Drachenbane

[Mallory]

November 18th, 2018

They were two matches into the Warlord Tournament, and Mallory was going to the finals.

She'd done better than she expected so far, besting two opponents in bladed combat using a crimson specter she commanded from outside the ring. Conjured from her blood and fed by her magic, it had followed her every command without delay, maneuvering, defending, and lashing out with its shadowy blades as she whispered words in an ancient tongue and curled her fingers around the invisible threads that bound it. The specter now floated by her side while she enjoyed a bye as the lower bracket was settled.

The clash of wood and claws, and the triumphant screeching of the Minion of Deathlord, confirmed Mallory's wisdom in wearing a stolen pair of Eri's earmuffs, and stoked her fear that she would have to face the undead fighter in the finals. Maggie was formidable, but the witch was untested against the Minion. She watched the combatants through solid blood-colored eyes, as her connection to the specter applied an eerie red haze to her vision...

She wasn't sure if it was the haze, the screeching, or her exhaustion from a long day that was contributing the most to the growing headache centered on the base of her horns.

"You're pretty much set for one of the prizes, by the way," Na-rae offered aside to Mallory. Her friend was the caller for tonight's tournament, and the conversation was a welcome distraction to the witch's ache and anxiety.

"What are the options?" Mallory asked, rubbing carefully at her right temple.

"Test-free Overlord challenge grant. Can challenge the Overlord and he can't have anyone step in against you; the other is the Battlefield Park barony... which is haunted, I'm told. I haven't been up there to check it out, though." Na-rae paused as Jay settled in nearby, next to Maria -- both of them strangers to Mallory until recently, though she surmised they both had a long history with the sports here. "Jagi's enough spookiness for me already," Na-rae continued, referring to her onryou wife, Izumi. "And I guess the ghost in the elevator counts, too..."

"It's not haunted," Maria cut in. Mallory turned her head curiously; the conviction in her tone sounded like it was from experience.

"It's not? Hmm..." Na-rae furrowed her brow in thought.

"It will be if I move in," Mallory said with a smile at them both, tipping her hand over to the crimson specter still floating nearby. Another triumphant screech from the rings quieted her smile. "But, we'll have to see."

Maria turned away from them then to speak to Jay, and the witch turned her head back to Na-rae as she continued to speculate. "The forest around it is pretty spooky, ghosts or not... I've seen enough of it with the Orktoberfest going on. Right now is all about coziness and snow."

Mallory nodded, but her red gaze had slipped back to the fight, as the Minion took another swipe at Maggie's staff.

"I swear I saw a skeleton, or it could have been a weird looking tree branch..." Na-rae mused.

"Could have been the remains of the ODM mosh pit," Mallory speculated right back.

Maria's attention seemed to be drawn back by continued discussion of Battlefield Park, as she rejoined the conversation. "It supposedly drove the first holder of Battlefield Park crazy. She amassed a small army and burned down one of G'nort's establishments. She ended up being challenged by her brother-in-law to get it out of her hands... So, you know, great place to raise kids."

There were pieces of conversation that Mallory lost in the noise of the Annex, but she heard Na-rae's reply to Maria: "Maybe the ghosts made them crazy, or there's something under the ground whispering to them... or other weird things."

"Something about a cursed sword," Maria said. "Don't think anybody knows what actually came of the sword. I trolled around looking for it for a while. But no luck."

"Cursed sword..." Na-rae looked curious about this, and she wasn't alone. The witch knew the squire weapon of Battlefield Park to be a spear, and suspected that Na-rae knew that as well. "Hmm..."

The sound of the end of Maggie and the Minion's match, and the undead screech of "HAIL DEATHLORD!" brought the conversation to a stop. Mallory winced and adjusted her earmuffs, breathing a sigh as she refocused on the crimson specter, sending it back into the ring to do battle in the finals.

"Here we go..."

* * * * *

Nine rounds later, and Mallory had her first loss of the night. The Minion struck her blade cleanly through the specter, seemingly enraged by it and determined to destroy it. The witch's headache was throbbing now, and worsened when she bent her fingers and fed the specter a sliver of her own vitality, replenishing what the ghastly combatant had lost.

It was hard not to despair at the loss, but she wasn't out yet. The Minion had merely reset the bracket. The witch had one chance left, and underneath the despair were the embers of determined anger, ready to burst into a fiery rage. She bent her fingers as she maneuvered the specter back into a defensive stance...

* * * * *

...and seven rounds later, the Minion of Deathlord fell to the floor, its damaged leg giving out from underneath it. The specter advanced swiftly and ruthlessly, bringing a shadowy blade down with force only to stop short, leaving it resting against her undead opponent. "Well fought," the specter hissed in unison with Mallory. The red haze she shared with the specter and the intensity of the match had drawn them closer together, robbing the witch of virtually any awareness of her surroundings; but the rising cheers and Na-rae's announcement finally reached her senses, snapping her back to reality.

"And the 2018 Fall Cycle Warlord Tournament comes to an end! The winner is... Mallory!"

Mallory scrubbed her damp brow with a shaky hand, and as she blinked, the red haze faded and with it, her strained connection to the specter, dismissing it from its form. She looked out over the spectators... then threw her arms up victoriously. "Hell freaking yeah!"

"What will your choice of prize be, Mallory?" Na-rae asked, as the witch slid off of the table she'd been sitting on for most of the evening and made her way forward to accept her prize.

The witch's choice was clear. Overlord was a goal she was not ready to consider, and there were mysteries about this allegedly haunted armory in the forest that she was curious to unravel... "The Barony of Battlefield Park," she said decisively.

"Then you are now the newest Baroness of Battlefield Park... well, when the standings are updated it'll be official, but you'll have access to the Manor right now and all that stuff." Na-rae waved her hand to reassure the witch that she was fine to explore it at her leisure. She reached into her coat, resting on the caller's couch nearby, to pull a small envelope from the pocket. She tore it open and gave it a little shake, and a nondescript golden band fell into her palm. "And here's the ring for your new title," she added, tipping it into Mallory's waiting hand. The ring changed size before her eyes, adjusting itself to suit her fingers now in place of Nayun's.

"All hail Baroness Mallory!" Maggie cried... and with that, Mallory clutched the ring in her fist and held it triumphantly over her head.

((Adapted from live play with everyone at the Arena, including dialogue and descriptions of action from Jay, Maggie, Maria, Minion of Deathlord, and Na-rae!))

[Mallory]

November 19th, 2018

Mallory walked slowly down the stairs into the Annex, shuffling a small stack of video cassettes and frowning at the worn, nearly indecipherable labels. There were a few burrs stuck in her jacket and her combat boots were muddy from an evening trudging around in the woods and exploring the grounds of the armory. “No, that isn't right,” she murmured quietly, pausing on the landing to consider the labels.

She had thought BPT stood for “Battlefield Park Tournament,” but on closer inspection, they may have been workout videos.

There was another lead to chase down. She headed for the caller’s couch, smiling faintly at the familiar form of Matthew Simon relaxing in a lounger -- and an unfamiliar blonde-haired woman, standing and looking down at him with a cool smile befitting her aristocratic air.

Whatever the conversation was, it looked tense and unpleasant and the witch decided it was better to avoid it than greet Matt directly. She crept up to the couch quietly, sorting through a messy stack of binders, record sheets, and flyers where -- allegedly -- more tournament tapes were said to be lurking.

“I am here to talk about the barony I once held. Battlefield Park.”

Mallory went still, turning her head in the direction of the strange woman who said that from behind the cover of the couch. She couldn’t see her now to study her more closely, but she was well-positioned to eavesdrop.

