#but here I felt the enemies getting stronger and yet I overcame them faster than before

[val-of-the-north]

Aaaaand that's another one completed! This one was much more enjoyable to do than Dark Souls 1, surprisingly enough... it actually made me feel sad that it's over. The first one had me hollow before I could even think to miss playing it, but I almost couldn't get enough of Dark Souls 2. I don't know how that works or what it says about me, but yeah. Good game, I don't care what anyone says

[lolainblue]

Fangs and Fairytales: Orphans  Ch. 4

      “So which side did we land on?” Shannon asked carefully.

   Masha regarded him again. There was so much in that simple statement and the calm way in which he had asked it. We. He understood he was in this now too and his role, to some degree, had already been set. He was choosing to play the hand he had.  Masha admired that survivor's spirit.  Shannon seemed to have a lot of different dimensions. Masha was becoming increasingly more fond of all of them. “The one that doesn't want to make enemies of the humans again,” she started by way of explanation.  “Very simply, the main authority for the supernatural community is an organization called the Tratat.  It means pact or treaty and refers to the agreement set in place to hide our community and blend in with the human world.  Their main enforcement branch is Manus or The Hand.  If you kill a human or reveal us they will be the ones that come for you.” She looked at the brothers sternly.  "And you won't like what happens when they catch up with you.  And they will catch up with you, there is no escaping them."

   Shannon nodded.  He had no intention of crossing anyone at this point, he understood how tremendously overpowered he was. “What about other things?” he asked.  “Who's going to be getting involved in this? Because you said your friends are dead, and that has to be against some kind of law or rule or whatever, right?”

   Masha sighed.  This one had a way of getting right to the heart of the matter quickly.  “That's where it gets a lot more complicated.”

   Silas put his glasses down and went to check on Davrosh, who had finished drinking and was lying unconscious and still the way Jared had at the motel. Jared was still sitting at the end of the sofa but was now paying rapt attention to the conversation. Silas picked up the explanations.

   “We are allowed some degree of autonomy within our individual communities. We are mostly expected to police our own, to handle things before Manus has to step in. Manus being called in is not considered a good thing and most communities go to some length to avoid that.  We are responsible for resolving any internal conflicts, delivering small scale justice in whatever manner we choose as long as we are following the rules of the Tratat. Of course, there are things that fall outside of all of those lines, things that do not fall under the authority of either the individual communities or Manus. Things that are too messy for them to dirty their hands with. Forgive the pun.” Silas gave a little chuckle but everyone else maintained their serious expressions. “Fighting between species, larger movements to disrupt The Tratat, that sort of thing.  Those things require a special touch, a sort of supernatural special ops team if you will. The Subterra.”

   Masha gave Shannon and Jared a wry smile.  “Welcome to the Underground.”

   Shannon exhaled slowly and tried to digest what they had told him.  He and Jared had really landed right in the thick of it, and all the answers they were giving him just brought up more questions.  He wanted to know more about Subterra and how that all worked, but he still didn't know who he was in the room with.  “Okay.  I have more questions about that but you still haven't answered my first question,” he asked, turning to Silas.  “Are you a vampire too? Are you moroi?”

   “He is.” It was Jared that answered, to Shannon's surprise.  “He's the same as her and me and Davrosh.”

   “Well done,” Masha said appreciatively. He had been very quiet up until now but Jared seemed to be getting the hang of his new sense fairly quickly.  Masha wanted to test how far that went, but first, he needed to know he was with family.  “We are the same on several different levels.  Once you meet some other moroi you'll understand.” She gestured to Davrosh.  “Tell me what you can about him.”

   “He's the same as us but.. more?” Jared speculated.  “I mean he feels like he is more moroi or something.  If that's possible.  And he's very old.”

    Masha tried not to smile. “How do you know he's old?”

   “I don't know exactly.  He just feels very... well... old.  I didn't know that was a feeling before but it seems to be now.  Just like hot or cold or hard.” Jared tried his best to explain but there were so many things happening in his head that he didn't  have words for yet. So much of it was instinct, like knowing the odd way that the vampire stretched out next to him felt meant that he was older than the rest of them combined.  It simply was. He knew he wasn't articulating himself well yet, however, Masha seemed to understand, seemed satisfied with his explanation.

   “That's really good. I'm surprised you're able to identify that feeling already.  It will get easier, I promise.” She looked over at Silas.

   “I spent the first week after my transformation more or less curled into a ball in a dark room. It was particularly bad for me,” he confessed.

   Masha continued.  “Some people transition faster than others.  I don't think I've seen anyone pick it up quite as quickly as you before though. There are actual lines of humans back in the old country who have been specifically chosen to become moroi.  Certain families choose the third born of each generation. They end up becoming some of the strongest and most exceptional among us.  I've never seen one of them go through the transformation but it is said they do so very quickly.  Davrosh was one of them. His blood is particularly strong. That's one part of that “more” feeling you mentioned.  But the other reason, the reason we feel the same to you and Davrosh reads a little stronger, is not just because we are all vampires, or moroi, but also because we are family.  You are my child.  Silas and I are Davrosh's children.”

