Hound. 2

You fade in and out of consciousness, in bushes and dark dens as  you travel your way to the north. Your days are marked with constant pain and hunger, you drink from streams and brackish puddles, hoping that the next day will see you to your destination. You limp and you crawl, your injuries are almost unbearable.

Your right ear is gone, as are three fingers, two on your left hand are completely cut away, and one on your right is severed just below the claw. You are partially blind in your left eye, things are blurry and unfocussed, you missing half of your tail, you are missing teeth, and your fangs are chipped and dull. You are shrouded in scars. There is not a single part of you that doesn’t carry a gristly wound, but these are all just nuisances in comparison to your damned leg. Your left leg is the cause of all your trouble. The femur is fractured in more than one location, splinters of bone tear into your muscles, and you are sure that there is bleeding. You can only limp along, hoping that these slight movements will not cause you too much pain.


Were you more vain you would wish yourself to be a Lycan so that you could be covered in fur and hide the scars, but you are a hellhound, any fur you have is soft charcoal black-grey fuzz. The way you reset your bones makes your leg look misshapen, you are no expert in medicine so you are relatively certain that you set them incorrectly, so the lopsidedness would make sense. You would be fine with it, but it hurts so much that sometimes you just have to lay still and breathe until the searing sharpness go away. It makes traveling difficult. It would be easier were you able to stick to the road, but you are a Hellhound- a hellion beast not recognized by any of the kingdoms as a prospective citizen or even a sentient person. The only one that does- and even then it is only partially- is Xion.

So you head for Xion, you stay clear of the roads. The journey takes you about two weeks. Were you in greater health you could have made it in just less than four days. You have to stop in rest after you push yourself too hard. Something inside you had finally gone wrong, some hidden injury you had suffered during that slaughter. You don’t know what is broken inside you, sometimes you feel like your lungs are not getting enough air, other times your guts seem to be burning, the worst was when it felt like your skeleton had grown barbs and your urine was stained with red and smelled of blood. You are slowly dying, you are sure of it; the legendary resilience of Hellhounds only went so far.

During the choke filled moments when you are curled under a tree, begging whatever dark deity that watches over you to ease the pain, even if only a little, you often find yourself thinking of the Boy and the Village. You still don’t know why you went and did that, why you slaughtered that warband. It wasn’t in your nature to do things like that- you weren’t like other hellions; you always were methodical, pragmatic, calculating and cynical. You didn’t react without analytical reasoning beforehand, that was how you stayed alive all this time. Flying off the handle like you did was just asking to get killed- it was why there were so few elder hellhounds. They all went stupid and died young in a fight biting off more than they can handle, whether it was a Telothian Champion or a warband that they encountered they all eventually met there ends in one way or another.

When you do eventually make it to the outskirts of Xion, you can smell the stink of your kind- the smell of Hellions radiating from the damp and watery mangrove forests that run along the main road towards the city of Xion proper. You hobble through the groves, the murky water coming up to your knees as you lean on a venerable branch taken from a yearling pine. Sweat beads your brow, you are sure that you have a fever and that some of your wounds have likely gone septic as a result from your ravaged state. It is with visible relief that you come to a halt before shrouded wooden walkways leading further into the groves.

Your legs lurch almost drunkenly each step you take along the stilted wooden bridge. In time, you finally come to what could only be a village, raised wooden platforms and homes built into the hollowed out cores of giant yearling swamp-pines. You smell the guards long before you see them. You stop, leaving heavily on your makeshift crutch, a sign of weakness that does not escape the two towering ogres that now stood before you. Pale green skin and tattered, ragged clothes, they are likely twins, each mirroring the other in appearances and sneering demeanor, behind them scurried an Imp-Slave, purple skin highlighted by a deep red stone collar.

“Sister, sister, is that a dog I see?” One laughed, voice rough and gloating.

