Harrowheart (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
westfallcorndog) wrote2019-10-29 01:49 pm
westfallcorndog) wrote2019-10-29 01:49 pm
Entry tags:
AU: Welcome to the Jungle
The first thing one might notice, when transported rather suddenly into a jungle, is that it’s hot. Sweltering. Sauna-like, really, with thick and sticky air that clings to the flesh and mats hair against skin. Even the shade of the canopy doesn’t protect a person from it. It’s inescapable, like the buzzing of the swarming bugs, and the trolls.
Ah, right. The trolls. On Azeroth, you simply can’t enjoy a jungle without it being ruined by the trolls. In fact, there are a few a stone’s throw away right now, just across the camp. They were only barely out of the line of sight of the mirror propped up against a rough-barked palm tree, and any person peering through that mirror couldn’t be reprimanded for having missed them.
Now, though, when one of their spears sails through the air, they’re quite impossible not to notice. The weapon pierces through the thin mirror, shattering the glass, stopping only when its head is buried deeply within the palm. While the bouncing of the wooden shaft at eye level might be distracting, a person might be better-served to watch the troll that threw it.
One simple, cloth tent — and the scattered remains of three others — lie between the blue-skinned, long-nosed, boar-tusked troll and its wobbling weapon. Boxes and chests of goods have been thrown around the camp, and a long rifle has been discarded beside the burning fire. None of it catches the eye of the troll — easily the height of a man and a half — who points a thick, blue finger just past the newest arrival on the scene. He shouts something in his cryptic language, looks to the ground around him, finds another spear, and throws it with all his might.
It sails with practiced skill, long and fast, and it jets right past the first. There’s a squirt of blood and a bestial shriek, and seconds later a red-scaled raptor collapses to the ground, instantly dispatched by a spear through the eye.
The troll claps, and his friends behind him hoot and holler. Proud of his work, the troll smiles around his long tusks. “Lil’ hu-mon!” he calls out, then beckons with his gangly arms. “Ya almost was ate!” His company laugh.
“C’mere, now, get on over here!”
Ah, right. The trolls. On Azeroth, you simply can’t enjoy a jungle without it being ruined by the trolls. In fact, there are a few a stone’s throw away right now, just across the camp. They were only barely out of the line of sight of the mirror propped up against a rough-barked palm tree, and any person peering through that mirror couldn’t be reprimanded for having missed them.
Now, though, when one of their spears sails through the air, they’re quite impossible not to notice. The weapon pierces through the thin mirror, shattering the glass, stopping only when its head is buried deeply within the palm. While the bouncing of the wooden shaft at eye level might be distracting, a person might be better-served to watch the troll that threw it.
One simple, cloth tent — and the scattered remains of three others — lie between the blue-skinned, long-nosed, boar-tusked troll and its wobbling weapon. Boxes and chests of goods have been thrown around the camp, and a long rifle has been discarded beside the burning fire. None of it catches the eye of the troll — easily the height of a man and a half — who points a thick, blue finger just past the newest arrival on the scene. He shouts something in his cryptic language, looks to the ground around him, finds another spear, and throws it with all his might.
It sails with practiced skill, long and fast, and it jets right past the first. There’s a squirt of blood and a bestial shriek, and seconds later a red-scaled raptor collapses to the ground, instantly dispatched by a spear through the eye.
The troll claps, and his friends behind him hoot and holler. Proud of his work, the troll smiles around his long tusks. “Lil’ hu-mon!” he calls out, then beckons with his gangly arms. “Ya almost was ate!” His company laugh.
“C’mere, now, get on over here!”
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When the golem steps past the tree line it’s as if they were transported to another world. They’re high atop a cliff, and far, far below are the placid, crystal waters of a tropical sea. Sapphire blue and nearly waveless, the water pools into a massive inlet fed by the ocean to one side and a horseshoe-shaped waterfall not terribly far from where the golem and the little mirror-walker emerge. They’re far enough that the sound is a pleasant static that’s quieter than the squealing gulls and shrill, chittering parrots.
A few yards off, the ornate sword that cut their path is lowering itself onto a palm stump. The golem moves to join it, and finally sets the girl down. Now she might actually be able to enjoy the view. If she chooses to, and if she really squints, she might even see the ships far, far in the distance. Some are large, sail-powered things that wouldn’t be out of place in the 18th century. Others are long and boxy, and smoky breaths puff from their rising stacks.
The golem turns away from the girl and breaks off the front of the spear poking through its belly. It reaches behind it to take hold of the head of the spear, but in all that armor it can’t... quite...
