Whippoorwill didn't give herself time to think. When the alert came in, she arrived at the research building along with Matrix and immediately had to focus on damage control. Hashtag had to be medivac'd out, Bran was nearly apopleptic, and only Bioshock and Skuld had the sense about them to give her a full report.
Matrix recovered the remains. She caught only a glimpse of the mangled, half-melted lump of metal that had been Shayera's wings. Anything organic was just... gone. Whippoorwill pulled her eyes away quickly, knowing that the AI would do a full scan of the remains and report to her any abnormalities. Anything that might give her hope. But the image of the twisted and bent array of bladelike pinfeathers now seared into her memory gave her none.
She compartmentalized, and got back to work. The data was almost forgotten in the rush to get Hashtag to medical, but she managed to upload a copy to Whetstone. The combat knife, as well, was a piece of a puzzle that she recovered in the hope that something about it could lead them to the men who were responsible.
She put Vick in charge of going through the facility top to bottom. There were a million other little details, like getting Bran home, getting the other two to a safe place, securing perimeters, providing statements to the media, and checking with the military regarding the ballistic missile that came out of seemingly nowhere.
But she could only keep it at bay for so long.
Whippoorwill finally excused herself and took off, flying as fast as she could, tears streaming down her cheeks. She ended her flight at the clock tower, one of her early homes, that she had given to Shayera for a place to stay. Standing in the main exercise room, it seemed so empty. So hollow.
As if in a dream, she wandered around, seeing the small personal touches her protege had made to the place. She spots an empty wall that Shayera had allowed Ji-Wan to fill with his unique brand of art. She sees her school badge, worn to almost falling apart thanks to the battle with Balor. A few exercise tanks thrown over the back of the sofa.
Whippoorwill breaks down and sobs. She cries privately, at length, in the home of a bright young soul that she had turned to a life of sacrifice and pain. And that young life had embraced her teachings to the end.
Slowly, Briana pulls herself up off the floor, feeling more damned than she ever had before. She staggers to her feet, and bitterly keys in the sequence to lock down the tower for good.
In the days that followed, Whippoorwill fought off the despair and grief that threatened to overwhelm her. She threw herself into her work, training relentlessly and going after whatever threat reared its head with abandon.
The usual criminal element, fully aware that Whippoorwill would be on the warpath, kept its head low.
The funeral for Shayera Kinney was staggeringly hard for her mentor. The casket only contained a few belongings of hers, since the wings were in chrono-stasis back at Defender HQ. Whippoorwill also couldn't bring herself to speak, because she fully blamed herself for her death.
Time passed. The rest of the Defenders decided stupidly to prohibit all superheroic activities of the teenaged superhero. Whippoorwill made headlines by being the lone vote against. Of course, she was crucified in the media, with the talking heads guessing how soon she was going to start recruiting for someone else to take Wingblade's place, and maybe to be the next to die.
It could have been infuriating, if she hadn't felt so numb to it all.
=========================================
About a month had past since... since. Whippoorwill was at her penthouse after an evening's patrol. Everything had been quiet in Halcyon City. The criminal element had been holding its collective breath -- two supers dead. First Wingblade, then Earl Gray.
Whippoorwill had felt sorry for not feeling so sorry about the Earl's death. Foresight had taken it hard, obviously, but she was still so raw from Shayera that his death had been so... muted.
She was taking a short breather before starting another round of patrols when a small alert began blinking on her hot board. She hit a button on her console that brought up the details of the alert. It was a trespass alert from the clock tower's surveillance system.
Probably Hashtag or one of the others, she thinks, turning on one of the cameras. It manages to show a blur of motion before it goes to static.
A river of ice runs through her veins as Whippoorwill checks her quills and then takes off from her penthouse suite, angling toward Old Town.
She arrives on high alert, and ready to fight. The clock tower was Sacred Ground now, so whoever was here was going to pay. She flies through the west face of the clock and lands in the middle of the sparring room.
She uncoils her whip -- no mere leather bullwhip, this was one of Whetstone's crowning achievements: a carbon filament weave of amazing durability and tensile strength. The handle was filled with a variety of high-tech tricks to employ against her foes. She looks around, noticing that a picture of the original team -- Atoms, Imagine, North Star, Tectonic, Eldritch, Ghost Dragon and Wingblade -- was busted and on the floor.
