About ll Skeleton ll Spotify ll Mirror ll Soundtrack ll Self Para
Name: Alrik Hart
Species: Witch
Faction: Hidden One
Occupation: Street Performer/Acrobat
FC: Cody Christian
Pronouns: He/Him
Age: Twenty- Eight
Nationality: Iskaran
Born in the Southlands, Alrik was raised by his father.
His childhood was atypical for an Iskaran boy. He learned to hunt, fish, and row. His father was a blacksmith, so he picked up some tricks of the trade.
A secret witch, he kept his magic stifled for as long as he could.
Witchers eventually took him and his sister to the mines, and his father died in the process.
He was a prisoner for years before escaping into Ymir's Spine.
In the mountains, he was trained by the Old Woman and became a Hidden One.
Has been hiding in plain sight for a few years, coming across as a masked street performer but killing people as directed.
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Date: Iskaldrik is saved
Location: Iskaldrik, but you decide where
Characters: @alrikhart & @alessiathepath
Notes: I was thinking of these two when I finished the DLC of Asscreed Odyssey and they were talking about The Hidden Ones :'''''''.
It was a brisk night as autumn was slowly giving its way to winter, shepherding in the death of an old kingdom with a white coffin blanket. They would bury the dead under snow and ice. The season's beginnings clouded the breath in front of Alessia as she breezed onto the balcony, her footsteps silent as the early snowfall collecting on her hood. It was enough to hear the song of a falcon, to watch it's wingspan disappear from her peripherals, to know that its master was nearby too. This building did not belong to either one of these trespassers.
Just behind Alessia was the empty skeleton of someone else's lost luxuries. The roof above her that her brother perched himself upon was crumbling with disuse. One of these days the halls of this abandoned mansion would be filled with mead and music again, but it wouldn't be their's. Alessia smiled and glanced over at Alrik as he landed beside her. Or maybe it would be? Maybe Alrik would fancy himself into a Jarl just to prove a point. Alessia was half inclined to do that herself; it would take some time for her to accept the new King was everything they hoped he (and his other half) would be. But she, like her differentiated bloodline, would be found moving from one border to the next - no crown but that of her braided hair.
She sighed and threw an arm across Alrik's shoulder, pulling her brother close. She was counting the days until her journey back to Eterna with bittersweetness. Duty called, but most of her heart would remain behind. "I can't wait to tell your future kids that their dad beat up a god dragon, just to fire up the forge again," she teased.
while the landscape was marred, it would heal. still, the scars that the blight had made upon the land wouldn't even begin to fade for an age. there was a time when the darkest part of alrik's heart would revel in the suffering of his countrymen, for them to see how horrifying the shadow can be firsthand. but that rage had passed sometime between then and now - perhaps it was his blessings. valr screeched overhead, and alrik's sight returned to himself as he blinked and milky-white irises darkened to obsidian once more.Ā
he landed, with a thump, feeling his sister's arms around him a moment later. a chill from above still holding to him while another wrapped itself around alessia still. alrik shivered, then embraced her warmly.
"winter in lysara spoiled us." alrik complained. it was unlike him to be so contemptuous of the cold, but he'd grown accustomed to the sort of luxuries that he and alessia were denied for most of their lives. even as kids they'd never gone hungry, but life was as hard and as brutal as every other iskaran who called the south their home. it took a stubborn breed. lysara had comfortable work, more gold than he'd ever spend, warm fires, a good-quality and soft bed. alrik's stomach was softer now than when they'd started this, but victory looked good on him in the wake of the resignation he'd taken to before.
āI like my forge.ā quick, sharp, but lighthearted. āi'll take an apprentice, or a few. someone to mind it and the shop while we're off.ā because there would never be one without the other; they had names to hunt down. the present was secured, the harts would attend to the future as well. āand there are much worse things you could tell to your future nieces and nephews about me.ā
Lothar had refused to slow down while others crawled from the collateral. He'd never been a patient man, often restless and reckless as a result, but it came from a survivalist's passion and a mere human in a world soiled with magic. It'd taken time for him to appreciate magic, understand it wasn't all inherently sour, but such dark arts were brimming, ready to burst the seams of this world and implode; Lothar would not allow this, even if it meant his end finally. "Your fight is not yet over," Lothar had respected this.... retirement of Alrik's, but he'd not let it stand any longer; they were better as a unit, fighting darkness together and there had been whispers of something within Iskaldrik that Lothar needed to know about.
A solemn shake of his head jostled the unruly mess of curls atop his head, but it wasn't enough to shift the hair plastered to his sweat-soaked brow. He thought about the dreadnought, about the prayer, about the smell of Prospero's fire-cracked skin. Darkfriend. Duty said he should split the man's skull, but love would never permit it. His arms got heavier that day. Too heavy. āYou're always welcome here,ā Alrik stated finitely, warmth to match the glowing red blade he pulled from the flamed to lay across his anvil, ābut no.ā Lothar wasn't the first to ask, just the most recent. It'd taken him long enough.Ā
āI have more money than I'll ever spend. More than my children will ever need, and their children's children even.ā His hammer struck once more, sparks arcing across the surface of the anvil from the heavy blow with the blacksmith's substantial arms behind it. He'd struck a niche in the place, and if nothing else a skilled smith in times of war was profitable - far as Alrik saw it, he was serving in another way. One that kept the collars away from his throat, the witchers off his back, and the iron coins from falling in from the open mouths of ravens. For a moment, Alrik's eyes drifted to the hammer mounted on the wall, the layer of dust and soot evident even from here: months without knowing the touch of its master's hand. Those same obsidian hues landed on Lothar, a warrior he respected and a man he loved just as much as Prospero and Asbjorn. āWhy should I trade my future for theirs?" He gestured with his chin toward the open wall. Ā
The sound of the tattoo machine was soothing, something to hyperfocus and let the world fall away. Since he'd been back, he'd shelled out a decent amount of gold on a small cabin in the Wildlands, received two new ear piercings, and had been back to see Alrik a number of times.
