#gtws << for a second but hes There . he shows up more tho dw

[zedif-y]

it's gonna hurt like hell (to become well)

Cross posted on AO3 (mind the tags)

(Part 2/5)

NOTE: This story is likely going to stay UNFINISHED, so read at your own risk!

---

When Skizz wakes, he doesn’t get up immediately. 

He doesn’t have to, to be fair. It’s the weekend. But it’s more than sleepiness and a comfy bed keeping him there. 

Skizz sighs, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His arm stings.

Another thing he doesn’t want to deal with. Ugh.

Gaze trailing the wooden grain of the ceiling, Skizz’s thoughts drift– though he doesn’t fall back asleep. He scoffs. Of course he wakes up early when he can actually sleep in. Of course.

Dried blood sticks to his arm, staining his sheets brown. He keeps them wrapped around him anyway.

He doesn’t feel very rested.

Skizz lets out a sigh. You’d think that being visited by your Guardian Angel in your dreams would, you know, at least restore your energy, but Ren doesn’t seem keen to get off his ass–

Skizz stops that thought right then and there, breathing in deep, then letting it out. Yeah, no. No. That won’t lead him anywhere good– He’s just… In a bad mood. That’s all.

His eyes drift towards his bedside table.

The envelope sits innocently next to the rest of his things, though Skizz wishes he’d just dreamt it.

He doesn’t want to think about the letter—hell, can he even call it that? The map—that Tango sent him or what it means. 

And– okay. Part of him knows he’s going to follow it, if there’s any hope that, maybe… 

He shakes his head.

On the other hand, the village needs him. He can’t just leave on some mission that could be some sort of trick. 

His mind lingers on the familiar writing, considering. He doesn’t remember Tango’s handwriting being so neat.

A cacophony of clattering metal and pots banging comes from the kitchen, shocking him out of his thoughts. It’s followed by a string of curses, and Skizz chuckles.

Joker’s up. How long did he lie here thinking?… 

He sighs. Reluctantly, he sits up, pulling the sheets aside. At least he slept some; a couple more hours would have been nice though. His body aches as he stretches the sleep away. Damn the long nights. 

A sharp sting makes itself known again, and Skizz frowns, examining the cut on his arm. It’s a decent size, and man it hurts, but it’s stopped bleeding for the time being. There are scratches around it too, but he’s not worried about those. 

Shrugging, he places his arm back down on the bed. He’s so used to it at this point; he’ll just slap some bandages on when he gets into the bathroom and then forget about it. 

As he swings his legs over the side of the bed to stand, he grabs the map and letter to bring with him for Joker to see. Maybe he’d recognize it. 

…Should he tell him who it’s from?

With his wound wrapped, Skizz heads into the living room. The smell of eggs wafts over to him, and he spots Joker at the stove. He sets the map down and heads into the kitchen. 

Joker glances over his shoulder as Skizz walks in, “Morning.” 

“Mornin’,” Skizz replies, leaning against the counter. 

Joker nods to the bandages. “How’s your arm?”

“Still there,” Skizz retorts, making them both snicker. “All good, we’re running a little low on bandages.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem to get more. Especially for you, Mr. Cleric Man,” Joker teases. 

Skizz grins and chuckles. “Yeah, yeah.” 

Joker turns back to the sizzling eggs and flips them with a spatula. It’s smooth, practiced ease, and Skizz smiles as he thinks for a moment about how much he’d improved. When Skizz first moved in with him, Joker might flip the entire pan over before he could get an egg to flip all the way. 

The thought sobers him, the smile fading from his face. It only reminds him of how much time has passed.

“I hope you’re hungry, ‘cause these are ready,” Joker tells him, reaching for a plate. Skizz blinks, brought back to the present. 

“Ooh, yeah!” Skizz sits at the table and adds, “You know I’m always hungry for your cooking.” 

“Aw, you shut up! It’s just eggs,” Joker responds, but he’s grinning as he sets a plate in front of Skizz. 

They’re prepared just the way he likes it, the yolk still runny and the edges crispy. Skizz chuckles, Tango always liked them near burnt—

The thought hits him like a whip. Skizz almost groans.