A blur of movement in the shadows caught her attention, and she spins to face it. She sees the glint of metal reflecting off the dim illumination, and her whip cracks loudly. "I'm not amused! Come out!" she commands.
The lurker steps out, and Whippoorwill's eyes narrow. She'd never seen this enemy before, but something was immediately familiar about it. It suddenly attacks, and Whippoorwill was certain of one thing:
It knows her moves.
============================================
When the Team answers the alert, the Clock Tower is rumbling. And then it collapses in a gigantic plume of dust and debris.
bzzzz
bzzzz
bzzzz!
Bronwyn jerked awake, happy to be saved by whatever the hell that noise was from a nasty dream about being cooked alive in a cauldron.
Blearily she looked around until she saw the light blinking on her communicator.
Oh.
Bracing herself against the cold she shimmied out from underneath her sheets and padded over to see what the alert was. The clocktower? This is probably Hashtag's way of getting us all back together... He's probably right.
She quickly threw on a pair of shorts under her sleep shirt and snuck out of the house, still holding her running shoes. In an alley a couple of blocks later, a rather more imposing figure emerged to continue on his way.
Unfortunately Bran didn't arrive to the somewhat awkward reunion he'd been hoping for.
As he warded away flying debris he looked around, hoping that there was some mistake, that some construction crew was performing an ill-conceived late-night demolition, that there was some reasonable explanation, hell, that this was a dream.
This isn't some mistake.
"Marco." she says, as if memorizing something of vast import.
at Bronwyn's question, Skuld says "I am indeed from Asgard. I have never been to Valhalla, but I know it exists. When I was a girl, I wanted to be a Valkyrie, but my father forbade it, as it is a lifelong commitment."
Skuld chuckles and adds "I would take you there, but the rainbow bridge to Midgard no longer operates."
Skuld did not sleep. Not in the human conventional sense. Instead, she would do something akin to meditation for a few hours each day, typically while practicing her combat style.
So it was as she was hitting the heavy bag designed for people with incredible strength that she missed the first few beeps. It was only after the third one that her attention turned away from her activity to her communicator. Checking her communicator, she called her armor around her and then flew towards the clocktower.
As she drew near, it began to rumble and then it collapsed.
Moving without thinking, Skuld shot to the ground like an arrow and then began digging through wreckage, looking for survivors.
"Please don't let them be dead." she muttered to herself over and over again.
Hashtag doesn't show up right away.
In truth, most of him didn't want to answer the call at all. That and he had not noticed the ping until it was on the second round of beeps.
Still, he took his time getting dressed and made a pit-teleport to the local gas station to buy an energy drink before getting to the clocktower. After all, it was probably just someone from the defenders complaining about him repainting the lobby ceiling again.
What he found, however, was something entirely different. The tower collapsing meant that his initial teleport left him midair. But thankfully he's had experience with fall-porting and he pops over to a nearby street to look at what was left of the tower.
"Shit... I just painted the lobby. Didn't need to take it THAT far." Hashtag comments, popping the tab on his drink and taking a gulp.
The sound of distant sirens begins to grow while you watch the collapsed timbers and gears settle. Before you are able to make another pithy comment, you are snatched from behind and dragged into a nearby alley.
"Don't 'port! Don't 'port!" you hear whispered in your ear as you are released. You turn around to see Whippoorwill, covered in wounds and streaked with blood and sweat. Most of her quills are spent, and she clutches her side as soon as she lets go of you.
"Can't talk now, but I need your help. I need to be thought dead. Can you keep up an illusion until it makes the headlines? I don't care if your friends know, but it's got to stay secret beyond that. At least for a day or two. Then find me, all of you. I'll be at the lighthouse on Maxwell Island, near Mariner's Cape. Got it?"
She snatches the energy drink from your hand in a blur of motion, takes a swig, then passes it back to you. She then takes off in a pained run down the alley.