It was all a distraction despite Etienne telling himself months ago that he'd stop running from things. Somehow he felt like he was back at square one after his time with the Kossith, he was conflicted about shifting, he felt on edge all of the time, sleep was hard to come by. Being alone was something he couldn't do at the moment and while he couldn't blame Alucard for heading south, his heart ached. Thankfully he didn't have a shortage of companions to bother.
"Sorry, I'm fine, just tired." And so it kind of felt right, that while feeling like he was back where he started at the moment, that he wind up in the company of the man who'd kept him company through the caves on the way to Nornwatch. Alrik was pack too, Etienne just hadn't known enough about himself yet to know at the time. The look he gives the witch from the tattoo bench is apologetic, he doesn't mean to mope. "You'd trust me to tattoo people?" The corners of his mouth tug into an amused smile at the idea.
They were a long ways from the long road they'd walked together to, and from, Nornwatch. In so many ways it felt like a lifetime ago, but his leg remembered the agony of his fall, and while his body wished to forget the trauma of the Kossith - his mind never would. Fragile from the onset, they were alive, but the cost was heavy. Away from battle, from the flames, and from the shadow - that was the only way that the smith would continue to survive.
"...No." Alrik amended, not clearly misunderstood. "But you can sit there and keep me company while I do." An offer, if Etienne felt so inclined. He canted his head idly to the side, empathetic to what the other was going through - what they'd all been through. "How are you holding up, friend?" Might be old friend soon enough: though Alrik didn't know what that might mean.
@etienneulven
location: Hartbound, Eterna
notes: retirement looks good on him
"He'll be back." It was a small comfort, but Alrik wouldn't try to contend with the mind of a legionnaire - he'd heard the puppy's chewtoy had disappeared to the South following everyone's return. That had to be bitter, but if anyone could survive whatever was going on there, he believed it'd be Alucard. "Keep your chin up, you look like someone kicked Goose."
Alrik's tattoo gun hummed to life, buzzing as the latest bit of mechanical engineering flexed the ideal, runed needle at the tip. Since returning he'd heard of no coins coming from the mountains, Alessia had told him that the Dark One's eye had turned upon the Old Woman a year ago - perhaps He found her, or perhaps all the evil in the world was simply slain.
That produced an amused grunt before he sat back and folded his arms across his considerable chest. They'd survived, but at a cost. "Adrian and I could always use more help around here," Alrik offered, "legally I don't think I can pay you because of the Legion thing but... you're always welcome here, friend."
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Juneau, dead. Dead. Juneau, who was so much like Alessia that she swore that perhaps calling themselves friends was questionable, but they might've been familial in another life. She had seen herself so easily in the wolf girl, from the very second that they'd met one another in that dirty old cave en route to Nornwatch. A vuldak was stronger than Alessia could ever hope to be. She should have lived. Gods, she should have lived. If she could not have survived this, would Alessia? Would Prospero survive, fated to the same end as his fellow Dark-One-aligned? These thoughts raced through her mind as her feet flew over gore and rubble, Alrik at her heels.
And when she saw what had awaited them, it was like a proverbial blow to the stomach. Alessia touched her fingers to her throat to ensure she still drew breath. And then⦠And then. Steeled herself. One hand laid upon her heart to quell its pounding. She had been living off nothing but rage to survive, and it had all been for nothing. The anger had not prevented this. She could hear the change in Alrik's breathing, she could feel her brother's horror like a second blow to follow the first. But the world did not narrow the way it had the first time she had seen Prospero's corpse, because now there was another body to worry about beside her, one that still drew breath. So she followed behind Alrik, her legs feeling like lead and her heart heavier still.
Alessia did not speak, following in the request to let down the man that they had... let down. Who had let Alessia and Alrik down too, with his lies, perhaps, but whose faults had made him no less the caretaker and substitute father that he had been for many months. Hot tears began to roll onto her cheeks as she shuddered and wrenched a nail free from Prospero. Her breaths grew ragged as she listened to Alrik, a broken sound ripping from the tightness in her throat, muffled quickly by her bloody palm. Trembling with the effort to steady herself, she turned her thoughts inward to the air in her lungs and the waves of physical pain. When her eyes landed on Alrik beside her, untempered anguish flickered over her again before she shook her head. "There's nothing we can do," she murmured. The siblings always found a way, always made it out intact. "Not this time." Today, they'd leave a piece of themselves here.
There had been peace in his life before. When he had been born, he'd had his brother already at his side. There weren't many years that had separated the two of them so they had ended up being close. Damakos had always been the less mature of the two. Of course, now, most would probably have thought something different if they had met the two brothers. Prospero wouldn't consider himself all that mature, but perhaps it was the fact that he took on much more responsibility than his brother ever would. He had always placed the world on his shoulders, always biting off so much more than he could chew.
Prospero was similar to all of his family in a way. Then again, he was also different from them as well. He had his mother's ambition, but not her fearlessness. He had his brother's extroverted personality, but he was not carefree. He feared like his father, but he didn't always say what was on his mind.
That was just them though. Then there was his found family. Alrik. Alessia. Lothar. They all had qualities about them that he wasn't sure if he even had himself. He wanted to have the strength that Alrik and Alessia had. Their survivability, too. He wanted Lothar's ability to not let things faze him as much as they did. He wantedā¦them. He wanted all of them.
