#it’s actually a flanged mace!

[unlicensedinvestigator]

battle against the snow queen

[borbology]

his ass is NOT wielding a mace (autism rant)

He is wielding a decapitated morningstar on a chain. Do you understand? It has no accuracy. It is cumbersome. The amount of time in-between attacks would be immense. I don't know how much clearer I can make this. THIS IS NOT A MACE

THESE are maces!

A mace has flanges or bumps to inflict blunt force damage through armor. It's existed since the paleolithic era and is humanity's favorite bludgeoning weapon.

A MORNINGSTAR is similar to a mace but has spikes on it meant to direct the force onto points, increasing damage. It was invented in the 14th century and was used by knights.

THIS RIGHT HERE LADS

THIS is a flail; a pussywhipped version of the morningstar. The military flail came about in the 10th century and actually had no spikes. It was called a kisten. But evidence and knowledge of flails depicted as it is here is minimal. Either way, flinging the end of what is supposed to be a blunt force weapon on a chain is an impractical peasent tactic that sacrifices accuracy without any real benefits aside from looking more intimidating. It is the nunchucks of medieval weapons.

[cyclesprefectpress]

[image description: 6 photos of a combination letterpress & hand-inked illustration of Princess Elody from Dimension 20's Neverafter season. She's wearing gold-decorated armor, extremely loosely based on 16th century German three-quarter plate, with some lilypad-like adjustments at the couters and cuisses. She wields a large mace, head fashioned from a golden sphere with added flanges. the border around her is built from lilypads, and contains her phrase "Never shallow," printed in Libra from handset type along with a small frog. all the golden details on her armor are also printed from handset type: many individual pieces of decorative borders cast in relief in lead and printed in the irregular area of the armor by printing through a mylar mask hand-cut in the appropriate shape. end description.]

guess what's been keeping me company the last couple weeks!! listen i went into neverafter for the body horror but mister lee mulligan really is just giving gift after gift to the wlw out there huh. hello ma'am i just want you to know i would kill & die for you but am also genuinely hoping you work things out with your frog husband, the guy has really grown on me and he's taken some big leaps forward lately yknow

apologies to anybody who knows things about armor! i have done some research largely by use of the Met's online collection and have generally tried to make it look like something that actually exists, but some choices are for stylin and some are basically entirely dictated by composition & constraints of the printing process. i did also have a sketch version including pauldrons etc., but i wasn't going to ditch the helmet and without most of her hair or the sleeves or the green of her nails there would be very little else of her current portrait design to cling to anymore.

i'll admit also there is 0% temporal consistency with the style of lineart, the type face, and the little frog guy but. the frog guy. he's so funny and he's the only frog i've got. i love him. gerard im rooting for you, do not fuck this up!!

wip

[phrogggslayer]

Sorry if this a dumb question what weapon is that exactly that paladin!freddy has?

[FNAF SB Fantasy AU]

Not a dumb question! Freddy uses a flanged mace! It's a bludgeoning weapon, but the flange tips are made to pierce armor! I would not want to be hit by one of those... Freddy's is a lot bigger than it would be in real life, but I figured a literal bear-man could use larger weapons. They're actually quite small in real life, so I really threw accuracy out the window.

(Image from Dark Knight Armory. Deepeeka product)

The AU:

[benthic-girl]

......ok I have some money do I actually buy a flanged made

[the-game-doc]

time will tell if i need to beat another man with the mace for messing with my friend

*ah yes the mace the flanged mace with a full name of the cunt shipper destroying mace

(ooc oh absolutely /platonic)

q_suit:// "THAT'S-- THAT'S ACTUALLY BEAUTIFUL."

[charubblogs]

CF: GOD DAMN IT, OK SO... LIKE, THEY FIGURED OUT I WAS GETTING OUTSIDE WHICH IS SUPER FUCKING LAME

CF: I DONT KNOW WHY THEY FUCKING CARE, ITS NOT LIKE IM LEAVEING PERMANENTLY, I JUST WANT TO BE OUTSIDE.

CF: SOME OLD MAN CAME IN AND YELLED AT ME???

CF: HE HAD A LOT OF SHINY SHIT ON HIS UGLY ASS JACKET SO I GUESS HE THINKS HE'S IMPORTANT.

CF: WHY WOULD YOU DECORATE YOURSELF WITH A BUNCH OF SHITTY LIL MEDALS? THEY SHOULD LET THESE MILITARY ASSHOLES WALK AROUND WITH PROGRESSIVLY COOLER WEAPONS

CF: THING ABOUT IT, WHAT COMMANDS MORE RESPECT THEN A SHITTY LITTLE COIN?

CF: THATS WRITE, A LASER FLANGED BATTLE MACE. THEY CAN DO IT, THEY SIMPLY CHOOSE NOT TO, THE ACTUAL FUCKING COWARDS LMAO.

CF: ANYWAYS THEY HAVE A BUNCH OF LIKE... SECURITY TYPES I GUESS STANDING AROUND MY ROOM TRYING TO PRETEND TO FALL ASLEEP SO THEY CAN CATCH ME ESCAPEING BUT GOOD LUCK WITH THAT I GUESS.