“It would appear that a mangy mutt has arrived at our door.” The other laughed, her voice a perfect mimic. You bite your tongue and let their blandishments wash over you. It is early in the morning, and the mist is thick and obscuring, you look around you, the forest, the bridge and nearly everything else vanish into the fog. It doesn’t take long for the Ogre twins to grow board of mocking you once they see that you were not going to break so easily. They finally come around, and ask their questions.

“So far from home, this one is,”

“Indeed, indeed. What be her purpose, I may ask, to stray from her cold and dreary lands?”

“Got my reasons,” You snort, your voice is low, and your throat aches from long days spent traveling with no food and little water.  The Twins stare down at you, clearly not satisfied with the non-answer, and they hold the silence over you like a proverbial guillotine.

“Any can have a reason for their actions,” The one on the right speaks.

“Your reason for being here is what we would know.” Says the one on the left.

“Just lookin’ for a place to stay.” You sigh, “Nothin’ else.”

The two Ogre’s mutter something to each other before waving off their collared Imp, who scurried away, bat wings fluttering quietly.

“But why your appearance? So ragged and battered?” The one on the right asks. “I know of the pride dogs like you take in the counting of their scars, but surely, this is far in excess, is it not?” She gestures to your ravaged appearance.

“Mayhap this one is fond of such sadism towards itself,” The one on the left tells her sister. “Mayhap its owner beat it for losing its collar?”

You have to endure three more minutes of this taunting before the Imp returns, she’s out of breath and panting, but she speaks cleanly and concisely to her owners. The two Ogre twins turn to you.

“The Anvil would see you, dogs like you always capture her interest.” They wave you off, letting their imp-slave guide you. They are pouting, clearly not done with their mocking of you in your weakened state. Your teeth grind despite the pain it causes you.

…

You remember the stories; you remember the legends and myths of the ones who came before the world was ready. The old lords of the primordial world were known as Titans and their progeny were their vassals, everyone and everything else was their property and cattle. They were the only beings who survived the cataclysm that made the world as it was now- they were the only ones to remain after the grand reshaping, and they ruled the new world just as they ruled the world before, and then came the day that the Titans fell.

The Titans were said to be wiped out by the First Lords of the Black Mountain and the Hundred Kingdoms of Man. There are countless telling’s and legends of that climactic confrontation, where the Titans breathed their last, and there are even greater telling’s of the great heroes who hunted down their children, and there are the tales of Woe that came from these actions, of the Heroes and their armies, driving the Titan Spawn into the abyss where their cornered wailing awoke the Hellion Deities that lurked in the abyss and brought about the creation of the first Hellion Beasts.

The Titan Spawn were said to be slaughtered to the last, every single one meeting their end in those deep dark caves that touched the very edge of reality, where the meeting points between worlds was at its most thin.

They say that the Titan Spawn were dead.

The creature before you makes you question if it was true that all of the Titans Progeny were truly dead. She was like any other Oni you’ve ever seen, but she radiated phenomenal power with casual ease. She lounged on a bed lain in the pelts of wild beasts many times her size, and her hut was bedecked in all manner of skulls and trophies. She called herself The Anvil, and she went by no other name. A simple strip of cloth around her waist reserved her lower half, while her breasts hung free like an Amazonian, muscles rippled across her frame with perfect definition, her skin was a pale red, and her singular horn was a stark and stygian black. She focused on you with fierce, seemingly colorless eyes.

“”So…” She drawled; pointed teeth glinting in the low firelight of candles. “You come here seeking shelter? You come here, to my village?”  She may not be a Titan, or a child of Titans, but you are certain that she shares Ancestral blood with them.

 “You wear quite a coat of scars, Hellhound, some old, but mostly new. Tell me, was it you who were responsible for the smoke that billowed from the south?” You so no reason to lie, so you nod and tell her of the warband and the village that they destroyed.