Can he not catch a break? For two seconds?!

It’s only then that he realizes Joker’s looking at him weird, he’d been quiet for too long, just staring at the food. Right.

He starts to eat as Joker sits down across from him, clearing his throat, “Well, they’re delicious.” 

“Thanks,” Joker squints at him, “Are you okay? Is it Ren?” 

Skizz shakes his head, “No, it’s…”

He thinks about the letter again, the stupid thing glaring at him from the living room. He needs to show it to Joker, but he almost… doesn’t want to. It can’t become a problem if he just ignores it, right? 

He grits his teeth. Right?

Skizz sighs. 

…He knows that’s not true. Unfortunately. 

“Jokes, you remember that letter I got yesterday morning?” 

“Mhmm?” Joker hums, mouth full. 

“I opened it last night. Didn’t wanna wake you to show it to you, but I need to when we finish breakfast,” Skizz says, then takes a sip of his drink. Mostly to hide his face. 

They’d gotten good at reading each other over the years. Skizz doesn’t want to worry him too much. 

“Alright,” Joker shrugs. “I’ve been kinda wondering about it anyway.” 

It doesn’t take them long to finish eating, Skizz’s thoughts occupied as he scarfs down his food. He helps put away the dishes, his body on autopilot– it takes nearly slamming his face into a doorway for him to snap out of it.

“Dude,” Joker says, eyebrows raised. “Seriously, how bad is it?”

Skizz grimaces. He doesn’t reply.

Instead, he beckons Joker over to where he left his things, a hand smoothing at the wooden table.

“C’mere.”

“That’s… worrying,” Joker frowns. Skizz huffs out a small laugh, though it’s more like a scoff. Yeah, no kidding. “What is it?”

“It’s a map,” Skizz says as he grabs it and unfolds it, “but I don’t know what it’s showing. The only other thing that came with it is a note that says to follow it.” 

Skizz lays the map on the table. Joker hums, looking over it. 

“I’m not super familiar with anything either, but… I think I recognize this one town.” Joker taps a dot near the bottom of the map, “Heard about it somewhere. It’s a good ways north of us.” 

“How far we talking?” Skizz asks, apprehension prickling at him. How far was Tango—supposedly Tango—asking him to go? 

“If you make really good time, maybe a week. I’d guess more like two, though, but even that’s optimistic,” Joker answers, not looking up from the map. “Who was this from again?” 

Oh, here we go. 

Skizz fiddles with a string on his shirt. Joker looks up, narrowing his eyes a little, “Skizz, who is this from?” 

“Uhm, it’s— it’s from Tango,” Skizz blurts out. Joker’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“Tango?” 

Skizz grimaces. “I was surprised too. I— we’ve had no contact since… y’know.” 

“And you’re going?” Joker asks, baffled. “Skizz–”

“I’m not sure yet,” Skizz admits, looking back at the map. “I just don’t understand. Why is he making me go all the way out there? Why didn’t he leave me a letter?” His eyebrows scrunch up, frustration flaring in his chest. “I… You know me, Jokes. You know me. And you know part of me still wants to go, but– that’s stupid, isn’t it?”

He folds the map again, fighting the urge to crumple it up. “It might not even be Tango,” He says, just to try and believe it. To try and make it true. “It could be someone else. But why would they use–?” He flops down on the couch with a groan. He looks up at Joker, a quiet plea in his voice as he says, “Dude, tell me I’m being crazy.”

Joker stays silent, a frown on his lips.

“Tell me that—” Skizz swallows, “Tell me you think this isn’t legit. That it’s not worth it, and I should– I should throw it away and burn it.”

Skizz’s hands shake, “Please.”

Joker sighs. “I wish I could lie to you, Skizz,” Skizz holds his breath, "It looks legit. But at the same time, I’m not saying it’s worth it.” 

But… Skizz breathes out, shaky. “I mean, if it’s legit, then—” 

“He’s not giving you a reason, dude. Just ‘follow this’?” Joker cuts him off. “For all we know, it could be a trap. That you’d be walking blindly into.” 