CF: THEY BETTER NOT CANCEL MY MOVIE NIGHT OVER THIS...

[snekkohekko]

I want Full Plate Armor (AND CHAINMAIL (which does not, in fact just come apart when hit)) in media to actually act like full plate armor for once and not be paper mache that can easily be cut through/ignored, cause guess what, unless you have a weapon like a flanged mace, poleaxe (which is more like a hammer with a beak and point than an axe), or other similar weapon you aren't going to do shit against full plate (sets of full plate could even hold up against early matchlock weapons (early gunpowder weapons had very slow projectiles (for gunpowder weaponry, it's still like 120m/s) meaning 2-3mm of steel plate could stop them)) unless you hit in between the plates (ie joints, neck, etc (even then those are usually covered in chainmail)). Same with a lot of armors actually, Half Plate, Scale Mail, Brigandine (aka Studded Leather), Plate Mail (which is different than Plate) and other armors are often more there just for looks and actual protection. also, Shields, unlike what DnD 5e seems to believe there are in fact more than one kind of shield, and even just a circle of wood with iron studs offers a piece of string protection that can be maneuvered to intercept attacks.

[cma-medieval-art]

Seven-Flanged Mace, c. 1540-1550, Cleveland Museum of Art: Medieval Art

The mace was primarily a weapon for mounted warriors in both actual combat and courtly contests. For this reason it was regarded as a knightly weapon. Arming oneself with a mace had gradually taken on significance among the nobility and commanding officers. It eventually came to be considered a badge of rank, as this decorated example certainly was, to be carried by its owner in parades and other ceremonial occasions. Size: Overall: 64.5 cm (25 3/8 in.); Head: 11.4 cm (4 1/2 in.) Medium: gilded russet steel; with chiseled foliate decoration

https://clevelandart.org/art/1916.1589

[sirobvious]

I was wondering how effective are pole weapons against plate armor?

That really depends on the pole weapon. In general I’d say that pole weapons are just better at everything unless you’re fighting in in thick trees or indoors, but like with shorter weapons, there were pole weapons designed to do specific jobs in combat. If you see a pole weapon with a big hammer part on it, it’s probably meant for going against plate armor. 

You can’t cut, pierce, or crush plate armor, but hitting it hard enough with something heavy can harm the wearer inside through transfer of kinetic energy. Non-fantasy plate armor is designed to be smooth and rounded in the right places so that all types of weapons slide off, lessening the transfer, but there are weapons that are designed specifically to reduce that slippage. Weapons that ‘grip’, and you can find these designs on the end of long sticks or short sticks. Examples below. 

A warhammer. from the 15th Century. The particular ‘pronged’ shape of the head is designed to allow it to better ‘grip’ plate armor when it strikes, maximizing the concussive force that gets through the armor. 

A ‘lucerne’ hammer from around 1500. This actually is a pole weapon, and you can see that it has the same four-prong design as the above shorter warhammer, but to an even greater degree. You could also use the spikes on these weapons to attempt to break and pierce maille armor, or anything weaker. The curved spike could also be used as a hooking device to control an armored man, trip him, or pull him off his horse. 

A flanged mace from the 15th Century. This weapon uses a different shape to achieve the same goal as the first two. Striking your opponent so that two of the ‘flanges’ strike at the same time creates the ‘grip’ that facilitates kinetic energy transfer. 

(all images hastily stolen from @armthearmour)

You could find designs like this on the end of long and short sticks, so it isn’t really a matter of whether pole weapons as a group are effective, it’s choosing which pole weapon you need for the job. Usually, Medieval soldiers were loathe to choose, and that’s why you so often see three different weapons on the end of one stick, like in the first two pictures. 

One downside of that compared to a regular simple spear, however, is that a simple spear is lighter and cheaper, but you’d really rather have the ‘lucerne’ if a fully armored knight was bearing down on you. 

[kaninchenzero]

When the rainy season came to this part of the world, wood and hemp pattens appeared like mushrooms. Obviously there were people who made them but no one ever sold any. Perhaps there were spirits or little gods that did the work and distributed them to homes and temples and taverns, but the priest didn't consider this too likely.

Probably it was just people agreeing that keeping the red clay mud mostly outdoors was everybody's business and made sure there were ways to make that easier. The clay mud was metal-rich, dense, and kept a tenacious grip on itself and anything else that happened to sink into it. It baked into sturdy tiles, if the priest judged the roofs around here correctly. (A passing knowledge of architecture was useful when their vocation took them to unsound buildings.)

The priest thought there could be a sermon in that, something about strength in community, but those in the God's service did little sermonizing and didn't train for it.

Funeral rites, yes. The God's temples back west kept records of pretty near every ceremony for the passage of the dead the faith had encountered going back thousands of years, in hundreds of languages. The priest personally knew scores of them, some in languages they didn't otherwise understand. When they encountered unfamiliar ones, they wrote down as much as they could and periodically sent copies with traders going that direction in hopes they might reach a temple eventually. If there was any duplication, the archivists would figure it out eventually. Probably.

Regardless, redundancy in the archives was a long way from being the priest's problem. And these people clearly didn't need much encouragement to help each other.

