#chronicles of ancient darkness hord | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fantomcomics · 2 years ago

Text

What’s Out This Week? 10/5

Everybody’s wild and rockin’, wearin’ out their Sunday stockings, doin’ the Werewolf Rock..

Saga Vol 10 TP - Brian K. Vaughan & Fiona Staples

TRADE WAITERS, REJOICE!

Canis Dear Hatter GN Vol 1 - Zakk

After taking him in on that rainy day, the mysterious Ryou now lives with the mad hatter, Kutsuna. With his stellar staff's help, business has been booming. However, one fateful day, Kutsuna's rival and long-time friend Gotou informs him that he has been entered into New York Fashion Week. Initially Kutsuna was hesitant to travel, but over time he steels his resolve. Once in New York, Kutsuna encounters some of Ryou's old acquaintances.

3Keys #1 (of 5) - David Messina

Did the inhabitants of another dimension flee into our reality to save themselves from the terrible wrath of the Great Old Ones...or to help prepare us for a final devastating invasion? And what if humanity's only chance against these Great Old Ones is an impetuous, mischievous young woman and her sardonic, furry, and surprisingly violent mentor?

Air Book One TP - G. Willow Wilson & M. K. Perker

A new edition of the first of four thrilling volumes in this mind-bending, Eisner-nominated series! Acrophobic flight attendant Blythe has just fallen for a mysterious traveler-who may or may not be a terrorist-and she's about to embark on the strangest journey of her life. Searching for him, Blythe will crash-land into a web of technological conspiracies, dark politics and secret organizations. When she learns that she is the only person able to control flight and reality, with science so advanced it might be magic, she'll have to break the rules of time and space for answers.

Dark Ride #1 - Joshua Williamson, Andrei Bressan & Adriano Lucas

WELCOME TO THE SCARIEST PLACE ON EARTH!? Devil Land has been the world's premiere horror-themed amusement park for over 50 years, home to the scariest ride ever created - The Devil's Due.? But when lifelong fan Owen Seasons begins his first day on the job, he will discover the true horrors happening behind the scenes, the truth about the park's reclusive creator Arthur Dante, and that the job of his dreams might just be a living nightmare.

Be Very Afraid Of Kanako Inuki! GN - Inuki Kanako

From the mind of Japan's "queen of horror manga" comes a short story collection sure to put a grin on your face and send a chill down your spine. For more than 30 years, Inuki Kananko has been terrorizing girls and boys with twisted catch-22s and ghoulish monsters. Discover one of the best-kept secrets of global horror with this selection of some of Inuki's most popular short comics. The six hair-raising stories feature an array of unnerving characters and scenarios brought to life in Inuki's signature art style, in the tradition of Junji Ito, Kazuo Umezu, Shintaro Kago, and Junko Mizuno.

The West Moon Chronicles #1 - Frank Jun Kim & Joe Bocardo

The elusive creatures of mud and blood known as the dokkaebi live just off of Route 4 in east Texas, in the ancient pine forest known as the Tanglechase. Joon-Ho, a Korean immigrant with a shadowy past, and his estranged grandson Jae-Sun are the only people in the nearby town of Vane who know the true nature of the dokkaebi. Together, they must figure out what's causing the creatures to turn hostile. Perhaps it has something to do with the interdimensional portal at the heart of the Tanglechase, for it is from here that the past comes knocking, demanding a reckoning from both men.

40 Seconds TP - Jeremy Haun & Christopher Mitten

A science fiction/fantasy adventure about a brave team of science explorers traveling through a series of alien gateways to answer a distress call a galaxy away. They find themselves jumping across the universe through strange and beautiful landscapes only to be hunted by a vast, inexplicably unstoppable and dangerous horde. Amazing truths lie at the final gate. If only they can make it in time . . .

Kaya #1 - Wes Craig

A jam-packed series premiere with 31 gorgeous story pages, plus bonus material and a Jack Kirby-inspired variant cover by DEADLY CLASS co-creator WES CRAIG!

After the destruction of their village, a young girl with a magic arm and a fighting spirit is tasked with delivering her little brother to a faraway safe haven. There, he's destined to discover the secret to overthrowing the all-powerful empire that destroyed their home.

Night Of The Ghoul #1 (of 3) - Scott Snyder & Francesco Francavilla

Shot in 1936, Night of the Ghoul by writer/director T.F. Merritt was meant to sit beside Frankenstein and Dracula as an instant classic . . . But the legendary film never made it to the silver screen. Just before editing was finished, a mysterious studio fire destroyed the footage and killed the cast and crew celebrating at the wrap party. Forest Inman is a horror film obsessive who digitizes old films for the famed Aurora movie studio. When Forest stumbles across a seemingly forgotten canister of footage, he just might have discovered the remnants of the lost classic Night of the Ghoul. This discovery sends Forest on a dark odyssey, where he's warned by a mysterious old man that the film's ghoul is far more than a work of fiction: it's a very real monster who plans to kill him.

Unbreakable Red Sonja #1 - Jim Zub, Giovanni Valletta & Lucio Parrillo

As we head toward the 50th anniversary of the She-Devil With a Sword in 2023, Dynamite Entertainment is proud to present a sweeping story of sword and sorcery and high adventure by writer Jim Zub (Conan the Barbarian, Dungeons & Dragons, Avengers) and artist Giovanni Valletta (John Wick, James Bond)! In this debut issue, Red Sonja carries a hazy vision that lurks just out of reach in her memories. The answer to that mysterious moment will unlock a journey of forbidden magic and searing steel as Sonja's past and present collide in a quest beyond anything our scarlet-haired hero has faced before!

Revolvers #1 (of 4) - John Zuur Platten, Christian Dibari, & Simon Gough

Hampton Wales, a Detroit homicide detective, finds himself trapped in a mysterious and violent reality, only to find himself dead while attempting to solve a seemingly average and routine homicide. Confronted by an immortal tormenter known as La Piton (the Python), Hampton begins a dark and twisted quest to find out why and how he died. To do so, he must face off against a legion of gun-toting, deceased Revolvers within the Moratorium, a hellish version of Purgatory. Hampton will need to "kill or be killed" to have enough time to unravel his demise and discover it was by his own hand, someone else, or something more sinister.

Leonide The Vampyr: Miracle at The Crow’s Head one shot - Mike Mignola & Rachele Aragno

A small, coastal village is home to normal people living quiet and simple lives--until a shipwreck brings a small coffin and its smaller occupant into their midst. What begins as a miracle soon takes a turn toward the horrible in this ghostly tale from celebrated Hellboy creator Mike Mignola and artist extraordinaire Rachele Aragno (Mel the Chosen)! The first issue of a new series of stories, Leonide the Vampyr is shiveringly spectacular.

Imaginary GN Vol 1 - Niiro Ikuhana

A gorgeously illustrated tale about childhood friends, unrequited love, and the power of imagination! Back when Tasuku was a kid, he harbored a secret: he was in love with his friend Maika. But Maika moved away for school before he could gather his courage and confess. Now, as adults, they've reconnected as friends, and being together brings memories of their shared past rushing back. It was so easy to fantasize about wild things when they were children, but as adults, what are their fantasies now? This inventive and beautifully illustrated romantic drama explores the fantastical moments hiding in the everyday, and how a rich inner life can be a guide to a different future.

Monkey Meat TP - Juni Ba The Monkey Meat company made a fortune selling cans of...well, monkey meat. They're now ruling over a corporate empire and an island where they run all sorts of wacky supernatural experiments in a hyper-capitalist landscape. Follow the adventures of the citizens of Monkey Meat Island in this five-story anthology. Collects MONKEY MEAT #1-5.

Junkyard Joe #1 - Geoff Johns, Gary Frank & Brad Anderson

Throughout history, unlikely and strange heroes have risen and fallen, their identities and lives a secret. But for a Great Evil to be stopped, their stories must be told. They are The Unnamed fighting The Unknown War.

From the explosive pages of GEIGER comes JUNKYARD JOE! The world knows him as the comic strip by cartoonist Muddy Davis, but the truth stretches back to the Vietnam War. This is their story of sacrifice and brotherhood.

Joe Hill’s Rain TP - Joe Hill, David M. Booher & Zoe Thorogood On a seemingly normal August day in Boulder, Colorado, the skies are clear and Honeysuckle Speck couldn't be happier. She's finally moving in with her girlfriend Yolanda. But their world is literally torn apart when dark clouds roll in and release a downpour of nails-splinters of bright crystal that shred the skin of anyone not safely under cover. RAIN makes vivid this escalating apocalyptic event, as the deluge of nails spreads across the country and around the world, threatening everything young lovers Honeysuckle and Yolanda hold dear.

Whatcha snagging this week, Fantomites?

5 notes · View notes

chipeanuts · 2 years ago

Text

World of warcraft player stats :)

So uh I’ve wanted to do this for a long time so here we go 👉👈

MAIN

Faction: Horde (since day one)

Race: mag’har orc

Class: shaman (thanks to Thrall)

Favoured Specialisation: restoration

Primary Professions: /

Secondary Professions: cooking and fishing :)

ALTS

Number of alts: too many…

Race/Spec of alts: Orc/marksman ship hunter (my first main), troll/shaman, orc/destruction warlock

COLLECTIONS

Number of mounts: 77 at the moment

Favourite mount: i just really love all the cloud serpents ! I find the nether-gorged greatwyrm verry pretty as well and there is a lot of drakes that I really like too ! I can’t really choose

Number of toys: 26 only :(

Favourite toy: for a person who likes to take screenshots as much as me, the selfie camera toy is just so much fun

Number of pets: 31

Favourite pet: cinder kitten… and mini Ragnaros omg *pleading face emoji*

Favourite title: savior of Azeroth, veteran of the fourth war

Rarest item: i really don’t know

Do you still have an item that is no longer used? (ie. sigils, spellstones, etc.): probably not

Mount/toy/pet you are trying to get: Invincible like everyone I guess ? But I kinda gave up at this point - also one mount from Bastion but I can’t remember the name

ACHIEVEMENTS

Achievement points: 4115 at the moment

Achievement you are most proud of:

Achievement you have that can’t be acquired anymore:

Achivement/s you are currently working on: hmm I think the ones from Korthia

Number of exalted reputations: 4

PVP & PVE

Favourite battleground:

Least favourite battleground:

Favourite brawl: idk

Least favourite brawl: idk

Favourite dungeon:

Least favourite dungeon: the ones from wotlk (please don’t hit me)

Favourite raid: THE ! BLACK ! TEMPLE ! (and let’s say the icecrown citadel)

Least favourite raid: /

Favourite quest/quest chain: to be honest the questline in BFA when you have to choose between being loyal to Sylvanas or not, and all the stuff with Saurfang and Baine etc was AMAZING and... you know... when Illidan is involved-

Least favourite quest/quest chain: i really don’t know, probably some in Zereth Mortis because it was very long

Favourite zone: I LOVE Dazar’alor so much, bonus points for Highmountain and many Horde zones such as Orgrimmar, Razor Hill and basically all Durotar (the good ol times), and Thunder Bluff !

Least favourite zone: Suramar is very pretty but the questlines there were a NIGHTMARE never wanna do this again

LORE

Favourite expansion: definitely BFA, because I start playing during this expansion. But I also really love Legion and MoP !

Favourite moment in canon: literally anytime I see Illidan (especially his moments at Legion, I AM MY SCARS, MY DESTINY IS MY OWN, etc), mak’gora between Saurfang and Sylvanas in BFA, Varian’s death even if I cried a lot, Talanji’s cinematics, when Anduin punches Wrathion in the face (top ten iconic moments), probably every cinematic which involve my fav character at this point

Favourite 5 canon characters: Illidan (quick everyone act shocked), Thrall (I literally play shaman because of him), Varian (my king), Talanji (the best girl in WoW sorry I don’t make the rules), Saurfang (sobbing crying etc)

Least favourite 5 canon characters: Maiev (i’m sorry), Malfurion, Cenarius, Akama, Genn Greymane

Encyclopedias: Chronicle Volume 1 | Chronicle Volume 2 | Chronicle Volume 3 (okay my boyfriend owns all of them but he lends them to me from time to time so…yeah)

Audio dramas: A Thousand Years of War | The Tomb of Sargeras

Alliance or Horde? Horde

PVE or PVP? PVE

Raids or dungeons? Dungeons

Battlegrounds or arenas? BGs are so fun

Classic or retail? Retail (definitely)

Ranged or melee? Melee

Tank, heals, or DPS? Heal

Search for spoilers or wait for things to unfold? look for some spoilers and theories, headcanons, things like that

Sell items on the AH one-at-a-time or in a stack? one at a time

UNCATEGORISED

When did you start playing? february 2020 (and yes this is why I spent my entire lockdown in Azeroth)

Owned memorabilia: I have a wonderful illidan pin and a very cool horde badge :) but if we’re talking about official merch I own nothing particular BUT the Illidan official figure will be mine one day istg Favourite world event: idk

Add-ons you can’t live without: the world quest tracker saved my life during BFA for the reputations + the damage meter + Bagnon

#that was long but that was fun to do :)#chiptalks #sorry for my english i can't speak properly i know #world of warcraft

2 notes · View notes

rpgsandbox · 4 years ago

Link

The acclaimed setting of Symbaroum has enticed and fascinated fans of tabletop roleplaying games since the launch of the game in 2016. Now this dark and mysterious world welcomes an even wider audience, with the production of a Player’s Guide, Gamemaster’s Guide and Bestiary adapted for 5E, published under the Open Gaming License. Note that you will need the core 5E rulebooks to fully enjoy Ruins of Symbaroum.

Welcome to the world of Symbaroum

The rich and nuanced Symbaroum setting revolves around the Ambrians – a civilization that two decades ago were forced to flee their ancestral soil after a devastating war. Their new and promised land borders on the vast forest of Davokar, covering the remnants of the Empire of Symbaroum which fell into ruin hundreds of years ago. Brimming with natural resources and mythical treasures, the forest calls out to the Ambrians to be explored and plundered, but the road into its depths lays far from open. Not only are the shadows beneath the foliage fraught with danger, monsters and infectious Corruption; there are also the elves of the Iron Pact who have vowed to die to keep anyone from disturbing the ruins of old, warning that the ancient evil of Symbaroum stirs in its sleep.

About ten years ago, Queen Korinthia of the Ambrians finally vanquished Chieftan Haloban and his Jezites.

Now you can join in the adventure! Seek out the barbarian clans to trade or to plunder their treasuries; establish a base of power among princes, guilds, or rebellious refugees in the capital city of Yndaros; survive encounters with trolls, dark-minded beasts, and undead warlords. But always remember the warnings spoken by the wardens of the forest: tread carefully and do not disturb the ruins of old, for the horrors of Davokar are about to awaken!