“It’s him, Jokes. At least, it says it is.” He still doesn’t want to give himself hope, but it lingers anyway, “And if it’s not him, then… surely it’s someone who knows him. But if it is really him—” Skizz clasps his hands together, stop shaking. ”Dude, I have to go. I have to. I’ll take any damn chance, you know I will.” 

Joker is quiet. Skizz can practically hear the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out how to talk him out of this, worry written on his face.

Skizz sees the exact moment he gives up. His shoulders deflate, resignation in his eyes.

Then, “Yeah,” He sighs. “Yeah, I do. Unfortunately.” 

Quiet falls again. Skizz starts to fidget— the silence is uncomfortable, tension hanging in the air. He knows Joker’s not mad, but frustration shows in the furrow of his brow. 

“I know I can’t- I can’t stop you from going,” Joker says. “But at least think for a second. What if it is a trap, or heck, even something happens to you on the road? It’s a long trip, dude.” He shakes his head, “The village needs you. You’re the only cleric.” 

“I’m not! There’s—” 

“Well, yeah,” Joker grumbles, “There’s the crazy one that no one goes to and he complains constantly about it. He doesn’t count and we ignore him. You’re the only real cleric.” 

Skizz pokes at the rug with his foot. Joker’s right, he knows he is, but— 

He’s gotta go. Doesn’t he?

“There’s one more,” Skizz says slowly, almost reluctantly, “And I don’t wanna put this kind of pressure on her, but…” 

“Your apprentice?” 

He sounds disbelieving. Skizz suddenly feels defensive, twisting around, “I know she just started recently, but she’s got skill. She’s learned so much! And she’s a fighter too, so she can protect the place way the hell better than I ever have—” 

“I’m not doubting Gem’s intelligence or skill,” Joker interrupts, softer this time. “And I know you’ve trained her as best you can. But she started months ago. Dude, how long did you take to become a full power cleric? Years? Half your life? There’s only so much of a skill you can learn at one time, man.” 

Skizz falters, deflating. That’s– yeah, okay.

He twists his hands, “I guess you’re right,” He mutters, ignoring Joker’s huff. “But I… I feel like I need to go.” 

A beat. Joker’s fingers tap against his chin, eyes narrowed in thought.

“Tell you what,” Joker says, moving to sit next to Skizz on the couch. “Go talk to her.” 

Skizz blinks, “What, really?”

Joker’s lips twitch into a smile, “Really. I’m sure she’ll understand a weekend interruption for this. Ask her if she thinks she’s up to it, and if she is, then you can think more about leaving.” 

Skizz studies him for a moment. Joker’s still pretty tense, but…

“Yeah,” Skizz sighs. “Thanks, homie.” 

“Of course. Someone’s gotta be the smart one in this relationship,” Joker replies with a smirk.

“Wh— Relationship? Buddy, that ship has sailed long ago–” Skizz teases. Joker barks out a laugh, “And, uhm, hello? Who’s the doctor? I am not calling you smart—” 

Joker grins. “And between the two of us, who touched hot oil to see if it was ready–?” 

“We don’t talk about that!” Skizz sputters, then coughs, “But you did, obviously. You did that.” 

“Sureee. We’ll go with that,” Joker snickers. He slaps Skizz on the thigh, grinning as he yelps, “Now go talk to your apprentice!” 

- - - - -

Once Skizz gets properly dressed and ready to socialize, he heads out and makes his way to Gem’s place. It’s a cute cottage, luckily not too far from them, with a small stable next to it. Tall, light-speckled trees hang over it, creeping vines going up the side of the house. Overgrown berry bushes frame the outside, just the right amount of wild— but Skizz is pretty sure all the greenery is a style choice. 

The berry bushes are smart, though, good at keeping mobs away. Brains and brawn, indeed.

Skizz steps up to the door, anxiety swirling in his stomach. Gem was going to indirectly make this decision for him, and he didn’t know if he hoped for a no or a yes. 

He knocks. Barking comes from inside in response, then footsteps. 

The door opens, and Skizz waves, “Hey, Gem!” Her eyes go wide, a giggle on her lips as he opens his arms for a hug, “How are ya?”

She accepts it easily, giving him a squeeze. “Hey, Skizz!” She chirps, “I’ve been doing good, how–” More barking cuts her off, and she looks over her shoulder into the house, “Hush, Winnie, it’s just Skizz!” 