   Jared took a moment to digest this as he watched the mostly still form on the sofa next to him.  “So he is my grandfather?”

   “Yes,” Silas answered.  “You're very lucky actually.  We belong to one of the oldest and most respected moroi houses.  That's important in ways that we'll get around to explaining later when things are calmer. We are generally very particular about who we choose to join us.” This remark came with a significant look at Masha.  Masha didn't back down, however.  She was already growing quite fond of her newborn. She was convinced that destiny was in play here, somehow.  Silas continued.  “For now you just need to know that we are family. There is a bond between us that you will begin to feel more in the next few days. You probably already feel it towards Masha.”

   Jared remembered the powerful feeling that overcame him at the motel, the one that had driven him to open the door before he even knew what was on the other side. “Yes, I felt her before I even knew who she was,” he confirmed.

   Masha turned her attention back to Shannon, who was quiet now that he seemed to be getting the answers he was craving.  She wanted to say something reassuring to him, she thought he probably felt pretty left out of all this, but Jared had more questions.

   “What are they?” Jared asked, pointing at the two girls who were curled up together on the other worn sofa in the room.  The younger of the two was lying with her head in her older sister's lap and looked as if she were about to fall asleep.  They must be exhausted, Masha thought.  “I can tell that we moroi are the same, and I can tell that Shannon is different, I guess that's what human smells like?” Masha nodded. “But they,” he nodded to the sisters and the sleeping hexe, “aren't either of those things. Are they?”

   “Very good.  And you noticed the callers at the motel weren't human either. You seem to be getting the hang of this very quickly.”  Masha gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.  “Let's see how much you're picking up. Tell me what you can about the occupants of this room.”    

   Jared stilled himself as much as possible and concentrated on the cacophony of sensations he was experiencing. The difficult part wasn't in getting enough information, it was in sorting through the chaos of impressions to understand what each thing meant and what it was attached to. Being a vampire was so far not at all what he would have expected. “You, Silas and I, the moroi... we don't have heartbeats, although there is a weird sloshing kind of sound. We don't have scents either.”

   “Good,” Silas remarked.  He too was taken with how quickly this man was adapting.  'That's really good.  That sloshing is our approximation of a heartbeat, by the way. Other kinds of vampires sound like that too. What else?”

   Other kinds of vampires? Jared thought.  He tried not to get to distracted by that phrase and went back to trying to comply with Masha's request. Turning his head towards Shannon, he realized his brother was watching him with naked fascination. His whole life, Shannon had been there for him, a constant in an unpredictable world. They always had each other's backs, and Jared had assumed that would always continue.  He wasn't so sure now.  This was a lot for Shannon to bear, even if he seemed to be holding up okay now.  Jared regarded him more carefully. He couldn't pick out anything that might have told him what Shannon was thinking, but there was a great deal of other sensory information there. Jared began listing those impressions.  “Shannon is human of course, so I see what that feels like. He has a heartbeat that is extremely loud, louder than those girls, and he smells like.. “ Jared stopped himself.  He didn't think Shannon wanted to hear this. He didn't think he wanted Shannon to hear him say it either.

   Masha knew why he was censoring himself.  “Go on.  He should know.   Things are changed between you now and you both need to accept the reality of it. Denial is dangerous.”

   Jared looked away from his brother, a sour taste rising in his mouth. He had to believe that Shannon would stand by him the way he always had. He swallowed before continuing. “Meat. He smells like steak, like blood, like red if it had a smell.  There are other smells too, the soap he used, the chips he was eating last night, the alcohol he drank before the show, his sweat... but mostly he just smells like ….” Jared couldn't continue, couldn't make himself say it.

   “... dinner.” Silas finished for him.  “You can say it.  You're not going to drink him but he smells like you should.”

   “Yes.” He continued to avoid looking Shannon in the eye and turned his attention to the hexe lying in the chair.  “She feels a lot like Shannon does, but her heart is quieter and she doesn't smell as... tasty.  It's almost like a human, but....” He struggled to articulate the difference.  “It's kind of like a feeling of size, an overall presence.  Like Shannon is the smallest, smaller than everyone else.  She is a little bigger, and we moroi are too, as if we are expanded a little past our bodies, but Shannon is just Shannon.” Masha nodded again, letting Jared know he was correct. He pointed at the sisters.  “They are huge.”

   “Yes, they are,” Masha said approvingly. Even though she hadn't really chosen Jared out of anything other than blind circumstance and hadn't even begun to instruct him, she felt a surge of pride in how naturally he seemed to take to his new awareness.  He was going to be extraordinary, she was sure, and it would be a pleasure to train him. Masha was starting to feel a little bit better about her impulsive decision, and more convinced by the minute that destiny had led them all here. “Continue, you're doing great.”

