a second or so later. The rain was beginning to fall harshly. More pans would be needed to stem the flow through the leaking shingles soon.

The vagabond interlaced his fingers as he thought. His button up was damp, and his dress pants similarly so, but it seemed to him that it didn't matter all that much. "What now, sir?" The visitor asked, not really wanting to push the issue farther. It obviously hurt the old man to be asked.

Looking up from his memory-induced stupour, the Warden smiled and replied again, seemingly devoid of his previous concerns, "Now you wait till the rain calm, and call me Dutch," The Warden spoke in a tone that reminded the visitor of their father long ago. Patting his hound's head, the Warden added warmly, "And this is Samuel,"

The Warden struggled to his feet from his seated position, knees groaning ever so slightly as he began to return back to his home in the back of the church. Turning his head, the Warden joked, "I don't spose you've eaten?" He laughed lightly at his own jest.

The visitor chuckled too, mostly to relieve that feeling one gets when something terrifying turns out fine. He had eaten earlier, but it was a can of beans and not what Dutch referred to. Yelling over to the Warden, the visitor offered his own name, "I'm William, sir!" Dutch waved as he left the Church grounds for his kitchen. He had some squirrel jerky somewhere and it shouldn't be too hard to find a good can of soup or two.

William sat in his cranky-sounding chair and just looked at Dutch's hound. Samuel stared back, almost out of some sort of awareness. William was pretty sure they could both smell each other. After a few minutes, the Warden returned with two bowls. There was some broth with various things in it that dutch probably threw together. "Waste not, want not," William supposed.

The two men ate somewhat slowly, William because almost everything tastes like sand and Dutch because he was old and didn't see the need in hurrying. William spoke first, to break the silence, "So, can you repair by vehicle?" William hoped that the other man could help at least a little.

The Warden finished his tablespoon of soup before responding, "Nah, prolly not," and William laughed lightly. It would seem he had expended his daily allotted miracles, but perhaps not. "I'll getcha on yer way though, trust me," Dutch added, and William believed him. The Warden hoped that William wasn't so domestic that he couldn't ride a horse in the case that the vehicle was not fixable through a bit of jury rigging.

William appreciated this whole ordeal for some reason. He could have burst into flames coming through the door, been shot, been mauled, been struck by lightning, or breakdown anywhere else, but this is where he had ended up.

It turned out that Hallowed Ground is a little more tolerant than he had been led to believe.

#vampire #Grave_Warden #Warden_Dutch

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banjoker · 5 years

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Grave Wardens Info Page

Information I have made for Grave Wardens, a story mostly of my own design, but, of course, with some influence from many sources such as Bloodborne or Dark Souls.

Story Links:

Hallowed Ground

About the Grave Wardens:

Originally an enigmatic group, the Grave Wardens were a small and scattered people. Originally, Grave Wardens tended their cemeteries as grounds keepers rather than soldiers. As time went on, however, they took upon themselves a second duty; to make sure the dead that they tend to stay that way. As the populations around the world grew, the need for space the dead required grew with them. With this boom of both life and death, confluences of humanity began to undo death itself. Graveyards and catacombs began to become locations where the dead became restless and returned mad and inhuman. And so the Wardens' duties were broadened over time. Within recent centuries, however, the world has begun to accept the dead as normal. Whereas previously, the Undead would predominate withing Graveyards and other sites of great death, they were beginning to rise elsewhere as well. The Dead came crawling out of battlefields, from under the streets, scrambling from sewers, and even out of the sea and rivers. A plague was upon mankind that they were not prepared for. The darkness that filled them slowly began to spread. Within recent centuries as this blight continued to grow, the Wardens became more secular, swelling in numbers to combat the growing hordes to little avail. The Wardens became a state of their own.

Lacking official rank, the Wardens often function on levels of seniority rather than other forms of hierarchy. There are typically regional groups of Wardens as well as national. One Warden, or a group of Wardens, is often directly at the top and has great sway over those below. Depending on the Warden, this position can be a boon or a bane, as it is often thrust upon them over time and with or without their intent and desire.

The World Now

In the Year of the Lords 1902, the world is alive with humans and everything they have built thus far. Though concentrated greatly within cities, the Humans have spread throughout the world, bringing with them mechanization, disease, magic, technology, philosophy, and science. As the human population began to grow out of control, a strange effect began to grow as well. The dead began to rise more and more commonly. As humanity grows, so do the number of the dead, and those that do not remain so. Things are different than they would be otherwise, for there are wide areas devoid of settlement, and the settlements have yet to leave the industrialization of the era and the toxicity brought with it. There is always a breaking point.

Cemeteries

Cemeteries are the original domain of the Wardens. Every cemetery is meant to have at least one to watch over it and to tend its graves. A lone Warden is a common site for small groupings of graves, and even sometimes larger swaths of open land. It is unknown what draws Wardens to these Cemeteries, but they seem to have a nose for finding places of great death. As cemeteries became larger and larger, more and more Wardens were required to maintain them. Some of the largest may have once had hundreds of Wardens, with large Catacombs sometimes having even more. Now that the numbers of Wardens have begun to centralize, some sites have ended up without Warden's to watch them.

Devil Iron

Specialty of the Wardens Devil Iron is. A profane material, Devil Iron is an essential tool for fighting the Undead for its special properties. Like normal Iron, it is capable of interfering with magic, but doubly, Devil Iron is able of killing anything, dead, alive, or otherwise, as long as it has a soul. Devil Iron is heavier than standard iron, is black in colour, raw and forged, requires greater heat to forge, and resists corrosion far longer than typical iron. Prolonged contact with Devil Iron has been known to slowly strip the life from its users. Often times, as a result, many Wardens appear far older than they may actually be. Devil Iron may be used to kill anything with one Soul, such as Ghouls or other Wardens, as one could anything mundane. Creatures with more than one soul, however, such as Legions or Wedigo, may require more strikes. Prolonged exposure negates the need for ammunition expenditure, however.

Devil Iron is a dark variety of iron that requires a hotter flame to forge than standard Iron and steel. No method of mass production has been developed either and so each piece of equipment is unique to the Warden that wields it.

Equipment

Firearms

Most Wardens are armed with firearms of their choice cast of Devil Iron along with matching ammunition. Most commonly, a revolving six-shooter and a scatter gun are the most popular but may vary in size and calibre/gauge. Rifles are common as well. Older Wardens may even employ muskets or older rifles. Large fortifications utilized by Wardens may even have Devil Iron cannons or rotary guns. Firearms are useful for dispatching the dead that have solid bodies in which to shoot but have little effect on skeletons, incorporeal dead, and amalgamates.

Blades

Wardens typically wield a variety of bladed weapons cast of Devil Iron for use as close quarters alternatives to firearms. Wardens receive a ceremonial weapon of some variety that serves as a Warden's first Devil Iron weapon. Knives fair better as stealth implements or against slow or lone enemies such as Ghouls. Though some Wardens specialize in bladed weapons, most that do rely more on swords or Tomahawks instead for their range and durability. Though the use of swords has been waning for years, Wardens have still found great use in them. Bladed weapons in general are more long lasting than Ammunition supplies often and are useful in situations where range may not be necessarily required. Anything a firearm may be effective against, a bladed weapon will be as well most likely. Large bladed weapons may be useful against the incorporeal however simply because of their mass. Many Wardens rely more of their swords than their firearms, and some combine their use in combat.

Blunted

Blunted weapons mostly come in the form of a hammer when it comes to Wardens. Hammers are almost always used for breaking the Joints of the dead so that they may not rise effectively, but also to use against the dead that have no flesh such as skeletons and spirits. They can shatter bone and have enough mass to harm spirits. Blunted weapons often supplant bladed varieties in commonality in areas where fragile undead are more common such as catacombs or desert regions.

Fire

Fire is one of a Grave Warden's most universal weapons. If in doubt, fire will likely do the trick in combating the dead. Holy oil is also used which essentially burns dark magic upon combustion.

Faith

Items of faith have been of great use in the past. Utilizing miracles or prayer, the dead may be manipulated or held at bay, or even destroyed or forced away. Few Wardens are clerical enough to perform such feats anymore however. Faith based abilities are especially effective against demonic forces as well as unnaturally occurring undead. Faith seems to be cumulative, just like Humanity, and so is more powerful in certain places, such as church grounds, and those that are hallowed. Hallowed ground often repels or harms those without good in their hearts. Areas that are filled with the dead become unhallowed as well, attracting death and negativity. Faith is often concentrated so as to produce consecrated items for use against the undead. Consecration imbues items with faith and may sometimes preferred over Devil Iron though it is less universally applicable. Devil Iron may not be consecrated without causing it to rust, an occurrence that would otherwise take years or decades to happen if at all.

Catalysts

Catalysts are used by select Wardens for the casting of magic that may be used to combat the dead. Some Wardens have even turned to using Necromancy against the dead themselves, pulling them apart or turning them to their own wills. Magic is a rare trait, and even rarer among Wardens due to their duties in counteracting the effects of tampering with Necromancy. Devil Iron may not be used as a catalyst but can be used in small quantities within the catalyst itself to attract magic. Catalysts that are simultaneously consecrated may be used to cast magic with faith or miracles with magic as well.

Shovel and Pick

Utilized in the reburial of the dead upon being laid to rest once more. Not typically made of Devil Iron but occasionally.

Varieties of Undead:

Humanoid:

(Those undead that retain human shape and behavior)

Ghouls:

Mindless undead that often rise from fresh graves. Ghouls often seek living things and promptly devour that which they can. Ghouls often travel in groups, known as herds. Though slow and unintelligent, Ghouls are strong and pose a great risk if in large numbers. Embalmed ghouls are also occasionally encountered and are slower and more durable but also poisonous. Ghouls are easily killed with fire or Devil Iron, and they may also be killed by several mundane means.

Vampires:

Individuals afflicted by a contagious curse, Vampires are immortal but require large consumption of living flesh or blood or they lose their sanity from hunger. Vampires are typically immune to mundane weaponry but may be killed by Devil Iron, Decapitation, or fire. Vampires are known for channeling their curse into magic as well which is capable of transmitting the curse. Vampires are vulnerable to sunlight, silver, and faith as well.

Hollows:

Hollows are sovereignless individuals that have died without a grave to contain them. Hollows maintain some semblance of their former lives but are creatures of habit, following a course of action that they had when alive. Battlefields are commonly riddled with Hollows. Other undead with intelligence may become hollows over time as well as their sanity begins to fail.

Wardens:

Many Wardens may be considered undead because of the influence of Devil Iron upon their souls. Wardens are capable of absorbing the souls of the living and undead upon their deaths. Wardens often appear aged, but they may also look completely average too too. Upon death, some Wardens have been known to reanimate, given they have enough soul power within them. Wardens are susceptible primarily to Devil Iron but also to many other, more mundane means of harm like average humans

Strigoi:

Strigoi are bodies that have been inhabited by spirits or demons. Most weak strigoi are no more than ghouls while others may be considerably intelligent. Strigoi are known for having magic to some degree as well. Strigoi can easily be harmed with silver, salt, or Devil Iron as well as fire.

Skeletal:

(Undead that have no flesh but have bones yet)

Lich:

A lich is a mage that has been drawn into their own necromancy, either purposely or accidentally. Liches often have most if not all of their flesh burned off by their magic. Liches are known for their intelligence and are often surrounded in lesser undead that they have risen. The magic of Liches is greatly enhanced by the souls that they consume as well. Liches are weak to Devil Iron and their magic may be regulated through holy artifacts. Faith is a useful weapon against Liches.

Boneman:

Skeletons of the buried dead, Bonemen are simple beings that lack intelligence. Skeletons are fragile and easily broken with blunt force but are resistant to flames

Wrathman:

More intelligent than Bonemen, Wrathmen are capable of more complex thought but still suffer from the weakness to blunt attacks but retain the resistance to fire. Many Wrathmen wear armour and wield weapons that Bonemen can't.

Incorporeal:

(Undead without bodies of their own)

Ghosts:

Souls of the dead, Ghosts persist in the world as a shade of their former selves. Most are lethargic and act sparingly, but others are known for being very active. Ghosts often need something physical to bind themselves to the world. What this tether is often relates to their former life. Most spirits are semi-intelligent, but like Hollows, they typically follow a certain path as they relive some moment in their lives. Ghosts are easily handled through use of salt, large masses of Iron, or faith-based exorcism. Ghosts may also be excised by destroying their tether or eliminating with their reason to continue existing.

Wraiths:

Wraiths are malevolent spirits that devour the souls of those around them. Wraiths can often be found in crowded areas, gorging on the lives and despair of the downtrodden and broken. Wraiths are typically unseen and are difficult to combat for this reason. Visible as they feed directly, however, Wraiths are able to be destroyed through the use of large masses of Iron. Salt, though effective on other ghosts, will likely only be a temporary measure against a wraith.

Poltergeists:

Poltergeists are ghosts or Wraiths that have taken on an aggressive temperament, often due to madness, and are typically violent. Poltergeists are capable of causing physical changes in the world, including harming the living or damaging the environment. Poltergeists are stronger and more active than Ghosts and may feed on the souls of the living or dead but have the same weaknesses as Ghosts. Poltergeists may also possess bodies which can be burned with fire.

Demons:

Demons are corrupted spirits or Ghosts and are typically malevolent in nature. Demons often seek to inhabit living bodies, but corpses are acceptable too. Demons are often more intelligent than the other forms of spirit as well. Demons sometimes steal souls but may also make deals for them instead. Demons are often known for using magic and subterfuge to manipulate others. Demons are susceptible to faith and devil Iron if they have a solid body.

