an eye is little to lose

    Against the odds, you actually cracked a smile.

     “Moral support,” you said, without any indignation (or infamous Stark sarcasm). “I’m getting a second wind right now, what with those abs.”

    Naturally, you planned it’d be somewhere around eighty to ninety percent your construction anyway–and that’s hardly even embellishment or your ego speaking. No matter how spry, enthusiastic or capable the outside help was, the only people you knew that could keep up with you were Reed Richards… and Doctor Doom. Even then, neither of them could where engineering got involved.

    Which this was. If, uh, a little more medieval than what you’re used to.

    You slipped off your parka, tying it around your waist. Rubbed down some sweat from under your brow. Being quick on the uptake didn’t mean you were invincible, and as it happens, felling trees and stocking rocks on the pushcart is probably the biggest workout to have around here that came to mind.

    Hnh. The sun was starting to blaze a sherbet-flavored orange.

    “Looks as though we’re gonna have to close up shop for the night.”

    You assessed the rest of your work. For being dropped in an unknown environment with tools straight from the Iron Age, between the two of you, it was about a third of the way finished. Making a rudimentary cement for the stones on the forge were probably the biggest time suck. Some waffling about in the ground with a shovel had you find a clay deposit, though, so that was that.

    “In earnest, I’m not going to ask the one armed to keep pace with me. Although intimidating the villagers was a nice touch. Really.” Uhh… You realized that you were trying to reassure him. That being maybe your weakest suit in the history of ever. “Don’t worry about it.”

    You put the axes away on the pushcart, leaving them together beside the plot. Tomorrow’ll be getting leather for the bellows and finishing the forge stack, among other things. (And iron for an anvil. Seriously, no anvils in town? How did they have electricity?)

   “We can figure what you can do next time we’re up and at it, if it bothers you,” you said afterward, and that sounded alright. “How about a meal at the inn? Think I just shed at least three pounds today.” This was an understatement–as if to bring it to point, your stomach made the most ghastly rumble you’ve ever heard.

    “…” Yeah. No witty remark for that. “Let’s get a move on.”

You’re about to make some kind of dry, sarcastic remark about how it’ll be a lonely meal considering you’re, you know, a statue with a little more mobility in the joints, but then you stop to reflect and find that actually, yeah, you’re hungry too. Which is beyond strange, considering you’d all but forgotten you ever had a stomach.

“...Of course. We can discuss what we still have to do over supper.” Ever the business-minded; though there’s the slightest chance you’re just trying to distract from the combination of pleased flush and uneasy hollow you’re still feeling over his comment about your bare chest.

Not that it ever gets as far as talking business. You’re pleasantly surprised to find out that the food served in the Crystal Tavern is delightful, even for your admittedly stunted palate. It’s also warming, which is a blessing, although after a certain point you can’t tell if that’s the food or the wine.

You’re vaguely aware that you used to like mead more than wine. There are hazy memories, buried under layers of sediment, of long nights spent drinking with your men (real men, flesh and blood), and waking up the next day with your head aching. But Samot is the god of wine, among other things, and it feels like a betrayal now to drink anything else. Honestly, it lights a grim determination in you, and you’d be downing the stuff like you were in a race if only you weren’t turning out to be such a lightweight.

“Considering we are all brought to his place in the hopes of gaining a wish, I’d say the future is as malleable as ever.” With that he’s shuffled his deck, the back of the cards giving nothing away as he tucked them back in random sequences. Then, he’s spread them in a neat row, offering for the other to take a look.

“Why don’t you pick three cards for me? Ones that seem to call to you.”

Ones that call to you. It feels beyond strange to follow your heart instead of doing what you’re told. You’ve done it before, of course, but--that was a long time ago. You’re not sure you really remember how. But you unfocus your eyes anyway, your gaze drifting, letting your hand move to the cards it wants to pick.

    Wait–did this guy say me, as in someone made him? You squinted under the hard light of the sun in your eyes, not helped by the amount of snow around. Nope. Definitely not an android. But you did see the smooth edges, almost like rock…

    Oh, to Hell with it. You’re in a business transaction with a knight in silver armor who was, apparently, also made of stone, and before that, somehow transported to an unknown realm and you didn’t even have Cap chewing you out in your ear. Did you really have the energy to work up being surprised now?

   “Uh-huh,” you said, overly mild. “Character building. That’s what we’ll call this. My back’ll have completed a hero’s journey by the end of this.”

   The vizier of Hobbiton was coming back around, cheeks aflame with red. He clearly made good on you telling him to run. Facing him, he said:

    “The Mayor can give you land to build on. Near the forest, beside the barrier. Can’t give you any resources, though. You’re on your own. Everyone is so busy with making houses for more wishers.”

