westfallcorndog | AU: Welcome to the Jungle

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AU: Welcome to the Jungle

The first thing one might notice, when transported rather suddenly into a jungle, is that it’s hot. Sweltering. Sauna-like, really, with thick and sticky air that clings to the flesh and mats hair against skin. Even the shade of the canopy doesn’t protect a person from it. It’s inescapable, like the buzzing of the swarming bugs, and the trolls.

Ah, right. The trolls. On Azeroth, you simply can’t enjoy a jungle without it being ruined by the trolls. In fact, there are a few a stone’s throw away right now, just across the camp. They were only barely out of the line of sight of the mirror propped up against a rough-barked palm tree, and any person peering through that mirror couldn’t be reprimanded for having missed them.

Now, though, when one of their spears sails through the air, they’re quite impossible not to notice. The weapon pierces through the thin mirror, shattering the glass, stopping only when its head is buried deeply within the palm. While the bouncing of the wooden shaft at eye level might be distracting, a person might be better-served to watch the troll that threw it.

One simple, cloth tent — and the scattered remains of three others — lie between the blue-skinned, long-nosed, boar-tusked troll and its wobbling weapon. Boxes and chests of goods have been thrown around the camp, and a long rifle has been discarded beside the burning fire. None of it catches the eye of the troll — easily the height of a man and a half — who points a thick, blue finger just past the newest arrival on the scene. He shouts something in his cryptic language, looks to the ground around him, finds another spear, and throws it with all his might.

It sails with practiced skill, long and fast, and it jets right past the first. There’s a squirt of blood and a bestial shriek, and seconds later a red-scaled raptor collapses to the ground, instantly dispatched by a spear through the eye.

The troll claps, and his friends behind him hoot and holler. Proud of his work, the troll smiles around his long tusks. “Lil’ hu-mon!” he calls out, then beckons with his gangly arms. “Ya almost was ate!” His company laugh.

“C’mere, now, get on over here!”

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Looking like she swallowed vinegar, Lynn's eyes widen and her body tenses, but she rushes into the tent and tucks the folds as closed as she can get them. She curls up and tries to find some comfort in this uncomfortable place. Nowhere has beds as good as home, but this is exceptionally bad. Not to mention how badly hunger and fear make for poor sleeping companions. Eventually it's sheer exhaustion that gets her to sleep.

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.

Years have passed since the last time Harrowheart slept. A little girl was born and grew into a young, adventurous apprentice mage, and in all the years that she'd been around, Harrowheart's eye had been open. Tonight was no different. Like many countless nights he stood, staring, propped up by his armor and the sword in his hand. There were trolls in this jungle -- he'd said so himself, after all. There were trolls, and a princess, and he was a knight. It was his duty to stand watch and defend her from whatever might disturb her sleep.

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.

Those warning sounds alert him too late and he swears he feels cool metal against his nose. Though that may just be the cold air as the blade passes so close in front of him. Then, after all that sudden motion, there's stillness and silence.

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?"

Harrowheart's hands release his blade as if he'd been scalded. He takes a single step back, and as if it were possible to maintain his dignity he raises a glove to hide his mangled face.

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?"

That small sign of recognition, has Viatorus smiling in response. One precious moment where they are best friends again. And then everything else that followed settles into the silence, making Viatorus scramble to turn his fading smile into a look of concern.

"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."

Edited 2019-12-08 23:55 (UTC)

"What happened?" Does he really have to ask?

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."

Almost immediately a part of him yearns for them to put off discussing the past. These days, however, he's not as prone to giving in to his internal squirming. Especially with something so important.

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."

Viatorus’ words — the truth — hit like a brick. Harrowheart never gave him the chance to make things better. He knows that, and he’s always known that. But shifting the blame has always been easier. Viatorus, it seems, has matured in more ways than the physical. Now, as they stand together in the jungle, the air thick with humidity and alive with the calling of cicadas, Harrowheart has to ask himself if the same could be said for him.

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?”

They seem to have reversed. Once upon a time it would have been the scholar who was stiff, hesitant to touch another living being. Something his daughters soon trained him out of. With Runa and two little girls, hugs simply aren't optional. He pats Harrowheart's back in a reassurance that seems far too gentle for a being so big and so strong.

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."

“She’s fine,” he says and follows Viatorus away from the tent. “Think she thinks I’m tryin’ to poison her, cause she won’t eat nothin’, but she’s fine. We’ll be in a port city sometime tomorrow morning, and I’ll send her home from there.”

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?”

Hearing that she refused to eat surprises Viatorus at first, but then he realises that it was him who taught her these things. Eating doesn't matter quite as much in dreams.

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."

How much more bleak Viatorus makes it sound than Lynn had. But he'd always had a talent for the sobering, hadn't he? He paints a picture of a lonely wife, and a sister on her own. It's hard to imagine the three of them apart. He'd been so certain nothing could have separated them. But then again, in years long past he never could have imagined himself leaving their sides.

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."