Shades:

Shades are demons without consciousness and only have malevolence. Shades appear as shadows almost exclusively and are known to drive the living around them mad as they feed on them. Large colonies of Shades are known to congregate in single locations, typically within terrible living conditions or old cities, and may be attracted by each other.

Wisps:

Notably ambivalent compared to other spirits, Wisps are rather simple creatures. They tend to guide individuals down paths, often to beneficial ends, but also sometimes to doom. This seems to depend on the Wisp. Most wisps appear as a glowing orb or flickering flame and seem to beckon the living towards them. Many wisps will attempt to help those that encounter them, but due to their child-like intelligence, they may lead those that follow astray.

Amalgamates:

(Collections of bodies or souls into one mass)

Rotting Terror/Shambler:

A Shambler is an amalgamation of bodies that often takes on a grotesque shape and appearance. Most shamblers are mindless masses of flesh and souls and single-mindedly devour any flesh in their path, dead or alive. Shamblers are highly susceptible to fire and may take several strikes with devil iron to kill due to their many souls. Shamblers often avoid water, for they cannot swim well.

The Sins:

Intelligent demons, the Sins are those that have taken it upon themselves to symbolize certain traits of humanity, mostly those considered negative. Sins will seek out and devour souls that exemplify their symbol as a result. Though Shamblers have no consciousness, Sins have individuality which makes them even more dangerous. Sins often inhabit bodies of the living but commonly switch hosts. Sins may take many Devil Iron strikes to kill but are susceptible to faith and Virtues, as well as other demonic weaknesses.

Legion:

Legions are mages, or otherwise, that have drawn into themselves numerous souls and have died. Legions often lose their humanity as a result, becoming incredibly aggressive or sadistic. Others remain individual and yet others may work as a unit where all of the souls function as one though they are many. Most malevolent Legions are one mind suppressing the others while more benevolent ones often act as one but each soul is individual. Legions are known for using powerful magic. Unlike Liches, Legions retain their bodies, but they also retain a weakness to physical harm. Legions are resistant to Devil Iron due to their many souls as well. Legions are capable of passing for the living rather easily as well.

Bloater:

A bloater is, like a shambler, a fetid mass of tissue and souls. Unlike Shamblers, however, Bloaters maintain a semi-humanoid shape but are exceptionally obese and diseased-looking. Bloaters often form from old ghouls that have devoured many bodies and souls. Bloaters are very weak to fire, as well as being slow, but are resistant to Devil Iron.

Wendigo:

A Wendigo is a living individual that has partaken in great cannibalism, such as Bloaters or Ghouls, but has not bloated like a drowned pig as a result. Wendigo often have many souls that vie for control and some Wendigo may grow strangely large as they continue consuming others over years. Wendigo are almost exclusively found within the Northern Americas and seem to have both environmental and spiritual components.

Other

(Those Undead that do not fit other groups easily)

Virtues:

Similar to Sins, Virtues are compilations of a specific trait of Humanity. Virtues instead draw off of the faith of those around them instead of from their souls. Virtues are typically antithetical to a specific sin and are able to counteract them effectively, Essentially canceling out their special abilities. Virtues are less common than Sins however, and are often weaker. Virtues are easily harmed by Dark Magic and Devil Iron.

Revenant:

A strange case, Revenants are. They are the dead that have been brought to life but show no hallmark traits of being undead such as being rotted or insane. Revenants are alive in all respects. It would appear that most Revenants are produced through acts of faith rather than magic. Revenants have no strengths or weakness that normal humans do not.

Varieties of the Living:

#Grave_Warden #Monster #monsters #Undead #Ghosts #Demons #Story

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banjoker · 6 years

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On Angels - A Letter

Angels before: A spiritual being believed to act as an attendant, agent, or messenger of God, conventionally represented in human form with wings and a long robe.

Angels now: A spiritual being possessing a body and known to act with great aggression and cruelty, with great, reality altering auras, and often taking on forms with similarities to humans with or without winged appendages.

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As the only remaining cleric remaining in the Cathedral of Santariisi, I, Gemini de Lerma, shall ascribe to my knowledge of Angels herein.

Angels have held our muses since time immemorial. Thought above reproach in all respects, moral and physical, Angels have been idols to our people. They have kindled hope in our deepest despairs and soothed our terrors just by the very breathing of their names. Those times have past and now we speak their names only in curses and in forewarning of the end. They have fallen far to reach us and their wings are not white as fresh snow as we have assumed by our long-held stories and traditions. Perhaps the older stories, those told by our ancients, were more truthful. Tales of holy judgement and death upon those unwilling and unbelieving. A hammer of reckoning to strike a glassen nail? Angels are our undoing in any case.

I will now explain what has occurred to bring me to such a decrepit blasphemy as denouncing our Father and our elder kin. April in the year of the Lords 4:43 Empyrean, as I worked as a young scribe to the abbot of Santariisi, a thunder I heard remote. I had peered from my little dormer and saw upon the horizon a glow like levin throughout the distant clouds but of a shade that I would not have believed if I had not seen it with my own eyes. The term that had come to me was of blood. It lasted but a moment, but I had been shaken. There were prayers to the Lords uttered upon mass the next morn as well. I, among many others, found solace in the visages of brothers Abon and of Erasarn. Their alters saw many offerings and prostrated faithful for many a day. I knew why they came day after day, despite the comforts provided. There was something wrong and it was felt like a weight upon the shoulders; heavy and angry.

Soon enough, the weights began to crack at our roots, our people. Many vanished in short order, others committed heinous terrors, and some were ripped asunder in locked rooms. Neither the constable nor our oracles could discern anything but what we all already knew, that doom was coming. The angels came within the month, but they were not to wage war that day. They spun for us sweet words and promises. We were relieved beyond our wits and we could not see what was happening, I did not see. It was demons, they had said, that had been ripping at our precious Santariisi. They vowed to rid us of them, as per their sacred duties. We had believed them, as the good and faithful sheep we were, and rejoiced them as they returned from their hunts every day for months. Even as fewer and fewer of us remained, still we praised their work as our city blackened and died. Then one day, as the snow began to fall, grey and ashen, they stopped pretending and their masks crumbled away. Where there had once been gleaming armours and faces of divine beauty, there was burned, twisted, rotting monsters instead. If I had not gotten the winter-cough early that year, I would have been serving to their needs when they slaughtered all of my companions. I had come to the sound of screams and had seen them. Even now, I can scarcely fathom the terror I witnessed as I struggled down the blood-soaked stairs to the main hall hours later. I saw little recognizable but the crimson that stuck to everything. The lightning was what came to mind in that moment as I relieved what little food I had consumed in the past days to the stone.

I had been too terrified to venture far from my hiding place, even if my lungs had allowed me, but there were still enough candles for my warmth and some remaining food. I had expected others to come seeking asylum, but deep within my heart, I believe that I had known that there were too few if any that could anymore. Eventually, I had to venture from my home and past place of worship. The city from the Cathedral was duller than I had ever known or thought possible. Ash floated through the air and my feet left imprints in what powder had collected on the ground. I had looked about but saw no fires, but I do wonder now if it had been ash or snow that had begun falling when the Angels changed. I do not recall when it had begun, or most of the decay that had been occurring at all for that matter. The Angels' work perhaps. They had appeared to have moved on by that time though and so I decided to take a look about, if only for a few minutes. Empty houses and corpses was most of what I found.

Since my time of venturing, I have found no one of sane mind and human body left within the coffin that is now Santariisi. The ash continues to fall, and I still have coughing fits, but the blood no longer comes with them. My own skin is taught and my bones hurt, but I am alive. And now I have a companion, but mundane like I he is not. An Angel I presume from his presence and decayed appearance, but he is not like the monsters that I have experienced. Blunt as he is, I trust him. Even if it may be another trick, I do not see the point of such an act. A game of cruelty it could be, or maybe something else. His name, as I have gleaned is Lucerne, and his mission is far more courageous than my own. Whereas I have been hiding, he has been fighting against his own siblings. My meeting with him is what has encouraged me to pen this. When I had told him of my work here, Lucerne offered me the answers to my questions if he had the ability. Lucerne will be moving on at dawn and I hope that he will agree to allow me to follow. I intend on completing this by then.

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Why do you appear like that? I have wondered for a time why angels appear decayed and damaged to such a degree. Lucerne explained to me that Angels have no bodies of their own and that they are of a power mostly unseen in our world. Where there are the sorcerers and magi among humankind, some with self-proclaimed holy power, we are but children stumbling with fire. "Angels are old, older than most things, and their words are creation." I believe that the meaning in those words are that man cannot contain such power. We are too weak, we are not big enough. We fall apart under the strain, but not before the Angels twist us into better shapes for their cruelties. Just being near Angels appears to cause changes as well, in us and the world. But Lucerne seems different. Maybe he is trying to hold it in, to not warp that which is around him? His stable appearance may lend credence to this, though I have not seen beneath his attire, but the other Angels barely fit into their bodies' armour by the end. What I am curious about is why Lucerne does not seem to include himself among the Angels. It may be a distinction he intentionally keeps.

Why do you not look like they do? Lucerne, as I have described, does not appear damaged as the others did. He wears old leather armour like a Tellasene mercenary, but underneath his enclosing steel, his ember-like eyes glow with that same raw vigor as the others. Lucerne had shifted the first time since had had sat down next to my waning hearth at the asking. "I asked several of man to quarter me, but only the betrothed of a noble man of no merit accepted me." The whole time prior, I had assumed that Lucerne was a man, for I saw no bosom in the shape of the armour. Even their voice had seemed as such, but perhaps it was just my own assumption yet again. I wonder if consent preserves the body for longer.

Why are you doing this? A question regarding the motives of beings I believed once unknowable, but that was when I deemed them perfect and benevolent, not malevolent and degenerate. I have questioned this time and time again, but I believe that I am unable to even guess such an answer, for I cannot match such evil, even in my mind. Lucerne has told me, upon my asking, that, "Angels think they are better." Such thoughts also affect man, I realize. Perhaps Angels are only different in what they can do to the world more than we. No army has left Santariisi dead as they have after all.

Why do you fight them? I asked this almost out of shock. The answer made sense only after deep thought, "I am not them." Just as I am not my brothers or sisters I suppose. Dearest Julianne must be terrified wherever she may be. I hope the Angels have not yet joined Lerma to Santariisi's fate yet. Contrastingly, however, I do hope that Lucerne would arrive there first.

Most of the other inquiries bore little for answers because they often delved into information that Lucerne admitted he was not privy to, but in their stead, Lucerne has decided to share with me what he knows of several Angels of my choosing. Most of the names I chose from my studies, which only served to discomfit me further upon hearing of them, but strangely, I have never heard Lucerne's name specifically before. I have heard of a Luscaern and I wonder if they are related or one and the same. Lucerne seems adamant of the spelling though. Luscaern would not be a name I would not have chosen to be identified as, but perhaps among Angels, the stories of a fallen, evil being might mean the opposite just as they do.

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Lerion: The Angel of Winter and Patron of Warriors. Lerion, as described by Lucerne, is actually a reasonable Angel and that he does not understand his aligning with the others. Perhaps a call to war was enough, but Lerion has always been described to me as a Warrior of justice and righteousness. Lucerne also believes this. Lucerne describes Lerion as favouring an appearance that is as average as one may find, as many warriors. Lerion is proficient in most weapons and combat styles but prefers spears and shields.

Ufael: A name I have not seen for some time, indeed. Ufael is often attributed to the afterlife as a forger of souls into reincarnated shapes and into holy artifacts and magicks. It is said that those chosen and willing to be Ufael's material would be turned into a light to fight the Darkness. It would seem, as Lucerne describes, that Ufael is instead collecting souls to empower the Angels with weapons and energy, as well as corrupting those he touches into abominations. Lucerne admits that Ufael would certainly make weapons for a war upon the world and that he will most likely be quite gargantuan in size. I wonder now if fabled items in our history have been such creations now and if any will reappear. Imagine if Rathaghad is real, a sword that could cut not the body of the virtuous, but smite those who are damned instead.

Obreon: Obreon is a name that is often cited upon the cover of many of our ancient texts as a keeper of history. "Herein written is Oberon's wisdom incarnate, through my hand his words shall be bestowed." I have a device to emboss and ink this phrase in my study, somewhere. My quarters have been is disarray for some time. I have just enough ink for this alone most likely. Lucerne has not seen Obreon in some time he claims, but he does believe that Obreon would descend only to assure that his records are not tampered with by the other Angels. Perhaps Obreon can view the future as the stories say but that he cannot see the past and so seeks to assure that it is not lost as the future overtakes it?

Hibril: Mother to Abon and Erasarn, the Guardians, Hibril is said to be the mother to the trees that stand resolute holding the earth together. Hibril is always described as a very neutral and plain appearing Angel, preferring to remain without bias, to not take sides. She is often viewed as a voice of reason and balance. Her sons are the opposite though. Hibril is said to have birthed the two and placed all of her biases within them so as to remove her imperfections. Lucerne speaks of Hibril fondly, almost like a friend, but he also seems worried for her. Lucerne explained to me that Hibril would not come to our world of her own volition, but she may be drawn here by her sons. Lucerne does not know if either have appeared yet though. I do hope that Abon and Erasarn might be the protectors of man that they are said to be, though the stories have proven fairly inaccurate thus far.

Abon is said to be the brother of preemptive attack, to prevent the need of protecting, and that he is often quick to look for dangers and opportunities alike. Abon often believes in decisive action that is the most efficient to achieve a desired end, violent or no, but not necessarily evil. Erasarn is the cited as the brother of stout defense. Erasarn prefers to hold fast and to attempt to achieve a solution through reasoning rather than to charge in as his brother does. Erasarn is known as being patient and having good foresight into his actions, to weigh the possibilities and to pick more moderate courses of action that may be roundabout, but they are typically as effective as his brother's eventually. They are both often described as very fit and great warriors, being protectors of mankind and their sense of decision making.

