Magus 🔥🗡️ Hamn-Rowe Otth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
inexorableiron) wrote2025-09-26 06:03 pm
inexorableiron) wrote2025-09-26 06:03 pm
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8, Mother
... When you open your eyes, you are standing in an enormous, elaborately decorated room. It could be called a mansion. It should be breath-taking! White marble columns and floors, dotted here and there with golden sconces of soft light, flowing silk curtains at the windows, and ornate furniture. Exquisite.
But you do not have time for looking at the furnishings. Things are a blur. Two small children are running through the home desperately. The pair seem young, likely less than ten years of age, and it's easy to tell immediately that they are twins. Identical twins, but for the shiny gold scars cutting across one's lip and the other's pointed elven ear.
They go from room to room, searching. Bedrooms, studies, pass by in a blur. Then the boys stop short suddenly, stumbling into each other in an equally grand entranceway.
While there has been no clutter or even misplaced things, the entryway boasts two items completely out of place. Long wooden practice weapons do not seemingly belong in this place, yet they stand at attention in a weapon rack to one side of the room.
Standing in the very middle and taking up the room there is a tall, imposing looking statue of a woman in grey stone, with elf ears. Her hair is less detailed, looking like unfinished rock in a vague bun. The truly odd thing is that she is clad in simple robes, not carved stone. She stands positioned facing outward, looking out the open door at a sprawling city surrounding a beautiful palace with a distant look on her face.
Then she turns and looks down at the twins. Her stony face does not change expression; the closed off look does not leave her.
"████, hello," she says. Her voice is soft in contrast to the rest of her. "And ████. You are here."
It is not phrased as a question. Both boys know better.
"Where are you going, Mother?" asks the boy with the scarred ear.
"Home," she answers, simply.
The boy with the lip scar frowns. "But this is home."
"It is your father's home," the woman corrects him sternly, though her voice remains ever calm and gentle. Her eyes narrow at him before she looks back outside. "It is your home as well. Yet I choose to return to my people and the court there."
She pauses, then turns with a very small smile lighting her eyes. "You are to remain attentive to your studies. I will return in the next month; I expect to see that you have improved." The mischief in her eyes shines through. "In all areas, you will improve. Remember this,
████, ████. Be well."
The two nod, standing politely (although fidgeting) as she in turn presses her fingers to her lips and then pats them on the head fondly.
As she leaves, the boys watch quietly. The moment she dips out of sight beyond the cherry trees the twins rush into the entryway to grab their poles and start gleefully whacking at one another...
... When you open your eyes, you are standing in an enormous, elaborately decorated room. It could be called a mansion. It should be breath-taking! White marble columns and floors, dotted here and there with golden sconces of soft light, flowing silk curtains at the windows, and ornate furniture. Exquisite.
But you do not have time for looking at the furnishings. Things are a blur. Two small children are running through the home desperately. The pair seem young, likely less than ten years of age, and it's easy to tell immediately that they are twins. Identical twins, but for the shiny gold scars cutting across one's lip and the other's pointed elven ear.
They go from room to room, searching. Bedrooms, studies, pass by in a blur. Then the boys stop short suddenly, stumbling into each other in an equally grand entranceway.
While there has been no clutter or even misplaced things, the entryway boasts two items completely out of place. Long wooden practice weapons do not seemingly belong in this place, yet they stand at attention in a weapon rack to one side of the room.
Standing in the very middle and taking up the room there is a tall, imposing looking statue of a woman in grey stone, with elf ears. Her hair is less detailed, looking like unfinished rock in a vague bun. The truly odd thing is that she is clad in simple robes, not carved stone. She stands positioned facing outward, looking out the open door at a sprawling city surrounding a beautiful palace with a distant look on her face.
Then she turns and looks down at the twins. Her stony face does not change expression; the closed off look does not leave her.
"████, hello," she says. Her voice is soft in contrast to the rest of her. "And ████. You are here."
It is not phrased as a question. Both boys know better.
"Where are you going, Mother?" asks the boy with the scarred ear.
