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[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 7 - Diamond in the Rough. 

Summary: It's the age old adage that transcends species; Our hero doesn't believe in love at first sight until he sees 'The One.'

Karn had always considered himself to be the hero of his own story.

But then, you came along.

---

Far off in the western corner of the Forge Lands, beyond a ravine known to most as Charred Pass, where the ground has been burned black by a never ending barrage of fireballs spewed from the belly of an active volcano, is a lone maker, caught up in the rush of a heroic battle.

Or at least, he imagines it must look very heroic and extremely brave. Perhaps even the bravest a maker has ever looked.

Karn; by far the youngest maker in Tri Stone – if not the whole realm – has taken it upon himself to single handedly battle an army of Corrupted construct warriors; immense creatures of living stone that have been stitched and stuck together by thick, winding strands of Corruption, the inky substance seeping deep into their calcified bodies and connecting every boulder together like writhing, ebony veins. 

Surrounded by a moat of molten lava, the maker whirls gracefully across the Cauldron's stone courtyard, swinging left and right with one arm behind his back and the other clenched tight around his trusty, double-faced hammer,, 

Well.. Graceful might be a bit of a stretch.

There has to be dozens – No! - Hundreds of the reanimated golems, and he's ploughing through great swathes of them as if they were little more than glass figurines and he, a raging stalker.  

The young maker bellows out a whooping battle cry and brings the flat head of his gigantic hammer down on the eighth construct that hurtles towards him.

...So, he might have to embellish a few of the facts a little when he returns to the village. After all, a good story just isn't worth telling unless the hero – that's him; Karn – is pitted against perilous odds.

Why, by the time he's finished regaling the others with this epic tale, they'll be singing his praises for centuries to come, no doubt.

Head shaking to flick away the beads of sweat trickling down his furrowed brow, Karn raises a thick, metal boot and stomps it over the back of a downed construct, grinding the stone-fleshed warrior beneath his heel.

That is....if the others even believe him...

Not that they ever do. Even when he is telling the truth.

'Unreliable,' is what Alya called him once, among other things. And that was to his face! Maker knows what she's said behind his back.

Like air rushing out of a popped balloon, Karn visibly deflates, his ears drooping and face falling as he tries to swing at another construct on his left. But in light of his momentary lapse in concentration, he overshoots, misses, and the beast is able to duck beneath the hammer's handle, bringing it close enough to pound a vicious stone club onto his gloved knuckles. Despite the added protection of hardy leather and the construct's much smaller stature, those things can pack one hell of a wallop.

With a yelp, he recoils sharply, shaking out the bruised hand and shooting his assailant a snarl, lips pulled back to show off a pair of gleaming fangs.

Luckily, although numerous and fiercely relentless, the reanimated constructs aren't particularly fast. Or bright, for that matter. Releasing a prematurely triumphant gurgle, it lunges at his leg, this time aiming for an unarmored tendon on the inside of his knee.

Having pre-empted the move, Karn lets out a derisive snort, and simply steps aside.

The stone warrior flies past him and lets out a bewildered grunt as it crashes to the ground in a heap. Wasting no time, the maker swiftly dispenses righteous justice for his hand, raising the hammer high over his head and plunging it into the struggling golem with the force of a falling meteorite, garnering no small amount of satisfaction from the way its body explodes into smithereens, scattering rock fragments all over the courtyard.

“Oof! Bet that hurt!” he mocks, slinging his hammer over a shoulder and puffing out a rough exhale. Muscles twitching from the lingering adrenaline, he turns in a wide circle to survey the damage. 

Covering every inch of the hard ground are the splintered remains of a dozen or so ex-corrupted constructs, freed from their tainted bonds only by the cold embrace of death.

Heaving a weary sigh, Karn stretches out his back and grunts as several of his overworked joints click and pop in protest. Briefly, he laments being so thorough in his swathe of destruction and mayhem. There isn't a single, recognisable piece left intact that he could have taken back with him to the village as a trophy. A nice head or two would have definitely added to his story's authenticity.

“Ah well,” he announces to the lonely courtyard, “Can't be helped.”

Glancing around in the vain hope that one of the other makers had inexplicably turned up to witness his glorious victory, Karn’s ears prick forward, only to droop again when he realises that, no, he’s still on his own. 

As usual.

All of a sudden, motion from the corner of his silvery-grey eyes catches the maker's attention and he tenses, fists coming up to curl around his hammer and hauling it back into two hands. Lips curling and arms quivering with pent up anticipation, Karn wheels about to face the stone steps leading up onto the entryway.....

...and is promptly sent tumbling head over heels in love.

There's a girl standing at the edge of the courtyard, staring up at him, her eyes bright and wide and curious. On her feet, she wears a pair of big, brown, clunky boots which aren't at all in keeping with the rest of her tidy clothes. The hair on her head is a dishevelled, windswept mess, as though she'd been running flat out for hours on end and has yet to find the time to flatten it down. But by far the aspect that holds him utterly spellbound is her open face, beset just slightly by a shadow of nervousness and fatigue that lingers around her eyes and lips, but otherwise bursts with wonder. And the fascinated, inquisitive expression she’s aiming at him is no doubt a direct echo of his own.

Karn watches, dumbstruck, as her delicate lips give a twitch, then a cautious smile begins to lift her cheeks and as a result, his stomach does an involuntary somersault.  

Incidentally, having never actually been in love before, he can only guess that this must be what it feels like – stepping off the edge of a cliff in the pitch black of night with absolutely no idea what's waiting for him at the bottom.

In fact, falling in love doesn't seem at all like Eideard described in his tales. He never mentioned this sensation of tumbling into plummetless uncertainty. 

Thousands of years ago, when younglings were a frequent sight in the forge lands, Karn – too old and too proud to count himself amongst them - would linger within earshot as their elder parked himself on one of the stone ledges in Muria's garden and regaled the littlest ones with stories of grand adventures, world-ending battles and doomed paramours.

The latter stories interested Karn the least.

They just seemed so farfetched. All that nonsense about legends like Halldora and Eda, two of the most powerful shield-maidens in maker folklore whose eyes met over a blood-soaked battlefield and they knew – in a single glance - that they were destined to be together.

Karn remembers vividly scoffing at that one.

How could they know they were in love with just one look? And if that were the case, how did they manage it without their palms sweating and breath catching in their throats? 

Now though, staring down at the vision treading carefully in through the courtyard's entrance, he sends Eideard a quick, mental apology because evidently, the Old one had been right. Love at first sight isn't such a preposterous notion as Karn had originally thought.

So here he is, standing with his elbows pressed tight into his sides and feeling a lot like a deer in the headlights, rooted to the spot by her resplendent gaze. Suddenly, he blinks.

He hasn't got the first clue as to what she is.

He could almost mistake her for an angel, were it not for the obvious lack of wings, a total absence of self-righteous superiority and her face isn't schooled into that permanent, supercilious scowl the birds constantly seem to wear.

She's certainly not a demon, that much is undeniable. What’s more, she still has her skin, hair and she's surrounded by a healthy, radiant glow. So that ticks undead off the list.

Karn may not be the most intelligent of makers, by his own admission, but there are a couple of things he's almost certain of: Her face is etched with a story he's never heard, her eyes haunted by hidden nightmares and he is hopelessly, ridiculously smitten. Whatever she is, she’s got him. She’s got him good and all it took was one glance. 

She continues to regard him, a shy grin playing at the edges of her mouth until a moment later, his ears are perking up at the sound of her voice, vibrant and musical and chock full of so much ingenuousness, his heart gives a noticeable throb. “Wow,” she breathes, “Dude, that was amazing!”

To his rapidly increasing distress, all Karn can muster up in response is a doltish, “I – Er...Whu?” and almost instantly, he wants to go off, dig himself a deep hole and bury himself inside it.

But her friendly, open-hearted eyes only shine with mirth at his stumble and she gestures towards the piles of rubble strewn about his feet, growing increasingly more animated as she speaks.  

“Ah, sorry. S'just that we saw you fighting those things on our approach! When that last one nearly got you, but you just moved out of the way and pummelled it like it was nothing?” She emphasizes her point by smacking a fist into her open palm before looking up at him again, grin widening. “That was amazing.”

“A-...Amazing?”

'Oh Maker have mercy, now she's gone and done it.'

Karn has been many, many things in his life, but he's never once been amazing. He's been a 'pest,' a 'loudmouth, 'in the way,' and 'a danger to everyone around him.' But never amazing.

The young maker isn't prepared for the unexpected lurch as his heart throws itself against his rib cage presumably in an attempt to get closer to the object of its newfound affection. He actually has to discreetly slide a hand over his chest in case she notices the organ thrashing against his skin. Hell, he's half convinced she can already hear it.

Karn's tongue peels away from the roof of his mouth and he clears his throat to try and repair a remaining scrap of dignity. However, at that moment, a new voice twitches his ear and makes him jump, solely because he hadn't realised that anyone else had even been there.

“Not another one...” it grumbles brusquely.

Karn gives himself a quick shake to clear the fog that had settled like a warm blanket over his mind and finally manages to roll his mystified gaze from the woman to a much larger, much more ominous being at her side; one that he recognises almost instantly. The sight of a mouthless, bone-white mask snaps him out of his stupor and he breathes, “A rider? Here?”

No sooner had the words left his tongue than a rumble suddenly moves the ground underfoot and the strange woman throws her arms out, steadying herself on the horseman and exclaims, “Good god! What on Earth was that?!”

Any lingering wonderment falls from Karn's face. He recognises the rumble's significance first and groans aloud, eyes darting around the courtyard. “Ah, maker’s bones. Thought I took care of you lot already!”

As they had done before, the thick slabs of stone begin to shake and rattle as constructs burst through the cracks between them, scrabbling away at solid rock to force their own, vitrified bodies inlaid with ink black tentacles up and out of the ground.

Karn's eyes narrow, only to widen again moments later when a soft, gasped whimper leaps from the mouth of the little being beside the horseman. He glances down, ears flattening against his skull at the sight of the girl’s body turning rigid, her tiny chest heaving up and down as she fumbles with something at her side. He doesn't get to see what it is though because the next thing he knows, he's meeting Death's burning glare and a silent understanding passes between them, unmistakable in its meaning.

A shadow creeps over the maker's eyes, his brows drawing together into a tight, determined frown. Giving a hasty nod, he shifts, turning away and taking a few, gigantic steps backwards until both the girl and Death are bathed in his immense shadow. At the same time, the horseman whips out his formidable scythes and angles himself towards the outer wall. There's a small noise of protest from the girl that sends a beat shooting across Karn's chest when she suddenly finds herself being shoved, bullied and prodded backwards, crowded between the maker and horseman who stand fast and face the slowly approaching wave of corrupted constructs.

Chest puffed out and jaw set, Karn bends his head around to swiftly throw the petite thing a cocky smirk. “Stay behind me!” he winks, “I'll take care of this.”

The young maker can hardly believe his luck! Finally, a chance to prove he can be a hero. Heroes protect the small, don't they?

Just then, the boldest of the golems raises its stone club into the air and bellows out its gravelly rallying cry and the rest of them follow suit, pounding their fists against rock-hard chests and lumbering forwards all at once, straight at the trio in the centre of the courtyard.

“Come on then!” Karn stamps his metal boot on the ground a few times, hoping to intimidate, while the horseman merely rolls his eyes and plants his feet more firmly. As the first of the constructs charge within swinging range, Maker and Nephilim alike explode into murderous action.