The dog barks a couple more times, then stops. Gem turns back to Skizz, grinning sheepishly, “Sorry about that.” 

Skizz shakes his head, “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m sorry to bother you on the weekend.” 

Gem steps back, waving a hand as she replies, “It’s alright! How can I help you?” She holds the door open, “Come in! We can talk inside.” 

Skizz follows her in, taking a seat on one of her couches. The living room is a cozy, warm space, beautifully decorated… Though maybe he could make do without some of the animal heads.

(Gem’s awesome, really. Gem is great. Just uh… What’s her deal with beheading things?)

Skizz tears his eyes away. Above the fireplace sits a large, heavy-looking iron sword. He doesn’t need magic to tell it’s enchanted– it shimmers as he looks at it, thrumming with power.

She sits on the other, looking at him expectantly. Ah, right.

Here goes nothing.

“I received a letter,” Skizz says cautiously, “And I might need to go somewhere. I haven’t decided yet, though. It’s a week or two just to get there, and I don’t know how long I’ll stay.” He pauses, gauging her reaction. “And if I do go, I need someone to take care of the village.” 

“And I’m the candidate to fill that role?” Gem guesses. 

Skizz nods. “You’re… the only other skilled healer, even if it’s only been a few months. I was wondering if you’d be willing to take my place for a bit, dude.” 

A few moments pass, each second making his anxiety ratchet up like crazy–

“Okay,” Gem says, making him blink. “Yeah, yeah, I think I could do that,” She adds. “I mean, I know how to do all the day-to-day stuff, and you’ve taught me well.” 

“Are you sure?” Skizz asks, honestly a little baffled. He’d thought it’d take a bit more than that— “It’ll be a lot more work, and if anyone calls on you for an emergency, you have to be prepared.” 

Gem is nodding before he finishes. “I know, Skizz,” She replies, smiling. Gods bless her, “I got this! I’ve… kinda been wanting a chance to really test myself, you know? Not that I want anything to happen, just… I’m here if you need me to step up.” 

Skizz chuckles. “Alright! Well, this is that chance, for sure. If you do come across anything you don’t understand, especially magic-wise, feel free to drop by and borrow some of my books. Joker will still be home, he can point you to the ones you need. You can use my office too!” He pauses, then, “Uh… don’t worry about the paperwork. I’ll get to that someday. Oh, and—” 

“Skizz!” Gem laughs, putting a hand on his arm. “It’s okay. I can do this.” 

Skizz relaxes, laughing with her. “Thanks, Gem. This helps a lot.” 

“Of course! I’ll make sure everyone here is nice and healthy, don’t worry,” Gem assures him. 

Skizz smiles. She’ll make a perfect cleric. 

“Okay! Yeah, I think I’m good!” Gem tells him, “I’ll go over the supplies this afternoon, so you don’t need to worry about that, either.” Skizz nods and stands, stepping towards the door.

Gem follows, waving him goodbye as she says, “Be safe out there, Skizz. And enjoy your trip!” 

“Seriously dude, thanks,” Skizz says, giving her a smile as she closes the door. His heart clenches as he walks away. 

Enjoy your trip. 

He’d try, there was bound to be a lot of new scenery, with that long of a travel. But… Something tells him it’s not gonna be all butterflies and roses. 

Something twists and writhes in his chest, anxiety bubbling in his veins. Skizz steels himself, letting out a breath.

“Of course it’s not gonna be easy,” Skizz mutters to himself, rolling his shoulders, shaking his head. “But you know what? You know what?”

He furrows his brow, “I can take it. Whatever happens, I can take it.”

I mean, come on, Skizz thinks, eyes trained forward. It’s not like I’ve lived this long and learned nothin’!

And then, quieter, it would’ve haunted me anyway, if I didn’t go. The last thing I need is another regret.

The anxiety doesn’t fade, not by a long shot. But as Skizz trudges back home, he finds it isn’t enough to stop him, worries and what-ifs be damned. A small smile tugs at his lips.

He’s always been pretty stubborn, huh?

- - - - -

Packing is a quiet affair.

