#warriors horror story

[residences-of-the-darkforest]

Cobweb's Trial (short story)

Duststar’s muscles locked, the tendons in his muscles pulling together like taut strings all along his body, keeping him as stiff as a rock as he stood overlooking the gathered crowd. 

He couldn’t tremble, and that felt horribly wrong–he felt such nausea, such horror and sadness and anger that every limb should be shaking to the point that he fell off the edge of the Tallrock. But he was still, so very still, as if even his heart had stopped beating and his lungs stopped working, and he couldn’t take in any air.

“Explain yourself, if you can,” he managed.

Before him and the crowd was Cobweb, a she-cat whose pelt was criss-crossed with ragged scars. She had come to them as a frightened young kit, and though seasons had passed since then, she remained the wary and distrustful cat she was when they had first taken her in. 

Cobweb didn’t flinch under the gaze of the whispering crowd, nor under her leader’s intense glare. Blood ran down her limbs, and she made no effort to lick them clean or to show that she was aware of them–of any of it–at all. She gazed blanklessly with a face bathed in red splatter, staring not at Duststar, but at the stone slab straight ahead of her. 

“Am I free?” she asked.

“‘Free’? After what you’ve done?” Hawkfur’s shout was almost a screech.

“You’d be lucky if we let you live past dusk!” Flintmoss snarled. 

“Silence!” Duststar’s deputy, Rabbitmask, snapped before the Clan could lose control. 

Duststar dipped his head gratefully. He took a deep breath as he looked again to Cobweb, who had not removed her attention from the rock. “Exile is the typical punishment for a traitor. But after what you’ve done, I should have you killed.” His jaw was tense to the point that he was sure his teeth would crack.

Cobweb blinked slowly. “Am I free?” she asked again.

Duststar shook his head, bewildered. “No.” His heart began to move. His lungs regained function, but it was too fast, too quick, and he felt himself panicking, as terrified as if a fox had him cornered. He dug his claws into the stone, struggling to appear as collected as he possibly could. 

“For the love of StarClan, you killed two innocent cats! And if that weren’t enough, you took the lives of their kits as well, and the lives of the little ones still in their mother’s belly. You did this all without apparent reason. Have you nothing to say for yourself? Have you no guilt, no shame?” Duststar prayed for a glint of anything in the she-cat’s eyes–fear, anger, even eerily pleased would have been better than the blank, emotionless responses that Cobweb gave. “Do you even have a reason to give us?”

Cobweb was silent for a long, painful moment. Duststar felt the tense air as the Clan held their collective breaths. 

“Are we free?”

A few yowls of outrage broke out, and it took a few attempts by Rabbitmask to silence them. Meanwhile, Duststar, stared in utter shock at Cobweb. How can she ask for freedom after such a horrendous act? 

“Are we free now?” She asked, voice as blank as her expression. Why was she still talking when no one had addressed her? Duststar had hardly heard the murmur above the ruckus of the crowd, it was only because he was directly above her that the words caught his ears. 

It wasn’t him that she had been answering, he realized, blood going cold.

Who was she talking to?

“Will you let me go now?” her vacant words were becoming pleading. Her attention had never shifted from the stone wall of the Tallrock, hidden from Duststar’s view, sat upon it. She was simply looking at the rock? Duststar wasn’t sure why he pondered the question. Of course no one was beneath him. All of his Clanmates were in view in the clearing just a few tail-lengths ahead. And surely, one of them would have brought a stranger’s presence to his attention?

“I did it. We’re both free. Are we?” 

There was no one under there. Duststar knew it. But then who was Cobweb speaking to, if not him? What was she looking at, if not him? He had to know. He had to find reason for any of this madness, even if that reason turned out to be a speck of dust on the stone wall.

Taking a breath, he shifted carefully to the edge of the Tallrock. Stretching his neck out, heart inexplicably racing, he peered over the edge–

And saw nothing.

===========================

--Cobweb is a future resident. We will get a full explanation for her murders and what's going on with her. For now, I will give a vague hint: she is based off of a movie character.

She also kept her loner name because.....I like it as just being Cobweb.

--Duststar and Hawkfur are canon characters! They appear in Code of The Clans as the first law. Here, Duststar has not been leader long, maybe roughly for the same amount of time Cobweb has been in the Clan.

His canon deputy and successor is Stonetail/star, who at this time is roughly an apprentice or older kit. His father is Duststar's current deputy (noncanon), Rabbitmask!

--I did not go into writing this planning on making it scary, but I was watching horror movie reviews just before it, so no wonder it took that turn.

--Thoughts?

[residents-of-the-darkforest]

Truthful Child (short story)

Pasquekit didn’t see the need to lie. 

