Tougher than the Rest – Marto Copperkettle – 13.04.2022
Apr 16, 2022 23:12:26 GMT
Lykksie, Velania Kalugina, and 2 more like this
Post by Marto Copperkettle on Apr 16, 2022 23:12:26 GMT
“Get the fuck out of my friends head,” Marto threatened as he approached the guard standing nearby. He was summoning his adamantine axe, the warning to stop now clear in the set of his shoulders. The others had gone quiet, no one else moved except the young knight towards what he thought was a devil in disguise.
“Calm down Marto, it’s me,” came a familiar voice inside his mind.
Marto nearly flinched, but the tone of it was not dark and sultry, it was airy and vague, accented in such a way that it could not be mistaken for the other’s voice. Then the guard’s features changed, as did his whole appearance, until standing before him is an unremarkable half-elf with forgettable features.
Zola recognises him too. “Kháos.”
Tayz, Snowey and Fog look confused whilst Nessa begins explaining who they are before the silver haired half-elf cuts her off.
“We don’t have time for that, not when two of you have already been marked by them,” they say. Marto’s eyes widened. How do they know about Zola’s mark? But before he can ask, Kháos turns to Fog.
“I was reading your mind to find out if you and your other companion,” they gesture to Snowey, “have associations with Shar or the Heralds of Blades and Ash.”
The halfling knight gives them a hard look before going back to Zola’s side, giving them the cold shoulder.
“Uhhh, no I don’t,” Fog answers sincerely but with genuine confusion.
“The method was a bit tasteless though,” Zola says her own face coloured with a disapproving frown. “Why not ask them?”
“You cling to propriety rather stoutly when people are dying because of what is happening.”
A man in full plate armour comes around the corner of Grave Gate, silently and seemingly out of thin air. Nessa, Zola and Marto recognise him as the man who had been severely injured, bedridden and unconscious on the Andromeda the previous month. His grizzled features scan them all with a quick and practised eye, lingering on Marto. He scowls.
“Uncross your arms lad,” the man growls out, almost like he’s scolding a petulant child.
It was the first time Marto felt confrontational to someone who had done nothing more than spout cryptic phrases like, “People are dying,” and “How are your ribs?” and other such equivalents the first time they met. It wasn’t that Marto felt his pride was wounded or that he wasn’t being treated respectfully – though some may question why should Marto show respect to someone who has not done the courtesy of showing a modicum of it to him or his friends? He would be well within his right to be standoffish and passive aggressive.
But that wasn’t it. What got under the young knight’s skin was the fact that these two mysterious people who claimed to be doing things for the “greater good” were using questionable tricks and methods the Heralds were using themselves: mind reading, vague half-answers, prophetic threats. If they were truly meant to be “the good guys” then they shouldn’t be doing the same things the “bad guys” were, right? It’s certainly not a way to build trust amongst your allies.
Marto’s face is hard as he responds after a beat. “No.”
It is a weighty word, and it felt good to say to this man, to politely but firmly stand his ground on this one thing.
The man stared back at him hard, face giving away nothing before he exhaled sharply and turned to the others.
“There’s a cave in the Feythorn, marked by Selûne. Another item is out there. You need to retrieve it. These fiends cannot touch these items, not until one of us retrieves them. And they want them,” the man explains.
Tayz steps forward. “Greetings ser. I have a question but first, I do not believe I caught your name. What should I call you?”
“The Jackal.”
“Perfect. Mr. Jackal-”
“Not a Mr.”
“My apologies, Jackal. This mission, on a scale of 1 to 10, how dangerous will it be?” Tayz asks.
“13.5,” comes the telepathic response from Kháos.
There’s a slow, aarakoran blink and then Tayz is plucking six feathers from his neck and handing them out, casting magical aid as they prepare to set out.
It takes them over a day to get there. They walked all night and camped in the Feythorn Forest during the day. It felt like coming home to Marto once they were in the thick boreal woods, the tension that had been tightening across his shoulders loosening with each step across the pine covered ground. The Jackal did not come with them, which might have contributed to his better mood. Zola kept throwing him glances, which Marto noticed. The two stuck close together, lingering touches passing between them that were constant questions neither found the answers for.
Kháos facilitated their conversations the whole way, which meant there wasn’t any true moment of silence. Fog, Snowey and Tayz were caught up on what had been happening. Then Zola told Kháos about the mark she received from Zah’Ranin, what her hag mothers were able to find out from studying the mark and her memory of the dream she had, and the charm they had made for her. Marto was very glad she had protection from the dreams.
Zola had offered to help him as a matter of fact, assured that her hag mothers would be able to give him a charm just like hers. But Marto understood the fey and he knew the protection Zola got would come at a particular price for him. He had made that deal for the spellbook which had gifted him fey-touched abilities. But that deal had been a minor one. Protection from devils like these would come at a steep price, he was sure of it.
But would it be a price he could afford to pay? Marto had read enough stories about fey deals and had been cautioned dozens of times by his sister. But the question that kept circling his mind as they walked through the forest was did he even want it?
“Have you had a weapon upgrade since last we met?” Nessa asks as she comes up beside him.
“Ah, no,” Marto admits, knowing why she is asking. “I have been practising my combat magic to the point where I can wreathe my axe in booming energy and follow up with another swing… But the best thing about my axe is its adamantine blades.”
“It’s not enough,” Kháos comments.
Marto frowns but not because of any censure he reads from them. “I know, but it’s the best I’ve got.”
“I have something that can make your weapon temporarily magical,” Nessa offers.
“That… would be very helpful,” Marto admits. “Thanks Nessa… Are you still saving up for that gold statue?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Here.” Marto takes a pouch from his belt and holds it out to Nessa. “Hopefully it’s enough to cover the rest for what you need.”
Her platitudes of gratitude became so much that Kháos had to disconnect them all from the shared telepathic bond.
Marto begins to pray to Yondalla.
They had fallen silent, the dark of the night deep in the heart of forest as they approached the cave. There were no animals in the underbrush, no insects in the air, no birds in the trees. Why would there be when the charred remains of dozens and dozens of gnomes were strung up in the branches like an unholy procession leading them to their destination?
“You know you cannot win. Why don’t you just run away?”
He freezes midstep, his heart quickening as his lips begin to burn.
“What makes you think I’ll do anything you tell me to?” Marto replies back, looking around.
Low, dark laughter tickles the back of his neck. “Have you told Zola about us? Does she know the things you want me to do to you?”
Marto whips around, battleaxe raised but there’s nothing there. He scans the woods, but all he sees are his friends and allies. Still, he doesn’t answer, his silence echoing through the well that has its cover torn open in his chest. He feels himself falling down, down, down, as Adhyël’s laughter chases him all the way.
He grips the handle of his axe tighter. “I’m coming for you Adhyël,” Marto eventually says. The words sound empty and hollow.
“Promises promises…” The tall shape of a dark, powerful stallion appears through the trees beside him. Marto whips around to catch sight of Adhyël, but between one breath and the next he has disappeared. “So full of promises, my love.”
Marto tastes ashes on his tongue and his lips burn hot like they’ve been kissed by fire. He struggles to remember to breathe.
“Yes, a promise… For a word once given cannot be broken.”
There is no response.
Marto continues to look around, trying to spot Adhyël again. He thinks he does, several times, but it’s always just out of the corner of his eye.
“They are trying to distract you.”
Kháos has come up right behind him and is looking at Marto strangely. He shakes himself and quickly catches up with the rest of the group.
Nessa falls. The Baara exhales a cone of fire. Zola chases Rahmiël, her two blades radiating silvery moonlight. Tayz calls upon the healing magic of Horus. Fog backs up towards where Marto is protecting Kháos as they dig, searching for the treasure. And Snowey fires a guiding bolt at them.
Except it goes wide, striking the back of the cave wall behind Marto.
“There’s something there!” she shouts, pointing, before ducking into another alcove.
Fog turns, whispering, “Do it now,” summoning a silent image of Kháos to appear beside the original, mirroring their every movement. Then he steps forward and before the firbolg can draw his bow, a darkness coalesses into a shape and embraces him. Before Marto’s very eyes, his friend’s life is drained away and he falls into a slumped heap on the floor.
“Fog!” Marto shouts. He said he’d keep Fog safe, that he would protect him. But he didn’t. He failed.
The darkness smiles at him and Marto recognises it all too well. It’s the same smile that he has seen in his dreams.
“Find it,” he says to Kháos.
Then he steps towards the darkness. The axe in his hand shines with magical light as he raises it up, before unleashing four arching attacks. No battle cries or words of retribution past his lips as his muscles surge to hit over and over and over and over again. With the final cut at the dark vapour it disappears, but not before he feels a tendril stroke his cheek leaving a trail of fire in its wake, a promise to return again.
Marto helps Kháos pull out the large chest whilst Tayz utters a quiet prayer of healing for everyone. He didn’t notice it before he was so focused on protecting Kháos and then attacking Adhyël that as Marto steps back to let Kháos open the chest, he catches sight of a sprig of lavender placed with particular care onto the flat alter-like surface. He frowns, remembering the last time they found an item there was lavender there as well and Marto wonders if there is a reason this plant is here too.
The sound of the chest closing makes the young knight look back to Kháos. They are frowning, eyes focused on the lavender. Reaching out they take it in their hands and crush it in their fist.
“Wait here. Don’t open the chest. I’ll be right back,” they say and then leave the cave.
They all look at each other confused. None of them reach for the chest.
The young knight’s mind turns back to the lavender, a purple flower. When they found the scrolls in the Temple of Selûne with the Prophecy of the Unending Word it was tied with a purple ribbon. In both of the dreams he’s had with Adhyël there was always a haze of purple, either in the smoke of his form or in the thunderous sky. Purple, a colour to represent Shar. Their goddess.
But it goes beyond that. The lavender at the island where Oraphim was waiting for them, was the first sign. The sprig found here was the second. Both times the devils were ready for them, just waiting, like they already knew exactly where the artefacts of Selûne were, and they weren’t worried about them coming to get them.
“This is all part of their plan,” Marto says softly. The others look at him, Zola’s golden eyes meeting his. “They’re toying with us. They knew we were coming, they’ve always known, and they’re always one step ahead. All of this,” he gestures to the cave, indicating the fight that just took place, “is just one big ‘fuck you’ because they can.”
Zola starts saying something, but Marto’s thoughts return to the gnomes, a whole village’s worth burned into husks and strung up in the trees outside the cave. Adhyël and Rahmiël got here before they did, killing them before the Jackal, Kháos, Marto or any of them could do anything. That man, the Jackal – he is always spouting “people are dying” and it’s true. People do die, every single day. But this, what they are trying and failing to prevent, is different, it’s worse. But what can they do to stop it? Is this the wave that breaks the world and all of their struggles are for naught? How can Marto protect his family, so far away from where he is when he cannot even keep his word when it comes to protecting his friends?
Maybe things would be better if-
Kháos comes back, looking at them all. “It is time we do something different. They clearly know where these treasures are, which means we need to change the paradigm.” They open the chest, reach in, pull out a battleaxe, and hold it out towards Marto. “Here, take it. It is yours.”
Stunned by this sudden change, it takes him a moment before he reaches out to take the beautiful solid iron, coated with a light silver sheen weapon. On one side of its head is a carving of a waxing moon and on the other is a rising sun. Marto feels it pulse with magical energy as he takes it as if both sides of the axe bring together the light of a pale moon and warm sunshine.