"Home," she answers, simply.
The boy with the lip scar frowns. "But this is home."
"It is your father's home," the woman corrects him sternly, though her voice remains ever calm and gentle. Her eyes narrow at him before she looks back outside. "It is your home as well. Yet I choose to return to my people and the court there."
She pauses, then turns with a very small smile lighting her eyes. "You are to remain attentive to your studies. I will return in the next month; I expect to see that you have improved." The mischief in her eyes shines through. "In all areas, you will improve. Remember this,
████, ████. Be well."
The two nod, standing politely (although fidgeting) as she in turn presses her fingers to her lips and then pats them on the head fondly.
As she leaves, the boys watch quietly. The moment she dips out of sight beyond the cherry trees the twins rush into the entryway to grab their poles and start gleefully whacking at one another...
5, The Limbless King
===
The smell hits you first. Wet, and the stomach turning smell of wet rot, is the dominant odor in the humid, stale air. That stagnant smell isn’t any more pleasant.
You find yourself in a small, decrepit village. A few small wooden houses dot either side of the main walkway, all of them wrapped in a tall wooden barricade. Dozens of ravens caw and stare down at you from the ramparts and the rooftops, some of the birds sporting three gleaming black eyes.
It is quiet, otherwise. Still. You know that there are people in the house you are leaning against, but they haven’t made a noise.
The main road in this village leads to one dark house, the only one not boarded up for protection. The others frame it as though it were a palace and not a run down mud brick hut. Maybe the lack of birds perched on its roof and it alone that makes it so unsettling. Or maybe the trail of wet, dark blood leading to its door is responsible.
Looking across the street you see a small, very round man, barely coming up in height to the handle on the door. That round little stomach must be easily as big around as he is tall. His auburn hair is exquisitely styled, his long bangs carefully combed over one side of his hairy little face. His silken wizard robes are somehow unblemished from the inch of grey green mud you and he stand in.
“Ugh,” he says. He sniffs, nose high in the air. “Really… !”
He looks disgusted, though it isn’t the gunk on his shoes causing that.
Next to him stands a girl. Or at least, there is something feminine to her terrifying silhouette. She is easily twice the height of the round man, but all similarities end there. Her skin is a pale blue, for one, and her tightly braided twin tails are a deep purple color. On her cute (cute?) face, three dark eyes (two on the right, one on the left) are furrowed in thought. Six more eyes stare unblinking, three on each of her upper arms. A copper plate glints just below her collar bone. In addition to her two arms, a third insect-like one projects from under one shoulder. You know she has a similar selection of legs, though the ratio there is two insectoid to one human.
Her dirty yellow dress and white shawl are unremarkable, except for the body within.
“We should just leave him,” she declares. The left side of her mouth opens far too wide in a perfect Glasgow smile, showing all of her teeth
“I mean, I understand where ████'s coming from.” A voice to your side speaks to you quietly. Under his breath to avoid angering the girl. “But we made a deal ... “
Looking back, you see the speaker looking grim and pained. He is practically your height, though his skin is pale. Too pale, you think, but that makes sense to you. He sees you notice; he shrugs and laughs nervously. You notice how green his eyes are, and how the color seems solid. No visible sclera or cornea, just a perfect emerald green. His elven ears poke out of his messy sandy blond hair, half pulled free of its usual ponytail.
He is clutching his left elbow desperately to staunch the flow of blood where his forearm used to be. The teeth marks still show. You’d be worried if it was anyone else, but looking over this man you feel an odd sense of respect and calm. If anyone has this handled, it’s this dude.
The silence is deafening. You are bored and waiting. ████ is bleeding. ████ and ████ are whining.
A horrible, terrible scream cuts through the silence. There is a wet crunching, then another. Another. Two more follow. More screams rend the air overlapping each chomping sound.
You are alert. You push off the wall. Every fiber of your being is tight with the tension of knowing it is happening.
There is a heady, pleased groan that echoes in the silence, and then the little wooden house you were waiting in front of rips open.