“The southern tribes…” She mused, placing a name to those you slaughtered. “They’ve been raiding further north every year, do they intend to strike at Xion?” You say nothing, knowing that she was not speaking to you but herself, you know not what thoughts and schemes she plotted, nor did you care, they were of no concern to you.

“I do not distrust you, I know better than to second guess your kind.” She wasn’t wrong. It is a strange quirk of your nature, and it cannot be explained, but Hellhounds could not lie. You and your kindred could only ever speak the truth. It was a point of interest that made hellhounds stick out among the various Hellion creatures who only ever spoke in twisted lies and deceitful half-truths. Out of all of them, only Hellhounds could be relied upon to speak truthfully, and no one knew as to why, not even the hellhounds themselves.

She glances behind you, pointedly staring at your ruined tail and the faint shimmers of silver that lined it. “Strength enough to uproot trees, guile enough to mislead Kitsune’s, and the vitality of the Black Mountain itself.” She sighed, as if wistful. “Are these not the legends the silvered hellhounds?”

“Yeah,” You grunt in response. They were certainly legends, and that was all that they were. You’ve never been able to uproot a tree, you’ve never even seen a Kitsune, and you most certainly have limits to your endurance. The only thing special about Silver tailed Hellhounds, was that they were old.

“But, I suppose, you and I both know that those are just legends.”

You don’t say anything, instead looking to various skulls and mounted heads that line the walls. The candles illuminate the place with a somber orange red glow, and the Oni before you appears to loom even larger than she really is, her voice mocking in tone and timbre. She truly does reek of strength, undiluted and unmerciful.

“Tell me, hound, why is it that you kneel before me like a whipped bitch?”

Indignation ignites in your chest, but you do well to keep it contained. You kneel because it is asked of you, and you do not know if you could stand even if you wanted to. Your body is dying. You grunt, noncommittally. “We have limits. Like everyone else.””

“Is that so?” The Oni purrs out her words, for some reason, you feel as if she is savoring your pain like it was some sort of ambrosia. “So what is it that you come to me for, then? What boon do you beg from me?”

It was a simple enough question, one you already had the answer for. “A home.” You say simply.

“A home, for a nomad such as yourself, why would I grant something that you will so clearly abandon in due time?”

She had a point, and it would make sense mostly, but you had no plans that centered around more travel, all you wanted was for a quiet place to die. “I don’t plan on leaving.”

“How so?”

“Reasons.”

“You don’t plan to leave, so you say, but why should I allow you to stay? This is a community, one built upon the marshes and hostile at night. How can you bring greater wealth to this place? For what reason should I grant you refuge.”

“I can fight, and I can kill. You need a guard dog?” You glance up at her. “You’re looken’ at one.”

…

“Hello, sister.” The Arachane was of a younger sort; clipped yellow and white lower body with an olive skinned human torso. Her physique was lean and spry all at once, no muscle to be seen, not like you, her kind hunted from the shadows with invisible string traps.  “You seem to be in dire straits.” She observed, her hollow fangs extended and retracted, if it was a threat you didn’t catch it, you can only shrug; she wasn’t wrong.

“And Anvil dearest wants me to look after you for free, was it?” She asks, “Another charity case I am to presume?”

“She just wants me walking right and not shitting intestines.” She seems satisfied by this, or mollified enough to work. She brings you to the back room. A small wooden table with a hide cot and furs draped about the floor, there were endless varieties of medical instruments hanging from the walls and shelves, a gut reaction told you everything that you needed to. This was not going to be pleasant.

“Get on the cot and eat this. I’ll need to cut your leg open and reset the bones by hand. After that it’ll be on to the ribs- it looks like your smuggling a cucumber under your skin.”

Charms stopped you from bleeding too much, and they kept most of the pain at bay, there was still more than enough to cause you to black out.

She cut for sixteen hours before you were in reasonable enough shape. Sixteen hours before you could leave the cot.

