Uzhg narrowed his beady eyes at Sigmar, an unpleasant look crossing his face. The youth could practically see the wheels turning. Finally the half-orc came to some choice and glanced at Herluf, who seemed quite intrigued.
"Come closer." The prone figure said, voice a low rasp. When Sigmar leaned in....
Uzhg spit a glob of blood and salvia right into Sigmar's eyes. It burned as the half orc hacked up a grating, broken laugh.
"Totally not cool, man." Ozzy opined to Sigmar.
Still, Sigmar's chance for either revenge or a quiet conversation evaporated as a few people clambered down into the garbage/fighting pit. First was the drummer half-orc, who helped Uzhg to his shaky feet. Sigmar's opponent was none too gracious, snarling the whole time.
Then Oyok numbly jumped down, his clawed feet making little Y shapes in the dirt.
"Not bad, lad, not bad." The tengu trilled, looking around the pit. He then handed Sigmar a waterskin, "Something to celebrate with it, won it off a local. They bet against you."
Vrilu did not deign to descend of course, merely watching from on high. It suited her, Sigmar had to admit. Looming overhead like a judgmental statue at a rather stern church. A few children have ventured down though, laughing and cheering at the sport. A few give Sigmar playful slaps on the back or arms, before wandering off to throw stones at the wooden wall.
Edward Morgan, face hard, simply retreats back up the slope, a small cluster of supporters with him. Closer at hand, Kell looks slightly bored at it all but Arianne gives him a huge, rather blood thirsty grin. She mimes his knee to the kidney, clearly pleased with the whole affair.
It was a less than pleased expression the red spittle dribbled down. Young as he was, Sigmar could be accused of being naive. Indeed, meaner tongues had charged his intelligence with harsher labels. And sure enough, he hadn't seen this one coming. One hand wiped the worst of the bloody gunk out of his eyes. Why would he have anticipated the projectile? The teen had thought Uzhg had something to say, what with the Orsen prattle nearly being his literal last words and all. Now he realized it'd been a mere taunt, just a means of spiting his opponent in defeat. A captain going down with his ship, needling the pirates to blame with jeers that, "Now you'll never know where I hid my treasure!" or some such.
Which, as the sand elemental summarized, really wasn't very cool. "Nope. Not cool at all," his host sighed. There was a certain edge to the breath, like the air of a winter's morning. The height of poor sportsmanship, really.
As it happened, however, the teen wasn't particularly sporting himself. Yes, the innate need to prove his own superiority kept all of Sigmar's martial contests fair - more or less so - but as all who had met him could attest, this sense of propriety didn't extend outside the ring. The boy was an empowered street rat. And etiquette was not on the curriculum at the school of hard knocks.
The half-orc wanted spite? Fine. Sigmar wasn't above spite.
"Oyo, my crow-bro! Just what I needed!" The usually so light smile was ominous, as when anything predatory bared their teeth, when he grabbed the proffered waterskin from the tengu. "Thanks! This'll help get my water works going."
A squeeze of the bag sent a spurt of the gainfully appropriated drink into the dragonling's face, washing away Uzgh's spittle. The rest of it was less so enjoyed than guzzled. Holding the skin high, Sigmar drained it like cracked earth drained fall showers. Gulp, gulp, gulp - the gullet bobbed up and down in devouring the really quite good cider. A shame there was no time to actually enjoy the stuff. Eh, the loss of whoever bet against him, the rube!
"*burp*" Tossing the deflated waterskin aside, the young man hopped in place for a bit, belching out some gas and letting everything flow where it needed. Namely to his nethers. Nature working quickly, a familiar pressure told that his main vein was ready for a drain. "Ladies," he announced with satisfaction, "You may want to avert you eyes. Or don't. I'm about to shake hands with your best friend."
The rustling of a belt being loosened was heard next. And then the dragon's dragon was free. "Hey, Tusks!"
It was an undeniably puzzling image that awaited Uzhg at the commanding bark: the young man standing in the middle of the impromptu ring, a grin on his face and a d*ck in his hand. "You dedicated our little tussle to your god or whatever earlier, right?" Very helpfully, Sigmar pointed to an imprint by his feet, the handprint left in the sand by the half-orc as part of his pre-fight ritual. How exactly the dragonling managed to point with his hands occupied is best left unsaid. "I'm guessing whatever divine tosspot you kowtow to isn't too pleased you lost, but maybe you can tell me how they feel about this."
There are a great many euphemisms for what followed. Watering one's horse. Bleeding the beast. Shaking the dew off one's lily. The end-result was the same: Uzhg's little handprint was soon a little lake.
For one moment, Sigmar almost regains some respect for the beaten half-orc. Although Uzhg's back is turned, the sound of Sigmar's...relief makes him pause, muscles tense. For a single hopeful moment, the young dragon hopes his foe will restart the fight. Then, disappointingly, Uzhg simply walks off, clambering slowly and painfully out of the garbage pit.
Meanwhile the crowd both cheers and jeers Sigmar's display. Clearly some enjoy the bravado while others think it goes a bit far. More worrying (at least to Sigmar) are the catcalls and rather raucous whistles from some of the women of the town. At least a few of them like what they see.
Business done, Sigmar glances up to see Arianne giving him a very salacious wink. "I think she liked it, man." Ozzy says conversationally in his ear, "Like, I've seen weaker smiles in harems." Kell, meanwhile, just rolls his eyes.
As Oyok and Sigmar leave the sight of his amazing victory, he catches Vrilu's eyes. To his surprise, the Company Woman is talking with Ryzhov Ilyich, heads bowed in serious conversation. The Irriseni looks less then pleased but then again, Vrilu has that effect on people.
She notes Sigmar and turns toward him. "Come on, Sigmar. Follow us." Of course. How else can she properly celebrate his great triumph? The youth wonders how it might go. A party? A feast at least, maybe some sort of magical-
"We need your soul." Vrilu says shortly, and turns to follow Ryzhov.
"Oh neat. Your soul." Ozzy add, "How many do you have? I once met a dude in the First World, had six of them. Weird guy, might have overdone it."
Meanwhile, Ryzhov leads them back into town, weaving among the small shacks and buildings that passed for Fort Holiday accommodations. Sigmar quickly realizes their own house, with a stone floor and windows, is one of the finest in town. Interesting.
They stop in front of a rather run down looking shack, leaning drunkenly against a crumbling stone wall older then most empires. The unpainted wood looks splintered and worn, blasted by countless tropical days and storms. The door is hung on ropes, creaking slightly in the morning breeze.
The former Ulfen slave coughs, "I, um, did not build it. I merely inherited it." He turns to Vrilu, "Are you sure this is wise?" The Company Woman merely shrugs, " I look for advantage whenever I can get it. Get on with it, I still have votes to wrangle before noon."
Ryzhov looks from her to Sigmar and back, "Very well. This goes against my better judgement however. Meddling in such things rarely ends well."
They slip inside, the door barely holding on. Sigmar, entering last, finds himself in a very cramped space, and not just because of the two other people. Every spare inch seems covered with...stuff. Rickety shelves, crates and containers cover the walls, pile up on the floor and hang from the swaybacked ceiling. Some hold rocks, others seeds, still others worn seashells. Others hold bits of driftwood, carved with numbers, while one shelf just holds a pile of animal knucklebones. Hard carved dice are scattered in a corner next to a worn deck of cards, while a hollowed out gourd holds a number of burned, charcoal sticks.
A layer of rushes covers the floor, except for a small fire ring in the center of the room. Black scorch marks show frequent use yet the air doesn't smell of smoke, but instead of spices and dyes. What was all this?
"Far out, man." Ozzy says, "I dig it."
Ryzhov turns to Vrilu, "Well, here you are. A far cry from the sacred chambers in Kalsgard. You should have seen it. Crystal balls, enameled astrologic charts, an entire garden of plant reagents." The man sighs, eyes misty for a moment. "Never again..." he shakes himself back to the present.
He eyes Sigmar up and down, "Well, what strikes you, young man? We are limited in our selection, but perhaps we can prise some knowledge out of Fate. How would you like your fortune told?"
"What, is that what a Sunrise Seeker is? Just a fortune-teller?"
The young man looked about the small space, cramped with more oddities than a crow's nest. He scratched at his hair with a bloodied hand. Hm, no babe holding a platter of roasted dinno-sar ribs behind any of the shelves. How disappointing. Was a surprise celebration for the champ really too much to ask for? His sigh steamed on a displayed crystalline rock. Sigmar didn't think to question how his breath was hotter than the tropical air. It had always done that.
So. Sunrise Seeker. As in, someone who sought the sunrise meaning tomorrow meaning the future. Fortune-tellers. He supposed the name was what the wits considered clever. As was Ryzhov himself, undoubtedly. A shame nothing would come of this, then.
"Huh? Read my fortune? Eh, no thanks."
The dismissal was so mellow the teen sounded as if he'd just turned down another sugar lump to his coffee. This blitheness was reflected in his stance, not even looking at the diviner in favor of rummaging half-interested through a rack of glossy seashells. An attitude that no doubt elicited some pointed questions, particularly from Vrilu who had arranged this session. No surprise there. Yet equally self-evident to Sigmar was the absurdity of such a venture. What was the expression? 'Carrying water to the sea'?
"Don't get me wrong, teach," he clarified to the older man, wafting a mollifying hand that was less so given how it was still covered in gore. "I'm sure you're good at what you do and all that. There'd just be no point to it. After all, I already know my fate." The boy shrugged, smile as certain as the tomorrow Ryzhov would predict. "I'm a dragon. Imma do what dragons do: climb to the summit of Mt. Badass and make girls swoon, demigods breaks, and bards sing in the process."
Confidence was one thing. Certainty was quite another, and this was what the youth displayed now. How big a dinno-sar did a guy have to beat before they wrote a song about it, anyway? A more pertinent query than any divination could answer, apparently; Sigmar peered thoughtfully into a mother-of-pearl coated shell, seemingly having said his piece and entirely done with this fortune-telling excursion. This was further evidenced by him moving the conversation to other matters completely.
"So Vrilu, did you hear what Tusks said there at the end? Sorry, 'course you didn't - his rotten breath was so much louder than his wheezing, pee-yew! He mumbled something about our dwarf boy not being what we thought. Said we were on a dangerous road or sumthin'. Whaddaya think that means?" A shell clattered onto the wrong shelf as the boy tossed it haphazardly over one shoulder. "He's not, like, an elf, is he?"
Fingers awash in red stroked the smooth chin in profound rumination. Nah, probably not an elf. But maybe a particularly fat halfling. Skilled as the simple mind was at directing fist to face, it wasn't particularly adept at deep thinking. Indeed, many had accused the dragonling at having all the depth of the puddle he'd left the half-orc earlier. In truth, it might be more fair to call Sigmar merely unpracticed at the whole thinking business. Thinking had never done him any good. There were depths, entire ocean trenches, in his mind he feared to delve.
Nevertheless, the exercise saw something occur to him unrelated to the identity of Orsen Griet.
"Wait, hold on," he began, looking to the company woman with what he hadn't decided was confusion or suspicion, "What do you want to know my fortune for? You're the leader here. Or rather, you're the one barking orders to the guy who's actually in the lead, that being Oyo. Me, I'm just the really, really handsome muscle of the group. Why is it my future you want divined?"
Doesn’t seem offended at ‘just fortune-teller’ but there is a look of resigned annoyance that flashed across his face. The look of a man who has encountered this one too many times.
”Not just a fortune-teller.” The Irriseni man says, voice only slightly pained, [b]”That conjures up the image of an old woman reading lifelines at the horse market for brass pennies. They have their place, of course, but not exactly what I do.”
”The Sunrise Seekers are a guild of sophisticated diviners who harness a wide range of clairvoyance and prognostication methods to see the true weft and weave of Fate. We seek to see the true course of the future, not just the petty doings of this event or that event. While a mere oracle might be contend with seeing a single road, the Sunrise Seekers build a map of the city.”
To Sigmar’s surprise the older teacher merely smiles at Sigmar’s boasts about his future, face creasing. Ryzhov simply looked at Vrilu and holds up aged, worn hands. ”The young man seems quite content with his conceived path. It sounds enticing, to be fair.”
Vrilu frowns at him and seems ready to snap something when Sigmar, as usual, dropped a small bombshell. The Company woman turns on him, face instantly thoughtful and sharp. ”What exactly did he say?” She makes Sigmar repeat Uzhg’s mutterings several times, even asking his intonation and cadence.
After squeezing Sigmar like a grape, she lapses into silence for a moment. Behind her, Sigmar notices the wood golem in the doorway. Sigmar thought they lost it after the fighting pit, but it seemed to have found its way eventually.
”Not what we think…” Vrilu mutters to herself, ”What could the half-orc know. And how does he know what you know?” She shakes her head finally, and turns on Ryzhov, ”This is exactly the sort of thing I need to suss out and proves my point. I need your services.”
Then she rounds on Sigmar, eyes bright in the dim, dusty light. ”As for why you, the reasons are two-fold. One, I have no desire to have a Sunrise Seeker poking about my private business and secrets. No offense.” She adds to Rhyzhov who merely shrugs., ”Happily you know nothing of value that can be revealed to even the most assiduous seeker.”
’Also,” Vrilu adds carelessly, inspecting a nail, ”Our Seeker here says the process can be disturbing and disconcerting. Perhaps even dangerous. I am willing to endure such things if they are unavoidable, of course.” She slaps at a droning fly near her ear, ’Every moment on this island has been some variation on that theme. But if I can avoid it…well, let’s just say, I’m happy to shift that burden onto you.”
The leader of the expedition shakes her head, ”Now, get on with it, you two. We all have things to do. Make with the magic.”
Rhyzhov turns to Sigmar, ”Well, does anything strike you? Anything call to you? Results are best when the patron is part of the process.” He takes an old, worn Taldan penny off a shelf. ”Future by old money, perhaps?”
The older man starts to walk up and down the shelves, voice drifting to Sigmar as he roots around. ”Maybe cast marbles? Bones? I had had great success with shards of glass tossed into the air.”
”I could find a chicken, perhaps. A disinterred liver can reveal a great deal. Or maybe molten metal? I have a few old nails here that could be melted down.” On and on. Feathers, bark, clouds, the sun. Seems the old man could use just about any media. Or so he claimed.
”Happily you know nothing of value that can be revealed to even the most assiduous seeker.”
Like the scrutinizing gaze of an apprentice mage over spellcraft texts far beyond their understanding. This was the dubious look Sigmar gave his supposed leader. "... I don't know if you're insulting me by hinting I'm dumb, or patronizing me by hinting I wouldn't catch said insult."
Fortunately for Vrilu, he didn't particularly care. Sticks and stones and all that. People who actively relished staring down the literal bellies of beasts were not easily wounded by words. Heck, the teen almost appreciated her sharp tongue. Better than fawning appeasement, certainly. For it too was a weapon of sorts, and being more battle-hungry than the average Gorumite priest, he respected all such. Even if he wished the woman would swap the rhetoric for a mace sometimes. Man, she'd be a terror.
That said, this respect was also why he was happy to trade one blow for another. "See, this is why you have to brute-force your promotions through crazy expeditions like these. 'Cause no one in the office likes you."
Sigmar might not understand much, but he did know ambition.
Though on the topic of wounding through words - or at least bruising - the dragonling turned to Ryzhov. "Alright, teach, don't lose your brand." He nodded to the 'T' dominating much of the man's face before adding in his easily distracted habit, like an ignorant child might, "Hey, is that what it stands for? 'Teacher'? Eh, none of my business. Yeah, I'm sure your Sunrise Seekers are cool and all. Even if I gotta question whatever foresight didn't see you getting, like, banished to this zoo..."
Seriously, what sort of diviner couldn't predict his actions leading to excommunication on Raptor Isle? Whatever. If Vrilu insisted on this hocus-pocus, they might as well get it over with. Sigmar had hung about her long enough to know the woman was stubborn as adamantine. As for the method to the madness... To his credit, the youth listened with curiosity as the older man outlined some of the many divination approaches available. There was, as they said, evidently more than one way to skin a cat. Which he could appreciate! Sometimes, with lesser foes, even he wanted to vary the means by which these were done in. One could only punch a punk's nasal bones up into his grey matter so many times. Some variation in the form of gouging, torching and, now, electrocution were called for now and then. Variety truly was the spice of life. And death, as it happened.
Divination through livers, huh? The teen's brow jumped, bemused. Speaking of gouging and fun diversions, perhaps he could pop out for a quick excavation of the half-orc's organs... Then again, nothing sensible could possibly be read in that dunderhead's innards. And for that matter, Sigmar just wanted this to be over with. He was in need of a nap, frankly.
So it was that the suggestion Ryzhov was looking for turned out surprisingly - mayhap even insultingly - humble. "Listen, I'm a simple guy; you mentioned palm reading earlier? Let's just go for that."
The older man had referred to such, if only dismissively. Nevertheless, now he had to look to the pale hand of the boisterous young man, the one so strangely soft-skinned for a ruffian such as him. The gaze elicited a little laugh from the dragonling. "Nah nah nah," he smiled. "Not that hand. My real hand."