    Jared nodded and examined the girls carefully. “They have heart beats too, of course. Quieter than Shannon's and the other girl, and faster.” Jared closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to analyze the scents that were reaching him. “They smell like the woods.  Kind of.”

   “Wow.” It was Silas's turn to express awe. He was well aware of how long it had taken him to gain the level of competence that less-than-a-day-old Jared seemed to be displaying. He was impressed and a little jealous. He tried to guide Jared a little deeper. “Okay, take that apart, break it down. What do you mean kind of?”

   Jared thought for a moment.  It was more than just the smell, it was something in that awareness, like extra information on the back of a page that he couldn't quite read. “There is a smell that is like the green things in a forest, like trees and leaves and moss. I guess I'm identifying that because it's familiar but it's not the strongest impression. There's something different in it...”  he trailed off, searching for the words he needed.  “It's the dirt smell.  It's not like a regular dirt smell.  Not like they've gotten dirty walking in the woods.  It's more...” he ran his hands over his face. He knew that dirt smelled like dirt, that the part he was struggling with here wasn't the scent itself but the extra perceptions that were associated with it. He tried to let go of his concrete impressions and pick out the little notes in the ether that held the information he sought.  “It smells like the things on the forest floor, like old leaves... no... rotting leaves... like decay...  like...” There was a sharp intake of breath as the information all connected. “Death.  Like a grave.” Jared looked to the other moroi in confusion.  “But they're not dead. I'm sure they're not, although I don't know why. Why do they smell like death?”

   “They are not dead, true,” Masha explained, “but they are among its forces.  Notice, we are dead, but we have no smell. They are not dead but are tied intimately to its workings and they reek of the grave. Scent for us is about much more than chemical compounds released into the air.  Notice with your brother, who is alive and human and mortal, you also smelled all the other things – soap, food, sweat, all the things that he encounters and that imprint on him. There's a smell there of anger too but it's subtle and receding, and that's a bit much for you to process yet.”  

   Jared wondered if the anger was from Shannon's meltdown over Masha's reluctance to explain what was going on, or if it was a reaction to the things Jared was saying.  Shannon seemed to be very much in his own head at the moment, and Jared couldn't get a read on him. The extra senses weren't helping with that at all.  He turned his attention back to Masha.

   “We moroi have encountered all those physical things too,  we have emotions too but you'll notice you smell none of it.  We are like an empty space, not living but not of the grave either.  The world does imprint on us and leaves those things behind but the smell becomes lost.  We aren't of any world and nothing of them sticks to us. There is only our presence. The girls, who also of course have come into contact with all these things still only smell largely of their nature. It is also possible to pick up other scent information from them, it is there, but it is more subtle as well, although in their case it is due to the overriding expansion of their nature. In time, however, you will learn to read it.”  She paused to make sure Jared had no questions. He made no move to interrupt her so she continued. “For moroi, the sense of smell is very powerful and will come in far more useful than you currently realize. And by the way, you may think moroi have no scent now, but spill our blood and the scent will overpower you.  Nothing smells sweeter or more overwhelming than fresh moroi blood.” Satisfied that she had gotten the lesson across, she decided it was time for the reveal. “The girls are banshees."

   “Banshees?” Shannon said incredulously.  “As in “scream like a”? Like those are real?”

   “We told you, fairy tale things are real,” Silas reminded him.

   “They wail when someone dies, right? That's why they smell like death?” Silas nodded at Shannon's question.  “Oh, that's why you didn't want us to talk to them in the truck! What would have happened if we talked to them?”

   “You'd have gotten a headache.” Masha chuckled.  “They can't really speak, not to us at any rate.  It's all wails and screams to us. Which is why this is such a problem, we can't talk to them and get any information.”

   “What's that about anyway? Why do you have them? What happened to your friends? Is the other girl a banshee too? Who came to see us at the motel? Is that Whispers? He's not moroi is he?”  Questions Shannon had been holding on to came out like a flood.

    Masha sighed.  There was of course so much more to cover.  She had been so pleased with Jared's display of blossoming skills she had momentarily forgotten how much more there was that needed explaining. “Whoa, slow down.  One thing at a time,” she told Shannon. “The other girl is not a banshee, she is a hexe.  It literally translates to witch, but hexe are a bit more than that. They are a bloodline of themselves, nearly human but having the ability to work strong magics.” she turned to Jared.  “Her heartbeat is quieter and she smells different because she is not food.”

   “Why is she asleep?” Jared asked.  “It doesn't seem like there's anything wrong with her.”