Thor Girl and Bran the Blessed arrive at the ruins of the Clocktower. The smoking pile of rubble has all the marks of a fierce and dangerous battle. There's blood here and there, and you can even see the remnants of the television you used for movie nights, a broken dresser full of untouched combat gear, and a small cracked picture of Wingblade with Whipoorwill downtown. They're both blushing as teammates and comrades push them together for a shot in the daily paper.
Bran nods a sober greeting to Thor Girl and sets to examining the debris, sliding the picture into a leather pouch of ancient design, but rather more recent manufacturing.
This was clearly a battle, not merely a demolition.
He thinks out loud as he sifts through the wreckage.
Between someone who would strike at Wingblade's legacy and... Bioshock? Hashtag? Perhaps Whippoorwill or Atoms? Whoever the vandal fought must have had a reason to be here. He looks at a shattered support beam And Power.
Skuld begins searching through the wreckage, without pulling any more off.
Vick squirms for a moment, not even thinking to try porting until after it's mentioned, but by then it's a familiar voice that rings out to him, so he doesn't. Upon viewing this adult in such bad shape, Vick starts to wonder if he's about to get dragged in over his head again.
And after her hurried explanation, the answer is, yes. Yes he was. He quickly gets a clarification on what kind of illusion she needs him to keep up, and then does nothing to stop her from leaving other than gesturing at her and making her for all intents and purposes appear to be a mildly upset hobo with an oversized backpack, which he would keep up for an hour or so, or until he got too distracted to keep it rolling anymore.
Then he manifests an illusionary energy drink and resumes what he was doing, because doing anything other than that would be a dead giveaway.
So for now, Hashtag stands in the street sipping his energy drink. When Bran and Thor Girl show up, his eyebrows raise, and he pads over to the two in his pajama pants (featuring comic book style BLAM! WHAM! BOOM! decorations) and flip-flops. His chest is bare, save for a large bandage taped to his skin over a reddened and angry stitched wound.
"Hey." he says, taking an annoying long sip. "So why'd it fall down?"
He seems tired, aching, and most likely still on some kind of drug. He scratches at the bandage absently before yawning. "I got a call but I was under the impression that we were DISBANDED."
Whippoorwill gestures to the pile of rubble, still settling. "Make an illusion of my corpse. There ought to be a practice dummy you can use somewhere in there," she says impatiently, stifling a cough.
Then she limps away.
Bran, you scan the scene, but mostly find rubble. You find signs of slash marks and explosions, but those details could be applied to dozens of heroes and villains.
Thor girl lifts the larger pieces of debris, the only place that could be hiding survivors, but thankfully she doesn't find any bodies or injured people. For now, it seems the threat has passed, but it is night time and the darkness of nearby shadows lends itself to the possibility of danger.
The night is quiet though. The ruined clocktower, another black eye in the string of misfortunes that have been piling on lately.
Still, Hashtag's words echo in the night.
"We have been, but I am still a diplomat from my people, and if we were called here that I am worried that the others might have been as well."
"Besides, I do not like it when people attack the homes of those I have care for."
Bran visibly tenses at Hashtag's appearance. And at the slurp. I do not know why the building fell, Hashtag. A shame you did not arrive in a more timely manner when that might have provided the answers we seek.
Bran's words rumble from within his helm; he speaks faster and faster, a barely contained rage sharpening his tongue, We were called here, but by whom? The Defenders? As you say, they have disbanded us.
No, someone wanted us to see this destruction. They are toying with us, and I do not intend to permit it.
He turns, fists clenched, to examine the scene once more. There must be something here to tell us what happened.
Bran, you do not detect anything mystical. You don't detect anything like that. As you recall your senses, you are hit by the chilly night air.
Still, the three of you standing in the wreckage of a clocktower does not make a good story for heroes or the police, so you scatter.
The next morning, the incident is indeed covered by the news and there's talk of Whippoorwill's obvious involvement, and though no body is discovered, The Defender's have enacted a high alert and reward for anyone who may have information on Whippoorwill who was most likely abducted.
Still, the city is now more tense then ever, everyone guessing that another Defender has been KIA.
The approaching sirens had forced them to scatter before they'd really been able to plan their next steps. Even if we don't let them disband us, no sense in picking a fight. Especially when we don't really know what we'd be fighting for.