…

The herbs she fed you help you heal. The charms closed up the more prominent wounds. Your body still hurt from where she cut you open and rearranged you on the inside, plucking fragments of bone from muscle and organ, resetting poorly healed ribs and leg bones, she had to re break everything before she could fix it properly. By the time it was done you had a whole new array of scars and scabs. And you were eager to finally move again.

“Your leg is still a mess, worst damage I’ve seen in a while, shredded muscles and compound fractures ontop of compound fractures. Had to waste a lot of magic just to get it into a state where you could move it.” You know she isn’t lying. You can smell the truth, and even without that you could tell for yourself back when it happened.

Bone breaking through the skin in multiple places was and is never a good sign.  “It should still hurt when you walk sometimes but not as much as before, managed to get everything back into place well enough, but the body will never full recover from something that traumatic. You can feel the dull ache and pinch of muscle, and your walk is still unsteady. You’re still walking, however, and that is good enough for you. You give the Drider your thanks and leave the apothecary hut for what felt like a fist time in over a year.
.

Your duty was to guard the village, its name only being told to you at last, long after you healed; the Hellion Marshes. As you stalked the encampment at night, you finally got to fully appreciate the town. It sprawled out among the mangroves, built up on raised platforms above the water, huts and buildings fastened to trees and bridging out and connecting to other platforms like an insane cyclopean spider web.

There were various black market stalls that offered exotic wares from across the sea- uniformly illegal things from the corrupt and notorious elven isles, home of the pirate court. You saw many different Hellions during your nighttime patrols, Dark elves were plentiful enough, as were ghouls and Arachne, but the Marshes were also home to The Night-Fiends and Hellbats, destitute Vampires who had lost their power during the Xion purges of the last era.

You never came across any other hellhounds. You even asked around, seeing if any of your sister hounds had been through the marshes before, the responses from those you conversed with were uniformly in the negative. Your task was an easy one, you patrolled the marshes a night, keeping to the outskirts of the platformed areas and raised suspension bridges, you were to make sure that the more beastile creatures kept their distance, and those that would deem to attack were swiftly dealt with.

You worked alongside the Ogre twins that greeted you upon your arrival, their names were Tess and Stess, and the often made lewd overtures to you, inviting you to preform in a threesome with them, naturally, you declined their advances as politely but bluntly as you could. . It didn’t stop them from preforming lewd displays of affection upon each other when you were around, however. It did not do much to distract you from your work, your fires burned almost without passion, and have for as long as you could remember. Perhaps it was this reason that you lived so long, your aggression not being tied to lust, not blinding your actions.

This nightly patrol became your routine, often times it was uneventful, and you would go to your hut, a thatched rough affair with room enough for a dresser, a straw bed, and nothing else. Your door creaked when the wind blew, and your window was a hole cut into the wooden walls. It was home enough.

Six months passed without major event, you would scare off the occasional band of gremlins and wild imps, but other than that, your days were peaceful and boring. You had mostly forgotten of your past experience in that village, and you had almost driven the face of The Boy from your minds eye.

Then it Happened.

…

You part the crowd, and you see what the fuss is.

It is a human child in bright blue garb with powder blond hair and almost feminine features. He looks about himself, staring wide eyed at the countless varieties of hellions that surround him, some sneering and others scowling. The horde is watching him hungrily, the urge to take this male and do things more unspeakable about their expressions; you glance down at the boy again. He is quiet, curious even, a ponderous gaze on his face as he stares up at the surrounding beasts that even well blooded knights rightly fear. The courage that comes from ignorance truly is a remarkable thing. He almost reminds you of that boy from the village in that regard.

That boy. Torn to shreds, ripped apart, no strength or blood left in him, his last act in life was to come and find you, to die in your arms. He died in your arms.

You weren’t there to protect him.

You don’t realize that you are pushing your way through the horde until you are standing beside the boy, looking down at him with an ache in your chest you cannot rightly place.