As his eyes shut for what he felt like the last time, he saw everything he could have had. Alrik and Lothar roughhousing like he always expected. They were both just two meatheads that probably could communicate with only grunts. Alessia was sitting next to him, arms folded, looking like she wasn't enjoying any bit of it. He could always see the hint of a smile that reached her face though. It was the same smile that was blatantly apparent on his own. His mother and father were there sitting together in the field just as in love as they had always been.
However, as he looked around there was one face missing. It was very like Damakos to run off to do who knew what whenever he wanted to. Nobody ever knew when he was coming back, but they always knew that he would. As night fell around them, it was just Prospero outside when he saw him. There was a darkness that shrouded his brother, one unlike any he had seen before. The smile that had lifted onto his face had dissipated and was left with despair. The shadow of his brother looked at him and Prospero looked back as if there was something to truly look at.
'Death is light as a feather; duty, heavy as a mountain.'
The whisper in his ear woke him with a start as the daylight filtered into his vision. His brother's voice had been so quiet, but the words had felt so loud. Death was easy. Duty was much harder. Prospero knew, in that moment, as his fingers curled around the bottle he held in his hand like a vice, just what duty his brother had pulled onto his shoulders. There was a sharp inhale as he felt the tears start to fall. The tears that he had held in for so long felt like they were lifting a weight off of his own shoulders, one that he could not take for granted. But how was it fair for him to live while his brother suffered because of his actions?
As the tears fell, he heard a voice that felt like it was next to him and not next to him at the same time. Alrik. Alessia. For all he had done, for all he had caused, they still wanted him around. They still wished to have him in their lives.
Duty, heavy as a mountain.
That was Prospero's duty. When he looked up, it felt like he was in the Arches again. The way back only came but once. His gaze flicked towards the bottle in his hand, the hat on his head, the pistols at his sides. Tears still falling, he stood up from his seat, the bottle dropping from his hand. If he could, he would spend the rest of his entire life making up for what he had done to protect the memories of those he had lost. Now he had new memories to protect, a new family that didn't need him, but wanted him.
There was a wheezing breath that left his body as he opened his eyes just below where he had felt himself fade away. The crucifix was a reminder of his sins, of the weight that his brother had taken off of his shoulders. Wetness settled upon the peeling skin of his face as his eyes closed gain. He felt Alrik and Alessia's presence and it felt like floodgates being opened again for tears he had always felt back. A sob wracked his body and he wasn't sure how many times the words left his mouth, but, at some point, he wasn't sure who he was saying them to anymore. It was just three words over and over and over again.
The vessel was roaring as the rebellion aboard the dreadnought pushed into full swing, but on the prow it felt silent save for the thunderous breaths that came and went from his chest. He didn't get to be angry with Prospero or ask him why, he didn't get to help him, instead the witch would be caught stuck with all that stupid, wasted time. "No!" Alrik shouted in response - a ripple worked its way up his spine as he smelled saltwater and charred flesh. It was just like home, why did it have to smell just like home? "No!" He shouted again, large but broken hands cradling the quiet stain of the tortured druid.
That quiet stretched as the sounds of the uproar did something to worm its way into the space, the ocean slapped against the sides of the dreadnought and from between the Hart siblings the charred remains of Prospero began to softly glow. Faint, radiant light threaded and stitched the battered frame back together: ligament to ligament, skin to skin, and with a broken croak the apologies seemed to spill from Prospero's lips.
Alrik was still in the same place, looking down at the man as his face burned hot with the filthy cheeks streaked-clean by the steady river flowing from his eyes. The glow caught his eyes, drawing his focus as he felt the breath in his lungs suddenly still as every cell within his body seized.
"Dad-"
A squeeze that came like an iron vice, the afterthought came that it'd be too tight, but Alrik couldn't steady himself to care in the moment.
"He won't take you."
Alrik steadied his focus on the old man, drawing back but keeping his hands firmly planted on Prospero's shoulders and repeating. "He won't."
Alrik didn't know how, but from the druid he looked toward his sister - the horrors they'd seen, become, they still walked this road together. All of them now.
"We're getting off this fucking boat..." He looked between the pair of them, "and we're going home."
@alessiathepath
The last of the dream shatters like glass against the sea of stars, you awaken in the brig once more, the dream gone and the surface of the boat nothing but a distant memory. The hum of machinery, now quite familiar, hums around you. Your body feels foreign, as though borrowed and stitched back together after weeks of abuse.Ā
A flicker in the torchless dark - then a glimmer of wings, moving in measured, silent pulses. Not a butterfly, but a moth, cloaked in ash. Its wings are scorched at the edges, ever-smoking, like parchment too long held near a flame. A crimson shimmer outlines its form, and golden filaments run like veins through each wing, pulsing faintly in time with your heartbeat. The creature drifts close, and you see it clearly: its body is bound in rings of tarnished iron and coiled runes, like shackles forged to remember. A trail of cinder follows in its wake, curling like a mourning veil through the air.
Then, without warning, it folds in on itself -Ā wings sealing shut in an eerie inversion and from its collapse rises a rune.It is the shape of a bladed spiral, jagged and inward-turning like the carving of a bloodletting sigil. At its center is a broken crown, cracked clean through and threaded with glowing red thread. Runes - older than the Abyss, older than dreams - flow like molten chains from crown to spiral edge. On one side, the sigil flares like a dying star and on the other, it blackens like coal left too long in the hearth.Ā
The rune hums, then sinks into your sternum like a brand being recalled to its master. The aādam tightens once - and releases. The aādam is still present, a chain felt only in memory. But you feel the break - like waking from a lie whispered too many times. You are yourself again, but not unchanged; the aādam no longer controls you, does not pain you, cannot affect you.