   “I don't know,” Masha confessed.  “I've never actually met her before, but Davrosh always uses a hexe when he is working. If he wakes up before she does hopefully he can tell us what's going on. Because right now, I don't have good answers for most of what you're asking. As for what happened at the warehouse...Well, we can't be sure about that until the girl or Davrosh wake up but we've been working to break up a ring of strigoi who are bringing in other supernatural creatures to feed on.”

   Just when Shannon thought he had an understanding of the situation more information came in.  He was struggling to keep his emotions in check.  He looked at Jared but Jared had been avoiding eye contact ever since referring to him as “meat”.  “Okay, I'll ask if he's not going to,” he said, breaking the brief silence.  “What is a strigoi?”

   “Another kind of vampire.”  Silas always seemed to take over the lecturing when it turned academic.  Shannon thought he looked a lot like a librarian so it seemed natural.  “There are actually five different kinds of vampires, with different traits.  That's why you see such differing accounts of vampires and what their powers are. I'm not going to describe them all now but Strigoi are more like traditional vampires that moroi are.  They can't be out in sunlight, can't go into places where they are not invited, and can survive off of any kind of blood.  They are also part of one of the factions we mentioned earlier, the ones that think that they shouldn't have to live by the rules of the Tratat.”

   Masha took over the discussion.  “Whispers is the head of the local pack of strigoi.  He is running a black market of supernatural creatures to be sold to other strigoi like exotic food.” She gestured to the young banshees who had fallen asleep on the sofa.  “They were meant to be someone's fancy dinner.”

@fyeahproudglambert @pinkletodreamer @meghan12151977 @letosangels @lady-grinning-soul-k @nikkitasevoli @polosatik23 @fortify-undeny

[illusion-of-sea-axes]

RED

Mogar gets really mad at the Mad King and goes to rescue his boi from certain death.

(I dunno where this came from but I really love Mogar so I wrote something involving him being badass)

Words:  4660

Red.

Red filled his vision, like a cloth pulled over his eyes that he couldn’t remove. But he didn’t want to, because that red was filled with the most powerful emotion this man knew.

The most powerful emotion he could feel.

Anger, like a raging fire consuming anything near it. Spreading and spreading until everything was a sea of orange-red flames that would leave only ash and ruins in it’s wake.

That was an emotion he was well acquainted with, but this time, it was bigger. Stronger. Like it was consuming more than a forest or jungle. It was like it was consuming an entire world. An entire world filled with death and destruction.

Fortunately, his allies knew exactly who to avoid on the battlefield when that look overcame  him. Everyone could identify the signs, at least those that did their research or had seen it happen.

His body would tense, he’d bare his teeth, his eyes would look a little too animal-like.

These people were unfortunate enough to have brains the size of walnuts and the battle skills of a snail. At least, by comparison.

He couldn’t see past the red, he had never been able to. But he could hear, he could smell, and he rarely ever missed. After all, it was difficult to avoid a huge diamond sword nearly as tall as the average man, especially when it’s wielder had skills that had outsmarted more than a couple unfortunate assassins.

Right now, said wielder was mowing down soldiers. Some ran away ,the smart ones, and others ran into the fight with swords raised and bows drawn and ready to try and end the threat. Mogar assumed these were the dull ones. Or brash or bold, but that wasn’t important when he was severing limbs and splitting organs relying heavily on sound and smell.

Smell wasn’t particularly useful now, as the soldiers mostly smelled the same and the scent of death and blood permeated the air around him.

Fortunately, the soldiers were dull enough to release a battle cry before they charged with their weapons. Mogar was screaming battle cries as well, but he somehow couldn't hear them.

 A small spark hit his shoulder. At least, he thought it was a spark. But there was a small ache that followed.

He didn’t care though.

Mogar never cared when all he saw was red.

He felt his sword hit something hard, followed by a cry of pain spliced with the gurgling of a blood filled throat before Mogar pulled his sword back and swung it around again to hit anyone else.

He hissed as something caught hold of his boot. Whether it was snagged on something or someone was holding it, he couldn’t tell. Maybe it was because someone had just launched themselves at him, wrapping their arms around his neck and wrapping their legs around his torso. Kind of like a living backpack.

A very violent living backpack.

Mogar snarled, raising up his sword and trying to hit whatever was on his back, not even wincing as he grazed his own back after stabbing whatever it was through. He heard the wet sound of blood as his sword was pulled out through organs and muscles and the body slumped backwards and fell off.

Then, he heard the shouting. It wasn’t a retreat, it was a redirection.

A redirection to a location that Mogar had been heading for.

Clarity returned to him almost automatically, the red fading from his vision with it.

All around him, soldiers littered the ground. None wearing the colors of his allies, not that he would have truly cared for them at the moment.  

He watched as the last of the soldiers vanished to their new location. Mogar could feel another growl rise in his throat but he managed to push it down, eyes rapidly searching for the colors of his allies. Anything.

He bolted over several shallow trenches and peeked around the decrepit rock wall that was splattered with the body fluids of his enemies.