If they was going to be called months' travel from the nearest temple to the God, this was a nice place to wind up.

Even if the rainy season did mean the priest smelled strongly of rust and red palm oil much of the time, keeping their tools maintained. Iron was not in common use here and it wasn't hard to understand why. Replacing any of them would be tricky.

The people in the tavern watched as the priest carefully scraped mud from the pattens, rinsed their feet in a trough fed by runoff from the roof, set down the cabinet on their back, and hung their raincoat from a peg. A cheer rose as the priest crossed the threshold and a cheerful, round person pressed a cup and a skewer of something grilled into their hands.

The priest opened their mouth to speak but the cheerful round person held up a hand and said, slowly, "You're new and we don't get many new people through here so we've been trying to guess what you do. No harm meant. Do you mind?"

The priest wasn't very proficient in this tongue but got the idea. It helped that the cheerful person was speaking with care.

The priest did not mind, grinned, and tried the skewer. Fish or snake, maybe, ferociously spicy, and delicious. The cup held something alcoholic, starchy, and mildly sweet, so call it beer.

The people in the tavern talked too fast and too many at once for the priest to follow, but they seemed friendly enough. The cheerful round person gave them only until the priest finished the skewer and the beer before shouting them into an approximation of silence.

"Okay, we think we've got it," said the (probable) tavernkeep. "You don't dress like an adventurer trying to get rich."

The priest agreed. Their vocation didn't permit extravagant clothes even if they'd been inclined to extravagance to begin with. Clothes needed to be tough and easy to clean and replace. Getting attached was pointless. "Adventure not, me."

"So we figure you're some kind of sword-saint, a holy warrior."

"Mm," said the priest, with less agreement but more amusement. This wasn't the first time people had come to this conclusion. "Yes, not, close. Sword not, war not, me. God-work, me."

"You're a bit armed to the fucking teeth for a priest, aren't you?" someone called out.

That took some back and forth between tavernkeep and priest, and the priest laughed. True, there was an axe, a hammer, a mace with a battered flanged head, a heavy chopping knife on their harness. Their cabinet held spikes, chains, and padded armor. The priest was very tall, stoutly built, and had more than one or two notable scars gnarled with keloid tissue. They had skin a darker brown than the locals, and their short hair curled tight where the locals' was straighter.

Standing a little straighter, the priest used their funeral voice and said, in their home tongue, "I am Held in the Hand of God, mendicant exoteric senior in service to the God that Brings Rest. May your deaths each come gently and your rest go undisturbed."

"That sounded amazing," said the tavernkeep. "No idea what you said, though."

The priest thought about that for a while. "God-touched walking out, me. God, mm, good dead sleep god is?"

"I think the end got away from us there. Could you try again?"

The priest sucked their teeth and eventually touched their tools, each in turn, and said, "Dead walking is, god-work walking make not, me. Leg breaking, head breaking, fire making."

"Shit, that's grim enough work, lady. It's good someone does it, but ai," said someone. Faces and gestures were made, voices murmured quiet agreement.

The priest let the mood lay a moment. The restless dead were pitiable things, for the most part. They had been denied the rest they'd earned in death and it was filthy, dangerous, terrible work to grant it to them. There never were a great many exoterics, which is why the priest had been called so far and had farther yet to travel.

Plenty of folks thought they wanted to lay the dead to rest, for all kinds of reasons, often anger and revenge. Most decided they would rather do something else when they found out what the work was actually about and the faith gained a great many esoterics from their number to keep the archives, conduct funerals, look after remains and memorials, and all the endless tasks of keeping an organization going.

The vengeful ones tended to get themselves killed in fairly short order, unless they let go of their need to punish the restless dead.

The moment had lasted long enough, in the priest's experience, and would curdle soon. They clapped their hands together loud enough to cause heads to jerk and eyes to turn to the priest.

Smiling again, the priest said, "Dead not, us, yes? Dead walk here not, yes? Food here, sing here, live here, us, yes?"

"For all you have like twenty of our words, you're really damned eloquent." The round tavernkeep was smiles and good cheer again and genially cursed the customers to make a place where the priest could sit.

"Work work is, yes?" The priest grinned and made for one of the holes that had appeared.

"Work fucking work is indeed," the tavernkeep muttered. "And aren't I glad I've got my work and not yours?"

[therealvagabird]

Sapphire Trio

Three OCs inspired by my time playing Assassin’s Creed: Odyssey. I don’t really have plans for this trio, but I wanted to get them down in writing. While not fanfic OCs, I imagine they inhabit a pseudo-romanticized version of Ancient Greece as depicted in that game.

They are all of them fans of murder and pretty ladies, and you can read about them under the cut.

Phoebe the Owl

Appearance: Tall and powerful woman with tanned olive skin and rich brown hair. Her features are very beautiful and refined, though her physique is that of an Olympic champion. Despite her intensive agility training, Phoebe has a broad figure and a natural disposition to putting on bulk, making her size an intimidating diversion to her actual speed and stealthiness.

Phoebe wears arm and leg-guards of dark patinated bronze, an off-white chiton, a dark brown embroidered chlamys with hood, and several sashes of deep blue fabric for fasteners. She also has many tool-pouches about her harness and carries with her two daggers and a xiphos. For supplemental weapons she has a sheaf of throwing knifes, as well as more exotic items like her rare custom poisons.