-----------------------------------------------------

The new maker had to be the youngest you'd seen so far, though he's no less enormous than the others. Not from where you're standing, head just a few inches shy of his knee. Unlike Eideard and Thane, this one doesn't sport an impressive, luxuriant beard. Rather, any hair that might have adorned his face has been shaven close to the skin, leaving a dark dusting of stubble on his head and chin, sweeping along his jaw to the base of his ears. Around his neck is a striped cowl of deep viridian, the same colour as his tunic which is nipped in by a wide belt, strewn with all sorts of pockets, pouches and satchels. A heavy, leather backpack is strapped to his robust shoulders, both of which are littered with long, pale scars rather than the forge burns you'd seen on Alya and Valus.  On your approach to the Cauldron, you'd spotted him stampeding across a round-walled courtyard and flattening a vast throng of constructs with a gargantuan hammer, somehow larger than Thane's axe.

Even from a distance, the display was – as you'd said – amazing.

In fact, you'd much rather be watching this fight from a distance too, not sandwiched between the Grim Reaper and a literal giant.

You stand stock-still in place, half crouched and gawking as the horseman's arms whip through the air in an impressive whirlwind of motion. He hurls his twin scythes outwards, sending them spinning in a wide arc to cleave the heads from two of the golems before they curve right back into their wielder's hands, not dissimilar to a pair of deadly boomerangs.

He barely moves his feet, tilting on his heel every now and then which gives you the impression that he isn't used to fighting stationary like this. Three more corrupted constructs burst out of the ground a little too close to him, shifting one of the stone slabs he's balanced on and forcing him to jump to one side. The first grabs at his boot before it's even pulled itself free of the rock and Death's shoulders grow tense, rooted to the spot by one construct as the other two throw themselves into him at the same time, no doubt hoping to bring their opponent down by overwhelming him.

One of the remaining brutes that had been patiently hanging back from the carnage, waiting for the best opportunity to strike, realises that Death's attention is momentarily elsewhere. Its cumbersome head pivots slowly over to you and you watch as it tilts to the side, assessing you before attacking. The most unnerving aspect of the motion is that it implies this one is smarter than the others.

The construct has spotted its enemy's weakness within seconds, zeroing in on the soft spot, the vulnerability of the group. Even though it lacks any visible eyes, you still shudder, feeling rather than seeing its hateful gaze cut through to your soul, sharp as a knife. It stalks around to Death's right, allowing its corrupted brethren to feel the sting of his blades instead, until it lingers in the gap left bare between horseman and maker, your exposed flank. Realising its sinister intent, your jaw drops open around a scream, but it's as though your tongue has been coated in lead. All that comes out is a pitiful whine.

Like a gravelly bullet, the construct bounds into sudden motion and you blanch, frenziedly pulling your sword free of its scabbard and trying to bring the blade level with the creature's chest. It raises it's boulder of a fist into the air above you, ready to pummel you into an early grave.

Sucking in a gasp, you squeeze your eyes shut and wince as a rush of air whizzes past your nose....

….An earth-shattering boom lifts you clear off the ground, only to crash back down again with a startled yelp. Blinking your eyes open and staggering for a moment, you glance up to see that in the few seconds between your gasp and the construct's blow, the young maker has swung around and smashed his hammer down hard on top of it. The hard, metal face of the weapon rests flat against the stone, mere inches from the toes of your boots.

Gobsmacked, your heart trembling away in a dark corner of your chest, you watch as he lifts the hammer again, chunks of debris falling like dry rain on your head. When you twist to meet his gaze, you're surprised even further to see that worry has replaced the confident smirk he'd tossed your way just minutes ago.

“You alright?” he pants, ears pinned back against his head.

On autopilot, you gulp loudly and offer a shaky nod, opening your mouth to reply, but movement behind him snaps your attention between his legs. Another construct, bigger than the rest of them with dark tendrils flaring from its shoulders and neck, is lurching straight for his exposed back. Instead of a club, this one wields a long, rusted blade in its oversized hand – a blade that's aimed straight at the base of the maker's spine.

For someone who tends to overthink a lot of her decisions after they've been made, you don't put a whole lot of thought into your next one.

An eerie feeling – the same you'd felt back in Father Michael's church – washes over you. You'd felt it when you saw Death, at the time who you thought was a fellow human, and you can feel it now. At a speed you hadn't known you could reach, you've gripped the sword in your hands and dived beneath the maker's cloth hauberk. “Oi! What're you-”

You're vaguely aware of a startled shout rumbling from the body above and the horseman barking your name, but you're already too far gone, too focused on the corrupt warrior to register the tight edge in Death's voice.

You burst out from between the giant legs and lift your sword, pointing it as steady as you can at the first vulnerability you find.

The neck.

Thick, oily tendrils dig into the golem's torso, stretching up and wrapping around its boulder head to keep the two connected together. It's into that stoneless gap between the body and face that you bury your blade up to the hilt, letting out a very unimpressive, garbled yell.

The golem, startled at the sight of a tiny, fleshy something barrelling towards it from under a maker's tunic, slows and all of a sudden jerks to a stuttering halt, finding a small sword sticking out the back of its neck. If it had any eyes, it would have blinked them, hard.

The sword and its wielder, though neither are at all daunting to look at, managed to sever the crucial strand of Corruption tying the head to its body and if the construct wasn't utterly brainless to begin with, it might have taken umbrage to meeting such a humiliating end. As it is, with nothing but a solid hunk of stone where a brain ought to be, it merely shudders once, teeters forwards and releases a final, rumbling moan. The heavy load brings it crashing to its knees, forcing you to stumble back and tug the sword out as you go, gaping dumbly as the golem's head wobbles, then tumbles down from its shoulders, bouncing off the huge chest before it drops heavily to the ground and cracks clean in two.

The volcano chooses that moment to give out a bellowing rumble, as if your impromptu slaying of a monster thrice your size had warranted a round of applause.

Gulping down desperate lungfuls of air, you hesitate a further second before exhaling loudly, your body folding in half as you rest your head on the pommel of the sword, tip stabbed into the ground for stability.

Corruption however, robbed of its host, is less inclined to suffer such a defeat.

All of a sudden, your head snaps back up as the black ooze begins to wiggle and squirm, a high pitched screech ringing out of an unseen mouth. It moves as a whole, coagulating onto the shoulders of the construct before it slips and pools into the depression where a head used to be like a sentient, bubbling puddle of viscous tar.

And then, it rises as one, stretching from the neck up and elongating into a thick, wet tendril, rearing back like a snake ready to strike. There are no eyes to meet, but you stare up at the rounded tip, knowing that it's staring right back, filled up with hate and malice as opposed to your horror and alarm.

You have all of a second to realise what it's planning before it suddenly strikes, moulding its head into a piercing spine that it aims directly at your vulnerable chest.

There isn't any time to think. Your hand remains frozen around the hilt of your sword, instinct screaming for you to move but your brain remains empty, a husk awaiting instruction from its host, and you have none to give it. There isn’t even the time to scream but you give it your best shot. However, as soon as your jaw drops and you suck down half a breath, a familiar, rawboned hand clamps around your shoulder and wrenches you backwards.

Death hurls you to the ground, out of his way and out of the rogue corruption's reach. You land painfully on your arm and cry out, dropping the sword with a loud clang.

Behind you, the horseman's scythes make short work of the liquid ooze. He drives them clean through its host's body until the rancid stuff gives out a final shriek, shudders and collapses in thick globules, splashing to the floor and seeping through the grout, finally silent.  

Placidity settles over the courtyard, save for the occasional hiss and spit of the lava flowing around in the burning lake far beneath your feet.

After a minute or two, a slow whistle to your left breaks the silence. “By the Stone!” the maker breathes, “That was....was-”

Suddenly, Death cuts him off, rounding on you with eyes brimming with explosive rage. “Foolish!? Idiotic!? Blindingly stupid!?”

Startled by his sudden ferocity, you try to back-peddle along the ground but he marches over to you and roughly grabs the scruff of your jumper, jerking you onto your feet, taking hold of one of your arms and lifting it away from your body, eyes narrowed suspiciously as they inspect you from head to toe.

“Death!” you try to protest, more embarrassed than nervous at this point. However, he puts one of his cold hands on your forehead and tilts it back, peering unscrupulously into your wide eyes.

“Death!” you bark again and grab his wrist, pushing it up to duck out from beneath it. Retreating to a safer distance, you brush yourself down and shoot him a wary frown. “What was that for?!”

His fingers twitch and he narrows his eyes back at you, thoroughly displeased. “That corruption came damn well near enough to touch you,” he retorts sharply, “I thought I told you not to let it close!”

“But-!”

“What if you'd been corrupted?” he continues, blatantly disregarding your attempted objection, “You know, difficult though it may be to believe, I wouldn't actually enjoy putting you down if that were the case.”

“If you would just listen-”

“You may well be the last human left alive. What were you th-”

“WILL YOU LET ME FINISH!”

The shriek that bursts from you without warning smacks the horseman square in the jaw, knocking any more words of anger off his tongue and startling him into silence.

Meanwhile, staying wisely out of the argument, the young maker winces at the volume, his ears twitching in time to your echoing voice as it bounces and reverberates around the mountainside.

You stick your chin out and tilt it at Death, chest heaving and glare hardening. “I was trying to stop it from corrupting him!” You jab a finger at the startled maker. “He didn't see it because he was busy saving me from a different one! What was I supposed to do? Just let it stab him first?”

Right as Karn opens his mouth to claim that he knew the golem had been there all along, Death's head snaps in his direction and he balks, glancing away from his fierce stare.

For several, tense moments, the horseman switches his focus from your timid face to the young maker, then down at the dead construct until eventually, his whole body seems to deflate. Eyeing you warily, he mumbles, “You're certain? You're certain it didn't touch you?”

You shake your head.

The horseman's chest swells and shrinks with a slow breath, aiming his harsh glare at the construct's severed head before his expression softens a little, barely enough to notice, and in a voice so gentle you can scarcely hear it over the distant rumbling from the volcano, he says, “Well done,” appraising you coolly.

Bowing your head, you rub sheepishly at one arm and turn to the maker, only to find him already staring down at you with a senseless smile pushing at the corners of his lips. When he notices you watching though, his titanic shoulders tense and he subtly snaps his head back to look up at the sky, eyes following the movements of a random cloud. “Oh – would you look at tha'....” he mutters distractedly.

Tentative in the face of a stranger now that the greater danger has passed, you stoop down, retrieve your discarded sword, pause to straighten out your jumper and venture a little closer, stopping once you're several feet from his metal boots.

His gaze roves down from the sky and he blanches at how much closer you've moved, looking up at him with those big, curious eyes. “Hello,” you chirrup.

“Uh...Hullo.” Drawn by a dull glint, he absently glances down to your hands. The moment Karn registers what you're holding onto, all the colour rushes back to his face, with a little extra it would seem, given the flush that tinges his cheeks and ears a soft rouge.

Rocking back on your heels, you force yourself to stand a little straighter so as not to betray your nerves and try to meet his eye, a difficult task considering he's no longer looking at you. “Hey, thanks for saving me back there.”

The maker doesn't say a word, only continues to stare at the sword in your hand.

“Um. You okay?” you ask, half as a general inquiry and half because he hasn't blinked yet.

Ever so slowly, mouth hanging slightly agape, he shakes his head from side to side. “No, no. I'm....M' Karn...”

You blink at him, thrown for a second before your lips quirk up and you snort.

At the sound of your amusement, he finally tears his eyes off the sword, realising what he'd said and immediately shakes his hands through the air, stammering, “Oh! N-No, I mean – I'm okay! You're Karn! Ach, no! I meant-” Mortified, he pinches his broad, flat nose between thumb and forefinger, slowly sighing, “I'm Karn.”

Your smile has been replaced by a full blown grin.

It feels good, having your mouth stretched open wide like that again.

“Well, it's very nice to meet you Karn. I'm Y/n.” Saying his name out loud clicks something together in your brain and you suddenly gasp. “Oh, you're Karn!”

“Ye'v heard of me?” he chirps, blinking in surprise before shaking his head and swiping a thumb beneath his nose. “I mean, course ye'v heard of me!”