“Yeah? You held it. I held it. What about it?” she heard Matt reply.

The aristocratic lady sounded unflappable as she continued: “I need its current owner to hold on to it for a while. It is better not to ask why. If she pledges loyalty, I want you to accept it, and I want you to step in for her if she is challenged.”

What?! Why?! Mallory’s impulse to stand up and demand answers was distracted by the sound of others entering the Annex -- Na-rae, and Valeuthil, the fae baroness of Seaside whose entrance she must have missed.

She heard Matt laugh, and the creak of the lounger as he stood. “You're awfully demandy. You want. What about what the Baron wants?”

It sounded like there would be a duel elsewhere in the Annex. All the better cover for Mallory to eavesdrop.

“I only come to sweeten the pot, Overlord. I thought perhaps the Benson Boulevard Initiative might be able to find a way to use a very sizable donation. Perhaps part of it now and part of it four months from now should the Baroness still hold her seat.”

Mallory nearly jumped out of her low crouch when the door to the Golden Perch tunnels clattered open and Nako stumbled through. The witch tensed her fingers on a couple of tapes beneath all the junk she’d been sorting through. She wasn’t sure they were what she’d been looking for; at this point, she didn’t care.

“Let me get this straight. You're trying to bri-- entice me to intercede for Mallory if she's challenged and you're using the misfortune of others to, what was it... sweeten the pot, as you say?”

Despite Matt’s directness, the stranger’s reply was swift and confident: “I am trying and failing to see the downside for anyone in the situation you have just laid out.”

“You might be right. There doesn’t seem to be much downside.” There was a long pause from Matt. “You just might be right... except, well... except for the obvious thing.”

The stranger didn’t let the next pause ride for long. Mallory strained to hear her as two duelists began their bout nearby, losing words to the noise. “...But please explain your obvious thing.”

“It doesn't at all take into account what the Baron wants. If she wants to be Loyal, fine. That's her choice. I'm not going to purchase that. If she wants to be Renegade, that's also her choice. I don't know what sway you have over her but I think she's earned the right to make her own decisions, not have them sculpted by you or anyone else.”

It felt strange, hearing oneself talked about at length. Mallory fought back a flush of embarrassment as she focused on their words.

Matt wasn’t quite done. “You want to donate to the BBI? Good. You should. I highly encourage you to.”

“It is best to leave the motives and motivations of eager, hungry, dangerous women in the hands of their own kind, Overlord.” What the hell? As a duelist, the witch expected to be scouted -- but not like this. “I have faith. Perhaps I have enough for the two of us.”

“Faith I might be able to trust. Your motives? Not so much.”

That only elicited an amused laugh from the stranger, and Mallory heard her shifting to leave. “Well, you are not a stupid man, that's for use. Tell your wife to expect that donation.”

The witch set her teeth and stood, pulling the tapes out and letting the binders fall noisily as she faced the pair. Matt’s gaze remained on the stranger, though:

“Tell your husband he ought to come around again. Even if he has to stoop beneath your station and visit the Outback.”

“I will indeed, Overlord. It was lovely meeting you.” The stranger’s eyes turned from him, catching the newest Baroness. Mallory got a wink and a twinkle of a sly smile. Then, she was headed back for the stairs, without a word to her.

Mallory watched her departure with a dangerous frown as Matt muttered ruefully at the stranger’s back. The witch paused, before deciding to greet him simply: “Overlord.”

“What's the deal with your guardian devil over there?” Matt thumbed after the stranger’s exit.

Mallory shook her head. “I have no idea who that was. Do you?”

“I know who she said she was... And apparently she has keen interest in you and your keeping hold of Battlefield Park.”

“Then maybe there's something interesting about that barony...” Mallory narrowed her eyes thoughtfully as she circled right back to the lady’s name. “Who did she tell you she was?”

“Ever hear of Cletus Ganderfald?”

“Sounds... familiar,” Mallory said, struggling to place where she had read that particular name.

“She claims to be his wife, Lady Arane Ganderfald. Can't say I ever recall meeting her before but she held that barony many many years ago.”

So there's something special about the barony, then. "Is there a book somewhere, that you know of, detailing the barons' reigns?"

“Overviews of sorts, yes. If you're looking for journals and the like, there's a chance you might find something of the sort in the Manor.”

“Thanks, I'll... poke around. And I'll let you know where I stand by the end of the week,” Mallory added with a dip of her head to him. The attention of a noblewoman was a troubling development, but the witch managed to find a grin to affect bravado: “Regardless of what that bitch has to say when I find her.”

Matt had a sober reminder for Mallory as she turned to leave: “Remember, it’s your choice. Not anyone else’s.”

As they bid each other farewell and the witch climbed the stairs, her thoughts swirled around the mysterious Lady Ganderfald -- and why she had returned to encourage Mallory St. Martin to make the right choice.

((Adapted from live play with Arane, Matt, Nako, Valeuthil, and Na-rae, with thanks!))

[Mallory]

November 20th, 2018

The grounds of the Battlefield Park armory should have had no visitors since Nayun vacated her reign, but the witch had found troubling signs during her tour of the grounds the night before. Scratching at the walls, glowing figures passing by the windows, other clues to the presence of the dead neither surprised nor bothered Mallory; but a few piles of embers, patches of turned earth, and other signs of life told her that the property needed her attention sooner than later. She had a shop to run, classes to teach, and a wedding to plan, but the barony promised to take an even greater share of her limited time if she failed to dissuade opportunistic parties from moving in.

The boughs of the mighty old oaks that towered over the orchard of Adennan meswen trees stopped most of the moonlight and starlight from reaching the grounds, so Mallory lit her way with a lantern of piercing golden light, its rays scattering the shadows as she stalked around the perimeter. There was a stone wall here once, much of it tumbled over by massive tree roots or overgrown with ivy, and every thirty feet the witch stopped, uncovered the debris from what remained of the old stonework, and used the talon-like point of her left ring fingernail to scratch her sigil into the stone. As she stooped to inscribe the thirteenth and final marking, the wind rustled through the dead leaves that still clung to the trees, carrying a chilling voice over the forest's rattling sigh:

...burn them...

The witch straightened slowly, lifting up her lantern to let the light wash over her dark surroundings. There were hints of light in the windows, suggestions of faces peering at her that vanished as soon as she looked harder, but nothing she hadn't seen here already. "If you have something to say," she said, raising her voice over the wind, "say it. Let's hear it."

Silence, but for the mysterious sounds of the forest at night, and the noise that carried from Orktoberfest in the distance. The witch let out a slow, irritated sigh and stomped off towards the officer's quarters, tugging her scarf loose to let out the sudden heat she felt in spite of the chill...

[Mallory]

November 22nd, 2018

There had been no signs of trespass from the thirteen wards set around the perimeter, but the witch's memory was sharp enough to know that the little mounds of earth and piles of ember and ash she found tonight were not the ones she had seen earlier in the week. The obvious answer was that she had missed them in the darkness as she explored the unfamiliar space, but the possibility that these were new signs could not be ignored. It was enough to dissuade her from her original plan, which was to bury vials of her own blood beneath ritually marked stones scattered around the grounds.

Traversing the forest on her way to the barony had given her the idea, as she'd seen more than one of the trees along the winding path turn its thorny boughs and twist its gnarled roots in her direction as she passed. There were a number of older trees on the grounds, at least a generation older than the meswen orchard and in far worse shape. She drove Andrea's old, earth-breaking sword Meliai into the trees, clenching her left hand around the edges to let her blood flow down the blade and into the heart of each tree. She spoke an invocation of the Furies, and as the ancient Koine words rose in tone, so too did the wind, swaying the old forest around her as she conjured her guardians.