But that had left Bronwyn in a bit of a quandary.
They went to the same school, but she barely knew Vick to nod to, and Skuld had no idea she was Bran! I hope...
She'd been about to call them together using the headsets, as Bran of course, but then she'd realized, Maybe it was Whippoorwill reaching out to us, but the last time our communicators were used, the timing suggested that whoever destroyed the Clocktower could easily have been listening in.
Or they sent the message.
Bronwyn stared helplessly at the communicator for a long moment. You can't lean on the Defenders or Shayera for the legwork. It's gotta be Eli. I just hope he's up to it.
Not particularly wanting to leave a text-trail if Eli's dad or someone was checking his phone, she went ahead and gave him a call, laying out her reasoning, ...and look, I'm no dummy, but I don't know where to even start to crack into Matrix-tech. You have any thoughts there? Or even know someone who might be able to help?
Either way, this isn't something we can ignore. We can't let them... They don't get to do this and win. Can you reach out to Skuld and Hashtag? Whatever we find, we've gotta do this together.
As Bronwyn's call goes through, a burst of static nearly fries the line. In the garbled communication, a short phrase can be barely understood: Maxwell Island lighthouse, Mariner's Cape. Bring friends, This evening.
The line clears of static.
...In all likelihood the message was genuine. The circumstances are too suspicious for us to be caught unawares. An ambush would be far better laid with less troubling bait.
I hope.
It had taken a disappointing amount of wrangling just to get the word out. With the team in either disarray or dissolution, Bran was frankly crossing his fingers, as they approached the lighthouse, that they wouldn't be here alone.
The weatherbeaten lighthouse stands alone yet defiant against the elements, sending a beam of light into the distance. Looking unremarkable save for its continued existence in an age of satellites and global positioning technologies, the lighthouse shows no signs of being a hideout of a renowned Defender.
Yet when they approach, the heavy, rusted door swings open smoothly and allows entry into a high-tech facility. Well, high-tech circa 1995.
Large banks of old-model computers and monitors line an interior room where Whippoorwill is busy punching commands into clunky keyboards.
She looks rough. She's wearing an older version of her outfit, one that she hadn't worn in probably seven years or so. Several large bandages cover wounds on her arms and legs, and she moves gingerly.
"Ten minutes to render--? Are you kidding me?!?" The Defender slumps down in a wheeled desk chair, resigned. She looks up at you. "The fastest computers 1998 had to offer, and it can barely run a simple imaging task without grinding to a halt. You have no idea what you missed," she says with a half-smile.
Then it vanishes and she gets deadly serious as she regards you. "I'm glad you got my message. Since some people can't follow directions, it's just a lucky thing Bronwyn's parents still have a land line. This old equipment can't hack cell phones."
Her brief glower fades, and Whippoorwill suddenly looks tired. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm still grieving myself, but it's time to put that on hold. Because you are all very likely in danger, and I have to warn you that this is going to be very hard for you to hear.
"At Oh-One hundred hours this morning, my equipment picked up an intruder at the Clock Tower. The security system detected something that was trying to avoid notice, but at the same time wasn't concerned that I knew it was there.
"I went to check it out, and was ambushed when I got there." She pauses, emotion starting to show on her face. Her mouth works, trying to find a way to say something she finds tortuous. Finally, she just sucks in a breath and speaks. "It was... like Wingblade in many ways. Small, quick, and had blades for wings. But it was covered in metal, from head to toe. Its face was an emotionless mask. But it... moved like her. It knew my moves; everything I had taught Shayera it used against me except one thing: restraint."
Whippoorwill stops for a moment as emotion overcomes her. She looks away, her eyes welling with tears. After a couple moments, she wipes her eyes and looks at everyone again. "Shayera was created as an experiment. I had hoped I had destroyed the project. Though I expected the project leads to try to continue their work or seek retribution, there was nothing. But apparently, they were monitoring her somehow." He voice grows hoarse. "And are using my lessons against me."