“Yeah, Thane mentioned you. It's nice to finally meet you in person,” you reply warmly.

A pang of jealousy slugs him unexpectedly in the gut - jealousy that he hadn't been the one to meet you first.

Hesitant, your hands wring around the hilt of your sword until you finally hold it up for him to see. “Um, I think I found something of yours.”

“Heh. Yeah....yeah, you..you did.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he gestures at it with his chin, coughing softly. “How – er.  How'd you find that then?”

“Oh, well, Thane wouldn't let me leave the village without a weapon, so I dug around in a crate and just....sort of found it, I guess.”

The maker's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Ol' Thane kept that? Huh. Thought Valus'd melted it down for scrap.”

Taking a breath, you're about to tell him that that's exactly what the warrior had said, but decide against it when you see Karn's pleasantly surprised expression. Instead, you purse your lips and shrug. “Welp. Apparently not!”

He falls quiet and gazes at you for several seconds whilst you chuckle awkwardly. It occurs to you that he might be waiting for you to give the blade back. After all, he did craft it and supposedly thought it lost. Now, he probably wants it returned.

Hurriedly unclipping the sword belt, you ask, “Oh, do you want it back?” and hold it out for him to take only to jerk back a moment later when the enormous man suddenly raises his burly hands and shakes them frantically in front of you.

“Oh no! You can keep it, s'yours!” As he speaks, he takes an involuntary step forwards, freezing with a grimace the instant you stumble away from him, worry etched between your brows.

“S-sorry!” he stammers and retreats again, tugging at the scarf around his neck, “Didn't mean to scare you! M'just..surprised!”

You quirk your head, heartbeat slowing. “Surprised? Why?”

“You could've chosen any weapon out of Thane's arsenal, and you chose that one?”

Frowning, you turn a quizzical squint onto the sword. “Yeah? What's wrong with it? You made it, didn't you?”

He gives you an incredulous look and glances from side to side, as though he's waiting for you to reach some sort of conclusion on your own. When you still look as lost as ever, he bobs his head and carefully drawls, “Aye, that would be what's wrong with it.”

Without missing a beat, you harrumph and take a step closer, brushing his self deprecating comment aside easily. “Ah, no artist is ever happy with their own craft. I happen to think it's great.”

Behind you, Death crosses his arms, sporting an expression that falls flatter and flatter with every passing second. 'If this maker turns any redder, he'll explode.'

Oblivious to the horseman's inner monologue at his expense, Karn audibly gulps. “You do?”

Tutting, your grin widens. “Yeah, course I do. It killed that golem, didn't it?”

“Aye-” He laughs breathlessly, glancing over at the pile of rubble. “-Aye, it did.” From the ground, you watch his face go through several different expressions as he stares at it, working a tusk between his upper lip before he looks back at you and simply blurts, “Can I ask you a question?”

Death has to resist the urge to throw his head back and groan.

A little self conscious under his sudden, excited gaze, you rest your hands on your hips and shrug. “Okay, I guess?”

Once again, he seems to struggle through another couple of expressions, from ecstatic to nervous, doubtful and back again, until at last, he drops to one knee so heavily, you have to throw your arms out for balance when the ground shudders beneath your feet. “What are you? Exactly?”

Now it's your turn to be surprised. “Oh! Well, I'm...I'm just a human. You've never seen a human before?”  

“Ach! A human! Of course!” He thunks a hand against the side of his head. “That makes more sense, sorry.” Resting one forearm over his bent knee, the young maker gives you a slow once-over, starting at your boots and ending at the hair on top of your head. “No, I've never met a human, heard about you though. Probably should have connected the dots.”

“Yes, and your ignorance doesn't show. At all,” Death grumbles, at last electing to break up whatever odd little greeting is happening here. He steps up next to you, eyeing the maker boredly for a minute before declaring, “You're different than the others...” Then, leaning back and placing a hand on his cocked hip, he adds, “Less pleasant on the eyes, for one.”

You shoot the horseman an exasperated glare whereas the maker simply huffs through his nose, brow drawing together. Not wanting to lose face in front of the first human he's ever met, he retorts, “Feh! I could say no less for you.”

“Death,” you interject before someone decides to take real offence, “this is Karn. He made my sword!”

Death casts his calculating eyes up and down the giant and hums dismissively. “So I gathered.”

Karn plasters a grin back on his face as he pushes himself upright again and stretches his arms up towards the sky, biceps flexing imposingly. Peeking one eye open, he's put out to discover that you're too busy trying to stuff the sword back into its sheath to notice his impressive display.

Faltering for just a second, he quickly drops his arms, hoists the thick, leather belt up higher on his waist and clears his throat, effectively getting your attention. “Aye, you've probably heard folks around town calling me 'Pup,' or 'Lad.' But, uh...” He scratches his chin stubble and sends you a shy smile. “But I prefer my own name.”

'S'pecially the way you say it,' he thinks to himself.

“Pup it is then”

Karn blinks, then shrinks.

Sparing the smug horseman a dirty glare, he stuffs his hands under his armpits and shrugs. “As you will. Matters not to me.” The dark scowl falls away as soon as he catches your eye again. “So, what're you two doing here?”

“We took a wrong turn,” Death quips, “Now it seems we're stuck here with the rest of you.”

“No, I mean - what're you doing here, at the Cauldron? Didn't you hear? It fell to Corruption fair long ago.”

A fleck of burning ash flutters out of the sky to land on the horseman's shoulder. He watches the feeble embers flicker and die as they touch his cold skin before raising a hand and nonchalantly brushing it off. “I'll take my chances. Your elder seems to think that I'm the best hope you have of restoring the mountain's fire.”

“That's why I'm here!” Karn exclaims and taps his chest enthusiastically, “I came here for that self same purpose!”

“Really?” you chirp.

The young maker practically glows under the warmth of your impressed stare. Lifting his chin and hooking his thumbs into the backpack's straps, he sniffs, “Oh, aye. Figured I'd pop the cork, so to speak. You know, be the hero.”

“So why haven't you?”

“Whassat now?”

Karn falters, his focus moving back to the horseman, who blinks languidly up at him and repeats, “Why haven't you then?”

“Oh..I – er...Well, I..” He trails off into an awkward silence, painfully aware of your curious eyes peering up at him. “Well, I tried!” he insists eventually, “But the Cauldron is locked up well and tight, and the way through is swallowed by fire!”

Just then, Karn's ears perk back up and he sweeps a proper look over the horseman. “Say...You look capable enough. Perhaps you can find a way. I'll wait here with...with Y/n and guard the entrance.”

An explorer at heart, first and foremost, Karn's natural curiosity has been gnawing away at his belly from the moment he first laid eyes on you and he'd be lying if he said he hasn't been itching to learn as much as possible - although the prospect of spending time alone with you sets his heart thundering and causes the palms of his hands to grow slick with sweat. Still, this could be the perfect opportunity to-

“Oh, I'm going with Death.”

Now, as most people do, Karn would like to consider himself a fairly composed maker, definitely not the kind that chokes on their own spit and has to thump themselves in the chest several times while a radiant human and glowering horseman watch on.

Coughing and spluttering, he eventually manages to blurt, “You what?”

Casting him a bemused smile, you repeat, “I'm going with him.”

“Are you now?” the horseman muses beside you.

Your fists clench and flex for a moment, glancing tentatively between the Cauldron's ominous front doors and back to him several times until your mouth sets into a firm line and you give him a tight-lipped nod. “Yup.” To stay behind means to be still. To be still means to think and to think means to dwell....You dread the stillness, dreaded it more than you dread whatever lies in wait within the Cauldron.. It leaves you no protection from your ghosts. You'll have to face them eventually, of that you have no doubt. But not yet.

“Are you sure?” he presses, turning to face you, peering down into your darting eyes, his own unblinking. It suddenly occurs to you that you might be undergoing some kind of test. “I never said you couldn't change your mind,” he continues, tone unreadable.

At your back, the maker shifts noisily, worrying at his lower lip. 'No, no, no! We've only just met! Don't leave now!' In a ditch effort to sway your decision, he pipes up. “It's dangerous in there!” Inquisitively, you swivel your head around towards him as he stammers, “S'pecially for a little feller like you. You thought that last fight was bad? It – It'll be ten times worse inside!”

“I know, but I said I'd help Death.”

The horseman snorts. “It's far more likely you'll be a hinderance. Particularly,” he emphasizes, raising his voice, “if you go haring off on your own to tackle something that's almost triple your size.”

Wringing your hands, you swallow down on your fear, insisting, “I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

Skeptical, he quirks a brow and peers down at you. “So, you'll stay close?”

“Yes Death.”

“But not so close that you'll get in the way?”

“No Death.”

“And you'll do precisely what I say, when I say it?”

Squashing down the urge to groan and roll your eyes, you mumble, “Within reason.”

One of the horseman's eyelids gives a volatile twitch.

“I mean, yes Death.”

The stern Nephilim scrutinises you for another long moment. Finally, he uncrosses his arms and nods slowly, the hard edge vanishing from his tone. “Alright then.. Good.” Jerking his head for you to follow, he spins on a heel and marches for the square, stone doors set into the mountain, calling, “Because I do not want to have that conversation with the Old ones if I return to Tri Stone without you.”

A little taken aback that he’d conceded, you stare after him dumbly.

“You've already failed the first step!”

You jump, shaking yourself and hurrying to catch up whilst throwing Karn a tentative wave over your shoulder. “It was nice to meet you by the way! See you around?”

Karn, for his part, wants to scream.

Instead, he can only seem to stare helplessly at you as you jog further and further away from him. His hand raises of its own accord to reach out while his heart, mind and soul shriek at him to just snatch you from the horseman and retreat back to the safety of Tri Stone.

But he doesn't.

Because he's a fraud, too ashamed for wanting to remain outside where it's safer while you – a human –  willingly head inside, armed with nothing but the shoddy sword he crafted almost five hundred years ago.

Once you've crossed the long portcullis and made it to the entrance, Death throws the door open and ushers you through.

Quite abruptly, Karn's feet come unfastened from the ground and he finds himself stumbling several, heavy steps after you, thoughts of just going with you leaping to the forefront of reason. If you can go and try to help, then why can't he?

As he reaches the foot of the bridge however, the young maker suddenly lurches to a stop, another, unwelcome thought springing up and cutting through the rest.

He already has tried...

He'd gone in another dungeon with someone before; Alya and her brother, guided them through a place known as the Shattered Forge.

And in trying to 'help,' Karn had almost cost the twins their lives.

His hand drops to hang limply at his side, mouth twisting into a dejected grimace as he watches the doors slide shut in Death's wake, sealing you inside and leaving him alone in the courtyard.

Perhaps...it would be safer for everyone if he did remain behind.....

As usual...

----------------------------------------------

“That...is a big cork.”

“Very perceptive.”  

Standing in front of you, rising from the hard floor of the Cauldron like an oversized bath-plug, is the very obstacle that needs to be shifted if Death is to restore fire to the maker's forge. The 'cork,' as Karn had dubbed, is about the size of a small house, made entirely of thick, dark metal and shackled to the bale on top are the most impressive chains you've ever seen, bigger and wider than the ones that cargo ships drop to weigh anchor.

You gawk at a pair of immense weights hanging from the ceiling while Death scouts out the room, eyes landing on an unassuming door in the closest right hand corner.

”How're we ever gonna shift that?” you wonder aloud, “No way you're that strong.” Then, after you feel the horseman's terse stare hit the side of your head, you flatly point out, “Death, I refuse to believe you have the same upper body strength as a maker.”

Giving you his best 'offended' glower, he scoffs and shakes his head, starting for the door. “Be that as it may, I doubt the ancients intended for this ‘cork’ to be removed....manually..”

“What're you saying, there's a button somewhere that can do it for us?” you ask, hopeful.

“Perhaps. We just have to find it first..”