It would take a keen eye or a strong gift of the Sight to see the difference, but with each tree struck, a conjured being of green flame of the same hue as the barony's ghosts erupted from the branches and floated over to join them. They adopted the resident spirits' appearance as much as they could, but they were a different manner of specter, a manifestation of her magic given power without will. Mallory breathed out a long, relieved sigh as the last of the specters floated away to join the manor's spirits, listening to the wind as it lingered in a soft, warm breeze from the south.

...raise it high... let the rage burst forth... like the inferno...

When the witch's eyes snapped open, the voice was gone. She looked out at the forest, then back at the armory and barracks, and scowled. "The invitation stands. Come on out! Let's talk."

Once more, silence greeted her challenge to the strange, chilling voice.

"...Fine. Have fun whispering to the empty halls. I've got other shit to do," she grunted, hefting Meliai over her shoulder as she set off down the path, putting her back to the spectral horsemen that watched her as she left.

[Mallory]

November 24th, 2018

There was one final step Mallory had in mind for the manor as long as she was its custodian, but it had to wait for nightfall. The witch trudged down the dark forest path away from Orktoberfest, the roaring bonfires, thudding music, and growled vocals of Orcish Death Metal fading behind her as she approached the old armory. She could see the signs of her wards, subtle flashes of crimson sparks around the perimeter; and two of her spectral guardians floating by the entrance, shadowy spears propped against the shoulders of their ragged old military uniforms. Whatever had been causing the disturbances earlier, she saw no signs of it now, and let out a pleased chuckle as she stomped up to the door of the officer's quarters -- the place that had once housed the armory's commandant, now serving as the barony's manor.

She pulled her glove loose from her left hand with her teeth, a small silver knife poised in her other hand; biting down on the leather glove helped to stifle her pained noises as she pressed the blade into her skin, tracing a sigil with a series of precise cuts: her own sigil, surrounded by a symbol for elemental flame.

She dropped the knife onto the doorstep as she slapped her bloody left hand against the gargoyle-adorned lintel; with her right hand she tugged off her hat and her scarf, tore open her jacket and tossed it aside. She could feel a surge of that strange warmth she had felt before, a sudden southern breeze, but no voices carried with it, and it did not outlast her patience. Soon the cold set in, biting at her face and setting her teeth to chattering.

She waited.

When she had waited long enough for the discomfort to become pain, she plucked a warped glass pendant from her necklace with her bloody hand and cast it against the stone doorstep as hard as she could. It shattered, with a burst of magical green flame that should have dissipated at once -- but it roared back at her instead, swallowing her vision.

* * * * *

Twelve well-armed riders assembled on the grounds of the armory, appearing every bit as ruined as Mallory recalled, but something else seemed different. The threads of Fate felt wrong to her, somehow, and unfamiliar banners flapped in the wind, hanging over the entrance and the manor itself: blood red on the top, pitch black on the bottom, with an unfamiliar signet in the center, stitched in with golden thread.

A thirteenth rider was at the front of the raiding party, and watched with a cold smile as the others lifted blazing torches in unison with the sword she slid slowly from its sheath on her back. It was studded with rubies and made of a strange silver, bright but indifferent to any light outside of it, reflecting only a fire that burned from within -- though identical that the fire of rage that blazed in her eyes.

As the witch stared into the strange blade, the rubies turned to blood, flowing over the hand of its wielder and from jagged wounds in her palm, clutched tightly in claw-like fingers. Green flame erupted from where the precious stones had been set, and as they did, stone shattered and the earth broke all around her. The thirteenth rider was gone, replaced by the witch herself --

-- sitting on a throne of blackened rock, holding the blazing blade across her lap, staring with eyes of green flame as timbers burned and stone walls collapsed around her...

* * * * *

Mallory pulled herself back to her feet in a panic, a conjured vine of belladonna winding its way around her left arm as she stood ready to invoke her power and defend herself from whatever had caused this... but she was once more alone at the manor, in the present day, with nothing but the spirits and her own summoned specters for company. The spell had worked, she noted, ensconced torches blazing with magical fire on every building, and warm golden light spilling out of the windows. The magic amplified the presence of the spirits in strange ways, casting humanoid shadows across the windows when they passed, filling the halls with their voices and their laughter when they whispered to one another, so that trespassers would not look at the barony and think it unoccupied.

The heat of the strange fire she had felt still permeated her skin, but the witch knew better than to listen to it. She quickly gathered her discarded outer layers, zipping her jacket back up as she hurried away from the armory, back towards the warmth and (relative) safety of Orktoberfest's bonfires...

[Mallory]

December 4th, 2018 - The Golden Perch Inn.

Arane’s trench coat was belted around the waist, her hair twisted up in a meticulous, neat chignon. She released a heavy exhale as soon as she stepped inside, pulling her hands free of her pockets to rub them together. Her cool blue eyes scanned the interior as she approached the bar, quickly finding the one she sought tending the bar -- Mallory St. Martin.

The witch waved in greeting, the simple golden band on her right ring finger catching the light with ghe gesture, and Arane offered a smile and a nod in reply. She kept her coat on as she waited at the bar for Mallory to finish with another customer.

“Can I get you something to drink, Lady Ganderfald?”

Mallory’s smile for Arane was curious, and she replied as she perched lightly on a stool: “A glass of wine would be lovely. Thank you.” Her accent was musical but not particularly thick.

The witch’s curious study of the former baroness continued for a while longer, before she simply stated, “Just a moment.” She disappeared into the inn’s back room, but did not leave her customers for long; she soon returned with a bottle of wine, setting it down to leave the seal facing Arane before turning to serve another patron.

The bottle bore the seal of the Nausikaa family, a product of their vineyards. A ten year old cabernet sauvignon.

When the witch returned to Arane, she had a glass and corkscrew ready, and started working on opening the bottle. The lady Ganderfald smiled slightly. “I must say, I’m impressed by whomever does the purchasing here.”

“Is that why you wanted me to have your old barony?” Mallory’s reply was blunt and almost immediate. Her too-sharp left ring fingernail tapped against the counter between them as she held the base of the bottle and, with her other hand, started prying...

“You’re not asking the right questions. Of course I would prefer you over a child, a minion with no mind of its own, and someone who wears a Crew jacket which, therefore, makes him no better than the minion. That is not why I came back.”

Pop. “Something to do with that seal,” the witch indicated the bottle facing Arane with a dip of her head, “once flying over the manor, and the fact that I can still See it?” She gave Lady Ganderfald a generous pour.

“I have been waiting for a woman who had a heart like mine,” Arane said, giving Mallory an encouraging smile. “Only that woman would feel a tug towards what needs to be found. Only she would deserve that sort of power.”

“The ruby-studded sword,” Mallory said, eyes narrowing as she slid the wineglass across the bar. “What is it?”

Arane gave herself the time it took to taste her wine to consider her answer. “A weapon. Like any weapon, it is only as dangerous as the skillset of the user. It can help you accomplish great things. You must only decide what greatness you wish to accomplish.”

One of her patrons bumped into a barstool, and the witch paused as she glanced aside, before she continued: “Maria Graziano called it cursed. Said the first holder of the manor went mad... raised an army, set a few fires...”

“Another minion in a Wrecking Crew jacket. I was the first holder of Battlefield Park. I wasted my opportunity on anger and revenge. I set one fire and it was a beautiful one.” There was a flicker of a smile across Arane’s face. She took another sip from the glass, contemplating it as she set it back down. “You will do better with it.”