Skizz doesn’t waste any time, counting his clothes and supplies, his mouth set in a line. Does he need more bandages, potions? Food? 

He bites his lip. He’d packed more than enough, but just in case…

Skizz huffs. If there’s anything to thank his past for, at least it made him more careful.

And finally…

Skizz grunts as he heaves up his shield, the weight of it familiar, almost soothing. He turns to his mirror. He moves his shield this way and that, watching the light catch on the iron details, the carved wolf head, the polished ‘blood’ dripping down. His emblem.

His spell focus, a gift from his Guardian. Just in case.

He turns back to his things– a backpack of supplies, a bedroll strapped to it, and his shield. Magic hums in the air as he waves a hand over them, a thin net of light hovering over the items before they start to fade, pocketed for him to summon whenever he needs it. Skizz grins.

Magic’s awesome.

He takes a good look at himself, breathing in deep. His wings— too small, though they don’t look like it— are folded at his back, his clothing light enough for a journey, but comfortable enough for when things start to get colder up North.

(It covers up his arms, which is good, though the age-old urge to tear his sleeves off still itches at him— some habits never truly die.)

He exhales, rolling his shoulders. Okay. He’s got this.

He looks himself in the eyes, summoning all of his strength. The map appears in his hand.

“Ren,” He says, his voice low in prayer. “Angel of Winter, Protector of Hounds, lend me your guidance,” He closes his eyes, “Lend me your strength.”

He’ll need it.

The shield glows for a moment in answer.

No problem, dude!

- - - - -

As Skizz gets going, seated on his horse as he rides out of the village, he wonders if he should have left the next day so he’d have a full day to travel. It would’ve been smarter, maybe, but… 

He’s itching to leave. Either to find out where this leads or so he doesn’t have time to change his mind, he’s not sure. Maybe it’s both. 

Skizz sighs, stroking Gluestick’s neck. “We’ve got a long trip ahead of us, boy. I hope you’re ready.” He adjusts his hold on the reins, musing, “It’s been a while since we had an adventure, huh?” 

Gluestick snorts. The clop clop of his hooves turns softer as the road becomes more of a path. Skizz reaches behind him for the map, folded in a pocket of his backpack. He’s stared at it for so long already, but still he opens it, scans it— none of it is recognizable yet, of course, but soon, soon it will be. 

At least, he really hopes. 

The sun hangs above him in a clear blue sky, a light breeze in his hair as he takes it in. Skizz grins— it’s a great day for traveling, lucky him.

He watches villages pass, many of which he recognizes, some he’s only heard of in passing. The hours stretch on until the bright blues of the sky soften into oranges and pinks, blending seamlessly into the dark purple night. He stops when he has to, going through the motions of eat, sleep, pack up, repeat.

It’s been a minute since he’s done this, but it’s not really the sort of thing you just forget. 

Hours turn into days. Before he knows it, a week has passed since he’d left, and he’s– Skizz squints down at his map. He should be a bit over halfway there. At the rate he’s going, Joker would be right, it’d take him about two weeks.

But… Hm.

A sinking dread has followed him all day, no matter how hard he tries to get rid of it. A heavy feeling that sits on his chest, making his ribs groan under the pressure. Something is wrong, that much he’s sure– but Ren stays silent for the whole day.

He sets up camp as the stars peek through and begin to sparkle amongst the night sky, the long shadows cast by trees and branches making his skin crawl, just a little. The feeling grows tenfold, crashing into him like waves against the shore—

Skizz grimaces, tossing and turning as he wrestles himself into sleep. What the heck, man?

Eventually, his breathing evens out, his expression smoothing over as he drifts off, the evening breeze cool against his skin.

Late in the night, his emblem begins to thrum a holy white.

- - - - -

When Skizz opens his eyes, he’s met with snow.

And not the nice kind, either. It’s a howling, stinging force that prickles at his skin, a stabbing cold into his flesh. He can feel his wings behind him, and he tries to move them–

He whirls around. His wings, white and massive and strong– are frozen numb, a thick sheet of ice covering his feathers. Dread pools in his lungs.