It began somewhere beneath the jacket. From within the sleeve came a wave, traveling down the hand with flesh rippling like oil. The change was carried upon the crest of this shudder. It was like watching a field of flowers bloom in an instant, red scales, rough and lustrous, sprouting where there had been fair skin. Down they ventured, down to the tip of the fingers. And here the transformation went beyond the superficial. While the hide turned crimson, the nails blackened. Not just that, but they grew, explosively so, jutting out like those of the great cats in anger. These fresh claws, these hooked horrors were not those of any humanoid; not protective, but predatory. Even as this metamorphosis took place, a greater one still was not just seen, but heard within the appendage that had been a hand. The creaking of timber stressed let out its lament as bones shifted, sinews elongated and grew. Here was where the mind gave up. To follow every intricacy of the change was futile, like taking in every alteration to a landscape after an earthquake.
What had been was no longer. And what was was an instrument as brutish as it was elegant, something as comfortable weaving its way through arcane gestures as through an opponent's throat.
"Go on. Tell me what you see in this." The confident grin told of how the dragonling himself saw much in the deadly limb.
Sigmar had once spent a summer in Magnimar, that egotistical Varisian city dotted with ruins and art. His home had been rather unpleasant flophouse, so the youth had spent most of the time on the porch, which faced a large stone-yard. Specializing in marble, the otherwise unassuming place played host to the finest artists in the city. Most, of course, sought the finest, smoothest blocks with an even grain and few imperfections.
Except for Tolbar the Gnarled.
Stumpy and misshapen, the hunched man was regarded as the finest sculptor in the city. His works filled the pleasure palaces of the rich and powerful, as well as numerous public squares. Sigmar noted that unlike the other artists, Tolbar never bothered with the perfectly squared, perfectly arranged marble slabs on display near the street. Instead the master artisan always headed for the back corner of the yard, seeking out the jumbled mass of cracked and broken rejects. It was those with jagged whorls, rippled knots, off center cornices or discolored cross-grains that the master desired. The worse the imperfections, the more outrageous the flaws, the more the ugly man would smile.
Because from this culled refuse, he could make things no one else could even imagine.
To Sigmar's surprise, he saw something of the old artist's triumphant gleam in Ryzhov when confronted with the transformed dragon claw. A twinkle in the eye perhaps, a twitch of the lips. Suddenly the man looked twenty years younger, muscles loosened, back straighter. The Irriseni bent over the reddish claw with obvious interest, breath stilled.
'Curious, curious.” He murmured to himself, only looking not yet touching. ”Draconic, clearly. A powerful link to both inward and outward. Some problems...how to find the Croix Mystique? And the Hepatica is all but invisible. But trivial, trivial compared to the potential...” He looked up at Sigmar.
”Is this your dominant hand?” Sigmar wasn't entirely sure what he meant, but he used his right hand the most.
The older man nodded, ”The dominant hand is best used for the future, the lesser one for birth and nature.”
”Future.” Vrilu said flatly, ”His past does not concern me, or frankly, him. Get on with it, Seeker. The world moves on.”
Ryzhov seemed unbothered by the blunt remark however and turned back to the proffered claw. ”Yes, this will work nicely. We may begin.” He grabbed a battered stool for a corner and sat down, eye level with Sigmar's hand. Sigmar was reminded of a master musician sitting before a new piano, uncertain yet intrigued.
”Take deep breaths and remain calm, my young friend.” The Sunrise Seeker said, face growing solemn, eyes distant. ”You may find this to be a....peculiar experience. “
Peculiar? Sigmar has seen palm readers before, of course. Varisia was famous for it, to the point where it was a national stereotype. One could hardly visit a single market or attend a fashionable soiree without seeing people obsessing over it. Few people much stock in it, of course, it was usual just a path between the oracle and the mark's purse. What exactly did the old man expect? It was Vrilu's money and time they were wasting, not his own.
Then Ryzhov touched his hand and the world....changed.
The already dim light of the room grew faint and subdued, shadows springing up. From the collected shells and bones, rocks and leaves, they sprouted and grew, creating fantastical, shifting shapes. Like dancing figured they started to circle Sigmar, weaving in and out of sight. The rest of the world grew fainter and fainted, slipping away from sight. Not just sight, but the heat lessened and the smell of dust dissipated. It was if he was becoming untethered to the world around him, his sense slipping away. Even the flicking shadows were muted now, becoming a writhing mass of gray. A painful hum started in his head, a sonic headache.
In his ear he heard Ozzy say distantly, ”I don't get it, when does it...” but the sand creature voice trailed off, as if floating over a great distance.
”Do not be afraid.” Ryzhov's voice sounded in his ears, loud and strong. Yet the man himself was not speaking, still hunched over his hand, running his fingers over Sigmar's scales. The youth blinked , the world shifted and....he was somewhere else.
There was no sign of Fort Holiday or the dilapidated shack. Sigmar was standing outside, under a bright but diffuse sky of off-white. Around him spread a red landscape of cragged hills and formless mounds, many of them taller then he was. The ground was hard underfoot, but not quite rock. In many places it was etched with deep, wandering furrows, like a farmer's field ploughed by a drunk ox-team. It stretched out of sight, rising and falling except far ahead four rounded mountains loomed against the nondescript sky.
There was no sign of anyone else, not even Ozzy. Alone among the waste, Sigmar stood. The air was cool and dry, a pleasant change of pace from the sticking tropical heat. An oddly familiar, salty tang rested on his tongue. Not the sea, something drier, something that the youth felt he should know.
Then Sigmar noticed a shape start to appear nearby, the air glowing slightly. It quickly resolved into Ryzhov, but not the Ryzhov Sigmar knew. Gone was the aged and wrinkled man, and his tattered cloak. Instead it was Ryzhov as he must have been, when only slightly older then Sigmar himself. This Ryzhov was lean and fit, with long black hair that hung down to his shoulders. A fine blue cloak was tied around his waist, clashing wildly with the red terrain. There was no sign of brand on his unblemished, youthful face.
The young Sunrise Seeker laughed and said, ”Ah, that's better.” The man cracked his neck and added, ”I should compliment you. You have a very strong Astral Alignment connection, better then I expected, to be honest. We coalesced very quickly, considering our circumstances. Very little interference.”
He looked around, like a settler plotting adding acreage, ”Well, what do you think?” He waved an arm at the strange, rather forbidding landscape. ”Look familiar?”
Sigmar's face must have revealed otherwise because the young man laughed, ”It never does. Hmm..” he looked around, and then pointed, ”What about that spot there, over to the right.” Sigmar looked and saw a big round mass protruding out of the ground. Bulbous and whitish it looked like a vast blister, rearing up fifty feet.
Wait. Not like a blister. But surely that meant...no.
”Yes.” Ryzhov said grinning as widely as Tolbar the Gnarled spotting a fissured spire of marble, ”Welcome to your right hand, Sigmar Darastrix.”
There was a moment, somewhere in between the shadows doing the hokey pokey and the emergence of all-new mountains, where Sigmar wondered whether chugging that entire waterskin of cider had caught up to him. He didn't drink much. Why would he? The youth's inhibitions were already nil and life was plenty fun enough just being Sigmar Darastrix. Yet the disorientation felt now, waking up confused in an unfamiliar place, certainly wasn't unknown to the drunkards of the world.
"Whaaa...?" He turned in place, looking about the desolate landscape, before turning again because he hadn't finished taking in every alien detail spied before. Being jumped by an entire environment proved a tad overwhelming. To the youth's credit, while his seemingly so simple mind wasn't the most adroit in terms of higher functions - or tufted deer, those weirdos - it was now galloping a mile a minute. Should he be scared, he wondered in cocking his head at the grey-ish sky? He didn't feel scared. The situation was so odd he frankly didn't know what to feel. What he really wished for was someone to punch right now. It was his experience that this was, if not a solution, then usually a step in the right direction.
Probably not the newly coalesced Ryzhov, though. No, the emergence of a recently rejuvenated diviner was reassurance of there, presumably, being some method to this madness. "Teach, that you?" Sigmar laughed before nodding to the now so verdant scalp. "Nice hair."
The revelation that followed didn't quite see the teen's jaw fall to the cracked earth, but gaping wonder was gaping wonder - no doubt much to Ryzhov's pleasure. "So what, I'm carrying the two of us in the palm of my hand? Should I even be tryin' to get that?" Despite his utter confusion, something like great enjoyment tugged at the corners of Sigmar's open mouth. This had certainly taken a turn for the interesting!
"Gotta say, teach - did not see this coming. Do you do this for all your divinations? Turn things into entire, like, worlds? 'Cause I guess I prefer this to traversing a giant liver."
Ryzhov laughed at Sigmar’s first remark, and shook his head, locks bouncing like a bathing beauties. "All of this, and you want to talk about my hair?” The fortune-teller touched it with a hand, "Well, thank you. I do miss it, sometimes.”
As Sigmar pours out his other questions, the Sunrise Seeker takes them in, a knowing smile on his lips. Clearly this isn't his first time with a confused guest. He answers the last question first, eyes sweeping the strange, organic landscape. "Well, no. Every divination is different, as diverse as one person is from another. Technique also matters, of course. If you had chosen capnomancy, for example we might find ourselves in a smoke-wraith world. Although I must confess, I have rarely had a vision so….visceral. Again, my compliments, Sigmar. Your astral connection is impressive, the authenticity is frankly almost unnerving.”
At the idea they are somehow both doubled and shrunk, Ryzhov shakes his head, "Yes…but mostly no. We are not actually on your hand. We are merely co-existent Astral resonances echoing on a spliced demiplane of your future, using the metaphoric personification of your right hand to help visualize the abstract concepts.”
Seeing this all go over his patrons head the teacher shrugged, ”All I can say is, if you had a telescope and looked up, you would not see a titanic, planet sized Vrilu. We are saved from that fate, at least.“
The man looked out toward the horizon then, eyes bright. "As it is a mental landscape, it will both reflect actual reality and inner truth in various measures. See those mountains?” he points to the uneven red mounds in the distance, "Those are the Celestial Mounts, the fleshy parts of your hand. Castrovel Mount, Akiton Mount and so on.”
”Curious. Your Castrovel Mount is quite small. Surprising. A fine strapping lad like you, figured you’d be beating them off with a stick. Ah well, you can never tell.” He nodded at another spot on the distant skyline, a rising peak higher than the others. "Your Sun Mount is one of the highest I’ve ever seen, but that is expected.” he glanced at Sigmar, ”A high Sun means a quick-temper, an extravagant worldview, and a prideful outlook. I feel, perhaps, it fits?”
Then Sigmar's guide shook his head, "This is wondrous, how I wish I could give a full reading but alas, we are on a schedule. Your employer sets a tight timetable and is not someone to cross.” Ryzhov cast around again, looking for something amid the scales, burns and blisters.
”Ah, there we go.” He points out a deep dark gulch carving though the landscape, a fractal, jagged curve. "Your lifeline, Sigmar. Nice and deep, that’s good. Means your life will be a rich and exciting one. Maybe not long, but well, you can never judge such things.”
The diviner shrugged off this possible hint at Sigmar’s early demise and went on, ”Well come on, we have some hiking to do.”
And with that the pair of them are tromping off toward the dark line. It doesn’t take Sigmar long to realize travelling is very strange in this place. The distance covered doesn’t seem to quite fit the time, as if he was gaining extra footsteps somewhere. The scales slid past, out of the corner of his eyes, almost like he was standing still and the landscape was walking past him.
Ryzhov seems unconcerned however, and Sigmar figured this must be usual. The Sunrise Seeker kept up a steady flow of jargon as they marched, taking about planar alignments and oracular transits. Sigmar could make neither head or tails of it, and it didn’t seem to matter. Ryzhov just seemed to like talking. Maybe it helped fill the weird, aching silence of the strange world. There were no birds, no bugs, no sign of any life. Which considering this was, sort of, his skin, was probably good. Last thing they needed was to see a house-sized bedbug.
In surprisingly short order, they find themselves on the lip of the dark crevasse. Ryzhov pauses at the crumbling cliff edge, looking down. Sigmar joins him and, to his surprise, finds not a sterile gorge but a glowing, pulsing sight. At the bottom of the crack, maybe thirty feet below, is a wide red river, flowing as freely as any mountain stream. It roiled through whirlpools and over waterfalls, swirling through all sorts of rapids. Thicker though, as if it were-
"Blood.” Ryzhov adds, nodding, ”Your life blood. Curious, most peoples is just room temperature, but yours is nearly boiling.” Indeed the red liquid seemed to be steaming, sending up small white plumes, as it tumbled over the rocks and rapids.
”The stronger the flow and the more vigorous the current, indicate violence and battle, both in your past and your future. In fact, each rock represents a singular fight. If we look closely, perhaps….” The Sunrise Seeker leaned out over the precipice, far enough that Sigmar was worried the old man might drop off.
"Look, right there.” He pointed down into the depths. Sigmar followed his finger and saw a rock amid the gurgling, bubbling river. It was, for all the world, a stony image of Uzhg, complete with missing tusk.
”Excellent, that means we are entering alongside the present. That will save us a good deal of travel. Come on Sigmar,” Rhyzhov says, ’We must descend, if we are to plumb the secrets of your future.”
The Irriseni man indicated a natural-set of uneven stairs that Sigmar had not noticed before. They lead downwards in a steep, almost ladder like sequence of cracked stairs.
'Don't be shy, we need to get a move on."
"Right! Yeah. Astral resonance. Very strong, very visceral. Mm-hmm, that's me."
What was a simple dragonling to do but nod along bemused as the diviner rattled off concepts foreign to all but the craftiest of spellcrafters? All Sigmar really gathered from the arcane jargon was how the older man - or rather what had been an older man - was impressed at the vividness of the manifestation they found themselves in, that he had a strong soul or some such. Which sure sounded like a compliment, so he'd take it. Physical prowess was mostly what concerned the teen, but he recognized that strength came in many - lesser - forms than his own. Spiritual strength? A handy tool in the kit for the masses, something for the downtrodden to reach for when it came time to kick tyrants off their thrones. Not quite comparable to the far more practical tool that was a claw arm that conjured fire and lightning in punching through boulders, of course. But still. He'd take it.
"A high Sun means a quick-temper, an extravagant worldview, and a prideful outlook. I feel, perhaps, it fits?”
"I like to think I'm a realist." The grin was cheeky as any cheshire's in following Ryzhov's finger to whatever passed for a horizon here, he pointing out the distant mounts seen there. It really was all very interesting, even putting the madcap magics aside. And why wouldn't it be? Sigmar was, after all, his own favourite topic. Which was also why what sounded suspiciously like a jab at one of said mounts wasn't well received.
What the heck is a Castrovel?
Before the boy could mount a defence on a sensitive issue made all the more sensitive by his insistence of there being no issue at all, thankyouverymuch, his limited attention span was distracted by more appraisal yet. His lifeline? The deep, dark gorge indicated by the diviner stretched by their feet like something shorn by titans. He looked to his hand - what had been a hand. Did he have this right? This entire landscape was a sort of physical, sort of metaphorical materialization of his palm and whatever could be read there? And yet he couldn't see anything like this ravine on the scaled appendage. It was funny, now that he thought on it; calling on his claws usually took just a bit of concentration for Sigmar. He couldn't maintain them indefinitely. But now they felt merely natural, indeed never having faded since his 'arrival' here.
No, never mind that. It was the magic man's comment on the lifeline that had drawn his attention. "Whoa, teach, expand on that. 'Not a long life'?" The dragonling had always assumed his would be an expansive existence, like that of any other successful dragon. These would famously reach hundreds, even thousands of years. His own life being cut short implied...
"Can you see an opponent? Someone who kills me?"
It was a question most would speak in grave whispers. For to acknowledge one's own murderer was a recognition of the end, of there being a stage-hand out there somewhere with his paw on a lever, ready to bring down the curtains you knew not when, the only certainty being how your time under the limelight was limited.
Of course, Sigmar Darastrix wasn't most people. For if there was a wavering in his voice, it was that of a nervous thrill. Indeed, something like anticipation glowed in the amber eyes. For how could someone so battle-hungry, so eager to prove himself, not rejoice in knowing he had an ultimate - a final - opponent awaiting him? A worthy challenge? Definitively so? There was nothing he longed for more in this life.
But first, blood.
An entire waterway of the stuff, in fact, boiling and roiling across a riverbed of a thousand statues, glaring, reaching up as a torrent of red washed over them.
Cool. Cool to the max.
"I think that guy owes me money!" Sigmar called out in squinting at a particularly bulbous figure far upstream of where the diviner pointed. "No. No, wait. I recognize him now. He did steal my money. And I then stole his kneecaps. We're square."
A striking setting, to be sure, even if the young man didn't stop long to admire it. Ryzhov's first mention of being 'shy' set his completive spirit running hotter than the waters below. "Better catch up, then, teach!" he called in bounding down the rough stairs three steps at a time.
Ryzhov looked slightly abashed at Sigmar’s questions about his lifespan. The Sunrise Seeker coughed, ”I only said it did not imply a long life, just an active one. As for the end….it’s hard to tell from here though.” he surveyed the black gash that snaked across the landscape, ”Without a full reading, I can only say, I doubt you’ll die on this island, unless you stay for a long time.”