Mallory finally returned Arane’s smile, and tipped the wine bottle again to top off her glass. “I just have to find it first... but I have a feeling I know where Magnus left it.”

Arane visibly struggled not to roll her eyes at the mention of the name, and nursed her wine while Mallory called out to another patron. “A self-righteous bore, that man is,” she continued when the witch’s attention returned to her. “You shall find it.” She took a final sip from the glass, placing coins down to cover the charges before rising to her feet. A sparkle of a smile appeared. “I cannot wait to see if you burn the world down around you or if you shall be well-behaved once you find it.”

There were other customers who needed the witch’s attention, but in the middle of tending to them, the witch paused to stare down the bar at Arane. Her green eyes seemed to leap with flame at the mere suggestion of the fires this woman had caused before. “Lady Ganderfald,” she said, by way of farewell.

“Good night, Baroness, Keep that wine in stock and I’ll visit regularly.” She slid from her seat and moved to the door, and the witch stared at her back until she was gone.

((Written with the player of Arane Ganderfald and adapted from live play, with thanks!))

[Mallory]

Three days before the wedding - the witching hour.

Mallory stood before the armory’s old forge, lifting her lantern to examine the heavy iron doors that barred the entrance. Her breath came out in heavy clouds in the cold air, illuminated by the halo of light cast by the green flame within her lantern; around them the darkness was deep and oppressive, barely pierced by the enchanted candles in the windows of the compound’s few intact buildings.

The witch stretched out her left hand, vines cracking and groaning as they wound their way around her arm, digging thorns into her palm... and she pressed the bloody flesh flat against the door. Her eyelids fluttered and her eyes slowly rolled back as a smile crept across her lips. “It’s warm,” she breathed. “And it’s the one place in the compound where the dead hate to go... but only they can pass. Magnus -- or whoever did this -- was very clever,” she whispered to Penny, and nodded to the enchanted spear in her hand.

“It should be locked from the inside.” The witch took three slow steps back, and with a twist of her fingers, the bloody handprint on the imposing iron door fizzled away in a puff of smoke.

“Of course it is,” the wizard muttered lowly to herself after Mallory’s hand removed itself from the locked door. Who else would be willing to travel where no one else would dare? Granted, under these circumstances it seemed to befall whoever wielded the spear which just so happened to be comfortably held in her grasp.

Would you care to ask me to help lift this supposed burden of yours?

“Shh--,” then Penny cut herself off and flashed an apologetic look to Mallory. “Did you hear that?”

Suit yourself...

Before the witch could answer, the wizard was already shaking her head in a never mind type of manner and instead laid both hands on the spear. Maybe Mallory would think it was the wind, or just the armory’s general spookiness.

Lifting it up in a wild motion, Penny suddenly became translucent and faint to the eye before the slash was even completed. Soon she drifted on through the solid iron barrier, and barring no unintentional tripping of clever booby traps, the sound of rusted metal to metal scraping each other followed as the wizard unlocked the door.

Mallory blinked slowly as the iron door groaned open, and the pale green light from her lantern filled the forge’s dark interior. Dust that reeked of smoke hung in the air in thick clouds, limiting visibility, but the witch could see metal shining along the far walls. Swords, as well as spears, axes, flails, gauntlets, helmets, pauldrons; stacked together, heaped onto shelves, cluttering the walls and corners and littering the floor. Despite their age, many of them looked remarkably intact, though others had long since lost their wooden hafts and leather wrappings...

“Yeah,” the witch nodded to herself, and gave Penny a flash of teeth in a grin as she crept past her; “yeah, this is the place. It has to be.” Her booted feet crunched slowly on coal, spilled from the rusting iron door of a forge in a crumbling pile, and she paused and looked back at the wizard again. “You said you heard something, before you stepped through... Can you feel anything? Like fire, or... rage...”

Mallory raised her lantern higher, peering into the inscrutable clouds of dust and soot.

With only one hand on the spear, and the other having opened the door, Penny was in a more solid and normal state as Mallory headed inside. She didn’t have a Spidey sense, but Wizard’s sense? She was already on it. Copper light was brightening in her eyes as Mallory swept past her, “That was…something else I think.” Disregarding the whispers that she still could hear from the yellow opal tucked into a front pocket as best she could.

Her empty hand was lifted to block Mallory from her view, as well as the green light spilling from the lantern before she opened up her Wizards Sight and began her search of the room. While she was asked to look for things like heat and angst, first and foremost Penny was looking for magical tripwires, ley line lock boxes and the like. Broken down and residual bits of magic left behind created a trickling trail that the wizard soon found herself following.

“I think this way.” Carefully gesturing with the spear as she moved.

The magic that still lingered in the forge retained enough of its potency to prevent a scrying spell from locating the long-lost sword; but now that they stood within the forge, it showed them the way. Mallory followed closely on the wizard’s heels, trusting her senses to lead them where they needed to go.

They navigated a small set of broken stairs into the forge’s lower level and kicked up a thick cloud of ash, the particles taking on the ghastly faces of the few spirits that dared to linger in this place as they passed through it. The witch sucked in a breath as something sharp-edged and ghastly white stared back at them through the darkness --

-- a smelter, cracked and broken with three jagged holes like empty eye sockets, its mouth widened into a strange grin by its partial collapse down the center. Thick cobwebs stretched across it, obscuring the flashes of metal catching the light among the old embers within.

Free me...

One more strange, disembodied voice joined the opal in the wizard’s pocket, hissing an invitation to the pair. And Mallory heeded it, a strange light gleaming in her green eyes as she reached out towards the jagged mouth of the smelter, long-dead embers suddenly aglow again as the cobwebs burned away…

Penny simultaneously both shut off her Sight and snapped out in a harsh scolding tone, “Mallory, stop!” For the split second that her eyes had clamped shut from what she saw, her own hand reached out blindly, catching onto the witch’s wrist and stopping her short of breaking through the singed cobwebs.

“This isn’t a cookie jar. You can’t just go sticking your hand in there and pick it up.” The alarm in her voice started to dwindle as Penny stared down into the smelter. “Not if you want to keep your hand, anyway.” Paranoia apparently had helped the wizard a lot in the past. It was key to self-preservation.

Mallory was blinking in confusion at the wizard, as if surprised to find her there. “S-sorry,” she said, shaking her head as she stepped back from the smelter. “I heard it speak to me... and then...” Her green eyes narrowed with suspicion as they slid back to the smelter. “I’ll have to do this the hard way.”

Black vines slithered around her left arm as she stretched out her hand again, this time keeping her distance from the smelter, curling her fingers and whispering an invocation into the dark, dusty air. Thorns dug deep into her left hand, and she winced as the blood fell into three little puddles at her feet -- and with each drip, the embers in the smelter stirred, sparking back to life as three ugly black tendrils searched through the debris. Metal hissed against the broken stones within, and the witch walked backwards very slowly, drawing the tendrils out with her, and the prize she sought:

A strange silver sword, studded with rubies in the hilt that caught the green firelight from her lantern, and seemed to roar with a fire all their own.

“Drachenbane.”

((Written with the player of Penny Escobar, with thanks!))

[Mallory]

Tuesday, January 15th.

Text to Mallory @ 10:38pm: Meet me at RhyDin General
Text to Mallory @ 10:38pm: Demon attacked nightclub. we were there. Sapphire badly hurt. Going into surgery now.
Text to Mallory @ 10:39pm: I need your help
Text to Jewell @ 10:41pm: omw. how is she? what do you need?
Text to Mallory @ 10:42pm: not good and I can’t leave her. Better to ask in person
Text to Jewell @ 10:42pm: look outside.