“The solution's never in the first room, is it?” Blowing out a sigh, you trail behind him through to the next room, sweat already beginning to pour down your forehead. “Whoo boy! It is hot!”

“Is it? And here I thought we'd found ourselves back in the Crowfather's realm..”

Suddenly, Death tenses at the feeling of your fingers brushing against his tricep, a soft gasp pushing your lips apart. “You might as well be, how're you still so cold!?”

Groaning, the horseman thinks back on the days where he could travel in and out of dungeons like this one without the sound of inane chatter filling the silence. Conversation and Death have never gone hand in hand, a fact you seem to be blatantly unaware of. As you remark upon how lucky he is not to be suffering in this stifling heat, he sighs, shoulders slumping. “This will take some getting used to...”

---------------------------------------------

For the better part of the next, Earth hour, you and the horseman traipse, traverse and fight through the Cauldron's depths. Well, Death does all of the fighting and most of the traversing whereas you handle the traipsing.

Vast, twisting corridors stretch from chamber to chamber, their ceilings caved in or crumbling to reveal the blue sky above, rays of sunlight falling in through the gaps. Tiny specks of volcanic ash flit around in the air, perpetually lifted by the warmth underfoot. Every now and again, in the more cavernous, lava-choked rooms, you hear the call of strange birds echo from the leafy foliage and vines growing in and along the roof. Sometimes, Dust even issues an answering caw from his various perches. Once or twice, he's hopped from Death's shoulder to yours, then from you to the head of a statue resembling a strangely familiar maker.

Thirst tickles at the back of your scratchy throat every time you swallow, though you push through it, knowing that while Death may be a perfectly adequate line of defence against the beasts of this dungeon, you can't afford to lose focus for a second. Not in here.

The air is thick with heat and it had taken nearly ten whole seconds for you to peel off your thick jumper and tie it around your waist. Clad in a skirt, black tank top and the boots Valus made, you pad after Death beneath a stone archway into a rectangular room that falls away on one side into a deep pit filled with broiling lava. Your path continues on the other side but so far as you can tell, there isn't a way across, unless you fancy trying to jump and grab one of the thick, rusted chains that hang from the ceiling high overhead and extend down, disappearing into the lava.

To the left, a strange type of what you assume is the local flora grows on the wall, bursting out of the stone work and your eye is caught by a spiked, black ball with sickly-green light pulsating from several, deep cracks running along its surface. “Hey, what's this?”

Death turns from where he'd leant over the side to peer into the river of lava and starts to ask what you're talking about when his body suddenly freezes. 

“Y/n!” he snaps, “Don't!-”

But it's too late. You've already pulled the otherworldly football from its nest of sticky webbing and glanced over at him. “Don't what?”

If he had any time to spare, Death would have smacked a hand over his mask.

In three seconds flat, he marches over, snatches the growth out of your hands, spins on his heel and pitches it across the gap, not a moment too soon. It soars in a graceful arc before sticking to a long, metal bar set against a round platform unindented from the newel post at the bottom of a stone staircase.

A beat passes in which you open your mouth to protest. Then -

'BOOM!'

The spiked ball hisses once before exploding in a flash of blinding light.

Death pivots his head around stiffly to glare at you and he raises his forefinger, pointing it warningly at your stunned expression. At that moment, a grinding sound echoes throughout the chamber and you both look across the gap to see that the metal bar that had suffered the brunt of the explosion is slowly sliding into the newel, shrieking in protest against the tight confines of the stone notch. It slots into place with an audible click, and seconds later, a steady rumble jerks you on your feet as the heavy chains begin to clank and creak, raising up out of the lava and pulling something heavy up with them. In no time, a long, blackened metal bridge lifts into view, fitting perfectly across the wide gap and screeching to to a noisy stop.

You glance over at Death, just in time to see his scowl darken. For a moment, thick, impenetrable silence hangs over the hallway, until a grin brightens your features. “Ha, ha! You can't be mad at me. I solved a puzzle!”

He grumbles something under his breath and stalks across the new bridge. “It wouldn't have been difficult to figure out. Your idiocy just beat me to it.”

Put out by the harsh term, your smile fades and you kick at a loose stone, sending it tumbling off the bridge into the lava below. Death gives you a sideways glance and heaves an exasperated sigh. “Just...don't go grabbing any more shadow bombs. Emphasis on the 'bomb' part.”

Nodding sheepishly, you reach the other side and find your attention immediately snatched by something else.

“What about that? Can I grab that?”

He follows your line of sight to a small table, tucked away in a dark corner behind the staircase, illuminated by a lonely wall-sconce. Resting on the slab of wood is a round object about the size of a bicycle wheel. It glitters prettily in the fire's glow and casts tiny freckles of light all along the wall. Before he can tell you to leave the mystery object, you've veered off towards it.

“Y/n, no. We cannot afford to keep stopping to investigate every piece of rubbish you find,” he gripes, huffing as he's promptly ignored.“Honestly, you're worse than Dust.”

He receives an objectionable hiss from the crow perched on a finial by the steps.

“What is this thing?” you murmur, grabbing a pair of handles sticking out on either side and heaving it into your arms. Though made entirely of a green metal, inlaid with a coppery trim, it's surprisingly light. “It...It's a platter!” you exclaim to a thoroughly uninterested horseman.

“Marvellous.”

“It is!” you insist, running a hand over the inside of the bowl, your warped reflection gazing back at you from a solid silver interior. Curious, you flip it over to look at the back as well. Intricate, golden patterns circle the outer rim and scribed in the centre is a pair of hammers, one crossed over the other.

“I..I think this might be Karn's.”

Pausing midway up a step, Death's face twists behind his mask. “How in the world did you come to that conclusion?”

“S'got hammers on it.” Keeping a tight grip on the golden handles, you trot up the stairs after him. 

Scoffing, the horseman continues the ascent. “Most makers have used a hammer at one point or another. It's crafter is probably long gone by now. Leave it.”

Instead, you hug it tighter to your chest. “I will not. What if it is Karn's?”

“So what if it is?”

“Well, he'd probably want it back! I know I would.”

Death's face refuses to drop its incredulous expression. He shakes his head and strolls off the top step into a huge, empty room. “You don't owe him anything.”  

“He saved me from that construct,” you point out.

“And then you saved him. So, you're even.”

“You ever think about doing nice things for people without expecting something in return?

“....Quiet.”

“I'm just saying - Mmph!”

Without warning, Death has spun around and pressed a gentle finger to your lips, eyes narrowed in concentration and head cocked, listening. Pulling a face at the proximity of his grimy wrist wrappings to your taste buds, you pull away and throw him a questioning glance. In a flash, his hand moves from your mouth to his scythes, drawing them and spinning around in a slow circle, head darting in every direction, searching for an unseen threat.

Unseen, but not unheard.

You can hear it now, a low, steady hum, growing louder and louder until the tiny pebbles at your feet begin to dance and jump, skittering across the ground. Heart in your throat, you stare at them, whimpering quietly, “Something's coming!”

He growls, hackles raised. “Something's already here.”

But where? The acoustics in the room throw any sound around sporadically, rendering it nearly impossible to pinpoint the exact origin of the odd humming. Keeping his back to you, the horseman strains his sensitive ears and grits his teeth.“We need to move towards the middle of the room. We're too close to the w-”

Without warning, an explosion of dust and stone detonates just metres away and you're thrown forwards, letting go of the platter and landing in a heap on your stomach, cracking your jaw painfully on the hard stone.

Over the ringing in your ears, from somewhere nearby yet strangely far away, you become aware of Death's gravelly voice repeating, “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

Coughing up a mouthful of dust and grit, you push yourself onto shaking elbows, rolling over with a strained grunt and blearily squinting up at the out-of-focus shadow towering over you. Another slow blink or two and your vision clears, revealing the source of the explosion.

What little moisture is left on your tongue instantly evaporates at the gruesome sight.

A colossal construct has burst out of the wall behind you. This one...this one is bigger, much bigger that the rest you've encountered so far. It's covered from the dark barbute helm on its bulky head to stumpy feet in jet black corruption which rises in thick, wobbling globules from its back, breaking off when the strands are pulled too thin and sinking again like the world's most sinister lava lamp.

Patches of moss grow all over it's body, between the cracks in the stone and the massive spikes jutting out from the shoulder pauldron, blunt and weathered from age. It has an arm held aloft threateningly, the entire forearm made up of a rigid sphere of solid rock where a hand should be. Thick prongs of corruption stick up all over the rough surface, reminding you of the medieval maces they keep in museums.  

The giant construct rumbles low and menacing before it rocks back on its heels, spreads its arms wide and bellows out a sound that could be a name if it weren't so warped and garbled. “GHARN!” Several corrupted tendrils roiling between 'Gharn's' joints peel away from the stone flesh and begin extending down towards you.

All of a sudden, a flash of grey and brown obscures the golem from view.

“D-Death!?”

You stare up at the horseman's sinewy back, pale skin stretched so taut over his vertebrae, you're surprised it hasn't split around the bone. He's dropped into a low crouch above you, one boot braced on either side of your knees and a scythe poised behind his back, ready and waiting to be brought forwards at a moment's notice. The construct groans, confused for a second as its dull intellect races to register the new opponent.

Slowly, Death stalks forward and circles around it, making sure the huge brute swings around as well, keeping it's 'gaze' fixed on him instead of you.

The tension is so tightly drawn, you could pluck a finger in mid air and hear a chord play. Then, just when it reaches snapping point, Death lunges.

Gharn flinches at his unexpected burst of speed but recovers almost immediately, throwing its mace-fist down into the space he'd occupied just milliseconds before and letting it spin like a buzz saw, grinding the floor up into rubble.

Death ducks beneath its arm and strafes behind the immense construct, forcing it to yank it's still spinning hand from the ground and make a tight turn, teetering on its struts. From behind, Death slashes at it, pulling an enraged bellow from the depths of its body and as it tries to land another devastating blow, he leaps right for it and slides between its legs, righting himself on the other side and carving his scythes across the width of its back again.

Belting out another infuriated roar, the golem heaves its bulk around. With impossible grace, Death jumps straight up into the air and gives its head a few, sharp strikes with his blades. To defend itself, it brings its arms up to cover its head, the corrupted tentacles on its shoulders screeching raggedly.

Dropping to the ground, Death spares a few, fatal second to turn to you, pointing towards a door at the far end of the room. “Go!” he orders, “Don't just stand there! Mo-”

He hadn't expected the golem to move so fast. Neither had you, to be honest, and you'd been looking right at it, saw it pull back one arm and thrust it at a startling velocity, connecting with the horseman's ribs and knocking him into the wall on the far side with a resounding 'smack!'

“DEATH!” you screech, a swell of terror pinching your voice while ‘Gharn’ marches after him.  

From across the room, Death's eyes flutter open and closed and he groans, glancing up a mere fraction too late.

The construct's fingers close around his skull, enveloping his entire head in its stone fist and lifting him up off his feet before it slams him into the wall again and again, even as his hands come up to scrabble at the immovable arm.

“Put him down!”

Either it doesn't hear your frantic shriek, or it simply doesn't care.

Sweaty, trembling fingers take hold of your sword but you pause. Against a monster that size, what good will a blade do? What about your gun?....No, even more ineffective...

Looking wildly around the room for something, anything else that could help, your eyes eventually settle on the discarded dish resting several metres to your right. Jaw set, you scramble over to it and snag one of the handles, lifting it into the air and grabbing a loose chunk of brick that had once been part of the wall in your other hand. Holding both in the air in in front of you, you will your legs to stop quivering, face contorted in abject fear. “I said, LEAVE HIM ALONE!”

Fuelled by panic, you swing the rock and platter together with all your might. The resonant clang produced by stone on metal rents the air asunder, loud as a gong, shrill as an alarm. It sets the teeth in your skull rattling and finally, finally draws the construct's attention away from Death. Sluggishly, almost leisurely, its head slowly swivels around to find you.