Gillian: This Angel is the one I most hope remains wary of our world, personally. Gillian is the bell-keeper of the Underworld. Whereas Ufael uses souls to forge objects, Gillian carries the souls within his stomach to and from the world of the living, our world. Lucerne described him as a, "Sodding mess of piss and fog," and I hope it was an exaggeration on Lucerne's part, for that is the most profane I have heard him be. Though I do not believe that he was wrong. Gillian is said to be the least visually appealing angel, but the other Angels were claimed beautiful and they apparently are not. Gillian is not supposed to have a head though, is supposed to have six limbs, and uses a cloak of dead-trench silk to cover himself. Lucerne believes that Gillian would likely follow the other pillaging Angels so as to collect the due souls, though he may refuse to take them as well, seeing as though Angels are not supposed to take the souls of those who are unwilling. That would be the case if the rule of consent is true at least.

Remeon: This is the Angel Lucerne appeared least willing to discuss, but he relented. Lucerne did say that he will talk no more of Angels for the time being afterwards, however, and I do not wish to press the questions further. Remeon is known to me as the Angel of fire and of both Judgement and Punishment. Remeon is often attributed to the Sun for its warmth to create and its ability to destroy through fire and is often carved into the seats used by magistrates. Lucerne explained that Remeon is likely leading the Angels in their endeavors here. Lucerne explained that while Remeon has a sword given to him by his Father, he prefers fighting unarmed, which he does proficiently and brutally. Lucerne whispered the phrase, "Weapons are for the weak," as if quoting someone who I assume is Remeon himself. In my studies, Remeon is said to be the Angel whom Luscaern was banished by for "sins of man." Luscaern was cast down into the Underworld by Remeon. Perhaps that is why Lucerne dislikes Gillian with such a passion and why he seems uncomfortable discussing Remeon. I decided not to continue my questions as he wished.

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It is nearing time for rest now. I have little food that remains in an edible state and will have to find that which is still viable to carry with me tomorrow. It may be easier to ask Lucerne forgiveness for following tomorrow than ask permission tonight while he is wary. He has mentioned that he would be traveling to Escarbyn next. That is on the coast a week to the south. I do not know how far the Angels' influence has spread, but such a journey may be preferable than dying with Santariisi. Perhaps I will find some others, or even just retribution. At this point, even sins seem welcoming to me. I shall leave this message here for those that might seek refuge within this place. I wish you a bountiful life, whoever you may be and that you will find this knowledge informative as I have.

-Angel Hunter, Gemini de Lerma -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

((There is this battle scene that has played in my head for a while between Lucerne here and Remeon and I decided to make this instead of commissions. It took me several hours and it is just one thing about some Angels. I hope that if someone reads this that they will have enjoyed it to some degree! Basically, Angels came down, screwed up the world of Humanity with their ability to frick with reality and Lucerne came to stop them. I decided to do this because of Dark Souls, but I have had the idea of the two big guys for a while. You can probably guess who Lucerne Represents and who Remeon represents though! Otherwise, the other Angels mentioned are several of the Lords in Gemini's religion. They likely go by other names in other places though. They are essentially each their own god, like a Pantheon. The Angels are a group of Lords, but there are others. It just happens that the Angels are the ones that attacked. Other Lords might aid Humanity and others might work with the Angels. Some Angels are working against the Angels too though, Like Lucerne.))

I might draw these fellows too!

#monster #angels #apocalypse #lore #blood #destruction #invasion #story #Pure

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banjoker · 6 years

Text

April Fools

The pale morning light began filtering through the ash coated windows of Hero’s home. A fine, black dust lay over everything. In the bedroom, a dragon lay asleep with the blankets strewn about. As the milky light from outside reached across the room and onto the sleeping dragon, he began to stir. The skydancer felt comfortable here. It was warm and it was familiar. His eyes opened quickly. He had been in a cave, not a cozy cot. He glanced around the room and recognized it immediately. He rose to a upright position, stretching as he did so, eyes still foggy with sleep. A strong yawn escaped his mouth. He stood and stepped from the warmth of the bed but halted his movement rapidly as he stood on the wooden floorboards. He looked down to two real arms. He appeared shocked as he looked around, finding an old mirror in the corner and brushing it clear of ash. With a gasp, the Skydancer nearly yelled, “What in the f-” A knock on the door downstairs interrupted his curse. “Hero?” He called out.

Some miles away, on the other side of a little hamlet in the Ashfall Wastes full of Furnace workers, another Skydancer awoke. The cave was hot and damp, dirty water dripping from the ceiling above. The dragon lay on a thin bedroll, a hair’s length from the hard, stygian rock below. As the dragon sat up, he was as stiff as petrified wood, every joint popping noisily. What had he done last night? The dragon swore that he had been at home. If it had not been for the angry protest of his bones, the Skydancer would have thought he was just having a dream. He attempted to walk, to follow a draft of cooler air out of the suffocating cave, but he toppled forward. He turned his surprised eyes to pitch outline of what remained of one of his forelegs. “Daymion!” The dragon called out. With a gasp, he heard his own voice, but it was not his own. He tried summoning a fire for light, but nothing came to him. He fumbled in the dark and found a length of cold metal, his foreleg. “Oh my.” He whispered a few times as he clamored to replace a limb.

It took some time, but Hero got his new arm to connect. The sensation was so strange. He could move the limb, but he felt nothing from it. That made for an interesting time as he shambled out of the stifling conditions of the cave into the pallid light of day in the ashen wastes. Hero slowly crawled onto the basaltic rocks in front of the cave. A gritty breeze blew by him, stinging his eyes. What had happened? Where was he? Does Daymion really have to deal with this? He blinked to clear the detritus from his eyes. Then he sneezed. His arm squeaked under the force. His mind raced to find some sort of solution but he drew a blank. Hero had no idea what was happening but he knew one thing, he had to find Daymion. A glittery card caught his eye as it tumbled from the bandana tied around his head. On it in bright, sparkly font read, “‘April Fools!’ - Marva” He rose up from the card momentarily, spotting a little speck of movement below along the cracked ground.

Villain was mortified as he opened the front door to five charming looking dragons. Each of them looked prouder than the last. The front-most dragon, a copper-coloured Snapper spoke first, “Young hero!” His words were marked with great pride but Villain sat in a stupor, unsure of what to do.

“You have outdone yourself once again.” Another dragon, a fae as red as molten iron, added greyly. His flailing frills of vibrant orange seemed to signal great excitement though. Faes are weird like that.

Villain stood in the doorway with a look of great bewilderment. “Uhm. Ughh.” He stumbled. The dragons awaited his response eagerly but they were confused by their hero’s hesitation. “O-okay!” Villain tried to play it off, to work up his nerve. It would be fine. Villain worked his finest Hero impression. He would just have to talk the talk and walk the walk, hopefully.

One of the dragons, a Pearlcatcher female with a petaled, blue hide, patted him on the backend with her tail. “You did verry vell with zat little bird.” She congratulated with some sort of strong accent. “Whipped him goot!” She cheered, followed by a chuckle of amusement. Villain cringed internally as he maintained his grin. He recalled what the heroes were talking about. His feathers still stick together sometimes.

Hero was quick to see the youngling, limping, filthy, and terrified. Hopping between rocks, the little ridgeback, still about his size, moved, as if running. With as much grace as Hero could muster on his three arms, he jumped down from the rocks and landed about five paces behind the fleeing dragon. The Ridgeback turned to see him and slowed. Hero was glad that he wasn’t afraid, or at least didn’t recognize Daymion. “It’s okay.” Hero comforted, gesturing to the juvenile. “I won’t hurt you.” He promised. It was really strange to hear such words in Daymion’s voice. The youth limped closer to Hero, looking all about worriedly. The dragon was covered in soot and grease. His back leg looked to be smashed pretty badly, probably from one of the many cracks in the ground. Meanwhile, an ash-coated coatl watched from the boulders above, eyes looking on with curiosity and ambition. She scooted from the precipice and took off, flying towards the village Hero would love to hear this!

Villain just sat and listened with as much fake interest as he could to the many stories of the band of heroes. Each one made him nauseas. These dragons were so pretentious! How could Hero stand to be near them. He just had to grin and bear it until they left. His feet were starting to ache. All four of them, to his continued wonder. He had to hold his breath through a particularly long-winded poem from the Snapper about battling a thousand war toads on the eve of his mother’s birthday to get her a gift.. It was so tritely filled with trivialities and drama that it made his ears ache. Then a knock on the door to interrupt the suffering Villain was undergoing. He rushed from his seated position to get away from the pride party. The shiny yellow and pink coatl at the door disappointed him. He had hoped it would have been his own body with Hero in it. The Coatl pushed through the door as soon as it was open, eliciting a, “Hey!” from Villain.

The Coatl hopped with excitement as she recounted her story, “I saw that Crow over by the Spears! Near the old cave!” The jubilation in the room was as thick as water as a sense of despair came over Villain. That had been where he was hiding and Hero had just blown it, but more importantly, he was about to be set upon a bunch of egotistical jerks.

The chuckles and cheers from the heroes didn’t bode well for Hero. Villain had to think, and fast. Pulling up his best Hero impression he spoke, “Don’t worry! I’ll handle this!”

The other dragons smiled at the idea of Hero gallantly fighting the villain but they would not relent, “No! I will watch!” The Snapper bellowed. He shook with absolute anticipation. His coppery hide shimmered despite his dirtiness.

“It will be most entertaining.” Uttered the fiery fae without intonation.

“I vant to get a keek in!” The heavily accented Pearlcatcher hurrahed. They all rushed from the room and out the front door, the metallic Snapper being last out besides Villain. Villain paced back and forth worriedly as he waited for the Snapper to squeeze through the door. This was bad! Very bad! They were going to beat him into a bloody pulp or worse! That Pearlcatcher probably wants a trophy! It kept most of his will to keep from biting a piece out of the Snapper’s flank.

Finally, the Snapper squeezed through the door with an groan, and the release of pressure let the house settle with a creek. “Move!” Villain ordered as he ran past the slow-as-stones Snapper. He spread his feathered wings and tried to fly for the first time in months. Hero’s wings are a lot bigger than his and it felt like using a sail instead of a kite. At least it was easier to fly.

The copper Snapper laughed heartily, “Want in on the action too, I see!” He stomped mirthfully. “See you there!” He bellowed after Villain. Villain just grimaced hoping he wasn’t too late and he pumped his wings ahead.

Hero hadn’t even seen them coming. He had to duck to avoid a contusing orb of magic. It cracked a black boulder a ways behind him though and shaved a few feathers from his head. He chanced a look to see his attackers, a red Fae, a yellow and pink Coatl, and a blue Pearlcatcher, all of whom he recognized. “What are you guys doing!?” He called out in surprise. Then he was reminded his current predicament. He turned his head to the Ridgeback cowering under a rocky outcropping. “Run!” He ordered as calmly as he could. The Ridgeback nodded and hobbled away. A plume of embers followed his words, emanating from the maw of the coatl as she passed. They burned away some of his downy stomach feathers, but the rest of the attack missed. Has fire always been that HOT! He scrambled to extinguish the flames as he rolled away from the three dragons.

From upside down, Hero saw him. “Daymion!” He yelled at the quickly closing skydancer. He waved frantically as he dodged another burst of sparks, colliding into a rock face with a thud.

The three offending dragons laughed at Hero’s expense. They hadn’t thought that the two knew each others’ names. Villain landed with as much charisma as he could, which turned out well enough. He stepped dramatically forward, watching Hero. The other dragons kept their eyes on Hero as well from wherever they happen to have landed. Villain mouthed as quickly as he could, “Run,” and so Hero did, sprinting away from the four dragons and into the maze of volcanic crags. The three grappling to the rocks prepared to give chase to their game but Villain’s words halted them. With as much fake pride as he could muster, Villain ordered, “No. I’ve got him.” The other nodded and cheered him on. Another grand victory for the greatest of the heroes!

Villain chased after Hero, giving him plenty of time to make distance. Hero made sure to leave conspicuous trails for Villain. It was starting to rain some ash now, coating everything in fine, grey powder. Rounding a razor-like rock, Villain caught up Hero crammed between two rocks. Villain breathed as he made sure the others weren’t nearby before he spoke, “What the FURNACE is happening?” He whispered in a yell, “And are you okay, Alfie!?” He worriedly asked. He was covered in burns and was dirtier than even Villain would have expected

Hero shook his head in exhaustion. “Marva.” He murmured slowly. “And yep.” he added with a slight laugh as he rubbed his sore shoulder. Rather, he rubbed Daymion’s shoulder. He hadn’t expected to be hearing that from Villain though. Perhaps being the Hero was a good thing for him. Villain certainly didn’t think so though.

Villain grimaced at the all too familiar name and then began to curse, “Oh, sh--” but he was interrupted, much to Villain’s dismay.

“Piff!” Hailed a dragon from above. They both turned their heads up in great surprise. Walking upside down on the rocks, a bright green a purple bogsneak adorned in jester’s garments, a radiant smile plastered to her face. “Jolly good show!” she cheered excitedly. “You’ve been wonderful!” She added gleefully.

Villain, fed up with the nonsense, dragons attacking his Hero, and not having his bandana, lept at the dragon. “Piff!” She merrily puffed as she poofed away from the attack, Villain instead scoring the rocks on the ceiling with his claws. Behind them, a cheery disembodied voice, “See you next year!” Villain turned angrily and lunged at the dragon but met nothing with his attack.