* * * * *

The horned witch stood on the curb outside the front doors, letting blood drip from the gaping wound across her left palm as worried onlookers stared. The air reeked of burning ozone, lingering and crackling around her in the wake of her teleportation, but the strange haze blew away as the hospital doors slid open. The hood of her jacket was drawn up, but it did little to conceal the fiery glow of Mallory’s vibrant green eyes.

Jewell had told the nurse she just needed a bit of fresh air and where to find her if she needed. She did need some fresh air. Mallory had seen Jewell at some of the lowest points of her life, but the faerie looked worse tonight than any of those times. Her sparkly leggings, backless shirt, and heels were all saturated with blood. Someone had gotten her to wash it off her hands and arms, but there was still traces of it on her neck, face, and in her hair. She didn’t hesitate to cross the sidewalk, heading right for Mallory and wrapping her in a hug--bloody hand and all.

Mallory clenched her eyes shut as she squeezed Jewell, unable to stop a rush of hot tears down her face. “How’s Sapphire?” she asked hoarsely.

She wasn’t quite ready to let go of the witch yet as Mallory’s tears released her own that she had held back valiantly over the last hour. “They said she’ll live but they don’t… they won’t know the damage done.” Jewell almost lost it at that but she made herself take a deep, shuddering breath and release Mallory. She stepped back, wiping at her tears furiously. “She’ll be okay. I won’t let her not.” She meant it too. She’d go to the ends of the multiverse and beyond for Sapphire.

Mallory nodded at Jewell as she explained, and sniffed as she wiped away her tears with the back of her arm. The aching grief of that moment was shoved aside and replaced by an infernal fury, one that demanded revenge for her wounded friend. “What about the demon?”

She nodded, still struggling to exert her normal amount of control. “Lesser demon. Someone or something summoned him over. I touched the link, but only for a moment before I tore him apart and sent him back to the other side. They called him He Who Tears and Destroys.”

“Seireterephedam.” That she knew the infernal syllables by heart would have surprised Mallory more at any other time. Her left hand curled into a fist, squeezing a fresh rivulet of blood from the tear in her palm. “Who sent him?”

A chill born of pure hate ran down her spine at hearing the creature’s name, but it wasn’t him who she wanted well and truly dead. “I don’t know. He was strong enough, so I doubt it was just one. Felt like more.” Jewell didn’t hesitate before blurting out her request, “I need you to find him, them… whoever. I tried,” a sob choked her words. “I tried to summon Ishmerai but he didn’t… he didn’t respond,” the faerie was borderline hysterical for a moment, her tears left unchecked. She had been so good without him, so strong, but this broke her. She needed her knight and he wasn’t here and she was so completely lost without him in this moment. So alone. “He’s not coming. And I can’t leave her alone. I can’t.”

Mallory’s gaze fell, her eyes moving restlessly as she wrestled with her guilt. Ishmerai was the man they could count on for protection and revenge, something the witch had known since he’d shown her the mangled remains of her tormentor, Lanuathen; but now he couldn’t answer because he was away in Faerie, paying her debt to Lorelei.

And now Fate had seen fit to balance the scales by making the witch pay another price. “If I summon the demon...” I can strike a bargain, learn what he knows. Mallory shook her head, not dismissing the thought so much as the thought of telling Jewell. “I can find them.” It was a promise, and she sealed it with a kiss, drawing her hood back and stepping up to press her lips to the faerie’s brow. “Stay with Sapphire. I’ll take care of everything.”

She took an unsteady breath and nodded, reassured by the promise. By the kiss. In her consent was evidence of how much she trusted Mallory and how much the witch meant to her, “Okay.”

With that, the witch turned her horned head, her fiery eyes a warning to the curious onlookers who quickly stepped out of her path. She darted across the busy way in front of the hospital, disappearing into a narrow alley that would take her to the Lyceum.

Something told her she’d need its arcane treasures before the end of the night.

“Happy hunting, Mallory.” Jewell whispered as Mallory slipped out of sight. “I’m counting on you.”

* * * * *

Mallory pressed her back to the door as she slammed it shut, rattling the Lyceum’s heavy knocker with the impact. She was alone in the darkened shop, lit only by the shafts of pale light from the atrium and arcane glimmers in the dust that hung in the air... and a flickering green light cast by the infernal fire in her own eyes.

She clenched them shut and took a deep breath.

Her vision was filled with imagined scenes of Sapphire’s near demise, a lesser demon howling with glee as it tore her open. Her insides made the same sound Abene’s had when she’d died last Valentine’s Day, the wet splatter audible over the frenzied beat of the night club. She screamed for anyone who would listen, Mama! Mal! Merai, please! as the demon dug deeper into her body, pausing only to look back at Mallory with an arrogant smile full of bloody fangs. He Who Tears And Destroys.

Seireterephedam.

The witch’s fingernails had dug unnaturally deep lines into the wooden door behind her, and her temples ached at the base of her horns with every pulse of the fury that had overwhelmed her senses. She grit her teeth together and forced her eyes open and her feet forward, over to the trapdoor behind the counter and the workshop below. As she landed on the basement’s cold brick floor, arcane lanterns flared to life, casting their eerie light over wands and staffs, rings and medallions, swords and daggers that hung on the walls and occupied shelves with scattered notes, spell components, and the countless other tools of her and Safiya’s trade.

“What do I need...?” she murmured to herself as she sorted through her closest options, blue fire and black miasma and a raging sandstorm stoppered in thick glass vials. “What... the fuck... am I even going to do?”

Burn them.

The ruby-hilted sword was hanging on the wall directly behind her; its gemstones gleamed strangely when she turned to look at it, filled with roaring fire. This wasn’t the first time the blade had spoken to the witch, and it caused her to narrow her eyes with suspicion. “What do you want?” she hissed.

Silence.

Mallory kept a wary eye on it as she knelt in the middle of the workshop. Whatever she did tonight, first she had to find out who was responsible for hurting her friend -- and there was only one being who could answer that question. All the components she needed for a ritual summoning were close at hand down here, and in only a few minutes she had a circle of ritually prepared salt, three candles, and a triangle of her own blood stretching between them.

She held out her dripping left hand in the center of the circle as she knelt just outside its salt barrier, allowing a generous crimson puddle to form as an offering before she invoked the demon’s name: “Seireterephedam.”

One moment she was alone, and the next, there was a pathetic creature lapping at her spilled blood, a gangly mass of broken limbs and withered wings, still blighted by the scars of Jewell’s magic that wound around its torso in bright silver veins. It was as wobbly on its feet as a newborn calf, supporting itself on its long-fingered hands as it dragged its forked tongue across the blood-soaked floor and stared up at Mallory with bulbous, iridescent eyes, like a pair of opals covered in slime.

She could feel another wave of white-hot rage wash over her as it feasted on her blood, unworried in her presence even in this diminished form, barely an hour after digging its claws deep into her friend.

You know what to do.

The ruby-hilted sword found an opening to speak to the witch through her fury, little different from the fury of those who had dared to wield the cursed blade in the past. She forced herself not to look at it, to remain focused on the demon she was here to parlay with, as it finished its meal and blinked benignly at her.

“You have something I want.”

“I do,” it croaked, bobbing its head and giving her a toothy grin.

She jabbed her index finger at it and narrowed her eyes: “You will give it to me.”

It parted its jaws just wide enough to hiss a laugh at her. “I might.” It ran its bloody tongue across its teeth as it considered her, then the objects around them, bulbous eyes swiveling in their shriveled sockets.

