westfallcorndog | AU: Welcome to the Jungle

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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!”

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Guilt tugs at what’s left of the dead man’s face. His brow turns upward and his lips tug down. Watching a girl fight back tears isn’t his idea of having a ‘good day,’ really, even if it does beat the alternative. Stiffly, as if the whole process confuses him, he reaches out and gently pats her shoulder. There... There?

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’.”

The heavy pat makes her squirm, as she half expects it to be him grabbing her to pull her into the jungle again. When it turns out to be an attempt at comfort, she wrestles with her tearful expression and ends up looking appropriately confused. A look that only lasts a moment, and then she scrunches up her face at the vivid moving show of how a single muscle creates communication. It's a relief when he finally puts on his helmet again.

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?"

The knight stops abruptly when the girl claims to be thirteen. He stares her down, squinting hard with his only eye while smoke billows from his empty socket.

“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’?”

Small?

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?"

He’s not sure he can remember the last time he found something charming, but watching a ‘perfectly-sized’ young lady defend her honor is enough to bring him the very slightest of smiles. It’s a good thing that even with his visor up his helmet hides most of his face. Wouldn’t want to ruin his reputation, after all. So, his opinions thoroughly obscured, he merely continues forward.

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?”

The sudden sound of his stumbling catches her attention and she stops in her tracks. There's something unsettling about seeing something become so still when only a moment ago it was walking and talking. Once he asks his question she becomes completely still. She half-turns, wondering whether her answer will be good or bad.

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."

Edited 2019-11-02 14:14 (UTC)

The dead man slowly lowers his visor. His face hidden once more, he returns to his stillness. Lich mist streams through the slats of his helmet and the runes on his blade flutter with the burden of thought.

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."

Edited 2019-11-02 14:56 (UTC)

As poised as she is to run, she doesn't react fast enough when the zombie finally turns. This time she manages to bite back a scream, but gasps and winces at the tight grip on her arm. Although he doesn't seem to care or notice she yelps, "Slow down! You're hurting me! Let go of my arm, it hurts!"

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."

The creature isn't pleased. A grumble rolls up from his throat and vents out of his helmet as a puff of steam. He turns away, clenches his fists, and surveys the camp.

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?"

A thousand questions swirl around her head, but the one keeping her quiet is along the lines of whether or not he's going to hurt her. So she watches him carefully. At first she's confuses by him approaching the crate, but the sight of dark magic gets her attention and her eyes widen. This is bad. Probably. He knows her family and hasn't attacked her yet... But magic like that?

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?"

"A sister," he repeats as if that's simply the most thought-provoking thing he's ever heard.

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."

Edited 2019-11-03 02:42 (UTC)

Only Runa's family were unsurprised by the two daughters, being as they were surrounded by aunts and sisters and daughters. Of the two, Lynn looked most like her father. She had his nose, which her aunt quipped made her perfect for finding trouble, and his smile. While she had found trouble with the same ease as Viatorus, the smile remained hidden behind wide, curious eyes.

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."

Mister Heart? He lets out a loud bark of a laugh, and now he really is smiling. As much as a man with half a face can. She continues speaking and he shakes his head until his eye is back on the path, but his smile doesn't fully fade.

"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.

"You're Mr. Heart?!" Her voice touches on a screech that matches her brain as it comes to a sudden halt, this realisation forcing her to look at him in a new light. Needless to say, the increasingly intoxicated zombie falling over a tree stump was not what she had pictured.

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."

Her sudden shrillness startles him and he stiffens, only to relax again when there's a fleeting silence between them. He pushes on, trailing his busy blade, but she catches up and puts herself ahead of him so that he can't quite avoid having her in his sights. A foggy sigh escapes him.

"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."

Well he's not being helpful at all! If he would just tell her what happened then she could help! Instead he insists that things will work out how he expects them to, even though all this time has passed. The more he talks, the more her confusion turns into frustration. Especially when he orders her not to tell anyone about this and she inhales sharply, ready to tell him off. But a moment later she's sure she's got him.

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!"