OOC Info:
The butterfly and subsequent rune represent the shape and appearance of your characterās soul, by altering it - even slightly - the aādamās control was broken.Ā
@prcspero & @alessiathepath (???)
location: ship's prow
notes: idk dany but she better be there, Alessia first, and then Prospero after he responds to his next prompt <3
Alrikās could feel how his hands trembled as he approached the crucifix, every breath sharp with iron and incense. The scent of blood - old, dried, and fresh - clung to the ship's walls like a curse. The dreadnought was in an uproar, a battle raging from one end of the vessel to the other, from the Captain's quarters to the holdings below but Alrik could only help those in front of him. Above him, Prospero hung in unnatural stillness, his limbs spread wide, nailed through flesh and bone. His head drooped forward, curls matted to what remained of his charred brow with sweat and blood, the once-charismatic man now ruined and silent.
He'd been made to see it firsthand, what Prospero had done had resulted in so much despair... But this had to be worse. Whatever the lies, whatever the betrayal, he'd seen Prospero's heart firsthand and felt its weight when the man who'd been just as much a father to him over the last year as Asbjorn had been.
Alrik stepped closer, bootfalls softened by the ash that settled below. There was no breath, no heartbeat, no sign of life; that enough was enough to make Alrik's features fold, but it didn't stop him. "Help me get him down," Alrik cleared his throat as he looked at the metal spikes driven deep and the ropes burned into flesh.
āWe're here,ā Alrik whispered, as though speaking louder might break what remained. āWe've got you-" Something in the witch quivered, his throat bristling and breath wavering, "we won't leave you like this." Alrik braced himself, fingers wrapping around the cold shaft of a nail, and with a grunt, he began to work it free.
"Odin," Alrik's voice was raw, whether it was tears or the budding rain that struck his face, he wasn't cognisant to say. "One-Eye, Lord of Secrets... He who hung upon the Tree for knowledge - spare my father your Golden Hall. A warrior, more worthy than any I've met: give him back to me, bring him back to us."
@alessiathepath
location: Dreadnought
notes: jailbreak sestra
The rune burned somewhere deep within, this unquenchable flame - all-consuming and never satisfied - broiled within Alrik's gut. There was the sound of an explosion from deep within, the Kossith turned frantic; some disappeared, presumably to retrieve arms, but did not reappear again. His priority would always be Alessia, Alessia and the father that had been left to burn on the prow.
Finding his sister - or what remained of her - was easy. He couldn't know what state Alessia was in, if she was feeling whatever pain her sul'dam was undoubtedly experiencing, or if she retained any bit of herself at all. They were difficult to kill and Alessia had said it best, these Kossith did not know what they'd brought onto their boat. Brandishing one of the Kossathi war hammers, he raised it toward the sul'dam nearest Alessia and drove it through his skull, watching as the collar rolled off of Alessia's throat.
"We have to get to Prospero." Darkfriend, traitor - none of that mattered.
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Dread Prompt
Location: Kossith Dreadnought + Tel'aran'rhiod
Notes: Content Warning for blood, violence, and minor body horror
Tagging: Mentions of Prospero, Alessia, Juneau, and Fharzai
Alrikās breath trembled with that strange vibration that hummed just beneath the surface, the static of resistance or the whisper of futility - he couldnāt tell anymore. Maybe it was the death-rattle of nerves too tired to protest or something akin to acceptance but his body felt foreign now. Alrik was a vessel walked in by pain and kept warm by rage and the soul inside pressed against the walls like it no longer fit.
His mind had cracked long before all of this - down in the mines, where light couldnāt reach him, and language had degraded into muttered prayers and toothless curses. Where his own name sounded like a lie whispered through the teeth and gray matter he broke out of those whoād tried to break him first.
Pain was the only thing that tethered him to his body. The ache in his limbs reminded him that this was still his skin, though it clung to him like borrowed cloth. Above him, alien stars hung like old gods, and he thought of an old tale that spoke of Nótt and the hero who wrenched the stars from the sky to alter his loverās fate.Ā
Fharzai. He had fallen fast, bent into service by the Kossithās whims, his strength turned inward like a blade. Alrik was all that remained now - scar tissue and stubbornness. What strength must it take, to pull down the heavens? What must he become to rip fate out by its throat? He asked himself these questions, to the night sky, and wondered - without hope - if anyone was truly listening.Ā
Prospero.
Prospero.
Prospero.
Alrik used to think rage was a fire that propelled him forward but now it was a dying ember, smothered and sluggish - tired. Prospero had left him too little room to breathe, let alone burn. Rage was habitual now, muscle memory. They had suffered so much already that if Alrik still believed in mercy, he might have asked how much agony was enough - but mercy was for others.
He shifted, body aching as he sat up slow and deliberate, only to freeze when he saw it.
Perched near the edge of his aādam was a creature no larger than a coin. Ethereal, half-light, half-breath, its wings beat with a silent rhythm. Its glow pulsed faintly like a dying heartbeat, and in that moment, Alrik saw himself in it in the same way a mirror could be cruel: not by lying, but by showing too much. The creature moved and the world seemed to blink in response because suddenly the dreadnought was gone and in its place sprawled a twisting valley cloaked in a strange, whispering mist.
He stood now at a crossroads with three paths ahead of him, each one wrapped in fog that breathed words rather than wind:
Alrik.
Vaarnok.
Secret.
Witch.
Arnbjorn.
This wasnāt the first time that dreams, mist, or telāaranārhiod had brought him down a path and he didnāt know if this was fate or madness, but either way he began. The air down his first path stank of wet hay, rusted iron, and old blood. With cach step Alrik was made smaller, his shoulders narrowed, his gait shrank. He kept walking until he was only a boy again, curls damp with smoke and eyes dark as ravenstone. Before him: a village burning.