“See something you like?”

It let out another laugh, choked by a dry, wracking cough, and managed to lift up one hand and point a claw at Drachenbane. “That blade... it is cursed by a demon of fire and rage, a balor.”

“Tch.” The witch sneered derisively at the withered demon before her and shook her head. “Much too powerful for something like you to handle.”

“I would like to see you wield it.”

Mallory had only a split second to react, eyes wide with both surprise and anger that this creature had managed to put her on her back foot already, if only for a moment -- before the sword spoke once more. It thinks the sword will make you weak... weak enough to possess. She rose from her knees and held out her left hand, the slowly sharpening point of her ring fingernail poised over the soft skin of her palm, ready to break the circle and banish the demon with a simple pinprick of blood. “Yeah... that’s the last thing I need.”

The demon let out another long series of hisses, slapping its blood-slick hands against its gaunt legs as it laughed at her. You -- you’re stronger than the last one, but this creature thinks you’re weak. Prove it wrong.

Her horns ached terribly as another wave of rage washed over her. She took a deep breath... then blew it out, and stared at the demon. “Tell me the names of those who summoned you, and the proper name for the smallest place,” she said carefully, watching its expression rise before it fell sourly at her choice of words, “where they summoned you.”

“That is two things,” it snapped angrily at her, slapping its claws against the brick floor with a small shower of sparks. “So I shall require two things. You wield the sword... and I will tell you the names of those who summoned me, and the name for the smallest place where they summoned me, at the moment that you break the barrier.”

Mallory stared at the ruby-hilted sword for a long moment, watching the fire leap within the deep red gemstones in time with her thudding heartbeat, which had grown loud and fast with her anger. “Agreed,” she said through gritted teeth, and stretched out her right hand to close around the hilt... searing her flesh as soon as she made contact.

She screamed.

* * * * *

Banners snapped in the wind, singed by the embers that swirled around them, each one a field of black with a horned heart in the center, protected by a ring of three crimson hounds. They were affixed to spears, halberds and pikes driven into the ground, many of them skewering the bodies of the dead and dying. Other figures crawled forward on their knees, expressions locked in smiles of rapturous glee, as they dipped their hands into the rivulets of blood flowing from the center.

And there stood Mallory -- her left hand turned upward, below where her heart hung in the air, spilling an endless stream of blood into her palm and through her fingers, feeding the tributaries that nursed her subjects. Her right hand was downturned, a perfect counterbalance, palm on the pommel of the flaming sword partially buried in the ruptured earth.

Over the distant cries of battle and the moaning of the dying, she could hear her subjects as they chanted with one voice: “Praise to Malleus, who stands between life and death.”

* * * * *

She willed the fire to stop its seemingly inexorable spread filling her vision, and opened her eyes.

Her right hand still burned, but the fire felt like it came from within. The skin was black and grey, but her veins glowed orange and white, like living embers that were more than strong enough to keep the blade steady in her grasp. She could see the waves of heat in the air, radiating off of the weapon and her own skin, and heard the gleeful cackling of the caged demon as it watched her reel from her connection to Drachenbane.

Like Arane, Mallory had been marked by her choice. Like Ishmerai, she had paid the price and been blighted.

“My freedom, witchling... as we agreed,” the abyssal creature hissed through its teeth.

She staggered, swinging her blade in a low arc that gave off a burst of fire and hot air, strong enough to scatter the barrier that kept the demon caged, and as it slithered up to the gap, it missed the way she kept a close eye on him in spite of her apparent dizziness -- and the tiny wellspring of blood that had formed when her fingernail pierced her left palm. It blinked slowly at her, its iridescent eyes taking on a radiant glow as it spoke:

“I was summoned by three, a woman named Sylvia, and two men, Caleb and Valko. They were at the old Zeppa warehouse, in Dockside. Now open your body to me, witch, that I might take the reins,” it finished with a growl, loping towards her with sudden speed as its eyes flashed.

In one motion Mallory negated its hypnotic spell, scattering blood that emitted a bright burst of crimson in the air -- and grabbed its shriveled head with the same hand. It shrieked pathetically as she marked it with her blood, but before it could claw its way free, she had plunged the fiery blade through its chest, and it shrieked even louder as it burned.

“I thank you for your service, Seireterephedam -- and for the feast.” As the light faded from the creature’s eyes, the shadowy essence of its weakened spirit burst out of its flesh, drawn in through Mallory’s blood and the open tear in her palm. She shuddered from head to toe, letting the feeling of the lesser demon’s power wash over her, slowly replenishing what magic she had spent in conjuring and dealing with this creature.

Then, with a low swing of Drachenbane, she snuffed the arcane lanterns and ritual candles out, plunging the workshop into darkness -- save for the building glow of the blade itself.

* * * * *

There were birds roosting on top of the Dockside Zeppa warehouse, and pigeons in the rafters, coming in through holes in the roof and the gap between the loading bay doors that were chained shut. Since the building’s abandonment several years ago, the holes had grown -- as had the white stains that ran down the aging timbers and splattered on the floor.

So the warehouse’s latest occupants paid little mind when a red-eyed raven swooped in from the rooftop, alighting in the rafters and startling a cluster of pigeons away from its perch.

From there, it had a commanding view of the building’s gloomy interior, lit by three rusty candelabras and thirteen black candles that had bled most of their red wax interior onto the floor. Several figures in simple, ragged clothes slept on wool blankets placed on wooden pallets. A woman in dark robes paced around the edge of the summoning circle, muttering to herself as she passed by different symbols etched in chalk: “Seire, reter, tereph, phedam...”

Another paced his way across a catwalk, overlooking several heavy cages, bent and battered in places, with piles of chewed-on and broken bones scattered between them.

“It’s not coming back,” the woman by the circle said to a man fishing a cigarette from a pocket inside his robes as he passed.

“Maybe you’re saying it wrong,” he shrugged at her, then put up his hands when she gave him a withering glare. “It’s been a long night. Look, I’ll go through the incantation again after I’m done,” he added, gesturing with the cigarette. Each of them muttered crossly at the other as they parted ways, her to her pacing, him to a spot by the wall to smoke in peace.

The red-eyed raven cocked its head at him, watching as he sighed and squared his shoulders against the wall, trying to get comfortable. He set the cigarette between his lips and patted down the pockets under his robes, pulling out a flint and steel. He struck once, then twice more, muttering about the wind as the sparks failed to catch his cigarette alight.

Wood cracked apart as a blade passed through it, through his back and out the front of his belly, fire bursting off of the steel. The cigarette fell from his lips and disintegrated into ash as he began to scream, as flames climbed up the wall around him and rose from the gaping wound in his gut. The woman by the circle pointed at him and cried out, pulling a dagger and a vial of shadows from her robes as she went racing towards him.

She didn’t get far.

What had been a raven fell from the rafters as a massive hound, with a sleek coat of shadow and blazing red eyes. Its massive paws landed on her back, and its jaws were wrapped around her throat and sinking its teeth in before she could scream. She was dead by the time the other cultists fell upon the creature, and as their blades sank into its massive form, it burst apart -- covering them in a mist of blood.

“Break,” hissed a voice through the burning gap in the wall before them, and their skin split and burst wherever the blood had touched them. They cried out and staggered away, one man falling onto his back and clawing at his ruined face. Those still standing began to pull at their friend and head for the exits, the padlocked loading bay doors and a simple side door, but what they heard next stopped them in their tracks --

Two more hounds, barking and clawing at the doors, throwing their massive weight against them as wood splintered with each impact.