Bio: Phoebe was born at sea, near to the island of Ithaka, to a pair of traders. She spent her earliest years on the water or in port, leading a tough but adventurous life, and enjoying much affection from her parents. However around the age of ten tragedy struck when the ship her family was on wrecked on the north coast of the Gulf of Corinth. Phoebe was taken in by a passing patrol of soldiers returning to Attika and placed in the care of an adoptive family in Athens.

From then on Phoebe grew up within a simple military family in the city of Athens, receiving a basic girl’s education and being raised to be a good public servant – as her new parents determined early on she would not be a good candidate for an arranged marriage. However, through the processing of her trauma and remaining adventurous spirit, Phoebe began taking to the streets as an urchin. Her hobbies included eavesdropping, petty theft, and other pastimes of the city’s vagrant youth. She became quite adept, learning many skills through practice or second-hand observation, but she grew stifled by the inequalities and rigor of lawful Athenian life. Taking her leave from the city, Phoebe once again boarded a passing ship, and embraced the life of an itinerant mercenary.

Now, as an adult, she has continued along that path. Her travels about the Mediterranean have made her many friends and enemies, and she has become renowned as the Owl for her perceived wisdom, guile, and proficiency as an assassin. Despite her bulky figure and brusque attitude, Phoebe possesses a sharp tongue and deceptive sneakiness – though even with her bloody line of work, she’s known to be a compassionate soul. Phoebe despises inequality and injustice, and many times has taken contracts out of personal conviction besides simple pay. She met her longtime traveling companions, Eva and Laodice, aboard a pirate ship under the legendary captain Sofia the Gorgon, who acted as a notable mentor to the trio early in their careers.

Evaechme / Eva the She-Wolf

Appearance: Eva is a slender woman with a figure that evokes Artemis herself. Her skin is a rich tan from her long treks beneath the open sky, and her hair is a sun-bleached platinum, long and tied back in many braids in a style favored by huntresses and sailors. She has a missing left eye, and one eye of a blue-green hue like that of the sea, completing her naturalistic appearance.

Preferring light garments of hide, Eva’s outfit is a layered collection of soft leathers, totemic charms, and pelts taken from her many hunts. She prefers comfortable attire that provides protection from the elements but maximum flexibility for climbing, running, and stalking. Her weaponry includes a sabre, a javelin she may also use as a walking stick, and a large bow of olive wood and antler.

Bio: Born on the island of Mykonos to simple farmers, Evaechme always longed for something more in life. Though she did not hate her family, she despised being trapped in her place of birth, and stowed away on a ship to nearby Delos in search of adventure. She found it when, after being arrested by the Delian port authority, she was taken in by a priestess of Artemis. The priestess was sympathetic of Eva’s plight, and offered her a position as one of the Huntresses – military servants to the Cult of Artemis. Eva accepted and was sent on another ship with her new sisters to Brauron in Attika to train. Evaechme swore a vow of celibacy and was inducted into the ways of hunting, survival, and the mysteries of Artemis. However this too in time became dull to her, and to the anger of many of her sisters Eva left on a pirate ship bound for Lesbos some years later and started a new life as a mercenary.

Evaechme is defined by her utter inability to ever be satisfied, and the fact that she is a culmination of all her life experiences. She offers many insights and derives much comfort from various rituals and hobbies she picked up as a peasant, as a Huntress, and as a pirate, but she holds no strong conviction to any one cause. Though a very spiritual and superstitious soul, she never neglects to pursue what she wants, or break from social norms. She is also prone to biting off more than she can chew in search of a challenge, and her initial compulsion to team up with Phoebe and Laodice came from her realizing the value of having trusted allies.

Eva is quite fond of animals and has at various points in her life had pet cats, dogs, raptors and other birds, wolves, and wildcats.

Laodice the Aetos / the Bronze Eagle

Appearance: Laodice is a large and fearsome woman whose figure speaks to the very lineage of Herakles. Her features are strong and androgynous in their hard angles, and her scarred skin is a rich olive, though not so dark as her companions’. Black hair is kept in a somewhat military hairstyle, with the front and top cropped into short curls, while the excess on the sides and back is braided into a “circlet and tail” design.

Referred to on occasion as the Colossus of Amazonia, Loadice’s pride is a set of armor made of modified pieces looted from many opponents, rivaling the ancient skill of Mycenae in its design. The armor, of polished bronze, features a cuirass and armored tassets, along with shin-guards and vambraces. Providing additional armor are two light but solid bronze slab-pauldrons reinforced with leather, bronze torcs acting as rerebraces, and a Corinthian helmet featuring a slight pointed bronze crest and two wing-like plume crests. Beneath, she wears simple garments of thick cloth and leather to provide padding and comfort. Her main weapon is a large maul with a flanged bronze head – the ridges allowing oil-soaked linens or rope to be affixed around the mace and ignited for intimidating and deadly effect.