Soldiers fighting against soldiers, a mish mash of colors that reminded Mogar of what would appear after a rainstorm. A rainbow, Gavin called it.

Gavin.

Mogar felt his blood boil inside his heart. He quickly set to climbing up the uneven surface of the wall, crouching on top of it to get a better view.

The creeper-skin wearing man was nowhere to be seen. That made Mogar uneasy, and he hated feeling uneasy.

He shook his head, ignoring the blood droplets that drifted from his curls, before jumping down from the wall and sneaking around the assortment of wagons and tents.

The army of allies had practically started camping at the capital’s gates before this fight. They’d left a trail of dead squadrons in their path, their main focus being the capital where the castle was located.

Where the Mad King was located.

Blood pounded in Mogar’s ears at the mere thought of the kilt-wearing physcopath, but his vision didn’t degrade into the blank red like before.

Mogar forced himself to keep a stable mind as he prepared himself to climb up the capital wall. He had to get inside. He didn’t care if the turrets tried to shoot him down. He’d slaughter anyone who tried to stop him.

That was how Mogar worked.

Mogar held up his sword and set it in it’s scabbard on his back and he leaped up to get a head-start on the wall.

His claws dug into the small crevices between stones, his narrow-toed boots easily finding leverage to push him up and up. For some reason, his shoulder was starting to burn but he didn’t give it much thought.

He quickly reached the top of the wall, unsurprised at the sight of archers and soldiers streaming out of the watchtowers.

He growled at them, more out of annoyance. A couple of them seemed to have more than a couple brain cells, and fled, defying the shouts of their comrades. Then, Mogar went to work.

He lunged forward, using one hand to pull out his sword and the other outstretched to rip the flesh from the throat of the nearest person.

A panicked gurgling and the panicked shouts that reached him were his reward. Before an archer could notch an arrow, Mogar had skewered them and used the force and weight to push two other soldiers off the wall and to the ground below where their bones probably shattered into dozens of little pieces beneath their skin.

He grinned a menacing one, fangs visible as he went back to slaughtering the soldiers, ducking to avoid arrows and occasionally pulling up a soldier for a meat shield, but he eventually managed to get into the nearby watchtower.

For a brief moment, Mogar debated using the entrance the guards used to get into the guard tower to get into the city. A brief moment. He wasn’t really a strategist.

“Mogar can not count. Mogar can only fight.” He said, in a brief moment of remembrance.

“Then maybe I should teach you.” A pleasant voice echoed back inside his skull. Sweet.

But yet it felt like a taunt. A taunt from someone that turned the blood to lava in his veins at the mere mention of his name, his title.

Mad King.

He snarled at the empty room and spun around, bolting across the walls connected to the towers at a speed he only reserved for emergencies. Like outrunning a pack of blood hungry wolves.

Or saving Gavin.

Mogar felt the urgency fill his body, urging him to move faster. The castle was slowly growing bigger as he approached it and the thought that his destination could be within a maze made his bloody fingers twitch with the urge to tear apart more muscle and flesh.

Hopefully his.

Soon, he was able to face the side of the castle. Everyone else seemed to be focused on the frontal gates, so he was alone with the faint shouting in the distance. He took this time to sheath his sword again.

Mogar glanced down at the roads of the city below, but only a few civilians were actually there. The rest were probably hiding in their homes in hopes of waiting out the battle, which was convenient for Mogar since there was a good distance from the wall to the castle. It was cramped with buildings, residences, businesses, storage spaces, whatever else it was that took up so much space in a city.

He launched himself off the tower, aiming for the high pointed roof that was closest to him and highest.

He hissed as his stomach slammed into the overhang, his claws scrabbling at the shingles to get a grip while his feet tried to find leverage. He felt the aching in his shoulder increased but he ignored it.

He pushed himself up onto the roof and wasted no time rushing towards the end, ignoring the stumbling and lack of balance.

He was never okay with stumbling, faltering in front of others, animal or otherwise, but right now it wasn’t important. All that was important was reaching that castle.

Running and leaping over roofs was easy to Mogar. He’d done it so many times. The only main problem he had was how crappy some of the shingles were and how him pushing off them made him slip.

His blood pounded in his ears, his claws digging into his palms as he kept them in fists, the pain in his shoulder was increasing, and his muscles were so tense it was starting to bother him. But that didn’t matter. He just had one thing on his mind and god himself be damned, Mogar would not stop until he reached him.

Mogar slowed to a stop at the castle walls. Not as high as the capital walls, but higher than the the roof he sat on. But he didn’t see much of an issue. He leaped up onto the wall and began to scale up the stone surface.

It was a lot smoother and a bit harder to climb then the capital walls, but Mogar didn’t really ponder on why. He was too interested in getting to the castle and hopefully ripping apart whoever dared to harm Gavin.  

No one messed with Gavin.