A cage encircled him - familiar, cruel, intimate. And beyond it stood Asbjorn. He was watchful, distant, and far younger than Alrik ever remembered him but he had those same eyes - icy and wounded, full of righteous failure.Ā
Alrik wanted to speak, to say it wasnāt his fatherās fault - that the Harts had always been cursed - but his throat was ash amid the blaze. Instead, Asbjorn reached through the bars, his hand warm and calloused, and pressed a small stone into Alrikās palm. The boy-witch turned it over. It was simple, worn. Asbjornās voice came low, familiar:
āYou donāt have to be what they make you.ā
Warrior. Witch. Assassin. Hero. Alrik had been broken and rebuilt so many times that choice itself felt like a luxury, a ghost of a thing. Adapt or die, that was the rule. And neither he nor Alessia had ever been good at dying.
Alrik looked once more at the stone, then hurled it with all the strength in his child-body. It vanished into the blaze behind Asbjorn before the audible smash of a window echoed back to them. Alrik looked steadfast into his fatherās eyes and spoke:
āI am still my fatherās son.ā
The flames surged and heat roared. Asbjorn, the cage, the village - everything vanished in fire.
What remained was a temple with its walls built from blood, the floor a pool of memories that shimmered and twisted with each step. The stained-glass windows cast kaleidoscopic visions of Alrikās life: the mines, the witch-hunterās death, his time as a Hidden One, the coin-blood oaths, the long crawl from Iskaldrikās ruin. His victories ever since.
But it wasnāt the glass that held Alrikās attention, it was the boy in the middle of the room. The one he had collared, the one with enough spark to be deemed a rahaat. Innocence still lingered in the boyās eyes, fragile and flickering like a candle in a windstorm. The aādam was snug around his neck, a grotesque mirror to the one that Alrik had worn but seemed to be apart from as he wandered this place of dreams and memories.
The boy tried to speak, but instead of words, a butterfly flitted from his lips, graceful and silent save for the sound of slapping wings. Alrik wanted to lie to the boy and to say heād make it, that this didnāt have to be the end for him. But there wasnāt a lie left in Alrik that would hold - too many had died already.
Alrik thought about Juneau, had she been born-
Had she had the chance.Ā
He didnāt let his mind wander to the girl of untapped potential, the one that might have been, or could have been, or should have been. Life dealt her a cruel hand and from that point never let up, she was free now - as free as any of them could hope to be. Her fate would not be this boyās.
Alrikās hands were scarred, blunt, and brutal, but they reached out just the same and grabbed the boyās collar. He tore. Weeks of failure, of fighting his own bondage, and now - now - Arlik pulled. Alrik remembered the rune that Fharzai had carved into his hand and that dreams were doors, he thought that no one could walk so long in the shadow that they forgot the sight of the light. He pulled because he had to, because to cease resistance was to enable death and because this boy was innocent up until the moment he crossed Alrikās path. Alrik pulled harder, the boyās aādam screamed, and Alrikās skin burned.
And the aādam snapped free, though it sought the boy again - sought completion - so Alrik snapped it to his own throat and felt the collar coil around him once more.Ā
A beat passed, then the boy surged forward and wrapped his thin arms around Alrikās hulking frame. That small weight was nearly enough to undo him, a touch without pain was- foreign now.Ā
A simple hug, a genuine thank you, a moment of sincerity, then Alrikās command:
āRun.ā
āHide.ā
āDonāt come back.ā
The boy was gone then, the temple collapsed, the boy vanished, and now Alrik stood in a chamber of bones, mirrors, and chains.
In front of him, Raksha sat on a throne made of the broken, their limbs twisted and their eyes vacant. Her face was ash-painted, and she hummed a lullaby from his childhood - his fatherās voice in her mouth. A story about the stars and about a man who defied fate. Behind her was a flaming door that pulsed like a heartbeat, hungry and wanting. It was Alrik that it wanted, his flesh, his sin, his soul - it dared him to run, to try and promised the consequences.Ā
āSay your name, Vaarnok,ā Raksha said. āSay your name, and Iāll release you.ā
Vaarnok. The name they gave him, paraded like a chained beast. It wasnāt freedom, it was fiction - a mask theyād nailed to his face. He didnāt believe in their version of freedom because if they wanted him dead, theyād do it. If they wanted him free, theyād do it. This was no choice, the cards were permanently in their hands - and even if they werenāt - Alrik would not give an inch, would not bend.Ā
He'd told Beowulf once: when he returned to Iskaldrik, it would be in flames, not for peace. From the ruin of their past, he intended to build a future.
A thousand years from now songs would be sung about the Last Battle and the skalds would spin their tale, but when Alrik was through thereād be nothing left of the Kossith and when the Wheel next turned, no one would ever remember they were here. He would not give them their choice, heād choose violence.
Alrik stepped forward, gathered as much spit and phlegm as he could across the tarmac of his tongue, then horked at Rakshaās feet.Ā
A trembling beneath your skin awakens you in the dark of the night, though when you open your eyes you do not see the interior of the Kossith ship. You pause, for a moment, and try to consider how much time has passed? Days? Weeks? They say you lasted longer than most, but broke, you did.
Instead of the brig, you see a sky without stars churning above you like a wounded beast; threads of molten gold tear across it, tangled and sickened. Your body feels heavier, rougher, and when you move you hear the faintest crackle of stone upon stone.
Youāre reminded of an old story, of a man whose familyās destiny was doomed and written across the stars. So afraid of the future was he that he aimed to steal the night sky itself: different peoples speak of different Gods in the tale - Nótt, Nyx, Nox, Varda - but the root was always the same: someone wished to change a fate written in the stars, and so enlisted the aid of something older.
When you stir, a butterfly perches itself on your chest, resting against the collar of your aādam. Its wings, inscribed with tiny runes, pulse faintly, as though breathing with you. Somehow, without knowing how, you see it: this frail and fractured creature is the shape of your soul.