If you want a more in-depth introduction to the setting, with its dark wilderness, its warring factions and infectious corruption, you are welcome to download On the Nature of Davokar - a report from a lecture at the wine cellar Tuvinels in Yndaros, transcribed and commented by the famous explorer Iasogoi Brigo.

Aside from the base core rules referenced in the 5E OGL, the Ruins of Symbaroum Player’s Guide contains everything you need to create characters and set out to explore the world of Symbaroum. We provide this information in five major sections: an introduction to the setting, new rules for gameplay, new character origins, new character classes and feats, and a set of resources (equipment, spells, etcetera) for making characters and for use during play.

New Rules

To emphasize the dark fantasy nature of the setting, new rules for traveling and rests, social challenges, and magic are introduced. Regarding magic, wielders of mystical powers cannot avoid being affected by the ever-present threat of Corruption — the gathering of darkness to each character’s Shadow which, if left untended, can manifest as terrible physical transformations and even the eventual loss of the character entirely, as Corruption consumes them mentally and physically.

New Origins

Aside from familiar folks such as humans, elves, and dwarves, the Symbaroum game world lets you create PCs and NPCs who are changelings, ogres, goblins, trolls and even a particular form of undead. Also, the more recognizable folks differ quite radically from what you would expect – for instance, in Symbaroum the elves (rather than orcs, trolls, or similar) could be described as the default enemy of adventurers and explorers.

In Ruins of Symbaroum, character Backgrounds are generally tied to Origins. The following Origins and Backgrounds are included in the Player's Guide:

Origins: Human (clanfolk), Dwarf, Elf and Troll

Abducted Human - Runaway

Changeling – Broken Home, Mage’s Assistant

Dwarf – Dreams of Doom, Life-Debt, Outcast

Elf – Avenger, Exile, Mediator, Scout

Goblin – Laborer, Convert, Wild

Human – Common Folk, Faithful of Prios, Houses of Nobility, Merchant, Refugee, Scholar of Ordo Magica

Ogre – Learned in Magic, Raised by Common Folk, Sellsword

Troll – Artifact Collector, Journey of Discovery

Undead – Revenant

New Classes

The Ruins of Symbaroum Player’s Guide presents the classes Captain, Hunter, Mystic, Scoundrel and Warrior – each with between four and seven different approaches (called Subclasses in the 5E OGL rules), and all of them with customized features up to the 20th level. The captain class is something special, as its members have the capability to command and train others, to improve the fighting ability of a group as a whole.

Approaches: Ironsworn, Rune Smith, Weapon Master and Sorcerer

Captain – Merchant Master, Officer, Outlaw, Poet-warrior

Hunter – Bounty Hunter, Iron Sworn, Monster Hunter, Witch Hunter

Mystic – Artifact Crafter, Self-taught, Sorcerer, Theurg, Troll Singer, Witch, Wizard

Scoundrel – Explorer, Former Cultist, Guild Thief, Thug, Treasure Hunter

Warrior – Berserker, Duelist, Knight, Rune Smith, Tattooed Fighter, Weapon Master (plus unlocked: Templar, Wrathguard)

The graphic design of Ruins of Symbaroum borrows elements from the award-winning design of the original Symbaroum game.

Both these spreads are drafts (works-in-progress) from the Ruins of Symbaroum Player's Guide.

Note: the cover art is a placeholder and will be replaced.

The Ruins of Symbaroum Gamemaster’s Guide provides tools and guidelines for running the game, developing the setting and creating your own adventures. The content may be summarized as follows:

Invoking Symbaroum

Gamemaster’s Rules – on Ability Checks, Combat and Challenge Ratings, Time Within the Game, and Shadow and Corruption.

The Setting – describes three settlements central to the setting: Thistle Hold, the town of explorers and treasure hunters; Yndaros, the capital city of the kingdom of Ambria; and Karvosti, the cliff of the barbarian High Chieftain deep inside the forest of Davokar.

Running Ruins of Symbaroum

Building Game Worlds – guidelines on how to understand and develop the specific game world of Symbaroum.

Adventures and Landscapes – instructions on creating adventures and adventure landscapes where the PCs dictate the course and outcome of the story.

Chronicles – tips on how to design an adventure chronicle (also called campaign or adventure path) set in the world of Symbaroum.

Magical Items and Artifacts – a huge number of mystical artifacts that all come with ready-made adventure hooks, as well as guidelines on how to create mystical artifacts of your own.

Optional Rules

Troupe Play in Symbaroum

Adventures in the Underworld, Yonderworld and Spirit World

Advanced Traps

Pitched Battles

PC-owned estates and domains

Forest expeditions of different types

Ceremonial Magic

And more

Note: the cover art is a placeholder and will be replaced.

The Ruins of Symbaroum Bestiary is in most respects a reflection of the award-winning Symbaroum Monster Codex, but with stats and rules adapted for 5E – the difference being that it also includes the monsters and adversaries featured in the Symbaroum Core Rulebook.

Hordes of the Eternal Night

Twenty-seven original creatures that haunt, roam and wreak havoc on the world of Symbaroum.

Each creature come with full color art, lore, an adventure Set-up and between one and four variants with different stat blocks

Beasts & Monsters

Approximately sixty creatures presented with shorter descriptions and stat blocks

Sorted into categories, such as Abominations, Predators, Spiders, Undead and Winged Creatures

Adversaries

Approximately seventy types of cultural beings presented with shorter descriptions and stat blocks

Sorted into categories, such as Champions of Prios, Elves, Outcasts, People of Davokar, Townsfolk and Trolls

The abominations of Davokar come in different shape and sizes...

Do you want to know more and even playtest some of the new mechanics right now? If so you should head over to DriveThruRPG and download the free PDF Ruins of Symbaroum 5E - The Promised Land.

There you will find some of the optional rules, a selection of origins, classes and approaches, along with four readymade player characters and an adventure. Enjoy!

Kickstarter campaign ends: Thu, May 6 2021 8:00 PM BST

Website: [Free League Publishing] [facebook] [twitter] [instagram]

#RPG #kickstarter #Symbaroum #Dungeons and Dragons #Free League Publishing

45 notes · View notes

suvidrache · 2 years ago

Text

To The Mountains

age in bio when interacting. minors do not interact.

Word Count: 2,426 / Read it on AO3 | Offline Version

Warning mentions: injuries, near-death, sex, and drugging.

Hord had plans. He was the best there was at what he did. He had helped Tenris capture a bear. He wasn't sure what Tenris' plans were or what he intended to do with the bear. He only knew he needed a bear and Hord got him exactly that: a baby bear. It wasn't very hard capturing it, as he was great at things like that. Clan law forbade the killing of hunters - animals such as bears, wolves, orcas, etc. To assist Tenris was to break clan law.

The bear had a demon placed inside it by Tenris. The bear stripped Torak of his father and many other unnamed people of their life.

Hord had felt guilty about what had happened. As things progressively got worse, his anxiety only increased.

When Torak came to the Raven Clan Hord didn't hesitate to take credit for bringing Torak in. Despite Oslak having been the one to have caught him. Torak was ordered to be executed, Torak asked for a trial by combat, and Hord jumped at the chance to win a fight against him. To show his entire clan just how good he really was. Hord was nineteen and Torak was twelve. Torak won the fight, which greatly upset Hord. He deserved to have won, not lost, especially to a boy.

Even the mention of the bear bothered Hord. He chewed at the edges of his fingers and his nails. Nervous about what other damage had been caused - damage he helped to cause.

When Torak and Hord's sister, Renn, took off before anything could be decided. Hord didn't hesitate to take off after them. He wanted to be the one to make amends. The one who saved the world. A man. The thought of losing to a boy and even worse, not even saving the world drove him to hunger, to turning his fingers to sores from the number of times he bit at them, and to lack of sleep.

Fin-Kedinn had nearly lost his life to the bear. Hord already made plans to take over as clan leader, despite Fin-Kedinn still being alive. Hord was desperate to be first and scared he would only be second. Hord wanted nothing to do with his sister after she betrayed the clan and ran away with Torak. Fin-Kedinn had thought she was dead and didn't speak for days.

When Torak had been brought back to the clan, it was decided that Torak would be the one to fulfill the prophecy. Hord followed after him as soon as he could. He wasn't going to fail. Not again. He was determined to be the savior of his people and to make amends for the creation he helped with.

It was quite easy for Hord to follow after Torak. Hord tried his best at fighting Torak, trying to fulfill the prophecy of giving the listener's blood to the mountain. Torak had managed to get free of Hord. Hord rose to follow after him yet again, but this time, he slipped. Hord fell right as the bear made its way up the mountain. An avalanche had fallen, and the snow had killed both Hord and the bear.

No one questioned it when Torak had returned and the fact that Hord was missing. They accepted it and knew there would be no finding him. That, unfortunately, he would be without death marks. All dead people needed death marks to prevent their souls from wandering. The snow would never thaw even in the summer. Even if they had managed to find the mountain, no matter how much digging they tried to do, they would still probably never find him. It wasn't worth the time or the effort.

Hord lay there in the snow. He wasn't expecting to be covered in it. He struggled, and he fought. He wasn't going down without a fight. He wasn't going to allow himself to be defeated. Hord had worked hard enough that he had managed to free his head from the snow. He sat resting and breathing in slowly. Some of the snow was stained red. The bear had hurt him.

Torak was gone, long gone by now, and the ringing in Hord's ears continued for some time. He never heard you approach. You had heard the avalanche and waited for it to cease before going to check for survivors. You lived alone, preferring to be alone rather than with your own clan. It was strange for someone to live alone, without a justifiable reason. However, your clan would always welcome you back home if you ever chose to return.

You walked slowly and carefully up the mountain, looking around, making sure no spot was left unchecked. It wasn't long before you saw some red. Hord had red hair, and he also wore clothes that had been dyed green.

You stepped closer, your hand touched your pouch. You wouldn't be surprised if whatever creature happened to be dead. His light blue eyes shifted to look at you.

"Hey, are you okay?" You asked as you knelt, your hand slowly working at removing the snow from around his body.

Hord did not reply, and he slowly closed his eyes. You stopped digging and gently patted him on the face to keep him from falling asleep and possibly dying. You weren't sure how bad his injuries were, but you were going to keep him alive as long as you possibly could.

Hord said some things, and you looked at him with a blank expression. He mumbled some more and you raised an eyebrow. Hord rolled his eyes and slowly shook his head. You didn't understand what he was saying. The words he spoke were mumbled and unable to be distinguished - hearing loss. The avalanche had rendered him unable to hear… For how long? No one knew.

You had finished digging the snow out and your eyes slowly looked Hord over, checking to see just how bad his injuries were. He had a few broken bones, some injuries needing stitches, and a few minor scrapes. You grabbed his arm and wrapped it around your shoulders. You wouldn't be able to carry Hord, but together the two of you would make a slow and painful journey down the mountain. Occasionally, you would stop to take a break. Hord didn't know how much longer he could go on. The pain medicine did absolutely nothing to stop his pain. You couldn't give him anymore for fear of it being too much and taking him out. He needed to be alive.

Finally, by sundown, the both of you had made it to your camp. It was dark, and you made your way carefully into your shelter. You laid Hord down and started up a fire. You closed the door to the shelter to keep the warmth in. Hord was a very lucky man. Lucky to be alive, lucky to have no major injuries, and lucky he had been found when he did.

You worked carefully at cutting away Hord's clothes, sticking to the seam so they could be sewn up again. It was pointless as his clothes had been stained with his blood, but it was the only clothes available. You worked slowly and carefully, setting Hord's bones, sewing him up, feeding, and watering him. He was once a pretty big man, however, his starvation had led him to being smaller than he had once been.

He wouldn't be leaving your shelter, not for a long time. His injuries were far too bad and he probably wouldn't make it far - if at all, if he left. He had no tools and was weakened. He had brought nothing but a knife and axe with him during his trip. He needed nothing else, but those had both been lost during the avalanche.

Hord shifted slightly and let out a groan. He was hurting again.

"Where am I?"

"You're in my shelter. I'm Y/N."

"Where's my clan?"

"You're in the mountains. There are no Raven's here. There was a Wolf boy who did come from the avalanche."

He gasped. Pain, but also shock. How could he have lived? Surely, he would have been injured to the extent Hord had…

"Where?" He breathed out, trying his hardest to speak through the pain.

"He walked out and headed south."

"I need… I need to go after him."

"You're not going anywhere." You said, watching as he struggled to even sit up.

He managed, but his breathing was heavy, and his bandages were soaked. He hit the ground as soon as he stood.

You sighed, rolled him over, and went to work fixing any of the injuries that may have opened again. He lay near the fire and you covered him with a blanket. He had no clothes and whether he was aware of that or not, you weren't sure. He was in no condition to be going anywhere. His clothes hung from the rafters of the shelter to dry out. You hadn't bothered to wash the blood from them. There was no point. They would be stained. Hord's temperature was still cold, but not nearly as bad as what he had when he first arrived.

He had woken up a little while later and you offered him some water. Ordinarily, you wouldn't have done it. You wouldn't have resorted to such measures. However, your hope was mainly to prevent him from being in any further pain. You also hoped he wouldn't run away while you slept. You had slipped something into his drink, something that was supposed to calm him down and help him to sleep better.

You walked over to your sleeping sack, got in, and went to sleep. When you had awoken, Hord had shifted closer to the door. He was tired, but he wasn't asleep. The medicine had not worked.

"How are you awake?" You asked.

He looked at you and his eyes narrowed. "Did you put something in my drink?"

"Only to help you to sleep."

People with red hair sometimes needed more medicine than what was usually given for pain or to put people to sleep. You were soon realizing that as he grunted.

"Well, it didn't do much."

"Do you need something?"

"Yeah, my body to quit hurting."

"Besides that."

You finished making some pain medicine for him, this batch slightly stronger than the last dose you had given him.

He sighed and winced as he sat up.

"Yeah, I need to use the midden (bathroom)."

You handed him the bowl to drink from and some pain medicine. He took it and waited for your help. He was eating better than he had been since meeting you. However, he didn't eat much. He was still thin, and the pain was unbearable for him. You helped him up and to the midden.

It would be many moons (months) before he could even put a slight amount of weight on his leg. He could walk, but not far. He couldn't help with hunting, which saddened him, but he tried to keep his anger and tone in check.

Throughout many more moons, the both of you had slowly become closer and closer to one another. Hord's injuries had finally healed and occasionally they would hurt, but not nearly as bad as before.

Hord could have walked away and left you behind in the mountains. He could have gone home, but he didn't. He chose to stay. He had given up trying to go after Torak. There was no point, and he didn't want to return to his clan with a loss. He didn't want to return as a failure and return to a clan that didn't even care to come and look for his body. It was hard finding the mountain, but he didn't know that. Eventually, the both of you became a couple (mates). He chose to live wherever it is that you wanted to go and to live.

The mountains had never been a place he had lived in or visited before. It was new to him. He did take some time to learn the customs of the mountains and how to do things the way that you did.