It’s only then that he properly takes in his surroundings. He’s in the middle of a snow storm, kneeling on what looks like a small platform, smooth, cool deepslate forming a large circle all around him. It prickles at him, teetering on the edge of familiarity…

Ren appears in front of him in a coat of red. Skizz’s breath catches in his throat.

Oh. Oh no.

“No,” Skizz rasps, his wings weighing him down like lead. He knows better than to try and stand. “Not again,” His throat is tight, tears stinging at his eyes. “I can’t have lost someone already, I just left–”

A flash of light blinds him, just for a moment. The dread in his ribcage spreads into a sinking pit. 

Ren’s axe appears in his hands. The cool, dark steel weighs heavy as grief, thrumming with divine energy. His eyes swirl with a deep sorrow, like the bottom of the sea, like the vastness of the abyss. His crown, his halo– it drips with blood.

Terror grips him in a vice. The last time he saw this, his entire village–

“How many?” Skizz asks, looking up at him, snow piling at his feet. “Who?” Ren lets out a sigh.

The sound reverberates throughout the land, the wind roaring in sympathy. Skizz can feel it rattling through his bones.

“One,” Ren replies, his voice echoing in his ears. Blood pools down the altar, seeping into the snow. “Someone you thought you had already lost.”

Skizz grits his teeth, “You can’t just give me that–!”

“I am sorry, Skizz,” Ren tells him. Even amidst the storm, his coat does not move. Pinpricks of ice solidify on Skizz’s cheeks.

“Just tell me who it is,” He begs, pleads. “Tell me– Is it Tango? Did he– Was I–”

Was I too late?

Ren winds his axe back to swing, ignoring Skizz’s protests. “His soul remains troubled. I beg of you, give him peace.”

“Wait–!”

Ren brings down his axe.

Skizz gasps awake. A searing pain rips him apart, a burning line from his right shoulder to the left side of his waist. A scream tears itself from his throat.

He swears he can feel the blade against his torn flesh, cleaved in half by the divine.

He expects his hands to come off bloody, his clothes soaked in crimson– but he is clean, and the pain claws at him, burning him like a thunder's strike. Skizz feels set aflame, like his skin is melting as he thrashes on the ground, writhing in agony as the wound– now a scar– glows a faint white.

Every movement is agony– his vision blurs, losing consciousness only to be jolted back awake, his throat raw and bloody. Dirt and blood cakes under his fingernails.

Through the haze, the screaming and the tears, Skizz grasps for an anchor. But there is nobody to steady him, no one to hold him– Skizz thrashes, alone as he’s ripped apart and welded back together. 

He doesn’t know how long he lay there, eyes screwed shut through the pain.

It feels like years before he can really move again.

His chest heaves, a sheen of sweat on his skin. His clothes are all soaked, which is. Gross. Skizz lets out a weak groan, salty tears seeping into the grass. He needs… He needs to get up. He’s gotta.

For Tango.

Skizz grunts as he heaves himself up–

A lancinating pain makes him cry out, curling in on himself and making it worse. An ugly sob crawls up his throat, snot and spit dripping down his face as he clenches his teeth, doing his damn best to keep it together, keep it together.

He’s stronger than this, Skizz reminds himself, half-delirious with pain. He’s stronger than…

Coherent thought flits away, his head swimming as he tries to focus on breathing, each gasp of breath grating against his throat. Skizz’s shoulders hunch in, too exhausted to keep himself upright.

Years, days, hours pass. He’s not sure which.

Skizz sniffs, his eyes stinging and sore. He tries to speak, “Gosh,” He winces, clears his throat. “Bet I look real pretty right now, hah.”

It’s silent. Skizz can feel a sob working its way up his lungs, bubbling in his mouth. His expression crumples. His body, exhausted as it is, trembles like a leaf.

He wishes, more than anything, that he didn’t have to do this alone.

- - - - -

The next few days are nothing short of hell.

His travel speed is halved, his movements sluggish, his body more prone to fatigue. Skizz grits his teeth as he pushes forward, exhaustion bleeding into his very bones. And it’s not like he can just stay in some village and recover, either– he’s gone far enough that the nearest town is his actual destination.

His head swims, vision blurring for a moment before clearing again. The clarity is almost painful.