“Thank you,” Marto eventually says after marvelling at the beautiful weapon. He gives a curious look to Kháos. “Why the sudden change of mind?”
“It was my suggestion that we try something different. Trust me, things are only going to get harder.”
“Calm down Marto, it’s me,” came a familiar voice inside his mind.
Marto nearly flinched, but the tone of it was not dark and sultry, it was airy and vague, accented in such a way that it could not be mistaken for the other’s voice. Then the guard’s features changed, as did his whole appearance, until standing before him is an unremarkable half-elf with forgettable features.
Zola recognises him too. “Kháos.”
Tayz, Snowey and Fog look confused whilst Nessa begins explaining who they are before the silver haired half-elf cuts her off.
“We don’t have time for that, not when two of you have already been marked by them,” they say. Marto’s eyes widened. How do they know about Zola’s mark? But before he can ask, Kháos turns to Fog.
“I was reading your mind to find out if you and your other companion,” they gesture to Snowey, “have associations with Shar or the Heralds of Blades and Ash.”
The halfling knight gives them a hard look before going back to Zola’s side, giving them the cold shoulder.
“Uhhh, no I don’t,” Fog answers sincerely but with genuine confusion.
“The method was a bit tasteless though,” Zola says her own face coloured with a disapproving frown. “Why not ask them?”
“You cling to propriety rather stoutly when people are dying because of what is happening.”
A man in full plate armour comes around the corner of Grave Gate, silently and seemingly out of thin air. Nessa, Zola and Marto recognise him as the man who had been severely injured, bedridden and unconscious on the Andromeda the previous month. His grizzled features scan them all with a quick and practised eye, lingering on Marto. He scowls.
“Uncross your arms lad,” the man growls out, almost like he’s scolding a petulant child.
It was the first time Marto felt confrontational to someone who had done nothing more than spout cryptic phrases like, “People are dying,” and “How are your ribs?” and other such equivalents the first time they met. It wasn’t that Marto felt his pride was wounded or that he wasn’t being treated respectfully – though some may question why should Marto show respect to someone who has not done the courtesy of showing a modicum of it to him or his friends? He would be well within his right to be standoffish and passive aggressive.
But that wasn’t it. What got under the young knight’s skin was the fact that these two mysterious people who claimed to be doing things for the “greater good” were using questionable tricks and methods the Heralds were using themselves: mind reading, vague half-answers, prophetic threats. If they were truly meant to be “the good guys” then they shouldn’t be doing the same things the “bad guys” were, right? It’s certainly not a way to build trust amongst your allies.
Marto’s face is hard as he responds after a beat. “No.”
It is a weighty word, and it felt good to say to this man, to politely but firmly stand his ground on this one thing.
The man stared back at him hard, face giving away nothing before he exhaled sharply and turned to the others.
“There’s a cave in the Feythorn, marked by Selûne. Another item is out there. You need to retrieve it. These fiends cannot touch these items, not until one of us retrieves them. And they want them,” the man explains.
Tayz steps forward. “Greetings ser. I have a question but first, I do not believe I caught your name. What should I call you?”
“The Jackal.”
“Perfect. Mr. Jackal-”
“Not a Mr.”
“My apologies, Jackal. This mission, on a scale of 1 to 10, how dangerous will it be?” Tayz asks.
“13.5,” comes the telepathic response from Kháos.
There’s a slow, aarakoran blink and then Tayz is plucking six feathers from his neck and handing them out, casting magical aid as they prepare to set out.
It takes them over a day to get there. They walked all night and camped in the Feythorn Forest during the day. It felt like coming home to Marto once they were in the thick boreal woods, the tension that had been tightening across his shoulders loosening with each step across the pine covered ground. The Jackal did not come with them, which might have contributed to his better mood. Zola kept throwing him glances, which Marto noticed. The two stuck close together, lingering touches passing between them that were constant questions neither found the answers for.