Bio: Born in Macedon to unknown parentage, Laodice was raised as a mercenary from a very young age by a rough band of travelling warriors. Laodice’s pseudo-father was a northerner who nonetheless claimed to be descended from all manner of mythical heroes and was as quick to violence as he was to laughter. Though far from an ideal childhood, it nonetheless served to mold Laodice into an Amazonian terror to rival any man. She became renowned for her great strength, being called Man-Maiden and The Aetos – the Bronze Eagle of Zeus. Laodice’s life was typical for that of a mercenary from then on, and though far from a pinnacle of refinement, Laodice enjoyed defying other’s expectations of her, going out of her way to try and train her mind to be as notable as her physique. As with those men she was raised under, Laodice’s main hobbies include fighting and drinking, and she is a staunch believer in the power of the gods, holding particular reverence for Athena and Persephone.

Laodice’s major break came during her service under Sofia the Gorgon, where she managed to accrue a wealth of experience, notoriety, and gold. Towards the end of this phase in her life was when she obtained her Colossus Panoply and Hammer of Storms – her impressive armor and bludgeon which she intends to turn into items of legend through her use of them alone. Loadice is the anvil which any enemies struggle to break, leaving themselves tired and distracted for the three-way assault of the Owl, the Wolf, and the Eagle.

[theironphoenyx]

He actually has a few false teeth.

It isn't an age thing; they're dental implants that were put in after a villain got a lucky shot in with a flanged mace.

The helmet took most of the damage, but...

[its-spelled-maille]

What's better against armour? A fully blunt mace or one with a few spikes on it? Not like. A porcupine on a stick, but just a mace with pointed parts

One thing you’ll notice with maces in the Late Middle Ages is that none of them will be smooth. You want a textured surface on your hammer or bludgeon or whatever, so that it actually grips into the armor somewhat and delivers the full brunt of your strike into its target, instead of being a glancing blow.Knowing that, a spiked mace would have a better grip on armor and therefore be more effective than a completely blunt one, but what you might consider blunt like a flanged mace would in fact be even better.

Those are actually quite sharp all things considered. Look how the tip of each flange is strengthened with a ridge.

-mod Burgonet

[aquilaofarkham]

title: mercy mirror pt. 1 rating: teen and up (strong language, mentions of violence, mentions of abuse) word count: 2,796 summary: Trevor helps Hector improve his sword fighting skills while they discover that there are more similarities between the two of them than differences.

read on ao3 at aquilaofarkham

Curiosity is what brings him underground. Scaling down the almost fully rebuilt staircase, minding where he places his foot every step of the way, Hector’s hand slides along the fractured bannister. His eyes wander between each blood red flag hanging off the walls, proudly displaying the Belmont crest in gold. He’s not sure how to feel about the sight of them yet. He’s not even sure how he feels about working beside a wearer of that family emblem.

A month ago, they were on opposite sides of this conflict between humans and vampires. Yet Hector can’t help but ask himself: suppose there could be a sort of kinship between him and Trevor? The church wants them dead, the common people hate them for their ties to occult magic, and they both spent their adolescent years quietly alone. 

Still, there are glaring differences including where they started in the war. The most formative moment in their early lives might have been forged in fire and death, but it was forced upon Trevor. Hector created it with his own hands, willingly.

It’s a fleeting thought, one that is soon forgotten. Pushed to the back of his mind to make space for more important, more concrete matters.

Hector arrives at the bottom, his only light being the scattered wall bound torches and the sunlight from above. As he walks towards the doorway leading into the archives, he notices how much red coats the walls along with the way his boots stick to the floor every time he lifts them. Blood. Old enough to start drying but not by much. Hector thinks about that group of special night creatures sent to nip Dracula’s most threatening opposition in the bud. He should have let them loose on a certain member of the lord’s court instead.

He’s made several poor decisions both in the past and present; perhaps that’s why he brought himself here. Not all the way down to the Belmont Hold per say but back to the castle itself, now under new occupancy. To try and rectify those poor decisions. Maybe if he can help end this war for good, it will bring him something close to redemption. A sense of good after enduring the worst and the uncertain for so long.

Upon entering the massive room filled with multiple levels of shelves and suspended walkways, Hector is struck by an odd feeling. These books, artifacts, relics - they seem so familiar. Like the ones found in Dracula’s library, his study room, and even the forgemaster’s own workspace. Not everything, but enough to be this noticeable. For a clan so hellbent on destroying such a supposed evil, the similarities are difficult to ignore. 

Hector’s train of thought, along with his leisurely pace amongst the bookshelves and cabinets, is interrupted by a sight just down one of the aisles. How unexpected, even amusing. Despite being surrounded by so many oddities that seem more likely to pique his interests, a rack of weapons is what captures his full attention, drawing him closer. They’re displayed so plainly, so out in the open, begging to taste fresh blood. 

At the very least, Hector is now presented with a variety of options, which he didn’t have before. His hammer? Too small and light. It can give life easily enough, though taking a life requires more effort. His creations? A possibility. They were quick to answer when he called upon them to rip apart that silver clad vampire who guarded his shit hole excuse for a room. But Hector knows he can’t always rely on his creatures - he cannot cower in their shadows forever. Now he stands before flanged maces, throwing daggers, small axes, and common broadswords, trying to make a decision.