She was born in the Dark Forest, where nearly every single one of the residences had committed at least one murder in their life, and several in their afterlife. 

Both of her parents had killed over dozens of cats, and her adoptive parents had their fair share of bodies beneath their claws as well.

She didn’t see the reason it was bad, either. 

It was simply life here. Her parents didn’t exactly encourage violence, but they knew to instill it in their minds enough to keep them protected in a forest where bloodshed was commonplace. As well, it wasn’t unlikely for her or her littermates to hear the occasional insult or gruesome story from someone close by, furthering the normalcy of an odious life for the kits.

Because it was normalcy.

Everyone killed.

Everyone was okay with it.

She returned to the Daycare after managing to sneak out with the foolish, mean cat who had picked on her sister. It was easy to get them to follow her, the thought of sneaking out so exciting!

When a worried Fungichomp asked where they were, Pasquekit told him the truth.

She had killed them.

===================

--Fungichomp belongs to @wills-woodland-warriors

--For now, leaving who the kit was up to interpretation. It can be someone we know now, or someone who hasn’t been made for the blog yet

--psst @ambitiousauthor @starfalcon555 felt like this might interest you

[sexy-stable-diffusion]

I'm currently working on an illustrated short story.

Stay tuned!

Coming soon : The tragic story of Queen Seraphina

[incorrect-xena-quotes]

Surprise, bitch. I bet you thought you’d seen the last of me.

Xena

[vaguely-concerned]

sophia seeing cailan's body hanging there when they go back to ostagar, and suddenly all she can see even through the rot and the ruin is just how much he looked like alistair...... :'(

a mental image that totally will not haunt her through alistair's many years on the throne as rebellions and assassination attemps come and go. doesn't send her unhinged and unwise even a little

[wildstorm312]

been rotating the idea of zombie warrior cats in my mind for a while now

[goofy-clan]

Iphigenia.

Part 3/4

First - Prev - Next

[residents-of-the-darkforest]

Why and Why Not (Sprouting Thorns story)

Aldereyes didn’t speak on the way home. He tried to observe, as was his intention on this trip, as Myrtlewing stood, cleaned himself of the blood that coated his brown fur, and brushed burdock root on the body until their scents were well hidden. But though the images were marking a permanent territory in his brain, he mind was occupied. 

Why had he felt the way he had? The more he asked himself the question and searched around in him for the answer, another one began to form. 

Why shouldn’t he feel the way that he had? 

A bitterness was taking seed as well, and its roots were already spreading around his heart. Aldereyes had been taught from early kithood that he should put his Clan above all else, but what had they ever done for him? He still remembered his days as a kit after his mother, Sweettree, had died. None of the adults came to comfort him or make sure that he was warm, and none of the kits cared enough to invite him to play, even as he sat alone in the clearing.

Fallendust had been no different, neither had Waspheart. 

Why should he care for them when they clearly hadn’t for him? 

Even though these new thoughts occupied his mind, Aldereyes felt guilty, though that guilt was shrinking every day like a puddle on a sunny day. 

The revelation had stopped wearing down, an ever present cold spark in his chest that poked and poked, and the more his ribs ached, the more it stretched up into his brain and caused him to start asking questions all over again. 

Why was Myrtlewing a killer? 

Why shouldn’t Aldereyes be one, too? 

What was wrong for Aldereyes for thinking that? 

What was wrong with him for being so weak?

He had thought, initially, or at least hoped that Myrtlewing had a reason for killing–that maybe Waspheart and all the others had done something to deserve it, and that maybe Starclan told Myrtlewing, a medicine cat, this. He knew now that that wasn’t the case, but could it be for him? Could Aldereyes take out his dark thoughts and moments of anger out on those that deserved it?

Then that nagging voice came back. Who cares if they deserve it? Did you deserve to shiver alone in the nursery?

He wondered and thought and considered all through the scent-hiding, all through the walk back to their territory. He had requested many breaks without really realizing that he was talking at all--and avoided speaking when Myrtlewing tried to prompt him--so that he had more time.

Finally, after all of that, and really, days and weeks of a non stop flow of thoughts, he finally came to a decision.

[keep-it-light]

RANDOM RAIMI PART DEUX!!! Enjoy!

[cutieclangen]

Asks are encouraged!

I’m open for all sorts of asks! Whether they are direct questions for a cat or general questions for me. I’d like to answer some this week!

These cats take up so much of my brain real estate and I love them so much. Drawing has been a bit of a struggle lately but I have so much information about these kitties that I want to share! I can’t promise I can do any art for asks right now, but I suppose I can always add art in later on :3

[ultravioart]

Thematic Twinsies....... Ramattra Overwatch lore, meet 2003 Clone Wars Legends General Grievous lore, my beloved.