Once at the top of the wall, Mogar took a moment to study his surroundings and refill his burning lungs. This was a lot like being chased by blood hungry wolves. Only he wasn’t being chased through the forest, and he was the chaser. The blood hungry wolf.

The one who was going to break hell loose upon everyone here.

There were a few sentries stationed at the stairway to the Main Hall, but Mogar wasn’t truly bothered by their present. He could easily mow them down, and he felt himself itching to do so, but he had to be stealthy a little longer.

A little longer.

Mogar crept along the wall, despising the lack of shadows in broad daylight. He missed the shadows cast by the tree canopies of his home, or the shadows cast by night in the nearby city. Then, he didn’t have the unfamiliar worry of being spotted.

Of being caught.

He kept moving, silent, prowling, until was close enough to a tower wall to try and make a jump for it. He briefly looked around to see any archers. Sentries weren’t that big of a problem but archers were definitely a pain when he wasn’t on level ground with them.

  When no archers made themselves known, Mogar’s muscles tensed up, fingers lightly gripping onto the wall before he used his legs to launch himself off.

He hissed as his body crashed into the wall, scattering loose chips of stone that sounded unpleasantly loud to Mogar as he set to climbing up to the nearest window. One of the glass-less windows archers shot out of that Gavin had told him the name of but couldn’t remember.

The pain in his shoulder was more than an ache now and it made Mogar feel incredibly frustrated. His own pain could wait.

He pushed himself into the small space and looked around, spotting a narrow spiral staircase against the wall. No one was here. The hook on the one empty was was empty where Mogar assumed a quiver would be, and there was no arrow, not even a piece of an arrow.

Maybe one of the archers he’d slaughtered on the wall was meant to keep post here.

Mogar ignored that and started up the stairs, prepared to throw himself at anyone who tried to stop him even though this tower seemed vacant.

At the top of the tower, Mogar could get a good view of the castle. The center of the structure arched up into a towering spire where he could only guess the King would stay. He growled at the hunk of architecture and kept looking. There was a huge garden fenced around by a tall stone wall behind the castle that Mogar was perfectly capable of seeing.

It was nothing like the rose garden that belonged to King Ray, but it was still a pretty sight.

Much prettier than Mad King. Mogar thought amusedly, granting himself a brief moment of amusement that was quickly swarmed by urgency again. He wasn’t here to sightsee, he was here to slaughter and protect.

Mogar crawled into the window and leaped out, landing on what was likely the roof of a corridor before he scrambled for the nearest window. As he stopped in front of the stained glass barrier, he prepared to smash it in before remembering that it wasn’t a wise decision.

The sound would alert the guards.

Mogar tried to think of a possible method to open the window. He quietly pressed on the frame, a small rush of victory rising to his chest as it moved. He gave it another shove and internally poked fun at those who had installed the window.

Before the window could fall and shatter, Mogar grabbed hold of it, awkwardly shuffling to set it on the roof before dropping into the castle.

This was likely a servant’s corridor, as it lacked the bright red, gold embroidered carpet that Mogar had seen in another castle main hall of a similar design. It also lacked the tapestries and expensive paintings one of the Kings had described to Mogar, even though he couldn’t really remember when.

He kept moving, keeping to the flickering shadows cast by the torches held to the wall by cast iron. This felt better, more secure, even though his pelt adorned body didn’t match the drab gray of the corridor at all.

Mogar itched to run, to just bolt into the throne room and rip that smug, physcotic smile off the Mad King’s face, but he knew better. If he was dead, he couldn’t help Gavin. If he was imprisoned, he couldn’t help Gavin.

Even with his limited knowledge, he knew that much.

He kept slinking about in the half-lit corridor until he reached an archway. Peering inside, he could see a grand entertainment space with doors leading to open air walkways that looped around a quarter of the garden. It stopped right before a giant wall of thorny hedges that he could only assume was a maze.

Glancing around, Mogar crept over to the doors and out into the garden, hardly pausing to glance at the strong-smelling flowers that were arranged in nice patterns that were probably meant to be symbolic which flew over Mogar’s head.

Then, a voice echoed out over him that made Mogar want to roar, snarl, every single menacing sound he could make he wanted to make but he somehow only managed a low growl.

“So persistent. Maybe you should have considered how determination can bring about your end.” It was taunting, and wherever the voice came from, Mogar wanted to go. Not because he was drawn there by the voice, so to speak.

No, because he wanted to maul the speaker who used it.

Mogar leaped over the low wood fence and ran into the center of the flower garden.

“Mogar hears you! Show yourself!” He snarled, throwing secrecy out the window in turn for a dominating threat.

“Ah, Mogar. So kind of you to finally join our little game.”

“Game is over, Mad King! Return him!”

“Him? Why, who do you mean? Surely not the sweet little boy running towards a gruesome death as we speak?”