It grunts in frustration and drops its arms, quickly stymied and unwilling to further embarrass itself.
A little light twinkles on the blade of the sword. In the distance, a troupe of monkeys howl.
The thing in the armor gestures to the ocean — or perhaps the boats — with a sweep of its arm. The metallic, ghostly echo of a voice says, “Home.”
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Monsters and golems aside, this world looks perfect for exploring. How uncharted this land must be. Why, she'd just need some binoculars and a pith helmet and she'd be set!
No, no, she has to focus! Though when she turns to the golem to see him struggling with being impaled, she's a little distracted, and more than a little grossed out at the reminder. It seems ok, at least?
She follows its gesture and then looks back to it. "You... live in the sea?"
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Underneath all of that armor, it seems he was only ever a man. A blonde man, and human by the shape of his ears, though the color seems... Off.
“You. Will go home. On a boat.” Even without his helmet his voice has an unnatural echo, and he forces out his words as if they don’t come easily.
“From Booty Bay. To Stormwind.”
He looks over his shoulder and his glowing, cyan gaze lands on her. His flesh is pale, now that it can be seen, but darkened blue around his lips and on the tip of his sharp and crooked nose. If he is human, he doesn't look well...
His white pupil flicks up and down the girl and his nostril flares.
“Good?”
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"I don't live in 'Booty Bay'," she protests quietly with a wrinkling of her nose. "Or 'Stormwind'."
That sounds familiar... Like a name she's said aloud before. Gods, that's so familiar! Where is it from? Her mind races through places she's visited, or read about. It's on the edge of her mind...!
She pulls herself out of her thoughts long enough to say, "I need a mirror, that's all."
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“You don’t need a mirror,” he decides. He mumbles what he says next, but it sounds like ‘jungle’ and ‘pretty hair’ factor in.
“Besides.”
The creature glances over its should to see Lynn once more. It eyes her up and down again and pauses for a moment’s thought. Then, all at once, it turns to face her.
The right half of his face is normal, if no longer living, but the left half is gone. The flesh has been stripped clean off the bones, exposing a smoking eye socket, half a mouth of teeth, the bony bridge of his nose and the smoldering, blue fire inside it. His neck flesh, too, has melted away from muscle and veins and even his sinewy larynx. All around, bits of flesh have been burned in spots and speckles, destroyed by a splash of something caustic. When he speaks, the movements of his tongue are visible in his half-lipless mouth.
“I don’t keep mirrors.”
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Anything before now might as well have been a squeak as she lets loose a bloodcurdling scream at the top of her lungs. No amount of weird family encounters could have prepared her for this sight. All thinking goes out the window. Her body moves on its own, vaguely taking her away from the terror in front of her. All while she screams and screams and screams.
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Shit, and when he opens his eye again she’s so far off! He never should have let go of her! His sword rises, ready for the chase, but he stops it with a gesture. It lowers itself down to the palm trunk again, blinking rhythmically in the way a cat might swish its tail.
A twist of his hand conjures shadows that grip the girl around the middle and pull. She’s light and easily overpowered by the magic that drags her right to the dead man’s chest. He holds her tightly — too tightly — around the middle and presses his hand hard against her mouth once more.
“Don’t.” A trembling sound twitters out of him and he forces a quiet, stressed laugh to overcome his frustration. “Scream like that. All right? Don’t go screamin’ like that, hun. I’m tryin’ to help you, but you ain’t makin’ it easy on me. I’d feel real guilty if I had to go and leave you in this jungle to get eaten by them trolls, but if you keep on screamin’ like that I ain’t gonna be able to stop myself from hurtin’ you. Then we’d both have a bad day, huh? We’d both have a real bad day.”
His grip lightens slightly, and beneath his armor he takes a deep, slow breath.
“Now. I’m gonna take my hand off’a your mouth, and I’m gonna let you go... And you’re gonna be a real smart girl, and you’re gonna decide that you want us both to have a good day. All right? You’re gonna be good, and you ain’t gonna scream, and you’re gonna let me help you by tellin’ me how I can get you back to your folks.”
It’s a few long seconds before he lets go of her middle, and then the hand on her mouth follows suit.
“Okay?”
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This time the immediate command silences her instantly and she trembles in his grasp. Her hands hesitate over his, scared to touch, but wishing they would let her go. When he finally does release her she stays frozen to the spot, looking up at him as her wide eyes begin to water. Luckily for the golem, she's more keen about screaming than crying, so even though she has to wipe away a few renegade tears, she doesn't outright sob.