Its wings beat once, twice - and the boat of the vessel blooms outward into a ruined landscape: thrones of thorns, rivers of ash, statues weeping molten tears.
Ahead of you, a path splits three ways, each swallowed by a mist that whispers your broken names.
āMemoryā
The dream smells like wet hay and rusted blood and Alrik is a child again. A burning village behind him with a cage around him. His father, Asbjorn, stands at the bars - a younger man, eyes full of righteous failure. He reaches through, pressing something into Alrikās hand. A small stone - not magical - just⦠his.
āYou donāt have to be what they make you,ā his father whispers and behind him, the sulādam is approaching.
āDesireā
He walks through a temple flooded with blood and memory as candles float upside down. Stained-glass windows depict his victories - villages destroyed, rahaat collared, spells crushed. The art moves when not watched. In the center: the boy he collared, bound and silent. Those bright eyes of the boys still seem to glow with the same innocence that Alrik vanquished when the Kossith landed upon the shore.Ā
Alrik approaches. The butterfly follows, flitting over the boyās head as the boy tries to speak but the sound of a thousand fluttering wings spills out instead.
āSurrenderā
Alrik now stands in a chamber made of bone and mirrors as Raksha sits on a throne of chained bodies, her face painted in ash, humming a song from Alrikās own childhood. Behind her: a door of living flame and beyond it? Freedom.
Each time Juneauās eyes shifted to some other detail or feature of Alrikās brutalized body, some other torment made itself apparent. She had been studying the impacts of the aādam on others, rarely testing the waters herself. One one hand, she supposed that made her a coward. She just thought under the current circumstances it was smart. If Alrik had been someone she liked less, she might have let her usual vinegary disposition take the helm and mocked him for his hubris in trying to fight his fate. Instead, it just felt painful to look at him.Ā
āYouāre going to kill yourseif if you donāt stop,ā she warned quietly, although she wouldnāt be altogether foreign to the concept of that being the point. When undeath had granted her a second chance, she would have slapped itās decrepit, boney hand away if given the option. Being a vuldak certainly wasnāt her favorite, but this? This was a considerable several steps down. Her own shirt was in poor condition, but it was better off than the blood and dirt soaked tatters around Alrikās bloodied knuckles. She tore a strip from the bottom and approached with the clear intention of attempting to patch him togetherāa meager and pathetic attempt with all of his injuries, but she had little to offer.
Dark green eyes met his own darkened ones and her fear of their reality was apparent. āI donāt feel much like a hero,ā she admitted, a brow raised as if asking if he felt like one. Then again, if they cared to live, each would have to figure out how to be a champion in their own right. But she choked on her own unworthiness and the rot within her bloodstream. She had wanted for so long to merely be okay, to do no more harm in the world than her neutral or good deedsāthat felt impossible. Heroics? A Kossith might as well slay her where she stood. āI think maybe you need to choose to stop breaking your body down fighting that thing,ā she suggested, but she made herself small and flinched away from him, expecting her opinion was less than welcome.
Alderās words still resounded in the back of Alrikās mind, stubborn and steady through the fog of bruised thoughts: āIn your tales, make sure to tell them I was but a man with a dream of peace, so to inspire others to step forward with their convictions and become the new legends of the distant future.ā It hadnāt made sense to him at the time, why Alder was so fixated on the idea of memory, of the stories that would survive them. Alrik's name wasnāt for songs. Heād said as much, and half-meant it - but Alder had conferred something else entirely. That the songs werenāt the point and that it was the people the songs reached, the ones who might hear them and rise in their place. That they could reach them at all.
Alrikās head tilted slightly as Juneau tore a strip from her battered shirt. His lips pressed into a tight line. He waited a long breath, motionless, only watching her from the deep-set dark of his eyes - half-wild, half-wary. The hand she reached toward was hardly a hand anymore: scarred, cracked, fingers stiff with old breaks that never healed right. A body more battlefield than man at this rate, but one that still clung to its pride like battered armor. Pride was stubborn among the Iskarans and Alrik was no exception - too foolish to know when heād been beaten past salvation.
"Alder said the same, you know," he muttered, the words almost casual in their exhaustion. "Said he never felt like a hero, or that he even liked to be called one." He shifted slightly, allowing Juneau to wind the strip around his torn knuckles, though he didn't meet her gaze at first. His eyes drifted somewhere beyond the walls, beyond the confines of the collar biting into his neck. "I didnāt know him as well as you," Alrik added, his voice softer now, more careful. "But all any hero ever was, was someone who did what needed doing... at the time they were needed."
A twitch of a smile, a memory passing over him like a colder wind, crossed his face. He exhaled slow, as if forcing out the ghosts that still permeated his past - he chose to believe that cool breeze was Asbjorn, some aspect from the world beyond to remind him that this life was a temporary one.
"There was this drunk in Hrafntun," he said. "Iād see him in the street when my father took me down to the docks. No one ever paid him much mind and my father always told me to stay away from him. He died of smoke inhalation," Alrik continued, voice turning distant. "After a fire spread to an orphanage. He kept going back in to make sure all the children were out." His gaze flickered up as a pair of dark, obsidian orbs found Juneauās through the dim of the brig.Ā
"He was a hero," Alrik said simply. "And I donāt even know his name. We donāt know where weāll be when the flames are highest," he finished, his voice low and steady. Maybe he had changed, but she had too - whether she wished to see it or not. "But Iāll go in as many times as it takes. If that means pulling at this thing until it turns me inside out, so be it: the pain means Iām still fighting, still here."