Corruption senses life, not from the body dangling from its fingers, but from the audacious little creature challenging it from the other side of the room.

Parasitic, discontented with its body of heavy boulders, it puppeteers the construct, dropping Death in an undignified heap on the ground and trundling in your direction.

You watch it come, blood roaring in your ears as tendrils of dark ooze stretch from its body, swaying hypnotically before they cluster together into one, thick tentacle.

The gentle sigh that slips out between your lips is resigned and quiet, worlds away from the shout that had preceded it.

The stone giant trudges to a lazy stop several feet from you, its head angled down, corruption sliding an little rivers along its bulky arms before lifting from the cold rock and stretching, reaching out towards you.

Holding the silver platter close to your chest, you gulp and take a single, stiff step back. On shaking limbs, you fight to remain as upright as possible, grinding out through clamped teeth, “I'm not afraid of you...”

A blatant lie. Not even a very good one.

The hatred pouring out of the putrid substance is as tangible as the stone it clings to. You can feel it. A thicker, wetter heat than the Cauldron's atmosphere. From this proximity, it sticks to your skin like a feverish sheen and invades your throat and nostrils with its stench of rotten meat.

And then....the fear, the ubiquitous dread....vanishes, like it had never been there at all.

A heavy weight droops over your mind and lays there, lazily swelling and bulging outward to push everything else aside. All that exists in these few moments is you and the Corruption.

Dimly, you have to wonder if you'll even be aware, if it'll hurt, if you'll hurt anyone else...

...If it would be better this way...

You don't even notice that your legs have stopped quaking, nor that you've lowered the metal dish, exposing your shivering heart. You are very tired. What if you just....L��et́ it̀ ͢h͢a̡p͝p̵e͝n̶?

You could just.....L̶et͡ me in

Yeah.

Yeah, why not?

Aren't yo̡ú t͟ir͟ed of f̵̶͡ig̢̛͏ht҉i͝n͏g̀͞?

The fog grows denser. Even the voice in your head sounds strange, as if it isn't your own anymore.

Out of nowhere, your brain explodes when a howl – deep and powerful – rips right through it, forcing you to drop the platter and clutch frantically at your ears, watching through squinted eyes as the Corruption recoils, flaring up above you and thrashing wildly through the air. With a pop, your mind abruptly clears and you let out a scream of your own, an influx of terror flooding back into your body. 'Where the Hell had that gone?'

Prying the hands out of your hair, you crane your neck back to look up at the construct and gasp.

Death has leapt up onto its back and in one, swift motion, he's hooked his scythes beneath its chin, braced his legs against the solid trapezius and pulled.

A sickening squelch curls your stomach when he wrenches the head clean off its neck and severs the corruption's connection along with it. The Construct begins to teeter backwards on its struts, so Death kicks off its back, somersaulting forwards to land expertly in front of you. He merely regards you, still as a statue whilst the rest of the giant golem collapses to the ground, its body crumbling now that corruption no longer holds its pieces together.

Only when the room settles, when the walls have stopped shaking and the booming vibrations have dissipated into the regular murmur of the volcano, do you dare risk meeting Death's irascible eyes.

He's angry, that much is obvious. But it's different from of anger he'd expressed outside with Karn. This anger is cold and dangerous, a jagged edged sword that he holds - not pointed out - but in.  

The horseman's chest doesn't move around rigid breaths like yours does, he doesn't blink or shudder from adrenaline. All he does is look at you and ponder. Oh, he's enraged, of course. He's livid at you for intervening....Yet there's something else mingled into the mix, something that reins in his temper and curbs it in another direction.

He hadn't expected the blasted construct to move so fast. He had gotten complacent, and it almost cost him dearly.

It's the same sensation he gets when he considers his little brother's predicament, of laying chained before the Charred Council and subjected to all manner of cruel punishments.

War can endure, he's tougher than the rest of them, but that doesn't stop Death from doing as older brothers often do. Not even the Reaper is an exception to that universal rule.

He worries – is worried - about a human.

The moment he places the familiar, uncomfortable prod at his gut, he squashes it down, letting his eyes slide shut at last. 'Three times,' he growls internally, 'Three times she's done that. Three times she's rushed to the defence of someone else, but failed to defend herself.'

Troubled, Death's eyebrows furrow even further, casting dark shadows over his luminous eyes. The first time had been on Earth, where she'd bolted into a horde of demons to help him – a stranger. However, when those same demons turned their attention to her, she froze.

Again, outside the Cauldron, a construct had been mere inches away from pulverising the jittery human, yet her feet remained stuck fast to the ground until that maker, Karn, saved her life. Then, as soon as she realised he was in trouble, she didn't hesitate to intercept his attacker.  

And here, moments ago, she drew Gharn away from him, even though it meant risking her life, a life that she then seemed ready to cast aside all too easily.

It's a pattern he recognises all too well, having walked a similar path himself. The path to self destruction.

'Survivor's guilt,' the Keeper of Oblivion had said to him once eons ago, mere months after he and his siblings had purged the Nephilim from existence once and for all. The wizened old maker had received a cutting retort for his observation, and a new, unsightly hold in his front door.

It took a full century before the horseman was ready to admit that the Keeper had been spot on.

Death has never once regretted what he did to the Nephilim. What happened was necessary. Necessity however, did not grant him immunity from guilt. And guilt is as far from regret as angels are from demons.

This mindset would need to be nipped in the bud if you're to stop almost getting yourself killed every five minutes. 'But how?' Challenging you about your behaviour now would only prove counterproductive. The Cauldron is neither the time, nor the place. And he is probably not the most qualified person to be confronting you to begin with. No, deft though he may be, you're in a frame of mind that even he's too heavy-handed to fix. As much as the proud horseman is loathe to admit it – he may have to consult with Eideard about this. Death barely suppresses a groan as he resigns himself to the long, uncomfortable conversation he'll be sure to have upon the return to Tri Stone.

Peeling his eyes open again, he catches your grimace, and frowns.

You're cowering - down and back - submissive, as though you're expecting him to lash out.

He supposes that's fair, given his initial reaction when you were attacked outside. He might have to blame that one on an eternity of being the eldest brother of four.

Willing his hackles back down to their rightful places on either side of his spine, Death expels a steadying breath and lowers himself onto one knee in front of you. Even at half his height, you barely stand a few inches taller than him.

Gradually, your grimace falls at the un-horseman-like motion, replaced by cautious curiosity that escalates after he murmurs, “Are you alright?”.

Uncertainty plaguing your expression, your eyes dart left and right before finding his again. “Y-yeah. It...it didn't touch me,” you utter, hugging your sides, “You're not angry?”

The skin under his eye sockets crinkles, moved by a hidden smirk. “Why would I be angry?”

“Beeecause you were before?” you cautiously point out.

Death blinks. Then, quite suddenly, he ducks his head low, shoulders quaking behind silent laughter.

A little affronted, your face twists into a frown. “What? What's so funny?”

“Ah, forgive me,” he chuckles, waving a pacifying hand through the air, “I just - ahem -That was quite endearing, you assumed I was angry? Because I raised my voice at you outside?”

“Isn't that what angry people do?”

“That wasn't anger, that was-” Death falters, jaw clacking shut around the word that almost escaped him. Clearing his throat, he instead veers the conversation in another direction. “You haven't seen me angry, girl. Not yet, at least.”

“Oh...” You bite your lip, focused on the ground. After another second, you raise your head again, some of the tension gone from your shoulders and tone. “Well...You let me know if that ever happens, okay? I want a good head start.”

Telltale smirk creeping back into place, the horseman nods,“I'll do that.”

Glancing back at Gharn, he gently adds, “By the way, good thinking with the dish. It was starting to get claustrophobic in there. That was rather brave, on your part.”

At his words, you perk up. “It...It was?”

Hands twitching sporadically, Death begins to reach out for your arm only to hesitate halfway there. Then, clearing his throat, he draws it back, fingers curling in on themselves as he drops them across his bent knee instead. Whatever tenderness had been present in his tone is promptly flushed by a gruff cough as he pushes himself back onto his feet. “Yes. Brave - but it was also foolish. You're only lucky that my recovery time is so impeccable.”

“Yeah,” you hastily agree, “Yeah, I guess I am...Thanks, Death.”

Humphing, he spins about face and makes for the door, though not without gently murmuring over his shoulder, “Thank you, Y/n.” Just like that, his regular tone returns, gruff and business as usual. “Now come. We should move on before any other surprises decide to burst through the wall.”

In higher spirits, you pat straighten up, pat down your skirt and jog after him. “Right, good pla- Oh! Hold on a sec!”

Death throws a cursory glance around and finds you back-peddle a ways, bend down to pick up the discarded platter and brush it free of stone chips. “Okay, got it!” you chirp and scamper back towards him, prize in hand.

“Still keeping that thing are you?” he remarks as you fall into step on his left.

“Yep. If it weren't for this thing doubling as an excellent gong, that construct would never have let you go.”

You pass underneath the low, door frame into a grand, ruinous hallway. Urns, pots and ceramic vases lay scattered all along the sides. Death places a hand on his chest and splays his fingers wide in mock surprise. “The dish made that sound!? I thought that jarring noise came out of your mouth!”

-------------------------

The two of you continue walking down the corridor in companionable silence for a while.

Something appears to have shifted out from between the two of you. Just a small thing, a sort of wall that had been thrown up haphazardly upon meeting each other. Oddly enough, you don't feel quite so alone walking next to the Grim Reaper anymore.

Unbeknownst to you, his piercing gaze has turned subtly to one side, roving up and down your figure before it flicks forwards again.

Perhaps it was just Death's imagination, but in that rapid glance, he would swear he noticed you walking a little straighter, steps a little longer and surer, and beneath his bone mask, the horseman's lips stretch a little wider.

After a few more minutes, you step through another doorway and emerge out into another high-walled chamber, finding yourselves standing on an overlook, affording you an impressive view of the floor below. Meanwhile, sitting in the middle of the overlook, on a raised dais surrounded by circular, crumbling steps, is a sturdy capstan winch, set upright into the stone.

“Hey!” you suddenly pipe up, springing over to the dais and round the small staircase, skidding to a halt before the drop off. Leaning over and blowing out a shrill whistle, you swipe a hand through the sweat gathered on your head. “There's the cork!” Indeed, stretched out before you is the entrance to the Cauldron, and the colossal plug keeping the Fire of the Mountain under a tight lid. From up here, you can see steam built up under pressure escaping through the tiniest gaps in the metalwork. “All that work and we end up back to square one? Boo.”

On the other hand, Death is busy casting his eyes over the dais and humming thoughtfully. “Perhaps not. Look there.” He rubs at his mask's chin. “I think this might be the solution to our problem.”

Spinning about, you follow his line of sight and smirk. “Famous last words,” you pant, stretching out your back and wincing at a series of loud pops and cracks following the motion. “You said that about the last lever.”

Turning his mask to give you an uppity glance, he promptly scoffs, “Yes, well when I'm wrong, it's never twice in the same day.”

The sound of your stifled snort reaches his ears, no matter how quickly and firmly you slap a hand over your mouth to disguise it.

Grumbling halfheartedly under his breath, he stalks up the stairs and stops to stroke a palm over the winch's handle. “Perhaps I should let you do the honours?”

“I mean....I'll try if you want me to. Wouldn't want to steal your thunder though.”

“Of course not,” he rumbles, getting into position.

Bracing his hands on the horizontal lever, he gives it a shove to get it moving. At first, the metal cog wheels screech objectionably, fused to each other under years of rust but with another, firm push, they bow under the horseman's might and finally begin to turn. You watch, spellbound as he throws his whole body into turning it, leant forwards, arms tense and steady on the bar, he digs his toes into the ground with every step, forcing the winch to turn in a tight, concise circle around its pivot.