"I really do need a mirror," she insists, quiet but certain. "I'm not lying! If I have a mirror I can get home. I don't know how else I can find my way back."
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But then she’s back on the mirrors. What’s he supposed to do with that kind of request? He looks left, obscuring his exposed bones, then right, where all that’s left of his face is the hollowed out half of his nose. Where the Hell is he supposed to—
“There’s a mirror back at camp...” Every twitch of his tongue is visible just past his cheekless jaw until he finds where his helmet had rolled to. He’s quick to put it on again, and once more he’s sighing. “Rum, too, ‘less they got it all.”
The knight retrieves his sword, which blinks as it passes by the girl, and he returns to the path it has cut them through the foliage. “Follow me,” he commands. “Hold my cape. Don’t get lost.”
The spear in his back bobs with every step he takes as he disappears into the darkness of the jungle.
After a short while of wordless walking he flips his visor up to be better understood. “Why’s it matter so much?” he asks. “A mirror. For gettin’ home. You’re too young for magic, if you think you’re gonna scry the way back or somethin’.”
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Lynn watches the sword float through the air and waits a second before following the zombie. Each bobbing of the spear makes her stomach twist unhappily and follows with her eyes locked on it. If he thinks she's going to hold his gross cape, he's very wrong. It probably has zombie blood on it from the spear.
"I'm thirteen!" She proclaims in the way all children do in an attempt to scrounge up respect. "I've been doing mirror magic since I was eight! And my dad did dream magic since he was five! I'm actually behind on my magic compared to him... Where did you get that sword?"
She eyes it again as she walks. "I think I've seen it before. Where did you get it?"
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“Kinda small for thirteen, ain’t ya?”
A column of smoke streams out from the bridge of his nose. Was that a snort? Whatever it was he shakes his head and continues plodding along. The way toward the camp has already been cut, and the going is easier.
“That’s my runeblade. I bought it from the nice old lady at the farmer’s market. Same as every other death knight.”
He props the blade up against his shoulder before stepping over an inconvenient stump. The eye socket near the handle faces Lynn, and no matter how the dead man moves, the pit has a way of always being just at the level of her eye. It radiates with a powerful magic, but more than that, it exerts another sort of pressure. A feeling not unlike the vacant gaze of an antique, porcelain doll.
“If your dad’s such a wizard, how come he never taught you nothin’?”
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Lynn stops when the zombie does and looks up at him hesitantly, but that comment sends a shudder of indignation through her. Her fingers curl into fists and she storms on after him. It doesn't quite have the same effect as when her aunt strides in anger, so she has to trot up to him to get closer.
"I'm a perfect size for a thirteen year old," she tells him.
While he lumbers over a stump, she takes the opportunity to try and walk up along side him. Only to be stopped by the sight of that eye drilling into her. Maybe it wasn't the zombie that felt magical at all. Maybe it's all coming from that sword. Maybe the thing she's talking to isn't a zombie at all, and it's the sword instead.
"He taught me lots, but he's away a lot. He's very important. He works with the gods, so sometimes he has to be away for a long time." She struggles briefly with a vine that caught her by the arm, then trots on closer, this time being more careful of where she steps. "Are you a sword? Or a zombie? Or a lich?"
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Until, that is, she says something that takes a moment to register. Gods. Gods? Had she really said that? Gods. Not in this place. Not on Azeroth.
Gods and mages and dreams and — and she has seen it before, hasn’t she? The other half of his runeblade. The half that wasn’t tarnished and pitted by the plague. And she’s asking about him, and what he is, and he can’t quite tell her that he’s any of those things, because he’s all of those things — but if he’s anything at all, he’s the half of himself that he left with the woman he loved.
He stumbles over a fallen vine and staggers into a tree where he remains, unmoving, still as a corpse ought to be. Right now, more than anything, he needs to be wrong. He needs to be told he’s a fool for thinking what’s on his mind.
He turns to see the girl again, and his solitary eye is filled with dread.
“Are you a Durant?”
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She's been warned thoroughly of bad people eager to hurt her family, or just mages in general. Likewise she's been told of those who eagerly help just at hearing her family name. It's a gamble. All she can hope is that this place isn't Earth and that it has only met one of her family members in passing, just enough to leave a good impression. She hopes.
"Yes... I'm Lynnette. Lynnette Durant."