Hero landed promptly on his face against the rocks, skidding a short distance. He jumped up and looked himself over with a smile even as he held one eye shut from the fall. He was back! Villain lay amongst the rocks. “Oww!” He groaned at the burns, bruises, and likely broken bones. How had Hero kept moving?

Hero hopped towards Villain. “Thanks for saving me, Daymion.” He thanked joyfully. He stamped a little in joy.

Villain slowly sat up and joked, “Switching bodies and saving Heroes. It’s what I do!” He tried to smile as he spoke. Standing shakily, he laughed lightly. He turned slowly and said, “See you later, Alfie.”

Hero smiled and responded as Villain spread his now much shorter wings, “See ya.” Villain would miss those wings. “Good luck.” He added happily.

As Villain began to bound off, he stopped and returned his eyes to Hero. “What about them?” Villain asked, nodding towards where they had come from. It was unlikely that they would approve of him having gotten away.

Hero smiled again and already had a good answer, “I’ll just tell them that you weren’t any fun.” Villain chuckled. He figured that it would probably work. He turned to leave once more, jumping up onto a flat rock above. “But you were.” Hero added playfully. Villain paused, then he lept from view.

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banjoker · 6 years

Text

Tell Me The Truth

The battle was dynamic, riveting even! Hero and his Villain bounding across the spring-laden dawn tundra, bursts of energy igniting between them as their tails and armour collided. Butterflies cascaded about from both Hero and the grasses. A wide smile crossed the Hero’s face but a grimace of anger and frustration stuck to the Villain’s. “Why can’t I! Just! Hit! Him!” Villain yelled to himself. Another swing from Villain’s tail, another expert dodge from Hero. A hidden crossbow fired from Villain’s mechanical foreleg; squealing from the strain. A quick plume of flame from Hero, midleap, reduced it to ash and a red hot arrowhead. “Ahh! F-” Villain began to cuss. Hero landed in the grass with some momentum, causing him to slide a meter through the grass, nearly toppling a small cairn. He caught the stone with his tail and fixed the structure. “Watch your language!” Hero calmly called between deep breaths which only elicited a frustrated grunt from his foe. When Hero repositioned his eyes on Villain from the small structure at his feet, he was not more than a neck’s length away; charging wrathfully. “Whoah there, wait!” Hero tried to explain. This was Villain’s chance. He had caught him offguard for once instead of the other way around. Villain, with a smile, tackled Hero, sending both of them tumbling back, crushing the monument, and sending its pieces into the surrounding grass. Villain got the upper hand, and pinned Hero with his armoured limb. “Hah!” He bragged in victory. Hero stared past him though. Villain turned quickly. A centaur, fair skinned with cascading orange hair and an alabaster coat, stood where the rocks had once been, looking down on them sadly. She trembled, but whether in despair or rage was up for debate as she turned her gaze to the two Skydancers fumbling on the ground, murderous rage in her eyes. Villain rolled away, loading his crossbow and aiming. Hero gasped, “Daymion!” The Centaur did not flinch or yield her paralyzing stare. Villain took a quick take over to Hero as if to ask what was happening. Hero had a much idea as he did. With a strong huff, the Centaur stepped forward, clenching her hands. Daymion swore he could hear thunder rolling with every step but he could not move. “I am Veritas, goddess of truth; and you,” she pointed at Hero and then to Villain, “have trampled upon my hallowed place!” The angered goddess put great emphasis on “Trampled.” Hero spoke first, “I am very sorry, Ma’am. We were just-” but he did not get to finish. Villain smiled slightly now that he didn’t think he was about to be smashed into a pulp and seeing Hero get chastised for once. “I know what you were doing, child,” Veritas sternly interrupted. She seemed to have calmed down some, perhaps from Hero’s invariable politeness. “There will be penance for your inconsideration.” Veritas added with ever so slight tone of contempt and a glance to Villain who now felt like he was the target. Villain jumped up now, “Hey now!” He jeered, “What did I do?” Ignoring Villain, Veritas spoke once more, “You both lie to yourselves. Your actions led to your punishment whether by malice or by misfortune,” She rose her hands and a faint glow emanated from her eyes in the colour of a soft rose. “May your tongues be free from falsehood!” She ordered, “If you do not speak, you will never again.” Veritas added. Then she was gone, the only sign of her being her hoof prints in the dirt. Hero exhaled slowly. That had never happened. H started to speak in an attempt to console Villain but his words betrayed him, “Nice going, Daymion.” He blinked in minor confusion. He brushed it off as one of those weird thoughts. Villain turned to Hero, “Hey! I didn’t know the rocks were there.” He blinked as well. He had been intending to blame Hero for the encounter. What was happening? Hero looked just as confused. “Lie to me.” He ordered lightly. Hero furrowed his brow and smiled, “Lie?” he asked, “Why?” What had gotten into Daymion? It was just an angry centaur that had snuck up on them while they were distracted. He was sure that there were whole herds out there. Villain himself had ripped off a few of them. Villain shook his head angrily, “Just do it!” He decried impatiently. Hero took a breath and sighed. “Fine,” he conceded, “I think your food is bland.” He coughed a little in surprise. Had he just said that? Villain shook his head again, “Crap!” he cursed. “What did that b-” He began to question furiously. Hero interrupted calmly, “Watch your language.” He smiled ever so lightly. Villain grunted angrily in response. Hero awaited some sort of continued series of profanities but nothing came from Villain who fumed non-verbally as he paced back and forth. Hero scratched behind his head as he thought. “Maybe if we fix the rocks?” Hero offered quizzically. He waited again for any input from Daymion. He squinted at his companion. At least they weren’t fighting anymore. “Do you have any ideas?” Hero asked as he began stepping through the grass, collecting the rocks. Villain continued pacing, huffing and stomping about. Hero stopped rolling rocks and turned to Daymion with an amused glow. “You can’t not talk.” Villain turned aggressively, “I can not!” he stated slightly quieter and with the opposite intent than he had planned. “Blast!” He exclaimed, also barely noticeably quieter. It was so slight that even Hero didn’t register it at first. With a shake, a puff, and a quick ruffling of feathers, Villain went back to silence. Hero sighed with ever so slight impatience. “Come one, you’re being a child!” He snapped with more anger than expected, “O-Oh my.” Hero stuttered in surprise. Villain, frustrated, halted his pacing and turned abruptly to Hero. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped before he could. He wouldn’t want to say anything he meant but didn’t want said. Perhaps he could lie by omission. “So what if I am?” He replied. Noticeably softer and without falsity, once again. He growled. He couldn’t even leave things out. What had that centaur said? Something about never speaking again? “Hero!” He yelled at low volume. Hero, surprised by the sudden change in Daymion, responded, “Why are you so quiet?” He was thinking about the curse or whatever it was. “Oh,” he added when he reached the end of the thought. Villain nodded. “Keep talking.” Hero ordered sternly. Villain growled once more. It was nearly dusk already. How had that happened? “What do you want to talk about?” Villain asked partially faint. Hero shook his head, “Anything.” That wasn’t a lie, of course. He sat down promptly in the grass next to the unfinished job or fixing the stones. Idle conversation followed promptly. Words of little substance and little lasting worth. The weather, grass, the Centaur and others. Night fell upon the two quickly as was common so far south. The sky above was star-laden, like a pond full of diamonds. As night drew in and the two lost sleep, the conversations grew ever closer to their hearts: favourite toy as a child, least favourite food, why the butterflies, and others. Their eyes often strayed to the vibrant gems above. Hero wondered if that Centaur was watching them right now, from somewhere up there. Villain was hungry. Villain lay in the dirt, exhausted, mentally and physically. It was hard to talk for so long. “How have you been?” He asked his companion, intrigued at this point. Hero shiften on his haunches as he thought. Villain wondered for a moment, Why do they fight? Why couldn’t they just sit like this and just… talk. Hero smiled wanly in the pale, silver moonlight. He began to speak slowly, as if sleep were catching up to him. “Good. I’ve been having a lot of fun.” His answer elicited a question in Villain. What was he having fun doing? Villain blinked slowly, the white light colouring him a lavender colour. “Fun?” He asked inquisitively. He scratched his side from the prickly grass beneath him. Hero took his eyes from the moons above and breathed. “You’ve been fun.” He responded calmly. Villain’s heart skipped ever so slightly. He had seen it coming, but it still hit him like a brick. They were silent for a moment, but it seemed to Villain to stretch on for hours. The stars were beginning to fade now. Where had the time gone? “Do you like me?” He asked as quickly as he could without stuttering. He knew he’d get an answer, but he wasn’t sure if he would like it. Hero nodded as he spoke, “Of course I do.” Villain stamped his feet in anticipation. Villain, unsatisfied, redoubled his efforts. “No! Do you-” He tried to think quickly, “like me?” He simultaneously hoped that Hero would fail to catch the meaning and that he would figure it out. He sat for what felt like forever waiting for his response. Hero’s smile softened as he replied, “Of course I do.” How very vague. Villain was unsure whether that was a good reply or not too which only made it worse. Hero was more cryptic than even he could manage. More time passed. The horizon began to take on the visage of a great fire, a menagerie of wispy clouds painted with great swaths of orange and violet; pink and red. Morning already? Villain’s legs ached from sitting for so long and his eyes felt like lead. Hero fared little better. His wings felt like they were chained to the ground. Just out of the two Skydancer’s view, a centaur stood resolute against the receding night sky, smiling. The time had come.. Hero spoke, breaking the morning silence, “Daymion,” Villain glanced up to catch his gaze, “Do you love me?” Villain sat silent for a time, unsure of how to respond. “Please, tell me the truth,” Hero whispered into the still air connecting them. A butterfly fluttered past him and Villain watched it. Now was as good a chance as any. Villain cleared his throat and responded warmly, “Of course I do, Alfie,” He laughed lightly and Hero laughed alongside him. After but a few more giggles and sighs, the two succumbed to their dreams, a smile on each of their faces. A pile of stones sat reconstructed between them. Hero mused of distant green fields alongside Daymion and Villain dreamt of little meals with his hero. They were content. The Truth really does set you free.

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banjoker · 6 years

Text

Killer

Villain stalked the shadows subconsciously as he often did when he was anxious. He paced back and forth. He was stuck in a limbo. On one side, his sins gnawed at him to give up and do something wicked. On the other, a guiding wing, a perfect smile, a beautiful man… Villain shook the thought away angrily. He couldn’t put him through that, could he? Should he? He had been vicious, cruel, a monster to him. He had broken more than his fair share of hearts in his life. Every time, it hadn’t just killed him. He growled loudly. He was about to blow up as the sound of an opening door. “Alfie?” He called. The footfalls neared him now.

The emotions flew like lighting. “I’m no good for You!” Villain started with a crack. Villain pressed forward. This was for the best, surely. “I’ll just tear you apart, Alfie.” He took a deep breath. Every fibre of his being was telling him to run away, but that’s what he always does and he can’t do that to Alfie again. Not after what he’s done. “By the time I’m gone,” Villain attempted to add but he stopped. “This is a mess.” Villain conceded. Everything always seemed to go wrong, no matter what they tried. Alfie would grab his heart and he would end up crushing Alfie’s once more.

“I’m no good for you,” Villain repeated. His heart raced, his mind whirled, and his body ached with grief. All this has happened before. Alfie always drags him back. His emotions were always so smooth but sometimes, he bottled up his emotions until they burned him from the inside. Maybe if he was gone, he wouldn’t have to do that. Maybe he could move on. What was it about Villain that made Alfie so determined? What could it possibly be?

Villain looked straight ahead now. “My heart isn’t made for two, Alfie.” He glanced down. “I’m sorry.” He apologized.

Then the door opened. Through the opening, Hero looked into the room. “What did you need?”

Villain looked at Hero. Even if he knew the truth about his own feelings, perhaps it didn’t matter if he was happy. He might just need to remake his heart.

“Nevermind,” Daymion replied with a small smile.

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banjoker · 7 years

Text

My Own Worst Enemy

Pain. It racked Villain's head before he could even open his eyes. The sunlight was hitting him in just the right way to make it worse, so he already knew it was morning. He roused groggily, to say the least. Villain remembered very little of anything within the past day or so. His head pounded, his teeth ached, and his body was wrapped in sheets of some sort. Were his blankets always this warm? His eyes cracked open as he turned his neck to see the state he had to have left his room in last night.

Well, except for the fact that it wasn't his room to begin with. He choked and his eyes widened abruptly. There, in all his glory, was Hero across the bed staring down at him. Hero had sheets draped across his wings and a look Villain knew would be an understatement to describe as surprised. He could only assume his own face looked the same.

Villain jumped from the bed. His wings knocked the contents of one shelf onto the floor and the other bumped into a hanging light. What in the Furnace happened last night? Villain thought to himself. He blushed at all the things his drunken mind might have done (thank goodness he woke up clothed!) and tried to ignore the pain as he forced himself to remember at least some of what went on to get him to that point.

It never came to Villain, but Hero? He remembered everything.

Hero tried to looked on in feigned bewilderment. He knew what questions Daymon would be asking himself through his headache, and Hero knew the answers. Would Daymion want to know them, however? Watching his old friend grasp at his feathers in shame (or pain, he couldn't tell) made him bite his tongue. Did he even know how to describe it?

Hero recalled the night before in his own mind almost unintentionally. It mocked him by this point. He had been sitting in bed thinking. In all honesty, he had been doing a lot more thinking than sleeping in recent months. So many things seemed to be spiraling out of his control, and so many eyes were on him to make sure that he fixed everything in his path. It started to grow too much on him. When did chasing after an old friend become so terrible? It plagued his mind day and night.