You sat in the camp looking at the fire, occasionally poking at the fire to stop it from dying. Hord had returned to camp, empty-handed. He hadn't been out hunting. It was too late in the day and you both had already eaten.

Hord sat down next to you and you laid your head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around you. The sun slipped beneath the horizon and the moon began to rise as the night came closer.

You stood up and walked into your shelter, and Hord followed after you. Hord closed the door to the shelter and placed his axe against the door. If it fell, you would both be alerted to the sound, and it also served as a door stopper.

You turned towards Hord in the faint light. His hair was nearly black, and his light blue eyes stared into yours. He placed a hand gently on your face.

"Y/N, do you want to mate (have sex)?"

"Yes, I do."

His lips met yours and your hands slipped beneath his jerkin (shirt). His hands worked at untying his belt and he dropped it somewhere in the shelter. It didn't matter where, he would worry about finding it in the morning.

You both took a moment to breathe and remove the remainder of each other's clothes. You laid down and Hord moved between your legs. Your hand reached out and slowly began to stroke him. His fingers worked to rub/stroke you. You bit your lip as Hord continued his actions, going faster and harder with each movement. You tried to move away as you felt a strange feeling. His hand grasped your hip, and you soon came. He followed along afterward. He grasped his length and slowly slid himself into you, his hands firmly grasping your hips.

"Are you ready?" He breathed out.

"Yes, I am," you said after a moment.

It was the first time you and Hord had ever had sex. He didn't entirely know what he was doing, but he could only hope he was doing a good job.

He moved his hips back slowly, stopping before his tip left you. Then he slid himself in again. Then out. Then in. Starting slowly before picking up speed. His hands never left your hips. Your hand touched his chest and your other hand worked at rubbing/stroking yourself.

Tag list: @unlikelypersonalknight1 & @saltylilbrat / To join my tag list apply here!

#coad headcanons #coad imagine #coad x reader #coad #hord coad #hord coad x reader #hord coad imagine #hord coad scenario #coad hord #chronicles of ancient darkness headcanons #chronicles of ancient darkness imagine #chronicles of ancient darkness x reader #chronicles of ancient darkness #chronicles of ancient darkness hord

3 notes · View notes

alexandralyman · 5 years ago

Text

Summary: A Hook/Emma angel/demon AU. They hide in plain sight, the servants of heaven and hell. The angels and the demons, who can save your soul or damn it. They stand on opposite sides, they are the bringers of light and the agents of darkness, they are enemies in an eternal war, but what happens when an angel and a demon are inexplicably drawn to each other?

Read on FF.net here or on AO3 here

Part Twenty-Four

The Sistine Chapel - May 6, 1527

The long train of her gown made a faint whispering sound against the floor as she glided the length of the chapel, the heavy gold satin rippling and flowing in waves over the fine marble and intricately laid mosaics. They would have been a showpiece in any other cathedral, but here they paled in comparison to the splendour of a thousand years' worth of papal wealth that surrounded them. A few lanterns were still lit in the niches and alcoves set into the walls but the light was dying, flickering and growing even more dim with each step she took further and further into the shadowed heart of Christendom. It was in this place where a new pope rose upon the death of the old, crowned and gowned and bequeathed the Keys to the Kingdom as he ascended upon Saint Peter's seat.

The ancient throne lay empty and abandoned on this night.

Her hair was a loose spill down her back and she wore no hood or veil to conceal it, normally an unthinkable breach of protocol for a woman entering the sacred site and a grave offence to the Church. But there was no one left to bar her entry, not that any mortal man could actually stop her from passing through any door to any room in this place, where even the holiest of relics, the priceless texts of scripture and verse, the sacred hearts of saints, the swords carried into battle during the Crusades, all paled in comparison to her.

Not a single candle was left burning by the altar where a figure was just visible in the gloom, garbed as a monk in sober dark robes. But he was no more a lowly cleric labouring anonymously in the depths of the Vatican in his humble attire than she was a wealthy Roman noblewoman in her rich gown and while her head might be uncovered, it was far from bare. She wore her own diadem above her brow, it was made not of gold or gems, but of an unbroken circle of Heavenly light. Divine radiance illuminated her path while the astonishing frescos that the Florentine master, Michelangelo, had laboured over for the better part of a decade looked down from the ceiling above, now silent witnesses left behind when everyone else had fled.

Almost.

"His Holiness has left in the company of the Swiss Guard and the Emperor's army is about to breach the walls. Rome will fall to the wolves and it will fall tonight, it's too late to stop it now."

Emma delivered the news to the figure's back, as still as any of the painted prophets and saints that surrounded them. For several long moments he didn't move and if it was anyone else she would have thought he didn't hear her. But he heard everything, and when he finally turned the hood of his monkish robe fell back to reveal one who was both prophet and saint, known by many names and titles in different languages and traditions. In the chronicles of noble knights seeking the glory of the Holy Grail he was the mysterious and powerful Merlin, possessor of magic and esoteric knowledge beyond that of mortal men. In truth, he was a Prince of Heaven in his own right, an Archangelus, the patron of healers, lovers, and guardian angels and one of the highest ranked of the Blessed Ones along with his brothers Michael and Gabriel.

The Archangel Raphael.

Like all angels he was captivating to look at, with a face that Michelangelo would have given his own soul to capture in marble. Strong brows, full lips, and large, liquid eyes that were fixed firmly at some point in the distance before his attention turned to her. Pleas for salvation were echoing in the back of Emma's mind like a thousand hands all reaching out from the shadows to clutch at her train, while the Pope had been spirited away to safety many innocent souls had been left behind, unarmed and completely defenceless against the rampaging horde of soldiers about to descend upon them.

Raphael spoke in a low voice as his gaze drifted again, to the shadows that veiled the splendor around them and grew more with each passing moment. "Yes," he exhaled, and painted heads turned as his breath gave the little figures miraculous life. "They will come from the north...an army sent to expand an empire and lay waste to all who stand in the way...cities fall one by one and there will be death and destruction and war."

An exasperated huff escaped her lips. "Will be? War is already here!"

He shook his own head, his hair as close-cropped as any monk's in place of the flowing locks usually depicted in the many portrayals of him that adorned chapel walls and illuminated texts. The shapeless robes stirred about his legs, lifted by a cool breeze that swept through the nave and made the lanterns flicker and the frescos cower. The light dimmed even more with it and didn't recover, more faint, misty glow now than illumination.

"No, I don't mean this. What is to happen tonight will fade from history and be all but forgotten within a generation, though the effects will linger. This is not war, this is two mules eyeing each other balefully over the same pile of hay.

Only an angel would openly refer to the two most powerful men in Europe, the Supreme Pontiff Clement VII, who held dominion over all Catholic souls, and the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, who ruled most of the land those souls resided on, as nothing more than humble pack animals fighting over a mouthful of feed. But the description was an apt one, it was their mutual stubbornness and refusal to cede any ground that had led to an army the Emperor could no longer control poised to lay waste to everything in its path and the Pope abandoning Saint Peter's throne to flee like a thief in the night instead.

"Charles and Clement may be nothing more than mules, but even a mule's kick can be fatal," Emma argued back. "And when a Hapsburg aims for a Medici, he doesn't just strike his rival. Tell the people of Rome that this is not war when they're burned from their homes and slaughtered without mercy in the street."

Raphael sighed and statues wept. "His Majesty and His Holiness are not the only ones possessed of an excess of stubborness. Now is not the time for debate about the constitution of war, it's long past time for you to go home, beata Emma. The army is not the only wolf howling at the gates tonight."

Emma lifted her chin, not giving quarter even to an Archangel. "And the innocents will suffer all the more for it."

His voice was firm and the warning in his tone was clearer than any bell. "The darkness will always seek to snuff out the light, in every form. Always. We can't save them all, Emma, and we are not meant to. He gave them the freedom of their own will be they prince or peasant, and as such they are capable of so much beauty and so much ugliness in equal measure. That potential they all hold within is His gift to mankind and we must allow them to choose their own path. You can not interfere in this mortal quarrel and if you stay, it is inevitable that the darkness will seek to find you."

She knew what would follow the soldiers in once they descended like locusts from the plagues of old and began to pillage the city. Even in the very heart of the Vatican itself she could sense them faintly in the distance, just beyond the seven hills.

Waiting.

Damnate Infernum.

The Damned of Hell.

"I do not fear the darkness."

Her voice didn't rouse the frescos or move the carvings to tears as his did, but her voice was steady and her shoulders were squared back in her elegant gown. She carried no sword, no heaven-forged blade like the one that had made it into legend alongside Raphael's tenure as Merlin appeared in her hand with which to repel back a demonic horde, but she couldn't leave, not when so many voices were out there and calling to her with their pleas for salvation.

"You do," the Archangel intoned with a raise of his brow. "Oh, you are brave and your heart is pure, but no one, not even an angel, is immune to fear."

He smiled then, a breathtaking sight that eclipsed even the glory of the grandeur that surrounded them. Emma felt her own lips lift in response and the candles that had been left unattended at the altar all ignited, filling the air around them with the scent of beeswax and sweet oil. Raphael's smile turned melancholy, his pupils twin golden flames from the reflections but also flickering with something else, beyond what Emma herself could see. The Merlin of tale was a prophet and that wasn't the fanciful imaginings of a twelfth-century cleric, Raphael had the divine gift of prophecy as all the Archangels did and in truth, Emma was afraid to ask what he saw when he looked at her now.

Another breath of wind swept through the chapel, cold, and decidedly unnatural. It licked a shiver down her spine and the candles went out again from the force of it, wisps of dark smoke curling up to the ceiling in serpentine ribbons. All save for one long, pale taper that continued to burn alone in defiance of the attempt to snuff it out. Raphael looked at it for a long moment and then he nodded once, as if in acknowledgement.

"A single light remains. If you truly wish to stay through what is to come, I won't forbid it. But Emma, you must keep in mind that the most divine of gifts can also become the heaviest of burdens. To listen and stay silent is not easy, you can find yourself longing not to hear them at all when you can't answer. Perhaps even for eternity."

She couldn't imagine even considering such a notion, one that trod so dangerously close to a path that led away from Heaven and only a few had chosen to follow since He first separated the light from the darkness as painted above.

"Is your gift a burden, beatus Raphael?"

His handsome face shifted, becoming softer and more wistful at the question. "My gift is wonderful. And terrible. I see such marvels to come, each more astonishing than the last as they continue to embrace art and science and learning, even when they stumble along the way. Then there are the horrors that have yet to be as well, when they fall into ignorance and loathing. But that is the future and as pleasant as it might have been to be gifted with visions of only the former and not the latter, without both, I would be blind in one eye."

With that, he made a motion with his hand and the candle that still burned lifted from the altar on unseen wings, crossing the bit of distance to float between his cupped palms. The little flame grew even stronger and for a moment that was an eternity unto itself the whole chapel blazed with light. Frescos acted out their stories in miniature, Passion Plays in pigment and plaster. The First Man reached to his Creator, the waters rose as the Flood washed over the banks and the Serpent hissed in triumph as the Forbidden Fruit was consumed and Man fell from grace.

Raphael offered the taper to her and she accepted it, his hands closing over hers so they both formed the ancient gesture of prayer. When he pulled away the flame returned to nothing more than a tiny spark, the painted figures were still and his eyes no longer reflected that which fate had hidden to all but him.

"They will follow you by this light, beata Emma."

She dipped her chin. "Gratias tibi ago."

The Archangel Raphael stepped back and folded his hands solemnly in his sleeves. A papal audience would conclude with the kissing of the fisherman's ring, but angels wore no jewelry. Her own fingers were bare of any adornment despite the richness of her attire. Still, she recognized she was being dismissed and she turned, satin gown rustling with the movement.

The candle illuminated the path back out of the chapel and no more, saints had retreated into shadows and all that remained of the dazzling splendor was a solitary angel. A glance back revealed what she already knew, Raphael was gone and she was alone.

It had already begun, Emma could hear the hue and cry quickly spreading across the city in advance of the army. She picked up her skirts and started to run, flying not with her wings but on her faith instead, trusting that it would take her where they would find her, whoever *they* were.

When she reached the closest set of doors that led outside they opened into the darkness of the night, the sky above indistinguishable from the ground below even with the candle in her hand burning bright. The space between the ornately carved wood gaped like a maw, and she could smell the smoke in the distance as her own prophecy came true and the fires were lit.

Rome had fallen.

When she reached the threshold the finely laid mosaics abruptly stopped, giving way to the drop where the Pope would slowly descend to the cheers of the waiting masses come to pay him homage in His name. Adoration had turned to debasement, cheers to screams, and as the floor fell away from beneath her feet Emma didn't ascend.

She leapt straight into the storm instead.

Lower Saxony, Germany, 1943

Bright sunshine shone down on the tall stone walls of the medieval Schloss, an imposing structure that dominated both the surrounding countryside of forests and fields and the picture postcard village nestled in the valley below, all nearly unchanged from how it must have looked centuries ago when the Hapsburgs still ruled this part of the world with absolute power not as mere kings like in France and England, but as emperors anointed by Rome.

Killian stepped out of his car and tilted his head back to take it all in, squinting into the light. It really was like stepping back in time, his was the only vehicle he'd seen on the winding road that connected castle and village and, unlike in every other city and town across Germany, there was no hint of the current turmoil to be seen or heard. No armed checkpoints on the roads, no soldiers posted at the town hall, not even the distant roar of the Luftwaffe in the sky overhead that was ever present now in even the most remote provinces far from the hive of furious activity that was Berlin. It would be curious, if Killian didn't already know exactly who was currently residing behind the ancient walls, someone who was far older and had the power to keep everything that was going on at bay.

For now, at least.

Inside, heavy damask curtains were drawn tight across every window and he was plunged directly into the darkness upon entering what was almost certainly enemy territory. It would have been disconcerting to anyone else, but Killian could see perfectly in the dark and his eyes adjusted at once with a flash of crimson to take in the artwork that crammed every inch of the walls in ornate frames. Far from an unusual sight in a castle, but these weren't the expected solemn-faced portraits of family scions or middling landscapes by unimportant artists like the one Emma had been so enamoured with before the French decided to give their entire aristocracy the same treatment as Herod gave to John the Baptist. Killian recognized the unmistakable hand of Titian in a red-haired siren and Caravaggio's signature chiaroscuro in the depiction of a saint, there was a Rembrandt that, as far as he knew, belonged to the Dutch royal family, currently exiled in Canada, and a half-finished sketch that he would wager a literal king's ransom was a Da Vinci. It was a veritable Aladdin's cave of priceless treasures, and none of it was owned by the noble family who had given their name to both the Schloss and the village and were now conspicuous by their absence. War had redrawn the European borders once again and, like the sacking of Rome by another German army four centuries prior, spoils had been taken and even more innocent blood was spilled. As Damnate Infernum, a Demon of Hell and corruptor of human souls Killian had seen it all before, he'd been standing on the hill when the city gates were finally breached on that May eve long ago and the holy city itself started to burn, but this conflagration was the closest he'd ever felt to the End of Days and the war destined to eclipse all others.