Whippoorwill pauses again, her eyes red-rimmed but hard. "I'm choosing to believe Shayera wasn't aware that she was being used as a mole. She wouldn't have sacrificed herself like that. But this new project, I wonder if they set it after me to test it. As soon as I recognized its fight style, I tried to reach her. I tried to see if she remembered me. It didn't react, didn't stop, didn't slow down. It was trying to kill me, and didn't hesitate to take the killing strike."
"I had to drop the structure on it, and pretend to be killed in the collapse. Except MIA is not as good." She again looks very irritated about something.
"And now I'm worried that its next test will be against you."
Whippoorwill's ominous words hang in the air only for a second before one of her screens starts flashing.
It was a warning, proximity alarms were going off at one of her old hideouts, images of a blurry metallic whirl of sharp death was destroying equipment as it completely eviscerated everything in sight. The base itself was one that was moved out of due to its inconvenience of it being so far out in the wilderness, away from civilization.
The rage wouldn't come.
The righteous fury that sometimes fueled him, the passion to right wrongs that drove him, didn't ignite as he heard Whippoorwill's tale.
Instead where outrage should have lit a fire in his gut, there was only a spreading numbness. I knew a... small part of her story. I knew that she had been used...
God, was no part of her life free from these monsters? Can she not be free even now?
What more can you want from her?
A thought strikes him, Why did she - it - go to the Clock Tower? If they had learned so much from her already, surely they would know where you hang up your cowl, where you could be taken truly unawares. There may be more to this than a test.
But if they do know everything she knows... Oh God. Our parents, our friends...
They might even know who I am.
We cannot just wait for them to make a move! If something with Shayera's skills is hunting us, the worst thing we could do would be to allow her to dictate when and where we cross paths!
Bran's sudden outburst comes to a halt. This is Whippoorwill you idiot. Do you think she really hasn't realized that? Why else would she be in hiding in the first place!
Mercifully that was when the alarms went off.
A chance for some answers, perhaps.
Why there? Are they still looking for Whippoorwill? Or Is there something special at that base? Did She train there?
Bran turns to watch the metallic carnage on-screen,
And how far away are we?
"If this abomination that mocks the honored dead wishes to battle, then let it come. I will take it's destroyed body back to it's masters and teach them of what it means to wage war on an Asgardian."
"With that being said, if we had some way to track their creators, then we could deal with the monsters directly."
Bran's eyes remain fixed to the screen, trying to tease out any details he can glean from the grainy footage.
If we can track it so much the better, but a chance to face this creature far from any innocents is not to be squandered.
He turns to Whippoorwill,
I am afraid I do not fully comprehend the resources you can bring to bear at this time, but is there something we can do as we face this thing, which would help you find this nest of vipers?
A thought strikes him, Why did she - it - go to the Clock Tower? If they had learned so much from her already, surely they would know where you hang up your cowl, where you could be taken truly unawares. There may be more to this than a test.
"Shayera didn't know the access codes to my penthouse. Sure, she could have met me there, but not without also having to deal with the security system," Whippoorwill responds.
A chance for some answers, perhaps.
Why there? Are they still looking for Whippoorwill? Or Is there something special at that base? Did She train there?Bran turns to watch the metallic carnage on-screen,
And how far away are we?
Whippoorwill shakes her head. "Nothing too special there. I did take her there early on, when I started her training. I wanted someplace away from civilization, in case I lost control of her."
She gestures to the lighthouse around them. "The Beacon gave me this place when he was retiring. Shayera doesn't know about this place, since I had it mothballed nearly a decade ago. I didn't keep this place from her on purpose, it just never came up. The Clocktower made much more sense for that to be her home than this place."
She leans on the banks of computer terminals and winces at the movement, drawing in a sharp intake of breath.
"That place is too far away. Maybe if Ji-Wan wanted to teleport, but there's no tactical advantage for us to do so."
With that being said, if we had some way to track their creators, then we could deal with the monsters directly."
She nods. "I agree. I've sent a secret message to Matrix, telling her to pull out Shayera's wings from chrono-storage for a full diagnostic scan. It got information from her somehow, and I want to find out how. And if we can do that, we may find a way back to her creators."