There's a loud clang behind you, and upon whirling about, you realise that the two monumental weights that dangle from the ceiling above have begun to gradually lower as the chains connected to the plug raise higher, pulled taut by their burden.  

Death's movements come to a jarring halt once the weights hit the ground and shoot resonant tremors throughout the whole chamber. He stands, swiping his bandaged hands together and makes his way down the steps to watch next to you as the 'cork' gives an almighty groan, and then, it shifts, twisting a foot or so to the right before sluggishly lifting up and out of the hole it had been slotted into, tugged free by the gargantuan chains.

“You did it!” Bouncing on your toes, you point excitedly down into the pit that slowly fills with molten lava and pours down a carved, stone trench, disappearing underneath the Cauldron's front entrance and no doubt flowing its way through a subterranean tunnel into town.

Your shoulder is unexpectedly bumped by the horseman's elbow. “I think you participated just enough to consolidate this a 'we' situation.”  

“Seriously?” you ask, turning an owlish stare to his mask, “I helped?”

Cocking his head, Death makes a big show of considering his answer while you watch, that dull glimmer of hope refusing to die out. Eventually, he looks at you again, holds up a hand and curls his thumb and forefinger together until the pads are almost touching. “Just barely.”

The grin that breaks like sunshine across your face is so immeasurably wide, he nearly tells you to stop it, lest you hurt yourself.

Instead, he rolls his eyes and places his knuckles on the base of your spine, giving you another nudge towards a door on the far side of the overlook. “Now don't go getting too cocksure. You're still as breakable as a porcelain doll.”

Even his dig at your fragility can't quite extinguish the tiny flutter of elation in your stomach. It won't last, of course. You're sadly aware of that. So you plan on riding the precious feeling for as long as you possibly can.

With your hands still clasped safely around the silver and gold platter's handles, you mosey alongside the horseman, glad to finally be leaving the oppressive heat.

[raeliyah]

Exalted Secret Santa 2017 Character Journal

Three options this year! First, snippets, with full descriptions, reference pictures, and links under the cut. Anon-asks should be enabled so feel free to ask me anything if you need more info!

V’Neef Pyrrhus, called Lightbringer Zenith Caste Solar Exalt of the Blessed Isle; Lama of the Immaculate Order; Master of Path of the Arbiter Style; zen paladin of the Five Virtues; reluctant warrior; Oathbound; husband and father.  Caleb “Wraithshot” Raith Dawn Caste Solar Exalt of the South, longrider lawman, Righteous Devil, Badlands Gentleman, giant flirt Lysistrata Starborn, the Rising Cobra Chosen of Battles Sidereal Exalt, One of the Seven Scarlet Veils, bearer of the Tsunami of Leaping Stars and Monsoon Sunrise, shameless Chooser of the Slain who forges her own path.  ~Lys has no Art of her yet~

V’neef Pyrrhus, called Lightbringer

Zenith-Caste Solar Exalt, Martial Artist/Scholar

Gallery of Previous Art of Pyrrhus

Pinterest Inspiration Board

Physical Description:

Pyrrhus is taller, at 6′3″, broadly shouldered and well-muscled. He’s a superb martial artist and athlete; it shows in his build and posture. He can do stuff like This 

He’s in his late 40s/early 50s but looks about ten years younger, if not more, since he was Exalted in his late 30s.

He wears his white blond-to-gold-to-red hair in a mane-like style, shaved on both sides of his head but long in a wide stripe down the middle of his head from forehead to nape. It’s currently cut short, the longest strands just hitting the tops of his shoulders.

It’s either constrained in a Sokka-style ponytail at the back of his head or braided down to the nape of his neck. (If he’s having a really bad day it hangs loose and bedraggled). (See Pinterest Inspiration Board for more examples)

His eyes are medium-blue like bleached indigo.

Pyrrhus is from the Blessed Isle, and so has the olive-y southern Mediterranean complexion common there, with an undertone of ruddy bronze (it was expected he would exalt as a fire-aspect and they tend to very fiery complexions; he didn’t).

Here is a range of inspiration/examples from the Humanae project:

(7515-C) (71-4 C) (67-4 C) (64-5 C) (58-5 C)

I usually describe his face as a cross between Nikolaj Coster-Waldau (Jamie Lannister) and Collin Chou (the Seraph, Matrix series) - or Godfrey Gao.

Linked gallery, above, are the only drawings of him I’ve managed I’m partway happy with.

References for Godfrey Gao (img 1 - Google Image Search)

He’s got a Resting-Sad-Face, in that his neutral face looks pretty broody or sadly contemplative, mostly due to the natural curve of his eyelids and brows.

Pyrrhus has a set of orichalcum tattoos (actual metal embedded in his skin but is ‘living’ and moves with him) - a line of script in High Realm set between two enclosing lines (see here for script/lines reference) - looping from one shoulder, down his chest to the top of his sternum, up to the other shoulder, and across his back in the same fashion. It lays on him like a chain of office.

There’s an old burn scar/brand on his sternum just below the tattoo which looks like an eight rayed zierscheibe. His forearms and lower legs are covered in old, faded tiny white linear scars, nearly invisible. On his back, from knee to neck, are lash scars. They are criss-crossing wide white lines, faded but still visible, from old torture. The only reason any of the scars are even still visible is that they were inflicted with Necrotic-essence-fueled weapons 

Clothing:

Pyrrhus can usually be found wearing the layered undyed robes of an immaculate monk even though he’s on “Retreat”/sabbatical, with a red dragon-embroidered obi/sash knotted on one hip, and sturdy boots good for both walking and riding. When he is training, he goes barefoot and shirtless.

But really, have fun with clothing design! Make something up!  Anything that looks like it’s from Avatar:tLA (or LoK) or vaguely Jedi or Asian-themed is pretty good; he tends towards simpler styles and solid, muted colors. He does have to attend official and ceremonial functions however, so fancier clothing does exist in his wardrobe. His wife, Angeline, is much more fashion conscious than he is, and so also makes sure he has more elaborate garb as well.  

He can summon Arbiter armor made of Essence/hard light when he needs to; it is made following the pattern of scale maille, but looks closer to koi, snake, or dragon scales than true historical scale maille. It’s translucent and golden, and fits close to his skin and clothing. The plates of the armor are bigger where he doesn’t need as much flexibility, smaller on the joints. They’re sleek and clean-looking. Being magical, the armor doesn’t actually need to follow physical limitations or practicality concerns, but they’re made from Pyrrhus’ will and intentions, so they are as practical as he is. He can also summon a pair of Chinese-style slightly curved dao swords of the same translucent golden hard light.

Accessories:

He sometimes wears a dragon-headed torc of red & gold metal and/or a masculine-looking ear-cuff of orichalcum wire and fire agate. Both are magical artifacts.

The torc allows him to emulate a Fire-Aspect’s anima, both on demand and transmuting the lower overflows of his own anima. (Mechanically, anything up to 10-mote peripheral usage will transmute to a Fire-Aspect anima. Beyond that it’s regular Solar bonfires).

The ear-cuff was a gift from a fellow Solar, and allows subvocal communications with wearers of other linked ear-cuff artifacts within a short range (thirty miles). 

In non-magical accessories, he often has a set of stone mala prayer beads, usually looped around his wrist.

Anima:  

Pyrrhus’ anima banner is a charred, sooty, raggedy-plumaged phoenix, with fire showing underneath the black, like magma with a cooled broken crust. It shadows or echoes his movements, wing to arm, head to head, etc. Before he went into the Underworld the phoenix was brilliantly fire-colored and impeccably feathered. Both versions are translucent, ghostly gold-tinted.

Full Description Including Personality, History, Fanfic and Character Playlists Here.

Caleb “Wraithshot” Raith

Dawn Caste Solar Exalt

Caleb’s Pinterest Inspiration Board

Caleb’s easy. Think of every western trope and smash them all together. He’s a cowboy bounty hunter; a self-proclaimed lawman in a land where there is no law, riding circuit on a handful of towns in the South he considers his and protecting them from whatever evils lurk in the desert.

Physical Description:

Caleb stands at 5′11″ and is on the leaner side at ~185 lbs. He’s fit, like a brawler (been in significantly more than his fair share of bar fights) or a ranch hand - someone who works at hard physical labor most days.

Caleb looks like he’s in his early 30s

Being the son of Northern immigrants, Caleb’s complexion is mostly pale, a reddish-burned tan anywhere the sun would shine - arms to the elbows, back of the neck, face mostly.

He’s also freckly across his face, shoulders and upper back, mostly from sun.

His eyes are clear honey-colored brown, more gold towards the pupil from the influence of exaltation.

Hair is black at the roots, growing out into sun-streaked brownish blond. He usually keeps it cut pretty short but if it goes too long without a trim it gets curlier. He likes a clean-shaven face but given his lifestyle he’s pretty much always got a day or three of scruff.

Caleb… basically looks like Chris Pratt. 

He’s always got a smile of some stripe - warm, mischievous, leering, insincerely-wide - something.

He’s also very mouthy, and usually has something to chew on, whether it’s a piece of straw, a match, a toothpick, a cigarette (50% chance of it actually being lit), a twig - something. He’s never met a lollipop or chewing gum but he would love them.

Caleb dresses in layers - shirt sleeves, a vest/waistcoat, and either a faded blue or red serape tossed over his shoulders or a brown longcoat. Pants are either canvas or faded denim, and boots are less cowboy-style and more combat- or motorcycle style with a heel for riding. He does wear spurs, but they’re blunted. He’s usually covered in trail dust and sweat, sometimes blood, despite efforts at cleanliness. Feel free to embellish the standard Cowboy gear with arabesque/middle eastern ornamentation, because it is Exalted…

He always carries two modified flame pieces (six-shooters… he’s got six-shooters) on his hips, and the belt’s buckle is large and obnoxious, mostly because he keeps a couple extra rounds of ammunition within it. He also has an artifact rifle (based on a Winchester M1873; lever action, but otherwise unspecified) named Medicine Man that is either slung across his back or is in a sheath on his horse’s saddle. He makes his own ammo for all his weapons. He is a student of Righteous Devil Style, having mastered up to the form charms, but his sifu disappeared and he’s not found another, nor is he skilled enough to pick it up without tutelage.

He does own chaps but whether or not he wears them on any given day depends on how hot it is and how much hard riding he’s anticipating. He has a hat he’s rather fond of, but it’s not anything truly special. 

There may or may not be a bandana around his neck/on his person at any given moment, and he often wears a chip of blue crystal with an antelope petroglyph etched on it around his neck on a leather cord. It’s a token from his friend, a springs goddess named Rivela, and a reminder of a partner he lost.

He rides a buckskin warhorse named Dirt who he pretends not to be particularly attached to, but in fact he really really is. Dirt is his horse. Dirt adores him and is always trying to steal his hat. Dirt will also steal anyone else’s hat nearby, but he prefers Caleb’s.

Anima: Caleb’s anima banner is a hailstorm of bright burning metal, like large forge sparks, raining down on him and even appear to bounce off his skin and clothing. Golden smoke and flame rise from the ground at his feet wherever the sparks fall.

Full Description including Personality, History, Art, and links to Fic and Character Playlist Here.

Lysistrata Starborn, the Rising Cobra

Chosen of Battles, Sidereal Exalt

Lysistrata was one of the many Sidereals whose Exaltations slipped through the cracks, and began her career as a Chosen of Battles by engineering a successful slave revolt in a Firedust mine in the deep South. She subscribes to no factions, believing such nonsense to distract from the true job of Sidereals.

Lysistrata’s Pinterest Inspiration Board Lysistrata’s Character Playlist

Physical Description:

Lysistrata is slightly below average height and well-proportioned, at about 5'5" and 140lbs. She is an excellent martial artist (Dreaming Pearl Courtesan Stylist) and strong for her size. 