Then he looked at Sigmar, ’A word of warning. The ways of Fate are strange and only a prediction. The role of Fate and Free Will are something my brothers in Karlsgard have been debating for generations and doubtlessly will forever. All I will say is, it is only a guess. If you throw yourself off a cliff, you’ll still die, long lifeline or no.” He smiled faintly, ”But you don’t seem the type. “
The diviner seems surprised when Sigmar vaults down the stairs, leaping down the cracking shapes with ease. Still, the Seeker keeps up the pace better then Sigmar expected, following along only a few steps behind. The old man must have been quite an athlete back in the day…or was he cheating? For the first time, Sigmar notes Ryzhov’s feet don’t seem to quite reach the ground, floating just a few inches from the increasingly rocky ground. The Irriseni man also seemed slightly insubstantial, shimmering ever so slightly, like a ghost out of a bard’s tale.
For his part though Sigmar seemed as real as he ever was, and he could feel the steps under his boots. He even left footprints, dim outlines pressed into the reddish dust (dandruff?). Although, glancing back, one thing did seem odd about them. They were clear and normal sized except…
”Yes,” Ryzhov said, only a few paces behind, ’They are revsered.”
Indeed, the prints were clear as day but they seemed to point up the stairs, as if Sigmar can run down them backwards.
’A classic egorical syllogism.” The man said, pausing to look at the inverted footprints. ’They show you are headed for your destination but only lies guide you. Someone has misled you, Sigmar, yet you hurtle onwards anyway. Curious.”
The stairs level out, becoming a stony trail clinging to the inside rim of the canyon. Above the flat gray sky hangs between the cliff walls, hemmed in. Below, the blood river continues its turbulent path, splashing and bubbling. Sigmar can’t help but look at the stones, looking for glimpses of future conflicts. Doesn’t hurt to know what might be coming up.
To his annoyance, he can’t see much detail, as the red tide partially subsumes most of the obstacles. Still, he does see a few more of the lizardy creatures poking out of the riverbed, which doesn’t surprise him. At least one looks like the awfully smelly creature he already tangled with once. A rematch then?
To his satisfaction there were a few large stones that seemed to portend future tussles with dinosaurs of various shapes and size, massive reptilian-like blocks covered with frothing blood. Did that one have spikes? Wicked. Another seemed to have a mouthful of teeth as long as Sigmar’s hand, razor-sharp and gleaming. It reared up out of the crimson river like a titan, seeming to roar toward an uncaring heaven .
Sick.
They travel along for a while and then suddenly the canyon deepens dramatically, without warning. A vast black gulf appears in front of Sigmar, a great gouge notched out of the lifeline valley. Below the bloody river tumbles over the edge into the abyss in a great cardinal waterfall, streaming steaming veils of blood. Sigmar cannot even see the bottom, lost in the murk of his….soul?
Ahead though, a rickety rope bridge spans the gap, leading to a stony outcropping on the far side of the gap. A small white tower sits there, just tall enough to be level with the plain above. It is hard to see any detail from this distance.
The bridge is more concerning. It is a cliché out of any story, fraying cords joined by ancient splintering boards. At least every third is missing, creating blank gaps that lead to the hungry chasm below. It sways slightly, as if caught in a wind even though Sigmar doesn’t feel anything.
”A betrayer’s bridge.” Rhyzhov says slowly, looking at it. ”Someone you know will betray you Sigmar, and soon. We are not very far along in your future. You will have to be nimble indeed, to survive it.” The old/young man sighs, ”An all too common sight. Anyway, our goal lies on the other side, so you must cross. Be careful, I would not recommend falling. It would…not go well.” He gestures toward the sweeping emptiness below the hanging, fragile looking bridge. ”For either of us.”
”All I will say is, it is only a guess. If you throw yourself off a cliff, you’ll still die, long lifeline or no.” He smiled faintly, ”But you don’t seem the type.“
”...You weren’t there for me scaling old Xal’s tower.”
The incident was recalled with the fondness reserved reckless acts turned spectacular through the merciful embellishment of memory. Of course, reminiscing like this was usually reserved the old with the understanding that such folly wasn’t to be repeated, not the young for whom said incident was yesterday. Especially when they’d do it all over again. Sigmar liked to think all his bruises from the fall helped him appear more menacing to the practical souls of Fort Holiday. Regardless, it’d all worked out in the end!
Which was no guarantee in the case of betrayals. Those could be a greater threat than a hundred death-defying leaps. The youth stopped in his inverted tracks. ”Betray me?” he repeated, not quite believing the diviner’s words. ”I mean, I guess that’s possible. When you’ve got a face this pretty, people just don’t have the heart to stab you anywhere but the back!”
The jest was as weak as the grin through which it was delivered. Whatever Ryzhov’s faults, the man was clearly good at his craft. Even ignorant Sigmar knew no two-copper fortune teller could conjure metaphysical realms where providence made panoramas. If he said there was treachery in his future, then the dragonling was inclined to believe him. He just wished he knew what to do about this. The amber eyes fell to the reversed footprints in thought. Give him thugs, give him owlbears, give him the biggest, baddest dinno-sar Raptor Isle had to offer; there was no opponent Sigmar wouldn’t take on. In direct conflict he knew no hesitation. But this? Plots of skullduggery behind veiled agendas? This was not his scene. It wasn’t even a question of competence. In the great chess match that was social politics, the teen would rather slit his wrists with a rook than play at all.
”No, c’mon, you gotta tell me more than that!” His long legs caught up to Ryzhov’s floating feet, agitation – even distress – evident in his voice. ”What good is this magical malarkey if it can’t find this turncoat? A hint at least!” There was no mystery behind the young man’s worry. Overconfident though he was, Sigmar plainly didn’t trust in his own ability to uncover the traitor.
Could it be Ozzy? No sooner had the mind turned its unpractised suspicion on the newest member of the band before he dismissed the idea. Ozzy a traitor? Ludicrous! The sand guy had poured out of centuries-long imprisonment without a shred of ill-will towards his captor. Guy had all the aggression of... well, a sand pile. What could compel someone like that to turn on anyone? Though on the topic of aggression... Ann, perhaps? No, surely not. Beyond the fact that she, like Sigmar, preferred the direct approach to resolutions – as in hot lead directly to any given problem’s brain – he was pretty sure she liked him. Like, really liked him. Which was troublesome in and of itself, but didn’t lend itself to treachery. Oyo, then? Perish the thought! No way! They were bros! Weren’t they?
Grah, he hated this! Sigmar didn’t want to suspect anyone, he didn’t even want to like anyone! He just wanted clearly delineated baddies and maybe the occasional ally of convenience to direct him to their clearly punchable faces. People confused him at the best of times. How was he supposed to navigate wilful obfuscation like this? The boy let out an aggravated sigh of the sort that might be confused for a moose call. ”...So is this bridge goin’ to tell me who the snake is? Actually, where are we going, anyway?”
As the diviner said, the gangway looked awfully precarious. Real shoddy work, really. Who was to blame for that, he wondered? Not his hand, right? Bah, whatever. He stepped up to the vast chasm without hesitation, with something approaching eagerness in fact. Navigate some crumbling ropework? Please, the dragonling would rather ballet across a sword’s edge than spend another second ruminating on this cloak & dagger nonsense. At least this rickety bridge presented a tangible obstacle.
Ryzhov doesn't seem too surprised that Sigmar wants to know more details. Surely such questions are common during fortune telling. Saying 'a great gift is nigh' is all well and good, but the lottery numbers would be more helpful.
The Sunrise Seeker sighs wearily however and says, "Sadly, such exact answers are usually difficult to parse. Fate can be very guarded with her secrets. Still, you are not entirely without hope of revelation." The man smiles, "You have me."
The man peers at the stone posts holding up the fragile looking bridge, like a man trying to read very faint text. Sigmar can't see anything but the same vaguely reddish scale-like stuff everywhere else, by clearly Ryzhov sees more.
"Interesting." He finally says, nose only an inch or so away from the post. "It seems the person who will betray you is not the one who is misleading you." He looks at Sigmar, "Looks like you might be caught in a nest of snakes, my young friend. Tread lightly."
Not what Sigmar wanted to hear. Two people were lying to him?
Ryzhov is more forthcoming on his second question, about their destination. " We are going forward." He indicates the small white tower. "Toward the future. That tower is a nexus of temporal guidance, a local lens of divinationally relevant information. I'd judge it's a Traveller’s Mark or a Mystic Cross. In most readings it would simply be lines on your hand, the usual creases of everyday life. But your Astral interrelation is so strong, it is manifesting as a physical object." Seeing Sigmar's face the man shrugged, "The Tower is our map of your immediate future. After that, back to the humdrum Material Plane, I'm afraid. Your superior won't let us linger, as much as I'd like to. You make a remarkable palmistry subject."
With this praise, Sigmar launches himself onto the bridge with his usual grace and panache. What are a few missing boards? Sigmar would not more miss the mark then a dancer forget the next step in a waltz. If anything he wished it was harder, to banish thoughts of lying double-crossers.
Happily, it did get harder.
When he was only a dozen or so yards from the stony cliff, the bridge started to move. Not the swaying one would expect, or event he heart-stopping drop of torn ropes. No, the boards were moving...backwards, sliding along the ropes as if they were not tied. Ahead, Sigmar saw all the boards were slipping toward him, as if he was at the bottom of a hill. Yet, despite their movements, the gaps and cracked boards remained. And, to the greatest surprise new boards seemed to be materialized at the far end, continuing the moving, shifting chain.
This just got interesting.
"Sadly, such exact answers are usually difficult to parse. Fate can be very guarded with her secrets. Still, you are not entirely without hope of revelation." The man smiles, "You have me."
The smile that answered the diviner's was just a bit more ironic. "Heh. You know, guides that insist on the guided going first don't inspire much confidence."
Ryzhov didn't have to say it, the teen mused in eyeing the chasm. The 'Crux Incarnate' of the domain had to pass first because he was the 'Focal Nerve' of its manifestation, a manifestation that only existed to expand his 'Temporal Cognizance'. The 'Astral Resonance' corresponded only with himself, and so to stabilize the 'Arcane Circuit' forward, Sigmar was the one to 'more magical jibber-jabber than an archwizard could fit in his tower'. Sigmar was no trained spell-slinger - indeed, he wielded magic like ogres wielded clubs - but it didn't take a diploma to figure out the realm made from him also revolved around him. Not that foreign a thought, really. He liked to think himself the protagonist of, if not the globe, then at least whatever nation he found himself in at any given time.
Just another reason he didn't like the idea of depending on the diviner. The dragonling's estrangement from the rest of the mortal species aside, he was the fiercely independent sort. This just came along with being unable to relate to people; you also stopped relying on them. Beneath his good-humored exterior, there was a carapace of black cynicism far tougher than the fine scales slowly subsuming the boy's skin.
All the more puzzling, then - the fact that paternal Ryzhov's care touched at something buried deeper still. He would never admit it. In fact, he could not do so for we cannot admit to what we ourselves do not understand. But there was some part of the young man that took great comfort in knowing there was someone looking out for him. Proud though he was, no man is an island. And pretend all he might to the contrary, Sigmar Darastrix was just a man. No misanthrope, Sigmar did not scoff at the concept of friendship. He simply didn't believe it was for him. Yet when people wormed their way beneath his armor, unbidden and unwanted, he couldn't help but wish things were different. He supposed that was why it bothered him so, the thought that a betrayal awaited him.
The boy had a lot of growing up to do.
Which was never to be when you neglected the maturation of the mind into something resembling adulthood in favor of maturing the body into that of a dragon. And on that point, he really wished he could grow some wings. Seriously, was there even a bottom to this gorge? He looked into the misty abyss. Did it matter? No, not really. Not when he was going to cross it without fail.
"Right, then!" His boots waltzed up to the picked skeleton of a bridge. Upon which things got interesting. What the heck was this? The dragonling watched on in bemusement as the sparse boards of the construction began - seemingly - to revolve. Like some strange turning mechanism, they appeared to move towards him, the planks travelling to one end above before disappearing by his feet to fly back below to the other end and repeat the process. A treadmill! The youth had seen these simple engines used to grind grain in the small communities in want of a river sufficient for traditional mills. But that meant...
"Hey teach, check it!" Sigmar leapt down the crag. And it'd only been scant minutes since the older man had remarked on him not being the type to jump off cliffs. But in truth, the teen hadn't gone far. Grabbing at the worn ropes of the bridge, he latched himself onto the underside of the planks. The planks that once they reached this side of the gorge travelled back to the far side to start the process all over. He intended to hitch a ride! There was no reason to work hard when you could work smart, and Sigmar felt the smarterest.
Sigmar held onto the plank with leg and arms, clinging as tight as a squirrel in a tree. Apparently unbothered by his weight, the old board slid smoothly along, rounded the end of the bridge and started out over the chasm. Happily his position let him stare at the vast undifferenated sky, inside of the endless gorge below. Probably for the best.
It was with a bit of anticlimax that the board reached the far side without incident. Indeed, it even came right up to ground level and it was with a somewhat ungraceful roll that Sigmar found himself across the deep pit. Standing up he found, with some surprise, Ryzhov was already standing there.
The fortune teller grinned, "Where you go, I follow. You are the leader of the parade here."
A few steps away, the gleaming marble tower loomed. The bright white stones looked quite out of place in the arid, reddish landscape. A wide stair ran around it, spiraling up toward the flat roof, thirty feet above. At the bottom of the winding stair, a small landing stood.
On the tower wall, at eye level was....something. Art, maybe? A series of lines and swirls, dug into the shining rock. No, not dug...they looked organic, as if grown out...oh. It was like the lines and wrinkles of a hand, the tracery of age and use, but laid out not in nature's random happenstance but by a creative mind.
The shape was that of a five pointed star.
"Ah," Ryzhov said, walking/floating over to the sign. "Here is a more clear sign. The star, a sign of growth and power. It promises new powers and skills, Sigmar."
At the diviner's gesture, they climbed the smooth, well-made stairs. The stones were cool under his boots, strong and sure. Even though he stair lacked a railing, Sigmar felt perfectly secure here, and there was not a trace of wind.
Again they came to another sign, etched into the wall. This time it was a lightning bolt, coming down from heavy clouds.
"A storm." Ryzhov said, voice not nearly as cheery. "Turbulent times ahead, I wonder what it means. Battle, perhaps? Not very surprising, Fort Holiday is under siege. It could be something else though, something unexpected..." The man can find nothing else and they keep the climb.
At the next landing, there is a simply a deep gash, cracked and worn.
"Injury." Ryzhov says simply, "A serious one. Be careful Sigmar, that is not a happy symbol to see. They usually don't create such astral resonances unless they are long lasting or particularly painful. A stubbed toe doesn't create a Witch's Mark."
Whatever that means.
"Ah," Ryzhov said, walking/floating over to the sign. "Here is a more clear sign. The star, a sign of growth and power. It promises new powers and skills, Sigmar."
"Yeaaah, you don't get any points for that one, teach," the teen said, head craned back in eyeing the tower's summit over the eldritch etchings. "As predictions go, that one's as inevitable as a bear pooping on a cardinal. Or however that phrase goes."
Sigmar was a growing boy and then some. And a young dragon growing stronger with age was not exactly a revelation. Heck, to him it was just a fact of life. Some kids got up in the morning and noticed they were now taller than their mother. He got into fights with giant lobsters and noticed he could throw lighting fists. All part of growing up.
And on that upwards notion, the young man bounded further up the strange staircase. He was eager to see what waited at the peak, or rather, what Ryzhov could see there. Had he understood this right? The tower was a sort of observatory overlooking... the future? Did distance equal time instead of space here? That was oddly consistent with the blood river, the dragonling mused in scratching at his smooth chin. After all, the carvings sunken there he could recognize were all opponents of the past, the nearest being most recent and then stretching further back with every bloodied bend. So weird. Neat, though.
Neat enough that he waited on the diviner to reach the next landing before rushing ahead. For while impatience is oft cited as a common fault of the young - and Sigmar in truth being an exemplar of his peers in this regard - he was genuinely curious to hear the man's portents. Especially with something as ominous as this jagged crack in the tower's surface. "Injury?"
At this pronouncement, Sigmar looked more so puzzled than concerned. This wasn't without reason: the boy had never been injured, not really. Yes, he was intimately familiar with cuts, scrapes and scuffs, had sported bruises of every color of the rainbow. That came with proving yourself the best of the best, and he wore these as proudly as any general did his medals. But injury? Something debilitating and long-term? This, to the naive mind, was almost unimaginable. Wounds like those were what happened to other, lesser people, not him. To him fights were contests of skill, they were sport, plain fun even. Even in those rare engagements where he came out humbled - very rare! - these were still opportunities for growth, a chance at revanche when he came back bigger, better and stronger. As the adage went, anything that didn't kill him only made him stronger.
"...I'm guessing an ingrown toenail doesn't fit the bill either?" Humor being the refuge of the damned, Sigmar was in fact somewhat dismayed at this prospect. Especially as he couldn't help tying it to the betrayal supposedly also awaiting him. Should he be expecting a literal knife to the back?
Ryzhov shook his head, long curls bouncing slightly, "Not usually no. That said, it is always difficult to say what the nature of the injury will be. Astral reverberances can be formed due to severity, yes, but also other causes. A fall into a spiked pit might rate high enough, but a simple stab wound if accompanied by an unhappy truth? That too might be severe enough. I will say, unlike many signs, I have not yet encountered an entirely symbolic Injury. It usually means some blood is being spilt."
Together they climbed the last flight of winding stairs up the tower. Gradually they reached the level of the Lifeline canyon, and Sigmar's head poked over the top, like a solider over a rampart. Once again he could see the vast arid field that was his right-hand. Tumbled dunes of scales and burns, calluses and...was that a wart? Hmmm. It looked the same as before, so his attention turned to things close at hand.