Don’t know much? This coming from a child! Harrowheart literally fumes at the accusation, letting loose a big puff of mist from his nose and the cheekless side of his face. But the longer he looks at the girl, the more his features soften and the smoke subsides. Calm, self-assured defiance from a Durant is a magic of its own, and it works especially well on draugrs.

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...”

Being the age she is, Lynn is used to huffing and puffing, and knowing that whoever is causing someone to huff and puff is usually an adult. Which means that right now she's the adult. A feat which is a little less impressive when the other person involved is being directed by a floating sword.

The sharp bark startles her out of her pride, making her jump and her blood run cold. What did she say? Why is she in trouble? Did she get someone else in trouble? She did! But she's not sure who, or else she'd try to warn them.

Instead she's stunned into silence, quietly grossed out by him tugging the flesh on his face, and then alert while he lights a cigarette and smokes it. When he speaks in a calmer, considerate tone it's an immense relief. Helped considerably by him telling her she's right.

She brightens up again, less smug than she is elated to be right, and told so by an adult(?) no less!

Bouncing on the spot, she grins at him. "You'll come back with me? Promise you won't steal your sword back, though. You have to ask for it. Auntie Isidor has it and you mustn't be rude to her."

Harrowheart chuckles. “I ain’t makin’ any promises.”

He’s back to his walking in short order, and as the shock of Zandros’ disappearance wears off the alcohol creeps back into his steps.

“Besides,” he says, clearing plants from their path with a necromancer’s touch, “I’m the one who left it with her. I said I’d have it back when I came back from the war. And it is my phylactery, after all. I think I got a right to take my soul back when, where, and how I please. Not that the sword really matters in the end. She’s got my soul forever, no matter what.”

He heaves a sigh and glances at Lynn. “This is... The most I’ve said in a real long time.” He laughs uncomfortably. “You Durants got a way of makin’ me talk, I guess. But I’m done hearin’ about me. I wanna hear about you. You walk through mirrors? Get that from your daddy? Are you the scholar, then? And what’s your sister’s deal?”

Edited 2019-11-07 13:20 (UTC)

"You're a lich," she breathes, looking between him and his sword with wide eyes. That must mean he's an impressive necromancer! Seeing the sword again, she's doubly glad he's a friend.

Listening is an easy task, especially when she has to focus on taking a similar path to him. The sword may cut the vines, but he's the one who flattens down anything that might tangle up her legs. She has to work a little to keep up with his stumbling strides. That said, when he shows in interest in learning more about her she can't help but get a bit excited.

"I'm the scholar, and my sister is the patron. She does magic like my mum," she explains with a dismissive wave of her hand. More enthusiastically she continues, "I'm a planeswalker like my dad! He teaches me all kinds of things. That's how I was able to come so far and end up here! We tell each other about the adventures we've been on. It can take a while, though. He has to work away a lot, but when he comes back he and I talk for days!"

Proudly she adds, "He says that even though I started later than he did, I'm even more skilled than he was when he was my age!"

Harrowheart frowns, as much as he’s capable of doing so. “He ain’t always around for you? Why’s that? And why don’t he just come to you every night, in your dreams-like?”

He opens his mouth to ask another question, but high above a troupe of monkeys hoots and whoops. There’s no sense trying to talk over their terrible ruckus until they’ve leapt away and taken most of their sound with them.

When things are relatively quiet again he looks back at the girl and asks, “You want me to carry you? Figure you can sit on that spear in my back. You know, the one you didn’t help me out with.”

"You didn't ask for my help," she points out quickly. And, though walking through this jungle isn't easy, her face screws up unhappily as she looks at the spear jutting out of his back. "It's gross... And what if you slip? I don't want a stick up my butt! I'll pass, thanks."

That's as far as she can stall the other questions. Either Harrowheart is showing just why he was such a perfect friend to the Durants, or they rubbed off on him.

She kicks a small stick along the ground, staring at it as it tumbles and gets stuck on a root. "I told you, my dad is really important. He has to help the gods a lot. Sometimes he comes to me in my dreams, but I don't always remember my dreams. Sometimes we talk for ages and ages and do fun things."

Harrowheart scoffs. “Someone’s gotta ask for your help before you offer it? Girl, they’re raisin’ you rich, ain’t they? Guess I got no choice but to come back now. Get you fixed up.”