Skizz swallows his nausea, clammy hands gripping tightly on the reins. He can do this, he thinks, his thoughts muffled like he’s underwater. He can…

The world tilts.

Skizz sways and then jolts, a hand reaching out to steady himself but it’s too late–

Skizz screams.

His shoulder hits the dirt ground with a thud, searing pain shooting through him like a thunderclap. Gluestick whinnies, stopping as he writhes in pain. Black spots grow and dance across Skizz’s vision, his expression all scrunched up as his mouth opens in a wordless scream. His throat feels scratched raw.

What the hell is wrong with him?

Tears sting at his eyes like magma, a burning line down his face when he manages to sit himself upright. It’s the middle of the day, but he can’t– he can barely even stand through the pain, so he does his best to set up camp for the night, his fingers shaking and breathing ragged. He slumps against his bedroll.

Skizz shudders, eyes screwed shut and tasting bile. Gods. 

He hasn’t stopped thinking of who it is he lost.

When Skizz dreams, he sees an empty, starless sky.

- - - - -

He stops pushing himself so hard, after that. He takes more breaks, even if it kills him a little that it’s slowing him down. He regains his strength over time. Little by little until he can almost move without much pain.

Skizz sucks in through his teeth as he gets off of Gluestick, his shoulder throbbing as it’s jostled. Almost.

Days pass until two weeks become nearly three. He should be near, he should be, and anticipation grows in his veins, swelling when Skizz sees the faint outline of a town over in the distance— finally.

Skizz damn near cries again. Can you even blame him?

As he gets closer, he frowns, squinting at the faint fog. He sees the outline of a handful of people, going about their day– but they seem pretty sparse for a town this large.

He slows his pace when he enters the village, hand steadier on Gluestick’s reins. There’s still so few people.

“Excuse me,” Skizz says, catching the attention of one of the townspeople, a heavily-scarred man with a cane. “Is this Frosthaven?”

The man gives him an easy smile, “Well hello there!” He greets, his voice bright, cheery. “Yes, you are within the humble town of Frosthaven, a place for the weary to rest and the rest to enjoy!” He says with a flourish. His cane, a sleek wooden thing with gold trims, shimmers a little under the light.

“I am the proprietor and proud namesake of GoodTimes and Co, Scar GoodTimes." He extends a hand. "And who might you be, new friend?"

He likes this guy already.

Skizz shakes his hand with a grin of his own, “Hey, Scar! Name’s Skizz, nice to meet’cha,” He replies, “Could you point me in the direction of the tavern? Oh, and the stables.”

Scar hums. He turns, gesturing, “If you keep going forward, you’ll find the town square. Then head left to find the tavern, the stables are right by it,” Then, he hums, “Interesting. It’s been a while since old Frosthaven saw any visitors, and now we’ve got two!”

Skizz goes tense.

“Two?”

Scar nods, “You should see him at the tavern, he only arrived a day ago,” He tells him, and before Skizz can ask any more, “Anyway, I gotta go. If you need anything, from magical items to winter gear alike— there’s my shop, right across, ol’ GoodTimes and Co.” He says with a wink. Skizz nods, smiling.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” He says, “Thanks, Scar!”

“Not a problem!” Scar chirps, before Gluestick trudges forward, hooves clip-clopping in the direction of town square. Exhaustion creeps up onto Skizz like a vine.

It doesn’t take long for him to get Gluestick settled in with the other horses, and Skizz lets out a breath as he hands over the payment, finally making his way over to the tavern.

A wooden sign hangs over his head, Bite & Brew.

Skizz sucks in a breath. Here goes nothing.

He doesn’t let himself hesitate, the wooden door creaking open…

A wide brown eye meets his own, the other covered by a patch. He freezes, his glass of mead halfway up to his lip. 

Skizz’s heart leaps into his throat.

He’s different from how he used to look, but Skizz could recognize him by presence alone.

Two horns, standing proud. Short brown hair, now a bit longer, in need of a trim. The same large frame, a scar on his right eye, peeking out of his eyepatch.

No, Skizz thinks, backing up a little against the door. No, no. What?

“Impulse?” He asks, hoarse. “Dop?”