A body — most of a body — comes flying out. He lands hard on his back in the mud, croaking in pain.
His naked white torso is all that remains of him below the neck. Gleaming pearly white scales end abruptly at the shoulders and thighs, and blood soaks the ground. More blood than you have seen in years, and there’s a hemothurge standing beside you.
His dragon head lulls limply to one side. The horns keep him from winding up face down in the mud. His pale blue eyes are glassy now.
You sigh, heavily. Your hand is already in your side pouch pulling out a brilliant red potion, the glass cold under your fingertips.
You bite the cork to open it. The smell of potion hits you, herbal and sweet and somehow like ozone, and you step up to your dying king.
You pour the potion in his mouth without bothering to kneel.
His eyes blink sharply, as the life comes back to them. The blood no longer pours freely from his every wound.
“The contract is sealed!” He yells in his heavy accent from the ground. He wriggles in place. “From now on, all of this swamp is my kingdom. They will be my subjects! I am the limbless king!”
2, Book
===
You are squashed into the back of a tiny cart with several others; a small goblin with only one ruby red eye; a pale elf with solid green eyes; a honey badger; and a huge, broad-backed orc with mutton chops and chipped tusks. The road below the wheels is both wet and bumpy, and the scenery you pass is made up of beautiful tall trees. The lizard pulling your cart doesn’t seem bothered by the terrain. The humanoid white scaled lizard riding it doesn’t, either.
Following behind in another, tinier cart is a single passenger. It is being drawn by a small pony.
The little man in it is sprawled out on a pile of velvet and silk cushions which match his exquisite clothing. His huge stomach sticks out like he swallowed a watermelon, which would be quite the feat, given he is just over two feet tall. His auburn hair grows longer on one side, and he is incredibly hairy. Mutton chops, fuzzy beard, the works.
He and the orc seem to be in lively conversation.
“And you say this — this necromancer, he has powerful spells, Doctor?” The little man pops a hunk of cheese into his mouth as he asks. “Or are they rare?”
“I’ve heard about him,” the orc, the doctor, replies. His eyes shine below the brim of a squashed hat. “I’m hoping he has ones we don't."
“I have spells,” you add. They both ignore you.
“I’m simply desperate to get my hands on a new spellbook,” the furry man admits. He sighs dramatically. “It is so hard to find good magic in an unsettled wilderness.”
The orc grunts. You say, “I have one “
The little man waves you off. “No, no. You can’t help me.”
That’s curious. You chuckle a little. “You sure, little dude?”
“I need someone with a spellbook.” He stresses it so condescendingly. “Not you and your weird magic.”
“But I have a spellbook?” The incredulity makes you laugh.
The little man sighs and shakes his head. “An arcane spellbook. Not … whatever it is that you do.”
“Right,” you say slowly. Two can play his small words game. You reach down to your hip (the badger barks; the elf hisses “Justice! Don’t call him that!”) and lift up a book. It is a simple book with a blue cover and silver filigree, buckled normally at your side. “My arcane spellbook I cast fuckin’ spells from, little dude? This spellbook?”
“What?”
The little man sits up suddenly. It looks like a barrel bobbing in a sea of pillows. His tiny fingers wriggle in excitement.
“Wait. Wait, what?” His eye, the green one you can see, is so wide and sparkling with so much greed and delight that he more resembles a toddler reaching for cake. “You. Spellbook. You, your spellbook! Gimme.”
The memory fades with everyone laughing as the little guy voraciously starts reading through your spells….
3, Father
===
Yet again you sit in your classroom. You know it is, even having never been there. There is little here to act as a distraction. Glancing to one side, you see only white walls. There used to be a window. You used to see trees. Not anymore. You miss it.
Now there is nothing interesting to look at. Your little desk sits on the floor, messy with papers and ink pots. The rug you sit on is blue, the only real color left in here besides the woodsy browns of furniture. Teacher’s table, his shelf of books. Even the
There is an identical set up across the wide aisle meant to keep you and your twin separated. He is kneeling at his desk right now just like you are, on the same blue rug. He looks bored. You’re bored too. You’re just six years old, you can’t help it.