The stairs ended flush with the flat roof of the tower, ending in a small landing. Just off of it, creating a barrier between the edge and the rest of the roof, were two lancet arches. Neither had doors, just open stone portals, both leading onward. There were some random squiggles in the stone here, that same weird organic script but Sigmar didn't have time for that. His eyes tracked to what lay beyond the doors.
A short column stood in the center of the tower roof, visible through either door. Unlike the rest of the structure, it was was not unadorned marble stone. Instead it was elegantly painted, with careful intricate detail. A painting of Sigmar. The dragonling noticed something odd. The painting looked different, depending which archway he glanced through.
One, the painting was that of a Sigmar rampant over a horde of gold and jewels. Red wings sprouted from his back, webbed like a vast bat, outlined against a stormy sky. Fallen enemies lay at his feet, shattered and broken. Everywhere, there was blood. The gold was stained with it, his claws dripping, even the sky seemed shot through with it. But it was the eyes that bothered him. They were not quite his eyes, they were eyes of something cold and hard, something grasping and feral. A being who did not enjoy fighting, but one that hungered for it, something that insisted on it.
Through the other doorway, the painting was quite different. It was still Sigmar, but one more like himself. No wings, no claws. A bit more worn perhaps, skinnier, paler. His boots were cracked and his clothes stained. This Sigmar was hiking up a steep mountain path, head bowed, a walking stick in his hand. The face was obscured by a hooded cloak. The toiling figure's destination seemed to be a bright glowing light, strong but diffuse. Sigmar got the sense it was very far away.
"Curious." Ryzhov said, "Very curious." And with that, he set to work. He stared at the doorways, for long silent moments at a time. He swayed back and forth, shifting views from one to another. The Irriseni tapped the stone doorways, then sniffed them. At one point he even tasted them, making a rather unpleasant face.
FInally he turned and said, "Unusual Sigmar, but I think I understand. You have a choice coming, soon, I think. It will not seem important to you, but it leads to two different futures, represented by the different paintings. One is a future of wealth, power and violence. The other choice leads to....searching. I am not sure what for or how long. " He looks pained, "Sorry I could not offer more information. This s a strange sign, one I have not seen before."
He waves at the doorways, "We must pass through. I do not think it much matters which we travel through now but then again, in the Astral world, many things have hidden meanings."
A portrait. Sigmar had never considered having a portrait made. Now that he was faced with one such – two, really – the idea of it was… strange to him. Strangely strange. And he had a devil of a time explaining why this was. The darkhaired head cocked to one side in thought, the two images momentarily blurring together in viewing them through their respective doorways. He had no trouble imagining himself modelling for a painting. It’d be the sort of thing aristocrats hung over their mantelpieces, or so he imagined: something self-aggrandizing, something featuring a battlefield and a rearing horse. Except he’d play the part of the horse, all muscle, majesty and billowing hair! Should he grow out his hair, the teen briefly wondered? Eh, too impractical. Regardless, his pose would be heroic, his smile winning, and his tongue held firmly within one cheek. Yeah, the sort of picture he’d hand to a sort like Ann with some sort of quip. “To keep you company at night!” or something like that.
Or rather, he might have done so before the two of them got too close for comfort.
Yet that was just it. Sigmar couldn’t imagine treating such a painting as anything other than a jest, just another opportunity to turn the high low. They were inherently silly things, weren’t they? These stately pictures in fancy frames, attempts at immortalizing the self that only murdered the person. The exaggeration, embellishment, exalting of the subject’s grandeur, grace, growth only making them unrecognisable. Like gilding a lily. People were fine as they were, weren’t they? Well, mostly so. He supposed his point was how they stopped being people if so aggrandized.
Which he could say ‘cause he wasn’t people. Sigmar Darastrix really was all that and more, the larger-than-life image in a frame, the starring role in the world’s theatre. Except even so, a painting seemed somehow at odds with him. The wiry arms crossed over the bare chest. Paintings were – how to put it? – not his medium. Dragons were not the subject of portraits. Dragons were not beholden to the whims of any singular mortal artist. Dragons were not delineated in paint strokes, but in awed whispers and piercing screams. Dragons were, in a word, legends. And legends were ephemeral things, an idea carried over hundreds of miles, over a thousand tongues, over a million years. Legends spanned continents and generations. They were big, too big to be constrained within a frame. The only medium fit for dragons was folklore, mythology even. Yeah, the teen nodded to himself; a painting was entirely too limited for his limitless self.
Even so, there they were, two of them, and in this bizarre realm of portents and metaphor, they presumably held greater significance than any normal portrait. ”A choice, huh?” The amber eyes looked to the diviner speculatively before landing on the curious column again. The images painted there weren’t of a dragon, to be fair, more so depicting Sigmar as he was. More curious still how both images remained so foreign to him. His conquering self was… actually pretty dope. The dragon’s hoard this portrayal rested on was largely peripheral to the young man as anything other than a status symbol, proof of his power, but check out those wings. He wanted wings! Yet neat as these were – boy, were they – they weren’t the focal point of the image. Perhaps it was some painterly trick, something about the composition of the piece, but somehow every bold line drew the viewer’s sight to its centre, as if staring at the visual equivalent of a whirlpool. And like the great oceanic whirlpool of myth, a monster resided at its heart. It was the eyes. The viewer was drawn to the subject’s monstrous eyes. Sigmar didn’t like those eyes. His own narrowed in considering the bestial glare, the feral want, depicted therein. There were myriad reasons to dislike these. Some of these reasons were beyond his simple tongue to formulate, instincts hissing within the mind like writhing snakes, yet his chief objection was this: that they were not the eyes of a dragon. Say what you will about the flying terrors, they were not monsters. For as long as mortalkind had known of dragons, they had been revered and feared as lords of nature, masters of magic, pinnacles of creation. Even the most voracious of dragon slayers recognized these as belonging to a class of their own, not to be counted among the common beasts of the world. Hero slayers, empire builders and masterminds, dragons reigned supreme in whatever their undertaking. The man-thing depicted, on the other hand, did not seem to have full reign over even himself.
How utterly bogus then, that the other image was even more unfamiliar to the boy.
Who's this dweeb? he had to wonder in considering the reedy figure, so bent and humble. This other Sigmar was... No. No, never mind. There really was nothing to consider here.
The dragonling stepped through one arch with confidence, the one corresponding to his bestial self. Ryzhov had been nebulous on whether choosing one or the other image truly mattered, but if it was a choice between power and weakness, Sigmar wouldn't hesitate. Sigmar Darastrix was no weakling! And should that power come with some baggage, well... Dragons were smart, you know? He was sure he'd know what to do should that day come.
Sigmar steps through the door like a noble striding into a throne-room, head held high, back straight. There was no trace of fear or indecision here.
And such seemed unwarranted, since nothing happened.
The dragon-youth found himself standing on the bare roof of the white tower. There was no curb or rail, just a plain expanse of stone, save the painted stone in the center. Above the pale sky seemed unchanged, the same expanse of off-gray. The air felt dry and clear again, the scent of of the life blood below fading.
Ryzhov follows him through, looking around. "Hmm, not much left. We should be-"
The fortune seeker falls silent when there is a soft...sucking sound. Sigmar looks toward it to see the painting is moving. Of course it is. His first thought is some mimic, a shapeshifter out of dungeon delver's tales. Didn't such adventuring spelunkers talk about living walls or hungry chests that revealed themselves with horrifying regulairty? Such a monster made sense in a shifting dreamscape based in thoughts.
But no, it wasn't a mimic. The painting itself was moving, peeling itself away from the stone column. One brushstroke at a time, it freed itself as it poured off the rocky canvas. To Sigmar's surprise the shape was not a flat simplistic representation but instead a fully solid figure, seemingly as realistic as anything. It would take a keen eye to notice the faint trace of oil paint here and there, the merest sign of brushwork on the moving figure.
Yet, for all that, the image itself was unchanged. It was still Sigmar, or at least that alternate vision of Sigmar. A version with sweeping wings, sculpted muscles and dripping claws. The chest heaved with new breath, the eyes blinked at the light and the mouth worked, as if chewing something rather unpleasant. Blood pooled around its feet, staining the white stone crimson. Sigmar had to admit, seeing himself like this, he was a pretty imposing sight.
The painted figure turned toward Sigmar and smiled, revealing rows of perfectly white, perfectly straight razor teeth. A wing riffled slightly, membrane taut and reddish, traced with veins. Those strange, wild eyes locked on him, a deep red that seemed so familiar and yet so alien. Flat, animal eyes.
Without warning the figure leaped toward him, wings flaring and claws slicing through the air. It let out a stomach churning roar, wild and feral, unbothered with word or reason.
It covered the distance in a blur, and Sigmar wondered if this is how most of his opponents saw him, a dizzying tornado of fury. If so, no wonder they were impressed. Sigmar didn't have much time to reflect however, as his alter ego was soon upon him, slashing.
The claw turns to a fist at the last moment, slamming Sigmar with a kidney punch worthy of a barroom brawler. The world turns gray for a moment at the force of the blow, and his confusion is amplified by the shifting wings engulfing them both. Up close the painted Sigmar is even wild, a slavering beast with mouth agape and eyes rolling. A ferocious uncontained beast who thrives on violence and death.
Funny, that: getting smacked so hard by a literal amalgam of paints your vision lost all color. Sigmar's choked guffaw tasted of iron. Hah, iron! Like irony! There, at least, were two senses not lost to him: taste and humor. But sight soon rejoined these, momentarily knocked for a loop though it was. It was a curious fact of the mortal shell that one's very soul could get banged loose like a pearl in its oyster, rattling about senselessly within. The young man knew this as fact. He'd both delivered and received enough such blows to say so with certainty. He shook his head and with it his senses slotted back to their places. Right, a bizarro doppelganger to beat! Finally Sigmar would be able to truthfully say he could kick even his own ass!
If indeed said ass, or any other part of the copy, could be called genuine. Because this wasn't really him at all, was it? The feral figure let out a roar of the sort the boy had almost gotten familiar with by now: the call of the jungle, shearing through the dark nightly. An animal roar. Nah, that wasn't him. No majesty. No charm. Heck, no humor even. This savage counterpart might have bloodlust to spare, but he had no style. And at the end of the day, wasn't that the essence of dragonkind? An earthquake could level a city and the survivors might curse it. But a dragon could level a city and the survivors had to admit it looked damn cool doing so. Presentation mattered.
Still. Pretty strong, though. His side ached.
"See, this is the sort of thing you'd hope a guy who sees the future could warn you about!"
The admonishment was softened by the smile it was delivered through, Sigmar eagerly retaliating the strike with three of his own. Only Ryzhov saw what might have troubled even the teen: how the grin was a perfect mirror to his opponent's.
Sigmar had to admit, there were unexpected benefits to fighting his own doppelgänger. For one thing, he rarely got to fight someone quite so good looking. Sure, this painted mimic might lack his own style and panache, but it was still a fine figure on a man. It was sort off like flexing in front of a mirror...if the reflection was busy trying to kill you.
There were other advantages too. For example, assuming this creature had his own strenghs...it also had his own weaknesses.
With precision born of past injuries, Sigmar attacked the blindspots he knew existed, and the awkward angles he often missed in his own battles. The first claw missed, but the others made direct contact, slashing his handsome foe in the leg and chest. There was no blood however, instead he was only rewarded with torn and tattered paint, which piled like woodchips on the ground. Disappointingly , it seemed to do less damage then he hoped however, and the painting still seemed quite upright.
It was silent however, and Sigmar was somewhat off put by the lack of repartee. What was even the point of fighting if you didn't make it clever? Hopefully this was not a true glimpse of his future. Gods forbid he ever become so..dull.
Things didn't seem so dull however when the creature lifted his clawed hands however, and flames dance in them. Sigmar knew where this was going and winced.
Sigmar quite literally dances on the edge of the tower, dodging the hottest fireballs. They sail off into the gray sky, sizzling out with loud hissing sounds.
Well, this was less than great. Did paint wash away as easily as blood, Sigmar wondered? While the formidable claws had torn through the doppelganger, they emerged looking as if dipped into a jug of paint! The stuff caked beneath his nails, leaving them with a layer thick as buttered bread and about as threatening. Nothing good ol' prestidigitation couldn't fix, surely, but still. What was this, oil-based or...?
A distinct hiss, slow and mounting, interrupted the youth’s inane thoughts. He recognized that hiss, knew it as others knew the sound of their own footsteps. Around his feral self’s hand, air was simmering and boiling, a heat shimmer distorting the scaled appendage. He knew what would follow within the next second. A glow was already flushing beneath the reptilian hide as were it a red-hot kiln. Good thing Sigmar only needed a second to act. This lethal lookalike must have pigments for brains too, he cheered in rushing back into the fray! Trying to use magic – his own magic – against him? In a melee? Pah, like all other hocus-pocus, that needed a moment’s concentration, a moment to charge before it could be unleased. A moment that any scrapper worth his salt wouldn’t give you. They looked like five paint strokes sailing through the air, the dragonling’s claws trailing colour in careening for his opponent once more.
Only to whiff. ”Uh-oh.” Perhaps it really was the paint gunking up his claws. Perhaps the alter ego was just that quick. Whatever the reason, Sigmar missed entirely, nearly losing his balance with the aimless momentum of the blow. This of course left him the proverbial sitting duck. A duck his evil twin was ready to roast. The now flame wreathed hand shot forward and with it came a great gout of fire. The teen had neither the time nor the wherewithal to appreciate the instance for what it was, a ironic opportunity to taste his own medicine. Instead, he did as he had so often before: relied on instinct to see him through. Not knowing where it would lead him, like the blind holding on to a guide, he followed the momentum of his missed strike. This saw him contort backwards, arching into what Ironan monks would call the Wheel Pose, forming almost a semicircle. A particularly dangerous stance given how there was no more tower to back onto!
”Whoa!” Sigmar flailed his arms for balance, feet dancing along the edge of the tower, upper body leant back into empty air over what would be a steep fall. He hadn’t realized just how near the edge he was! Yet plain luck perhaps being the greatest of the boy’s many gifts, the desperate manoeuvre worked. The burning stream being aimed at where his abdomen had been, it largely sprayed into empty air, roaring its way above the arched figure. Which wasn’t to say he didn’t feel it. No, the heat still washed all over as scattered flame tongues dragged across exposed skin. He felt like spit roasted meat over – or under – the fire! Aw man, my freakin’ rosy nipples! They’ll get burnt brown! That’s gonna chafe terribly against my jacket! And no way was he going without his oh-so-cool jacket.
Nor would he have to. For somehow the teen’s cherry tips – along with the rest of him – were unscathed. Hurriedly righting himself before he fell into the grey vista where the fire was dissipating into a shower of sparks, Sigmar spared a moment in looking over his own chest. The heck? There was no trace of burnt flesh to be seen, every inch of him as fair, athletic and handsome as ever. What was going on? He definitely felt the flames touch, so how was he unharmed? Did the living painting’s magic just suck? Or… Could it be…?
Holy sh*t, I’m fireproof.
Awesome.
Buoyed by this revelation, an elated dragonling set to further cement said awesomeness. Nary had he righted himself from the acrobatic dodge before he leapt forward, grin first. Arms wide as were they the wings he envied, he collided with his mirror self. It was a reckless move, one without grace or finesse. And he was just getting started.
”You know, I don’t appreciate your style!” An awkward bearhug ensued, twin reflections standing face to face, one smiling, the other snarling. ”The whole slavering mutt routine? Plain insulting! I’m already artistic perfection! Which makes you not a painting, but vandalism!” The awkward grapple grew more awkward yet, Sigmar seemingly reaching towards his opponent’s back. ”But even I have to admit… These wings. Rad. Real rad.” The grasping hands latched around the root of the draconic wings. ”Let’s see if you can fly with ‘em.”
The young man held the limbs in a death grip. Then, defying Ryzhov’s earlier comment on not being the type to throw himself to his death, Sigmar pushed them both to the tower’s edge.
The only annoying part was that the painting, while mirroring his outside form, seemed to lack the internal perfection to go with it. The real Sigmar, when confronted with a jibe as perfect as 'vandalism' would have at least cracked a smile if not laughed out loud. This bestial replica however, merely bared razor-sharp fangs and hissed like an animal.
How lame.
This is about all the time Sigmar had to think as he plummeted downward, grappling the inky creature. His body, well used to working without much mental assistance, operated automatically. Fingers clutched, arms crushed, legs kicked all without any of that pesky thinking. Locked together, they fell like a pair of stones, the white wall of the tower flashing past them. The painted Sigmar tried to fly but with their bat-like pinions hampered, there was no chance. Still, even as it (they) fell, it tried to bite and claw.
The act of tumbling head over heels in open spaces seems to confuse the creature though as it barely scratches Sigmar's hide. And then, with startlingly sudden rapidity he ground looms large.
SLAM
The painted creature hits the ground first, Sigmar riding it like a bucking bronco. Sigmar, the real Sigmar, gets one last look at the slavering jaws and wild eyes before impact, a final glance through the dark mirror.
Then the painted creature explodes like a rotten melon dropped on pavement. Sigmar can actually feel it rupture and collapse under him, bursting apart at the seams. Ink and paint fly everywhere, spraying out in all directions. Sigmar barely has time to notice he is drenched before hitting the ground himself, only slightly slowed by his now ruptured counterpart.