When he had finally begun to nod off though, he almost didn't hear his window open with a small creak. Hero watched tiredly as Daymion floundered into his room through the port. “Hey, Alfie.” He had said drunkenly as he shambled towards Hero’s bed. Hero didn't even have the strength anymore to stop Daymion from collapsing onto it.

Hero watched in confusion at first. Daymion wreaked of some pungent drink as he cuddled within his bed like when they were children. Hero flushed as Daymion shifted closer to him under the covers. Daymion mumbled and whispered unusual, stuporous things. “Sorry, Alfie.” He had said at one point for no apparent reason. “You’re warm.” He moved to almost contact Alfie. He even purred at one point to Alfie's surprise. But as Daymion kept talking, Alfie's mind finally started to succumb to its exhaustion. Did he even want Daymion to leave in the first place? “-ove you, Alfie," was the last thing he heard before everything, as soft and quiet as it could be, faded to black.

Hero snapped back to the situation at hand. The air was thick with awkwardness and embarrassment between the two. Villain looked on in uncertainty, almost scared to ask anything at all. “What happened?” Hero shrugged in denial. Daymion took this time to fake a cough and move towards the door. Had something happened?Daymion asked himself repeatedly. He hoped that if Hero knew, he would forget about it and that he wouldn’t bring up anything he had said or called him. He kicked himself mentally for being such a fool. How could he have done something so stupid?

As Daymion left, Hero sighed audibly. He didn't want to watch that one opportunity to feel happiness again leave out the front door. His whisper of goodbye could barely even be heard by himself. Why couldn’t he just tell him? He questioned himself angrily. He turned and threw a seat cushion across his room with his tail. Weak! I can't believe this! How could I have had my best night in months with him passed out drunk next to me while I slept?

It took everything in himself not to just break down by that point. “I’m my own worst enemy.” Hero whispered sadly. He turned to his unmade bed and sighed. “Next time, maybe.” He hoped aloud.

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banjoker · 7 years

Text

Hero and Villain - Beings, Madeon

Dirty leaves fell from the creepers sprawled across the rocks. Specks of ash came down with them and coated the blackened ground in a fine white powder-like snow. And, Villain waited. Surely this trap could not fail. Hero would not be expecting it. He probably thinks that Villain just ran again. Villain smiled devilishly at the thought of Hero’s face when the trap is sprung.

Villain waited and waited. On several occasions, he had to stifle a sneeze from the falling ash. Eventually, he was coated in a pasty-grey layer. He grunted impatiently at one point, shaking off some of the dust in the process. As night began to fall, though one could scarcely tell through the dull clouds, Villain stood up to stretch. Maybe Hero had avoided his trap or maybe it had sprung when he was distracted. He, while whispering profanities under his breath, took the chance of checking his mechanisms.

Villain rounded the rocks that had been his hiding spot and saw nothing. Not Hero, not a rock out of place, and… not his trap. He turned his head to look down every path. He cursed angrily and stepped forward, leaving pawprints in the fresh ashen fall. Careful to avoid any traps that Hero may have replaced his own with, Villain made his way towards where he thought his trap had been. Shallow prints left in the ash made him falter. He stopped down to the ground and crept slowly forward.

Hero sat tiredly in a crevice. Villain would have to do better than a rope trap. That hadn’t worked when they were children either. Except for once, he remembered. Villain probably shouldn’t blame him for avoiding it. He had spent almost his entire life doing this and would not be foiled then or ever. He watched with great interest as Villain moved past his blind. Hero readied himself quietly and then pounced.

Villain stopped suddenly. What was that? He asked himself. He turned in time to see Hero, in mid-air, tackling him. They rolled several meters until they slowed and stopped. Villain struggled under Hero’s body to little effect until he heard the creak of his trap underneath. In a second, and a small squeak of surprise from Villain, the two skydancers hang suspended three meters from the ground below. Entangled in both the net and Hero, and furious, Villain thrashed and only managed to get himself more stuck.

Hero sighed disappointedly. It had happened again. This was why the rope trap had worked the first time too. “Get offa ME!” Villain ordered angrily. Hero blinked and giggled slightly. His giggle devolved into a wild laugh much to Villain’s wrath. “Why are ya’ Laughing, HUH?” Villain questioned as he proceeded to kick Hero in the side with as much force as his entangled back leg could muster, which was little.

Hero grunted from the kick and smiled. “Careful their, Daymion,” He joked. Villain did not think that being trapped in a net was funny though. Hero kept thinking of when they were kids too. “Remember when we were kids, Daymion? With that net between those two trees?” He asked nostalgically.

How could Villain forget? That was embarrassing then, not to mention now that it had happened again. The sneer on Villain’s face didn’t abate though. “Shut up,” He growled. Villain tried again to free one of his limbs or at least his tail. Then he could just cut the rope, but alas, he couldn’t. He doubted Hero could get down either. He had had a free limb last time and was able to cut the ropes with his dagger. This wasn’t last time, however.

Hero wondered for a minute why he and Daymion would always get into situations like this. It was as if something was pushing them together like they were meant to be together in some way. Hero inadvertently flushed at the idea. He turned his head away and pretended to be looking for a way to escape. Villain saw this and squinted his eyes in suspicion. “What’s wrong with you?” Villain insulted mildly. He was curious why Hero was acting so strange though.

Hero turned back to Villain. Why did he go through so much trouble for a dragon like Daymion? Why did Daymion bother going through so much to stop him? “You’ve got a passion for this, Daymion, We should do it more often.” Hero offered calmly.

Villain frowned. “That just makes it worse!” Daymion retorted.

Villain attempted to loosen the binds on one of his forelegs but only proceeded to get one of his wings tied in a Double Windsor. An impressive feat to be sure. Hero smiled at his failed effort. “Scary.” He whispered. Villain slowed his efforts. What was scary? “What’ll happen now?” He asked quietly. Villain realized now that he couldn’t escape and neither could Hero. There were no parents to come and save them either.

Villain, the ever denying dragon he is, joked, “At least you won’t die alone.” Hero didn’t think that was too funny.

Villain stopped struggling entirely now. There wasn’t any point. There was no way out. “Do you have anything you want to say?” Hero asked warmly. Villain hadn’t planned on going out this way. It was more painful than he had imagined.

Villain sighed. “I just want the world to know who I am.” He admitted. “I’m sorry, A-Alfie.” Villain sputtered out. “I’m sorry, you’re stuck here.” He whispered as closed his eyes. “I, L-l…”

Hero rose one of his eyebrows and smiled. “Who said I’m stuck?” Hero asked suddenly. Villain’s eyes shot open as the smell of fire reached his nose. He watched as the ropes blackened at Hero’s touch and crumbled to ash. A warming radiation flowed from Hero into Villain. It reminded him of a good fireplace and hot stew. Hero freed one of his wings and then the other and then his legs. When the net collapsed, Hero dropped down to his feet. Villain floundered to the ground beside him.

“Why you little!” Villain began to curse at Hero.

“Do you regret it, Daymion?” Hero asked, interrupting Daymion’s wrathful thoughts. He expected him to say that he was, of course.

Villain flushed a little as he remembered the heat that came off of Hero and his confessions and what he had nearly confessed. “Al-Alfie! You could g-get out the entire time!?” Villain redirected conspicuously.

“Passion?” Hero offered.

“That still doesn’t make it better!” Villain replied, Villain feared for a moment that he had lost again. He wasn’t too unhappy with the result though.

Hero smiled. Maybe this is what they were meant to be, just maybe. "Let's go home." He had said whimsically. He turned and began to walk through the pristine ash. Villain stood up and followed hesitantly.

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banjoker · 7 years

Text

Alfie and Daymion - My Immortal

The morning was serene and calm. The sun was rising with a great array of color and beauty. One could see for miles in every direction from a lofty position adorned with a pile of flat, smooth rocks. They were stacked high and an old, green scarf whipped in the warm breeze. Wildflowers and grasses sprung from the pile’s base and rusted copper wings leaned against the rocks. In the far distance, the shadow of a black mountain could be seen.

A figure arose from the seldom green tundra below and made his way shakily towards the rocks. He wore ragged clothes, a ratty bag, and an ancient bandanna. As he moved, his limbs made metallic squeaking noises. They flickered dimly as he walked up the incline. The old skydancer stopped in front of the monument and bowed his head. With a grunt, he sat down and dropped his bag to the thin soil. He opened the bag with some difficulty and pulled a jar from it. The skydancer fidgeted as he placed it on top of the stones. Inside was a chrysalis.

The old dragon teared up as he watched the jar. He wiped his eyes on his clothing and returned his eyes to the rocks. “Alfie.” The Daymion started but he choked on his words. “I’m so tired.” He added mournfully. He shook his head. The red and violet light shone off of his tear laden eyes. “I’m afraid, Alfie.” The skydancer lamented quietly. He had no idea if Alfie could hear him. He had never believed in such superstition but there was not much left to be stubborn about.

Daymion looked upwards with his dim, white eyes and asked, “If you had to leave me, why can’t you just leave?” He gritted his teeth. He was gone but he wouldn’t leave him alone even after so many years. His forepaw ached but he had no forepaw to feel pain in. The pain in his paw was fake but the pain he felt in his heart was very real. That is a wound that will never heal. “There’s just too much time won’t erase…” The dragon added sorrowfully as he scratched his metal arm.

Memories of long past meals and faces flowed through the elderly dragon’s mind. Daymion remembered the tears his partner had shed for him and for others. The skydancer remembered how he would always feel better after they had been wiped away as if his troubles went with them. A faint smile that had formed quickly disappeared as he remembered the rage his companion had also harbored. His screams of anger and fiery power made both of them fearful. The old dragon closed his eyes. He had fought those away. He still had the burns to show for it too.

Tears streamed down Daymion’s jaw and flowed down his neck. He had held him close for so many years. He felt so empty once Alfie was gone and it hurt terribly. The Skydancer had nothing left of him. “You used to be so bright. So captivating…” The dragon sobbed. They had both been young, spry, and beautiful once. Now only he, however old and ragged he appeared, was left. Things had gone so very wrong so very quickly. His partner’s light had begun to burn whatever or whoever it touched, including him. He traced a line of old wounds along his body with his mind subconsciously. Now, he lived in the life Alfie had left behind.

Daymion could no longer speak as he wept in front of the cairn. Burned into his dreams is the face of his companion as he had been so long ago. Lively and pure. Unstained by anger and bitterness. His dreams had been pleasant once and he took solace in Alfie’s presence in them Now, they haunt his dreams as phantoms. His voice often accompanied the faces and what little sanity he had crumbled at his sweet words. Every morning, he had wished that he had never woken up. As the skydancer began to sniffle and calm, he found himself sprawled in front of the grave.

The elderly Daymion looked at the scarf that hung from the stones with forlorn fondness. “I’ve tried to tell myself that you’re gone, Alfie.” He announced sadly. “I know you’re here with me but I still feel alone.” The dragon muttered. Even with Alfie gone, he still holds power over him. Why couldn’t he just let me go? He had thought. Perhaps it wasn’t that Alfie would not let him go, maybe it was that Daymion could not let Alfie go. As the sun rose to prominence in the sky, Daymion struggled to his feet. He was short of breath as he grabbed his bag and turned to leave his friend. He stopped a few awkward steps from him, however. He turned his head back to the grave marker. He returned to the monument and removed the jar’s lid and then turned and walked away. A blue Wasteland Pauper crawled from the jar and fluttered away into the distant green summer. Daymion was unsure if he would get to see it too as he walked. Another tear fell.

“You still have all of me,” Daymion whispered with a smile. Maybe he would see him soon. He would like that.