Hashtag agrees to teleport Bran and Thor Girl to the currently being wrecked base. As the two heavy hitters of the 'former' team, they would stand the best chance of not being killed outright. Instead of staying, Hashtag informs you all that he needs to check on something important before joining with you, but he'll check in ten minutes just in case.
Dropped off at the wilderness base, you find yourself on a cliff edge. At first, the entrance seems missing, but then you hear the echoing sounds of wrenched metal coming from over the cliff. Peering down, you see the completely destroyed metal doors hanging off their hinges, a rockface camouflage on their outside.
While we can hear her destruction we at least have a sense of where she is. We should avoid notice as long as possible while we bring this creature to bay.
Skuld could fly him down, but the force required for his bulk wasn't exactly conducive to a quiet approach, so instead he slung Gae-Dearg across his back, next to his tightly secured satchel, and began the climb.
A cold feeling sat at the base of Bran's spine as he listened for any sign that the creature's work was done, that it might suddenly emerge and start clawing at his exposed back while he was still-
Okay, get a grip. You have a for-real magic spear, and a maybe-actual goddess with you. What more could you want?
Visions of a demon, bat-winged and edged with metal, flitted through his head as he kept climbing.
A crossbar.
Like on a boar spear. I've seen what can happen to people that think Shayera's through, and I have no doubt that whatever we're going to find could crawl right up Gae-Dearg's shaft.
Probably not going to get a crossbar between now and then though, even if the spear allowed it...
As he neared the obliterated doors, a thought struck him,
Skuld, can you see to it that the wind carries our scent away from our quarry?
Taking Bran's cue, Skuld also began the climb down.
As she joins him at the bottom and hears his question, Skuld blushes and says "I could, but I would also pick up anything loose and hurtle it down the hallway, which I doubt you wish me to do. I have never been able to call up a minor wind like my father can. For me, the wind has always come as a hurricane or a tornado."
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Behind his helm, Bran's mouth twists in a manner far more reminiscent of a silver-medalling gymnast than a warrior-god.
Life would certainly be easier if we could live up to every myth mortals tell of us.
Or if I really had a cauldron that could bring the dead back to life.
Very well, keen eyes and ready minds must instead be our bulwark this day.
"Vigilance is ever a warrior's friend." says Skuld as she begins walking down the hallway.
As the two mythical beings venture down the hallway of the cliff's edge, they hear silence.
It's eerie, a place so filled with the destruction that they just saw recently was being torn to pieces. All along the walls, you can see large jagged scratch marks. Sheets of sharp metal seem to be ripped from wall.
You reach the end of the hallway, and what would have been an open area for training and practice, is littered with metal fillings and scrap. But now you can hear the distinct tearing of metal somewhere here. An occasional crash, and it seems to be getting closer as if suddenly getting a lock on to your location.
Bran looks at the walls, trying to piece together what the creature's purpose is here, They must still be hoping to find Whippoorwill. But all this random destruction... Either they've got a very deep plan that involves clawing at the walls, or this thing destroys impulsively.
Whippoorwill talked about this thing fighting without mercy, without restraint, but restraint can be a good thing; it can keep you from biting off more than you can chew.
Bran's rumbling voice echoes scornfully in the open training area, I thought you were here to test yourself, creature? How unsuitable a challenge would we be if we were so simply undone.
Come. Your presence here is no secret. The shadows will not hide you. Your test awaits.
After a tense moment of silence, the sound of light footsteps echo in the room, crunching glass between the foot and the floor.
Coming into view is a lithe female form, short but slender. Her skin is metallic silver, smooth but burnished, so it lacks a mirror sheen. Its face is covered in what could be a stylized porcelain mask, showing large eyes black as pitch and just as emotionless.
Her head moves slightly as she focuses on each hero. Then she tilts her head as if she were listening to something for a moment. Then she nods. In a muffled voice that sounds painfully like Shayera's, she says, "Acknowledged. Target priority override. Elimination in progress." There is zero emotion in her words.
She holds up both hands and the metal skin flows and reshapes into large, wickedly curved blades.
She charges.
Somewhere inside Bran, Bronwyn's heart breaks again for her friend as she hears Shayera's voice.
This isn't just something that knows her moves. This is more than just a new weapon forged by the lessons they learned from spying on her.