The wind rose, and with it the fire roared and grew in size, billowing thick clouds of smoke across the warehouse. They coughed and waved their arms, struggling to clear their vision, as a crimson flash marked the arrival of another being in their midst. Little could be discerned about her through the smoky haze, but as the flames climbed higher up the walls, they could see her silhouetted by the firelight:

A horned figure, regarding them with glowing green eyes narrowed in fury, wielding a flame-wreathed blade that spat embers as it hung at her side.

“Jewell Ravenlock sends her regards.”

((First scene co-written with Jewell, and cross-posted from this wonderful thread!))

[Mallory]

Monday, February 18th.

Smoke was rising over the trees of Battlefield Park, something district locals had noted happened every day and night since the middle of November.

There were other rumors too, of strange lights in the windows and disembodied voices in the air, and of the rotting forms of soldiers made from green flame standing guard at the gates. Spears floated around the grounds by day, revealed to be held by fearsome crimson specters by night; and the trees themselves, gnarled old things that dotted the grounds, twisted their trunks and stretched out their branches whenever someone approached the crumbling old wall around the perimeter.

At least some of these stories were based in fact: there were spectral sentries guarding the gate on the day of Hope's challenge to Matt, and there were weapons floating around the grounds -- though they seemed to be floating into a neat little pile near the front door of the officer's quarters, where Mallory had taken a knee to inspect the rusted old implements of war one by one. Some glowed softly as she whispered to them; others, she carelessly cast aside.

A red banner flapped in the breeze from the top of the tallest building, depicting a horned heart encircled by three red-eyed hounds.

Things changed, even when they remained the same. The initial chill that trickled down Hope's spine upon getting out of her ride was uncannily the same as the first time she'd stepped on the property years ago. She could feel them. Not even hear them yet. She began to draw closer to the gate and stopped short, spying those levitating spears.

The rumor mill had been at work but she didn't pay much attention. Her eyes were set on one in particular. As she eyed the gate she was wondering how exactly she could get a hold of the Baroness's attention. Brute force was always an option, not her preferred approach. Instead, she lowered herself down and picked up a rock and tossed it as far as she could. She missed, of course, drawing the ever subtle shifting of the spears.

She figured she could hit the door, or you know, nothing valuable. Until she hit a window and cringed as it shattered.

Rather than conjure vengeful spirits or call up green flame, the first thing Mallory did at the unexpected sound of a window breaking was to start to pull off the glove that covered her right hand. She soon spotted the source, though, and visibly relaxed.

"Is this about the corkboard?!" Mallory called out to Hope with a gesture to the broken window, though she was already moving up to the gate. The ghastly sentries hissed a breath through their broken teeth and simply melted into the stonework around them, allowing Hope to pass.

"N-no, not really!" Hope called back defensively. "I'm not a vandal! I just couldn't find the doorbell..." Okay, so some things definitely did change. She slowly made her way through the gate and over to where Mallory was. "Thanks... This place always gave me the creeps. It's impossible to get a good shower."

Mallory grinned and cast a look around at the treetops. "It's eerie, but I dunno... I kind of like it. No hot water is a dealbreaker, though," she added with a nod of agreement to Hope. "I never sleep here if I can help it."

There was a sword strapped to the witch's back, visible now, a silver blade with rubies studded in the hilt. She reached back with her gloved right hand to adjust it, then pulled her glove further down her wrist. "So, you left a weapon here while you were Squire. I'm guessing you don't mean the Spear? That's Alasdair's, unless I lose on Saturday."

"That's a good point. I don't believe it was the spear, maybe just my spear. I can't recall what it looks like but if I could drive it through something or give it a solid thrust I would know. " Hope rubbed the back of her head. "It screamed. Maybe it was the way it was forged? But it felt wrong."

That drew a rather unpleasant smile from the Baroness. "Many of these weapons feel wrong... but I think I know the one you're talking about." She moved from her spot, clearly expecting Hope to follow as she walked towards the armory, around the back of the manor house.

"You know, Nat was a Battlefield Park Squire, too. He visited me soon after he posted his challenge." A simple observation, from a creature who believed rather strongly in Fate. "When were you Squire here?"

Hope followed Mallory, noting that the eerie macabre hadn't dissipated over the years. "That's spooky. Though to be honest I was Squire here before I even knew he was a person. It was a few years ago, under a talented yet strange elf." She rubbed her arms against the chill. "Not quite eccentric, but his girlfriend was hot...

"Can I ask you something? What did he do to earn your loyalty?"

Mallory stopped at the back wall of the armory as Hope asked her question. Her right hand curled into a fist, the glove creaking under the strain until she relaxed it again.

Then she pulled off her glove, revealing skin that looked like embers, gray and black with fiery veins, and slowly drew the ruby-hilted sword from the scabbard on her back. The strange silver blade ignited as soon as it was free. "Have you heard of this sword before?"

Hope's eyes widened and spoke the answer before her lips did. There were plenty of things to be seen in Rhy'Din, but this one was different than the rest. She stepped back a foot and shook her head. "Never." She'd spent months inside the armory and never once heard of it, let alone saw it.

Mallory lowered the blade, taking a step back to mirror Hope, putting the weapon racks along the armory wall within reach. "It's called Drachenbane... made by a dark wizard and left here to be found by Arane Ganderfald, the first baron of this place. She went mad with rage for as long as she held it."

With that, Mallory closed her left hand around the haft of a familiar spear and tossed it for Hope to catch.

That vile screech could be heard as the spear flicked through the air. There was no doubt a history to every weapon housed in this damned fortress, Hope imagined. "That sounds like a dangerous weapon." She could feel it in her hands, reassured now more than she could have ever been before; a forlorn memento risen again. "What will you do with it?"

"Take it places. Maybe the Celestial Citadel... or the Overlord Isle." Sparks rose from Mallory's fingers as they curled around the hilt of Drachenbane, and she considered for a long moment before she explained further. "Arane wanted me to stay here long enough to find the sword... and put it to better use than she did. She offered Matt a deal, as soon as I'd won the Tournament -- that he should accept my loyalty and take pains to ensure I had a long reign. In exchange... a sizable donation to his wife's charity. More than twice as much money as most people make in a year."

The witch shook her head. "Matt threw the deal back in her face. He insisted to me that whatever I chose should be my own choice, and he'd respect it. Soon after that... I chose to align loyal."

"I see." Hope eyed the blade and the hand that maintained the hilt. "There are a few ways the road forks from here." She looked from the blade to Mallory. "Maybe he steps in on your challenge on your behalf. Maybe he'll ask you to return the favor." There was the slightest hint of a smile on her face at the playful hypothetical.

"It's not without its toll, huh?" She didn't envy the way Mallory's hand looked. "You've been swept up in a hell of a story."

"Witches -- we're used to paying a price," Mallory shrugged her shoulders, and the motion continued until she'd settled into a stance. The fiery blade went up again and out towards Hope, hovering a few inches away from her spear.

"I haven't decided yet if I'll let Matt intercede, or if I'll stand on my own. And if he does intercede... maybe that makes me and Matt square. Or maybe you and I will face each other in a few weeks." The witch raised her eyebrows, her expression taking a playful turn. "But I've already told you this sword is going places, so... take that as you will."

Hope's gaze fixated on the glowing weapon. She listened and as the blade grew within inches of her, she felt the radiating heat from that steel. It was difficult to pry her eyes from the weapon but she managed to for a moment.

"I should be able to make it to watch." She gave the spear a soft push, and it glided in a circle that released a groan that droned off in the halls. "And to be honest..." She looked back to the blade and trailed off as she lost her train of thought.