The screamed protestations of the newly acquired rahaat meant nothing in the end. They were the dying embers of an entitlement to identity that was falsely placed upon him by this land. It was a pitiable display, one that would be handled by the Heart of Shadow. The Kossith had well-laid plans and no time to waste. Ilmaveth was to be Valkessh's tool to expedite the rahaat acquisition process so the Kossith could continue to bring this land to heal.
The moment the new rahaat's eyes clouded over and he fell silent was the moment Ilmaveth stepped into his mind, pulling him into a deep, dark sleep. It would be his first and last nearly a day, but his mental breaking would be well underway when he woke. Ilmaveth could bring forth his greatest fears, prime him for the horrors that would await him should he resist his natural purpose, and snuff out any places in his mind where hope was allowed to fester. Ilmaveth had been doing so for some time now and had grown quite adept at this practice under his sul'dam's command. His touch always left a specter of himself behind in the minds of rahaats infected, ensuring that the work would continue until the sul'dam he was assigned began his true training. Thanks to Ilmaveth, this boy would not suffer as he did. Hopefully, all notions of resistance would be destroyed by the nightmare.
Awaken.
On command, Ilmaveth's incorporeal form dragged itself from the mind of the rahaat he helped to torture. Lethargic limbs sprang from his forehead as bit by bit the rahaat infecting his forced sleep pulled himself out and became material. He could not be certain how long had passed since he was last permitted to do so, but as the cloudy haze of his continued sleep faded from his eyes, the increased volume of the screams echoing in his mind from nightmares he was still actively fueling told him Valkessh had been busy. There wasn't time to dwell on that though, he had new orders.
Understanding her will inherently, she invoked his name and he vanished from view and reappeared in step with the rahaat from the Heart of Flesh. The rest of the village can burn, he was there only to relay pertinent information a village elder would have to Valkessh. "The path in front of me is all I've been permitted to see. I make nothing beyond my objective." Pacified in his subservience, Ilmaveth speaks directly into the mind of the other rahaat. He prefers being awake and wants to spend as much time as he can with his eyes unclouded. That's why they do not waver from the house ahead. In fact, he's unsure if speaking to the other is wise but this sliver of autonomy is rare indeed. "Be blind to all but your orders. If I suspect you're distractible, I would have to report as much to my sul'dam," he says despite clinging to the chance to speak to another. It hurt, though he couldn't tell if the ache came from his a'dam or something else, so he continued, "Everything and everyone in this village that cannot be put to use will be razed, so a darkfriend watching our moves is inconsequential. Do you see a specific threat they pose to our objective?"
āThe Kossith have decreed that all darkfriends and those who live under the will of the Shadow, be put to death.ā Darkspawn and those who carry the Blight, but even as they walked Alrik did not look at the druid at his side. Eyes under shade, the features of the warriorās silhouette clouded by long, unkempt hair that fell in greasy tousled strands.Ā
Alrik did not stop moving forward as his boots pounded against the cracked stones of the village square, the elderās house now looming before him - target and objective. Fharzaiās voice slithered into his mind, Ilmaveth, as the other was now called and it felt as though a ghost had come and leaned against his bones. There was no room for himself here, but Alrik was too large to be contained with ease and his body habitually flexed and tensed as it resisted the compulsion that overlayed his frame.Ā
"No." The word was clipped, mechanical, a hammerstrike instead of a thought. His hands flexed at his sides and then curled into fists.Ā "He is not a threat to the objective." His voice was low, almost guttural, forced through the thick presence of the a'dam. "Prospero is already contained and he watches because he cannot do otherwise.ā Another beat passed as Alrikās head fell, shadows obscuring his eyes and the same dark, tousled hair heād always worn hung limply on either side. His pace drew slower, intentionally so while progress was still being made, no sulādam was monitoring closely enough to force his feet to move quicker.Ā
āIām sorry,ā he said into the stale air along their deliberate march to the home atop the hill, āfor waking us that day: for not giving us the story you deserved.ā In their next turning of the wheel, Alrik would make up a better one. "This one will be over soon."
"We were always alone, Alrik," she repeated in a clipped tone, eyes narrowed. "And now we're not anymore." Then Alessia's gaze turned away, frowning. Her brief silence was, itself, her answer of uncertainty. Uncertain if she could withstand losing anymore than they already had. Uncertain if she was truly destined to be nothing more than a vessel for vengeance and grief - like Alfhild. She was suddenly lanced with a such an overwhelming fear that it lessened the rage in her eyes, just a moment. Then she let the haze of righteous indignation return, for it was a lot easier to bare than fear. So much fear that she was ready to let it turn to insanity if it wasn't quelled. Alessia turned her gaze back to Alrik, studying his face with intensity.
"I've tried to be more, Alrik, I've tried to be better. For you, for father, for myself. But if I believe in destiny, then I have to believe that I'm working against it." Her voice quieted slightly. "I don't know if I'm strong enough to keep doing that. I don't want the world to turn me into something that I don't want to be but if I had to give up all the progress I've made just to make sure I don't lose what matters more than my fucking autonomy..." She shook her head, knowing Alrik could find the answer quite clearly in her eyes: She didn't know if she could not do it.
"We fight for the side of fate, for a better world than the one we were born into. That is our destiny or have you spent too long in your Tower?" Maybe the Tower really had gotten to her, maybe she had changed - but whatever shadows Alrik walked in, they did not own him, did not command him. The darkness remained, but only to give contrast to the light. Alrik looked briefly at their fellow captives, some he knew, some he loved, most he barely knew but it did not change.
"We are the power, the light shines through us. That is the truth." Fharzai was an unfortunate influence on him, it seemed, but he knew Asbjorn would have approved. They had bled too much to not know the shape of the instruments used against them, years in the mines shrouded an already delicate psyche but Alrik was stronger now - and more certain of self - than he'd ever been. "We have always walked this path together, if you stray I'll be the one to pull you back." Just as he had no doubt she would do the same for him.