Kháos facilitated their conversations the whole way, which meant there wasn’t any true moment of silence. Fog, Snowey and Tayz were caught up on what had been happening. Then Zola told Kháos about the mark she received from Zah’Ranin, what her hag mothers were able to find out from studying the mark and her memory of the dream she had, and the charm they had made for her. Marto was very glad she had protection from the dreams.
Zola had offered to help him as a matter of fact, assured that her hag mothers would be able to give him a charm just like hers. But Marto understood the fey and he knew the protection Zola got would come at a particular price for him. He had made that deal for the spellbook which had gifted him fey-touched abilities. But that deal had been a minor one. Protection from devils like these would come at a steep price, he was sure of it.
But would it be a price he could afford to pay? Marto had read enough stories about fey deals and had been cautioned dozens of times by his sister. But the question that kept circling his mind as they walked through the forest was did he even want it?
“Have you had a weapon upgrade since last we met?” Nessa asks as she comes up beside him.
“Ah, no,” Marto admits, knowing why she is asking. “I have been practising my combat magic to the point where I can wreathe my axe in booming energy and follow up with another swing… But the best thing about my axe is its adamantine blades.”
“It’s not enough,” Kháos comments.
Marto frowns but not because of any censure he reads from them. “I know, but it’s the best I’ve got.”
“I have something that can make your weapon temporarily magical,” Nessa offers.
“That… would be very helpful,” Marto admits. “Thanks Nessa… Are you still saving up for that gold statue?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Here.” Marto takes a pouch from his belt and holds it out to Nessa. “Hopefully it’s enough to cover the rest for what you need.”
Her platitudes of gratitude became so much that Kháos had to disconnect them all from the shared telepathic bond.
Marto begins to pray to Yondalla.
They had fallen silent, the dark of the night deep in the heart of forest as they approached the cave. There were no animals in the underbrush, no insects in the air, no birds in the trees. Why would there be when the charred remains of dozens and dozens of gnomes were strung up in the branches like an unholy procession leading them to their destination?
“You know you cannot win. Why don’t you just run away?”
He freezes midstep, his heart quickening as his lips begin to burn.
“What makes you think I’ll do anything you tell me to?” Marto replies back, looking around.
Low, dark laughter tickles the back of his neck. “Have you told Zola about us? Does she know the things you want me to do to you?”
Marto whips around, battleaxe raised but there’s nothing there. He scans the woods, but all he sees are his friends and allies. Still, he doesn’t answer, his silence echoing through the well that has its cover torn open in his chest. He feels himself falling down, down, down, as Adhyël’s laughter chases him all the way.
He grips the handle of his axe tighter. “I’m coming for you Adhyël,” Marto eventually says. The words sound empty and hollow.
“Promises promises…” The tall shape of a dark, powerful stallion appears through the trees beside him. Marto whips around to catch sight of Adhyël, but between one breath and the next he has disappeared. “So full of promises, my love.”
Marto tastes ashes on his tongue and his lips burn hot like they’ve been kissed by fire. He struggles to remember to breathe.
“Yes, a promise… For a word once given cannot be broken.”
There is no response.
Marto continues to look around, trying to spot Adhyël again. He thinks he does, several times, but it’s always just out of the corner of his eye.
“They are trying to distract you.”
Kháos has come up right behind him and is looking at Marto strangely. He shakes himself and quickly catches up with the rest of the group.
Nessa falls. The Baara exhales a cone of fire. Zola chases Rahmiël, her two blades radiating silvery moonlight. Tayz calls upon the healing magic of Horus. Fog backs up towards where Marto is protecting Kháos as they dig, searching for the treasure. And Snowey fires a guiding bolt at them.
Except it goes wide, striking the back of the cave wall behind Marto.
“There’s something there!” she shouts, pointing, before ducking into another alcove.