[majorproblems77]

@unexpectedstormy You first!

This was fun to write! Thanks for the idea!

A03 if you'd prefer!

One of many reasons Sky hates dungeons

Sky hated dungeons

They were always, always underground.

What was up with that anyway? So dark, damp and the air was unnecessarily dry. He hated it, with all his being. Give him a sky temple any day.

Apart from Sky Keep. Not sky keep.

The chain had found themselves in a dungeon. A portal had flung them directly inside its depths, as much to the group's surprise it was one that none of them had encountered.

Which made exploring it all the more difficult.

They came across a large room, rotting wooden doors scattered the walls as the sound of dripping water landing from the ceiling echoed through the chamber. It was dark, the light from Legends lantern at the front of the group sending shadows dancing across the walls as the flame inside licked and danced.

Drip Drip Drip

“Well? Anything?” Wind walked over to Legend, sword raised.

“Nothing. It all looks the same. It’s making me uneasy…” The vet’s trained eyes scanned the walls for anything that could be used as a clue. Finding nothing he turned to the group.

“Any suggestions?”

“Unfortunately, my only suggestion is to find a map.” Time looked around, the shadows of the group stretching up the walls as legend put the lantern down on the floor. Increasing its brightness as he tapped a leg with his finger.

“You are ever so helpful, Old man.” The vet chided pointing a finger towards the hero in question.

A small set of laughter erupted, but it soon died down again. The atmosphere weighing heavy on them. It was almost oppressive in its nature.

The darkness encroaching, smothering them.

The sound of breaths caught Sky’s attention.

They were long, laboured breaths, coming from somewhere. It sounded off against one of the walls. Pulling out the Master sword she shone with a bright light.

“What about you sky? Any…” The question was cut off. As eight pairs of eyes watched as the chosen slowly inched his way to one of the pillars.

“Sky?”

The mixed hues of blue and orange filled the room. As he approached the dark corner. He couldn’t see round it but the laboured breaths got louder as he approached.

He could feel his heart beating in his chest

Thud thud thud

He turned the corner waving the sword in front of him. At first, he saw nothing. And almost turned away. Must be the shadows playing tricks on him.

Until a large bandaged hand grabbed him.

He felt the constricting grip on whatever it was that had grabbed him encase his throat and close off his airways. He struggled to breathe. He kicked and flailed as a strangled scream escaped his lips. The master sword clattering to the ground.

Yells erupted form somewhere behind him as swords were raised and a battle started.

Someone shouted “PO.” What ever that was. He had more pressing matters.

Piercing red eyes grabbed his attention, a flash of light burnt into his body. An icy feeling encased his veins as his arms and legs dropped lifelessly.

He couldn’t move. His limbs wouldn’t obey his mind's commands.

So he hung, lifelessly to all those around him. Staring into beady red eyes that swirled with a black mist.

Black blooded… Great.

The monster grabbed his face. Allowing him to see as it pulled him into itself. Encasing the paralysed hero in its arms.

Then he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. It gripped and dug into it as his vision flashed. Where there was Ice now there was fire as pain burned through him. He saw flashes of something. It was nothing at first. Simply a trick. Then as the pain got worse and the fire spread his vision flashed white and red.

He could hear a bell. The chimes of the watchers…

They were coming for him.

Suddenly he felt himself fall to the ground with a loud thud. Fire rushed past his face and burned into the creature that had grabbed him. Sending it to ash around him.

He felt hands on his shoulders as someone tapped his face.

“sky… Sky?” Royal blue fluttered into his vision as warriors knelt down in front of him.

“Sky buddy, hey come back, whatever you saw wasn’t real.” Legend knelt beside the captain, waving a hand in front of his eyes as the captain inspected something on his shoulder.

“The redead was real!” Wind yelled.

“Not helping! Someone give me a potion!” Warriors held out a hand expectantly and someone dropped a potion into it.

“You’ll need this. Drink up.”  

The potion was poured down his throat slowly and he finally felt his body able to move once again. He sat upright properly. Blinking away the remnants of the white dots in his vision.

“Next time. Tell me about the horrifying monsters before one grabs me.” He said as he was offered a hand up.

“Sorry, Sky. I thought everyone knew about them.” Legend sounded genuinely apologetic, shrugging his shoulders as he looked for his lantern, abandoned on the floor several feet from where he had originally put it down.

“Guys! One of the Po’s opened up a passageway. I think it’s a way forward!” Wild yelled from one of the corners of the room, the dark passage behind the champion only slightly illuminated by the lantern light.

“Wonderful. Let's move guys!”

Legend picked up his lantern and walked forward. Inspecting the doorframe for a moment before stepping through. The others followed. Sky included.

Now holding his sail cloth a little closer to him than before.

[beastsovrevelation]

Someone: what's your sexuality?

Me:

[incorrect-xena-quotes]

Callisto: But I can’t forgive you. You have to pay for what you did! All the pain you’ve caused, all the sorrow. YOU MURDERED MY FAMILY!

Xena: No!-

Callisto: DEAD!

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Too Afraid to Protest

With a twist of the keys, the lock clicked into place.

Evening’s growing dark turned the window panes of the store’s front door into reflective surfaces. Maisie Williamson, owner of Amazing Maisie’s Beauty Salon, lost herself in the mirror image of her store.

It looked great. She looked great, too. Felt a way to match.

It had been a good day.

Little did she know what awaited her that eve.

She flipped the sign on the storefront windows.

WE’RE CLOSED.

Maisie’s feet were killing her, despite her feel-good comfortable sneakers. A short night’s rest and a long day had been making her eyelids as heavy as lead for the past hours since noon. Oh, how she yearned for a hot bath and her cozy bed.

The tips they had earned all day made up for the toils. The words of encouragement, the good news she had heard for herself and others… it had just been a great day all around.

She shuffled about her empty store, ensuring everything was in its proper place. Words from conversations and compliments still echoed in her mind.

With a smile on her lips, she wrapped up her last chores, locked up all cash in the safe, and finally slipped on her winter jacket.

In the back office, where she paused, her hand hovered over a pack of cigarettes on her desk. Habit made this motion natural, but she resisted the temptation.

Maise had been keeping that unopened pack around to keep resisting that temptation. It had been working out well enough.

Instead, she grabbed her pack of spearmint chewing gum, and popped a stick into her mouth, before rolling up the wrapper between her fingers.

The smile on her lips still, she shuffled on out to the back of her store, shutting off all lights along the way, until the entire salon had gone dark.

Time to go home.

Just as she reached the salon’s backdoor, she froze. The balled-up wrapper from her chewing gum reminded her—she needed to take out the trash, as Lily had probably forgotten to do that.

Again.

With a sigh, she turned around and to the other door nearby.

The door to the basement.

Its brass knob was cold to the touch.

It was always cold down there.

The brass knob squeaked. The old door creaked. She descended into darkness.

The fluorescent tubes downstairs flickered to life, with significant delay after flicking the light switch, while she thumped down every wooden step, with a cheery rhythmic bounce to it all.

Maisie was eager to go home. That the previous tenants of the building had believed it was haunted, well, that was the farthest thing away from her mind in that moment.

She was in such a good mood, she didn’t even harbor any resentment for Lily forgetting to take out the trash. Maisie snatched up the tied-up two plastic bags and swiveled, ready to leave with the same fluid motions that had taken her down into this cold, cold basement.

Those movements ceased. All happy thoughts of that bath and warm bed vanished in the blink of an eye.

Her heart skipped a beat.

A wave of alien warmth washed over her. As that surge of sudden warmth clashed with the cold of this basement underneath some Seattle city building, the colliding temperatures flushed her body with uncomfortable heat.

Yet Maisie froze.

Her lips stopped smacking from chewing gum. This time, she was frozen in shock. From a mouth agape, the wad of chewing gum fell onto cold, concrete floor.

A shimmering orb of brilliant light had appeared in the middle of her salon’s basement.

Hovering inches off the ground, it was made of pure light. Like she was looking into the shattered splinters of the sun. Floating triangles, refracting the light, circled in the clustered shape of a large sphere.

And the strange phenomenon, it… chimed. A beauteous melody, accompanied by a steady hum that thrummed all the way down to Maisie’s marrow—the sphere chimed. A mystical music emanated from the sphere, as breathtaking and serene as the apparition itself.

Maisie stared into the light of this… Anomaly.

It flashed brighter yet as a man’s silhouette appeared. He stumbled into the basement from the sphere’s blinding light. An unfamiliar shape that defied instant recognition, as she would only register later on what she was looking at.

He wore armor. Ancient armor, with shoulders shielded by metal pauldrons, and a breastplate articulated in rings to guard the man’s chest and belly, all the way down to feet clad in strapped sandals.

From head to toe, he was covered in blood. His eyes bulged, wide with terror. And a seething rage curled his lips.

When he lunged at Maisie, she screamed at the top of her lungs.

Her scream did nothing to stop the man. The trash bags dropped from her hands and she flailed helplessly against his iron grip. The man in ancient armor, covered in blood, wrestled Maisie around, and her sneakers scraped against concrete as he dragged her, pulling her away from the glowing sphere.

A hand as coarse as sandpaper clamped down over her mouth, and the taste of grit and copper soon admixed with the flavor of spearmint on her lips.

Only now did she recognize the sword in his hand—tipped by a crimson-caked blade, now raised to her neck, a silent threat to what he might do to her throat if she didn’t stop screaming or struggling.

On instinct, she went limp in the ancient warrior’s grip, and he dragged her farther yet away from the glowing orb in her basement, pulling her into the shadows behind a set of shelves, where even the fluorescent tubes failed to shine. He dragged her down with him, and they cowered in the gloom, seeing the gleaming sphere only through the little spaces afforded by items lining the shelves.

Her heart pounded with dread. The impossibility of this all had long shut off all conscious thought. The man held her tight. Squeezed her mouth again, as if to remind her not to scream another time.

Yet he lowered the blade in his hand, retracting its deadly edge from her neck.

Just when another figure emerged from the glowing sphere.

This new, second silhouette looked nothing like a human. The shelves between them only further obscured its strange shape.

To the beat of her pounding heart, its bulbous head jerked around. Against the backdrop of shimmering light, a ferocious maw opened, and revealed rows of shark-like fangs. Glistening until that maw snapped shut like a bear trap.

Spindly limbs contracted and flexed, then the creature’s back arched violently.

It screeched at the ceiling.

A raged screech. A horrific, alien screech, nothing like any animal was capable of emitting, at least not in Maisie’s imagination. So hateful and deeply twisted that it froze the very blood in her veins.

On the creature’s forehead, something blinked. Blood-red.

Not an eye but a light. A lamp, or a lantern. It pulsed.

Was it attached to its head somehow? Or part of it?

The red light pulsed as the creature emitted guttural sounds, pouncing on cardboard boxes, and spraying their artificial insides all over the place. Bottles of makeup and glitter exploded where the beast thrashed around in the basement, in search of its human prey.

The man in ancient armor stayed still. Kept his hand clamped around Maisie’s mouth, and she knew better now than to struggle anymore—he was hiding from his beast, and may have saved her life in doing so.

That was the only coherent thought she could form in those breathless, horrified seconds.

The beast’s thrashing claws tore through the basement, destroying more boxes, knocking over cans, and obliterating a different fixture of shelves like it was nothing against the monster’s raw power. The shelves’ contents flew all around, and stray debris shattered a fluorescent tube, followed by spraying sparks from exposed electric conduits.

The monster emitted another guttural sound in response.

Then it sniffed. Sniffed the air.

The man’s arms tensed, but the grip of his hands on Maisie loosened.

The world exploded into chaos again as she was sent flying—shoved aside, thrown almost. She tumbled against the wooden steps of the stairs, their sharp edge digging into her lower back with painful impact.

The beast swiveled to face its prey. Its misshapen head darted back and forth between the woman prone against the stairs, and the ancient man covered in blood, brandishing his sword against the monster. Another ear-piercing screech escaped its toothy maw. The man in ancient armor yelled in fury—indignant rage—with his sword raised, and defiant of the creature’s sheer monstrosity.

In the shimmering light of the glowing sphere, it was clear now: the monster was twice his size and mass.

No thought guided Maisie as she scrambled, slipped, tripped, fleeing up the stairs with reckless abandon. Acting on pure survival instinct, she ran, thumping back all the way up, skipping several steps as she escaped.

The last thing she saw of the man in ancient armor was him leaping at the monster with his sword’s tip pointed at the creature. The creature in turn had far more reach with its spidery limbs, all ending in razor-sharp claws, and lunging at the man with dreadful speed.

Without ever looking back, the wet sounds of blood splattering blended with shouts of fury and screeches of feral rage, as the ancient man and the horrid creature clashed in Maisie’s basement.

She slapped and cursed and finally ripped the backdoor of her darkened salon open, fleeing into the back alley, where—

Light.

Blinding light engulfed her. The cacophony of helicopter rotors deafened Maisie, and drowned out any noises of carnage echoing up from the bowels of her salon’s basement.

People shouted at her. Flashlights shone into her eyes, forcing her to alternate between squinting and screwing her eyelids shut. The shadowy figures of people dressed in black overwhelmed her entirely.

She tried to run past them, past the silvery rifles pointed at her, but someone seized her in another hold like the man in ancient armor, wrestling her around, then shoving her past, where she tripped, and another person caught her before she fell, only to shove her farther along.

Before she knew it, she was being evicted from the premises. An uncomfortable gloved grip around her arm squeezed and tugged and pulled her along, past thumping jackboots and jingling metal.