A swishing noise from behind reminds you that you are not supposed to look at him.
Teacher glides noiselessly up the aisle. His straight back and perfect posture add to his rigid personality. His long flowing robes are perfect. His long dark hair is perfect. He is dressed like a proper Tian Xia nobleman. Only his sharply pointed elf ears and solid, sclera- and pupil-less black eyes are likely to seem at all out of place.
In his hand he clasps his pointer. It swishes lightly in the air as he taps his other hand for attention.
“Ah~h.” His eyes manage to somehow look so smarmy despite his facial expression being quite placid. It’s something about the way the corners of his eyes crinkle.
He’s droning on about something now. You learned this already, and now the boredom is increasing. This is the same lesson as the last teacher. And the one before that…
It’s strange; you know exactly what he is talking about, but the words seem somehow muffled. Maybe it’s time that has dulled the exact wording of this lesson. Either way, it’s trivial. If you stopped listening right now, you could still answer every question he’ll give you after the lesson is over.
Your brother’s voice echoes in your head. “Ghu ghod ‘oh dochvam’e.” This is baby stuff. “Veb elv majatlhmeh maghojmoh ka?” Is he gonna teach us Elvish next?
You can’t help it. The giggle just slips out.
Teacher starts. He looks shocked and flustered for just a moment, his careful tranquil look broken like the surface of a pond when a rock is thrown. Only for a moment.
But just seeing that happen is too much for ████. He starts giggling. Teacher is caught off-guard and fumbles his words as he attempts to push on with the lesson.
Now you’re both laughing. It’s snowballing. He can’t regain control, you’re both laughing too hard to even hear his stupid pointer flick. You’re laughing so hard you’re both rolling in the aisle. It’s so funny. Teacher’s flailing so much. You’re laughing so hard you don’t hear the door open behind you.
Teacher’s face goes from purple to white. His eyes are staring at the ground as he kneels swiftly. You and your brother only then realize in tandem what is happening.
Standing in the doorway are two people, an elven man and a woman. They appear to be in their early or mid forties, thereabouts. Both sport long carefully styled dark hair, threaded at the temples with silver. Their eyes are the same nearly black brown, a solid color that seems alien without pupil or sclera visible.
The man is tall and slim, with a long, pinched face. A narrow beard and mustache accentuate his look, most notably in the slight upward tilt of his nose and lip. His expression is carefully neutral, but the natural look of disdain manages to eke out of his silent, serene stance. It looks as though he is trying not to admit to smelling something dreadful. His hat and robes are pristine and his hands are folded politely out of sight, tucked into the wide sleeves. He just looks important.
The woman on the other hand, is quite a bit shorter than he is. Almost a whole head shorter, in fact, though no less pristine in her dress robes. Her eyes darken and narrow in anger quickly, an emotional reaction that she is unable to hide at the sight of you and your brother.
Teacher fails to notice. Then again, all he can see is the floor whilst he bows. “This unworthy instructor– “
You snicker before you can stop yourself. Both hands clap over your mouth with a gasp. Your brother makes a strangled noise, trying to keep himself from laughing at you.
The man in the doorway does not even look at the two of you.
“The decorum in this chamber is lacking,” he says, slowly and carefully, as though he were tasting and measuring the worth of each word. He at last deigns the man on the floor worthy of a glance. “These students are undisciplined. It is shameful, but true. You may dispatch with them as you will to regain control of your classroom.”
The woman tuts just loudly enough to be heard over Teacher scrambling to his feet.
“You are most generous – most kind – “ His head whips around and he locks eyes with your twin. His chest swells with misplaced pride and he chastises. “Return to your proper sitting position, ████!”
Oh. That’s your name. Not his. He mixed you two up again. Your brother puffs up his cheeks indignantly. “I’m not ████, he’s ████!”
“Yeah!” you add, feeling angry at this obvious error. “That’s ████.”
