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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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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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."
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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?”
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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!"
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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.”
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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."
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“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.”
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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!"
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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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If he didn't move on so quickly she'd hammer that point home. As it is, he knows all too well the best way to distract Viatorus' youngest. Through her sulking curiosity begins to peek through again. Her eyes flit from his face to his hands and her own arms loosen as her muscles flex just slightly with the desire to copy him. By the time the magic begins to take hold she's completely enamoured. Despite the sudden change in temperature, she only shivers out of reflex. The cold is much more comfortable than the sweltering heat of the jungle, and the fact that he can make a snowstorm in this heat is incredible.
Wide, amazed eyes watch the snow and Harrowheart for another minute before she remembers why he did it. She jumps to attention and finds a bit of space for herself. "Let me try!"
With an expression of the upmost concentration she brings to mind her mother's home and winters spent playing in the snow and skating on the ice. The fun memories don't quite show on her face, scrunched up in determination as it is. Still, she curls her fingers into a fist and mimics him as best she can... But when she strikes downwards there's barely even a rustle of wind.
Annoyed, she raises her fist, concentrates, and tries again. And again. Until she's shaking her fist like she's trying to get the last dregs of sauce out of a bottle. She'll get it! Just... give her a few minutes. Or days...
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"You're gonna go and tear your arm outta your socket at this rate, hun. It's too much for ya. Ain't nothin' wrong with that. We can start smaller. Or maybe cheat a little..."
He unties his bottled breath from where it hung at his hip, dangling beside a full bottle of rum and three humanoid skulls. He begins to loosen the cork, but before undoing the clasps that hold it in he hands it off to her.
"Pop the top, then breathe it in. Just a little, not a lot. It's the essence of a magical creature, after all, so you gotta be careful. It'll give you a little bit of my power, I figure. Hope it smells like rum and nothin' else..."
Trapped within the glass, the blue fog twists and swirls. In the shade of the trees it even seems to produce a faint glow. After all this time it's still as lively as the moment he trapped it in the bottle.
Will you do it, Lynn? Will you breathe a lich's breath for the promise of power?...
no subject
And then he gives her the strangest offer she's ever had. She eyes the bottle and then Harrowheart like she's been shown something both gross and uncool.
"No way!" She jabs a finger in the bottle's direction. "Rule number one of planeswalking: Don't eat or drink anything from another world. Especially when a magical being offers it to you!"
Slowly her eyes narrow and her arms fold. "Are you working with my dad? Did he tell you to do this? Like a test? You have to tell me if it was aunt Isidor, too."
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“Breathin’ ain’t eatin’. And it ain’t drinkin’, either.”
Still, she’s made her decision. He’s going to put his bottled essence back on his belt, and she’ll never know the supreme power of lich magic. So it goes! So it goes. He ties it off and with a wave of his arm to beckon her along, he’s once again forging his way into the jungle.
“I ain’t workin’ with your dad. I ain’t seen nor heard nor smelled that man in fifteen years. Same with Isidor. And let me tell you what.” He huffs a laugh. “If I had seen her, trickin’ her niece ain’t the first thing we’d talk about. It’d be third at least. She and I got too much unfinished business. Tell you the truth, I’m a little scared of the whole idea of seein’ her again.”
A few yards later he looks over his shoulder to be sure she’s not troll food yet. “If you ain’t gonna eat anything while you’re here, you’re gonna get damn hungry by the time we get to Booty Bay. I already told you, it’s a day and a night away. You gonna go that long in this jungle, hikin’, without food or water? Cause if you are, I oughta shift into my other form and let you ride on my back.”
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And even though she might have just passed up a great opportunity, a little part of her is pretty sure he dodged a bullet. Spooky lich-breath is not exactly the most appealing thing. Who knows what it could do? Harrowheart, maybe. She's not one-hundred per cent sure she trusts him yet. He's a far cry from the Mr. Heart she was told stories about.
Although he's not lying about everything. Everyone is scared of her aunt, so he must have really met her. And, as suspicious as she is of him, she sympathises with him on that much. He has been a bit kind to her, after all. So she offers him a little bit of reassurance. "I'll make sure she doesn't roast you. Promise."
Then he shares another piece of information to prove he's really the Mr. Heart of her childhood stories. She speeds up a little bit to try and make sure he's serious. "You really can shapeshift?"
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“You sure did grow up around your aunt. I can tell it. She always had to have the last word, too. But I’ll tell you what: It she wants to roast me, ain’t nothin’ anyone can do about that. And besides, I’d probably deserve it for abandonin’ her.”
But there are more pleasant topics, and Harrow is quick to seize on them. “I really can shapeshift. I am a worgen, after all. Kind of like a werewolf. And you’re lucky you caught me while I’m in my enchanted armor, or I wouldn’t transform around ya. Just doesn’t do to go tearin’ shorts and shirts wolfin’ out.”
Harrowheart stops and inhaled deeply. The transformation that takes hold of him, unfortunately for Lynn, is almost instantaneous. In a swirl of blue mist he grows, and his form shifts. The bones of his face stretch outward, and his armor creams and groans as the metal plates shift along with him. In a matter of seconds he’s his new self.
He’s taller now than he was before, and broad-chested. His little legs are bent like a wolf’s should be, and thick claws poke out of the tips of his gloves. His wolfen head is blonde, the same as his human hair. His disfigurement, too, follows him to his other form. Half of his fangy jaws are exposed, and his missing eye still fumes. His black nose has been split down the middle, half there and half... not.
And then he smiles.
He tries, at least.
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