“What are you doing, hound?” One from the crowd asks, or demands, rather.

“What’re you doing here, kid?” You talk down to the human child. “Don’t you know where you are?”

“Are you ignoring me, hound?”

“It’s dangerous for your kind here. Aren’t you scared? You should go home.” You squat down besides the boy, meeting him at eye level, his gaze is piercing in a ways, and you feel sad for some reason. “Your parents are probably worried, you have parents, right?”

“Damnit, what are you doing?” Another from the horde shouts.

“Are you planning on hogging that human all to yourself?”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I last fed on young flesh?”

“Back off.” You say over your shoulder, there is no heat in your words but there is the promise of fire. “C’mon kid, lets get you home.” When you say this, and take the kid by the arm, the first one strikes.

You don’t know why you are coming to the rescue of this meager human boy; you knew that doing so would only result in violence, only result in alienating yourself from the Hellion marshes outside of Xion. It was stupid of you to do this.

You can’t dodge the blow because of your position, and because the boy is right before you, the blow is coming from behind. You can hear the pounding of armor over wood- a dullahan or a dark knight, you react accordingly and grab the boy, pulling him close to your chest and rolling backwards. The axe sails overhead and smashes down right where you were squatting, you kick upwards, powerful leg smashing into the gauntlet, breaking the grip the armored hellion has over her weapon.

You shouldn’t be doing this. You tell yourself over and over, it goes against your nature. You are non confrontational, its how you survived for this long. Getting into pointless fights wasn’t your style. You are a tepid river in comparison to a raging torrent. You also tell yourself, or some deeper part of you tells you, that it’s within your instincts to do so- to seek out conflict like this. You are a hellhound. You can only go against your instincts for so long, until they boil up inside and overcome reason. You only needed the right trigger to appear before you.

You stand, popping up behind the Hellion and with one hand you rake your claws down her armored backside, obsidian black nails, sharp enough to pierce any protection rip through and leave ichor bleeding trenches along her back, a follow-up kick sends her sprawling. You can hear screaming again, like before back in the village.

The rest of the Hellions attack now. You hold the boy closer with one arm.

The boy hinders you but also helps in a sick sort of way. You are less mobile and short one arm because of him, but at the same time the hellions won’t risk hitting him- they want him pristine for their own sick amusements. Some are not above giving him a few bloody cuts, and it is these that you prioritize on dispatching first.  There are also some you must avoid altogether. The Oamukade above all else. Natures perfect killers, slaughter perfected. Fast and relentless. Even from a young age when you were more prone to fits of violence you knew that to go against one was folly. You are lucky now that you do not see any present. It is likely that even the Hellions outcast these creatures to the darker pits of the swamp around them.

Your consciousness fades, your sight tinted red, a howl ripping from your throat, and a warmth pressed against your chest, these become the only things that you are aware of as you rip, tear, and slaughter. This boy is yours. He is yours. Yours, and only Yours.

You come to your senses when there is nothing left to kill. It is not like before, back in the village.  Your body is a mess of cuts and bleeding wounds, but unlike that warband, the Hellions of this swamp seem to lack the same ruthless savagery of those from before. Upon gazing at your savagery, many fled with all haste, and those that stayed, died.

The boy is held firmly against your chest, face seemingly buried in your ample bosom, smothering him with your breasts and chest fur.  Your breathing is heavy, and your wounds sting. You gently set the boy down. He is shaking, blood has spattered over his fine clothes, he is in obvious shock from the events that had transpired, but he is not yet crying.  You hesitate, squatting down before him, unsure of what to say, unsure of what to even do.


Armored footsteps, lighter this time but still present, behind you. You whirl around, blood staining your vision even more crimson. Your claws strike metal- a shield –your curved nails dig into the metal and pull, stripping it away with ease. You can see silver, and shapes, but consciousness is being lost in the face of the blood-induced rage that you have always held in check- now released.