He reaches for a longsword with a thick grip and cross guard. Using both hands, Hector lifts it off its hanger, grunting at its weight. The muscles in his arms and fingers strain as he raises the blade. How many lives did it take? How many were human? Inhuman? His grip on the hilt tightens, taking the first few swings at nothing. Again, and again, changing his stance and intensity with every strike.

Swords were largely absent from Hector’s life. His family, being farmers, had no use for them - they didn’t have much use for anything or anyone apart from their animals, crops, and tools. However, there were the occasional convoys of soldiers that passed by his isolated home in Rhodes. He watched from his window as they made camp until it was time to move on. They never asked him for shelter.

“They say a necromancer lives up on that hill. Best stay away.”

No one ever bothered Hector and he never bothered them, which was better for both parties. But he remembers catching glimpses of the soldiers sparring with one another in the nearby fields. With his own longsword, Hector mimics their movements as best he can.

Suddenly, he turns around at the slightest noise. ��Who’s there?” No answer, but it doesn’t put Hector’s nerves at ease. He listens to his intuition, still feeling the presence of someone else close by. Stepping forward with an angered expression, he keeps his weapon at the ready. “Come out. Show yourself now.”

“You’re not holding it right.” A faint yet recognizable voice replies. Hector lowers the sword ever so slightly and frowns. What an odd thing to hear out of nowhere.

“What?”

Several seconds pass before Trevor’s head cautiously peeks out from behind one of the bookcases. He joins Hector, staying clear of the sword’s tip. “The way your hands are positioned. You’ll never land a decent blow if they’re so close together like that.”

The forgemaster watches and listens in utter confusion. So casual, so informal; the Belmont speaks to him as though they’ve known each other for months instead of days. “Were you spying on me?”

Trevor raises his hands in defence. “No, I wasn’t. Honest. I just came down here to look for something when I noticed you swinging around that thing. Your form’s pretty good, I’ll tell you that much... can’t say the same about your choice in weapons.”

Hector’s attitude changes from suspicious to irritable. He seems to be doing that a lot following his return to the castle, constantly switching between those two emotions. Not that he can help it. “Say what you mean, Belmont.”

“I mean that sword’s not right for you.” Trevor’s eyes briefly scan the rack before he settles on a different longsword with silver and golden accents along the cross guard. “This one looks more suited for you.”

The two men trade swords while Hector is still unable to shake his apprehensive nature, even as he gets a feel for his new weapon. First in one hand then in both. “You know so much about a sword just by looking at it.”

“Learned it from my family. They taught me as much as they could given the... limited time they had. Everything else I mostly had to teach myself. Watching other masters certainly helped.” Again, so casual and informal, it catches Hector off guard. Was it ever this easy for Trevor to talk so naturally about his past? “How did you learn?”

“By watching others as well. Obvious, isn’t it?” There’s a hint of bitterness in Hector’s voice.

“A little.” Trevor is nothing if not honest. “But I already said your form was good. And the way you fight is so raw, I could see how angry you were from all the way back there.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Far from it, actually. You just need some pointers and guidance, that’s all. Sparring with someone else would help.”

Exactly what Hector expected to hear. Trevor doesn’t need to say it outright for him to realize what the Belmont is really offering him. “You’re being nice.”

“Well, Sypha once told me I needed to be nicer.” Trevor adds a chuckle to the end of that statement. Was it meant to be a joke? Hector can’t tell, nor is he amused.

“And it doesn’t bother you that we were on opposing sides on this war before.”

“If it did, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now. But we all share the same enemy and you explained yourself when you showed up at the front door.”

“I already said I don’t want any pity.”

Trevor crosses his arms, stung by the feeling that they’re getting nowhere together. “Look, if you don’t want my help, that’s fine. It’s your choice. I at least want to give you that.”

Hector stares at him then down at his sword. He needs to be better this time, they all do. He’ll perfect his skills as a fighter, but perhaps he’ll also find that possible kinship between him and the Belmont. The one that still keeps nagging at him like a tick that grows stronger every time he pays it any attention.

“Where would be the best place for us to practice?”

Trevor’s eyes aren’t particularly ablaze with happiness, though they are filled with accomplishment. “That went easier than I expected. Bring that sword, I know a decent spot.”

--

Hector wants to enjoy the outside. Bask in the sun’s rays, breathe in the fresh air, and listen to all the sounds of the surrounding woods. Everything he took pleasure in whenever he spent just a few moments of respite away from the dark castle. Then too much happened. The forgemaster wishes he could still enjoy the outside the way he used to. He wishes for a lot of things.

Everyone is occupied with something; if it’s not one task, it’s another. Sypha and Julia are a flawless match, devising spells that can be used for battle and defence, having a bit too much fun in the process. The truce between Isaac and Alucard has quickly strengthened as they work tirelessly to bring the castle back to life. “Un-break it” as Trevor so eloquently puts it. Hector follows him down the road, patient enough to not ask questions yet impatient enough to start feeling twitchy. Memories of the last time he walked along this dirt path aren’t helping.