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banjoker · 7 years

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Anti-Hero and Villain - Evil Ways

It has been so long. So very long. Daymion looked across the wide field of black rock in front of him. He looked out and saw what he feared. In the distance sat nestled in the rocks, what remained of a small village. It was reduced to ash and cinders. The sight made vile images spring to Daymion’s mind. Those eyes that Alfie had were so different than before. They were angry and they were crazed. They terrified Daymion even now. Something had to be done. Daymion chased Alfie, but he was always one step ahead. He burned a swath of destruction wherever he went. The brutality was far beyond what Daymion could have imagined. He had stopped to aid Alfie’s victims on a few occasions, but it made him quite uncomfortable to do so. He tried to leave as soon as possible and to resume his pursuit but he has faced many long, hard days. Nobody had told him that he would be the Hero one day, but the Gods seemed to have had that in mind. When there is Evil, a Hero will eventually stand up to face it. Daymion had not wanted to do this but he had to. Alfie was out of control. It was so hard to be the Hero and he didn’t understand how Hero could have done it for as long as he had. But, because he had to, Daymion set out across the land to find Alfie. He had to strike some sense into him. He had to make him change his ways. Daymion couldn’t hide either though. It is not easy to change your ways, but perhaps Alfie still had a chance. He wouldn’t hide either. He needed everything he had to face his friend. He was not prepared for when he finally found him, though, or for what he saw. Daymion had tracked Alfie for weeks. He followed the pain and the bloodshed and soon, he began gaining ground. There were many that needed help. The battered and the broken littered the wastes. A dragon he had found was beaten down for a bag of grain and left to die. Another’s home was incinerated in a rage. Yet another was missing an eye and spoke of The Fallen Hero. One day, as Daymion crept over a boulder he spotted Alfie ahead. Daymion immediately ducked out of sight. Alfie was just sitting there. Was he waiting? For what? Dozens of thoughts flooded his mind. He couldn’t fight Alfie, could he? He could never beat him directly. He was too strong. Maybe he could outmaneuver him. Outsmart him? Stall Him? “Get out here Daymion.” Ordered Alfie coolly from the other side of the rock. Daymion’s eyes widened. He slowly got to his feet and scaled over the rock. Alfie stood where he had been before but now he stared directly at him. Alfie was crooked and tired looking. He was rough and scarred. His eyes were cold with anger. His body was thin and his muscles were starkly contrasted to the rest of him. He stared at Daymion with a calculating strength. It froze Daymion where he stood. Those eyes were not what Daymion remembered. Daymion thought fast. What could he do now? He collected his voice and spoke, “I’ve come to talk to you!” Daymion was angry in a way. He was angry at the things Alfie had done and said to him. It showed in his voice. Alfie barely moved, but his face’s muscles took on an angry tautness. He rose his own voice which was familiar to Daymion but at the same time, very different. “So? Why should I care?” He retorted angrily. It stung to see Alfie so uncaring, but Daymion still had to do something. Daymion took the risk and took a few pensive steps forward. Alfie watched him carefully. Daymion knew that Alfie could end this quickly if he wanted to so the fact that he hadn’t wrung his neck yet was a step forward. “You need to stop, Alfie! You’ve changed so much! You’ve hurt people.” Daymion pleaded vigorously. He didn’t know what pleading would do, but he hoped that he could reach Alfie somehow. Alfie smiled and chuckled. “At least you gained some backbone.” He remarked sarcastically. “Shut up!” Daymion shouted as he swung his tail around, lashing Hero on the side of the face. “You have to stop this now! You’re not like this! I know you’re better than all this!” Daymion shouted ragefully. Daymion couldn’t be the Hero. He had never been the Hero. He didn’t know how to be one. Alfie had always been the hero and he was good at it and people needed him. Daymion needed him. Alfie, after regaining his footing, lunged forward and yelled into Daymion’s face. Blood dripped from the side of his face and one of his eyes was clenched shut. “This is what your hate turned me into! Look what you’ve done to me!” A bright orange glow radiated from his mouth, nose, and eyes as he yelled, but it faded away quickly. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Alfie admitted sadly as he backed away. “I’m so tired, Daymion.” He whispered. Daymion just watched in stunned silence now. Alfie had almost killed him, but he hadn’t. Alfie looked much older now. His feathers were singed and tattered, his fur was soot-stained, his eyes were red and puffy, stress lines spread across his face, and a look of despair now replaced the anger in his eyes. “What have I done, Daymion?” Alfie asked dreadfully “I’m sorry.” He added apologetically. He couldn’t hide his evil ways from himself anymore. Daymion had seen to that Daymion blinked slowly and breathed. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. Had it worked? Had Alfie burned out? “W-what now?” Daymion asked softly. Alfie just looked blankly into the distance. He turned his head towards the furnace on the Horizon and frowned. Alfie returned his gaze to the reddened Horizon as a tear streaked down his face from his open eye. Alfie didn’t know what to do. Could he ever truly forgive Alfie for what he had done? He didn’t think Alfie could forgive himself at all. He may never be seen as a hero again by himself or others. He had always been Daymion’s Hero before all this though, Perhaps he could be his Hero again, someday. “I don’t know.” Alfie finally choked out.

#flight rising #dragons #angst

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banjoker · 7 years

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Anti Hero and Villain - Hero

Alfie and Daymion moved quietly and unassumingly through the busy market. They were cloaked and hidden but so were many in the hot, windy wastes. There was a bustle unseen in most smaller villages and there seemed to be several more guards than what was usual. They were lightly armored but they were lean and grizzled. Daymion leaned closer to Alfie and whispered, “Mercenaries. Keep calm.” He leaned away and slowed to pretend as though he were interested in a stand full of Greater Plantains. To Alfie, they looked rather average though. Alfie leaned to Daymion and with a whispery, but annoyed voice said, “Of course I can keep calm.” His movement indicated otherwise, however. He looked ready to fight. His talons, freshly sharpened as was Alfie’s new habit, scratched anxiously at the ash covered ground. His eye itched for someone to look at him wrong. His muscles were stiff with anticipation of combat. He didn’t want to fight but he had gotten so used to it, fights usually come to him. They were in the market for a good reason. Daymion had chosen to take the risk of buying supplies. He was worried about Alfie though. Alfie was different and he could see his tension. He was using most of his will not to start something violent. Alfie had insisted in coming with him, though. Daymion hated leaving the cave unguarded but there was little chance of anybody finding it. Still, the thought lingered. This hero work in keeping Alfie on a leash is difficult. The hunting parties had just started to give up and Daymion didn’t want Alfie to bring them back down on their heads. It has been tough. Alfie is so confrontational. He seems to revel in conflict now. Daymion is usually capable of talking him down from whatever he was doing, however. He has a few burns to show for it though. It is better than what Alfie has given himself though. He has lost teeth, broken bones, lost his eye, and has almost lost a limb and his wing. That’s not even mentioning the scars along his body that he doesn’t want to talk about. All those little cuts Alfie has make Daymion worried. It seems as long as he’s busy, he doesn’t have time for such behavior. Daymion moved on from the Plantains and Alfie followed with a sigh. One mercenary watched a little too closely for Alfie’s comfort though. Daymion gave him a stern look. They just needed food and water. They didn’t need a bloodbath. Daymion listened to the chatter of coins in his pocket with a small smile. Even if Alfie had become a villain, he lacked the subtlety of Daymion’s skills. That nosy Mercenary won’t be too happy, but Alfie and Daymion will have their fill tonight. That night, after Daymion and Alfie had eaten and had stored away the rest of their supplies, they just placed themselves around a group of candles for light. Alfie was looking into the flames of the candle and Daymion lay nearby and feigned sleep. He was just a step or so from Daymion and could hear his breathing. He was angry and he didn’t know why. It was so painful to be angry all the time. Alfie thought heavily as the candles burned. Daymion always told him that he didn’t have to hurt others. That he could still be the hero. Alfie didn’t hold much faith in that outcome. He had done terrible things. The images of a few faces came to him and he threw them aside. He thought of Daymion and what had happened before all this. It made him growl lightly. Alfie jumped up quickly and the flames of the candles grew in size. The candles began to melt rapidly as he thundered from the cavernous room and the flames returned to normal. Alfie was grumbling to himself as he left. Daymion had listened the whole time and felt the rush of heat from Alfie and the candles then the breeze of cold air from outside as Alfie uncovered the entrance and left. Daymion stood up slowly and silently. It was like this a lot. Alfie just needed to cool down. Though Daymion decided, he should keep an eye on him. He followed quietly after the rageful skydancer. As Daymion came to the Cave’s entrance, he could hear Alfie pacing back and forth just outside. The skins and hides they had draped over the entrance now had burn marks in the shape of a dragon’s bite. Daymion had noticed that Alfie has used fire far more often than he had before. He always seemed to be on the edge of anger too. Sometimes he fell off. Daymion could hear Alfie as he spoke to himself. “I’m just a dragon. I’m not a hero.” He ranted. “I don’t know what to do! I just hate this all.” Alfie growled. Daymion winced as he finished his sentence. Hate is certainly a strong word. He had never heard Alfie use it like that. He continued to lament and rage about miscellaneous topics from his eye to the boredom. Daymion stepped out into the cool night air. It was much better than inside at least. Alfie saw him and frowned. “Of course. The villain checking up on the monster.” Alfie snarled angrily. He looked away off into the hazy distance. A dull orange glow could be seen in the far reaches as well. Daymion took a step closer and he could feel the heat from Alfie. He glowed internally and it radiated across the black rock beneath their feet. The heat caused distortions around his body and the basalt beneath his feet began to crack. “You’re not a monster Alfie.” Daymion comforted as he took another few steps towards him. “This war we’ve been fighting is tearing you apart,” Daymion whispered to himself. Alfie grimaced at the realization. He’s tearing both of them apart, not just himself. He glanced over to Daymion and he saw fear. Daymion was tired and thin. His fur was matted and singed and he had a few sets of self-administered stitches along his side and stomach. They were due to come out soon and he felt like it would be agonizing. The problem remains though, he couldn’t drag Daymion through the mud with him. There is a fine edge that he was standing on and he didn’t want to know what he’d find if he took that step. Daymion has been holding him from taking it for so long now. “It’s just another day, Alfie.” Daymion consoled tiredly. Alfie had since sat down on the rocks and Daymion sat down with him. Alfie’s fury was still present in the heat that billowed from his body. It was stifling for Daymion to sit so near to him but he felt like what he needed to say was worth the pain. “I still need a hero, Alfie,” Daymion admitted. He almost choked on his words. His eyes were beginning to wet with tears. “I still need you, Alfie.” He pleaded softly. Any louder and he may have as well began to cry. Daymion was so tired. So very tired. Daymion looked into Alfie’s eyes and could see the resistance beginning to diminish. Alfie looked away from Daymion’s eyes. He couldn’t mean that much to him, right? He was no hero anymore. He had done things that hurt him terribly. They weighed on him and it was overwhelming. “You can still fight for good, Alfie.” Daymion offered tearily. They have been dodging soldiers and survivors for weeks. They all want to take a piece out of Alfie by now. Most would just as soon do the same to Daymion as well. If not for being wanted himself, then for associating with Alfie. Daymion could have fled from Alfie and have had free reign but he couldn’t just let Alfie do all those horrible things. He was supposed to be the hero but he had been a more terrifying villain than Daymion could ever be. Daymion just wasn’t ready to die. He sincerely thought that Alfie wasn’t either. “You could help people again! You could make them believe in you again!” Daymion said excitedly. Alfie shook his head. Daymion knew that Alfie was still a hero somewhere behind all his pain and anger. He just knew it. “Alfie listen to me, please.” Daymion pleaded. Alfie stood up and took a deep breath to calm down. “You’re still a hero. You can still be good!” Alfie promised heartily. The glow from within Alfie’s body intensified as he turned towards Daymion suddenly. The deep breath hadn’t helped. “I’m not going to fight for good!” Alfie barked. His breath smelled of charcoal. He took a step towards Daymion who took his own step back. Alfie was getting a little close. “I’m going to fight for what’s right and what’s right is not me!” He fumed. “I’ve always listened and listened to dragons complain and whine! I’m speaking my mind now!” He yelled furiously. “If that kills me, then I’d be happy!” He concluded angrily. He turned and stomped away from the smoking spot he had been standing. “Alfie!” Daymion called after Alfie but he had evaded him. He ran after him and into the foggy wastes. “Alfie!” He yelled again. “Alfie!” He pleaded. Where had he gone? “The village?” Daymion asked himself dreadfully and worriedly. If he was going to vent his frustration on something, it would be the village. He thought he could see the lights through the fog and rushed towards them. He had to stop Alfie before he fell again. What he had said really got to Daymion. He was fighting for what was right but that wasn’t him? Could he throw that aside so easily? As Daymion neared the lights in the fog, they began to move. They swung on something. He slowed to a cautious walk and watched the lights closer. The lights were around him now but there was no town. They started to move towards him and Daymion reached to his side. He hadn’t brought any of his gear with him. “Blast!” He gasped. He stepped back the way he came but a light was behind them. They were lanterns. Daymion could see the forms of several dragons appearing through the mist. They wore worn armor and carried themselves with bravado. “Mercenaries?” Daymion asked himself as his eyes darted from one dragon to another. His eyes fell on one in particular. The nosy mercenary. The Wildclaw was easily his own size and was probably much heavier. The others were mostly coatls but there were two mirrors and a snapper as well. The Wildclaw’s eyes shone with anger as soon as they met Daymion’s. The Wildclaw took a few steps forward and shone the light he carried on his wing onto Daymion. “I thought it was ye.” The mirror slurred. “Ye took me coin this mornin’. Member?” He growled. Daymion ran his eyes around the entire area but it was completely enshrouded in thick mist. He counted the dragons as well. There were seven at least. He couldn’t fight them all especially since he didn’t have his equipment. If he could get around them, he could disappear into the fog. He shot his eyes towards the snapper. He was probably the slowest of them and was his best bet. “Yer nae goin’ nowhere, rat.” The Wildclaw whispered to him roughly. Daymion jumped back and turned. It looked like he would have to be his own hero. Daymion’s heart raced. He hadn’t fought anyone since he had begun chasing Alfie. He was rusty at best. He planned on running towards the snapper. He heard the Wildclaw yell but the adrenaline deafened his clarity as he ran. He ran towards one side of the Snapper and planned to fake to the other. He could hear the Wildclaw’s feet pounding behind him and he could hear the sounds of armour shifting or the drawing of weapons. The snapper turned his head and body towards him. Daymion shifted his weight and ran for the other side of the snapper. He was almost free. He had almost passed the snapper but the mercenary swung his tail and struck Daymion in the side. Daymion emitted a sharp exhale as he was hit. It sent him skidding across the sharp rocks for several feet. He could hear faintly as the Mercenaries laughed. “Yer nae the only one to try that, rat.” The Wildclaw taunted. “Told ye.” He mocked. Daymion breathed shallowly. The snapper had broken something. He couldn’t move his body and he couldn’t feel his front arms or one of his wings. Daymion struggled to raise his head. His vision was blurry but he could see something. Two eyes in the mist. They glowed like molten rock and they were wide with hatred. With a deep cough and a copper taste, Daymion called out, “Alfie!” The wildclaw kicked into Daymion’s side and he coughed up crimson specks. “Ye want him to die too, do ye?” The Wildclaw tormented. The others laughed again. Daymion felt quite certain that Alfie wouldn’t be the one dying here. He was thinking that he might, however. His head dropped down back to the rocky ground and his eyes closed slowly. His heart slowed and his breathing became scarce. The Wildclaw almost looked disappointed. He berated the Snapper for hitting Daymion too hard. Alfie glowed furiously as he walked towards the group of mercenaries. His clothing was burning around him and his internal workings were visible through the holes burned. The mist boiled away from him and the ground cracked at his passing, One of the coatls turned to the new source of heat and was met with Alfie’s razor sharp, blazing claws. The merriment of the other mercenaries quickly disappeared as they watched the horror unfold. As the morning light began to shine through the ash, Alfie found himself lying next to Daymion. What remained of the mercenaries was strewn about in smoldering heaps around Alfie. He had only scraps of his original clothing left and many of his feathers were ratty or scorched. The Wildclaw hung from a sword embedded into a rock wall. The Snapper was a few meters away and had his armor and hide rented away along his side. The wound still smoked. There were no missing mercenaries here though three of them had fled. Alfie stroked Daymion’s feathers as he sat unmoving. Alfie looked at the carnage he had wrecked and was not remorseful. He felt nothing but pain but perhaps that was better than nothing at all. It did not seem better to Alfie at the moment though. Daymion twitched slightly. Alfie lurched his head to look. Daymion breathed ever so softly and his eyes moved slowly behind his lids. Alfie had been so enraged and so full of hatred that he had not seen this. He stood up and stood back. Tears filled his remaining eye and he whimpered. His eyes glowed with ferocity again but not in anger. Alfie ran back to Daymion and hoisted him onto his back. He was heavier than Alfie had imagined but he carried the other skydancer with relative ease. The ground where he had laid was stained brown and dark red. He could see the village from where he stood. The Mercenaries must have been on patrol. Alfie thought later. He made a sprint towards the village. Saving Daymion was the right thing. Alfie assured himself. “You’re going to be fine Daymion. You’ll be okay.” Alfie promised aloud. Alfie took Daymion into the Village but they were more than a little wary of Alfie. Though they did not know his face, mostly due to his eye patch missing, not wearing any clothes, and being covered in black soot. He was eventually directed to a local healer. She took Alfie and Daymion into her home. The little, old coatl directed Alfie to a room with a bed and Alfie placed Daymion on it. The coatl shooed Alfie from the room, though he was reluctant to leave. Alfie paced around the village as he waited. He watched the doorway of the Healing coatl diligently. After a few days, the Villagers began to become more comfortable with the skydancer and returned to their business. None of the mercenaries had returned to their posts so Alfie was the closest thing they had at the moment. Alfie had not eaten or slept by this time, though, and he looked gaunt and sickly. One morning, as Alfie passed the door once more, it opened. Alie stopped and turned to look at the elderly coatl. She smiled and ushered Alfie inside. The villagers watched the two impassively but closely. Alfie impatiently followed the slow coatl through her home. It was dimly lit and smelled of strange plants and materials. The coatl led Alfie into the room he had previously been in before having to leave. Daymion was looking at Alfie as he entered the room. He looked just as tired and ill as Alfie but was bundled in quilts. Alfie, now in a room with space, ran around the coatl and rushed to Daymion. “You’re okay!” Alfie excitedly said. Daymion nodded slowly. Alfie smiled in joy. Daymion glanced over his blanket covered body. He wasn’t exactly in one piece though. The medicine coatl had gotten the local blacksmith to do her a favor to remedy that. The Coatl seemed happy to do it and Daymion was very glad for her aid. Daymion looked into Alfie’s eyes and instead of an inferno, he saw something melting. Alfie put his head down and cried in happiness. Daymion had never expected to see that and especially not now. The coatl cleared her throat and gestured to two plates of food at the foot of the bed roll. Alfie stood and retrieved the plates. He placed one in front of Daymion and kept the other. “Thank you,” Alfie said to the coatl. She nodded. The two skydancers ate but could not finish their food. Starvation does that to a dragon. Some hours passed and Daymion got to his feet. Alfie was surprised at the sight. Daymion followed awkwardly after Alfie. They could not stay in the village for too long. They had already stayed past what they should have. Alfie and Daymion left the village quickly and quietly. They spared few greetings or glances. Daymion kept glancing down to his legs. They were gone. He was not whole anymore. They had been replaced with falsities. They were fake. Alfie had admitted that they look good on him though, which made him feel better. They planned on painting them black when they had the means. They laughed together for the first time in a long while and it felt good. By the night, they had found another cave. Their other one was probably already looted anyway. When the medicine coatl had lost sight of the two dragons, she hobbled back to her home. On the bed she had let Daymion use lay a bag full of golden coins. She smiled at them. She hadn’t charged them, had she? The blacksmith had been given a similar pouch but he couldn’t find the two dragons to thank them. In the end, a hero saved the day just in time.

