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!”
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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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.
no subject
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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Like Viatorus' smile, Harrowheart's hand slips away from his face. Pent up smoke surges from his empty eye socket, then calms to a steady trickle of mist. He begins to shake his head.
"The last time we saw each other... Do I remember that day better than you? Or maybe you remember it better than me. Nicer, anyhow."
He doesn't take his eye off of Viatorus when he gives his sword another tug, but the weapon refuses to be moved. He exhales sharply, blue and foggy, and has to look away to collect himself.
When he turns back to Viatorus, what little is left of his face is burdened by the weight of all the years between them.
"It woulda been easier if I had forgotten about you. About all of you. I only wish I coulda forgotten about the man who was my best friend until he found out I loved his sister."
He stands a little taller then and looks down his crooked half-nose at the dreamwalker.
"I made. A hard choice."
His bright eye drifts toward the tent, where it lingers for as long as he's silent. Another fuming sighs escapes him, and when he speaks again there's peace in his voice. Resignation.
"And the right one."
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So he watches and listens, brow tilted up in sympathy and regret. He's quiet when Harrowheart finishes, following his old friend's gaze and staying silent for a moment before his eyes flick back to the death knight.
"I never really had a chance to fix that, did I?"
Viatorus sighs and shakes his head slowly. "A lot happened after you left." Tired just thinking about it, he sounds weary when he emphasises, "An awful lot."
"Steve was gone, and you were gone, and all I wanted right then was to have my best friends close by." He shakes his head again. "It didn't matter what anyone had done or said. I never thought that one moment would do so much. We had all the time in the world, I'd thought back then. If I'd have known... Well." A smile flits across his face. "Hindsight is twenty twenty."
no subject
He reaches out, then hesitates. It’s been so long since he’s done this — gone to hold someone for any reason other than to wring their neck — that he’s not entirely sure he knows how to do it anymore. Falteringly he steps forward, closing the gap between them. His armor creams as he wraps his arms around his friend with a too-light touch. He rests a gloved hand on his friend’s head and holds him there for a moment that ends perhaps sooner than it should.
When he steps away he says, “I should have been there for you. For all of it. I thought your lives would be better... Easier... Without me. But now it’s been so long, and I look so—“ He clears his throat.
“You and Lynn, you cant tell anyone you saw me here.”
He pauses for a moment, and then a guilty smile creeps across his half-face.
“You learn how to lie yet?”
no subject
It's a sweet, sad little moment. Not as sad, however, as the knowing smile he gives Harrowheart.
"I know." He wishes he didn't, but the two of them know instinctively what this encounter is. They might not know what would happen if Harrowheart reappeared in their lives, bursting from the grave, but they can make a guess.
"I've learned how to lie." He tries to strengthen his smile, but has to look over to the tent to help him keep it steady. After a second he takes a few steps away from the where his daughter is sleeping, lest they wake her up.
"Is she alright? She didn't look hurt."
no subject
He glances toward the tent once more and only now notices that it’s been fixed. He smiles faintly.
“Figure you’re a good dad, Viatorus. Lookin’ after her. You... Travel here from her dreams?” He raises his eyebrows at the thought of it. Could he always do that?
He raps his knuckles against his friend’s chest. “But it ain’t when she’s sleepin’ that you gotta watch out for her. She ain’t gettin’ into any trouble sleepin’. She told me she walked here through a mirror. Right into a jungle! Almost got herself ate by a gang of hungry trolls. I’d say she’s lucky I found her, but I am what I am, after all.”
He turns a small smile to Viatorus, and in the low light he spends a moment taking in his features.
“She speaks highly of you. Says you do important work. Says you help the gods. I’m proud of you, Viatorus. You came real far.”
He hesitates before asking, “How’s Runa? And—“ Is he even allowed to ask? “Isidor?”
no subject
He's wondering whether he could amend this 'no eating' rule when Harrowheart asks him how he got here. "Hm? Oh, yes. Yes I came through her dreams."
And then he's back to thinking, a light, worried frown on his brow. "I'll make sure she knows to be more careful. It's... A but difficult, though. She hears all the stories about me, and you, and she thinks it's the best, most exciting thing in the world. She's better at getting into trouble than I am."
That being said, he does smile bashfully at Harrowheart's compliments. Lynn would make it all sound wonderful. He tries to focus on that when Harrowheart asks after Isidor, though his expression sobers softly.
"Runa is fine. I think she struggles with me being away so often, but... She's strong and capable. And she has the girls."
Then he hesitates. A lot really has happened since they last met.
"It's hard to tell with Isidor. She doesn't let anyone in. Not that she ever did, but... She's surviving. When she's visiting the girls she's happy, at least. She loves them and they love her. I don't know if I can say the same for when she's not with us."
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He catches himself staring at Viatorus and tries to pull them both out of their thoughts with a stiff pat to the shoulder. They'll both do well not to dwell on sad realities.
Harrowheart turns his attention to the blinking runes of his blade, still half-buried in the dirt. He holds out his hand as if he expects it to leap into his palm, but its runes go dark. He drops his hand only to try the motion again. This time it blinks once, then lights and fades up and down its length like a hand gliding across a piano's keys.
Harrowheart sighs. He returns his attention to Viatorus. After a moment's reluctance he admits, "I'm not the only one missin' his other half. My blade... Is it still on Earth? I figure the Durants wouldn't give up a good artifact, but..."
Quieter now he says, "I need to know."
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He follows Harrowheart's attention to the blade. Thinking that, finally, he has something good to share, he perks up.
"Oh! Yes! Isidor keeps it in her office. It's in a glass case, pride of place." He smiles gently. "She's made sure to spread rumours that it will tear into any intruders. With that sword... Nobody knows how true that is."
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“Sure hope it’s true. If it ain’t, I’m gonna have to have a word with it.”
A moment to laugh and joke, however grimly, was exactly what he needed. It’s easier to look at his friend now, less shrunk beneath the weight of his guilt.
“I forgot how good it felt to have a friend. How much longer can you stay?...”
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"I... I have to travel through dreams. Someone needs to be sleeping for me return..." He sighs and returns his attention to Harrowheart. "But I can't leave her here alone. I know she has you, but... Life is dangerous. I have to make sure she gets to a mirror safely. I'll stay until then."
He offers a pained, but hopeful smile. "Do you think you can find something for her to eat? If I tell her it's alright to eat here, she'll eat, and I can't have her going hungry."
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