.
And like that, Sigmar finds himself quite alone, lying on the ground, covered from head to toe in sticky, wet paint. Well, not quite alone.
"Not bad." Ryzhov shouts down, peeking over the edge of the tower roof, thirty feet above. [/b]"Very stylish. Looks like it hurt though."[/b] The man shrugged, "When you feel up to it, get back up here. You have to touch the rock." The youthful diviner vanishes back over the edge, out of sight.
That... worked out surprisingly well. A vertebrae crackled back into place as the prone victor tried to right himself, only for his hand to slip in the viscous pool he lay in. The already tender head splattered into the sodden soil. Of course, 'well' was as relative a term as a gnome's age in this instance. What Sigmar had been aiming for - beyond the ground - in throwing the two of them into free fall was a swift end to their engagement. Which it had accomplished! Single-minded as he was, however, the boy's line of thought tended to end at 'opponent dead'. Any consideration beyond victory was moot. Hence, while he was fairly certain the drop wouldn't kill him - this wasn't his first 30 ft. plunge! - the ache in his everything that now followed came almost as a surprise. As if all stories ended at their climax. They should, really. Sigmar had never been much for that whole denouement part.
The near-flattened lungs drew in a breath, as shuddering as a newborn's. He used the precious air to make a quip. "P-putting the 'pain' in 'painting', heh heh..."
Ouch. Hurt to laugh. Ribs bruised.
Still, could have been worse. Turned out that a six-foot bladder full of paint made for a decent cushion to land on. Messy though. The dragonling righted himself with some effort, every inch of him protesting. Every multicolored inch of him. Hells below, it looked like a kaleidoscope had barfed all over him. He lay in a pool of the stuff, the remains of his alter ego. Would blood and guts be preferable? This was going to take a lot of prestidigitation to clear up...
Another pop in the neck as he craned his dripping head back at Ryzhov's call. "Stop actin' like you aren't impressed!"
"I'm impressed it worked." The unseen soothsayer's voice drifted down, "Might not had gone so well if he landed on you. I am unsure of the precise sortilegic meaning of that, but it surely couldn't have been good. So good job winning."
Sigmar, winded and feeling more then a bit battered, stomps up the stairs. The youth leaves a trail of paint behind him, a miscellanea of green, blues and browns that leave deep stains on the bright white stones. Hopefully no one sends him a cleaning bill.
After a short bit, he reaches the top. Ryzhov is waiting, gazing at the now plain stone set in the center. Without looking up he says, "If I am reading this right, touching this will end the vision, and return us to our normal planar set of time and place." He glances at Sigmar, "A word of warning, if I may. I hope you found this all educational but be careful, I have seen many a man and women be undone by fortune telling. It is a craft, an art, perhaps even a science but it is not perfect. Prophecy is a dangerous tool at the best of times, a knife that is apt to cut the user. Be careful, Sigmar Darastrix and not not overly trust it."
And with that, Sigmar touches the plain, gritty rock.
There is a pause, a flash, a blink and he is once again standing in Rhyzov's little hut. The heat seem sweltering, his skin covered with sweat and dirt. Still the paint is gone, anyway. And his various wounds and injuries from the vision are gone....replaced by his old injuries of his fight with Uzhg.
Easy come, easy go.
Vrilu stares hard at both of them, "Well, did it work?"
Rhyzov nods his head slowly, the man back to his usual aged self. His movements seem slow and graceless now, a body hindered by years of hard use. "It did, a most...unusual experience. I have rarely had such a fruitful vision."
Silence fills the hot little room until Vrilu bursts out, "Well?!"
The Sunrise Seeker shakes his head, "I told you this before we began. I am sealed by oath. I cannot share the contents of a vision with any save the subject, and even that only carefully. Ask Sigmar if you wish, only he is free to speak."
Vrilu rounds on Sigmar with the intensity of a fencer, "Out with it, then. Tell me everything, who knows what might be vital."
Oh, that felt weird. Reawakening to what select scholars dubbed the Prime Material Plane, what Sigmar only knew as reality, came with the strangest sensation. It was not unlike discovering an unfamiliar muscle through overexerting it in ignorance. "Oof, the heck is that?" you might wonder at a tenderness in some part you'd never even considered before. That hitherto nameless muscle he felt now was his soul. Somehow, he was disconcertingly aware of how spirit and body slotted together. Perhaps this shouldn't be a surprise. After having been shunted through time and realities, been poked and prodded by Ryzhov, been exposed to the infinity that was temporal possibility, why wouldn't that 'organ' feel a mite sore?
What concerned the young man was mostly how it felt too... big. As if the bag of flesh constraining it was a size too small. As if he was wearing a sock meant a halfling. For the briefest moment, Sigmar feared the pressure would cut off his spiritual 'blood flow' - if there was such a thing. Or worse yet, that his flesh would split at the seams. The diviner's prattle about him having something akin to a strong spirit may not have been unfounded.
Fortunately, ever pragmatic Vrilu was on hand to shift matters to the more material. "Huh?" Oh right, the divination.
Aw sh*t, the divination. The heck should he tell her? The boy looked to the now much aged fortune teller, dismayed lines marring his usually so smooth brow. Their trip to the metaphysical had hinted at a lot, but the primary takeaways were these: that someone close was lying to him; and that someone else equally close was going to betray him. The amber eyes turned, slowly panning over the shrew, the bird-man, the construct, the... well, he couldn't physically look to the sentient sand clinging to his back without some acrobatics, but he considered Ozzy too. Sigmar really didn't want to suspect any of them. He especially didn't want to play any game of skullduggery with them, investigating and avoiding suspicion in deducing who was trying to con him. Like some sort of sly investigator he decidedly wasn't. Yet this was the position the teen found himself in now, the first step of which was figuring out how much he should reveal of his foreknowledge of these deceptions.
I shouldn't tell them anything, right? 'Cause odds are at least one of them is trying to screw me over. Man, it better not be Oyo. I like my bird-bro. But wait, why would Vrilu push me into having my future told if she's the culprit? Culprit is a funny word. What's a 'cul'? What's a 'prit' for that matter? No, focus! It might be some sort of double bluff of hers! Should I be doing one of those? Like, tell them I already know so that... so what? What do I gain from that? How are double bluffs supposed to work, anyway? Grah!
The boy groaned. He wasn't cut out for this. Not in the least. "I learned how, uh..." He didn't like thinking. He really didn't like the added layer of thinking required by duplicity, lies stacking onto truths. Indeed, though the dragonling didn't know it, he had shaped much of his life specifically to avoid thinking. Sigmar Darastrix did not bond with people or places for fear of vulnerabilities without. Likewise, Sigmar Darastrix did not ponder deeply for fear of vulnerabilities within. He wanted everything as direct as his own fist. Small wonder then, that he made it his instrument of expression.
A tension in the shoulders Sigmar hadn't realized he'd been holding eased. Right. There was only one answer here, wasn't there? If things seemed too complicated, you simplified them. If fate didn't go your way, you beat it into submission. Did dragons adapt to circumstance? No. No one who built lairs in active volcanoes did it because it was convenient. They did it because it was badass. Because dragons made their own rules.
"I mostly learned how one of you is going to betray me. Maybe try to kill me." The pronouncement was easy as a sunbeam, light as a lark. Oh hey, that funky feeling in his soul was gone. "Not sure what's up with that, but honestly? If you're gonna backstab me, you'd better just kill me. Maybe I shouldn't be sayin' that. But the thing is, I don't think I'm smart enough to see it comin'. Don't like saying it, but my brainbox ain't all that when it comes to these things. If one of you were to jump me, it'd probably work."
The young man lazily stretched his arms and bent backwards. He didn't stop until he resembled an L. Had to make sure that newfound spirit/chassis connection was strong after their trip. "My fists, though? My claws? My fire? My magic? Those are smart. Those are real smart. Those are the sort of smart that can graduate from any wizard's tower with honors. In fact, they're yet to be outsmarted. And that's why you'd better kill me when you have the chance. Because when I put those tools to use for fun and games, well, you've seen what happens then. What you haven't seen is me usin' them in anger. That... is not a pretty picture. Actually, I sort of saw that picture during our little session, ha hah! Gotta admit: a part of me's lookin' forward to it."
When Sigmar righted himself, that blithe smile of his was back in its well-worn place, like a lazy cat in its favorite windowsill. But the eyes were cold. Behind them, the iron gates to Castle Darastrix had closed shut.
"To be clear, this doesn't change a thing! We're all cool! We're still going on our adventure, we'll fight some dinno-sars and find our dwarf. Only difference is me maybe getting to maul one more opponent before my victory parade off this island! Which isn't much of a difference at all. A drop in the sea. Hope it'll be worth it to whoever's brave enough."
It had taken a while for him to come to terms with it, but what did the dragonling care about playing nice with these people? They didn't matter to him! No one did. He was Sigmar freakin' Darastrix. He'd traveled with a dozen companions before and he'd travel with many more once this job was over. Sure, the thought of being betrayed by one of them hurt. But he'd get over it. He always did.
Sigmar wasn’t sure what he expected after his bald declaration of treachery and betrayal. Heartfelt gestures of sympathy? Strident declarations of innocence? Maybe even a tearful confession of past wrongs?
Instead Vrilu merely looked…peeved. ”Betrayel? I don’t like the sound of that…” Then she caught Sigmar’s eyes and waved her hand, ”It isn’t going to be me. Does a craftsman betray her tools? No. And Oyok is obviously safe, what agenda could he have, I hired him off a dock in Quent. And no one else on this island even knows you.”
The Company woman paced a bit in the confined space, doing her best to avoid the hanging strings of feathers, leaves and dried mushrooms. ”No, whatever you saw, it must not be about you alone. It must be about me, our mission, the whole affair with Orsen. But how…” She shook her head after a while, clearly dissatisfied. Still, she turned to Ryzhov, ”This was not as clear as I’d like, Seeker.”
The old man spread his worn hands, ”Divination is not a science, as much as we’d like. I did my best.”
Vrilu pursed her lips but then nodded sharply, ”I will uphold my end of the bargain, as best I can. Consider us even.” She glanced at Sigmar but went on, ”We might have a bit of time to wrangle votes before the Assembly.” She paused and then added to the dragon youth.
”Thank you, for the fight. Well done, Sigmar.”
”Well, that was nice of her,” Ozzy said in his ear, rustling voice back to its usual whisper. , ”But I don’t like this talk of backstabbing. Bad vibes, man.”
With that Vrilu swirls out of the hut with a snap of her heavy cloak. The wood golem follows silently after, moving with its usual grace. Sigmar is not invited along.
Rhyzov sits down in a chair and sighs, ”A formidable woman. I must confess, I would hesitate to read her fortune. It would be a…challenging experience. Do you want something to eat? I might have a few loaves of bread around here.”
Was it hypocrisy if one admired rather than condemned a shared fault? Sigmar couldn’t say. He’d never quite grasped the exactitudes of these highfalutin terms. Especially as that mercenary mage who’d first referred to him as such had been in no state to clarify post butt-whoopin’. It was hard to enunciate around broken teeth. Regardless, at hearing Vrilu insert herself as the protagonist of his own prophecy, all the youth could do was shake his head, amused.
Man, the ego on this broad, thought the strongest, bestest and unquestionably most fetching creature walking Raptor Isle.
Yet even a being as superlative as himself was given pause at the idea that he’d simply misunderstood the divination. Sigmar was not short on confidence. The oceans would run out of salt before he exhausted that particular supply. Even so, this assurance was mostly based on his physical abilities. His mental faculties… Well, he was sure these would grow in with time. Like his wings! Dragons were smart, right? Even assuming this his trajectory, that still left the here and now, however. Could he be plainly mistaken? Did the whole betrayal bit apply not just to himself, but the whole group in some more nebulous manner?
Maybe? He’d been awfully certain earlier, and yet the voyage through the fantastical lands of his own right hand had been anything but. Ryzhov himself had repeatedly warned that even his own interpretation of everything seen there was no guarantee. That prophecy, while helpful, was not to be trusted. ”Bad vibes indeed, Oz-man,” the young man sighed. Why could things never be simple?
”A formidable woman. I must confess, I would hesitate to read her fortune. It would be a…challenging experience. Do you want something to eat? I might have a few loaves of bread around here.”
”Torag’s t*ts, yes." The relief in the voice was twofold. Indulging in eating, this simplest of pleasures, would do the dragonling good in more ways than one. "Thanks, teach. I’m hungry enough to eat an otyugh.”
At least someone around here was willing to feed the people's champion! He sniffed at a swaying strip of dried mushrooms, the same his fearless leader had avoided earlier. Would those be any good on bread? No, there was an entirely different question on his mind that needed airing first.
”Gotta ask: what’s this bargain between you and Vrilu all about?” The amber eyes were neither suspicious nor intent, merely curious. ”C'mon, you've gotten more intimate with my mind than a bear does a salmon's innards. Share a little. I won't judge. Especially if this is about some company-owned elixir of hair growth or something. Those locks were glorious, man.”
Sigmar has had a busy few days. Spelunking in an dragon's liar with a charming young woman, then facing down a possible rival in the fighting ring. Then, after wild success in both outings, taking a somewhat psychedelic trip through his own future and mental landscape. Which, of course, seemingly promises a rather exciting life ahead, full of struggle and triumphs.
So it is only natural that the dragon youth found himself a bit drowsy.
He and Rhyzov sit outside, basking in the warm tropical sun. The old fortune-teller had dug up a few loaves of bread and a bit of fruit. It wasn't exactly the spread Sigmar would have preferred but it went down nicely enough.
"Simple enough deal." The Sunrise Seeker says, "Your colleague says she can perhaps help me off this island. The Gold Crown Shipping and Mining Company has enough power to expunge my sentence and crime. She even hinted at paid work, if I want." The older man shrugged and leaned back, "I must confess, Raptor Island has become a rather stale residence." He laughs at Sigmar joke and touches the frail stubble that now covers his head, "Somedays I do miss it. Sunburn on the scalp is not a pleasant experience."
Taking a bit of a melon, the older man goe son, "I do wonder more about your mistresses plan, exactly. Why join the Company? And how does she plan to take Griet? The dwarf has his old enemies here, but allies too. Besides, with the Xulgath about, no one is going to attack a possible ally. I am curious..."
And with that intrigue floating in his head, Sigmar drifts off for a well deserved nap.
CLANG
Somewhere a bell tolls, rolling through the calm midday air. Sigmar wakes to find Rhyzov standing up, brushing off the dust. "Come on, my young friend. That is the announcement for the vote. Would be a shame if you missed it. I doubt your mistress would approve."
Sigmar follows him back into town, weaving through the shacks and alleys of Fort Holiday. Soon he finds himself in the town square outside the meeting hall (and their own temporary abode). It looks like every soul in town is here, gathered in assorted knots and clumps spread out. Sigmar spots Vrilu and Oyok in the center of the press, the woman looking bored by the tengu seemingly casual as ever. Vrilu's wood golem is at her side, planted solid as any oak.
A short distance away is the Steering Committee, decked out in their various finery. Shi wearing her silks, Herluf in his battered old uniform and Kell in his usual weathered sailor's outfit. Only Edward Morgan is unchanged, still wild and worn. All look seriously at the arrivals.
Sigmar takes his place at Vrilu's silent gesture, and waits. A silence grows over the crowd, filled with coughing, whispers and cawing of distant birds. Finally Kell breaks in, "All right, let's get this over with."
He raises his voice and shouts to the crowd, "We are here to vote on the acceptance of new members. These three ask to join the Company. In doing so, they pledge to offer their services and efforts for the common good, and for us to extend the same to them. This bond lasts until either side breaks it by dishonor or death. "
More silence and Shi breaks in, "We vote by voice first. If one side is clearly greater, then we will follow it. If it is too close to tell, we will vote by raised hands and count them. Just like onboard ship, you all know the drill. Except here, it will be a fair count." A bit of laughter at old memories.
The Tian woman looks toward Vrilu, "Any remarks before the vote?"
The Company woman, looking stern and dark, nods once sharply. She steps forward, "I come with no hidden design. I seek Orson Griet and nothing more. In respect to this town, I am willing to join and assist it as best we can. In this I also offer my men." A gesture indicates Oyok and Sigmar, "We already have proven our worth, I think, both in battle and in other ways. We could be a powerful ally. In exchange all we ask is this, to be left alone while we complete our mission. "
She steps back.
There is no public reaction to this words, just considered silence. Then Shi looks to Sigmar, "Anything to add, young man?"
"These three ask to join the Company. In doing so, they pledge to offer their services and efforts for the common good, and for us to extend the same to them."
"We are?" It was a genuinely bewildered voice that cut through the dutiful silence between the mariner's breaths. Given the austere occasion, the effect of this wasn't unlike a child interrupting a church sermon. Not the best of looks. Especially so when the interruption came from one of the aforementioned three. "I mean, yeah." The recovery was as weak as his grin. "Pledging our services. Totally, yeah."
Sigmar decided this the opportune moment to scrutinize one of those funny tropical birds in the distance. Anything to avoid the no doubt glowering eyes of the team leader standing immediately beside him. It wasn't that the particulars of this whole arrangement had flown entirely over the youth's head. Alright, maybe they had, but his surprise was less so aimed at said stipulations than the formal arrangement of these. Sigmar and rules took to each other like a duck to tar. It was just that he'd expected a friendly little shaking of hands, a simple 'you-scratch-my-back-I-scratch-yours' deal. Specifically, the Committee told them where the dwarf was and the dragonling then took a casual stroll through the jungle - the sort of stroll later recorded in the annals of the smelly toad-men as the greatest massacre ever perpetrated against their kind.