A menacing growl rumbled in Mogar’s chest and up into his throat. “It is you who will suffer a gruesome death, Mad King.” He spat the name like the poison berries he had once made the mistake of eating.

“Oh, sure. Whatever makes you happy, Mogar. Now, if You’ll excuse me, I have a show to watch.” Mogar could sense the malicious intent behind those words and another growl filled the garden.

Then, he caught it.

It was Gavin, or his scent to be more accurate. Mogar could smell it leading straight into the maze. There was another scent that Mogar couldn’t identify, but it made his skin prickle uncomfortably. Maybe it was just the lack of identification.

Mogar didn’t stop to consider this as he bolted into the maze, sword unsheathed and ready to fight whatever monsters the King was insane enough to put behind his castle.

He followed the scent, moving as fast as he could and ignoring the pain as he grazed the thorns when he turned too late. But that didn’t matter. A couple scratches were nowhere near as bad as what Gavin was probably going to suffer, and that kept Mogar from standing still too long.

The scent trail grew stronger as he kept running, only occasionally running into dead ends that he could assume Gavin had ran into while inside.

The eery silence of the maze outside of Mogar’s heavy breathing and thundering footsteps was slightly unnerving, because it could possibly mean the Mad King already had Gavin pinned. Or dead.

No.

Gavin was not dead.

Mogar refused to accept that.

He kept running, slowing to a sudden stop as he reached a large circle. He could assume this was the center of the maze. A large gold-colored fountain sat in the center, two staircases met behind it and led down beneath the earth.

Mogar growled and sped down the staircase, managing to leap over multiple stairs in succession and not trip and fall and possibly break his nose. Not that he was really worried about that. Again, Gavin was more important.

The space underground was very unpleasant to Mogar’s senses.

The underground tunnels were cold and narrow. The air was damp and the cold seeped into Mogar’s exposed skin, suddenly making him wish for his winter pelts even though they weren’t meant for hunting.

His shoulder remained oddly warm even though the flesh and muscle still burned there.

Mogar kept running, following what little of Gavin’s scent he could pick up in the damp tunnels, running past more openings in the walls that led into more pathways. The faint scent of death managed to reach Mogar’s nose, but Gavin’s trail led away from it.

Gradually, the only source of light became flickering red torches, made from flaming red powder that matched the color of Mogar’s skin paint.

Mogar paused as he heard another set of footsteps ahead of him, the same scent as before that made his skin prickle was a lot more prominent here. But so was Gavin’s scent.

Mogar burst off into another run before he could fully comprehend the pain in his muscles from running and jumping more than was usually expected of him. He turned a corner and spun to a stop, eyes wide as he saw the only bright color in the entire caves.

This hall was larger, giving Mogar enough space to be able to stretch out his arms and touch both walls at the same time.

Gavin stood in the center several feet ahead, both hands wrapped around the handle of a blood-stained sword that seemed a bit too heavy for him. His armor that Mogar had seen him wearing previously was gone, clothing ripped where it used to be. Someone must have torn it off of him.

Gavin’s clothing was stained in blood. A quick sniff made Mogar’s muscles less tense when he realized it wasn’t his. Mostly.

His biggest injury was a deep wound in his leg, his scarf tied around it in a makeshift bandage. His breathing was shaky and it echoed in the cave.

“Gavin,” Mogar breathed, his throat slightly hurting from the deep and uneven breathing he had maintained while running all the way here. Gavin squeaked, spinning around and pointing his sword at Mogar. Waves of fear practically rolled off of him and the scent made Mogar’s stomach twist.

The fear all but vanished as he realized it was Mogar standing in front of him, an unbelieving expression crossed his face.

“Mogar.. Holy shit, Mogar!” Gavin stumbled over to him, dropping his sword to the side and wrapping his arms around the bear man, clearly relieved. Mogar wrapped his free arm around Gavin, the hand holding his sword lowering to his side.

“T-Thank god..” Gavin whispered, burying his face in Mogar’s chest and breathing a shuddering sigh of relief.

“Mogar saw you get taken..” Was all the bear man was able to stay. He too, was incredibly relieved to be reunited with Gavin. “Mad King did not hurt you?” He asked, looking down at the injury in Gavin’s leg and pushed him out of the hug to get a better look at him, worry overpowering his relief.

“Huh? O-Oh, no, he didn’t do that..” Gavin followed his gaze to the leg injury but looked back up at Mogar. “A-Are you alright?”

“Mogar is fine. We should leave.” He answered, looking around as the scent that he had been so unnerved by grew stronger. “Something is wrong here.”

He turned his head and Gavin suddenly looked anxious. “Mogar.. Your shoulder..”

There was a large amount of blood staining through Mogar’s bear fur hood and dripping down his arm. Mogar winced as Gavin lifted up the hood to see a stab wound. It wasn’t deep, but it seemed to have been badly agitated by all his activity.