It's Her again. She's a girl who's been tormented by evil men into the monster they seek.
Bran moves his spear in a blur, catching the twin blades against Gae-Dearg's shaft, then hurls her back with a grunt.
She's fast. That metal's not slowing her down at all.
And if she can keep shifting those blades around... I can't just get in close to overpower her. I don't want to think about what she could do if I were dumb enough to bear hug her...
God, what were we thinking going in just the two of us? You've seen it before, sometimes the monsters win and the heroes die!
Scythe circles for a moment, intensely focused as she studies the demigods for their weaknesses, the same laser-focus that Bran knew all too well.
I thought I was here to save those I am sworn to protect from a terrifying monster. His own eyes stay locked on the blades, I would be a fool not to fear you. But you're not the monster.
Bran removes his great helm, his eyes are wide beneath his heavy brow, but his voice remains firm,
I am not here to face the dragon or slay the giant. I am not here to save the day. I'm here because of what I owe to the person who gave someone, who I cared for very much, this chance.
What did they tell you about Shayera?
Bran cannot perceive the faintest reaction to his words. The metallic blades flash again and again in a blur, promising death if he drops his guard even the slightest. Since his words have no effect, he could only hope that he could wrest control over her from her creators somehow.
As one of her scythelike blades pierces the eye socket of his now thankfully empty helm, it becomes deadly obvious that this creature isn't holding back or interested in hearing about Shayera.
As the metallic being begins attacking with her scythe blade hands, Skuld is shocked for a moment of inaction. that was her voice! she thought to herself. Oh, Shayera, what have they done to you?
As she attacked, however, it finally snapped Skuld out of her train of thought.
"If you will not speak peacefully, I shall gladly meet you head on, abomination."
It is well known that the Greeks were the first to formalize grappling into a sport. With that being said, most warrior cultures practiced some form of grappling, and the Vikings were no exception. Skuld moved in close to Shayera and attempted to wrap her in a bearhug.
Skuld holds her for a moment, saying to Bran "Strike her now!"
I never used to have to talk through moments of polytheistic doubt in confession...
Skuld surging into action is, as always, a sight to behold. Even the sounds of her armor clattering against Scythe's metal skin resound as if peals of thunder, and as she exerts herself to hold the tortured assassin fast, the air itself grows heavy with the scent of ozone.
But at such close quarters, anything could happen.
The assassin's blades seem to be flashing everywhere, Even Skuld's armor can't keep her safe forever.
Bran circles forward, focusing on Gae-Dearg, drawing all the power he can into it as he carefully draws closer to the brawl.
If Skuld's strength is not enough to secure her, perhaps something else, properly redirected, will suffice.
Gae-Dearg shines with borrowed energy, arcs of electricity illuminating the ancient runes carved along its length
She was listening to someone, even responded to them. Could be a comm, could be some kind of mind control device.
I just hope it's in her head!
Bran slams the spear against the side of Scythe's head with a crackling roar!
The energy spike seems to surge into Scythe's body, causing a rare momentary pause as the body sturggles to take in the energy. When the brilliant display of energy ends, Scythe is still standing. Many of the more sensative machinery has shorted out, but suprisingly it seems her body may have absorbed some of the attack.
Thank God that didn't... hurt her.
Do you know who we are?
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The metallic figure pauses in the aftermath of the energy discharge. It leans forward, as if hearing Bran's words for the first time, staring intently at the warrior of old.
Skuld can feel it relax in her grip. "You... are... Bran..." comes the tinny voice from behind the porcelain mask. "Friend..."
"...of an obselete model."
With a blur of speed, the being sends razor sharp claws at Bran's midsection with one arm, while grabbing away the spear with the other. With a massive twist, Scythe spins Gae-Dearg to make contact with Skuld behind her.
Ungh!
Bran steps back as Scythe's claws spark along his hauberk, a look of panic flashing across his face for a moment.
I'm okay. The chain held, barely.
Okay, think. She has claws, she doesn't need the spear.
She wants to make sure it doesn't hurt her again. But that wasn't my lightning that hurt her...