He thought he would be taken to a patch of grass somewhere close between the ruins and castle, not deep in the forest away from safety. It starts happening again, the switch from mere annoyance to skepticism and distrust. Trevor eventually leads him off the road towards a tall tree with spindly branches and a trunk that seems like it’s twisting in on itself. Bearing right down its center is a large crack big enough to house more than a few animals. Hector never noticed it before. That night when he ran, he was more focused on what was ahead of him. Not off to his sides and not behind him, where he left all the hurt, lies, mistakes, and manipulation.

“I think I spent more time climbing this tree than I did actually living in my own home.” Trevor runs his hand over the tough bark in an almost sentimental manner. “My mother and I used to have our training matches at its base.”

“It looks dead,” Hector comments. Trevor can’t feel offended because it’s true.

“Probably been dead for a while. Ready?” He unsheathes his own sword, thinner than Hector’s and with ruby embellishments on its grip. They take their positions and prepare themselves, their eyes fixated on each other. “Remember, I won’t be ruthless, but I also won’t let you win too easily.”

“Good. I would have been disappointed in you otherwise.” It’s not a joke, but Trevor laughs regardless.

They begin slowly, carefully. Taking enough time to better understand each other’s level of skill. Never glancing away for a second. Trevor wants to see how much Hector knows on his own. The forgemaster wants to see if all those stories boasting about the Belmont family are true, especially for its last surviving member. After all, this is the man who had a hand in destroying Dracula.

Trevor is the first to attack with more force, aiming his sword towards the upper body and head. Hector blocks each of his blows with speed and effectiveness. The sound of steel singing against steel can be heard throughout the woods. Trevor takes a step back and adjusts his stance, as does Hector. He almost compliments his opponent on how fast he is, but there’s no room for talk, not now.

Amidst all the clashing and scraping, the constant moving of bodies and every heavy breath, the two swords suddenly lock in place. Trevor pushes but Hector holds his ground, matching the hunter’s display of strength. Both waiting for the other to make their next move. It doesn’t take long for Hector to become aggravated with this standstill. With the right combination of quick thinking and impulsiveness, he forces Trevor’s sword to the side, using his elbow to land a blow in the center of his face while there’s still a window of opportunity.

“Fuck!” The Belmont stumbles back, holding his nose and hisses in pain. Any sense of personal victory is gone once Hector realizes what he’s done.

“Shit... shit, sorry! I didn’t mean to do that, I wasn’t thinking-” His apology is interrupted by an unexpected sound - laughter coming from Trevor. Genuine, not done in a mocking fashion.

“Christ, that actually fucking hurt.” He removes his hand; no blood and nothing seems to be broken but Hector still stands in place, holding the weapon uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing? It was a good hit.” He says through a smile.

“It was fighting dirty, though.”

“So?” Trevor tosses his sword in the grass before collapsing onto his bottom with his back against the tree. “Sometimes it’s necessary in order to win. Besides, the concept of fair fighting is a myth. Everyone fights dirty. I’ve done it enough times to stop keeping track. Come on. Time for a break.”

Another awkward pause. The brief surge of adrenaline he felt while sparring fades as Hector’s heartbeat returns to a normal pace (or normal enough). He sits down, back towards Trevor, and brings his knees close to his chest. They pass the time in silence, catching their breath, while every so often Hector glances over his shoulder at the hunter. He seems content, almost too much given the larger situation they’re playing a part in.

This moment would be the perfect chance to ask Trevor something that’s been on Hector’s mind for quite a while. Something he cannot or has difficulty understanding. Still, he hesitates and second guesses himself. He never used to do that so often as he does now. It never used to be so bad.

“How can you defend them?” Hector finally asks.

“Who?”

“... humans. The people of Wallachia, I suppose. After what they did to you and your family. Don’t you hate them?”

Trevor gives his answer some thought. His chest rises and falls as he lets out a huff. “I did. Maybe I still do. In a way, I guess I never really forgave people for those years filled with lies, rumours, and... well, torment.”

“Then why do you still protect them? Why did you decide to stand up and fight back against Dracula?” Hector still feels a sharp sting of discomfort after saying that name out loud - like a small knife or a hot needle to his chest.

“Because I actually found people who were worth protecting. Then I found even more while Sypha and I were traveling. Not just from vampires, but from the church and the same bastards who shat on me my whole life. I don’t have to completely forgive all of humanity. Neither do you, in case you’re worried about that.”

The forgemaster crosses his arms on top of his knees. Same lonely life, same... conflicted feelings towards humankind. Different yet similar, him and the Belmont son.

“So, should we do this tomorrow?”

“Sorry?”

“Another sparring match. Your form is a bit stiff and I always need the practice. It’s up to you, though.”

“Will you be offended if I decline?”

Trevor laughs again. “Actually, I’ll be more offended if you say yes. I’m not the greatest teacher, but I’ll try my damnedest.”

If a sense of unification and god knows perhaps even camaraderie will help them win, then Hector might as well accept. But after some thought, he realizes it doesn’t have to be begrudgingly. He always believed that being alone was better. Alone, no one could hurt you. No one could use or tear you down. Alone, no one - not even one’s own self - would ever get hurt. Trevor must have understood that way of thinking at some point. Now here he is, offering companionship.

“Tomorrow...” Hector begins. “Alright. That... that would be alright.”