Under the floodlights from a helicopter hovering above Seattle’s buildings, casting the alleyway behind her salon in bright light, amidst a small army of figures in modern black armor and terrifying masked helmets, Maisie was shoved one way, then the other, unable to parse what anybody was telling her.

Yelling at her.

“Move!”

“Get her outta here on the double! Secure the neighboring buildings!”

Soldiers in black ushered her away. Others stormed past, jackboots tromping as they marched in a jog, futuristic weapons raised, and flooding into her salon’s backdoor.

“Go-go-go!”

Before she knew it, she was shoved yet again, forced down into the backseat of an unmarked, black van.

A beautiful red-haired woman, dressed sharply in an expensive-looking navy-blue three-piece suit, stared Maisie in the eyes with a smoldering intensity that stood at odds with her otherwise calm demeanor, and a fearsome smile—a sharp contrast to the chaos she had just been whisked away from.

“Hi there.”

A soldier slammed the van’s backdoor shut, muffling the noise of helicopter rotors and militaristic orders being barked back and forth outside.

What would follow Maisie’s questioning was a series of unpleasant instructions.

Maisie needed to forget whatever she had just witnessed.

Or there would be consequences.

Serious, serious consequences. For herself, and the rest of the world alike.

For now, and the days to follow, she was far too afraid to protest.

[ofdragonsdeep]

20: Duel

A conflict between antagonistic persons, ideas, or forces.

On the rooftop of the royal palace of Ala Mhigo, Zenos sought to fight a beast.

Scales and claws will answer.

If there was one truth about Ar'telan that stood out above all others, it was that he did not like fighting.

It was the threat inherent in it. The constant knowledge that if he did not win, others would die, or suffer worse. Knowing that so much rested on his shoulders, and he could not afford to slip up. They did not have another Warrior of Light. They barely had anyone else with the Blessing. He could not fail.

Ala Mhigo had brought it into stark and barren light.

The fight had never been his, but he had never been one to abandon his friends when they needed him. He knew that so, so many would die if the Resistance could not turn the tide - and he had been tasked with finding Shinryu, the creature that had started all of this to begin with. A cause so desperate people were willing to die to see it succeed.

Ar'telan did not like killing people. He was capable of it, more than capable. He had done it countless times before, in that life-or-death situation where if he did not, it would be his life that were forfeit instead. Faced down those who wanted to be there, and those who did not. Feared the day he did not remember ever single life, because they had been lost in an ocean of desperation.

And then there was Zenos.

Zenos had seen in him the same thing that everyone else had - the stubborn weapon who refused to die. The creature who would fight to the last if it had to. And just like everyone else, he had sought to use it.

Ar'telan pitied him, the way he would pity a rabid dog who had to be put down. He resented that removing the threat would give Zenos exactly what he wanted.

For all his time as an adventurer, as Warrior of Light, as someone who had to fight to move forward, Ar'telan had resisted being put in a place where his only option was to kill. He had learned the scholar's arts, and conjury, and enough of the arcanist's toolkit that he could protect with it and little else. He had learned the art of a gladiator, of a knight, of a paladin, to be the bulwark between his friends and the oncoming tide. Always protector, always defender, never aggressive.

But the defender had been useless against Zenos.

He could hold his own, but he couldn't stop Zenos from turning on a whim and hurting his friends. He could salvage a poorly thought out plan, but he could not turn it around into a win. He had led the charge through the royal palace with his sword and shield in hand, protecting those who stood at his back to retake their home or drive out the aggressor, until they had reached Zenos.

Zenos did not care about the Imperial Province of Ala Mhigo. Zenos did not care about the lives of those beneath him, nor the lives of the rebellion. Zenos did not care about his role as commander, as prince of Garlemald, as a man who walked the world.

Zenos only cared about him.

During the attack on Rhalgr's Reach, Ar'telan had watched his impassive face turn up in the slightest smile. Heard the dull voice, replete with boredom, move just a little in pitch. When they had fought in Yanxia, Ar'telan had watched him feel something, for one small, fleeting moment.

And now the fire had caught.

Ar'telan had chased him to the roof of the palace, where in the age of Ala Mhigo's kings the royal menagerie had stood. He had listened to Zenos's impassioned speech, where he tried to claim friendship with the man he likened to a beast that wished to rip out his throat. He had listened to barely any of it, because the backdrop made his blood run cold.

Shinryu.

The primal sat in a net forged, Ar'telan hoped, by Omega. The Garleans had found it, they had brought it to their prince, and he had saved it for his last and grandest gesture of friendship. Ar'telan could feel the malice radiating from the creature even at a distance, its enforced quiescence doing little to calm the anger that fuelled it. A hundred hundred prayers of the dead had fuelled it, calling out to the Destroyer, a horrible amalgam of desperation and hope and curses. One last desecration of Nidhogg's aether, one final horror visited upon dragonkind.