“Can’t believe Viatorus is out there helpin’ gods now. Except, maybe I can? It feels right, somehow. Don’t know how, but I know it does. Maybe just cause he was always a helpful kinda guy. He knew how to fix other people’s problems. Or maybe he didn’t, and I just remember him that way, but I feel like it’s true. Fifteen years apart has a way of makin’ the truth hard to remember.”

He gasps quietly and turns to Lynn. “Is your dad the Archon now? Or— Is your grandad still alive? Both of ‘em, I guess, but the Archon, mostly. And—“

He stops himself abruptly and sighs. “I oughta learn all this stuff for myself, huh? How bout, uh... You do any other kinda magic? Your auntie teach you elementalism or anything? This jungle ain’t exactly a safe place. We might need some tricks, if you got any.”

Apart from the fact that she doesn't know what's so bad about being raised 'rich', she knows he's making fun of her and as much as she wants to talk back, she thinks he'd make even more fun of her if she spoke up. Mostly she didn't want to touch the blood and guts that the spear is poking into. It's gross. Super gross.

Besides, she's much happier listening to how her dad's friend remembers him. She thinks it's hard to believe that they were friends at all, but her dad being unbelievable is pretty believable, odd as that sounds.

"My grandfather's still the Archon," she tells him. A little more sulkily she adds, "The family says dad and aunt Isidor aren't allowed to be the next Archon."

Which she thinks is wholly unfair, and she's liable to grumble about all the way to their next destination. That is, until Harrowheart asks her what she can do and she perks right up.

"I can do water magic! My attacks aren't very good, but I can make a shield!" Excited to show off, she skips just ahead of him and stops. She holds out both palms in front of her and screws up her face in intense concentration. It takes a few seconds before light ripples into life in front of her. A white sheet spreads out in a circle, becoming thin enough to just about see beyond and then slowly turning more purple. The energy twists across the surface, like colours across a soap bubble, but she's happy. She holds it for a second and then lets it vanish.

With that done, she spins to Harrowheart. "You can do ice magic! That's like water magic." She clasps her hands together. "Can you teach me? Please! Please, please, please, please!"

Harrowheart watches the shield’s creation as if he’d never seen magic done before. His eye is wide and intense, his lips are parted slightly, and the fire from his eye socket burns brightly. Just advice he reaches out to touch it, the magic dissipates, and the shield goes with it.

When it’s gone he comes to his senses again and smiles. He claps for her, though quietly, and he nods.

“That’s real good. You’re pretty talented for an eleven-year-old.”

He presses his lips tightly together. She can’t see him laugh at his own teasing. Hiding his smile would be easier if he spoke, and he launches right into the next topic.

“All right! All right, I’ll teach you some ice magic! I’ll try, anyhow. Ain’t taught nobody a damn thing in a decade, except how it feels to get a sword in their guts, but I can try.”

There’s a dull thump from his gloves when he claps his hands together. He rubs his palms quickly and looks around at the place they’re standing. Not a whole lot of room to maneuver, but he’ll have to make it work.

He stands beside Lynn and advises, “Watch what I do, and when I’m done, you do the same. Hand in a fist... Arm up...”

He narrates as he moves, raising a fist in the air, arm slightly bent. Then a sudden, quick strike of his hand cuts in front of her, just skimming her face. A wind begins to swirl all around, with Lynn and the dead man at the heart of it. The palmetto leaves rattle and bend, the vines wave in the gust, and debris on the ground lifts upward.

Harrowheart raises his hand again and twists it with the motion of the storm. The cold picks up, and despite the oppressive heat of the jungle flakes of snow begin to form. Snow turns to ice that grows in the direction of the howling winds. Icicles form on the trunks of the palms, stretching outward horizontally like grasping claws. Even at the center of the storm, a little human’s breath turns to fog like the death knight’s.

And with another downward strike the storm abruptly ends. Snowflakes settle gently against the wind-torn fanning leaves. In moments the heat sinks in again, melting them. The icicles will take longer to thaw, but they’re already dripping.

“Simple as that,” he says, smiling down at her. “Just think cold and windy thoughts.”

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