"Well... thank you for finding this. I'm not sure how you did... but you seem to have a connection with this armory."

"Thanks," Mallory replied, her lips curling at the sound of the spear's tortured groan. "I'm hoping to hang onto it... at least for a little while longer. And, in the interest of keeping this armory, I was thinking of practicing today." She tipped her horned head to Hope as she asked, "Would you oblige me?"

The question itself would have been troublesome but in consideration with the phenomenon before her, it was nigh impossible to resist. There was a thump in her chest as she shrugged. "It's been a while since I was last here. I am curious to see how I'd shape up." The temptation was too great. "I'll do it, but let's keep it our little secret," she decided with a wink.

"Not a word," Mallory promised as she retreated towards the training yard, sword in hand, beckoning Hope to join her with a fiery flourish...

((Written with Hope's player -- thanks for the great scene!))

[Runt]

Wednesday, May 8th

Battlefield Park was usually a quiet place, unless Runt was training. Behind the armory Runt held the large three-axe-head mace in two hands as he ran through a series of drills. His bare feet shifted in the dirt as he rolled through the sequence; adding grunts and roars to every thrust, swing and forward motion. It gave Mallory some cover as she approached, though unintentionally. She stood back about twenty feet, clutching a long cloth bundle under her arm that was wrapped in chains of iron and lead. She waited until a moment in his movements where she would have countered with a lunge or a wild swing and called out: “Stodva!”

Runt lurched forward a step, momentarily shocked by the intensity of her command, before bracing for a strike as instructed. When he turned around Mallory could see the blue fading from the whites of his eyes like the ocean retreating from a sandy beach. After a moment he bowed his head slightly “‘UNTER-JARL.”

“That was a good drill. I liked what I saw,” the witch said, returning the bow with a nod as she stepped closer to him. Her eyes searched his face for a moment before she added, “You haven’t said much since Saturday night.”

The growing giant rolled his shoulders back a bit in what had become his customary shrug. “RUNT 'AVE NOT TO SAY. MAAL-REE WON. DIS IS GUD.”

Mallory smiled slightly. “I’m glad I won... and I’m glad I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve killed before... but never like that. Not in a sport.”

“DER IS KILLING IN ALL ISEJOTUNEN SPORT. SOMETIMES EVEN IN KASTA-BERG.” The witch mouthed kasta-berg, and shook her head at Runt. That was another new one for her. He looked up slightly, reminiscing. “WE KILL DE VAN, DE BOAR, DE FYR-LODDIN, SOMETIMES ODER JOTUNI. AH, DER WERE GREAT SLASS AND SLAAG.” He lowered his head to look at Mallory. “BUT NEVER WE TRY TO KILL WID TRIXIE, MAUG DEVILS ARTS. WE ISEJOTUNEN AERLIG.”

Mallory sighed, casting a look at the bundle under her arm. “Not all magic belongs to devils... though some of it does. And it helped me, and helped Mist, to save Andrea.” She looked back at him. “But after you saw it... you ran into the forest.”

The squire snarled a bit, though it lacked any aggression or malice. “DE ’UN-VAN TRY TO USE DEVILS ARTS ON MAAL-REE IN FIGHT. DIS IS MAUG. DEN ‘UN DIE, DE PRICE OF DE DEVILS ARTS. DEN DERE WERE MANY USING DE MADGE-ICK. IT MAKE RUNT BLOOD RAGE WID FIRE-ICE. RUNT LEAVE TO NOT ‘URT ALL DE VAN.”

“Yeah, you’ll see all kinds of moves in the rings. One man threw food at me in a magic fight. Not magical food -- just food.” The witch leaned the bundle against her leg, and it thudded against the ground with a metallic sound. “It was good of you to leave, then... but it’s going to be hard for you here, as long as the sight of magic makes your blood boil. I know why you hate it... but don’t let it control you like that. Be stronger than it. Control everything you can about what magic does to you... and it will have much less power over you.”

Runts eyes rested on Mallory’s for a moment, his breathing slow and thoughtful, before turning a curious gaze to the large bundle on the ground. “WHAT BE DAT?”

“You know what I said about devils and magic? This is my old sword Drachenbane, and it was definitely made with devils’ arts,” knocking the back of her hand noisily against the blade. “It promised me power... and I let it have power over me, and it nearly cost me everything.” She tensed her gloveless and unmarred right hand into a fist... then let out a breath.

“So I’m sealing it and burying it. I’d like you to keep a lookout around the walls for me, and make sure no one sees where I put this fucking thing.”

Her junkarri nodded and lifted up his mace, following her to the designated burial spot. As they walked he remarked. “IT IS A GREAT WEAPON.” While standing guard Runt couldn’t help but look back at the bundle from time to time. Perhaps Mallory was right, if you feared magic it could control you. It had controlled him.

Mallory had no shovel, only the Key of Earth in her grasp, and now seemed as good a time as any to gently test her lesson to Runt. She unwrapped the blade and called out to the earth itself, rumbling and splitting open a deep hole in the ground. Displaced stones cracked apart and whirled around the weapon, winding a silver chain around it to join the cold iron and lead that would help to seal its power.

The silver had lost its usual gleam, as well as the rubies, but something stirred within the studded gemstones as Mallory twisted her hands in the air to widen the hole...

Holding fast despite the display of magic, Runt gave one last glance back towards Drachenbane. As he did so, a brilliant colorful scene suddenly flooded into Runts mind. The edges of his vision were dark blue, the color he sees when the ancestral spirits guard his battle, but quickly they were tinged with a deep red. He was standing in the fjells of his home, wielding a mighty sword - wielding Drachenbane. Red rivulets of blood dripped onto the pristine snow, and beneath him, was Koscht. His eyes were dull and a red stain pooled around his massive scarred body. The ancestral spirits within him sang battle cries of victory, but another voice, an unfamiliar one was heard underneath the choir of spirits. This can be your future. If you control me, I can help you return to where you belong.

The vision cleared suddenly as Drachenbane was buried. Mallory hissed out a few words in Koine, pulling the earth in around it, and as she bit the heel of her thumb and spilled her own blood, grass sprouted out of the darkened earth. In moments, it appeared indistinguishable from any other patch of ground around the manor to most eyes…

((Co-written with the talented Mallory))

[Runt]

Wednesday, May 8th, Late
After the events from Nat’s challenge to Matt for Overlord.

Blue fury emanated from Runt, but it was not the fury of the hunt or the fury of the battle. Many would tell you that anger is just another form of grief, hurt and betrayal. They are right. The ancestral spirits did not sing to Runt of victory, but something else whispered in his mind about his weakness, his lack of belonging, and that he was rejected by his Clan - again. He saw his goal of returning to the fjells in glory begin to slip out of his grasp. Control. Maal-ree said he needed to control his fury and his anger. He needed to control the things he was afraid of, like devils arts. He needed to control his fate, not the other way around. Slavery had taught him that they who had the power, had control. Even though he was not a slave, he still felt powerless. Without meaning to Runt found himself back at Battlefield Park, back at the spot he had been earlier that day.

He sat down near a large tree, crossing his legs and leaning forward to stare into the grass.

I can help you return…

Whether that voice was real or just an echo of the vision he had earlier Runt sat and listened. One day. One day when he could control the blade. Then he would leave this place and return to his own country. There he could live freely, without shame of his language or traditions. There he could be himself, a true isejotunen...

----

By the time three red-eyed ravens alighted in the branches of the tree, Runt was fast asleep. They preened themselves, cocked their heads and swivelled their beady eyes at the spot where the cursed blade had been buried, and cawed as they took to the air again.

((Written with Mallory!))