Fog turns, whispering, “Do it now,” summoning a silent image of Kháos to appear beside the original, mirroring their every movement. Then he steps forward and before the firbolg can draw his bow, a darkness coalesses into a shape and embraces him. Before Marto’s very eyes, his friend’s life is drained away and he falls into a slumped heap on the floor.
“Fog!” Marto shouts. He said he’d keep Fog safe, that he would protect him. But he didn’t. He failed.
The darkness smiles at him and Marto recognises it all too well. It’s the same smile that he has seen in his dreams.
“Find it,” he says to Kháos.
Then he steps towards the darkness. The axe in his hand shines with magical light as he raises it up, before unleashing four arching attacks. No battle cries or words of retribution past his lips as his muscles surge to hit over and over and over and over again. With the final cut at the dark vapour it disappears, but not before he feels a tendril stroke his cheek leaving a trail of fire in its wake, a promise to return again.
Marto helps Kháos pull out the large chest whilst Tayz utters a quiet prayer of healing for everyone. He didn’t notice it before he was so focused on protecting Kháos and then attacking Adhyël that as Marto steps back to let Kháos open the chest, he catches sight of a sprig of lavender placed with particular care onto the flat alter-like surface. He frowns, remembering the last time they found an item there was lavender there as well and Marto wonders if there is a reason this plant is here too.
The sound of the chest closing makes the young knight look back to Kháos. They are frowning, eyes focused on the lavender. Reaching out they take it in their hands and crush it in their fist.
“Wait here. Don’t open the chest. I’ll be right back,” they say and then leave the cave.
They all look at each other confused. None of them reach for the chest.
The young knight’s mind turns back to the lavender, a purple flower. When they found the scrolls in the Temple of Selûne with the Prophecy of the Unending Word it was tied with a purple ribbon. In both of the dreams he’s had with Adhyël there was always a haze of purple, either in the smoke of his form or in the thunderous sky. Purple, a colour to represent Shar. Their goddess.
But it goes beyond that. The lavender at the island where Oraphim was waiting for them, was the first sign. The sprig found here was the second. Both times the devils were ready for them, just waiting, like they already knew exactly where the artefacts of Selûne were, and they weren’t worried about them coming to get them.
“This is all part of their plan,” Marto says softly. The others look at him, Zola’s golden eyes meeting his. “They’re toying with us. They knew we were coming, they’ve always known, and they’re always one step ahead. All of this,” he gestures to the cave, indicating the fight that just took place, “is just one big ‘fuck you’ because they can.”
Zola starts saying something, but Marto’s thoughts return to the gnomes, a whole village’s worth burned into husks and strung up in the trees outside the cave. Adhyël and Rahmiël got here before they did, killing them before the Jackal, Kháos, Marto or any of them could do anything. That man, the Jackal – he is always spouting “people are dying” and it’s true. People do die, every single day. But this, what they are trying and failing to prevent, is different, it’s worse. But what can they do to stop it? Is this the wave that breaks the world and all of their struggles are for naught? How can Marto protect his family, so far away from where he is when he cannot even keep his word when it comes to protecting his friends?
Maybe things would be better if-
Kháos comes back, looking at them all. “It is time we do something different. They clearly know where these treasures are, which means we need to change the paradigm.” They open the chest, reach in, pull out a battleaxe, and hold it out towards Marto. “Here, take it. It is yours.”
Stunned by this sudden change, it takes him a moment before he reaches out to take the beautiful solid iron, coated with a light silver sheen weapon. On one side of its head is a carving of a waxing moon and on the other is a rising sun. Marto feels it pulse with magical energy as he takes it as if both sides of the axe bring together the light of a pale moon and warm sunshine.
“Thank you,” Marto eventually says after marvelling at the beautiful weapon. He gives a curious look to Kháos. “Why the sudden change of mind?”
“It was my suggestion that we try something different. Trust me, things are only going to get harder.”