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And then his cape swirls to the side of the spear in his back as he turns on his heel and grabs the girl by the wrist. With a too-rough tug he pulls her along across the uneven ground, freezing away at fronds and vines to clear the way before them.
The journey back to the campgrounds is short, lucky for Lynnette, and in moments they're back at the clearing again. The knight drags the girl to the shattered mirror frame where shards of glass are scattered all around. He lets her go only to shove her harshly toward it.
"There's your mirror," his echoing voice says. "Your father wouldn't want you here. Neither would your mother, and neither would your aunt. Go home."
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When he does let go she thinks he's finally decided to listen... Until he shoves her towards the familiar sight of the camp and commands her to go home. She spins around and scowls at him... But there's nothing she can think to say. He's right. They wouldn't want here here. Where monsters are trying to eat her, and the friendliest things around are mean zombies.
Turning back to the shattered mirror, she carefully picks through the pieces, examining them carefully one by one. After a minute or two, she stands up again. Her annoyance is mostly to hide her worry at telling him, "They're too small. I can't use these. They're broken and they're too small."
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That's it, then. They're stuck together -- at least until he can find her a mirror. In the middle of the jungle, that's not an easy ask. He kicks at the dirt near the fire before storming over to a stack of crates. He places his hand on the top of the wood and a dark magic creeps through it, rotting it from the top down. When the thin planks have weakened and gone black he gives the crate a thump and it crumbles to dust, revealing bottles of golden alcohol. He takes one for himself and ties it alongside the skulls at his belt, then grabs another.
He turns back to the girl, as if he'd only just remembered she was there, and regards her as he pulls at the levers keeping the cork on the bottle. When the cork is freed he removes his helmet, bites the cork, pulls, and spits it out.
"Guess we're hangin' out a while, then."
He punctuates his declaration by shoving the neck of the bottle to the back of his throat and tipping his head back so that the drink can glug, glug, glug away. A column of smoke streams out of his open nose until the liquor is gone. His breath fills the bottle until he pulls it out of his throat and plugs it with his thumb.
"Promise I'll be nicer now. Gonna have to be. You and me are gonna be stuck together another night and a day. That's how far the nearest city is. We'll get you a mirror there and get you back to Earth where you belong."
He finds the bottle's cork, with a little difficulty, plugs his bottled breath back up. Then he sets to packing up one of the tents. He's going to have to hurry if he wants to get this done before the alcohol hits.
While he works, he talks. "I ain't seen your folks in a long time. Your mom and dad, they'd just got married before I went away. Always wondered what happened to 'em after that. Havin' kids, I guess." He huffs a laugh and stuffs the rolled tent into a bag.
He glances over his shoulder at Lynnette. "You got a brother or a sister or anything? There's gotta be two of you, huh?"
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The bad impression left by the decaying magic is only worsened as he knocks back a whole bottle of alcohol. This is one weird zombie. But, since he's not going to attack her, she finally takes off her coat. Once she's rolled up the sleeves of her dress and set her coat down, she sighs in relief. It really was too warm.
"I have a sister." But as with all Durants, with one answer must come a dozen questions. "What's your name? How do you know my parents? How come you never saw them since they had us?"
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The tent packed, it's time to survey the rest of the campground. What else might be here that a living little girl would need? The longer he scans the camp, the more distressed he looks. All of this is so far beyond him. Right or wrong, he feels like he's got to give her something.
Eventually he chooses the rifle near the fire pit. He hands it to the girl and in exchange he takes her jacket, which he ties to the pack with their tent. He hefts that over his shoulder and points the way ahead with a nod. Back into the jungle already.
"You are related to them after all, huh? Askin' as many questions as you do. Figure your folks never told you any stories about a draugr, then."
The dead man keeps his eye on the work his sword is doing to clear the way. What's worth saying? What shouldn't she know? Durants have a way of asking questions they don't really want the answer to, and everything you say to them has a consequence. But even after all this time, he never really learned to lie.
He turns to see her, mindful to keep his good side in her sight.
"Your father and I used to be best friends."
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Now that he seems to have calmed down and isn't insisting on ordering her about, she follows him a little more easily. Though she tries to keep herself out of grabbing distance, curiosity brings her closer.
When he turns to look at her he finds her frowning up at him, working through her thoughts. "My parents told me about a draugr that was their best friend. But you don't look anything like him! Mr. Heart always smiled and was nice and funny." Her frown vanishes in favour of matter-of-fact lecturing. "Mr. Heart wore shorts and strange tops, and besides!" She looks to the path being cut out ahead of them. "He's guarding his own tomb now."