“Myria-“ The boy speaks in your arms and it is enough to jolt you into control. A thin glint of silver cuts for your neck, and you dodge- leaping backwards- your leg gushes blood as muscles tense and constrict, you can barley feel the pain.

“Let him go- Hellion!” You wipe the blood that stains your vision away, your teeth are bared and breath rolls from your lips hot and heavy along with bloody loam. A Xion knight, or a noble from one of their houses. Fullplate silver armor with cobalt trim and banding. A winged helm with eagles wing tips flared off from the visor, and a longsword clutched in a double fisted grip. The shield the Knight once held is in the grip of your claws, the surface torn up from your ministrations.

“I said to let him go!” Female, clearly determined, must’ve come looking for the boy. Makes sense, kid is clearly of noble blood- would explain the clothes. House guard, perhaps?

She charges when you don’t move, when you just stare and do nothing. Sword raised overhead, she lets loose a warcry and hacks downwards. You avoid it easily enough and return her shield, it slips from your claws and smashes into her side. Her armor doesn’t shine, it is a dull silver and blue. Worn from use. She is still a novice, though.

You lash out with a kick- nocking her down, onto her side, completely open to attack as her sword arm is pinned to the ground. You don’t attack; you’d be putting the boy at further risk by doing so.

Why don’t you just put him down and let him go?

The knight is here to take him back.

Why are you still fighting?

“Filthy- Beast!” She shouts, scrabbling back onto her feet. She’s not used to fighting monsters like you. Humans she could easily handle, bandits, raiders, orcs and trolls. Creatures that used weapons of iron and steel and stone and wood. You use claws. Were you anything but a Hellhound that would put you at a disadvantage. She doesn’t know this.

She won’t win against you.

She attacks again, she goes low, swinging for your legs, it leaves her completely exposed. You almost daintily jump over her swing, and then you have her helm in your claws- the sound of wrenching metal, and with a heavy tug that sends her fumbling forwards, you shred it from her head. Dirty blond-brown hair spills in flowing locks, along with blood from where you cut against her scalp.

She hits the ground hard, and you land on her back a second after, it would be simple to kill her now, bite down on her neck, crush her skull, and the boy would be yours alone. Nothing and no one would be able to touch him then, he’d be safe forever-

“Pl-please stop fighting!” Like dunking your head in ice water, that soft panicked voice so easily rips you back to your senses from the verge of madness. You almost choke with how fast you stop and freeze. The boy wants to be put down; he wiggles in your arm, unsure of what to say. He doesn’t need to say anything, you let him down- gently. His legs are shaking and he smells of urine, flecks of blood and ichor are speckled on his face. This is only seen after you quickly examine him for wounds. He is free from any harm. You relax.

The lady knight heaves, the wind nocked clear of her lungs, she gets to her feet, seething hatred in her eyes all directed at you. “M’lord,” she pants, looking to the boy. Kid is a noble, you guessed right. “Are you unhurt?” the boy nods, he regains his composure, but still is somewhat shaken. You can guess why, you glance at the scene, blood and armor bits lay around, there are bodies, most are dead.

“Did these beasts- did they do anything to you untoward?” She asks, almost frantic. The boy shakes his head again, not knowing what she could have meant. He’s innocent, too innocent.

She’s glaring at you again, “What foul things did you have planned for M’lord, Hellion thing?” You look her over; she really shouldn’t be talking to you in such a tone in her condition. You shake your head and shrug. “Answer me with words, Beast!”

“Myria, please don’t shout!” The kid tugs on her arm- just like how the Boy did back at the…

“I’ll have nothing from you, do you not know what panic you have caused?” She snaps at the kid and your hackles bristle. “The castle is in an uproar!”

“I… I just wanted to explore,” He almost whispers, chastised.

“Think of your father and mother for once, these antics drive them to insomnia.” She takes the kid by the arm, pulling him close. He struggles, trying to pull away but her grip is firm.

“I don’t wanna go back!” The kid actually shouts now. “Nobody likes me and I have to sit my room all day! I want to go outside! I want to have fun! You never let me do anything!”

“If I ever let you go out, you always run from me, I will not put your desires before my duty!” She tightens her grip, it looks like it hurts and you feel a growl building in your throat. “Of duties, you should think of your own! In this life we cannot let ourselves be possessed by our Wants, M’lord.”

Her words don’t have any effect on him, you can see this clearly, you glance around, and you’ve driven the others off, but only for a little. They’ll be back, and they’ll be angry. Very, angry. You need to set these two on their way before then.

“Hey, kid.” You speak suddenly, and the kid is quiet almost at once, looking over at you with firm attention. “You shouldn’t stress you caretaker too much. Her jobs hard as it is.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and the Knight continues to glare at you, “She’s not my caretaker,” he murmurs.

“My mistake then.” You reply, “You should leave.” You tell the Knight. “I drove the others off. They’ll be back soon. There’s no way you could even take one of them on.” You should have curtailed that last bit. She looks ready to leave with her charge in tow, but your questioning of her martial skill brings her up short.

“Excuse me?” she snaps, her indignation more than visible, more than vocal.

“Forget I said anything and go.” You hastily reply, paws raised.

“You question my skill, you beast?”

“Please, just go-“ you hear horses, hooves on wood, armor clinking. A half cohort maneuvers through the raised cabins. Knights in shining silver and cobalt armor, six of them together, they disperse and surround you almost at once. You shut your eyes, exasperation overriding anything else. You don’t have to open them to tell that six lances are trained on you.

The situation did not improve, when you heard the slow purring rage of The Anvil.

“Silvertail,” You feel your heart still almost entirely, and your pride is not so great that you would not admit to feeling the cold needles of fear creep into you. “You disappoint me, Silvertail.”

The knights, the boy, and you all turn to face the Oni woman, by her side are the Ogre twins, Tess and Stess. The Anvil wields a massive Hammer, obsidian black head and a steel haft, it is as crude as a weapon can get, but by the way the featureless black head absorbs the light you are all to sure that it is not an ordinary instrument.  It takes everything you have to resist taking a furtive step back, and she knows it.

“Look at these bodies, Silvertail, look at them and explain to me what it is that you have done.” You can hear the rage boiling just behind her words. You swallow any words that you think you could have said.

What could you say to alleviate the situation? The Lady Knight steps forwards, she is fearless in that oblivious foolhardy way that only a human can be. She fishes some sort of unfamiliar crest out from a pouch on her belt and holds it up.

“I am Lady Myria, Captain of the Mariner Knights of Xion.” She spat blood, clearing her mouth; there is a fire in this woman’s eyes. “Am I to presume that you are the leader of the Hellion settlement?”

The Anvil stares at “Lady Myrian’, as if she were some sort of exotic and rare insect flitting about in front of her, pandering for her attention. She listens to the Knight for a full ten seconds, before she returns her attention to you. “

“Why did you kill my citizens, Silvertail?” She asks with mock kindness, you can feel the venom-laced barbs just underneath her utterances.  You are under no illusions that she knows full well what happened here, you are not sure how, but you are positive that she knows everything that she needs to. She just wants to see you squirm, and hear you say it.

Myria steps forwards again, clear indignation in her eyes at being so promptly ignored; she thrusts her emblem forwards again, as if it meant something. “Do you not recognize my authority, Hellion?” She shouts. “You will not ignore me!”

The Anvil does ignore her, for a moment at least before lazily panning her gaze over towards her with clear disdain.

“What is it, whelp,” She spits. “I’ve little patience for you.”

“You will have more, then,” Myria snaps back, “You will leave and not interfere in this matter at hand.”