#flight rising #dragon #dragons #angst

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banjoker · 7 years

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Anti-Hero and Villain - Coming Undone

The village burned around Alfie. The ashes blew around his feet. He watched with undue satisfaction as the denizens fled from him. A wicked smile was crossing his face and his eyes were wide with anticipation. He felt freer than he ever had before. Who knew that Daymion was having all this fun without him? He took several steps forward through the bitter smoke and came across a singed coatl with one eye clenched shut.

The Coatl pleaded but Alfie couldn’t understand his language nor did he care to. He flexed his paws and his claws dug into the thin dirt. He stopped and walked on past the coatl. The grin was gone and was replaced with a frown. “Just keep holding on.” Alfie whispered to himself. He wasn’t going to give up so easily even if his head was about to explode. The dark thoughts were more interesting than the good ones anyway.

As he stalked out of the ruin that he had wrought, he came across a few villagers in the dirt. They had nothing left and Alfie didn’t care. He had nothing either except for a bag of grain and his scarf. It was dirty and charred though and the bag was half empty. He traveled for hours as the dull glow from the sun dimmed near dusk. A pillar of smoke rose in the distance behind him. He turned back to the path ahead as he came to an old, scorched tree. Atop one of the blackened branches sat a dirty little bird.

The little bird looked at him and sang a bitter tune. It sounded like somebody screaming and it was like nothing Alfie had heard up until that point. It was distorted in a terrible way. It didn’t phase Alfie all that greatly but he shook the tree anyway. The bird fluttered away angrily but Alfie still didn’t mind.

For weeks, Alfie burned and pillaged everything he came across. Every time he swung his tail or bite down on something, he would feel more and more tired. He soon began to move slowly outside of his havoc. At one point, he came across a heavily, and ornately decorated wildclaw and Centaur duo. The Wildclaw was a whelp and did not last a minute. The Centaur, however, was far more skilled than the wildclaw. While fighting, Alfie had seen himself in the Centaur’s armor. He was battered and gaunt. His muscles were still there, but they looked like they were stretched across a wire frame. His eyes were sullen and sunken and were full of cold anger. His face wore nothing but a frown.

The Centaur had at one time defeated the exhausted Alfie and held his spear to his chest. Alfie looked at it then to the centaur and smiled, “Do it. Kill me!” He yelled. The centaur shook his head at the skydancer’s response to defeat. He expected him to plead for his life or to cry or just to shut down and be silent. He huffed and threw the spear down and walked away. Regretfully for the Centaur, the spear was not so merciful when wielded by Alfie. That was the point that Alfie had been waiting for. He had begun to come undone now. There were no longer any limits on what he could do.

Another side of Alfie resisted though. When he had seen his reflection, he was reminded of somebody. Somebody who he had known long ago. He knew that soon, even this feeling of suffocation would pass and he would be completely lost. He didn’t seem to mind that prospect, however. His reflection was strong and angry, but what he felt was far more fragile.

Alfie sat down one day. He looked up to the horizon ruefully. “I thought I would feel better if I were free,” Alfie admitted quietly. What he wanted was not what he needed he felt. He pitied himself, though he knew he shouldn’t. He knew that he was who did this to himself but he couldn’t help but feel like this was Daymion’s fault. That skydancer had done nothing but make him taste sorrow his entire life. Even the sweetness of everything he and Daymion had done had not protected him from it.

As Alfie waited, he saw Daymion duck from him. Had he still had patience and compassion, he would have pretended that he had not seen it, but he had and he was angry. He waited a few seconds for the thoughts to fester in Daymion’s mind and then ordered bitterly, “Get out here, Daymion.”

Alfie watched as Daymion stood up and climbed over the rock. He looked different. He was scared of him? His clothing had changed too. He looked ridiculous but had a similar attire feel to what he used to have. Now, he had just donned a cloak and covered himself with thorny brambles. They hurt, but pain is better than nothing. It wasn’t what Alfie remembered.

Daymion collected his words for a painfully long time and then spoke, “I’ve come to talk to you!” He seemed to have some anger hidden in there. If Alfie were to prod harder, maybe something interesting will happen.

Alfie’s muscles tightened and he rose his own voice in a taunt. “So? Why should I care?” He hoped it would sting enough to get some sort of reaction out of Daymion. Daymion took a few steps closer. It wasn’t what he had expected, but it worked.

“You need to stop, Alfie! You’ve changed so much! You’ve hurt people.” Daymion begged. Begging was not what Alfie wanted. He wanted anger and rage and he would soon get it. He had to give it to Daymion however, he would never have begged before.

Alfie smiled and chuckled. It was truly amusing to him to listen to this. “At least you gained some backbone.” He offered sarcastically.

Alfie hadn’t registered the next few words from Daymion through his surprise. The whip across the face was progress and he almost congratulated and praised him for it. “Good! Do that again!” He had wanted to say, but he stayed silent for what came next. He could feel the blood streaming down his face and he couldn’t open his stricken eye but he was happy.

“You have to stop this now! You’re not like this! I know you’re better than all this!” Daymion ordered. Alfie was excited and angry. Now he was ordering him around. He was being the Hero. That would make Alfie the Villain. He was trying to hold himself together, but it wasn’t working.

Simply being ordered around by Daymion seemed to infuriate Alfie. Here Daymion was, acting righteous even after everything he had done too. It was maddening. He lunged at Daymion and bellowed into his face. “This is what your hate turned me into! Look what you’ve done to me!” He could feel the heat radiating from his chest and it made him glow a brilliant orange.

The Light faded away leaving Alfie burnt out. He backed away sullenly and admitted, “I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice reduced to a whisper as he continued tiredly, “I’m so tired, Daymion.” Had he almost just killed the one person in the world he cared for? Daymion just watched confused.

Alfie felt ancient and exhausted. His joints ached and his skin itched. His head felt lighter than a feather His eyes and nose burned and his mouth was dry. His feathers were cracked and dirty. They were burned badly as well. He was in a deplorable state. He felt terrible. He felt worse than he probably ever had. He didn’t feel like he was getting any better though. All those things he had done… ““What have I done, Daymion?” He asked dreadfully. “I’m sorry.” He apologized.

Daymion took a tentative breath and then asked softly, “W-what now?” Alfie watched the horizon without seeing it. A tear streaked down his face. He didn’t think that he could ever atone for what he did. Daymion certainly couldn’t forgive him, right?

Maybe, he could be the hero again, but maybe, just maybe, Daymion didn’t have to be the villain. He had choked up and couldn’t breathe, but he eventually managed to speak. He was coming undone again but in a different way. “I don’t know.” He finally said with a small sob.

#flight rising #dragon

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banjoker · 7 years

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Alwyn

Alwyn was born to a traveling band of performers. They were a circus of dragons with peculiar attributes or abilities. Both of Alwyn’s parents were mimes, but they were very affectionate with him. They loved them as their son as they did with all of their children. Many of Alwyn’s siblings went off to join other clans when they grew to a suitable age though. He had wished to stay, however, but his dreams were soon under threat Alwyn was bleakly colored, but both of his parents were too, which was uncommon in its own right. Most coatls don’t lose their vision or bake in sunlight though. His already dull colors were met with his degrading vision. By the time he had learned to fly, he needed goggles to see and heavy bundles to stay unmarred. The clan had diagnosed his blindness and sensitivity as Nosis, a disease characterized by blindness and loss of vibrant pigment. Neither of his parents were vibrant but neither of them were blind or photosensitive. Alwyn and his parents were informed of the disease’s recessive nature and how both of his parents were probably carriers. Neither of them would probably ever lose their sight, but any children they have within the Scarred Wasteland would have a high probability of having the disease. The parents were devastated that their child would be blind by adulthood, but the other coatls, perhaps not even intentionally, chased Alwyn away. Anybody the troop came across would stare at the blind, bland coatl and his bland parents. He would stare intently but see nothing. Whispers would spread behind his back and through the crowds and the clan. Coatls began to fear him, rendering him unable to form relationships with his fellow coatls or to find love in any capacity. The only thing he was able to outperform others at was his aim. He was uncannily talented with any thrown object. Through the years up to his adulthood, his aim improved as he learned to rely on his other senses besides sight. He earned enough coin through his knife throwing act to escape his bonds of shame and allegiance and to leave his troop. His parents were relieved that he could make a home for himself somewhere. He found his way into the icy northerly portion of the Wasteland, by all means, save for sight. He met a hunting party as they crossed his path. They had come across him spearing warmouths with long slender throwing knives in a yellow tinted pond. Impressed, they invited him to dine with them. He brought the fish and his knives and followed them. While sitting around a greasy fire, the hunters told Alwyn of a coatl that shared his coloration and appearance. They had actually asked if they were related, but they were not. The similarities were too much of a coincidence, however. Alwyn was led to the hunters’ home in the wastes and to their bartender. He was a white, black, and nearly blind coatl. Alwyn was completely blind by that time, however. His condition had advanced throughout his childhood, while Blaise’s had developed when he was an adult. Alwyn had more time to adjust. After talking for some time, while switching between coatl and the local language a few times, Alwyn decided to stay. He felt like that he may have found his place. Perhaps the two soon to be blind coatls can find some comfort in knowing that they won’t suffer it alone. Alwyn has in the meantime joined the hunters in their never ending search for sustenance. Hunting in the Scar is time-consuming and exhausting, but Alwyn’s abilities help considerably. When taught in the art of hunting, however, he became even more capable. He was outfitted with armor and apparel, but he kept his hides as a memento, even if he can’t see them. He also sometimes plays other bar attendees in games of aim. In a sense, he hustles them. He only plays dragons that don’t know him and see him as a blind idiot. Blaise helps him when things get heated though. Luckily, Alwyn’s new clan is more tolerant than his first. He has lost contact with his parents however and does not know where they are. He still has trouble with finding a mate due to his condition and fears passing it to his children, but if he does find a mate of a different breed, he may just risk it. Alwyn is living quite happily, but blindly. He hopes that he lives long enough to see just how much better he gets compared to the estimates given to him as a child.