The crinkling of his forehead is the only sign Viatorus is smothering a wince. Sure, he can lie, but he doesn't enjoy it. That said, he doesn't enjoy Harrowheart's dismal expression either. It's so much worse with half his face missing...

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."

Harrowheart chuckles. Even after his laughter fades a smile remains, looking all the wider for his permanently exposed teeth.

“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?...”

How long can he stay? Viatorus hesitates and turns back to the tent.

"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."

Harrowheart's lone eye shines with a happiness that he reflexively fights from his mangled face. A night and a day, while such a short time, is so much more than he could have hoped for.

He nods at Viatorus' request and without another word he turns to disappear into the dense foliage. One way or another he'll find her something.

In a few short moments the sounds of his boots clomping through the underbrush have vanished. The bugs still call, and a trio of tree frogs join them, but other than this hum of the jungle night, all is silent.

For a time, anyway.

There's a rustling nearby -- the sound of footsteps. But it's far too early for Harrowheart to be returning, and those steps are far too light.

What emerges from the treeline isn't a glowing-eyed corpse, but a long-nosed, long-eared, long-limbed person in scant clothing. It smiles around its boar-like tusks. From the darkness, another like it appears at its side.

With only the smoothest of tones the troll asks the mage, "You here to rescue de little girl from dat scary ting?"

They've both changed so much, but still they fall back into their friendship as if nothing ever happened. As if the scars and trauma and loneliness never existed. It's good to see Harrowheart's smile, mangled though it is.

Viatorus watches the glow of Harrowheart's eyes until they become obscured by the thick foliage. Then, alone again, he looks around. He's never been in a jungle before. Not a real one, that is. His attention, however, comes back to the tent. It's as he's examining it, wondering how to fix it further when footsteps catch his attention.

He really wasn't expecting to see anything or anyone else, and it shows. The glowing orb beside him makes his wide eyes shine. It takes him a second to gather himself and realise he should reply. But, in traditional Durant form, it's with another question.

"What scary thing?"

The troll's laughter masks the whisper of leaves as his companion recedes into the underbrush.

"You didn't see it? Den ya just missed it! Tall and nasty, dangerous, probably tinkin' about eatin' dat little girl I saw."

The keeps his eyes on Viatorus and gestures to him from shoes to hair. "And who might you be? A friend o' dat little Explorer's League party we run into yesterday? Lookin' for dem, maybe? Can lead ya to 'em, if ya want..."

Meanwhile, under cover of darkness and obscured by the scrub, the other troll has crept to the far side of the tent. Quietly as it can manage it slips its gangly arms under the tarp and starts to feel around for Lynn.

Harrowheart. It's talking about Harrowheart. Were they tracking him? Hiding from him? If Viatorus didn't know any better he might have hidden from someone like Harrowheart, and tried to warn strangers of him. The optimistic little thought dances through his mind, but a learned wariness holds him still.

His attention falls back into the present and he offers a tentative smile. "An explorer... Yes. Yes, I'm an explorer, but it's alright. I'm not lost."

In the tent, a dormant Lynn is unaware of being sought out. She's oblivious to the searching hand and the unfamiliar motions in the tent around her. That is, until something grabs her ankle and she stirs. It takes her a solid few seconds to come around, but once she realises what's wrong she opens her mouth and screams.

"Lynn!" Viatorus spins on the spot and dashes to his daughter's rescue. Whatever the strange creature wants to talk about is thrown out of his thoughts.

The girl's scream sets everything in motion. The troll in the tent scrambles to grab her by the ankles, and with one rough tug pulls her out of the protection of the tent and into the sticky jungle air. It fights against her struggles until it thinks it has a good hold on her, then tosses her over its shoulder and springs up to full height.

Viatorus has the speed of a fearful father, but the troll he'd been talking to has the benefit of long legs. It bounds after him and reaches out to snatch him up by the arm. If he's lucky, maybe he'll get two meals out of this.

It's only when the troll grabs his arm, sending him stumbling to a stop, that he remembers the other creature. Reflexively, he spins around, thrusting out his palm and a sleep spell, before trying to yank himself away. He needs to go after her.

"Lynn!" He shouts, and opts not to share the same language as their attackers. "Faites une lumière!"

Through a pause in her screaming Lynn realises she recognises that voice, and desperately calls back, "Pappa!" The instruction that comes through the forest next forces her to stop panicking and start thinking. She brings her hands together and concentrates, slowly sniffling and whimpering less as she makes a little flame that she shapes into a ball of pale light that grows and grows...

There's no time for the troll at the campsite to defend himself from Viatorus' spell. The instant the magic hits him his hands go slack around the mage's arm. Seconds later his body topples. The unbroken impact of his chest and face against the ground isn't enough to rouse him, and he remains in the dirt where he fell.

The brute carrying Lynn, meanwhile, isn't perturbed by a magical light that isn't causing it any pain. It continues to run, leaping over scrub and logs, agile in its element and unconcerned with the discomfort of the human on its shoulder.

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AU: Welcome to the Jungle

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