The noise level rises. The argument grows sharper. How long does it last? Only a moment, surely. Scarcely that. Only long enough for the man at the door to withdraw one thin hand from his sleeve. In it he holds a small tome, its pages fluttering open to the correct page at his bidding.
You don’t immediately recognize the arcane spellcraft. But you do see him look at your brother and then yourself at last. The passive curl of his lip shows no more emotion than before. Then he flicks his wrist toward you both, and two silver missiles shaped like oak leaves fly from his hand.
It lands true. Pain and fire explode across your face and even your teeth sting. You are caught in the mouth. It hurts like nothing you have experienced before. Your lips are split. It bleeds and you taste ozone and blood. When your hands rise to meet your face, you can feel the blood and the tear across your mouth. You’re crying from the incredible pain. Your brother is sobbing too as he clutches his ear in pain. Blood drips from between his fingers.
“Let this be a reminder,” he says coolly. His voice is low and calm. He tucks away his spellbook. “To listen first, and to speak only when spoken to.”
“You do spoil my brothers so, Father,” the girl adds. Her voice lilts with pleasure. “To receive such an important lesson from you personally, it is most flattering. Don’t you agree?”
Your father looks down at you. If he were to sneer, it would match the look in his eye. But he won’t, because he is careful never to let his expression change. Instead he looks to your teacher and tips his head in a polite but imperative manner.
“See that they clean up their mess. It will teach them their place.”
He walks out, your sister following. You can’t really see them through the tears.
4, Brother
===
Rain like ice pounds down upon your head. It is so cold that it stings and burns like the cut of a razor’s blade. Your head is ducked low to keep it out of your eyes, and the heavy weight of the weapon laying over your shoulder is keeping at least that much of you safe from the rain.
You are listening. You do not take cover. Instead, you continue walking.
The path here is muddy and the land along each side of the trail is wooded enough that you can’t see what you are coming up on. Though it is raining, the sky isn’t so dark that you are unable to see, being that it is still midday.
You can hear the voices you had been following more loudly now. What were muffled shouts are now yells, and the sound of steel on steel is to you unmistakable.
So you start to run.
The ground is slippery; you can feel the rocks move under your boots. The ground is slick and soft. But you don’t slow down much, just a little, to keep a decent pace.
The daydream comes back to you as you have imagined this fight when you first heard the crashing of a monster through the trees. You might not know what to expect, but you can imagine a young man showing off to the others. Dark hair, skin like clay, gold scars cutting across his familiar face. There’s no way he isn’t involved. You know it. Or maybe you simply do not doubt it?
It’s thrilling. Exciting. The adrenaline is pulsing in your ears. The high of showing him up is starting to hit you and it hasn’t even happened yet.
You pass into the clearing before you know it. The tableau before you is … about what you expected. People, fighting. You knew it would be. But the actual details…
There is only a split second to take it all in.
An enormous shambling mound stands half in the trees, fiercely waving in its tentacle-like vines a small angry goblin with only one eye. The goblin, for his part, is screaming at it and trying without much luck to stab at its vines.
There are a number of broken stone ruins, old house walls maybe, littering the area. This clearing was likely once a tiny village being consumed by nature. An elf with sandy blond hair pulled back in a messy ponytail pops up from behind one such wall and extends his hand. A honey badger appears without warning, snapping its jaws angrily in the direction of the creature.
A spell you don’t recognize blasts through the air, a golden streak pulsing in time with the badger’s growls. It is followed by another spell, red and wicked looking in the air, coming from a distance away. You can’t see the caster, but that must be deliberate. He’s hiding for his own safety.
An enormous riding lizard the size of a horse, though shorter, hisses as its reins are pulled by its rider. The young man on its back waves a broadsword in the air and charges. His face looks like a dragon’s head, white scales and twisting horns rising up to the pale sky.
You don’t look for anyone else. Even though he should be here, you expected him, the adrenaline is too high. If he was too slow to get into this fight, he’ll be too slow to watch you finish it.