#flight rising #dragon

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banjoker · 7 years

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Hero and Villain - Cosmic love

The world was bright and lively once and Villain ceased to care about it and the world ceased to care about him. The world was not a nightmare that he could escape when he awakens, but rather one that he had preferred over his own dreams. In those dreams, he was reminded of what was ripped from his grasp in the world he lived. He had a friend, but to him, he had so much more. Villain rarely dreamt anymore. When he did, he sometimes dreamt of one day in particular. He always praised and mourned its end but could do little but bide his time until sleep was forced upon him once more. That day was of great bleakness and of great sorrow. The terror of death was paramount of course, but the fear of emptiness was also alive and well. This day was spent in the Southern Icefields in summer with Alfie as Hero was called then. Villain had been Daymion once but he had long forgotten the sound of it. It was a silent summer day and the grass rippled wretchedly in the stale breeze. Weeds dotted the cragged hills and the shrieks of birds and the drone of horrid creatures permeated the air and the grass. The sound of whales in the distance was distorted and ugly and was made so, just as with everything else, by Villain’s own tortured mind. Hero and Villain laid in the grass and weeds and watched the horrid world pass on with out-of-place awe. A picnic fit for two Skydancers sat between them but very little of it was left. The Two Skydancers were young and spry then. When they had finished their food, they took the opportunity to romp in the grasses. With their energy and enthusiasm, the world flickered to one of previously obscured beauty. This is what he used to love most. Daymion was the villain and Alfie was the hero. They were so absorbed by each other that night came upon them surprisingly quickly. They sat under the cracked and fragmented stars and pondered their meager lives to the best of their abilities as children. The stars above were dull and decrepit. There was nary a cloud and there was neither fume not storm to obscure the fractured firmament above. Alfie had turned to Daymion as they looked at the stars that night and he felt something odd. There was something new and painful. The only star worth anything was not in the sky at all. All the pain Daymion felt only seemed to drive the star deeper into his skull. For a moment and for many moments afterward, Daymion was blinded by the pain and by the emotion. The only exception was when he was awake and alone. The ugly world mattered little compared to Hero and the star he held. There, the nightmare ends and the real world begins. The apathy and emptiness follow Villain’s waking state forthwith. The stars and the moons are blown out with a single blink and Villain wakes to a room of various, pilfered, grandeurs. In the shadows left by Hero all those years ago, Villain had become much of one himself. Sometimes at night, Villain finds himself thinking that he can almost feel Hero with him. His heartbeat thunders in the darkness, but Villain never quite finds where to gouge. When he tries to find him the sound ceases and he is alone once more. Many a time, Villain strove to find his Hero. With the star Hero had driven into Villain’s head; Villain forged the way to him as best he could. All the time, Villain knew that he would return to Hero somehow and someday whether it was face to face or in a box. One night, as he jumped awake from his horrible dreams, he heard the thunder once more. This time, as Villain turned over to see Hero nearby, the thunder was real and he found Hero in the darkness with him, Now, Villain worries as the stars and moons swirl away into nothing. Now he fears that when he wakes, there will be no stars at all for him to see.

#flight rising #dragon

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banjoker · 7 years

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Kali

Kali was born to the great Firelands of the Ashfall wastes. Where the air stinks of brimstone and the ground is parched by heat and little water falls or stays fallen for long. Her clan was near the base of the Great Furnace, the largest volcano on the continent. The Firecaller herself sits in its center fueling the activity. Kali was not a bold child. Her actions were often indecisive or small in nature. When one dragon picked up a hammer, she would pick up a twig. When she was growing up, she took little interest in much but she perceived everything on one level or another. Metalsmithing was not something she liked. She didn’t like building or fixing things. Design was never her strong suit. She wasn’t a great strategist and she couldn’t act boldly enough to challenge herself. She was caring and kind, but she was not assertive. If given the chance, the other more direct hatchlings would take every opportunity to exploit her personality. One day, as she watched the flows of lava as dragons collected it in search of gold, two imperials flew across the sky. They flew wing to wing and large enough to cast a shadow on the ground through the hazy sky. They wore colored feathers on their wings. One wore orange and the other wore white. They looked to be bearing injuries of battle, but from Kali’s position, it was unclear how severe they were. The small pearlcatcher followed them as best she could, but she was still growing into her wings. She eventually ended up hopping and gliding the way they went. She found them on a slab of stone that had cooled from a liquid the week before. The imperial with white wings watched carefully the area around their position. They looked impressive from even her great distance. The sound and smell of bubbling sulphur would keep her hidden. She crept closer and somehow managed to evade the sentry without really meaning to. She walked right up to them and greeted them. The sentry imperial lurched around to attack but instead of an enemy, he found a hapless, little, dirty pearlcatcher. She clutched her pearl awkwardly as she greeted them again. Norgaladir, the orange winged, smiled broadly. A little pipsqueak had gotten past the third best he knew. He hadn’t even sensed her. Perhaps they were losing their edge. With protest from Haruven, the white-winged, the imperial asked her business. The pearlcatcher didn’t have any business. She just followed them. They had been careful to cover their tracks after they had landed, but apparently, it hadn’t been good enough. She asked them who they were and the imperial told her without reservation. Kali was in awe. She begged them to let her help, but the imperial refused. They quickly left and made extra sure that the meek dragon couldn’t follow. They flew east into the Shifting Expanse. Kali had decided something herself for once and nobody could stop her. She “borrowed” enough coin to get by from the clan and fled into the not so dark night, She pulled her pearl strangely behind her in a rag. She followed the dragons north towards the sea for several weeks. Kali seemed uncannily adaptable at surviving the fiery wastes, as she always seemed to have just enough to eat and drink. Of course, this was her homeland. As she crossed in the region between the Wastes and the sea, she would find herself in marshes full of volcanic gas vents. Her progress shrank from miles a day to miles a week through the mud and muck. The volcanic rock makes very inconvenient mud and quicksand. As it turns out, a marsh is not hospitable for a malnourished pearlcatcher. She came face to face with an Ashspine Widow at one point. They were rare outside the lava rivers but can be found anywhere volcanically active. She was no match for that monstrosity and ran. The beast soon began to catch up, however. All of a sudden, the arachnid was gone. Where it had been had been replaced with a depression in the mud and bubbles. Perhaps in had fallen into a sinkhole. Every time something would chase her, the same thing would happen though. When she had finally left the marshes, something followed her. It crept from the muddy swamp and trailed close behind her. It was equine in nature. Its piercing red eyes and black, muddy fur were disconcerting, however. Kali had inadvertently trained a Swamphaunt Kelpie. It had followed closely to her in an attempt to eat her, but the creatures she attracted made much better meals. The kelpie attributed the young dragon as the one giving it food. It followed her after the swamp to continue eating and it did. It would be months before Kali could touch it though. The hardest part was crossing the desert of the Shifting Expanse. When she arrived at the imperial’s doorstep, Norgaladir was impressed and the others were incredulous. She had crossed a desert with a swamp-based species, survived both the swamp, desert, and wastes, tracked them even though they had done their best to avoid her and she still found them. They weren’t sure how, but she did. She wasn’t sure either, but she knew what she wanted to be. Haruven attributed it to luck. Norgaladir thought that it was interesting. For her efforts, the clan had a set of black feather wings constructed for Kali. Norgaladir says that Kali is a shadow. You can’t get rid of a shadow no matter how you try to hide from it. While Kali wanted to be a warrior, she is not too good at it. She remains indecisive in most circumstances but is becoming bolder with what she does. Kali’s strategy is to get close and give a few cuts and wounds at a time. The Imperials only need one to cleave her in half should they have ever wanted to though. Kali is sometimes in contact with her home clan, but it is rare. She is far too busy with training to do much about writing. Her family was mostly confused. She had barely been able to walk out of her home to pick up rocks, let alone flee home to the Shifting Expanse. She had grown into a different person. Her wings also need some tending to and maintenance was required. She has to feed her Swamphaunt to keep it loyal. She became a Sky Warrior because she made one decision in her life. She never knew why or how, but she did. So far, she hasn’t regretted it.

#flight rising #dragon

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banjoker · 7 years

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Caldera

Caldera was born into the Sunbeam ruins and into the worship of the Lightweaver. Most dragons, however, were merely casual believers that saw the deity as a role model or a great being for them to look up to. There were, of course, those that worshiped the sun god heavily. Caldera’s clan was not one of those. Her clan was one of trade primarily and was quite loosely organized. Anybody could come and go as they wish. Caldera led an average childhood. She would frolic to her heart’s content. The great promenades of the Sunbeam ruins assured the room she needed as she aged. Caldera grew up tough and strong in her youth. She gained her scars rightfully through scuffles and through struggle as she grew up. She never thought too much in what she believed in and would talk to whoever might be listening at night. She would light a candle every night just in case somebody or something was watching. She would watch the beacon of light that was her homeland’s lifeblood far on the horizon and wonder, “What does he do to help us when we need him the most?” The older Caldera got, the more she saw of the world. Her grand vision of prosperity and wonder quickly scattered to the wind as harsh realities set in. The world was not a kind place. People suffer and tragedies happen. She wondered once more, “Couldn’t they stop this? Couldn’t they help?” Caldera grew separate from her family as her faith waned. Most had blind trust for their gods, but why couldn’t she? She would be happier not knowing the suffering people endure, right? They wouldn’t have to face the threat of imminent destruction at the whim of a god, they wouldn’t have to defend themselves against their monstrosities, and they wouldn’t have to deal with the chaos their powers cause. Even without her faith, she lit her candle in the hopes that somebody might help, but she didn’t know who. One day, Caldera met a young mirror. The mirror wore amber and had eyes of light. She seemed to sit and wait for Caldera to pass. The mirror was only a few years older than Caldera probably but had peace in her eyes. She had a look of absolution and of purpose. Her serene calm hid her intelligence and decisiveness. She had seen the signs of loss and of doubt in Caldera and had seen her candle as she spoke to the sky every night. The mirror’s honeyed words spoke to Caldera and held promises of completion and of purpose. Everything the mirror said made sense in some way to Caldera. The mirror spoke of the exact doubts that she had and even ones that she had kept to herself. The mirror spoke of a being, a foreign god. It was not one that Caldera had ever heard of. Arenji was its name. It was not a deity in the traditional sense. The devotion promised gifts of safety and of reason. The goal of Arenji’s followers, according to the Mirror, was the removal of the gods for the betterment of dragon kind. Caldera couldn’t agree with more of the Mirror’s beliefs. Everything she feared and questioned were being sated and being answered. One night, on the first day of the Brightshine Jubilee, there was an exodus from the Sunbeam Ruins. Caldera, the mirror, and hundreds of Arenji’s new followers scattered to their separate corners of the realm and beyond. The light dragons were at their strongest and could thus move unhindered. The mirror moved South into the Shifting Expanse and into the Southern Icefield. Caldera travelled northward, spreading her word to those that would listen. She stamped out a few who tried to stop her. She burned these offerings every night to some degree to Arenji. She received many burns but only saw them as signs to continue. She burned a path into the Tangled Wood where she arrived at the Clan Melohn. She was met personally by a skydancer and an imperial that joined her into their ranks after a test of faith. The test was a forceful conversion of a stubborn fae. Fire works wonders for persuasion. Over the years, Caldera gained a reputation. She was merciless and stubborn in her own right. She always gave those she squared off against a chance to explain themselves and repent, however. A few see this as a weakness. Others believe it is a sign of waning faith. Caldera actually enjoys talking to those with a different viewpoint from her own and regrets having to destroy those who have a good argument, but she sees it as a necessary sacrifice. Her favorite adversaries are those with an open mind. They think about her purpose and reasoning and either choose to join her or not to. She is always fascinated by their reasoning. Others are not so interested and will often attempt to intervene when Caldera asks. Once Caldera had proven her devotion time and time again, she was given the position of General. Her subordinates no longer questioned or intervened in her actions. She secretly misses that. She enjoys it when people question her reasons. If the adversary is willing to ask the question, then they are usually willing to entertain her response. She has gained scores of sympathizers and allies for Melohn and for Arenji. She has no enemies anymore though because they’re all dead. Caldera serves faithfully and without reservation. She doesn’t raise her menace unless she intends to use it. She uses her position to talk to people and to question their beliefs. Her most powerful asset is most likely that she gets her enemies to question their own beliefs. She serves Arenji faithfully for the hope of a better future for her, her friends, and for all those she knows or will ever know. The most powerful, or dangerous, individuals are those who know for a fact and without a doubt that what they are doing in justified and right. Caldera knows in her heart that she is doing right for the future of dragon kind.

#flight rising #dragon

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