“Mogar is fine.” He repeated, still analyzing his surroundings.

Then, another set of footsteps. Heavy footsteps. No, they sounded like a bovine creature walking, but it wasn’t four different steps. It was two.

Mogar’s nose scrunched up and his lips pulled back in a threatening snarl. “Who’s there?!” He growled, eyes rapidly searching for the source of the sound.

Then, a shape came barreling down the cavern, heading right for Gavin and Mogar.

In the brief few moments as Mogar spun himself and Gavin around, he managed to catch the glint of horns and large armor not made to fit a human being.

His vision sparked white from pain as something slashed across his exposed back, ripping through flesh and muscle so loudly that it echoed in the cave. The strong scent of blood assaulted his sense of smell and he bit his lower lip to bury the cry of agony.

He pushed Gavin away, spinning around with sword in hand to retaliate against his attacked, who he was confident was aiming for Gavin instead of him.

“M-Mogar, you’re hurt!” Gavin cried out, staggering back.

Mogar ignored the fear returning to Gavin’s scent and analyzed his attacker.

It was a huge beast, a large hulking upper body covered in custom armor and a large, cow-like face with two horns sticking out of its temples. It had the hide of a cow. At least Mogar assumed so, he couldn’t see much of it in the dim light and the large armor.

It held a large sword, slightly smaller than Mogar’s. It was dripping with his blood and it made Mogar mad. That could have been Gavin’s blood.

Mogar held up his sword and let out a roar that echoed in the cavern as he charged at the minotaur, aiming to stab into the exposed flesh of his neck. The creature raised up an arm to act as a shield, letting out a loud (oddly cow-like) sound as Mogar’s sword met armor.

Mogar snarled, ducking away to avoid a lethal blow from the beast’s sword. This time, the beast lunged at him first. Mogar swerved to the side, driving his sword into the space right underneath his raised arm and assumedly right in between his ribs.

The beast cried out in pain and lashed out at Mogar with his raised up arm, sending the warrior flying into a wall with his sword still stuck in the beast.

Mogar hissed between his teeth in pain as the cold stone scraped at his back wound, his blood splattering on the wall before he fell onto his side on the ground.

“Mogar!” Gavin screamed, horrified. Mogar raised his throbbing head, eyes wide as he saw the minotaur rip his sword out of its side and tossing it to the ground with a clatter.

“G-Gavin.. Run… Run..” Mogar hissed hoarsely, trying to push himself back to his feet. “C-Come here.. You ugly beast!” He snarled, trying to give Gavin a head start with a distraction.

He succeeded in gaining the minotaur’s attention. It walked over to him and picked him up by his neck. He glared up at the creature’s ugly face and snarled at him, deciding to use one of the curses he’d frequently heard the others use.

“Fuck you… You.. Piece of shit..” This seemed effective. In upsetting the fuck out of the beast.

The creature swung him around and Mogar let out a cry of pain as he crashed into another wall, hitting the ground with a painful thud. He was sure something inside of him broke from the horrible pain filling his body. That and the blood starting to bubble onto his lips and down his face.

“MOGAR!”

Gavin hadn’t fled. Gavin was still there.

And Mogar couldn’t save him.

He heard the sound of a blade scraping the stone floor and Mogar half expected to hear Gavin’s dying scream. Instead, he heard a battle cry and fast paced footsteps.

“DYE YOU UGLY BASTARD!” Gavin howled and the minotaur’s hoofsteps pounded the floor, ready to meet him.

Then, the sound of a sword piercing flesh and blood hitting the ground. He was expecting Gavin to scream, cry, any sort of dying sound. Instead he heard an agonized and gurgled bovine sound and a heavy thud of muscle and armor against the stone.

“Shit..” Gavin cursed before the sword dropped to the floor. Mogar could hear his footsteps approach him and the other picked up Mogar’s head, setting it in his lap and giving Mogar a clear view of Gavin’s face. Blood was splattered over it and was dripping down his nose and chin. But it wasn’t his. “Mogar! Mogar, stay with me buddy.. Shit.. Shit we need to get you out of here...”

“G-Gavin..” Mogar answered, coughing as blood agitated his throat.

“H-Hey, Mogar, it’ll be fine.. Just.. I gotta.. I gotta get you out of here..”

“M-Mogar can walk.”

“Good, cause I don’t think I can carry your huge ass back to the camp.” He clearly sounded like he was trying to lighten the mood, but the tears in his eyes seemed to render it moot.

Carefully and slowly, Gavin lifted the warrior up to his feet. He picked up the warrior’s sword and started to help him walk back the way they came.

Mogar’s back was badly injured, one huge gash that had been torn wider down the length of his back by being tossed around by the minotaur who now lay splayed out on the ground, a gaping wound in the front of its throat.

Hopefully, the Mad King would be too busy cleaning up the mess to cut off Gavin and Mogar’s escape.