Nice, clean and simple. Well, clean excepting all the blood. So why take a page from the devils' playbook and make something akin an infernal contract? Ever shy of commitments, never letting himself get tied down, the young man was leery of promises, both by and to himself. Especially those so open-ended! "Pledge themselves to the common good"? "Bond lasting till death"? This sounded like they were expecting him to settle here! What, him and Ann with a gaggle of dragon-blooded kids, uncle Oyo and auntie Vrilu as babysitters? Granted, Plank would make for a wonderful godfather, that much was true, but no way, man! This rolling stone had no roots to put down!
Nor did the company woman. Which reassured his free spirit tremendously. No doubt Vrilu had no intention of sticking around Fort Holiday any longer than strictly necessary. He had no idea whether she was lying through her teeth in pledging herself to these people, or if escaping the island was the presumed wish of everyone here regardless, but he trusted their little group's service here would be brief. And with that the young man realized how the true purpose of these oaths might very well be a simple guarantee - a means of shackling these outsiders to their word, however flimsy. Because neither side here trusted the other further than they could fling 'em.
Man, everyone needed to take a lesson from Ozzy and himself and just relax.
"Anything to add, young man?"
"Hm?" the somewhat distracted people's champ replied. "Er, I mean... Only that some half of you have already seen my dick. It'd be awfully rude to kick me out now."
There is a titter of laughter from the crowd at Sigmar's rather ribald remark, along with a bit of outright laughter. People who made a living at sea don't find nudity very surprising, but they do, of course, find it very amusing.
After they quiet down, Shi coughs and says, "Then we can proceed with the vote-"
"I have not yet spoken." Edward Morgan says, voice grating like a rasp, working on a particularly disagreeable piece of wood. "I have a right to speak to the Assembly and Company."
Shi frowns but then shrugs and steps back. The supposed holy figure strides forward into the gap, arms held high. They are as wild looking as ever, with windswept hair thrown to all points of the compass, knotted and frayed. The burlap sack-clothing barely hangs on their slender, rail-thin frame, held more by habit then anything else. Turning slowly, they begin in that same grating voice, "We have gathered-"
They are interrupted by the slap of feet on stone. Out of of a side alley, a young child appears, wearing little more then a dirty shirt. Everyone turns to face them as they race into the crowd, running pell-mell right toward the Steering Committee.
"What?" Kell says, as the little boy skitters to a halt in front of him, nearly smacking into the older sailor. 'Yer supposed to be watching the walls, Pell. What are you doing.." The obvious conclusion dawns on him, and his face changes.
The boy, swaying slightly as he stands, struggles to catch his breath. Finally he manages, high pitched adolescent voice cutting through the sudden, frozen silence. "Attack. The big farm!"
Utter chaos breaks out, like someone kicking a hornet's nest. Suddenly everyone is talking, shouting, calling out names. People are running this way and that, mostly aimless circles as they debate running toward danger or away from it. Parents call for children, lovers try to find each other, a few simply seem to scream in sheer panic. The crowd starts to jostle, with Sigmar catching a few rude shoulders and elbows. The draongling is about to start elbowing back when-
Herluf's voice crashes over the tumult like a tidal wave smashing a sand castle, quashing all noise. Suddenly no longer looking old at all, the man is standing in the center of the square, ramrod straight. Everyone stares, blinking.
"Better." he grumbles and turns to Pell, the little boy still wheezing, "How many lizards, boy?"
"A bunch!" he shouts, waving his hands.
Herluf snorts but nods. He turns toward the crowd, pale eyes sweeping it quickly. "Uzhg, take the First Watch down and hold the paths up. Find out how many there are, at least. Leave runners by the dragonstone."
"Kell, get the Second Watch in order and follow after, grab the weapon store."
"Third Watch, you are with me." He barks, "Now, get moving, you louts. We got work to do!"
Again people start moving but now it is with a purpose. Squads gather together, moving as one. All as pieces of a machine.
Vrilu watches this all unfold and turns to Shi, "Well, where does that leave us?" The Tian woman pauses as a few villagers ramble past, boots slapping. The rest of the Steering Committee gathers in, including the clearly miffed Morgan.
The Company woman goes on, voice low and fast, "We will help, if you include us now. We have the votes, you all know it, doubly with this threat. Also, we all know this is a bit of a sham. None of us are staying forever, we are no threat to your little power system here."
Edward snorts at this but Kell shrugs, "Works for me. Get your boy here to help, and I'm sold."
Shi nods and looks at the rest, "Agreed?"
No one disputes and all says, "Aye!"
and with that, apparently, Sigmar, Vrilu and Oyok are part of the Company of Fort Holiday. The youth has just enough time to wonder if this counts Ozzy or the wood golem when Herluf turns to him, "You are with me. Go wait by the main gate, we'll be along."
And with that the aged soldier is off, barking orders. The rest also disperse, leaving Sigmar alone with Vrilu for a moment. The dark-robed woman hold shim back a second, "Sigmar. Go and fight, but don't get yourself killed. We got what we want, no need for heroics now. Just make sure these yokels survive, so they can supply us. Oyok go with him, keep an eye on him. I have something I need to do." And she strides off toward their house, golem in tow.
"Neat, a battle." Ozzy says in his ear, "Derring do and swashbuckling. Like, who are we fighting? Trolls? Sharks? Undead things?" He sounds like a theatergoer asking what is playing at the matinee.
He'd gone through this song and dance before, the young man realized. Knew every verse of it by heart, in fact. The first line saw an implausibly handsome wanderer - seriously, just 12 outta 10 - hit upon some new community or another. There, he immediately drew suspicious eyes, whether through small minds or big fears. The burden of the privileged! For excelling over the ordinary as someone extraordinary also carried the inherent exclusion from ordinary folk. For better or worse, the uncommon did not mix with commoners.
Or maybe they just didn't appreciate his fashion sense. Who knows? Regardless, the next stanza saw the protagonist subject to some frankly droll interpersonal drama. Petty profiling by city guards, the paranoia of the entrenched, maybe even the superstitions of a village elder. This one old fart had once been convinced he was the reincarnation of 'the devil of Barrowstone Hill', whatever that was. It was at this point the true antagonist of the story usually reared their ugly head. Oh no, who can defeat the gang of street thugs, clear the goblin nest, kick this otyugh out of the city sewer? Who but the unreasonably handsome - like, seriously - outsider so unfairly maligned? Bish bash bosh, the evil was defeated in spectacular fashion with the moral of the tale being... some twaddle about tolerance? Not judging by appearance, perhaps? No, wait, that couldn't be right, his appearance was impeccable...
If it seemed like Sigmar wasn't particularly taken with the lessons one might derive from his brief life, that was because he wasn't. After all, while his skills did indeed earn him some modicum of 'acceptance' wherever he went, this was the same approval one afforded gong farmers: that borne on necessity, not want. Him and the humble nightmen, birds of a feather. No one was happy to share their space with people who smelled like excrement, just as no one trusted the guy who breathed fire and had daggers for fingers, and yet both offered services in high demand. Which was perfectly understandable, really! The teen wasn't bitter at Patty Peasant's rejection. Yet it did undeniably made any begrudging 'acceptance' that followed ring hollow. A friend in need might be a friend indeed, but when people in need only called you friend for your deeds, well...
Fort Holiday proved no exception. Sigmar looked on as the Steering Committee hurried through their vote, all ritual and dignity forgotten at the chaos now surrounding them. A smirk couldn't help but tug at his lip, even as the black shard of cynicism nestled at his pink heart sank deeper. Remarkable how quickly the powerful remembered they were merely mortal when their power structure stood to crumble! More remarkable still how their hesitations about himself evaporated when they needed his services. The teen's worst inclinations were only reinforced at the elders' "aye". Yeah, principles were the luxuries of peace and plenty. When things went south, nothing mattered but do or die. Small wonder Sigmar thrived in strife.
Now if only last night's expedition with Ann hadn't uncovered a deep-seated want for that acceptance he wasn't even sure he believed in. Damn that mute.
"Finally letting the tiger out of its cage, huh?" The smile was cocky as ever, made marginally more tolerable by its familiarity in this unfamiliar situation, a steady rock in the stormy sea of people rushing to and fro. "About time! Lead the way, gramps!"
He punched his own palm for emphasis. Alright, more dinno-sars! The dragonling could do with a good scrap, something to clear the mind. The ol' thought-gutters were awfully full of late! On that note, it was probably best not to think on his arcane reserves still being entirely emptied... Eh, he'd manage!
"Oyok go with him, keep an eye on him. I have something I need to do."
"Do?!" an incredulous Sigmar repeated. "Vrilu, dinno-sar attack! What do you have to do more important than that?"
He wasn't expecting an answer, of course, the company woman being who she was. Bah, more lizards for himself! Soon enough the long legs were sprinting after the surprisingly sprightly soldier, eager to join in the fun no doubt enjoyed by the lucky, lucky guards ahead. An errant thought had him wondering, however:
"Yo Ozzy, you've been around. Seen different realities and stuff. Must be some tough characters in the Great Beyond. Can you handle yourself in a fight?"
Considering that aforementioned battery being so low, every resource at hand needed to be considered. Not that Sigmar was ready to surrender glory rightfully his to anyone else! Somewhat curiously, the youth was rolling up the sleeves of his jacket mid-run. He might be out of magic, but not so for ideas!
To Sigmar's surprise, he finds Oyok curious about Vrilu's task. 'Wonder what it is, lad." The tengu say musingly, claw tips rubbing his hard beak with an oddly musical sound. "Usually likes to keep her eye on the action. Guess she trusts us."
Together they hurry toward the gate, following the rest of what is presumably Third Watch. Sigmar doesn't recognize most of the people of course, just a few faces he has seen around. People seem to be moving quickly though, stopping off to grab weapons or other supplies. The monk spots a few health potions in pockets but little other sign of magic.
In his ear, Ozzy replies, "Fight? Why would I fight? I'm, like, a pile of sand. Not much hurts sand. I just float away if there is a problem." Sigmar had a sudden mental image of his horribly mutilated corpse lying on a battlefield somewhere, a small cloud of sand drifting away from it. A rider leaving a fallen horse behind.
Happily it is just fiction since Sigmar would never actually lose a fight.
The Third Watch idles near the splintery gate for a bit, as laggards catch up. It doesn't take long however, and Sigmar is generally impressed with their speed and unity of action. Maybe shipboard life helps? The crew on the Nereid’s Wink had seemed lively too. Maybe it it was a sailor thing.
Sigmar saw Arianne was in this group, and the mute grinned ta him. She was carrying the large gun she had brought on their little dragon-liar adventure. She waved a small grimy pouch that, by Sigmar's nose, still reeked of bat droppings. Oyok gave her a strange look, then whistled.
"A friend of yours?"
At that, Herluf suddenly appeared out of nowhere, "Third Watch, forward! Look lively, who knows if the enemy has slipped scouts up the hillside. I would, if I was them."
Yes despite his words, they encounter no foes on the dry, gravel laden slopes lead down from Fort Holiday. In fact they manage a steady tort all the way to the dragon-stone, standing as red and smooth as ever. No sign of UZhg and Second Watch however.
"Damn" Herluf said mildly, "Must have gone on ahead. No plan survives contact with the enemy." Then he pauses and cocks his head, listening. Sigmar can hear it too. The sound of men, the clatter of steel and the roaring of beasts. Somewhere, downhill, the fight was making quite a scene.
Let's hope they didn't miss it!
"Whaaat? That's lame, Oz-man." A disapproving grimace was quickly mounted before Sigmar just as quickly gave it up, realizing how the elemental at his back couldn't see it. "Everyone has to fight every now and then. And I don't mean, like, to defend ourselves or even trading literal blows. Even if that's my preference. Nah, I mean we NEED to fight. It's like..." The brow scrunched up once more, this time in thought. "What are we if not the things we're willing to fight for?"
Nothing at all, in the teen's estimate. If you went through life without taking charge, without standing up for yourself - if you allowed life to be something that merely happened to you - then yours was an empty existence. Might as well have been born as a patch of moss. Sure, you might make it out the other side content, he supposed. Yet no city had ever been built, no artwork had ever been created, no dragon had ever been slain by content people. The content did not, nay, could not strive. And striving was a prerequisite for achievement.
Which was how the dragonling knew he could achieve anything! After all, he would fight anything for any reason! That an existence fighting for nothing was every bit as fruitless as one with nothing to fight for did not occur to the boy now. Right now, he was too busy speeding towards the gate for the next such fight. Sadly, no great beasts lingered there, politely waiting for a fist to shatter their jaws. Only some seamen-turned-soldiers, hastily assembled, stood about hoping for orders.
One of which bore a familiar face.
"A friend of yours?"
"What can I say? Love the smell of bat poop on a woman."
While Sigmar returned the gunslinger's wave and grin both, he was in truth somewhat distracted. The amber eyes roved back and forth searchingly about the perimeter of the gate. It should be here somewhere. He was sure he'd smelled it last night, Ann and he having passed through here twice then. Aha!
The youth leapt over to a small keg, it standing a sensibly safe distance away from the stake-mounted torch the guard here had used for light during their rendezvous. He opened it. Inside was a brownish-black gunk, acrid to the nose. Wood tar. The very same used for lighting, insulating, water-proofing and probably a dozen other ends onboard ships. Perfect.
Sigmar dipped both his newly bared arms into the liquid. They emerged looking like he'd just arm-wrestled a particularly constipated octopus. "Don't have the arcane juice for lightning fists right now," he mused, appearing very pleased with himself. "But fire punches will do nicely!"
Poof! One simple cantrip, and then he would have arms lit on fire! Those dinno-sars wouldn't know what hit 'em! And the best part of all was how this couldn't possibly backfire (hah!) on himself. After all, as the young man had recently learned, he was totally fireproof.
Arianne wrinkled her nose at Sigmar's latest fashion attempt, even as a wet glob or two dropped onto the ground. Oyok trilled a laugh, 'Bit rich coming from you, lass of the bat caves." The tengu turned to Sigmar, "Your plan is to light yourself on fire, lad? " he gave a strange avian sigh, feathers rippling. "You never fail to surprise me."
At the dragonstone, the sounds of battle reached the Third Watch under Herluf. The old solider looked around but, at least as far as Sigmar could tell, there wasn't much to see. Clearly all the fighting was happening farther down the slope. And judging by the roars, screams and steel, it was a jolly good scrap.
"We stick together." Herluf finally said, rubbing his receding chin with his remaining hand. "Gods above, what I wouldn't give for a dozen real troopers, instead of this lot." He raised his voice so everyone could hear.
"All right, we march downward. This is the real thing, if they destroy our farms and crops, it'll be a very long and hungry dry season. Life and death mates, let's show them that Fort Holiday isn't going to be pushed around! Let's go!"
And with that, the sailors yelled wildly and rushed down the slopes, weapons waving in the arm. They passed down the road onto the very lowest slopes of the smoking hill, into the trees and farms Sigmar had seen earlier. The steaming, boiling stream bubbled at their side, flowing as usual. Sigmar sniffed the air in vain for a hint of baked lobster.
And then they were amidst the fighting. It was a big affair, sprawled out over several of the low lying farms and gardens maintained by the castaways. Men and women were scattered along fences, near barns and in orchards fighting with a whole host of lizard men and their dinosaur pets. It was a blur of movement and confusion, with no real order, battle lines or tactics. Just an all out brawl.
Perfect
Despite Herluf orders, Third Watch broke up like foam on a tide, as some went this way and some went that way. When in Oppara..Sigmar looked at the fight and decided which way to go.
Near a fishpond, a few sailors were being hemmed in by a bunch of dinosaurs which seemed like big, scaly chickens. Lithe hunting figures on two legs, with long snouts and wicked claws on their feet and hands. Tails taut behind them, they circled the beleaguered humans.
Near a fence line, he spotted Uzhg trading blows with one of the actual lizard creatures. Around him was a knot of other fighters and lizardfolk, with no dinosaurs about. Clearly a prime spot, the two sides bled and fought ferociously here.
"Ah, I can see the blood spurts from here. Neat." Ozzy said in his ear as Uzhg literally ripped an arm off a foe.
Last but not least Sigmar spotted a barn under assault, a fort surrounded by foes. Sailors threw rocks and spears out of windows, fending off a host of lizardmen and smaller dinosaurs. At the main gate however, was an imposing creature that dominated the battlefield. Bigger then an ox, bigger then three oxen, it was a huge four-legged lizard with brown skin like an alligator. The head was protected by a huge bony frill, like an upturned shield. Surmounting it was three massive horns, one above each eyebrow and a smaller from from the nose. They gleamed blood red in the noonday sun. It lowered the massive head and smashed toward the barn doors, shaking the entire building.
"Gods above, what I wouldn't give for a dozen real troopers, instead of this lot."
He wouldn't find one, real or otherwise, in the young man. Even among this dubious lot of deckhands turned GIs, Sigmar stood out as contrary to everything soldierly. While two dozen feet plodded down the hill in unpracticed march, his traipsed jauntily to their own tune. While two dozen eyes anxiously scanned the trees for opponents, his gleamed like a rake on the prowl. While a full dozen mouths frowned in anticipation of combat, his whistled aforementioned tune.