A weapon. A potent force. A way to force the hand of those with power.

Another dragon-made-primal, enslaved to another warmongering empire, fashioned delicate puppet strings to hammer the final nail into the coffin of the sanctity of life.

He sheathed his sword, put up his shield, and from a bag at his hip, drew his grimoire.

---

Ar'telan disliked showy fights the most of all.

The sheer size of Shinryu meant their clash could never go unnoticed, but a showdown on a rooftop felt like spectacle for the sake of it. Ar'telan hoped that none of his allies would try to come to his aid. Zenos would not take kindly to it, and Ar'telan knew he would have no time to spare on protection.

He weaved an aetheric shield around himself as the dragon readied to attack. For his sins, Ar'telan had faced many dragons in battle now, and there would only be so much that Zenos could change. He would need time to grow used to the new form - to how the aether moved across his body, to the wings at his back, to the strength of his snapping jaws. Ar'telan would need the time.

The dragon roared, and Ar'telan paid no heed to the words that formed in his head at the sound of it.

The dance was the same. Lily grabbed hold of his shoulder, her healing staving off the damage from the constant barrage of aether that simply being close to Shinryu caused, and left Ar'telan free to concentrate. It was an unexpected boon that he knew how to read the tells of a dragon far better than he could ever have read Zenos.

Ice at his back. Sidestep, never taking his eyes from the foe.

Water to the side. Channel the aether, plant his feet at exactly the right time.

Wind gathering on the rooftop. Fight the gale, and never stray to close to the edge.

And as he did so, he weaved the aether at his fingertips into biting magic. Miasma in the dragon's lungs, poison in its blood, an aetheric assault of his own catching and redirecting the overwhelming presence back at the dragon itself. All of these were things that a scholar of Nym could have done, and none of them had availed him any against Zenos in the past. But they would chip away at his reserves, and that was all Ar'telan needed.

Time.

He could feel the threads in the aether, pulling taut around the nexus of draconic energy that Shinryu represented. As he moved - a fist from above, dodge to the left. A hail of ice, weather the storm. Levinbolts from the aether, weave a quick curative magic on the stiffness that built in his muscles - he teased them out.

One. Shinryu's eyes shone like bright, sharp points.

The tail slammed down where he had been just moments before, and only a sharp application of magic made it retreat, the dragon - Zenos - rumbling in pain as it did.

Two. The primal's aether outlined itself, around that nest of pulsing purple that was Nidhogg's last remaining essence, the lives of all of those who had died on Baelsar's wall surrounding it.

Energy crackled around the dragon's maw, and Ar'telan poured what little power he had left into a protective shield. The column of fire struck like a lance, only its afterimages avoidable, each pulse a stab of white-hot pain across his flesh.

Three. At the edges of his perception, there was that same distorted song he had heard at the heart of the Ragnarok. An elegy of agony, cried out over millenia, so many frozen voices forced to answer.

He held them, those invisble threads, trembling in the air, and waited.

His opportunity came when Zenos took to the air, wheeling around to strafe across the arena. There was a corner of the rooftop, perilously small, that the Echo drew him towards like a moth to fire. He threw himself to safety, precious seconds gained in Zenos needing to re-orient, and closed his eyes.

When the records of Allag's summoners had shown that they could channel the essence of eikons, Ar'telan had engaged in it only to satisfy Y'mhitra's scientific curiosity. When the theory had been extended to any Eikon that he had faced in battle, he had baulked at the final hurdle and refused her. When the animated tome they had dug out of the dig site had spoken of demi-primals, Y'mhitra had needed to petition him multiple times before he would even humour the idea, much less the execution.

Allag desecrated everything it touched.

But Nidhogg, whose only crime had been witnessing his sister's death for centuries, whose madness had been mutlipled tenfold by the actions of those long-dead Ishgardians, whose death had been both mercy and murder, deserved to rest.

When he opened his eyes, the rooftop sang.

Every battered flower, every cracked rock, every flex of Shinryu's fingers, every flap of his wings. Their fight blurred together like a single breath, move-duck-dodge-weather-watch. Every motion an afterimage that never left his eyes.

It burned, bright and blue, that horrible off-key eulogy to the living dead.

He spread his wings and leapt from the rooftop. Energy and aether beckoned at his fingertips, the price frivolous in the moment. It crackled at his claws, all but crying out for release.

Maintaining the trance for too long taxes the aether.

He unleashed it. A column of bright blue fire slammed down on Shinryu, and its afterimages sang in fire. The dragon roared at the agony of it, and Ar'telan could feel the smile from the man within it.