[maverick-werewolf]

Patreon Prompt Fill - So Cold

Another prompt fill for my Patreon! The prompt for this one was, “The first boat ride...”

So I put a little twist on it and took us all to the Underworld for a while. Enjoy!

Everything was so cold.

The air was cold. The water looked cold, and it smelled cold. The wind was freezing. The black rocks and tiny crags of ice randomly interspersed in them were obviously cold to the touch.

Shanara was cold, too. Then again, she always was.

The half-Erinyes stepped onto the narrow little boat carved from bone and turned, ice-blue eyes on him as he stood there looking and feeling apprehensive about every single bit of this. Not only was he used to the heat of the Fields of Agony, but this liquid wasn’t like anything he’d ever been around.

“Kye,” said Shanara, her voice frigid too, “get in.”

Behind him, Kye’s tail jerked a few times out of its gentle, rhythmic back-and-forth. He glanced at the bone-boat and then at the gently flowing liquid it floated in, and he put on a fanged grimace.

“I – I dunno, Shan, it’s kinda…”

“Kye.”

“Okay,” he blurted promptly and stepped on up and put one foot in the horrible unstable wobbling thing floating in the – on the – stuff.

It tried to throw him and her right over and onto the riverbank of black and grey stone and sand. Shanara spread her great, black-feathered wings and put a foot and the head of her heavy flanged mace on the opposite side of the boat, steadying it.

“Easy,” she said, slowly raising a dark brow at him. But she wasn’t really mad, because Shanara never got mad, not openly anyway. She kind of never got… anything, except sometimes she’d look at people funny.

She was looking at him a little funny right now.

“Sorry,” Kye mumbled as he got in and sat down on a bone-bench in the bone-boat and he really didn’t like it.

He also didn’t like whatever they were floating on. The bone boat didn’t seem to mind how weird it was, gliding right over the glistening silvery surface, cutting through it and making weird ripples. Leaning over, Kye reached his bare left fingers down toward that freaky shimmery liquid—

“Don’t,” Shanara almost snapped, “touch it.”

Kye froze. “What is it?”

She snorted. “It’s very similar to what mortals would call water, but not quite.”

He paused and blinked his violet eyes at it. “What’s water?”

Shanara sighed. “Try reading more often, Kye. Or talk to demons who’ve been to the mortal realm.”

“I mean, I’ve done that stuff, but I’ve never seen it. It’s like blood that’s clear and isn’t so sticky and gross and hot, right?”

“That… is a sufficient description, I suppose? Coming from you, at least.”

“So why is this not water?”

“Nothing here is quite like it is in Midgard, that’s why, or at least not most of it. Not that it makes any difference to us, even with human blood.” She stood at the back of the boat still, all tall and proud, directing them down the wide cold river with a long oar – also made of bone.

“So what’s wrong with it?”

“Firstly, it’s full of souls. Lost ones that ended up in there, dragging creatures in when they can. That, and the water is much colder than ordinary water ever could be without turning to ice.”

Kye stared at it dumbly. And he grunted, “Oh.”

The boat ride was creepy, with everything being so cold – so cold that he shivered. So cold that he wanted to curl up, but he had nothing to look at except the vast fields of cold stone and jagged mountains jutting from the plains of still more nothing, full of creatures horrible and hungry and all so cold, themselves.

Instead, he looked down at the not-water and thought about how it seemed a lot like what he’d always heard water was supposed to be. Not like the blood he had to drink whenever he got thirsty, had to bathe in whenever he got filthy. This was weird, but it was much less disgusting. Kye had always felt like the blood was wrong, but he’d never known anything else.

So he extended another finger toward that wavering, glassy surface…

And something reached up to extend a finger back.

A whole hand, actually, and one made of bone or something like it – he had no idea – and it snatched his wrist in a grip so tight it made his hand feel ready to pop off.

The thing tugged, Kye yelped – and he heard Shanara throw down the oar and lunge.

Frigid not-water filled his nose, his mouth, his ears – it swallowed him, chilling through his skin, to the bone, and freezing his blood, frosting his eyes over until he couldn’t see. Still the thing pulled, even while something grabbed him around the waist and started pulling back.

Kye flapped his enormous bat-like demon wings and screamed into the river.

But then, the thing let go.

All at once, Shanara hauled him from the choking liquid and he sprawled back into the boat, shivering violently, sputtering, coughing up water – not-water – and whimpering.

Shanara knelt alongside him and quickly looked him over, lifted his arm and checked his wrist, checked his shoulders, brow furrowed hard, focused…

Once her hard-edged expression softened only a touch, she said, utterly calm and factual, “Kye, it’s no wonder all the other demons treat you like you’re useless.”

Kye shivered worse, tucked his wings in around himself and curled his tail in. “S-s-sorry,” he offered through chattering teeth.

Shanara went back to rowing. Kye kept laying there, staring only at the bottom of the boat now.

“I don’t think I like water,” he suddenly said.

“This isn’t mortals’ water,” Shanara reminded flatly.

Kye rubbed his arms, still shivering. “Okay.”

Shanara kept rowing.

And Kye abruptly decided aloud, “But I don’t think I like boats, either.”