The Final Battle.

The artistic splendor was marred by the presence of an imp, lounging on an antique chaise in an insolent sprawl with one leg slung over the back and a grin that revealed a mouth packed with too many teeth.

Killian detested imps.

"Corruptor," the lesser demon practically purred, drawing the title out like it was a juicy treat. "What business have you with the illustrious Dark One? Have you come to make a deal?"

He would sooner be tortured by the Inquisition again than make a deal with Rumpelstiltskin and he bared his own teeth at the imp, white and far sharper than they looked.

"Tell your master that I'm here to speak with him, and that he needs to keep his pets on a tighter leash. I've heard what you've been up to when he lets you run loose. Bad form, even for an imp."

The rebuke in his voice made the imp's head snap back hard against the padded velvet, but instead of being chastised, it let out a high-pitched giggle that quickly melted into an obscene moan.

"Do it again!"

Killian grit his teeth, trying to keep his hellish temper in check. As much as he would have liked to teach the imp a painful lesson in the proper amount of deference owed to a higher demon, he was here for something far more important and anything else was a distraction.

Besides, the infernal creature would probably enjoy it.

"Fetch. Your. Master," he repeated, each word snapping in the air like the crack of a whip.

The imp stood and gave a mocking salute, clicking its heels together and bending its knees like a ballerina doing a plié. Killian didn't return the gesture, despite the uniform he was currently wearing.

"Aye, aye, Kapitän."

He felt his eyes narrow at that as the imp disappeared down the hall, dancing and whistling a jaunty tune through those piranha teeth as it went. The sound seemed to echo long after the imp was gone until Killian realized he was hearing someone else instead, his head turning in the direction it was coming from and following on silent feet until he found the source.

A pair of narrow doors stood ajar with a sliver of light peeking out and through the gap he saw that it was the castle's library, tall stacks rising right to the ceiling and filled cheek by jowl with leather-bound books. He gave the door the tiniest of nudges and it swung open fully, revealing that the curtains were tied back in heavy swags unlike in the other rooms he had passed, letting in the sun. The reason why quickly became obvious, there was a ladder attached to the bookcases to allow access to the higher shelves and perched on it was a soman, her back to him as she dusted along a row of books and hummed to herself in a sweet voice. Unlike the imp she was mortal, entirely human, her petite figure clad in a modest blue dress and her chestnut hair falling down her back in thick curls. Killian supposed she was Rumpelstiltskin's chambermaid, but strangely for someone in a demon's employ there wasn't a whiff of corruption about her. As one whose entire purpose was to corrupt and defile he could always detect it, to him it was like the scent of overripe fruit about to spoil. It clung indelibly to those falling away from the Light as their souls blackened and shrivelled like the half-eaten apple left behind in the Garden, so perfect and unblemished on the Tree until temptation proved too much for Mankind to resist. Whoever the woman was, she was still innocent, and curiosity had time taking a step closer because he was never one to resist temptation in any form.

The doors both slammed shut in his face before he could cross the threshold, with enough force to make his teeth rattle and the sweet humming was abruptly cut off, replaced by the harsh scrape of a lock being turned.

"Corruptor."

His demonic title was spoken from behind him in an oily voice and Killian turned smoothly on his booted heel, away from the library and the woman now locked within.

"Dealmaker," he acknowledged.

Rumpelstiltskin's thin lips went even thinner, but he couldn't fault Killian for addressing him in kind and not by his preferred moniker. He was attired in current fashion from the knife's-edge part in his hair down to his two-tone loafers, but he still carried the silver-tipped cane that Killian remembered from Paris, in the midst of another time and another war. The handle was shaped like a reptile's head, fitting for an ancient demon with such a cold-blooded disposition. The ebony tip rapped sharply against the floor when he turned and started to walk back down the hall without another word, not bothering to check if Killian followed. The dealmaker was more arrogant than any king in his newly acquired castle, and Killian rolled his eyes behind the self-styled Dark One's back before falling reluctantly into step to the metronome of the cane against the polished stone, each strike echoing loudly in the silence.

More incredible art adorned the walls on either side of them, one long corridor was completely lined in fourteenth-century tapestries that were somewhat faded with age but remarkably intact, depicting a typical medieval hunt. Killian had participated in his fair share of them under his many different noble aliases, he immediately recognized the scenes. The elusive quarry managed to evade the hunting party for several panels, leaping through glens and peeping defiantely at them through a copse of trees just beyond their reach. It almost slipped away, but the pursuers were determined and the freedom of the forest was fleeting, as the tiny woven arrows landed straight and true at the end.

Rumpelstiltskin came to a halt by another pair of doors where the imp was waiting, bowing like a well-trained footmen when he approached, fawning and obsequious now in the master's direct presence instead of mocking and impertinent. Rumpelstiltskin lifted the tip of the cane off the floor and used it to raise the imp's chin, forcing the creature's head back at what on anyone else would be an unnatural angle.

"Wait for me outside the library. It's currently locked, and it stays that way."

The order was clear and the imp ran off again, not bothering with any theatrics this time to scuttle away like a cockroach instead. Killian watched it scurry down the hall, his interest piqued even more while Rumpelstiltskin entered what looked like an ordinary sitting room. Tufted chairs, a wireless in a walnut case, and a china tea set left on a side table, nothing unexpected at first glance. A closer look told a slightly different story, there was a copy of the current evening edition of the London Telegraph folded next to the flowered cups, even though it wouldn't be out for another two hours across the Channel. There was no picture of Der Führer hung in place of pride or copy of his odious book on display as there were in every patriotic German household, and even ensconced as he was deep within the dark heart of the Glorious Reich, Killian suspected that Rumpelstiltskin had his long, grasping fingers stuck in all sorts of pies.

"Did the local count bargain away both his Schloss and das Mädchen?"

Killian sat down in the tallest chair without waiting for an invitation, pulling out a silver cigarette case engraved with his monogram and flicking it open. He lit one without a match, inhaling deep and blowing out not a mere smoke ring, but a smoke serpent that rose in the air and hissed right in the other demon's face until it dissipated from an equal flick of Rumpelstiltskin's finger, his expression clearly unimpressed by the showy display.

"She made her own deal with me and is therefore off limits to you, Corruptor," he said. "Don't think I've forgotten the last time you interfered in my affairs."

Killian hadn't forgotten it either, and he couldn't say he felt any remorse for assisting the courtesan Maleficent settle her affairs behind Rumpelstilskin's back. The letter she had written had been delivered safe to her daughter while the daughter's husband was away from the house and unable to confiscate it, Killian had made sure of that. It hadn't been a deal, not exactly, just an offer made to give the woman a bit of comfort with none of his usual strings attached because he felt like being magnanimous. Besides, he'd always enjoyed Maleficent's elegant salons. He took another drag on his cigarette and did his best to look contrite, even though they both knew it was completely insincere.

"Speaking of which," Rumpelstiltskin continued, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "what happened to that angel you were so damn adamant about? I heard rumours that an angel finally smited that irritating succubus Zelena in Paris and yet by some miracle you appear to have walked away from that encounter completely unscathed. How curious."

Killian hadn't forgotten the Dark One's interest in his angel either, an interest he had no intention of encouraging. Emma hadn't fallen, not yet, and until she did and he could claim her openly for his own, she was fair game to any demon that crossed her path. He was certain that he was the only one who could seduce her, but the others would be all too eager to attack a Blessed One and try to destroy her. Including the demon who sat across from him now.

He needed to tread very carefully.

"She flew beyond my grasp," he said, blowing out another lungful of smoke that turned into an image of Zelena's face, rendered as delicately as any of the paintings on display. Her mouth split open in a silent pantomime of her final, agonized scream when another breath of smoke spilled over it just as the holy water had in life. "Zelena thought she could take an angel on herself, if she had stayed on her back where she belonged and out of my way, then maybe she wouldn't have ended up as nothing more than effluent in the Paris sewers alongside the contents of every royal bowel loosened by the steel kiss of Madame Guillotine. But I can't say I mourned her untimely passing, not after she spoiled my plans and let the angel escape."

Zelena's image finally melted away just like the succubus herself when he stubbed the cigarette out into a crystal ashtray, leaving behind a smear of ash as dark and thick as her infernal blood had been when it spilled over the blade of his iron knife. Rumpelstiltskin's gaze followed the movement, unblinking even through the eye-watering haze of smoke that now filled the room.

"Indeed. Perhaps you'll have another bite at that particular apple, one day. Although it's already been what, a hundred and fifty years? Taking the definition of eternity rather literally, aren't we now?"

Killian knew it was a jab at his apparent failure and he let his expression twist into a scowl. Little did the Dark One know of all the nights since then when he'd succeeded in "capturing" Emma, her wrists pinned fast by his grasp that could so easily become shackles from which she'd never escape, caging her with his body while she was wound in his sheets, close, so close to surrendering to him fully and not just to his carnal temptation. He'd savour his other victories privately until then, how he'd coaxed out her name the night they met, worked to gain her trust over the centuries, her confession that she could hear him, each far more valuable and rarer than any painting or tapestry Rumpelstiltskin could acquire.

He'd get what he wanted, in the end. Patience might be a virtue, but he was willing to be virtuous for this, and he'd rub Rumpelstiltskin's nose right in his success whether it took ten years or a hundred. Losing a little face now was a small price to pay.

Turn the other cheek, as it were.

"I'm sure it didn't take you nearly as long to accumulate your little treasure trove, did it, Dark One? And all strictly for the glory of the new German empire, I'm sure."

There was a flash of amusement on Rumpelstiltskin's face at the sarcasm in Killian's tone.

"I've held up my end of all the bargains I've made on behalf of the empire. What you see here are merely a few trinkets kept for my private collection."

Killian thought that "looted" was probably a more apt description than "kept" for the fortune crammed onto the walls, but he didn't say it out loud. And he was the one who'd once been called a pirate. Still, the dealmaker's penchant for trinkets was the whole reason why he'd come and he made a photograph appear, held delicately between his fingers like the cigarette before he set it on the table and slid it over.

"Is this one of your new acquisitions like the artwork and the decorative young girl, perhaps?"

The image was grainy, a faded sepia and foxed at the edges from age. Rumpelstiltskin looked down at it and while his expression didn't change the blue haze in the air from the cigarette smoke rippled around him, like a stone dropped in a still pond.

"It's called the White Hilt," Killian began, watching the other demon carefully as he spoke, "among other names, and was said to have been made from a remnant of the sword wielded by the angel who drove the First Man and First Woman from the Garden, where it was cleaved in two by their sin."

While the photograph was badly faded, the object pictured was still recognizable and had even retained a bit of gloss, forever reflecting the flash that had gone off when the image was captured for posterity. It was a blade, long and narrow and oddly shaped. Both sides were curved several times along the edge, so that it resembled less of a knife and more like a lick of flame made metal. Despite the name the actual hilt wasn't white, it was so dark in the picture that it was probably black or nearly to it, and was studded with what looked like a large jewel at the top.

"There was legends about it, like those about the Holy Grail and the Spear of Destiny, but they fell out of fashion and out of history and only a few scholars have even heard of the White Hilt now, including those that Der Führer has combing every pilfered record he can get his hands on thanks to his new obsession, the occult sciences."

Rumpelstiltskin gave him a contemptuous look. "Spare me the lesson, I'm far more versed in these tales than you, Corruptor. More than one soul has tried to barter with me for holy relics, thinking it will bring them power and glory. A blade forged from Heavenly light is an attractive idea, especially to one who has styled himself a Saviour of the people."

"While he exterminates those who don't fit his definition of the term," Killian added.

It wasn't spoken of openly, but people knew where their absent neighbours had gone. Yellow stars were left behind on the lintels of empty houses, paint flaking away in the elements and the sin cut deeper than any knife.

The other demon lifted one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. "Sieg Heil."

As before, Killian didn't return the sentiment. He gestured to the photograph instead. "This was taken sometime before the Great War, in this very castle."

He flipped it over and revealed the writing on the back, done in an old, copperplate hand. There were only three lines, the name of the Schloss they were currently sitting in, an illegible signature, and below them both was a word written first in German, and then, perhaps more tellingly, in Latin.

Dagger

Rumpelstiltskin eyed his uniform, one that gave him near absolute authority in the name of the would-be king. "I suppose you've come here as the knight on a noble quest?" he asked, tone still laced with contempt. "Shall I address you as Sir Killian instead of Corruptor then, collecting shiny tribute for your new master?"

Killian ignored that jab as well and focused on what the dealmaker might have just accidently let slip instead.

"So it is here?"

He met Rumpelstiltskin's gaze head on across the table. It was like staring into a well, his eyes were fathomless black depths that seemed to ripple from deep within. A mortal soul would fear what lurked unseen at the bottom and glance away from it, as Damnate Infernum in his own right, with power far beyond what the rank on his collar granted him, Killian didn't blink.

When Rumpelstiltskin spoke again it was through teeth gone serrated as a crocodile's. "I don't answer to you. Or to Der Führer. You think I'm somehow unaware of his more esoteric interests and attempts to collect such objects? Napoleon went to Egypt in search of Biblical treasures to strengthen his laughable claim, Charles V sent his troops to Rome to seize Saint Peter's throne, and now Adolf Hitler seeks a broken sword with which to rule the world. An emperor in all but name, and like those who came before him, doomed to inevitable failure. Just as you've failed in your pathetic attempt to intimidate me."

He started to rise from his seat then, cane in one hand and clear dismissal in his voice. "You can see yourself out now, Corruptor."

Killian remained where he was, idly examining his rings. The large, square cut ruby that he'd owned for centuries sat on his finger and winked up at him, he refused to don the honours that went with the uniform and wore his favourite pieces in their place instead. He rubbed his thumb over it and admired the fire within before rolling his wrist and snapping his fingers without looking up.

"Even in this modern world, I find that some still cling rather stubbornly to the old ways, don't you, Dealmaker? Especially those who used to hold power. They still style themselves with the titles they lost in the last war in the hope they'll regain them one day, prince, duke, count, and they still arrange marriages for their children. Marriage is a sacrament, and there is nothing more sacred to these people than money."

Rumpelstiltskin snatched up the papers that had appeared on the desk at Killian's command, his face a mask of utter fury as he scanned them and obviously realized his error. The marriage contract was clear, the bride's wealthy family had provided a considerable dowry to the impoverished but noble groom, on the condition that she be granted sole ownership of his ancestral seat and all the contents within upon the wedding, a hedge against a future divorce. Furnishings, carpets, silverware, there was a complete inventory right down to the number of teaspoons.

Including; "an antique jewelled dagger of unknown provenance."