She is tanned but not dark, definitely lighter than most Southern natives, with shining black hair that reaches her ankles when left loose and arched brows. She could have walked straight from a bollywood film.

About that hair. She usually keeps it piled on her head in complicated braids and loops, secured by stiletto daggers and other small weapons that, coincidentally, look like beautiful hair sticks and ornaments. Her Fellowship jokes that one can tell how bad a fight was by how flat her hair is after, as she pulls more and more sharp things out of it.

Her eyes are a shade of red so dark they might as well be black, shining with scarlet highlights in bright light: like looking into a glass of merlot wine. She uses dramatic eyeshadow (see Pinterest board) and cosmetics.

Lysistrata is busty and curvy enough to attract any number of eyes, and uses her attractiveness as a weapon when it suits her. 

Lysistrata is known for wearing red silk gowns - always. Sometimes it’s in heavily brocaded Chinese style, sometimes in flowing saris, but always always scarlet. She loves jewelry and the finer things in life. 

She has a firesnake familiar - a cobra-like snake of clear living crystal- who helped her in the battle that granted her Exaltation. 

Lysistrata is, much like her Greek namesake, a calculating soul, using exalts and mortals alike as tools to further her (the Maidens’) goals. This is not to say that she is not passionless or devoid of emotion, merely that her priorities are a little skewed. She has her favored weapons in steel and Exalt alike (...like Caleb). 

She dons identities and emotions as easily as clothing and is an excellent actress. She is confident to the point of arrogance, shameless, and cares exactly nil for what other people think or expect of her, so long as the Maidens are pleased, and takes perverse pleasure in occasionally flustering people and flaunting societal expectations. 

She has two main “identities”. 

The first as the founder and one of the Scarlet Veils, a bower of very expensive, exclusive courtesans who cater to the military and other elite of the South. Lysistrata, along with six hand-picked mortal women who could be her twins (Nikostrata, Androstrata, Sophiastrata, Demostrata, Philostrata, and Xenostrata), use the group to influence the outcomes of battles and conflicts in the region by influencing the key players. Sometimes it’s by pampering and relaxing a general or soldier so they do their best, and sometimes it’s by seducing and bewitching a politician or warlord until they think of nothing but the Veils, bumbling their job and losing a conflict. 

The other Destiny, the Rising Cobra, is a mysterious figure who shows up as a harbinger of victory. Lysistrata used this Destiny the least, feeling it too conspicuous. As the Cobra, Lysistrata wears a set of red-enameled star metal Celestial Power Armor (Monsoon Sunrise) and wields a dual-bladed star metal artifact glaive (Tsunami of Leaping Stars), and fights directly in support of the side she wishes to win. Often just the sight of the armor is enough to turn the tide, as she’s turned the Cobra into something of a mythological figure in her domain.

Both these artifacts were made late in the Primordial War from the remains of forgotten gods who, hand in hand, sacrificed themselves in a bid to turn the tide of a battle. It worked, and the Sidereal who at the time bore Lysistrata’s exaltation, honored their memory by creating the artifacts to continue in their preservation of Creation. 

Image below is inspiration. 

[healthnotion]

Never Underestimate the Bolo Tie, Baby

My family has roots in New Mexico going back for centuries. I have ancestors on my dad’s side of the family that immigrated to New Mexico from Spain back in the 1600s when the area was that country’s colony. Lots of Sanchez’s and Chavez’s in my lineage. Other ancestors of mine from Switzerland, France, and Nova Scotia also settled in New Mexico in the 19th and early 20th centuries.

My mom’s parents transplanted to Albuquerque when my grandfather took the position of Regional Forester of the Southwestern Region of the U.S. Forest Service. They lived there for over 30 years.

Needless to say, I spent a lot of my childhood in New Mexico. I love that state. The scenery, the smells, the food (green chili on all the things!), and the art. The state’s tagline is quite apt: it is indeed the land of enchantment.

Grandpa Hurst in one of his signature bolo ties.

One thing I noticed on my visits to New Mexico is that a good number of residents sport bolo ties. My Grandpa Hurst regularly rocked one himself and amassed an extensive collection of them over the course of his career as an Albuquerque-based forester. There’s a reason for the prevalence of bolo ties in New Mexico: it’s the state’s official neckwear. As it is in Arizona, too. American Indians living all over the desert Southwest are famous for making and wearing bolo ties.

For most of my life, I associated this unique type of neckwear with old men, New Mexican politicians, and the 1980s. Even though as an Okie the bolo tie isn’t foreign to my state, I never thought I’d personally sport one.

That all changed at my grandfather’s funeral.

When we laid him to rest, each of his grandsons who served as pallbearers sported one of Grandpa’s old bolo ties.

I picked one from his collection that stuck out to me. It’s a silver keystone with an oval piece of turquoise inlaid in it. Simple, but distinguished.

I was wearing a pair of dark jeans, cowboy boots, white shirt, and brown sport coat. It’s a getup my grandpa would have worn. Rugged, yet refined.

I put the bolo tie on and gave myself a look in the mirror. I was expecting to feel awkward and self-conscious wearing it, but to my pleasant surprise, I thought it actually looked quite sharp on me.

“With that mustache and bolo tie, you look like a character from a Cormac McCarthy novel,” said one of my cousins. Since I’m a fan of McCarthy’s Border Trilogy, that was a nice compliment indeed.

When I got home, I put Grandpa’s bolo tie away in my treasure box. I had no intention of ever wearing it again because young guys just don’t wear bolo ties.

But one Sunday, a few weeks after his funeral, I was putting on my charcoal suit for church and reaching for my regular necktie, when the thought came to me: “Wear Grandpa’s bolo tie.”

I pulled it out of my treasure box and put it on. I thought it wouldn’t look very good with a traditional grey business suit.

“Well I’ll be damned,” I thought, echoing one of my grandfather’s catchphrases as I looked in the mirror. “This is a good look. A great look.”

I walked out to the kitchen to get Kate’s opinion. I thought she’d giggle and think that I looked dorky or was trying to be ironic.

“That looks way, way better than I thought it would,” she said.

The Mrs. was sold on the bolo tie too.

At church, I got all sorts of compliments from folks. And it gave me a chance to talk to them about my grandpa. The bolo tie was a big hit.

Since that day, the bolo tie has become a regular part of my wardrobe. They’re a great way for me to express my New Mexican heritage and remember my grandfather, and they definitely set me apart from the pack. Nothing makes a man stand out like wearing a piece of braided leather string held together by a piece of metal. It’s a statement piece, par excellence.

The bolo tie is not to be underestimated, my friends, and I think it’s due a comeback.

If you’ve been thinking about sporting one, but always felt a bit sheepish about it or weren’t sure how to do it without looking like you’re attending a Western or 1980s-themed party, consider this your guide to the way of the bolo.

A Bolo Tie By Any Other Name Is Still a Bolo Tie

A bolo tie consists of a braided leather cord with silver or metal tips. The cord is threaded through a slide or clasp made of metal, wood, or beads. The clasp is typically decorated or made in the shape of Western designs and motifs like bears, thunderbirds, horses, and cattle skulls. The clasps are often inlaid with turquoise or other precious stones. Some are embellished with Indian beading.

Bolo ties go by different names. Bola tie, cowboy tie, and string tie have all been used interchangeably. As long as it’s a braided cord clasped together and worn like a tie, it’s a bolo tie.

The History of the Bolo Tie

The exact origins of the bolo tie have been obscured by the desert sands of the American Southwest. Some historians say it was inspired by bandanas that Zuni and Navajo Indians wore around their neck and kept clasped together with a silver scarf slide. Someone got the idea to substitute a piece of a leather string for the fabric and boom! The bolo tie was born.

Historian Bill Krammer literally wrote the book on bolo ties: Bola Tie: New Symbol of the West. According to him, the origins of the bolo tie can be traced back to a serendipitous moment Arizona silversmith Victor E. Cedarstaff experienced while chasing wild horses in the 1940s. While on the chase, Cedarstaff’s silver-clasped hatband slipped off, causing his hat to fly away. He salvaged his hatband and slipped it over his neck for safekeeping. His companeros noticed and complimented his new “tie.” The rest is southwestern style history.

Cedarstaff created a line of ties inspired by the incident. He braided leather, placed silver tips on the ends to keep them from fraying, and then joined the strands with a turquoise stone to be used as an adjustable clasp. He applied for a patent, calling his creation the bola tie, named after the boleadoras cords used by Argentinian cowboys.

While the exact origin of the bolo tie is uncertain, we do know it indeed emerged in the American Southwest sometime during the 1940s. It’s served as an artistic medium for American Indian artists and Southwestern silversmiths ever since.

Bolo ties became Western style staples during the 1950s and 1960s. Businessmen and politicians living in the Southwest wore bolo ties to work in lieu of traditional neckties.  

The bolo tie jumped the pond to the United Kingdom in the 1950s and became a favorite style accessory among “Teddy Boys.”

The Boss got in on the 80s bolo tie trend, rocking it on the cover of his 1987 album.

During the 1980s, the bolo tie became a nationwide fad in the United States thanks to rockabilly revivalists like Brian Setzer and the Stray Cats, and New Wave artists who wore them in music videos on newly minted MTV. Bolo ties could also be seen around the necks of several television and movie celebrities during this time. For example, before he was the nerdy dad in Two and a Half Men, Jon Cryer was a hot 1980s movie icon thanks to his breakout role as bolo tie-wearing Duckie Dale in Pretty In Pink.

Like most things during the 1980s, the bolo tie was worn in excess and soon became a tired fad. During the 1990s and 2000s, it went back to being a style piece worn mainly by cowboys and Indians living in the American Southwest.

But in recent years, the bolo tie has been popping up again. San Diego Chargers QB Philip Rivers caused a stir and bolo tie shortage in San Diego when he started wearing them to press conferences. Bruno Mars is a fan of the bolo tie. Hell, even Snoop Dog will rock a quasi-bolo every now and then.

Where to Get Bolo Ties

Of course famous photographer Ansel Adam wore a bolo tie — the guy had an eye for aesthetics.

Bolo ties come in a wide range of prices, from a few bucks to a few thousand dollars.

If you’re just stepping your toes into the world of bolo ties and don’t want to spend too much money, thrift stores and eBay are your friends. There are tons of affordable, vintage bolo ties there. What I think happens is some old man who had a considerable collection of bolo ties dies. None of his kids or grandkids want them, so they get sold in an estate sale or donated to Goodwill.

The bolo ties you find online or at thrift stores will be a mixed bag. Some will have authentic turquoise made by Indian artists and craftsmen, while others will be Made in China pieces from the 1980s bolo tie craze. At this point, don’t worry about the authenticity, just buy the ones you like.

You can also find new bolo ties at most Western clothing stores in your area. These will be a mixture of handcrafted and mass-produced ties.

You may find that your bolo tie itch has been scratched by these affordable ties. But should you catch the bolo tie bug and want something much more primo, you’ll need to make a trip to the American Southwest where you’ll find craftsmen who create these ties as real works of art. They hand shape and hand pound the silver for the clasp as well as use authentic turquoise from the area. Instead of silver, some make clasps from intricate weaving and beading. You’ll find both new and vintage pieces made by famous artists in most jewelry stores in the Southwest. Expect to pay a few hundred to a few thousand dollars for these pieces.

How to Wear a Bolo Tie

So you’ve got your bolo tie. How do you wear it so it actually looks good? Here are a few tips:

Own it. Bolo ties are controversial. They’re like bow ties or seersucker suits: People either love them or hate them. So if you’re going to wear a bolo tie, you got to own it — people’s opinions be damned. If you look embarrassed or sheepish wearing a bolo tie, it’s just going to look goofy on you. Wear it boldly!

Consider your geography. Bolo ties are an American Southwest style staple, and are associated with cowboys, Indians, industries like ranching, oil, and gas, and more rural, frontier areas. If you have a connection to one or more of those things, the bolo tie will look more natural around your neck.

If you live east of the Mississippi and don’t have these connections, the bolo tie will look more out of place.

Westerners have a lot more freedom to wear bolo ties on a regular basis and even at formal occasions like weddings and funerals. If you want to sport a bolo tie on the regular, take advantage of that liberty.

Easterners are likely limited to wearing a bolo tie to a club or a night out on the town where being a bit fashion forward and breaking the style rules are accepted. Even then, unless you have some sort of connection to the American West, the tie will likely come off as ironic rather than sincere.

Wear with Western or buttoned-down shirts. Because of their rugged and casual appearance, bolo ties are best matched with a more casual dress shirt like a Western dress shirt or any shirt with a buttoned down collar like an oxford or denim shirt. Add a sport coat with some texture and you’ve got a real sharp look.

Some folks have taken to wearing bolo ties like a necklace, sporting them with t-shirts. In my opinion, this strays too far from the bolo tie’s classic Western roots and just looks weird. Stick with shirts that have a collar.

Wear it like a regular necktie for a more formal look. The bolo tie was originally made to be worn exactly like a necktie. Button all the buttons on the front of your shirt, including the top collar button, and then slide the clasp all the way to the top of your neck. Button down the collars to your shirt.

Keepin’ it loose.

Wear it looser for a more casual look. If you’re pairing the bolo with a more casual get-up, unbutton the top button of your shirt and wear the bolo a bit more loosely around your neck.

Wear it with a suit, if you wish. Can you wear a bolo tie with a suit? You bet. It takes some chutzpah to do so though, because of the casual nature of the bolo tie. You don’t need to pair a special Western suit with the bolo. You can wear one with a traditional suit that you already have. Just wear a buttoned-down oxford, and you’re good to go. A bolo would look really weird with a spread collar.

My go-to look for the bolo tie: A pair of dark denim jeans, white button-down oxford, a brown sport coat, and a pair of cowboy boots. Simple. Classic. And the perfect combination of rugged and refined.

That’s what I like. Experiment to find what works for you. And never underestimate the bolo tie, baby.

The post Never Underestimate the Bolo Tie, Baby appeared first on The Art of Manliness.

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[designateddick]

Sharanja's History

   A sage human druid of fifty-five years lived in the forest near the western coast of the continent. Through her lifetime, her travels and findings brought her great joy. During visits to foreign lands, she gained an insatiable lust for knowledge and had even adopted a student and son, the dragonborn Båretav-Isbreen Gloenne, in hopes that she may come to better understand their race. They went on countless exploits and adventures together, as mother and son, until she grew weary and bored of them. She began to shut in on herself, turning to studying abandoned sciences and alchemy until she began unspeakable experiments.

     After isolating herself from the rest of humanity, she bred half-monsters through illegal mixtures of magic and unknown science. Thanks to her experience and strength, one of her expeditions had landed her a hefty prize; the sex of a female titan. Though trial after trial she failed, she continued to steal what she could from her son and attempted to breed the two until, somehow, she came to find a single, translucent egg in the midst of her experimenting. The egg was roughly the size of a two-year-old human, and the membranes within were clearly visible; it was as though the egg were made of glass.

    She looked on at the still egg, watching it grow slightly more opaque as time marched ever forward. She began wrapping the egg in an attempt to shelter it from light, since its transparency offered no such protections. From this egg, on the sage's sixty-sixth birthday, hatched Sharanja. She was small, toddling, and appeared totally gray. She looked strikingly human at first, with expressive white eyes and tiny, smooth scales resembling skin. A small horn sat just above and between her two eerie eyes, and her ears fanned out and up decoratively, a semi-opaque membrane webbing the three-pronged organ protruding from either side of her head. Gloenne,  disgusted and appalled upon seeing this half-breed, retaliated against his mother. He intended to steal away and kill the child (if she could be called that), so he scooped her up and fled from the deranged woman who had adopted him.

    Once he had put sufficient distance between them, he set down the hatchling and huffed. She looked up at him with her innocent eyes, and though he felt disgusted, he was enamored by her. She was strangely appealing, emanating a sense of helplessness. He felt strongly connected to her, and so he could not kill her. She was his daughter, and his knowledge of their shared blood - no matter the way it came to pass - weighed heavy on him. She was a member of his clan. He prayed and prayed for a relief from this duty, this burden of a child. And [Tiamat] graced him with an answer.

    A towering dragon was raiding a nearby village, and Gloenne could hear the screams echo through the forest. He spotted smoke and grabbed up the hatchling once more, running towards the source of the sounds and the sour stench. There, decimating the town, was a glittering black dragon. Her giant paws upheaved loads of dirt and debris, burying the buildings and people beneath it. He sighed as he watched, admiring his heritage. This was a chromatic dragon, just as his lineage.

    He approached this dragon and made her an offer; a prized bag of large jewels he had accumulated through travels with his mother, and this wicked infant. She merrily accepted. Gloenne could feel his heart clench with a fear and sadness for his offspring. Guilt outweighed them, though. He turned and plodded away from them, never to meet them again.

    And so Sharanja was scooped up by the black dragon and flown to the plains of the northeast. Out of plains rose a mountain range dotted with coniferous trees. A valley in these mountains led to a deep cavern system, and this is where the black dragon, Krereefah, made her home with her mate, the green dragon Lo’ohletai. Together, they were the bane of the northeastern plains. Not many risked crossing their turf, and those that did rarely survived.

    Lo’ohletai argued angrily against Krereefah, but in the end the black dragon’s stubborn will defeated Lo’ohletai's desire to win. Sharanja stayed, and it would be a lie on the green dragon’s behalf to say she did not enjoy watching Sharanja grow just as much as Krereefah did. They were quite amused with their plaything.

    Sharanja’s first shed was strange. It wasn't smooth or natural to her, as though her instincts were somehow detached from her existence as a reptilian being. But once the entirety of the shed had been peeled from her, her scales were more visible. They were getting larger, and less skin-like. They were also growing lighter. Each shed, she grew from her original gray, skin-like texture to a whitish-blue with glittering, tough scales. By her fifteenth year, Sharanja was covered in scales that nearly resembled shards of ice; rather than her once smooth complexion, her skin grew rougher than that of most known dragonborn.

    By Sharanja's sixth shed (about two years), Lo’ohletai was completely invested in raising this hatchling with her mate. They taught her of their goddess, taught her hymns and traditional songs of the dragons. Her voice was clear and sweet, and she grew to articulate it well. Krereefah told her embellished tales of human heroes and elven warriors, of orcs and of gnomes of merit whom traversed the plains and mountains they called home. Lo’ohletai sang and did tricks with her breath. They made an odd and quirky but overall happy family in their glittering cave of treasure.

    That is, until the day Krereefah didn't return. A town Krereefah vandalized twice a year for the past three decades had commissioned a strange traveler to rid them of their problem, and they had succeeded. Lo’ohletai spiraled into a fit of grief, and after a while, Sharanja decided she would leave. Unaware of the true circumstances, she vowed to make her mother proud and to bring Krereefah home again. As Sharanja trekked away from their cave in the mountains, she daydreamed about all she could be. She had heard so many stories of heroes and knights, and decided she would be the hero of her story. She wanted to become a holy knight; a paladin blessed by her Goddess [Tiamat].

    Sharanja spent several months traversing the plains; considering she'd never left her cave and never learned directions, this in itself was an accomplishment. She grew stronger and faster as she ran with the wildlife, fought off threats, and so on. Eventually, she made it to the southern outskirts of the plains that were dotted with deciduous forest. She was glad for the change of scenery.

    And on the other side of that deciduous forest, though she took her sweet, lost time in getting there, was a small kingdom. She smiled widely as she approached the guards, who quaked with fear and upturned their pikes at her. She asked if they were paladins, and if she could join their ranks. Though confused and frightened, they called the captain of their guard. He begrudgingly welcomed her into the town after realizing his explanations were being wasted on this brick wall of a being.

    Sharanja became a strange sort of model citizen, quickly attracting the attention of the local children. She often wove flowers and weeds together as she hummed the songs she knew, and was adamant about properly destroying the rubbish and litter lining the streets. Though she typically pickpocketed to buy herself a meal, she was generous and friendly. She often gathered a crowd of people when she would sing in the square, and many would attend her sparring matches with the guards and the militia captain. She had an unfair advantage and didn't seem to grow any stronger, so the captain would send her out to gather supplies in the forest. She nearly always returned at dusk with bruises and lesions from her scuffles with monsters, but that was also when she seemed happiest.

    Eventually, her talent in the square and her strange shape and size grabbed the eye and ear of the local innkeeper. He hired her as quickly as he could, dropping his other employees swiftly as she tripled as bouncer, entertainment, and barkeep.

    Or...so he thought.

    But she gave brew and meal away alike, with no heed for the financial stability of the inn. Her performances drew many in through his doors, and her brute appearance kept most away from thoughts of thievery or other sins and deeds within the inn. However, her negligence in keeping up with the profit eventually got her booted. She didn't care for it much anyway, though, considering her strange life of singing and pickpocketing and hunting was always enough to get by.

    But a few short months after losing her job at the inn, the way she stole from the wealthier and their jingling purses, and the way she gave to the grimey urchins and street rats led to a revolt by the town nobility. Lord and lady alike complained about the eyesore of the town, but she was the peasants’ hero and a friend of the guard. A civil war over her mere presence among them eventually destroyed the town and left everyone that didn't leave or die starving and poor.

    And the Imperial Army descended upon them gracefully, peacefully usurping responsibility to ensure the safety and serenity of the town. Sharanja, upon seeing their glimmering armor, approached the mounted general and asked to join their ranks. Shocked, the general agreed to train her with the recruits. And so, Sharanja joined to newbies in their meticulous and monotonous training. Unlike her squad, however, the higher ranking officers and officials never dogged her. Though she was never bullied, she became lonely in the ranks of her peers.

    She quickly outgrew the ranks of the army, and with no-one else to challenge her, the general decided to do the next best thing. So Sharanja was transferred to the capital of the Imperial Army.

    And then she met Knell, the defiant half-elf with hair the shade of fire who boldly sat with the dragonborn girl at dinner one evening. They sat in silence for several meals before Sharanja asked her name. The sharp-tongued Knell and the oblivious Sharanja quickly became inseparable friends. Their teamwork and dedication to defending one another from threats gave them a sense of family and security, as well as an advantage in their training.

    But Knell was blessed. Her quest was deemed worthy by some god, and she moved to another faction almost immediately. Sharanja prayed to [Tiamat] for this fate, too, to be blessed on her journey to find and return Krereefah to her mourning mother, Lo’ohletai.

    No answer ever came.

    Eventually, the same general who had given her a place in the training ranks approached her. They had no way to armor her, she failed the practical tests, her logic wasn't whole, she couldn't work as a team, she didn't follow orders; Sharanja failed, and she hurt. As she walked away from her home amongst the other soldiers, she sighed and never turned back.

    She town hopped for a while, accepting odd jobs as guard, or bounty hunter, or monster vanquisher. For the most part, she outlived her stay in multiple towns as she sang and pickpocketed to survive. One particular evening, while in a coastal town, she was hired to guard a magnificent crimson jewel. The port town had a history with bandits, pirates, and other lowlife scum looking to nab any easy treasure they could. She lost it to a conniving thief of great renown, a certain Melanie Greivora. She gave heartfelt chase, but blacked out as her emotions overcame her. When she came to, debris was scattered around her and much of the town was in shambles. This would not be the last time this would happen. She was agape at how she could have fainted and slept through all of the carnage surrounding her. Her pride damaged at losing the precious stone, she refunded her employer his wages and continued to wander, unsure of her purpose or direction.

    And so Sharanja is friendless, penniless, and known to certain groups as the ugly giant with a divine voice. She is a twenty-nine year old dragonborn singer.

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