"Relax, people!" the boy cheered, smacking one such worrywart on the shoulder hard enough to nearly send them tumbling. It left a sticky imprint of tar. "Fighting is a lot like leaping off cliffs: not nearly as fun if you can't loosen up! Besides, what do you have to worry about? You've got the champ in your corner!"
This said, he rushed further ahead, eager to get into the fray. Or perhaps to lead by example. Or perhaps something else entirely. Sigmar himself wasn't sure what the intended effect was. He hadn't thought that far. All he knew was that he wanted to encourage these miserable gits. Because of course they were nervous. They weren't him! They weren't blessed with vim, vigor and liquid excellence running through their veins, weren't handed a mandate from the heavens at birth reading "Be awesome". They were just people, people tasked with fighting dinno-sars. They were right to be tense.
Good thing they had him on their side! The dragonling might be superior to plain old mortals, but he was a sympathetic sort of superior. Like an employer who supplied farmhands with cold beer, even if he didn't associate with them. And on the topic of farms... There they were. The fields had turned battleground like a revolution of the most inadvisable of livestock. Everywhere one looked, giant lizards rampaged against castaways, egged on by their no less reptilian masters. Truly, a smorgasbord of fisticuffs for a battle-hungry young man!
"Ey, you! Great, big and horny!" The bold challenge went out to the biggest dinno-sar present. After all, what else would suffice? Sigmar pointed to the barnful of people harried by the horned beast. "Ditch the quantity and get with the quality! Me!"
Whether a monster such as this even comprehended provocation was no concern of his. What all monsters understood was fury and fire. He would deliver both unto it. The arcane gesture, though both rudimentary and familiar, proved somewhat tricky with oil-slick fingers. It took two tries to get it right. The result was as immediate as tinder onto gunpowder, however. Almost literally so. The sparks danced about his hands for only a moment before bursting into flames, the bare arms suddenly roaring with fire. Like some vengeful angel sent to smite the unholy with fiery arms - again, literally - Sigmar rushed forward. Smoke and cinder trailed in his wake.
Hah! This was awesome! The boy felt inordinately clever at his little tactic. Even if the smear searing on his skin felt hotter than he'd anticipated. Uncomfortably so, actually.
Sigmar loved fights. The thrill of combat, the physical contest, a way to prove yourself (it helped that dragons, of course, always overcame such tests), all of it excited the young man. He indulged in it often, of course. He had fought in barrooms and taverns, on street corners and ditches, in orphanages and in market squares. The monk had faced off against men, beasts, monster and even one memorable ghost. He had always considered himself quite experienced in such things.
But this was different. This was a battle, even if a rather small one. Men and women ran this way and that, forming and reforming. Dinosaurs and their masters ran amongst them, hit and run tactics that dispersed the defenders. Crops were trampled, fences smashed, a crude windmill knocked on it's side. Here and there the crackle of magic was audible over the shouts of the brave and the whimper of the dying. A storage shed blazed with bright emerald fire, sending up palls of black smoke into the otherwise pristine, azure sky.
Sigmar had never felt so alive.
His arms were blazing as if he were a servant of Sarenrae, blessed by the Everlight. Except it hurt, a bit and the charring tar smelt awful, like someone had light a cigar in a dockyard. Still, it worked!
Sigmar was slightly disappointed by the imposing horned beast though, at least at first. It ignored him! Instead of reacting, it merely lowered the huge head and banged away at the great barn door again with a bellow. The door buckled and bent, as iron hinges groaned and wood cracked. It seemed clear it could not withstand much more of this saurian battery.
Then Sigmar saw why he had been ignored. The beast had a rider! A small lizard-like figure sat perched on the creature, nestled just behind the flaring crown of bone. It was the same sort of squat being he had fought before, with a long tail and a mask made of animal bone that glinted white in the noon sun. It had a bloody spear in one hand, while the other tugged at a rather crude set of reins on the dinosaur.
The lizard-man glanced at Sigmar, seemed to sniff and set back to his work bashing down the door.
"Woah," Ozzy said in his ear, just audible over the din of battle. "That is, like, a big lizard. I wonder what it eats?"
"Fists." Like a thunderstorm over the horizon, low and ominous. Such was the rumble in Sigmar's reply. "It's going to eat my fists. But not before I feed it its rider."
It was the dismissal that had set him off. Really, there wasn't much in this great big world that could irk the young man. Not truly. When you had all the earthly attachments of a drifting cloud, all the courtesy of a tempest in summer - a teenage tempest at that! - it rendered one rather immune to provocation. There was no bothering the unbothered. As such, carefree as he was, insults tended to run off Sigmar's fine hide as water did a duck's feathers, forgotten the next moment.
With one very notable exception. For if the dragonling had inherited anything from his supposed draconic forebears, it was their pride. 'Sticks and stones may break my bones,' went the nursery rhyme, one the winged terrors surely didn't recognize themselves in, clad as they were in scales like plate armor. But 'words shall never hurt me'? Oh, but they did. It was a great irony that the more impervious the person - whether lord in his castle or dragon in their den - the more vulnerable their egos. For while the humble peasant feared the stick over the word, the powerful had nothing to fear but the word. Thusly, the hide invulnerable to spears often left a dragon's heart more exposed than any beggar's.
Such was the case for Sigmar. A thoroughly miffed Sigmar. Sniff at him? This toad-man would sniff at him? He didn't even have a nose to sniff with, yet he dared?! A moment passed in which the young man simply stood there, temper seething even more so than his burning arms.
Only to leap into action! Literally so, as the lithe form suddenly jumped up and onto the armored tail of the great beast. Ignore him, would they? Very well! Then he would use the monster like the staircase its ridged and bumpy pelt resembled, one taking him straight to its impertinent rider! Rushing the crest of the heaving dinno-sar's back as were it a ship deck in stormy seas and he the ablest of mariners, Sigmar ran the length of it, one fist poised all along as the hammer of Arianne's rifle. And upon reaching him, this hammer fell upon the reptilian jockey with all the fire and fury of the selfsame.
The dinosaur's green-brown hide was thick and knurled, almost pebble-like and that helped him. Sigmar found he could get a good grip on the beast as he hauled himself up off the ground and toward his opponent. To his surprise, the animal was warm and dry under his touch. Weren't lizard's supposed to be cold and slimy?
Or was that slugs?
In any case Sigmar soon found himself standing on the spine of the imposing beast, feet planted on each side of the swaying backbone. Under him, the dragon youth could see (and fell) muscles roll and bunch, driving the huge monster forward and back. A living battering ram. From somewhere in the barrel chest below a deep guttural bellow sounded, shaking him.
An errant arrow snapped past his head, just a blur of shadow. Another skipped across the horned dinosaur's hide, doing no more damage then a stone thrown at a brick wall. Sigmar ignored them however, he had a lizard-man to fight. Arms and fists still a flame he leapt forward and tried to hit the driver.
With a resounding, fiery crack, Sigmar slams the driver in the back of his head. The head snaps forward painfully, the lizard-man rising up in his crude stirrups. The flames rise and Sigmar can smell the armor of burning scales.
Yet the lizard man, annoyingly, doesn't slump over. Instead it turns with surprising speed, rising out of the dinosaur saddle. Using it's own tail as a balance, it is soon standing as well, facing Sigmar. Well over two feet shorter then the imposing human, it does not seem daunted by the size difference. Probably helping this confidence is the spear in one clawed hand. Behind the bone mask, the flat, reptilian eyes flash.
It shouts something in a weird language and tries to jab Sigmar with a spear.
Sigmar kicks the spearhead aside with ease however, nearly knocking it out of the lizard-mans grip to boot. His foe bares long fangs and hisses, like a snake in a street performer's show.
Around them the battle rages, but the dinosaur has, for the moment, paused it's assault on the barn door, either out of confusion for the elaborate dance happening on its back or simply awaiting commands.
Surely, even the Hold of Belkzen had never hosted a rodeo as demented as this. Which was almost a shame; the sheer improbable brutality on display would no doubt have found roaring approval in an orcish audience. Here, not content with breaking mere farm animals, the steed in question was a living siege engine of a beast, a goliath as could only have spawned from a crueler, less forgiving world. Not content with mere riders, the jockeys in question were a pair, combatants exchanging blows on top of the heaving, armored monster they vied for control over.
And one of said contestants was on fire. Entertainment worthy of any orc warlord.
Of course, Sigmar himself wasn't truly diverted in any violence not felt on one's own skin. Which was to say he was having a grand old time duking it out with the toad-man, the latter now forced to acknowledge him. That showed Footman Frog-face here! Although on the topic of brutality and one's own skin - that sizzling sensation in his arms? That was less welcome. Ow, ow, ow, ow, hot, OW! What the hell?! he queried as a waft of something like severely burnt bacon joined the stink of flaming tar. Why does this hurt?! This isn't supposed to hurt! I'm fireproof!
Nay, merely fire-retardant as it turned out - which was half an appellation others had labeled the teen before. No matter. Well, a matter, admittedly, but one that would have to be. There were more pressing dangers stomping their 1000-ton heft about. Sigmar would simply have to beat up this dinno-sar army before his own death by combustion! Such was the wonder of a simple mind: that it rendered all obstacles simple in turn. 'When all you have is a hammer' and the like.
With that, the dragonling hammered away at the reptilian rider. The flurry of blows that followed were most reminiscent of children playing with torches in the night, the afterimage of red streaks painted across the retina.
Sigmar had no orc chieftain on hand, but that didn't mean the youth was totally unobserved. In his ear Ozzy said, "Woah, the fire arms are pretty neat. Do you always fight like that? You didn't against the orc guy. Pretty cool though."
The dinosaur under Sigmar's feet stamps once, shaking them both. "On Castrovel they ride big lizards like this," The sand creature goes on, as if commenting on a interesting story at a tavern-side and not during a bloody battle. "But they don't have horns. Pretty cool, man!"
Meanwhile, Sigmar is pummeling away at the lizardman with his blazing fits. One of the blows misses due to the admittedly tricky conditions, but two others make good body contact worthy of a Andoran. And unlike most pugilists, Sigmar's punches leave behind fiery, burning welts. The lizardman lets out a rattling hiss like soup left on the pot too long. It feints with the spear and then as Sigmar dodges, it jumps down.
Not to escape but merely pull on one of the strange stirrups, the little figure jamming a clawed foot on the leather. Suddenly the dinosaur gives out a bone shaking bellow and shuffles to the right, elegant as a drunkard on a bender. Still, it is a wild ride!
Wild enough that the usually sure footed Sigmar slips off the creature, flaming hands scrabbling uselessly at the thick hide. In a moment he is back down on terra firma, nose to haunch with the imposing dinosaur. And then he sees a very large leg move toward him-
Slipping in a very poorly placed puddle, Sigmar is helpless to dodge. Like a child run over by a angry sheep, the dragon youth is trampled. Heavy feet pound the earth around him, thundering in his ears. And on his assorted limbs, it should be noted. In a moment it is over him though, the dinosaur pounding away. Knocked prone, the world seems to wheel around Sigmar, a blur of brown, green and blue. A few new sparks of pain seem to be dully making their way into his brain, slowed by general confusion.
Focusing, he notes the dinosaur wheeling on him, ignoring the barn and other combatants. The lizardman is back in the saddle again, and seems to be intent on driving the horned creature back over Sigmar. Like a bull, the huge beast paws the ground, beaked mouth slightly agape. It lowers the horns and-
ZIP
Oyok lets an arrow fly and hits the lizardman right in the eye. It slumps over, reins going limp. Having already started the big beast lumbers forward but directionless, missing Sigmar entirely.
Sigmar's tengu friend bounds over and is about to give Sigmar a hand up, but is stopped by the still burning flames.
"Come on lad, no time to be sleeping around on the job."
"What's a Castro-WHEY!" Awfully relatively terms, 'up' and 'down', weren't they? For being such pillars of one's perception of the world, Sigmar was all the more disoriented when these were yanked out from under him. Or should that be over him? Because not only was the surface beneath his feet continually going higgeldy-piggeldy - the dinno-sar thrashing about like a marble on a honeymoon mattress - the firmament above quickly went topsy-turvy too! The ever reliable frames of reality had turned into the inside of a runaway barrel!
It was only after the fact that a reeling mind grasped what had occurred: namely, a particularly fierce heave flinging the teen heels-over-head off the flailing beast. Fortunately, the farmland he landed belly-up on proved amenable enough, what with its arable soil and jungle foliage. A shame that the elephantine foot plodding his way looked less forgiving. Before he could catch his breath from the impromptu tumble, all air was compressed out of the dragonling as the dinno-sar very literally stomped him into the dirt. A sound something like a punctured accordion escaped him.
Small wonder he didn't quite notice when trusty Oyok finished off the troglodyte.
"Come on lad, no time to be sleeping around on the job."
"Ribs... Bruised... *KOFF KOFF*" The wheeze creaking from the newly made pit the teen now found himself halfway in broke into a gasping cough. Well, this was a new one at the very least. Of all the many beatings he'd taken over the years, getting trampled by a heifer bigger than his own rap sheet was novel. Said sheet formed a prodigious tome, by the by. So much food stolen from so many stands... Man, he could never return to Absalom, huh? Well, not until he was stronger than any number of constables, anyway.
On that note, it was high time this barreling boulder learned who was boss here! Rising up with as much athleticism he could muster from what was quickly turning into a sizeable puddle, Sigmar looked to the beast. One burning fist clenched. Right then! He dashed forward, arms spread like the wings of a blazing phoenix. These fiery fists of his - a brilliant ploy! - had worked well enough against the rider. Now they would make short work of the mount. Or so the boy convinced himself, the drunken boast of his ego shouting over the mousy murmur of his reason, the former having reigned as patriarch of House Darastrix since... well, always. Arguments such as "that's bigger than the other dinno-sar we fought" or "that's not as soft a target as the lobster" were no use in the heat of the moment.
Yet there was one voice within the teen's psyche that could quiet even his ego: pride. Sigmar had a dragon's pride. And not just any dragon's either. While the fearsome Blacks might prove their superiority through sheer destruction, the kings of them all - despotic Reds - reveled in plain domination. Dominating those lesser than themselves, that was to say everyone, could take many forms. This was an instinct that manifested in the young man's competitiveness. But an all-new inclination struck him now. It was the bridle. In charging for the giant, he noticed the strange stirrups now hanging limply from its head, the same stirrups its rider had pulled at to commandeer it.
He could count the platelets that made up the bony armor now. At the last moment, Sigmar altered the trajectory of his fist. Instead of punching its horned snout, he grasped the reins of the monster. His charge ended in an awkward tug at the band rather than an attack. Unsurprisingly, the tonne-heavy beast did not budge. A simple matter of physics more so than obstinance which he nevertheless took offence with.
"Hey," he said, demanding its attention. "Hey, look at me. Look at me!"
Forcefully pulling at one mighty horn, the dragonling just managed to wrest the animal eyes to his own. Confusion and fury battled each other there beneath the shielded brow. His burned brighter than the flaming limbs. "You were brought here to wreak havoc. Your rider's dead. But there's still havoc to be wreaked. So you and me? We're gonna wrecktify that havoc. You hear? We're gonna wreck all the havoc. Look at me." The tone was firm, commanding in a way most unusual for the irreverent boy. "I'm gonna let you go afterwards, but for right now? I'm in charge. And it's wrecking time."
When a dragon became master of a land, it was only natural they became master of all that lived there, man and beasts. It followed then, that they did not look upon these as a mere predator might. No, dragons were kings and the world their court. They looked upon all as their serfs. This was what the beast saw in the young man: a dragon's gaze.
A huge reptilian eye turned on him, the size of an apple. It was dark mottled brown, Sigmar noted, with a dark slit gashed across it. Thick folds and scales surrounded it, wrinkled protection that turned into the base of a massive horn half as long as Sigmar was tall. It looked at him with a strange, alien glare.
Around him Sigmar lost track of the battle focused on the immense beast. He could smell it, a slightly dusty aroma of crushed earth, trample vegetation and a hint of a strange, exotic musk. Steam heaved off the massive chest, warm as a furnace. The youth had no idea what to expect. Would the beast roar? Stomp him again? Bow in submission or perhaps even seek out its fallen rider? In fact, it did none of these things.
Instead it took off at a thundering gallop, heading straight for a knot of lizardmen and sailors. The ground literally shook under its huge weight as massive tree-trunk legs flexed and groaned, propelling forward as fast as a horse. The tail slapped against the ground, incidentally crushing the corpse of the dead would-be dinosaur rider.
Sigmar witnessed all of this because he was along for the ride. The burning hand which gripped the reins got tangled in the complicated lines, like a hare caught in a trapper's snare. Half dragged, half held aloft Sigmar was carried into battle by the bellowing snorting avatar of destruction.
And destruction it was. Nothing would withstand the horned, frilled creature. Friend and foe alike either ran for cover or were trampled. Fences splintered, heavy wagons were tossed like playthings and a crude shed simply disintegrated under the beast's charge, even as Sigmar was dragged along like a child's favorite doll. Heavy mud splashed him, churned up by the horned feet below, mixing with the blood and grass from his own bout with the dinosaur.