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"Yeah, well, Mister Heart's been livin' on this cursed world for a long time and he's startin' to turn into his asshole brother."
He clears his throat and laughs uncomfortably. "Pretend I didn't say 'asshole,' kid."
He steps high to clear a log, but the alcohol is finally hitting and he loses his balance. He falls forward over the stump, but when all is said and done he's still on his feet.
"Guardin' my own tomb, though... Somethin' like that. It was better that they thought I died. There wasn't no way I was gonna be able to stick around in their lives. Not after what I did. The trouble I got into, got your folks into. So when I got called to war, I decided I wouldn't come back. In the end, it's like everyone always says. Livin' folks gotta be with livin' folks, and the dead with the dead."
He eyes Lynn briefly and his smile slips away, but he forces it back. "Looks like I made the right choice, though. Viatorus and Runa got their lives. Isidor..."
Time to watch out for more stumps. Better to keep his eyes ahead of him now.
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The careful mixture of shock, disappointment and scepticism that makes her expression shifts as he continues to speak. All of this is so far removed from the stories she was told. She doesn't get the chance to scrutinise his claim, however, as his explanations fill her head with a hundred different questions. By the time he eyes her, she looks utterly baffled.
Once he makes the mistake of pausing, it only takes her a second to voice her confusion. "What are you talking about? What did you do? Didn't you tell them you weren't coming back? They miss you. They always say so." She catches up with him, skipping along to try and get a little ahead of him. "You should come back with me! Whatever you did is so long ago, right? I bet the trouble has passed."
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"Think about what you're sayin', hun. If I came back with you, you really think they'd be happy to see me? It don't work like that. They'd realize I lied to 'em, and they'd remember the reason I left in the first place, and it'd be a whole lot more hurt that doesn't need to happen. In fact..."
He points a finger not-quite at her before blinking hard, refocusing, and doing it right on his second try. "When you get home, you ain't even allowed to tell 'em you saw me. All right? 'Cause it'll be nothin' but trouble. And you know who'll be the maddest? Your auntie. And I'm sure she's still a hard-ass you don't wanna make angry. Ain't that right?"
A stream of steam blows from his open nose, and he begins to shake his head. "The problems I caused are only in the past as long as I am. If I see your dad or your aunt, it's all gonna come right back. And of all the people who wouldn't appreciate that, it's your uncle Zandros."
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Her shoulders slack as she relaxes. Then she puts on her most serious, knowing face. "You don't know much, do you? Auntie Isidor would be way more angry if I lied to her. And she always knows when people lie."
A smile peeks out of her adult facade before she shoves it away and presses on, "Besides! You're wrong about what would happen, and I know you're wrong. I don't have an uncle Zandros. So you don't know for certain what would happen. You're just guessing!"
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He continues on, slower now than he had been before, and increasingly less coordinated. Fortunately his sword isn’t drunk, and it stops its cutting to turn around and nudge him in the right direction. No, body, we will not be staggering into the palm scrubs to fall face-first into a nest of vipers. Good body. That’s it. Keep on the path.
He glances over just in time to see Lynn hiding the hint of a smile. Oh, and she’s just telling him he’s wrong again. Fine, that’s easily igno—
“WHAT!”
He can’t stop himself from barking the word, and even if he could, he wouldn’t. He stops mid-stride, and as if he’d been doused with cold water he sobers in an instant.
“No Zandros? Where’d he—“ He stares with a wide eye. His white pupil darts frantically as he takes in the girl’s face. She doesn’t even know who that is, does she? Did he even make it back from Lordaeron?
His gloved fingers rake down his face, tugging at his flesh and hooking between his exposed jaws in a (very briefly) silent scream.
“You’re KIDDIN’ me! Zandros, you son of a bitch, when I meet you in Hell I’m gonna kick your ass!”
He turns around so the girl can’t see him, but he’s not exactly subtle about finding a cigarette and a lighter in his cape lining, lighting up, and aggressively smoking. The humid air carries the potent smell of tobacco, and it lingers.
It’s a solid minute at least before he faces Lynn again and flicks away the spent stub of his cigarette.
“So maybe I don’t know nothin’ after all.”
He plants his hands on his hips and looks to his runeblade, not-so-patiently leaning against a tree nearby. Its runes blink rhythmically. He begins to nod, then turns a thoughtful, narrowed eye to Lynn.
“You think you’ve seen my runeblade before, huh? Its other half, maybe? I just might have to go to Earth and get it...”
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