"I confess I may lack your level of expertise," Killian continued, acting as innocent as a virgin at Mass, "but I do know that you can't put up what doesn't belong to you as collateral. Your contract was only with the husband. Mine is with the wife."

Her signature was next to Killian's own on the document the Dark One now held, granting him possession of the castle and surrounding estate. Marriage was a sacrament, and adultery was his favourite sin. He lit another cigarette from his silver case, filled as much with smug satisfaction at having pulled the rug out from under Rumpelstiltskin as the smoke he drew into his lungs. Another demon couldn't interfere directly once a bargain was struck and they both knew it. But Killian hadn't, since the deal was never valid to begin with. "Good faith" was not a doctrine demons followed, and Rumpelstiltskin had no choice but to accept that his own carefully wrought deal was now completely null and void.

"You don't answer to me, that's true. But you do answer to the Fallen One, so if you care to argue this further we can always take this little disagreement to him for a final ruling, if you desire."

The papers fluttered back down and spread across the table in an untidy heap while Rumpelstiltskin's dark gaze went sharper than any dagger. Despite his easy posture with the cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers, Killian was inwardly as tense as a bowstring. They were both bound by the same rules that called for the other demon to acquiesce, however unwilling he was to do so, but he looked to be on the verge of breaking those rules completely and refusing to relinquish his claim. If he did it would come at a considerable cost, and Killian's entire plan hinged on the Dark One being unwilling to pay it.

"That's twice," he said at last. "Believe me, there won't be a third time."

With that, Rumpelstiltskin lifted his cane and slammed it back down on the floor. The sound was like the strike of a match flaring to life, only magnified a thousandfold and everything in the room rattled from the force of it. For a split second Killian could see what lay beneath the unassuming countenance that had slithered unnoticed and forgotten throughout history for so long, the Beast without his human form to conceal him. He braced himself for the attack that was sure to follow, fingers tightening on the arm of the chair and ready to leap up and fling the lit cigarette right into the demon's face.

It never came. The Dark One was gone instead.

His boots made no sound when he stood up from the chair and walked around the table, the tip of the cigarette flaring crimson as he took another deep inhale. A chasm had opened in the floor like a sinkhole, right where the cane had struck. Killian crouched down to examine it, taking a final drag before flicking the cigarette into the hole and watching it fall end over end until it was swallowed up by the darkness. The chasm was deep, impossibly so, and for a moment he wondered if Rumpelstiltskin had decided to appeal to Lucifer after all and returned to Infernum itself to do so, as the Fallen One rarely left his kingdom below. He waited a few moments, but there was no summons under his skin that compelled him to follow and a check of the castle revealed that most of the treasures had been removed as well. The walls where the tapestries had hung were bare, the exquisite paintings were gone, furniture was draped in dusty cloths and there was an air of disuse and neglect as if everything had been shut away and left untouched for months. A check of the hall outside the library revealed the imp was nowhere to be found, and now that he'd established himself as master the door opened as soon as Killian touched the knob.

It was empty.

Not just the maid, a lot of the books had vanished alongside her. There were holes on the shelves that hadn't been there before and a few of the ones left behind had toppled over completely without the others to hold them in place. Rumpelstiltskin had withdrawn in silent acknowledgement that he'd been outmaneuvered, but he'd obviously taken everything from his other deals along with him. Using that much power at once could nearly cripple a demon, even one as powerful as the dealmaker.

When he returned to the sitting room he saw the rent in the floor had sealed itself back up and all that remained where it had been was a small black mark, perfectly round, left by the tip of the cane. His shoulders dropped with relief under the tailored wool of his jacket that his gamble had paid off, in truth, Killian hadn't wanted to involve the Fallen One either and the invocation of his authority had been a bluff.

The edge of the photograph peeked out from underneath a page of dry German legalese, Killian picked it up and read the words on the back again. If the White Hilt truly existed, then it was a holy relic of the highest order and one he would not allow to fall into Nazi hands. That madman in Berlin could make do with the ramblings of false prophets and the bones of apocryphal saints to fuel his insane crusade, anything genuine was exceedingly rare and he had his own reasons for searching such objects out, reasons he didn't share with those who only thought the commanded him. Just as it had the last time he'd been part of a German army, it was to serve his own purposes and not the other way around.

"Find it."

He didn't have any imps at his disposal so he sent his shadow to begin the search instead. The dark shape moved along the wall of its own volition and sank into the stone like water sinking into the sand, if the dagger was secreted somewhere within the Schloss then he'd find it no matter how well it was hidden. If it turned out to be a medieval copy then he'd return with it to the capital and graciously accept the Reich's accolades, but if it was real, then his coded dispatch would report that the legend of a blade forged from a sword once wielded by a holy angel was just that, a legend, and nothing more.

Night had fallen by the time Killian went outside for some air, frustrated by what appeared to be a fruitless search. There was no jewelled dagger anywhere to be found and he couldn't sense the presence of anything holy. He'd known the odds were exceedingly slim to begin with, and yet for some reason a part of him had believed that not only did the White Hilt exist, he would find it here. Learning that Rumpelstiltskin had chosen this of all the estates he could have had for a wartime headquarters had only increased that belief, it was too much of a coincidence that the demon who coveted power above all else could be sitting unawares on such a prize.

A single line in an inventory that had been prepared years prior and a photograph even older still. It could be real, or it could be nothing more than a wild goose chase and there was no way to tell without the dagger itself. He'd know immediately, just as he'd known that Emma was an angel. The damned always recognized the divine.

A light appeared high in the sky above and drew his attention up. It wasn't the holy light that had drawn him closer on that night in Rome when war had raged unchecked and the city burned, it was the Luftwaffe, flying on steel wings to rain fire in the form of the bombs dropped nightly across the Channel. A falling star streaking across the heavens with a deafening roar, and as it passed overhead he felt the disturbance in the air even from the ground.

The feeling didn't go away after the plane was gone, if anything it increased, hairs on the back of his neck rising and a prickling under his skin that usually meant one thing. Something else caught his eye, a tiny bit of movement that was nothing but a pale smudge against the deep indigo at first. As it grew closer Killian saw that it was a bird, a dove, with something held in its beak.

Not an olive branch, it was a note, falling straight into his hands while the dove flew away. There was only one who correspond with him in such a fashion, and it wasn't another demon. When he unfolded the square of paper letters appeared as if by magic in gold script, addressed at the top in a familiar hand to, "Damnate."

Killian quickly scanned the lines, his brow creasing with a frown. Once he'd secured control of the castle his plan had been to keep following the trail of the White Hilt if it wasn't there, he had some other leads and records that pointed to where it might have gone and the war was the perfect cover for his pursuit. Now that the Dark One knew of his interest, it was even more important that he maintained his cover and moved as quickly as possible. He wasn't bound to answer the summons he held in his hands, the promise he'd made could easily be broken.

"...as you once agreed to give me safe passage I ask that assistance again of you now…"

"...I need you…"

"...please…"

It was signed at the bottom with a single initial in lieu of a name, E, and he brushed his thumb over it.

His answer was silent to all but her.

Belgian Countryside, 1943

"Someone's coming."

The whispered announcement made everyone freeze for a moment before they hurried to the dusty windows in a flurry of palpable dread, dousing the old gas lamp they'd been using for light and pulling the tattered curtains back to peer out into the gloom on the other side of the glass. Outside it was pitch-black for miles around and silent as a tomb across the barren fields and empty roads that made up the ancient Flemish countryside, with not a soul to be seen nor heard from in days. Or it had been, at least. Now there was a distinctly mechanical hum in the air, quiet and barely audible at first, but growing louder and louder and a collective gasp echoed around the room when the long drive to the abandoned farmhouse where they'd taken refuge suddenly lit up with twin oblong lights. As yellow as the predatory eyes of a serpent poised to strike and moving even more quickly, they were unmistakably headlamps, from a large vehicle that was making its way directly towards them at breakneck speed.

"Soldiers!"

"Germans!"

It was a single cry of alarm that was taken up at once by the rest of the ragged group, white-faced and trembling with both exhaustion and fear. In the shadows Philippe and Richard shared that kind of unguarded embrace that would send them straight to the camps as sexual deviants alongside Isaac and the other Jews who sought shelter under her wings, while the Mother Superior had her arms wrapped comfortingly around little Gretel, as thin and delicate as a baby bird fallen from the nest.

Emma forced herself to her feet despite her own utter fatigue and lurched towards the door, tossing a hurried, "Stay here," over her shoulder as she went.

"Emma, Emma come back!"

"Emma, wait, no, it's too dangerous, you don't know who's out there-"

She heard them, but there was another voice that was even louder and she didn't heed their warnings, already on the sagging porch with her shoes scarcely touching the ground as she practically flew down the steps and flung herself headlong into the path of the oncoming car. The light found her immediately and there was an ear-splitting squeal of metal as the unseen driver behind the wheel slammed on the brakes. Gravel flew from under the tires like shrapnel and the car skidded to a halt scant inches from where she stood, so close that Emma could feel the searing heat from the engine, a shocking contrast against the cooler night air. A door opened and a tall figure emerged, standing just beyond the pool of light with his face hidden under the brim of his hat. His appearance elicited another shriek of fright from behind her when they caught a glimpse of his uniform, the glint of silver on his collar and the armband red as blood. Her little flock hadn't listened and had followed her outside, staying close to their shepherd and bleating in fear like orphaned lambs in the dark. Their presence pulled at her to return while his pushed her back, his damnation attempting to repel away her divinity and she swayed back and forth where she stood, caught between warring instincts until he stepped into the light and there was nothing except him.

"Engel," Killian murmured when she threw herself at him, straight into his arms and burying her face in his shoulder. His voice rumbled through her, equal parts amused and concerned. "Oh blessed one. What have you done now?"

There was a shuffle of footsteps behind her and she felt him stiffen, his attention shifting to the small group she'd guided from the Dutch border and across half of occupied Belgium. Emma knew she should pull herself away and try to come up with an explanation as to why she was embracing what appeared to be a Nazi officer who'd just appeared out of nowhere in a car more suited to a film star than a soldier. It must look like their shepherd had delivered them straight to the wolves instead of the safety she promised and she should step back, reassure them, ease their worry...but her head was too heavy, weighed down with innumerable unanswered prayers that flickered behind her eyes in an endless loop. People were suffering, starving, dying, and it was too much for even her wings to carry. Her fingers curled into the dark wool of his jacket and when they called her name again it seemed to come from very far away. His voice was among them but she couldn't answer, her hold loosening and her knees giving out, buckling like an ancient tree gone hollow with age and unable to withstand the force of the wind any longer.

"Killian."

His name fell from her lips in a whisper and she was falling with it, the hard earth below rushing up to meet her and the heavens above, dark, and devoid of stars.

The demon caught her before she hit the ground.

#cs ff #cs fic #my fic #Between Heaven and Hell

123 notes · View notes

gibbering-miasma · 4 years ago

Text

I think I know how Warcraft’s casters work

It started with a simple question. Why can mages summon water elementals? It’s a simple question that resulted in me noticing other elements of overlap among the Warcraft casters. Not only can mages summon elementals, but fire mages and destruction warlocks can appear to be the same class at a first look. (Especially if the person doing the looking isn’t very experienced, we all know you, yes you, can easily tell the difference. The point is that two classes that seem to predominantly use fire magic are very similar.) eventually it got to the point where my initial question changed from “why can one class do this thing while another class can’t?” tonly to change again to

“What really is the difference between the casters of Warcraft?”

I want to be transparent here, I have not read Chronicle yet. I have the books (thanks again for that, you know who you are) but I wanted to get this theory properly formed first so i don’t spoil my biases. That leads me to another thing, this is just the theory of a guy who’s spent most of his life on this game who’s noticed a few odd dots and decided to connect them to see what picture they make. Blizzard can disprove this at any time with a word, because in the end, they’re the creators, and I’m just a fan. One last thing, I’m certain that there are some examples or details that i’ll get wrong (not playing the most recent expansions will tend to leave a sample size less than optimal) so if there’s an error that I’ve made, call me out on it. This may be a fan theory, but I want it to make sense.

To answer my previous question (what really makes the difference between Warcraft casters for those of you in the back), I think the primary difference is philosophy, not the type of magic that each class uses. What I mean by this is the general worldview, character traits, and relationship with magic that each class has. Obviously there are going to be outliers, mortals tend to mess with the systems like that, but this should be a good place to begin our analysis. When analyzing the casters, we see four main philosophies develop. I’d argue that those four are the philosophies of the Druid, Mage, Warlock and Shaman. I’ll include the other classes that I believe to best line up with those philosophies. I’ll focus on the primary casters of those philosophies, though I’ll use a few examples from the other classes that are philosophically adjacent.

And just so we’re all on the same page here, I’m assuming that magic is inherently sentient, and the overall type of magic used has no effect on your class. With all that out of the way, let’s begin.

Druid/Priest/Paladin- Philosophy of Faith.

The druid is the only class that willingly enters a state of unconsciousness and allows their magic to work through them, causing metamorphosis in the process. The primary tenets of the druidic philosophy are Faith and Dedication. The druid venerates the Wild much in the same way that a priest or paladin venerates the Light. What all of this means is that the druid views themselves as inferior to the Wild (or whatever source of magic you prefer). Power is attained not through study or ambition, but by submission and faith, resulting in power being granted as a boon. But it’s not all fluffy cats and boomkins for the druid, their submission and faith means that they are not necessarily in control. We clearly see this to be the case with the druids of the pack (and the same case can be made for the druids of the flame, but I’m unsure on whether ragnaros forced the flame druids to do his bidding or if they were just crazy like that). Spouting character traits with no examples won’t do us any good, so let’s rectify that by taking a look at Tyrande Whisperwind, a great example of the philosophy of faith. Yes, Tyrande is a priest, not a druid, but remember that the important thing about the classes is their philosophy, not the type of magic that they use. As a priest, Tyrande answers to the will of Elune, and will prioritize the will of the White Lady over anything else (consider the quote “Only the goddess may forbid me anything” from warcraft 3). Not only that, but Tyrande also becomes the vessel for a portion of Elune’s power during the Horde’s invasion, showing similarity to the powers that druids receive and use from their Wild Gods. The similarity between druids and priests could be a reason why those two classes are the major casters in Night elf society following the War of the Ancients. And before you start denying my claim that priests and druids are basically the same, let me ask you this: If Elune wanted Tyrande to willingly enter an unconscious state in order to become a more capable vessel of Her power, would Tyrande do it? I say that she would, because putting aside your own desires, fears and reservations in order to serve your higher power is the definition of dedication, it is the definition of faith, and it is exactly what makes a druid what they are.

