westfallcorndog | AU: Welcome to the Jungle

Entry tags:

au,
or is it?!

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!”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.”

She's all proud of herself until he gets her age wrong. Folding her arms and scowling she corrects him sharply. "I'm thirteen!"

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...

Once again he's intensely fixated on Lynn and her magic, but when she fails to conjure it immediately he returns to his senses and -- though he probably should stop himself -- he chuckles. After letting her swing and swing he eventually catches her by the wrist.

"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?...

Lynn jumps when he catches her hand, but any fear is fleeting. Annoyance, however, appears like it's here to stay when he tells her to stop, and why. She is the daughter of a great scholar! Her granddad is the Archon! Her aunt is a real dragon! A silly little ice spell can't be too much for her! She just hasn't had enough practice...

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."

Harrowheart startles with her sudden jab. He listens to Lynn, then considers the bottle, then looks at her again.

“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.”

Eager to still be in the right she insists, "It's like drinking air!"

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?"

Harrow affects a falsetto voice and playfully mocks, ”It’s like drinking air!” He laughs at himself and shakes his head. Maybe there’s still some rum in him after all.

“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.

As if to prove him right, she fills her lungs up with a deep breath as soon as he mocks her. Whatever protest she was about to make is interrupted when he presses ahead with the conversation and the distraction saves him from the wrath of an indignant thirteen year old.

The illumination of the blue mist is bright and she raises her arms to shield her eyes. When she lowers them again the draugr has turned into a werewolf in armour. It's fantastical and terrifying and amazing. The fact that it's instantaneous is a blessing, whether Lynn realises it or not. Dealing with the spear that still juts out of him is gruesome enough for the poor girl.

Now, seeing a giant fluffy wolf with a spear in him and his face half gone, her awe slowly skews up unhappily. She looks from his awkward smile to the missing flesh and then to the very inhuman legs.

She fidgets, nibbling at her nails, before meeting his gaze again. "Does it hurt?"

"Does it hurt?" he asks in rumbling, bass voice, as if he needed to hear it from his own mouth to understand. He looks at the palms of hand-paws in their gloves, then turns them over to consider the backs. Eventually he shakes his head. His plush mane and stumpy little ears bounce in all directions.

"Turning into my other form... It's no different than..."

He raises up his hand and closes it into a tight fist.

Then he snorts, and blue steam billows out his half-nose and his empty eye socket. "But this thing!" He points at the spear in his back. "It's starting to itch."

And if Lynn isn't going to help him out, he'll just have to do it himself. He undoes a series of hidden latches on his bracers. When the mechanisms unhook he shakes his arms, and his hands fall right off! But not to the ground. No, they float exactly where they had been before his arms moved away.

His ghostly handpaws float behind him and feel around blindly for the spear that's tenting his cape. Eventually they find the shaft, grip it, and tug. From Harrow's half-mouth comes a little 'boof' as the pole squelches out of him. It falls to the ground and he turns to look at it, refastening his hands to his wrists as he does.

"Talk about a splinter, huh?"

He smiles again, looking menacing and queasy all at once.

"Now," he says, and with a hefty 'whump' falls to all fours. He looks up at Lynn and perks his ears. "You ready to go for a ride? I'll run, and you can rest a while. We'll stop at nightfall. I'll drink that other rum of mine and try and make do until we get to Booty Bay."

Her head rolls to one side when he does his best at explaining what the transformation feels like. It doesn't really help her understand, but that doesn't stop her from continuing to puzzle over it. She looks down to her own hand, closing it into a fist as if that might help her understand.

The quiet thoughtfulness lulls her into a false sense of normality. So when she looks up and sees his hands fall off she screeches and jumped back. That said, she still watches with wide eyes as they paw around to the pole. That squelching is what does it for her. The sound sends her spinning around to dry heave and cough while her stomach does somersaults. Maybe it's lucky she isn't eating.

There's deep laughter while Lynn heaves. Is it right to find amusement in someone else's pain? Only if you're a death knight. A large paw pats her shoulder and steadies her until she's calmed.

When she's collected herself he's back on all fours nudging her with his shoulder. He's insistent about giving you a ride, little girl. The cape on his back hides any unsightly through-and-throughs and provides a small amount of cushion, and the spikes on his pauldrons make decent hand-holds, apart from the metal being chilly. The tent he'd packed and slung over his shoulder makes a functional backrest. He's broader across than a horse but easy enough to sit on. The hardest thing to deal with is his gate, a rocking back and forth motion more like a camel's wobbling than a horse's fluid trotting. The rum might be contributing.

The runeblades cut and the wolfman runs, and all Lynn has to do is hang tight and listen to the howling monkeys and exotic birdsong. Here and there the dark jungle is dotted with colorful flowers, orchids the size of a person's head, and even the occasional fanged pitcher plant that leans in at the sound of movement. They snap, but they never quite get a bite.

After a few hours, though, even the splendor of an alien jungle loses a touch of novelty -- or it would to any non-Durant. And though Harrowheart doesn't seem to tire, the sun does. Its disappearance is sudden, and in an instant the shadowy jungle becomes much, much darker.

With night having fallen, there's nothing to do but make camp, which is easiest done in human form. Harrowheart stacks a pile of jungle branches and attempts start a fire with his lighter, but the wet wood just won't light. He pitches the tent by the dull light of his glowing eye. It's... Well, it's hard to tell if he's done it right when things are this dark.

"Well," he says, looking at the blobby outline of the tent, "It's gonna be what it's gonna be. And you're sure you're good to go to sleep without dinner?" He eyes Lynn suspiciously. "Cause I can find you some food. A piece of fruit, a tasty little parrot..."

Once she's been given time to breathe and steady herself it's time to unsteady herself again. At least this time it's on purpose. She clambers onto him with the awkwardness of someone hovering between intense excitement and wary uncertainty. It can't be all that bad, if he is who he says he is.

Then he starts running, and she reconsiders.

There is some adjustment back and forth while she tries to get used to this wild ride. Really it's a lucky thing she hadn't eaten or she might have ended up heaving all over again. Instead she wriggles and squirms until she finds a place to sit that isn't alarmingly shaky and doesn't get in the way while he runs. Only then does she get distracted once more by their fantastical surroundings. At first she just looks, trying to catch glimpses of the creatures making those noises. Then she wonders. Wonders what animals are making them; Wonders what the noises mean; Wonders what is just beyond the thick foliage either side of her. She wonders until it starts to get dark and there's nothing to look at anymore. Her eyelids start to get heavy and if she weren't fighting to stay upright she would have started asking more questions.

Lynn is too tired to notice how precariously the tent is pitched. Mention of food, however, gets her stomach to stir quite loudly. How nice an apple would be right now...

"Leave the birds alone!" She yelps in horror. Feeling a little queasy, she scrunches up her face and heads to the tent. "I don't want any birds. I'm OK. I'll just go to sleep..."

She pauses at the entrance of the tent. The internal debate visible by the hesitant sway and the small hands that curl up into fists. Despite the worried tilt of her brow, she tries to sound calm and nonchalant when she asks, "Will the trolls find us in the dark?"

Well, if she’s so calm about it, no need to deny her the truth. “Sure will,” he says. “They’re sneaky night-stalkers like that. But you got me, and I got my sword, and a fight would do me some good. Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it. And if you hear a ruckus, don’t leave the tent.”

His half-face smiles, and he nods like he’s delivered cheerful news. “Sleep right, darlin’.”

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject