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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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?...
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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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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?"
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"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."
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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.
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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..."
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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?"
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His half-face smiles, and he nods like he’s delivered cheerful news. “Sleep right, darlin’.”
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Dreams are when the mind can truly process recent events free from the conscious mind. Death knights and trolls and strange new worlds are all a lot to take in. They also happen to be distinctive among the dreams of Lynn's world. To someone searching for her, they make for a unique beacon to follow. The strange, distorted concoctions of his daughter's mind are oddly familiar. All that matters, though, is that he's found her.
When he steps back into the waking world it's dark. It's almost always dark. It's also a small space he finds himself in, which he discovers when his nose meets a low canvas ceiling. The light he conjures is small, casting a soft, pale blue glow not entirely unlike Harrowheart's eyes. It is, however, a better light to see by, allowing him to take in his surroundings.
First thing's first: He kneels down to check on his daughter and, with a sigh of relief, sees no sign of any injury. When she twitches in a shiver, however, he takes off his coat and drapes it over her. It's certainly no inconvenience to him. This place is muggy.
Which brings his attention to the issue of what he now recognises as a tent that is fit to fall over if something tugs it the wrong way. Without considering that there might be more pressing matters to investigate, he sets about fixing it up. Adjusting poles is all well and good inside, but he has to go outside to straighten out the pegs and strings. It's a little bit easier with magic lending an extra hand and his orb of light flitting where ever he needs it. He does roll up the sleeves of his casual white shirt which, along with his narrow leather boots make him look slightly more suited to the jungle than he usually does. But only slightly. The matter of the crooked canvas is still approached with the curiosity of a scholar. There are some things that will never change.
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Frogs call and bugs rattle their wings. The cacophony of the jungle night masks the sounds of one man's overly-civilized need for order. The sound of a Scholar creeping through the dark is not what catches the dead man's attention. No, it's that tiny little light -- that pale imitation of his own that throws a sparkle from just the wrong angle onto the spike of the dead man's pauldron.
The creak of metal and the rustle of boots against the forest floor are the only warnings that precede a rush of cold air, a strike of blue light, and the swift downward cutting of a sword that tears through the air just a hair from the mage's face. The blade of the weapon embeds itself in the malleable earth where it remains, its lonely eye aflame, its runes ablaze. Despite the way the knight tugs at its hilt, the blade is determined to remain stuck in the dirt.
Lich mist fumes from the dead man's skull as he stares in bewilderment between his unruly blade and the man he's faced with. His blade should be obeying, but it's not. He ought to throw a punch, and yet he doesn't. Why? There's something familiar -- something right, yet wrong -- but he can't quite place it.
He boggles at the intruder, uncertain of what he's seeing in the light of magical fire. Fearful -- though he doesn't know why -- he hesitates.
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Viatorus slowly turns to look at the swordsman and freezes all over again. The scholar hasn't changed all that much in all this time. Creases have sunk in deeper, and his skin is more weathered, but the biggest difference is his eyes. They're the same bright green as before but, if Harrowheart looks closely, there are bright little specks scattered in his irises. It's with these eyes, set wide and disbelieving, that Viatorus stares at him.
Even with half his face gone Viatorus can recognise his old friend. The skin that remains unharmed is untouched even by time. That alone is unsettling to see, as if the wounded, unchanged face represents exactly what a death knight is in one simple image.
"We thought you were dead," he finally breathes, and then blinks. "Well. Not all of us."
Swallowing hard, he shuffles on the spot and frowns worriedly. "Do you... Do you remember me?"
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He parts his lips, but the words won't come. Instead he stands in growing silence, his solitary eye flitting across Viatorus' face. With only his memories to work from it's difficult to tell how much has changed. Has he always had--? Were those always--? His thoughts come faster than he can process.
Finally, hoarse-voiced, he says, "Do I remember you?..."
A plume of blue steam escapes the cracks of his fingers.
"How could I forget the man who... Was once my best friend?"
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"What happened? We thought you were dead," he repeats. "Were knocked so hard you forgot all about us? Isidor thought that might have happened. Or that you were trapped somewhere and your PINpoint broke."
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