Shaman- Philosophy of Synergy

The shaman’s relationship with their magic is exactly that, a relationship. I get the suspicion that I may have lost a few of you there so I’ll explain. The druid fully submits in order to gain power, whereas classes like the warlock will just take as they see fit. The shaman exists between those two extremes, they work alongside the elements and it is through that cooperation that they grow their abilities. Of course, the shaman also experiences their own fair share of magical difficulties. They are still drawing their power from sentient beings that may not always want to comply with the shaman’s wishes. This leaves the shaman with a difficult situation, especially if their magic rebels during a time where the shaman doesn’t have the means to deal with any of that nonsense. The shaman must cooperate with their magic unless they fall to dark shamanism and force their magic to submit, which is the exact domain of the Warlock.

Warlock/Warrior- Philosophy of Dominion

The warlock does not ask for power, nor does it work alongside their demons for mutual benefit (I mean really, do you think that your minions are there by choice?). I alluded to the warlock’s modus operandi earlier, and now I get to delve deeper. The warlock takes power as they see fit, often draining it straight from their enemies. The warlock will then add that magic into their own reserves, bending the magic to their will and growing in power. A warlock’s magic can be said to be a part of them in a more literal manner than any of the other four casters. This habit of taking power from others is actually quite common in the Warcraft universe, (look at all the Blood elves for instance) but i’ll highlight the 3 biggest examples of the warlock philosophy. Ragnaros the firelord, Garrosh Hellscream and Illidan Stormrage all are well known for having a desire for more power, while also having the ambition and skill to go out and get that power for themselves without having to plead to some other entity for assistance. Ragnaros consumed prince Thunderan, Garrosh merged with the heart of Y'Shaarj, and Illidan consumed the Skull of Gul’dan, and all three established control over their new power, and not the other way around. Just as a shaman who forces the elements to work for them isn’t much of a shaman, a warlock who is controlled by their power isn't much of a warlock.

Mage/Hunter/Rogue/Monk- Philosophy of Discipline

The other casters all have very distinct relationships with their magic. Warlocks must be constantly in control, druids are always trying to appease, and shamans just want everyone to calm down and talk about their feelings. And then we have the mage, who doesn’t have much of a relationship at all. To the mage, magic is a tool, one that should be respected, but a tool nonetheless. Khadgar used the skull of Gul’dan to close the Dark Portal with no negative side effects. Whereas Illidan barely has his hands on the thing for a minute before he’s undergoing radical transformations and sprouting new appendages. When trying to name this section, I had initially selected Mastery as a good means of describing the Mage’s philosophy. Mastery had made sense to me, the mage is the master of their magic, they display control and authority over their power in a way that is distinct from the warlock, and their utilitarian view towards magic separates them from shamans or druids. So why the change? Why does Discipline describe the mage better than Mastery? Because in a world where dragons rearrange continents, the dead walk, and where tyrants exist around every corner, the mortals of Azeroth need someone to keep a clear head when the demons are dead and their power is being divided among the victors. The mage is the embodiment of mortal authority in relation to magic, they lock questionable powers away so that those who would misuse that power could do no harm to innocents. The mage is a Guardian, the kind of person who has no interest in being warped into some sort of magical pawn to a higher power. They put their trust in their skill with their power, not the overall amount of power that they can wield like how a warlock would.

The Hero Classes

If you’ve been keeping track, you may notice that I haven't included two classes, those being the hero classes. The reason I haven’t included them yet is because of the fundamental difference between them and the other classes. A number of people have wondered what exactly makes a hero class, and while I don’t claim to know the exact truth, I think I have an additional pearl to add. Hero classes are a state of being, whereas the base classes are more like a career. If you want to understand a hero class, you have to understand what they are, not who they are. Furthermore, I believe that both the Death Knight and Demon Hunter are adjacent philosophically to two of the other philosophies previously mentioned. This doesn’t mean that Death Knights are automatically really, really edgy druids, just that they’re an offshoot.

Death Knight-Philosophy of Tyranny

Offshoot of the philosophy of Faith

What, did you think I was kidding about DKs being druids? Lets step back and ask the fundamental question: what are Death Knights? Simply put, DKs are dark magic inhabiting and controlling a mortal vessel. Yes, that does sound like something a warlock would do, but remember that it’s magic controlling a mortal, much like what we see with Druids. Plus, saying Death Knights are related to Druids has more panache, so i’m going with that one. To the DK, power is their birthright, and they will take and abuse and consume as they see fit. Nothing is sacred from their will, not the blood in your veins, nor the flesh on your back, nor the final, cold breath you give before you’re raised as an undead servant. The DK does not necessarily take to grow their power, they take to fulfill their desires-which is usually to kill a lot of people.

Demon Hunter- Philosophy of Unity

Offshoot of the philosophy of Synergy

Once again, what are DHs? While DKs are magic possessing and dominating a vessel, the DH is more than that. They are a combination of mortal soul and demon. The DH is the product of a perfect union between two distinct soulstuffs. Now here’s the important thing, I’m trying to distinguish between the Illidari, and the Demon Hunters themselves, which can be hard when you remember that pretty much every Demon Hunter is Illidari. The reason this separation is so important is that the Illidari with their whole “fight fire with fire, we shall take the demons' own magic and use it against them as our own” is a very warlock-ish thing to do. But I’ll maintain that the DHs identity points towards being more closely adjacent to the philosophy of Synergy than Dominion.

So why can mages summon water elementals? Because mages have power, just like anybody else. And power itself doesn’t have much significance, what matters is how you use it.

This has been a somewhat deep dive into the philosophy of Warcraftian magic, with the end goal of gaining a deeper understanding of the various classes, and the characters within the Warcraft universe.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

#wow

9 notes · View notes

warcraft-lore-archives · 5 years ago

Text

A History of the Trolls’ Intertribal Relationships

Approx. 16,000 – 15,000 Years Before the Dark Portal Opens: The Formation of the Tribes

The first and most powerful tribe of trolls to arise is the Zandalar tribe, who lay claim to the highest peaks of the Zandalar mountain range and build a grand city of gold called Zuldazar [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume I, pg. 70]. Over the next several centuries, the Drakkari, Amani, and Gurubashi tribes form and amass enough strength to rival the Zandalari’s own [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume I, pg. 72]. A smaller tribe composed of dark trolls also comes together, although they remain largely independent from the others, uninterested in their desire for land and power [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume I, pg. 93].

During this time, the Drakkari, Amani, Gurubashi, and Zandalari all occasionally engage in skirmishes over hunting grounds, but major conflicts are few and far in between [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume I, pg. 72].

When the C’Thrax, Kith’ix, emerges and begins waging war on the trolls, the Zandalari move to unite the disparate tribes into one force – known as the Empire of Zul – strong enough to overcome the monstrous creature and its armies of aqir [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume I, pg. 72]. Realizing that the minions of the Old Gods must be defeated for good lest they rise up to threaten trollkind once more, the Zandalari convince the various troll factions to pursue the aqir wherever they flee across ancient Kalimdor. In return, the Drakkari, Amani, and Gurubashi are allowed to settle any land they find [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume I, pg. 73].

Both the Drakkari and Amani push north, whereas the Gurubashi pursue the insectoid aqir to the south. After centuries of fighting, the tribes eventually claim victory and, consequently, the land that was promised to them. Now located across far-reaching parts of ancient Kalimdor, the factions grow distant and become increasingly insular without war to bind them together. Nonetheless, the Zandalari continue to maintain a significant degree of influence over all of the trolls for years to come [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume I, pg. 73-74]. In fact, according to the non-canon RPG, trolls from each of the tribes gather in Zandalar every six years to discuss political matters [RPG: Lands of Mystery, pg. 82].

At some point between the formation of the tribes and the Third War, the Frostmane and Winterax tribes split off from the Drakkari Empire and settle in Dun Morogh and the Alterac Mountains respectively [Page: Winterax Tribe, Page: Eimear].

Approx. 10,000 Years Before the Dark Portal Opens: A Sharper Divide

The Razorbranch, a small tribe of jungle trolls living on the fringes of Gurubashi territory in modern-day Tanaris, are cut off from the rest of the Gurubashi Empire by the Sundering [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume I, pg. 76, Troll Compendium: Sand Trolls]. Following the catastrophic event, Tanaris undergoes dramatic climate change and quickly becomes a harsh desert wasteland. Forced to adapt to their new environment, the Razorbranch eventually rebrand themselves the Farraki and become known as the sand trolls [Twitter: Matt Burns, Troll Compendium: Sand Trolls].

Approx 2,800 Years Before the Dark Portal Opens: The Amani Encroach

The Zandalar tribe, seeking to reassert the trolls’ dominance in the Eastern Kingdoms by strengthening the Amani following their defeat at the hands of the high elves several thousand years prior, send a handful of emissaries to Zul’Aman to aid them in war against the quel’dorei [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume I, pg. 129]. Although the Amani are initially successful in battle, the high elves’ alliance with the humans ultimately proves too powerful for the trolls to overcome. The Zandalari emissaries, dismayed at their failure, return to Zandalar [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume I, pg. 131].

According to an outdated source, this is when many of the forest troll tribes break off from the Amani Empire and split into small, independent groups. Some – namely the Mossflayers, Vilebranch, Revantusk, and Witherbark – depart the Amani capital, Zul’Aman, in favor of reclaiming their tribal ancestral grounds in the Hinterlands and other regions in the northern Eastern Kingdoms [Troll Compendium: Forest Troll Tribes].

Approx 1,500 Years Before the Dark Portal Opens: The Loa of Blood

Desperate to reclaim their former glory after the Sundering destroyed much of their territory, the Gurubashi begin sacrifices to the loa of blood, Hakkar, in exchange for strength and power. Bolstered by the loa, the Gurubashi conquer and claim massive swaths of land in the southern Eastern Kingdoms, although it soon proves evident that Hakkar’s endless bloodlust will ultimately be turned on them. Horrified by this realization, some of the Zandalari sail to Stranglethorn Vale and put an end to Hakkar and his most crazed adherents, the Atal’ai [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume I, pg. 138].

Just as the Troll Wars fractured the Amani, so too do the Gurubashi fall apart after Hakkar’s defeat [Troll Compendium: Jungle Troll Tribes]. The Shatterspear tribe relocates across the world to northern Darkshore while both the Skullsplitter and Bloodscalp tribes stay in Stranglethorn Vale where they proceed to fight each other over territory [Troll Compendium: Shatterspear Tribe, Skullsplitter Tribe, Bloodscalp Tribe]. The Darkspear also remain in Stranglethorn for a time, but their violent warring with the Skullsplitter tribe and the constant abuse they suffer at the hands of the other jungle trolls ultimately causes them to leave and settle elsewhere [Troll Compendium: Darkspear Tribe, World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume III, pg. 54, Quest: Split Bone Necklace, RPG: Horde Player’s Guide, pg. 142].

Approx. 6 Years After the Dark Portal Opens: The Second War

Although the Amani Empire fractured into many independent tribes centuries earlier, they all agree to unite and join the Horde after Orgrim Doomhammer frees the Amani leader, Warlord Zul’jin, from a human prison camp in Hillsbrad [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume II, pg. 146-147, 160, Troll Compendium: Forest Trolls]. However, their alliance is short-lived as most of the forest troll tribes leave the Horde after the orcs’ crushing defeat and the trolls’ own failure to destroy Silvermoon City during the Second War. That said, one tribe, the Revantusk, stays and remains their ally [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume II, pg. 173, NPC: Elder Torntusk Dialogue, RPG: Horde Player’s Guide, pg. 9].

At this point, the already tenuous relationship between the various Amani tribes breaks down even further. The Revantusk took the Second War as an opportunity to claim more land in the Hinterlands, an action that enrages the Vilebranch and incites them to attack the Revantusk [Troll Compendium: Vilebranch Tribe]. The Witherbark also turn against the Horde-allied tribe, likely because of their decision to stay allied with the orcs [Troll Compendium: Witherbark Tribe, Revantusk Tribe].

Sometime after the Second War, both the Firetree and Smolderthorn forest troll tribes join with the Dark Horde and take up residence in Blackrock Spire [Troll Compendium: Firetree Tribe, Smolderthorn Tribe].

Approx. 21 Years After the Dark Portal Opens: A Growing Unity

Fleeing from the Alliance navy, Thrall and members of the new Horde temporarily take refuge on a chain of islands inhabited by the Darkspear trolls. After helping each other fend off Kul Tirans and murlocs alike, Thrall invites the Darkspear into the Horde [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume III, pg. 53-54]. They accept, making them the second tribe of trolls to officially join the Horde after the Revantusk.

Approx. 25 Years After the Dark Portal Opens: Hakkar’s Return

The Atal’ai, eager to bring Hakkar into the mortal plane once more, return to the capital of the Gurubashi Empire and begin enslaving Gurubashi trolls to use as sacrifices. King Rastakhan, leader of the Zandalari at the time, sends several of his personal emissaries to oversee and deal with the threat. The Zandalari emissaries travel to Stranglethorn Vale where, through their connection to the Darkspear tribe, they employ the help of Horde adventurers to defeat the loa of blood once and for all [World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume III, pg. 123, NPC: Exzhal Dialogue].

Following Hakkar’s defeat, Bloodscalp trolls torture and kill Bloodlord Mandokir, the leader of the Gurubashi tribe [Quest: Who’s a Big Troll?].

Approx. 26-27 Years After the Dark Portal Opens: The Empire of Ice

While the vast majority of the Drakkari stay in Northrend, the small Icetusk tribe departs on large canoes to escape the Lich King [Quest: Icetusk Fur Coat].

Just as in the past, a contingent of Zandalari trolls travel to Zul’Drak mostly to witness and chronicle the impending end of the Drakkari Empire, although some take a more active role and attempt to put a stop to the ice trolls’ blasphemous actions [NPC: Chronicler To’kini Dialogue, NPC: Hexxer Ubungo Dialogue].

The Winterax tribe, a group of ice trolls from the Alterac region, return to Northrend and rejoin the rest of the Drakkari for a time [Page: Winterax Tribe].

Approx. 28 Years After the Dark Portal Opens: The Shatterspear

The Shatterspear are recruited into the Horde by Garrosh Hellscream, which unites them with both the Revantusk and Darkspear tribes [Page: Shatterspear Tribe]. Unfortunately, the death of their chieftain at the hands of the Alliance shortly thereafter greatly weakens them, leading many of the Shatterspear trolls to leave the tribe, although some decide to remain in the Horde [Ask CDev, Round 4].

Approx. 28-30 Years After the Dark Portal Opens: The Empire of Zul Reborn

Shortly after the Cataclysm, King Rastakhan – under the Dark Prophet Zul’s advisement – begins negotiations to unite the disparate troll tribes for the first time since the Empire of Zul’s dissolution thousands of years ago [Object: The Dark Prophet Zul, NPC: Vol’jin Dialogue, World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume I, pg. 74]. Zul, acting as Rastakhan’s liaison, initially unites the main Gurubashi and Amani tribes, although the Darkspear, led by Vol’jin, refuse to join because of their allegiance to the Horde [Trailer: Patch 4.1: Rise of the Zandalari, Vol’jin: Shadows of the Horde, Chapter 23, World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume III, pg. 209]. It is only when the notorious Thunder King Lei Shen returns a few years later that Zul is able to fully, albeit briefly, unite all of the major troll tribes. He even succeeds in rallying the Frostmane tribe, a group of Drakkari indigenous to Dun Morogh, although the ice trolls are cut down by members of the Alliance, ultimately preventing them from joining with the Zandalari [Scenario: Blood in the Snow].

To cement the union of the tribes, each of their leaders come together in a Council of Elders that consists of representatives from the Drakkari, Amani, Farakki, Gurubashi, and, most importantly, the Zandalari [Dungeon Journal: Throne of Thunder, Council of Elders]. Unfortunately, the Council of Elders and, consequently, the united troll empire, fall apart after Lei Shen’s defeat.

Approx. 33 Years After the Dark Portal Opens: A Horde United

Under Queen Talanji’s rule, the Zandalari officially join the Horde, an action that unites four troll tribes: the Darkspear, the Revantusk, the Zandalari, and what remains of the Shatterspear [Quest: Allegiance of the Zandalari, NPC: Elder Torntusk Dialogue, Page: Shatterspear Tribe].

Present Day

Many of the troll tribes currently harbor a strong disdain for the Horde and, consequently, any Horde-allied trolls, especially the Darkspear [NPC: Bloodscalp Speaker Dialogue, Troll Compendium: Firetree Tribe]. While some simply dislike the Horde because they see them as weak, others hold grudges against several of the races that make up the Horde – particularly the high elves, undead, and trolls [NPC: Firetree Speaker Dialogue, NPC: Mossflayer Speaker Dialogue, NPC: Skullsplitter Speaker Dialogue, NPC: Frostmane Speaker Dialogue, NPC: Winterax Speaker Dialogue, NPC: Smolderthorn Speaker Dialogue]. The Amani’s long-standing conflict with the high elves of Quel’thalas, for example, makes them particularly unfriendly toward the Horde and its former leader, Sylvanas Windrunner [NPC: Mossflayer Speaker Dialogue, NPC: Firetree Speaker Dialogue]. Moreover, some of the tribes resent the Darkspear and Revantusk for allying with the orcs, seeing them as having betrayed their own kind [NPC: Bloodscalp Speaker Dialogue, Troll Compendium: Firetree Tribe].

Although the Zandalari have always maintained a modicum of influence over the rest of the trolls, their decline in the last several years has led the other tribes to look down on them as well. Many of the troll speakers in Zandalar comment that the Zandalari are weak, stagnant, and both unlikely and unable to hold power for much longer [NPC: Bloodscalp Speaker Dialogue, NPC: Mossflayer Speaker Dialogue, NPC: Skullsplitter Speaker Dialogue, NPC: Frostmane Speaker Dialogue, NPC: Winterax Speaker Dialogue].

As things stand, the Darkspear consider both the Amani and Skullsplitter tribes to be their mortal enemies [Quest: Zul’Marosh, Quest: Split Bone Necklace].

71 notes · View notes

fairyscribbles · 5 years ago

Text

Where Wind Soothes - Crypt (Sehun, pt. 9) [Chronicles of the Wolf series]

I love you guys. Sorry for being gone for so long.

I hope this will help <3. I’ll start replying to all of your answers tomorrow <3

If you need to refresh your memory, and I know you do, read this!

Enjoy!

The mountains seemed even more ominous as you neared them, and you knew why it seemed that way to you. It was most probably a combination of all things- the sky was overcast, sun only slightly visible through the thick layer of grey; an omnipresent and yet still powerless deity, whose power would not reach where you were about to wander. The area surrounding the crypts of the ancient seemed match the atmosphere of a final resting place of dozens of warriors. The ground was hard and cold, and only the harshest and sturdiest of flora survived here, a clear sign for anyone and everyone, that this was not a place for the living.

All these thoughts came racing through your veins and down your legs, making it seem like iron settled around your ankles, and you huddled into yourself for security and the slightest, maddest of thoughts, that maybe if you cowered into yourself far enough, you would magically slip away from the situation that you found yourself in, and would be able to reappear back in your cozy and most importantly, safe house, far away from any wolves or deathbells or walking dead.

Bora didn't seem to be as affected by your adventure, and in the back of your mind, you knew you couldn't compare yourself to a person whose calling was killing of supernatural beasts. And yet you couldn't help yourself but be jealous of the easy stride she kept up, even though you saw the numerous daggers strapped to both of her thighs and the small bow flung across her back. In this moment, you didn't want to be a healer anymore. You wanted to become Bora, tall and strong and fearless, and selfless, so, so selfless, as she was putting herself in imminent danger to provide materials for a medicine that is so ancient, there is no knowing if it going to help or not.

Sehun kept silent on the road. You didn't know if it was purely the jealousy seeping through him that prevented him from having a civil conversation with you, or it was the stress. Maybe it was a bit of both, and it made you uneasy as well. Even if he didn't talk to you, he made it his point to stay near you, just an arm's reach away in case you tripped over a stray root while you were busy mapping your surroundings (however, you did think that there were some moments when the guiding hand on the small of your back was absolutely unnecessary, and the younger wolf was just yearning for touch. You let it slide, because the warmth of his hand made your fried nerves cool down as well).

You bypassed the main entrance to the crypt, a tall door with multiple locks strewn over the majestic wood as a clear sign that it was unwise to even attempt to disturb the dead. Many have tried, evident by the numerous slashes not only against the door but on the cobbled stones leading up to the entrances as well- swords, axes and arrows of thieves or just adventurers bored by the dangerous woods and abandoned villages, looking for treasure. Looking for fame. And after the fourth time the capital had sent the battle monks to contain hordes of decaying flesh wielding their old weapons as if they were part of their limb, the crypts were sealed off, guarded by protective wards which would make the intruders forget what they were attempting to do and send them off wandering into the wilderness, regaining their senses once they were far away.

Bora's sure steps leading all of you up the side of the mountain had you chuckling under your breath. "How often have you gone here, Bora?" you couldn't keep in the question, and the former captain turned to look at you over her shoulder, a slight smirk playing along her features. "I have a friend or two who recommended some weak spots in the chambers further in the crypts."

"I hope these friends aren't waiting somewhere in the shrubbery for you and little medic over here to slide away into a crypt to ambush us," Baekhyun hissed, making sure his suspicious voice was accompanied by a fake-enough swipe of the perimeter that it couldn't have been interpreted in a different way than a joke. "I'm sure that if Bora wanted us to be decorations of Wolfsguard barracks' walls, she would've lured us somewhere closer to the headquarters." Sehun piped in, offering you a hand once you were climbing higher on the rocks.

"Maybe it's something they like to do in their free time. Find out who makes a more fun hunger games for the guards."

"It's here." the playful speculations (only for the two participating wolves, Tao's shoulders tensed since the first mention of his mate betraying their pack) died down immediately when Bora knelt over a pile of seemingly inconspicuous rubble. Stone after stone disappeared, and an ominous wind moaned from the newly discovered crypt entrance, heavy with the stench of stale moss and rot. You came to appreciate your medical background, as the smell was something horrible to the untrained nose, as was evident from the way the wolves' grimaced and turned away, trying to guard their heightened senses.

The mouth to the crypt had a diameter just slightly big enough for you and Bora to squeeze through, but even as the former Wolfsguard asked Baekhyun to shine a bit of light into the first hall of the crypt, it was evident that there was no possible way either of the wolves could follow you. Bora turned to you with a tight smile.

"I know the layout of the crypt. We scour one, maybe two of the main halls, and that's it. They are big enough, and if the plant we're looking for is not there, it won't be anywhere else in the crypt." Squinting up at the sky, she did the math in her head.

"We have about three hours in the cave. Then we need to head back to camp, so we won't get caught in the dark out here. Check through your bag to make sure you have everything, and we can go."

The last command made it real, and you could feel your knees buckle slightly at the idea of having to go inside. However, you kept your deserter's thoughts to yourself, as you knew that if you would show any type of uncertainty infront of the wolf, Sehun would press the group to abort mission and return to camp. You have seen his injuries. You saw the way it crippled him from fully enjoying his time with the pack, hell, the way it robbed him of a good night's sleep or a pleasant meal. And with every wince during dinner time or on trail, you also saw Bora's eyes flicker with guilt. You knew that if you backed out of the plan, she would venture inside alone, even if it meant trying to find a long lost herb only by frayed drawing. She knew that apologies by words would not mean anything, she would press on, more ferocious in scouting the territory, in preparing the maps, in sharpening her arrows and daggers.

One of those weapons was currently hanging on your hip, surprisingly light for the metallic appearance of it. "Elven," Bora quipped when she saw your expression. "Very light but still able to deal a lot of damage."

Along with the dagger, you had a backpack slung over your shoulder, and in it were rough sketches of the plant you were looking for. It was a petite plant, reaching no more than over your ankles, all delicate vines and small, round leaves with gentle petals and a reportedly sweet odor. If the colors of the petals were any different, it would be an ideal plant to have in pots under your window, or strung together in a cute bouquet for a first date, be it not that the flower itself had the color of decaying flesh and the inner veins were fanning out in an ominous black, like the skin of a corpse left unattended for far too long. They were said to recieve this discoloration from their primary source of nutrients - they peeked out from half open coffins in murky crypts, or on battlefields where none had survived to bring the information to their allies.

As you checked the sketch again, your hands began to shake. The calming breath you took (four seconds breathe in, seven seconds hold, eight seconds out) had no effect, and with an annoyed sigh you stuffed the sketch back in the satchel, pulling on the strings to close it. The paper was so old that you could only wish that the drawing was right. What if you had fallen for one of those books written only to scare people away from the woods and crypts? Who in their right mind would name a flower Deathbell, anyways?

It was then that two warm palms cupped your face, making you flinch away from the touch with a quiet squeak. You looked up at Sehun in bewilderment, whose face was clouded in worry.

"You don't have to do this." he told you, confirming all the suspitions you had before. Putting on your most convincing smile, you shook your head (or at least tried...it was hard to do so while it was held delicately in someone's grasp), patting the back of his hand reassuringly.

"This will help you, Sehunnie. It's going to be okay."

"It's not okay if you're in an enclosed space somewhere I can't reach you. There must be some other cure."

"But what if there isn't? What if this is the only way to make you feel better?" Sehun stopped to think his answer over, but you didn't give him the chance to say something stupid.

"And don't you dare say you don't need it. Your pack has wasted precious supplies if we don't at least try to get them." It was your turn to step closer to the wolf, whose glance was directed at the dirt on your shoes. Running a hand through his hair, you cupped his chin and gently lifted it up so he was looking at you. His worry for you was extremely endearing, and you reached up on the tips of your toes to press a small kiss against his nose.

"We will be fine. I promise." Before you had the chance to step away, Sehun was pressing his forehead against yours with a deep sigh, his hands slipping down to your throat, sliding down your arms. As his fingers entwined with yours, he slowly guided your hands to wrap around his waist, before he cupped your face again, being so close to you that you felt the breath from his lips fall against yours.

"The moment you so much as hear something moving in the crypts, you get out. Deathbell, no deathbell. I'm okay with being like this if it means that you're okay." the confession had silenced whatever cooing reassurances you had ready for the young wolf, because the amount of fire and passion in his eyes almost knocked you to your knees. The only thing you were able to do was surge up on your toes once more to press a deep kiss against his lips, hoping that it will convey all that you wanted to say.

I'm doing this for you. I'll be careful. I will succeed.

Wait for me out here.

Sehun moved away from you with extreme difficulty, his wolf howling at him to keep you in his arms, away from harm, away from the place you were about to crawl into that reeked of danger and death. He was rooted on the spot when Baekhyun light the girls' torches with an inextinguishable light.

Bora went first, agile as a feline as she slipped through the hole and landed on the crypt's floor with a mute thud. The height wasn't too bad, the only concerning thing for you was that you had to slip your satchel from your back to be able to get through the entrance and into the dungeon. As much as you tried to copy Bora's movements, they fell short and you landed with a much louder thud than the leader of the Wolfsguard, and for a heart clenching second, the both of you stood as motionless as the dead, ears poised to catch the slightest sound that you had woken what should never rise again.

As Bora gave the silent nod of her head, you turned one last time to look up at the entrance, where Sehun was peeking down at you with a mixture of annoyance, worry and fear.

It was the last look you saw on him before you took a quiet, deep breath, and stepped into the land which belonged to the dead.

The first thing you were surprised to see were the slight glimmers of light far in the crypt. Despite such heavy locks adorning the door, you figured there must be a priest who comes every now and then to check the grounds for any possible unrest. Your stomach still felt weak as you forced yourself to turn away from the lit corridor and inspect the hall you were in at the moment.

The hall that you dropped into was longer than you had thought, and what you had crawled through was a hole in one of the empty resting places reserved for the bodies. Looking around, the bodies were placed in cabinet-style stone constructions, lining both the walls of the hall you were currently in, as well as functioning as separators for different family clans.

Not every body was in a coffin, to your dismay. Quite the contrary, coffins were rare in the room you were currently scanning, making your heart drop. Most of the bodies rested on stone cold tablets, arms crossed on the chest. Even though most have been dead for many years, there were still corpses which clung to their weapons from their living days, as if they were ready to spring up and resume whatever battle had bested them before.

Pressing a cloth to your mouth and nose to guard it from the stench clinging to this place as well as acting as a hopefully effective enough prevention from sneezing at the unknown scents and large amount of dust, you took a small, uncertain step to the closest coffin to you, wedged in between an axe-wielding woman with no arm and a resting ground in which three decapitated heads were stacked neatly in a row. Ignoring the hollow looks in their eyes as best as you could, you brought the torch a bit closer to examine the cracked opening of the coffin.

You knew the chances were extremely low, but yet it didn't stop your stomach from plummeting in disappointment when there were no deathbells present. Fighting the sigh from escaping your lips, you turned to see where Bora had gone. Her torch was on the ground by her feet, hands gripping her bow and arrow, as she glared at the far away corridor light with torches, deep scowl on her face. Swallowing the question you had for her, you decided to sneak over to the next coffin (the clan you were currently inspecting had a total of four coffins to their approximately 30 bodies), trying to focus the most on what was important.

The lid of the other coffin was almost completely slid to the side, revealing the once surely majestic warrior whose hair was now falling out in clumps with the scalp, skin stretched tightly over his face and body. A huge hole hollowed his chest, most definitely the killing blow by something no smaller than a battering ram. However, his broadsword was laying in the coffin next to him, still ready if necessary.

However, no deathbells there either.