Just keep her talking, Skuld should only need a moment to recover, and even though she's trying to kill us... She responded. She's listening.
Do you know why you have no wings?
You cannot deny their utility, their strength. Yet an "obsolete model" had them while you do not.
Though his gaze remains steady on Scythe's featureless mask, a rekindled anger at her tormentors fills his voice with passion as he continues.
You know why.
They did not trust you with them.
This base and others like it are all they want you to see of the world. Dens, cages, lairs, places meant to hide you or your prey. Nothing but tunnels in the dark.
They dare not let you truly see the sky, let you see the beauty that fills this world with new eyes.
Wings mean freedom, you see. They know all too well what Shayera made of hers.
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Scythe's black, empty eyes bore into Bran as he taunts her. Though the mask continues to remain as expressionless as ever, somehow she manages a dismissive sneer.
The metal covering her body shifts smoothly and rapidly. The scythe-like blades part and fan out, growing and spreading along her arms. In a matter of seconds, her arms had become metallic wings, covered in bristling razor-edged feathers.
In the same time as her arms morph into wings, her feet sprout curved and grasping talons. Suddenly looking like a metallic harpy, she spreads her wings out in a deadly display and forcing Bran to duck to avoid the honed feathers.
She then grabs him with her taloned feet, claws digging into his chain mail like a vise, and flaps hard with her wings.
"Like my wings? Don't scream like Bronwyn did," she hisses as she takes flight, bursting through the weakened roof and carrying him high into the air.
Bran's eyes fill with sorrow at Scythe's cruelty,
That scream was of delight, not of darkness, not of fear.
How little you understand, if you think that a return to the sky would bring me dread; how blind you have become.
But I will open your eyes.
With snakelike speed his massive hand flies forward to engulf Scythe's head.
With fearful pressure he digs at the edges of her porcelain mask and hurls it aside.
With a heart weighed down with hope and fear he looks to see Her face.
As the spear slams into Skuld's armor, arcs of energy seem to cascade from both items, shoving Skuld away from Scythe and Bran and temporarily blinding Skuld.
When she clears her eyes, She sees both Bran and Scythe rise into the air, Scythe's body twisting into an alien creature.
Calling upon the winds, Skuld roars into the sky, surrounded by a whipping wind.
"Abomination!" she howls "You have taken that which is not yours; you have taken the form of a fallen warrior. Yield, or I shall make you yield." as she speaks, the wind above them begins moving at dangerous speeds.
Scythe hisses when Bran wrenches off the mask. The face revealed is grotesque. The metal comprising most of her body appears to be painfully burrowing into the flesh around her face. What skin remains is tight and stretched. Most disconcerting is the apparent lack of eyelids, but the eyes are fully black and opaque orbs.
In response to the unmasking, several bands of metal flow over her face to create a protective grill. "Futile. I know what I am."
With that, she spins against the onrushing winds called by Skuld, and throws Bran as hard as she can at the Norse warrior.
Skuld moves to catch Bran, taking her eyes off of Scythe as she does.
Oh jeez!
Bran tumbled through the air, vainly trying to gain any control of his fall before coming to a sudden clattering halt in midair.
My thanks, Skuld. With a wry smile he slips into the Godstongue, Another debt to add to the tally.
Bran bellows above the roar of the winds,
"I'll settle for being the one who shuts you up," the metal being shouts as she dives in for another killing blow. Scythe's demeanor turns to one of stoic lethality. She seems to only want to kill her foes, and nothing they say or do could change that singular mission.
Her strike is off, but more so due to the swirling winds and not due to any hesitation on Scythe's part.
Skuld pulls Bran up onto her shoulders and then says quietly "Do you need your spear?" while keeping her eyes on Scythe.
No. I do not.
Bracing against Skuld's own mythic might, Bran reaches over to grab at the trunk of a nearby oak...
...and tears it from the ground to smash Scythe into the earth!
Following after his arboreal bludgeon, he slams into the loamy ground himself with a heavy thud, and swiftly moves over to brace the hardwood, hoping to keep Scythe pinned fast.
Whippoorwill did take Shayera out to the wilderness in case she lost control; though I don't think this is precisely how she would have restrained her...