A trance too deep risks altering the corporeal aether permanently.

He wheeled away as Shinryu lashed out with his tail, and spat aether in reply. Again the afterburn echoed, like the Dawn Wyrm himself was sat at his back, writhing in the agony of his twisted rebirth.

Blue where there should have been gold.

Unleashing a demi-primal requires natural protections against Tempering to work at all.

The song ached for an end to it. That small spark of Bahamut touching what yet remained of Nidhogg in the echo, screaming at the wrongness. He could hear it, words in his head in a speech so aether-deep he knew the meaning even if he did not know the words.

Destruction. Despair. Death.

A century of white-hot pain, Ratatoskr's dying scream etched into his soul like a carving in stone.

"So few people have witnessed Bahamut and remained intact, we have no data…"

"Even being close to it risks being Tempered…"

Go to the heart of the wyrm and set him free.

Shinryu lept for him like a cat at prey, but even with Bahamut's aether coccooned around his body he was still far smaller than the primal, and it was easy to dart backwards, away from catching claws and snapping jaws. This time his response was far more than simple aetheric poisons, a ricochet of energy so intense the air crackled as it hit.

If you linger too long, you might not come back.

All they had to do was evict the interloper. All they had to do was dissipate the shell the primal had woven around Nidhogg's soul. Break it, and they broke Zenos. Without his draconic skin, he would fall to them. It was inevitable.

The now hurt to perceive.

Make sure you come back.

They pulled in their wings and dove downwards. Every weak point was outlined in bright fire across the dragon's back, and they dug in their claws. Shinryu's aether assaulted them with every movement, and the memory of every impact lingered like a bleeding wound on their soul.

Break it.

Shinryu shook back and forth, wings beating in renewed attempts to dislodge the interloper. They sunk their teeth into the skin, magic gathered about them to make the venom more potent than any spell a feeble book could conjure. Their song echoed against his, and they felt his pain, white-hot lances through the blood.

Break it.

Their wings heaved. Shinryu swung his tail around to catch them, like swatting a fly, and they rolled away.

Break it.

They tore a scale free from the flesh, the wound raw and bleeding green. The weakness pulsed with light.

Break it.

They summoned every iota of energy in their form, knotting those delicate threads of aether, and made them snap.

The rush of aetheric energy coalesced like a lance, sharp-tipped and serrated. It slammed into Shinryu's flesh, no longer protected in that one tiny space, and arced through him.

The song screamed, a dragoon's lance through the soul, eyes wrested from body. A borrowed boon ripped free, to leave the flesh to rot.

Break it.

Shinryu hit the floor, crushing what remained of the flowers in the garden. Green blood pooled in the holes in his flesh, hissing where it came into contact with the stone, and the primal dissipated.

In its place, Zenos.

They landed, talons scraping on the rock.

You are more than this.

They had moments left yet. Zenos was a formidable foe to a mortal, but to a dragon, he would snap like a twig.

Keep hold of yourself.

It would have been so easy.

Come back.

They raised their claws. Light crackled about them like a knife. The chorus sang in mournful elegy.

Every moment in an instant.

Rhalgr's Reach. The smell of smoke and blood. Corpses littered on the floor like leaves.

Yanxia, the grin on Zenos's face as he baited the beast. The desperate struggle to keep everyone alive. Knowing the plan would fail. Supporting it in case it did not.

The royal palace. Cutting through the Garleans like they were nothing. The throne room. The desire in Zenos's eyes - the emotion in his voice, the craving.

Shinryu, again and again and again. The assault unceasing, the pain untreated, the only victory in not being the first to fall under the battery.

"There… lies… the beast," Zenos said, every word dredged from the pit of his battered body.

Come back.

This is not what Bahamut would want.

They closed their eyes.

It felt like ripping the skin from his body, the aether dissipating with a violent crack of energy. He gasped aloud at the pain of it, staggering backwards away from Zenos and falling to his knees.

It still echoed in his head. Over and over and over. The song. The chorus. He still felt it like the memory was his own. Ratatoskr. Allag. Meracydia. Falling under an onslaught of voidsent claws and crying out with one final breath for Tiamat.

Dying. Bahamut dying. Ratatoskr dying. Nidhogg dying.

Come back.

He forced his eyes open. In front of him, his hands were his own, though battered and bloody from the fight. The skin still stung from Shinryu's acidic blood, but it was his skin.

He heard the oncoming storm of feet as he collapsed onto his side. Zenos - even if he was not dying, he was in no state to fight. The others would deal with him. Ar'telan's part in it was done.

Their weapon, faithful and true, had done his duty.

Come back.