A sudden sound echoing in the darkness had you flinching horribly, heart beating erratically. Bora brought her bow up with lighting speed, aimed at the sound's source. It echoed again, a soft howl of the wind from the entrance the crypt now had. It was entirely possible that there were other holes in the crypt, much like the one you used to get in, and with the passage open, it was bound to happen that a few stones would tumble down, creating the scary echo. However, these rational thoughts did not calm your heartbeat, and even though they uprooted you from your petrified stance, it made your step quicker as you inspected another coffin. If your heart could have plummeted more, it would, as your new cache was without the treasure you looked for and the last coffin was still intact and sealed shut.

The main hall you were currently in held the bodies of approximately four clans. The different runes on the sides of the stone slabs indicated the names of the buried and the periods of their demise. If you knew you had more time (and your visit was much safer), you would love to spend ages in these halls, dotting down the nuggets of information that could prove useful. Warriors weren't the only ones who found eternal rest here - with the death of a clan leader, the maids, intelligence and healers were sent to the otherworld as well. You knew it was highly immoral, but if by chance you found a coffin of a healer with their tomes still with them, you would not be above taking it to rediscover cures for diseases that were swallowed up by time, and yet still made a comeback every now and then to wreak havoc.

Bora began moving as well, a soft sway here and there to make sure all the dead stayed that way, her bow and arrow still locked and ready to shoot. Keen eyes scanned the main hall, and yet they always returned to that narrow hallway leading most probably to a different room- crypts were often built with intermingling rooms designed for occasional pilgrims or guards, and so it wouldn't be surprising for you if it was exactly some descendants of the resting clans who took up the responsibility to protect the bones of the elders from grave robbers. Grave robbers like you, you realized with a wry quirk of your lips.

However, the light still made you feel uneasy, rightly so. It is strange to see something that so clearly indicates living presence in a place where everything should have been dead for decades. Trying to push that thought deep back into your mind (and turning around to see that the entrance to the cave is still a straight line and a few long strides away from you), you moved to inspect more of the graves. Bora was still on your left, snooping through the other clan's resting places. You knew that even though the warrior is checking out some of the coffins herself, you wouldn't be able to stop from checking them on your own as well. You wanted to get out of here, as soon as possible.

And your blood froze when from the corner of your eye, you saw a figure standing on your right.

A pained whine left your lips as your legs instinctively jumped away from the unknown character that was standing exactly in the mouth of the hallway that had you feeling uneasy. Your sound alerted Bora, and she was by your side in a moment, arrow already whistling through the air, aimed exactly at the figure's head.

His hand shot out and with a burst of blue energy, it knocked the arrow out of its intended trajectory, making your knees buckle. The person was clad in what most definitely were black robes a long time ago, but the time spent underground tattered the cloth and the dust ingrained itself in the fabric probably indefinitely. His hood was resting on his back, revealing an elderly man with his scalp left bare by his hair falling out in literal clumps. Two linear marks ran down his cheeks in the brownish color of dried blood, sliding down his neck and into the robes.

He tilted his head to the side curiously, crazed eyes bulging out of his skull as he stared at the two of you in extreme interest.

"Living brides? I haven't had those in a while," a voice crinkly as old papyrus cut through the tension of the room, and it was only then that you realized that what you first thought was just dust settling behind the figure were the spirits of two young women, looking both disconnected with whatever was happening to them, but sorrowful at the same time. The necromancer licked his lips, as if that would help the dry chuckle that ripped from his throat.

Necromancers were considered a myth in the capital. After they were banned from the mage's association, they were viciously hunted down for their predatory behavior and more than unconventional preferences. And yet here was one standing before you, and you suddenly wished you never opened the door for the strange party that went searching for you for help.

The wolves waiting outside must have felt the sudden change of ambience, because you heard distressed noises and a hiss of your name echo through the hole. You only had enough time to whimper Sehun's name back before the necromancer was swinging his hand in the direction of the entrance, and as the whole crypt shook, the rocks blocked your escape route. The wall shook at the hits from the other side, but the rocks did not budge. You were stuck.

You heard more whistling through the air as Bora tried her shot once more, only to be dodged by the necromancer, who did not appreciate her attempts at getting an arrow lodged in his eyes. Another swish with his hand had Bora flying into the side of the crypt, a hit tough enough to leave her crumbling on the ground to catch her breath. He frowned, looking over at you with an almost sympathetic look in his eyes.

"Why is your friend being so mean? I will treat you so well. Just ask the girls," he exclaimed, his arm swiping back to the looming spirits hovering weakly in the air. Your eyes filled with tears and with quivering hands, you reached for the dagger that was on your hip in a cutely valiant and yet apparently useless attempt to protect yourself from the menace standing in front of you.

"You do seem to be very docile dear, and I like that in my brides. She, on the other hand," he only flicked his head over to where Bora was already standing with a deep frown on her face, silently evaluating the situation, "needs to learn, that every action has consequences." Spreading both his arms wide, the blue energy that you witnessed moments ago burst through the hall in a blast that had you falling to your knees.

For an excruciating moment, you thought nothing bad happened, and maybe the necromancer was at his energy's end. Your heart lurched forward however, when you noticed another flicker of blue lights in your periphery, and you turned to look just in time as one of the dead warriors was slowly waking back to life, the blue flickering orbs illuminating the space where his eyes used to be.

The tall, lanky body stretched as if they were merely asleep for a very long time, cracking at the joints of their neck and shaking off the lethargy from their rotten flesh. A sudden clash of metal against metal had both you and the warrior jump in surprise. Bora had already engaged one of them, her shortsword looking pitiful against the battleaxe-wielding maiden.

It was surprising to still be able to recognize the deep hatred in a face stripped of all muscles.

"Aim for the heads, ___!" Bora yelled as she pulled a hidden dagger from her pouch and swung with her other arm, promptly dodging the already derelict helmet and striking the undead in the temple. The shieldmaiden stepped back from Bora as if she were confused, before collapsing into a heap of bone and rot and not moving again.

The bodies had a mind of their own. And their main thought was to fight.

With that thought you turned back to the body whose awakening you witnessed just moments ago and dodged a swing of his sword by a hair's breadth. You stumbled back to the ground and kept retreating from the numerous hits the evidently angry body rained down upon you, and in the process the dagger slipped from your clammy hands, cluttering pointlessly to the ground.

This was it, you thought. This was how you're going to die, cursed to become a bride for a deranged individual who preferred the company of aggressive dead.

"The HEAD, ___, get the heads!" Bora told you once more as an arrow swished past your shoulder and struck the incoming warrior in the forehead. In an attempt to escape being squished by the falling body, you rolled to the side, precisely on one of the already awakening warriors.

The shieldmaiden opened her mouth and screeched in insult, and it was an almost automatic response that you lifted the nearby goblet and jammed it into her head numerous times, not even realizing how soft the skull became. It must have been the magic that allowed the necromancer to give the bodies thoughts of their own but made them extremely vulnerable to being destroyed if you knew what you were doing.

You didn't know what you were doing. You were here to collect deathbells, and not to become fertile soil for them.

You stopped once the skull resembled more mush than bone, and you promptly turned over to heave your breakfast onto the ground beside you. Your whole body shook, and you wished Tao was there to stop time because you needed to take a breath, but the dead kept on rising, kept on turning their attention to the object that was moving around in the crypt the most. Bora almost looked as if she were dancing, the graceful movements of her sword slicing through her dead enemies that seemed to be coming in great numbers.

The wall where your entrance was before shook every now and then, trembling under the powerful blows of the three werewolves standing outside, however the necromancer must have fortified the fallen rubble because it did not budge even though you were sure that under normal circumstances the rocks would have been sent flying.

Trying to shake off the sickness that took over your body, you reached out for the mace that was placed right next to one of the still resting bodies. Just as you lifted it, the magical blue hue appeared behind its rotting eyelids, breathing life into the dead flesh. However, this time you were prepared for it and you immediately brought the heavy, jewel-studded head of the mace down onto the face of an ancient warrior, sending him back to timeless eternity. Learning your lesson from last time, you quickly turned away from the wound as to not make yourself sick again and looked over at Bora, who was slowly becoming overwhelmed.

It was a while since Bora's last opponent was something bigger than a fox, and a horde of undead warriors was no doubt a formidable enemy. Even if their movement was sluggish and uncertain (if you had the time, you would ponder in fascination on what made the monsters move, since all the nerves would be the first to rot away and muscles were found scarcely on some of the bodies, the polished bones shining against Baekhyun's torches abandoned on the ground), they seemed to have endless energy, and if Bora didn't hit them in the head, they would keep returning. You could already see some of the wounds on Bora's body- a cut here and there, blood that seemed to be far too fresh to belong to any of the dead bodies.

In a graceful move, Bora sliced off both of her enemy's arms in two swift strikes before kicking the skirmisher in the chest. The body flew back towards you, and you swung the mace just in time to strike the head and put him out of commission. Bora was able to spare you a small smile before returning to fight against the others. Glancing around you quickly, you noticed not all the dead were risen. Maybe not all of them could be risen, for one reason or another, which meant that soon, all the enemies in these halls would be defeated, leaving you with the necromancer alone. The thought fueled you with some hope, and you tripped an unsuspecting skeleton charging at Bora before thoughtlessly stomping on its' head.

The mush of the skeleton stuck to your shoes like sludge. There are other rooms in the crypt. More undead. No escape.

Isn't all your fighting futile? The rubble from the entrance does not budge, and only the one above knows where exactly in the crypt you were right now. Even if the wolves would find a way to open the magically fortified locked entrance, they would no doubt have to fight themselves through hordes of these monsters and numerous of the necromancer's brides before reaching the two of you.

And you were growing tired. And even if she didn't show it, Bora was growing tired as well. Once you killed all of these undead, what then? Face the most probably centuries old necromancer on your own, who is probably raising more undead while you tried to fight off the crawling torso of a body that Bora couldn’t kill perfectly?

Your arms trembled as you brought the mace down once again, and that was when you felt invisible arms wrap around you tight, so tight you were worried that your bones would break like twigs. The air was pushed out of your lungs and the mace you held in your hands clattered to the ground with a loud noise.

The tips of your toes weren't touching the ground anymore, and you were unwillingly turned towards the necromancer, who was holding his hand out, beckoning you to come to him, yellow and rotting teeth grinning at you maliciously. You felt as if you couldn't move, no matter how much you struggled, and in the background, you could faintly hear Bora's scream of your name as she fought more aggressively against the lasting five warriors.

"No, fuck! ___!!" The necromancer was closer now, and the closer he was, the more disgusting and terrifying he seemed.

"You will serve just nicely," he rasped, and you glanced past his shoulder to stare at the two floating spirits behind him, renewing your attempts to wiggle out his binds in whatever way, because oh my god, you're going to end up just like them.

You had a whole life ahead of you. You just found a group you felt like you can belong in. You finally found that spark in your profession that seemed to be long gone and you gave up hope in forever finding again.

Looking so closely at one of the dead brides, you recognized her face as one of the girls who disappeared years ago from the capital. Word was that she escaped from an arranged marriage to be with her lover and the commotion died down after a few months. Seeing her now, forever bound to a madman, face void of any emotion had tears pushing into your eyes.

Bora was still fighting in the back, two undead with large axes keeping her busy, but she still kept glancing over at you, which cost her dearly, as one of the skeletons was able to catch her off-guard and slice into her side. With a surprised grunt, she turned and caught its head with a dagger, making the body crumple down in a bone heap.

"Eyes on me, darling." a sweaty palm gripped your chin roughly and tugged you back to stare into the crazed eyes of the necromancer. He was breathing deeply, whitened tongue darting out to lick at the bottom of his lip every now and then as he assessed you.

"Yes...yes..." he murmured, fingers tucking back the strand of your hair behind your ear. "You will do just nicely."

"Fuck no, __!" The sounds from everywhere were overwhelming. Bora's desperate groan as she no doubt got hit again for being distracted, the whole side of the crypt thudding in powerful blows, the quickened breath of the psychopath in front of you, breath rotten that made your stomach churn.

Is this how you were going to die?

The palms gripping your head heated up, and they soon began to burn at your skin, making your whole head ache as if put through a torturing device. The aching burn slithered down your neck slowly, spreading over your collarbones and sliding down to the tips of your fingers, over your chest and hips. You squirmed in discomfort, the whine slipping past your lips pathetically weak.

"It won't take long, my love. You will be a fine addition, just don't move. It will be all over soon."

The ache traveled past your thighs, wrapping around your legs and knees in a vice, and you almost felt your joints dislocating under the pain. When it reached your toes, your whole body pulsed once, twice, thrice.

Before it re-started its trek up your body, leaving numbness behind.

You couldn't wriggle your toes.

You couldn't move your ankles.

The numbing feeling was moving higher up your body, and with it, it was taking your soul. Your eyes must have revealed their despair, because the necromancer laughed, moving so close your noses touched.

"Why are you so afraid, petal? It doesn't hurt, does it?" You wished it would hurt. Anything would be better than the slow and deliberate, fully conscious feeling of life leaving you.

Everything went silent, and that's how you could almost hear the blood flow in your body still. Your legs hung limply from the hold of the necromancer. You couldn't feel the tips of your fingers anymore.

"P-please don't do this..." you begged, voice quivering so bad it barely came out.

"Just a while longer," the man cooed, tongue licking over the bottom of his lip hungrily. "Just a while longer and your mine."

The bottom of your ribs began to tingle. Will your heart stop when it reaches them?

Your life flashed before your eyes, replacing the ugly murderer in front of you. You saw your cozy home, filled with vials that helped countless people. You saw your friends, laughing carelessly over the latest gossip and every handsome man that passed by your table. You saw Bora and the other mates, smiling at you warmly and welcoming you, a stranger, into their closest of circles.

You saw Sehun. Saw his smile. The way his bottom lip jutted out in a pout when his older brothers messed with him. The crease of his brows when the scar on his back began aching.

You saw how his whole body relaxed under your fingertips, as you cupped his face and stroked your thumb under his eye. The smile that slowly spread when you were the first thing he saw in the morning. His grin when he succeeded in teasing you. The way his lips felt against yours.

And you tipped your head back with the last surge of strength you could muster, snapping it back with as much force as you had.

There was a sickening crunch as your skull connected with the old man's nose.

You dropped to the floor, head banging against the cold stone. Your fingers twitched life back into them.

Swishing sliced through the air, before hitting its juicy target.

And as you looked up, the elven dagger glistened from the necromancer's surprised face. The body slumped back, hitting his brides, who disappeared into thin air.

The wall finally gave, and you heard three voices yelling your and Bora's names, although you heard it as if you were underwater.

And just as your eyes gave to the darkness, you glimpsed it right in front of you.

A deathbell.

#sehun #oh sehun #exo sehun #exo sehun story #exo sehun scenario #sehun exo #sehun exo story #sehun exo scenario #exo #exo story #werewolf #werewolf story #werewolf au #sehun werewolf #exo werewolf #exo werewolf story #series: Chronicles of the Wolf

276 notes · View notes