“Oh?” Anvil grins, “Is that truly a fact?” You can taste the preamble to violence flit through the air for a moment. “ You would dene to order me around like some squire boy? In my Domain?”

“This is not your land, Hellion, this is the land of Xion, granted to your kind by the Royal family, and it can just as easily be taken back.”

“Is. That. So?” You could feel a malaise, almost as if it was turning to sulfur, breath became difficult for you, and you desperately wanted this woman to stop.

“You know the agreement, Hellion, and you know what is at stake were you to give reason to promote grievances, the choice is yours to make.”

The power in the air remained, thick and cloying, almost uncomfortable in how it mimicked the humidity with a soft saccharine musk. All at once it stopped, the sense of power faded, a power that the humans did not feel, and so they did not know the danger they were so narrowly subjected to. Anvil snorts, she turns away, saying nothing, only instead casting a glance back at you and only you. There was hatred in that glare that you knew would haunt your dreams so long as you were to have them.

Then came the chains.

Chains… chains are a new experience for you. Sanctified iron with blessed silver inlays, they may appear rusted, and they were rusted, but that is because they were left in purified water during human holy festivals. They sapped your strength entirely; it was to the point where you barley had the strength to even breathe. Yet you were still made to walk if you did not want to be dragged.

You don’t know what will become of you.

As you stumble behind the Colum of horses, dragged along by holy chains, the only thing that keeps you upright is the tentative stare of the little boy looking back at you with wide, sorrowful eyes.

The gates of Xion grew in the distance, high walls reaching from the sea to the foot of the great mountains, encapsulating the port kingdom on either side like some sort of natural fortress. Indeed it was this location that had allowed it to remain unconquered for all of history.
You are marched through the streets like some sort of prize, but it is never you that garners the rapturous gazes of countless humans and countless inhumans, the Knight-woman, Myria, and the noble boy, they are at the center of it, and the mounted Knight Mariners closed around them in a protective formation, lances held at the ready and with raised at their sides, hooves beat down on the cobblestone street.

The procession stuck to the main streets, and you idly observe your surroundings, every street was seemingly polished, there were no filthy peasantry, no battered and beaten folk that you are so used to observing in normal rural towns and cities, nor did these common folk mirror the huddled shameless humans from the far north that was once your home. People here seemed to glow; they seemed to be ignited with some strange inner spark that you only ever heard about in passing:

Happiness.


The mansions grow in stature the further you delve into the castle grounds until you are journeying into the castle proper. Stone inner walls worthy of a fortress proper tower above you, and a wrought iron gate slowly draws upwards as you are yanked forwards, stumbling almost until you are in the inner courtyard, royal sentinel knights man each battlment with crossbow and halberd, steely grey helms staring out over the expanse of the kngdom.

You can feel your nerves begin to fray as the procession dismounts, and a knight takes up position to your front, sides, and rear, boxing you in and forcing you through the armored front entrance to the Palace of Xion, home to the most powerful ruling family along the Western Edge.

All too soon, you are limping along a marbled floor, the boy and the Knight Captain leading, a firm gauntleted hand on the boys shoulder as you are brought into a throne room, and your inkling fears realized. The kid is a prince. The knight is his sister, a Princess. Two thrones are before you, each occupied by what clearly is a king and a queen. A flowing scale dress made from mighty sea leviathan on the queen, and dwarven runic armor on the king. The paladin and The sorceress. You’ve heard of these two, the custodies of Xion, and the ruling family that have kept this kingdom afloat.

The King seems to glow with an aloof optimism, but the Queen, she fixes her gaze upon you, thunder and fire seemed to be contained within her pupils, a whorled abyss of rumbling destruction barley contained by a meager human body, the elemental power of the sea itself wrought into an imperfect vessel; ready to burst forth at a moments notice and bring about a localized holocaust of elemental vengeance.

It was a gaze that spoke of nothing but postponed wrath.

The gaze of a mother scorned.

You never have felt smaller than you do now.