The ride went on long enough to batter Sigmar silly, the world becoming a swirling mess of lights, shadows and colors. Jounced this way and that, it was enough to spin any lad's head. In his ear Ozzy kept up a running commentary, trying to guess the speed and weight of the huge reptile ('Woah, it's, like, really big, man!') but it soon became lost in the rising din of battle.
He needed to do something before the mad thing slammed him against a rock or tree (or an enemy spear), if only by accident.
A small part of Sigmar admired the huge monster though because, as far as he could tell, the thing just enjoyed crushing stuff. And without a rider, it seemed to revel in the ability to go where it wanted and do as it liked.
Mud pies on dirt trails and splinters off branches. Bright jungle leafage and manure for ranches. Blood-crusted sediment and all that stings. These were a few of his favorite things.
Or rather, they really weren't, but this was what the young man was dragged through as literal hanger-on to the dinosaur's joyfully destructive dash. "Not like that, you reptilian road hog!" Sigmar sputtered around a mouthful of jungle foliage, disgorging himself of this vegetarian meal so that he might better bellow into the beast's ear. An effort somewhat undercut by the fact he couldn't quite locate said auditory organ. Man, who the heck designed these things?!
A query to be beaten into the nearest druid and/or deity at the earliest opportunity. For now this runaway monster needed to be brought under control before it killed anyone. Anyone the boy wasn't happy to see dead, that was. Like himself. One hand already stuck in the tangled reins, he grasped at the leathers with the other, climbing it like the rigging on a ship in the highest of high seas.
As a youth in Magnimar, Sigmar had once snuck into a local amphitheater during a Shoanti rodeo. The event, a highly regarded local affair for both the participants and the vendors, made quite an impact on the dragonling. Wiry, scarred men and women riding, wrestling and roping all forms of livestock, ranging from wild oxen to fiery mustangs. The loud colorful event of man versus beast appealing to Sigmar but he had had special regard for the last event. A battered looking Shoanti woman, covered with inky tattoos had clambered bareback onto a snorting, restive stallion. Then, with a slap to the backside, the horse had been sent onto into the arena, galloping, jumping and bucking for all it was worth. The woman had clung onto to for dear life to a single leather strap provided for the purpose.
She had lasted for eight heartbeats before being thrown to the ground, and nearly trampled. Yet, to Sigmar's surprise and delight, the woman had come up with a smile clear even in the cheap seats.
Now he understood why.
Clambering off the side of the great beast wasn't easy but the bizarre array of straps, stirrups and handles helped. Besides he was already half-way up, and the tossing of the monster nearly threw him right into the saddle. Controlling it was a different matter. Granted, it was at least somewhat tamed, and was used to having a master. Once Sigmar got a firm grip in the reigns, the mighty lizard slowed its stride and did not fight him. Instead it rumbled to a stop, churning up a turd and grass wake, as if it was a mighty landship.
The lungs heaved under his legs, blowing like great furnace bellows. There was furnace-like heat too, as the animal's warmth radiated up through the strange saddle. For a moment the world was still and then, to his surprise, he saw a shape bound toward him.
Arianne, holding her smoking weapon, ran straight up at the snorting beast. At the last moment the mute leapt upward, grasping for the straps. Easy a child mounting a pony she slipped into place, snug behind Sigmar. Not that the saddle was built to accommodate two. Indeed they were pressed so tightly together, they would have scandalized most dance halls.
She grinned, eyes sparkling. She pointed a hand at a knot of lizardmen clustered around a tree, where a few sailors were trapped. Beckoning like a huntswoman commanding her guide, Arriane silently gestured forward and leveled her weapon on Sigmar's shoulder, using him a rest.
Huh. This is a new feeling, the youth thought at the boulder-like bulk beneath him: Pride in someone else's power.
The sheer potency of the beast really was something to behold, never more so than when beheld from its own eye level. Muscles shifted beneath the rough hide like anacondas writhing in gravel, heaving its mighty frame forward in a way Sigmar had never even considered: every trample wasn't so much traversing the terrain as subjugating it. Undergrowth, rocks, puddles - these were not maneuvered around, the very land itself instead distorting to conform to the monster's stride. Anything that stood in its path lesser than the creature itself was squashed, without exception. As if the world was naught but a crowd parting for their king. What a way to live.
It was enough to make an aspiring dragon jealous! For this really was the existence Sigmar Darastrix longed for, the freedom that only came with power, real power. The ascetic could have their discipline, the merchant their wealth, the crusader their piety, the scholar their knowledge, and the people their numbers. Were welcome to it, in fact! None of these led to true power, not as he knew it. Their mindspin, their philosophies were distortions of strength at worst and crooked detours to the selfsame at best. No, in the end the only thing that equaled power was... power. It really was that simple. O, to be a hurricane in human form, to rage over the land as you pleased, unfettered, unbeholden to anyone. Free. Free because no one could stop you. That was the joy offered by power.
And yet it wasn't jealousy that colored the boy astride the beast. "Oh, you magnificent bastard," he grinned. Perhaps it was the blood of the Red dragon, these tyrants of the skies, the despot-dictators of dragonkind. Perhaps that was what made him perfectly comfortable, made him revel even, in another's strength - as long as that other was subject to himself. As ever, Sigmar didn't dwell on this. All he knew was that the dinno-sar was awesome! In all his monster slaying endeavors, he had never considered, like, subjugating the things and he now wondered why not? Turned out that making the strong serve you was every bit the rush beating them was!
Even if the small voice of sensibility, often ignored in the drunken bacchanal of the young man's mind, warned that he likely couldn't actually defeat the tonne-heavy titan in a straight fight. Not yet, anyway. All the more reason to enjoy the ride! Which, as it turned out, was the intent of not just himself.
"Yo, Oyo! Check me out! I'm king of the dinno-WAH, SOFT BITS!"
The sudden sensation of Arianne pressing at his back saw Sigmar's otherwise so ever-present bravado slip, startling him terribly. Still, he recovered quickly enough upon seeing the glint in the girl's eyes. The only action she was eager for at the moment was the blood & thunder variant. This he was happy to oblige. "Oh hey, babe! Welcome aboard the proud vessel Stompinator! We have no rigging, railing or rudder, but what we do have is rip-snorting righteousness! Whoo! Seriously, the only way this thing could be more badass is if it had t*ts and was on fire! ...Which I guess we have covered between the two of us! But, er, for real, mind the arms, I'm on fire."
The waft of smoldering leather struck Sigmar's nose. Right, better aim the beast at where it could do the most damage while they could! And the mute had a suggestion on this point.
"Giddy-up, Stompy!" Pulling the reins in the direction pointed to by the cannon on his shoulder, he steered the newly named monstrosity towards the knot of lizardmen.
The dinosaur lets out a guttural bellow that rattled deep in Sigmar's stomach, like a miniature earthquake. The huge frilled head tossed back and forth, for all the world like a racing horse before a sprint. Then, feet digging into the turf, it took off at a rumbling gallop that shook the ground.
Arianne clung tightly to his waist, caught off guard by the rolling gait, more like a wagon with a broken axle then a gallant steed. Sigmar can feel her hot breath on his neck as she is thrown against him. She smells of sweat, oil and, of course, bat guano.
The dinosaur rampages into the cluster of enemies like a bull amongst a flock of crows. Clearly expected the huge beast to be friendly, most don't realize the danger until it is far too late. Two are trampled into the mud, churned into little more then battered remains. Another is gored by a huge bloody horn, and tossed twenty feet into the air. There are hisses and screams by the strange creatures, as they start to break.
One holds their ground however, a thick-set lizardman covered in moldy old bones. They have a staff in their hand, which they raise high. It starts to glow with an unwholesome green light, that swirls around it. The lizard starts to chant something, eyes focused on Sigmar. It begins to point toward him-
With a roar like a thunderstorm, blacksmith accident and a dozen trumpets, Arianne's long barreled weapon goes off. Sigmar's vision goes pure white for a moment and his head rings like a bell. By the time the dragonling regains his bearings, the gunslinger's weapon is a spouting a thick plume of black smoke, acrid enough to be be smelt among the blood of battle.
The staff-wielding lizardman is dead, head smashed like an overripe melon dropped by a careless merchant. The staff rolls away, magic dissipating. The other lizardmen either run or die, crushed by the stampeding dinosaur.
From above in the tree, the sailors let out a lustily cheer.
"Sigmar and Arianne!"
Around them the battle is flowing against the attackers now, and the Fort Holidayers clearly have the upper hand. Sigmar is debating where to steer his mount next when he spots a shadow out of the corner of his eye.
A brightly colored two-legged dinosaur is leaping up toward them, claws legs and arms outstretched.
Despite the surprise of the attack, however, most of the claws and teeth miss. Only one long talon catches Sigmar's leg and it is more of a scratch then anything. Still, the hissing dinosaur is clinging to the harness like a sailor at sea, remaining close and within range. It snaps and kicks, long tail thrashing wildly.
A steed trundling below you, a girl clinging to your side, an opponent's blood on your claws. What more could a boy ask for? Perhaps a deep red sunset to silhouette them, just to complete the romantic image. Because he had to admit, despite the young man's juvenile power fantasies usually casting him as the lone warrior triumphing against the impossible, this moment - this picture if one would - had a certain mise-en-scène that spoke to his machismo more so than any wish-fulfilling fantasy. It wasn't the mythical heroics of the classical Taldan art scene; not an Aroden emerging with the Starstone, a Taldaris vs the Grogrissian Lion, nor any other such larger-than-life feat painted in vibrant oils on meter-high canvasses by venerated maestros. No, the triage of this moment - steed, girl, boy, all repoussoir against a backdrop of cowering foes and cheering supporters - was something art critics would define as belonging to a wholly different art movement. Idealized, yes. Sentimental, to be sure. But not mythical. Not a depiction of the divine. It was more so like the revolutionary art of Galt, the triumph of the collective, the common man's victory. It was heroic individualism vs collective subjectivity. It was the mythic hero vs the social body.
It was - in brief - a whole lot of stuff Sigmar didn't understand. Yet just as true art speaks to even simpletons, the scene resonated within the dragonling. It might not equate the sheer primal high that came with proving your superiority on your lonesome - through fist and fire - and yet. The service of a loyal beast, the aid of a trusted friend, the cheers of supporters saved - these felt good. They felt really good. Much as he insisted on being superior to and thus divorced from the rest of the species, Sigmar was merely mortal. There was a small part of him that longed for social bonds. Which was precisely why that small part had been beaten and bullied to the coal cellar of his psyche. Because a longing was just another word for a weakness. And Sigmar Darastrix did not have weaknesses.
Of course, none of this hifalutin nonsense was on his conscious mind at the moment. Not when there was so much carnage to enjoy. Seriously, just look at those lizard guys go. Into the dirt, that was. Although even that delight had to make way when a thunderclap went off immediately by his ear.
"Aah, Ann, you crazy bint!"
Not even his own words were audible to him, the din of battle suddenly replaced with a continuous peal shearing through his head. "No wonder you don't talk! You aren't mute, your boom-stick just made you deaf however long ago!" Still blinking spots out of his eyes, the boy reached up to see whether deafness could be rubbed out of one's ear. Only to nearly set his hair alight. "Agh!" Stupid burning hand! Whose idea had that been?
"Urgh. I mean, it was a nice shot and all..." An unbidden passenger to the proud vessel Stompinator interrupted him, clawing it way up his leg as though were it a rope ladder. The raptor screeched its fury at him, eager to rend the dragonling asunder. But inured to violence as he was, Sigmar merely yelled back.
"Hey! No! No, that's a bad dinno-sar! Bad!" Grabbing it by its gangly neck, he yanked the raptor up and over one knee. "Imma beat you like your mother should have!" Bent over the young man's knees like an unruly child, the dino was treated to a beating unlike any suffered by their kind on Raptor Isle. One hand still holding on to the thrashing dino, the other delivered two swats to its reptilian buttocks, leaving fiery handprints in their wake. These were followed by a straight fist to the other end, Sigmar releasing his grip to punch in its snout.
"And stay away!"
Sigmar's rough handling of the dinosaur climaxes with a blow to the nose of the unruly beast. It does not growl, snap or hiss at the dragonling. Thoroughly chastened, it simply takes off running, clearly heeding his last command. The fleeing creature leaves a slightly smoky trail, vanishing back into the undergrowth of farm and fence.
Around them, the battle seems to be dying down. Sigmar's capture of the titanic beast of war has turned the tide. The former sailors have also done yeoman's work about the cornrows, sheds and hay bales. Eve as Sigmar studies the scene he spots lizardmen heading for cover, often with a limp or bleeding wound. Half a dozen dead dinosaurs of the type he just bested lie on the field, mere corpses.
But not all. Close at hand, a seeming twin to the one Sigmar just spanked runs alongside, snapping at the massive trunk-like legs of Sigmar' steed. Before he had do anything though, Arianne is moving. She hands Sigmar her weapon, still smoking, before drawing a long knife. With a wild glint in her eyes she gives Sigmar a roguish wink. Then, without delay she jumps down and tackles the running reptile to the ground. Soon both are a muddy mess of leather, scales and a single gleaming knife. Quickly though it turns from fight to butchery as the mute quickly dispatches the dinosaur in a series of cuts more suited to a butcher's shop then a battlefield.
Around them the other sounds of battle dissipate as the lizardmen retreat. Under him, Sigmar feels the huge beast grows restive, stamping the earth. Did it desire to follow it's former comrades into the bush? Or was it merely celebrating victory?
Or, like Arianne, was it just reveling in destruction for its own sake?
"I don't think you can keep it, lad." Oyok shouts, coming up from behind a hedgerow, apparently unharmed. "I don't think Vrilu would allow a pet. Although, I have to confess, it has style."
Where was a food vendor when you needed him? As the mute leapt for the one remaining reptile, Sigmar could only look on bemused from the saddle on high, his spectator seat over this mud puddle turned gladiatorial arena. An increasingly bloody mud puddle as it happened. Boy, that girl could go. Where did Arianne's blood thirst stem from, he wondered, not for the first time? Because while this ferocity was impressive - laudable even - it was also what the boy increasingly considered the greatest point of contention between them.
Which, to be clear, wasn't all that great. "And on tonight's house show, it's the Mute Marauder vs Raptorro," he commented over the carnage, putting on his best compère. "Blade vs fang. Beauty vs beast. Brains vs... well, let's not start weighing feathers to snowflakes. Oh, but she makes up for it with a mean hook! Ouch!" No, far be it from him to deny a girl her fun. Everyone needed a hobby. To the outside eye, most would even say the pair of them were alike in how they got their jollies, two of a kind really.
They'd be wrong. Because those voices would be comparing... Sigmar had to think for a moment. A lion taking down its prey compared to a cat playing with its? Not the perfect metaphor, but it would do. One was proof of the predator's prowess. The other was just sadism. For all of the dragonling's bravado, he wasn't much of a killer. He was happy to let his opponents - mortals or monster - go once beaten. Especially if these might make for a good revanche scrap in the future! Because death wasn't the point. Heck, death wasn't even a factor. It was all about the fight. It was about proving himself the best. And that - that simply wasn't how Arianne functioned. Arianne liked seeing things bleed.
The thick concoction that was muck and blood slid slowly down the girl's heaving form, the only gap being the pearly whites of her gleeful grin.
Kinda sexy though in a weird way. Hm.
The tengu's voice saw him look up from what had turned into a very literal slaughter. Oyok approached through a throng of celebrating castaways.
"I don't think Vrilu would allow a pet. Although, I have to confess, it has style."
"Yeah, well, she's not my mom!"
The whine was entirely performative, without conviction. Yeah, the young man knew there was no keeping his temporary steed, no matter how stylish. He could feel it, a restless tremor beneath the rough hide like a war drum searching for a cause. Sigmar didn't know dinno-sars - not yet, anyway - but he knew that drive. This thing had been brought up, maybe even bred, for war. It didn't do inaction. It was no domestic animal. What it was was a tonne-heavy bundle of instincts in need of an outlet.
In that, they might have more in common than Ann and he.
"Alright, calm down, you big oaf, just a sec!" The boy hopped down from the saddle, landing lightly. He avoided the stamping feet in taking hold of the reins again, not letting go of them this time. Not until the smell of burning leather stung their nostrils and he could pull the harness apart completely. The beast thusly freed, he grabbed its most prominent horn, the one part of it impervious to the flames still licking at his limbs. He needed its head steadied and focused.
"You did good, you hear?" Sigmar looked into the apple-sized reptilian eye. There were some flecks of gold among the brown there, not so dissimilar from his own amber. "That toad guy you gored? Stellar stuff! Proud of ya! But you can go back to the jungle now. You understand that? The JUN-GUL!" He rattled the destroyed reins in one hand for emphasis. "You don't owe the toad guys anything. You don't have to go back to them. Go back to the jungle, eat whatever you eat, be proud you served Sigmar Darastrix, the top of the food chain, well. Actually, go tell some girl dinno-sar that. She'll be impressed. Go on now."
He clapped the meter-long horn. "Go on, Stompy. Git."
Stepping aside for the beast, the boy pointed to the forest downhill with one flaming arm. He wasn't convinced these instructions of his would have any effect, wasn't sure it understood anything but a harsh lash and the command to kill. In all likelihood, it'd probably trudge back to familiar paths, mental and literal, leading it right back to the troglodytes. He couldn't even say where his own hope for it returning to the wild stemmed from. The just reward for a loyal servant, perhaps? A fool's hope, certainly.
But maybe. Maybe.