His sister was a perpetual student, seemingly finding unconventional mentors wherever they went - distilling knowledge, power, insight, and wisdom even through adversity. Magic from a neighbour, poison from the witchers, fey powers from an archfey, and more from the life she'd lived when that mark on her chest was earned. They were not who they once were, this turn of the Wheel gave them a chance to be better than the heroes of old, he'd said it once already to another of the rahaat, and he'd say it again. "We are the heroes of this age, these Kossith have inserted themselves in it, but they will not dictate how it ends."
The odds had been against them from their first breaths, but that had never stopped them before.
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There was a few seconds in which it hadn't seemed like Alessia had heard Alrik, so lost was she in the swell of staggering negativity. Because, in that moment, she hated them. She barely knew the word Kossith until a few weeks ago - their race and goals weren't the point of her hatred. That they were yet another attempt at her autonomy ignited the flames of the rage, but fact that the Kossith had managed to endanger the very foundation of all that was good and bright in her life - her closest family and friends - fanned the flames. If she wished to survive long enough to aim that internal inferno righteously, she'd need to quell it before it consumed her. There was a deep breath taken in, only a few moments after Alrik spoke. She backtracked. His words replayed in her head so that she may understand them as well as she'd heard them; her clouded brain finally catching up with her senses.
"That's the point isn't it," she nearly growled. Another deep breath. The one gift that the blasted cursed ring had given Alessia was the nearly unending exercise of self-awareness that she'd had to practice. These were not intrusive negative thoughts borne from a dark entity - this was all her. But the practice of quelling it was just the same. It helped if she would actually look at Alrik, and so she did. Alessia managed to meet her brother's gaze, finally, and felt immediately drawn to the flicker of concern that she felt. He looked as he always did, but she knew what turmoil he might be masking. "Fuck the Pattern for a second, we've always been alone, Alrik." Her voice was low and cautious, her eyes darkened. She looked eerily composed now, but it was too quick a change to be more than a practice of fake-it-till-you-make-it. "Do you know the person you could become if you suddenly lost all that you've gained? All that we've gained?" She thought of Alfhild. They took her bone mask but she swore she could still feel the weight of it - her own bones hooked at her waist.
Alrik wouldn't answer an artificial question, so instead he was silent and listened to whatever came out of the mouth of the rahaat that looked like his sister. They weren't alone anymore, at least Alrik didn't think so, she'd said as much herself - swearing to light over shadow, consecrating herself to the battle ahead. They shared the same hand upon their chest, they weren't those kids who'd broken free of the mines anymore. They weren't lost stragglers clinging to life in the mountains. They were too stubborn to die, to arrogant to know when they'd been beaten. Prospero was here, they were not alone. Freydis, Luna, Arros - those taken with Alessia, now taken once more. Froy - they were not alone. Fharzai. She wasn't acting like herself and the ring couldn't be blamed anymore, "You first, good sister."
CLOSED
locations: some island in the gulf of taravell
notes: content warning for all the kossith violence
An island of no consequence, a sky Alrik did not recognize, a people he did not know. The open ocean around them with a port well traveled by raiders and merchants alike. Picturesque with thatched roofs and simple furnishings. This was the sort of place that Alrik used to imagine as a young boy, somewhere beyond the sea. Somewhere where a person could be anything. If this village was ever remembered, Alrik hoped it would be how it was before he and his fellow rahaat landed.Ā
Thatched roofs caved beneath his fists like parchment, chapel walls and the mosaic of some foreignerās god shattered beneath his heel.Ā
āVaarnok.ā The command echoed down the line - sharp, exacting. There was no lash, whip, or chain, the commanding note of his sulādam was each at once, running like fire across his nerves as Alrikās name was invoked. Alrikās body turned of its own accord, his dark eyes, framed by matted raven curls, turned and settled on the source of the sulādamās direction.Ā
A boy - eighteen, nineteen at most - stood defiant at the village center, arms spread, light trembling between his palms. A trickle of the power, but Alrik could feel his potential and by extension, Alrikās sulādam could feel his potential. With a sudden jolt, fire shot from between the boyās hands but the runic warrior shimmered as the bolt was harmlessly redirected into the nearest wall with a gesture.Ā
Break. Collar. Return.
Raksha didnāt speak, but Alrikās body felt the direction. He moved autonomously andĀ
With a roar that wasn't quite his own, Alrik surged forward, one massive hand outstretched. The boy shouted - brave, stupid - and flung another spell like it might save him. It landed, sizzled, but the giant of a witch didnāt register it. Looming above, he caught the boy mid-flight, slammed him to the earth, and helm in there with one arm while the other reached to the bundle at his hip and pushed the aādam around his neck.Ā
Alrik took a step back and watched the metal link into place, saw with his own black eyes the horror etch across his face. He wished to tell him that this was something that he could survive, but even with agency over his tongue - Alrik didnāt bother. The village burned, the boy was dragged away, and Alrik remained to eliminate whatever stragglers lingered. No witnesses, no survivors, these rest stops were training yards for the sulādam and the rahaat brought under their control.Ā
His eyes drifted now back to the dreadnought, to the prow, and to the father he never really knew suspended. Bleeding. Dying.Ā
āVaarnok.ā Came the bark again, farther now but just as strong. āTo the elderās house next.ā There was a bark of another command as another was moved to join him, their bodies moving in tandem to the last structure standing and whoever waited within. With every step Alrik resisted, nerves frayed, body broken, it didnāt matter if he fought - if he was even still fighting - it only hurt, it didnāt matter, but he fought.Ā
As they walked, some agency was afforded, enough for the witch to ask, āThat darkfriend on the prow, what do you make of him?ā