You heft your naginata in hand and break into a run. Words only half-remembered spill from your lips as lightning cracks in the distance. No time to waste.
You heft the blade into the air. The steel catches the light, and your incantation ends. The blade goes white with frost and jagged ice, frozen and sharp, encases the blade and erupts outward. It looks vicious because it is.
The goblin is screaming an octave higher now. You slice deep into the shambling mound. You can feel the magic discharge, punching holes and sending jagged shards flying.
Its death scream is hideous. The pride and elation you feel thrums through you. You have to catch your breath. That was good. No, that was great. You came in hot. You–
You see something gold on the ground.
Spoils. Yeah, you earned that. You turn to collect and you hear one of those fighters say something. It makes no sense. You can scarcely comprehend it.
“...m… orry… bou… broth…”
The rain is coming down. It feels like ice and sharp knives. Your breath is tight, caught in your throat. It feels like the floor is gone from under you, or like a cannonball has ripped a hole inside your body. Hollow. That's it. You’ve been hollowed out. There’s nothing holding you upright but you haven’t fallen.
Your brother. Your little twin brother. A hundred images of his (your) face flash through your mind even in this memory. This one overwrites them all. His face looks up at you from where he lies motionless in the mud. His body is crumpled. Both his legs stick out at odd angles, as broken and shattered as he is.
You blink and he’s still there. Dead eyes splattered with rain and mud. Mud puddles turning red with his blood, threatening to swallow him into the ground. Staring endlessly into the cold sky.
The image is burned into your mind. Your eyelids. Your very sense of self. Nothing else can sink in, no other thoughts, just that hollow alone feeling and that look on the face the two of you share. Shared. Share.
You weren't even here.
Time is too slow and too fast all the same. Your stomach is in your throat. Everything except for ████ lying in the red mud is a blur.
You don’t remember anything else.
6, Jamspoon
===
The blood is pumping hard in your veins, so loud it is almost deafening. You ache from a half dozen blows taken and there’s a red gash newly slashed open on your arm. That's definitely going to leave a scar.
This skirmish was going well. A half dozen bloated, rotting corpses lie in pieces across the open field. There are still another few standing and slowly lurching on rigor stiff limbs, some still clutching rusted weapons in their grip.
Then their leader came.
Seeing that thing punch through the treeline was a lot. You’re not sure how you feel about that. Dozens and dozens of mangled bodies and even more spare rotted parts twisted together into a writhing giant of a flesh golem. Skulls acting as joints. Torn off limbs molded into the image of a face.
That thing is easily three times your height. It has an incredible reach. It’s just as fast as you are, unlike the little ones.
No, scratch that.
That fucker is faster than you.
It’s making a fucking beeline for ████. You’re closer, but it’s faster. But you ought to be able to match pace. You can get there at the same time it does. You just need to run.
He’s not scared. He’s confident. He always stays well out of harm’s way. It’s just bad luck that a path opened up for this abomination.
You can see the king slicing through a zombie some distance away. His sword arcs into the sky. He’s too far away. ████ isn’t going to be able to stop that thing. These are undead, but they’re in his way.
A huge wet cube of what looks like Jell-O made with crude oil slurps onto some of the undead in the king’s path. Fuck, but she is slow. Slower than the regular slow zombies.
A blade made of blood whizzes past your face. The smell of iron overtakes the rot as the nearest zombie’s guts explode outward from the attack.
You’re so close. Five more feet and you can sink this blade of yours into those thick legs made of many twisted pieces of broken corpses.
It raises its enormous foot.
Time slows. Every detail in slow motion unfurls, as you have relived this moment a thousand times. Your failure. What you should have done. What you could have done instead. This part is more vivid. It is more vicious.
████ is so little. Like a beach ball with limbs, just two and a half feet tall. No match for a twenty foot high giant. You catch his eyes and you see that green gold cat eye (he tries so hard to hide it) fill with fear. His mouth opens. Was he casting? What spell? What did he have that would help in this scenario?
The foot comes down.
He bursts like an overripe tomato.
You were so close.
You failed again.