   You pursed your lips. “Not even an axe or two? You guys just aren’t going to make this easy on me.”

   “You can find those at the general store. Other tools, too.” Then he was off again, and you were dragging a hand down your face.

    “Sheesh.” Okay, steel yourself, Stark. Long road ahead of you. At least you’ve got a handsome knight on your side. Yeah, right… “First order of business, those axes. Next, a wagon. After that, a whim and a prayer that we get through this before I lose my mind.”

    You nodded to Tabard, smiling a touch too sarcastically. “Hear that, Tabard? We’re going to help this town with the discovery of the wheel.”

It turns out that, with enough of the right kind of coercion, the people in this town will give you anything you want. You don’t have divine authority behind you any more, not really, but you’ve spent so long carrying your god’s banner that the commanding nature of it has seeped into every pore. The fact that you came into this world flat broke doesn’t seem to matter when your companion’s polite (if strained) requests are backed up by your imposing figure.

You’ve yet to need a show of force--just seeing your one-eyed glare seems to be enough--and honestly, you’re kind of disappointed.

The real issues arise when you set off to gather materials. Much to your surprise, Tony can pull his weight when it comes to the struggles of physical labor. More than that, actually. If you’re being honest with yourself, and you usually try to be, you’re the one letting the team down to a truly spectacular degree. It’s hard to fell a tree with one arm. It’s hard to do much of anything with one arm. You’ve assigned yourself the duty of carting the lumber back to the site they gave you, pressed so close to the barrier you could probably shake hands with whatever beast tried to come through, but--

“I do not think,” you start slowly, brushing a fine layer of snow off one of the fresh stumps with an idle hand, “that this is a particularly even distribution of labor.”

At one point, you tired of the weight of your armor and you left it behind at the in-progress smithy. The padding stayed on, a thick layer of quilting protecting you from the cold, but you’re still--more exposed than you’d like to be. This is the gambeson you died in--there is a hole over your heart that shows through to a crumbling hollow, white halfway down your front with marble dust. And you’d be lying if you said the wound wasn’t still aching, but you’ve been trying very hard to pretend it’s not bothering you at all. Really, you’re just praying Tony hasn’t noticed.

40. How is their sense of humor? Do they have one?

Piss Poor. stone was an apt transformation for him, given his near total lack of humor. the most you might get out of him is a sarcastic comment here and there, and as we all know, sarcasm is the poorest form of wit, so it’d be better if he didn’t say anything at all.

47. Do they want to project an image of a younger, older, more important person? Does they want to be visible or invisible?

21. What are your character’s manners like? What is their type of hero? Whom do they hate?

he’s well-mannered, reasonably versed in how to behave towards whom from living so long in a world that demands that kind of respect–but as someone who was until recently the right hand of a god, he tends to throw away all those rules and treat himself as everyone’s equal. curiously enough, he dislikes people who also don’t give a damn about etiquette. as for heroes–he doesn’t have any. there’s only one person he could ever think to idolise. no one else would ever compare.

30. Are they holding on to something in the past? Can he or she forgive?

“There are a million strange and wild things out there in the world. You know this, don’t you? Magic and monsters and men made of stone. Where I come from, there is supposed to be a dragon–just the one–and I doubt anyone finds that particularly remarkable. My point is–”

You tip your head to one side, look her over with a critical eye. “’Normal’ doesn’t mean anything. But I think it’s fine to just be a person rather than a wizard or a dragon or a pala-din. It’s not good or bad. It just is.”

웃 Do they believe in aliens?

♱ What do they think awaits them after death?

the way it used to go was that when a person died, they would go to see tristero, the god that governed death—but he retired, left to live by the sea in peace, and now death belongs in some places to samot and in some places to no one at all. now, people die and come back and die and come back. flesh and blood to shambling undead to ghost to nothing. tabard doesn’t know, any more. there’s supposed to be an afterlife, but it doesn’t seem to work the same, and he doesn’t know if it applies to pala-din.

he’s not ready to find out yet, anyway.

♒ If they could choose how to die, how would they want to go?

passing away quietly, hand in hand with—well, you know who, by now. it isn’t likely to happen. passing away quietly isn’t something that people like him do.

☄ While watching a scary movie, are they the one clinging to a friend or being clung to?

✔ Are they holding a grudge against anyone?

hadrian; we know why. throndir, for taking his eye. samothes, for always having samot’s heart (selfish, selfish). hadrian again. himself. hadrian a few more times.

◯ Do they believe in ghosts?

╳ How would they react to seeing a loved one become possessed?

i don’t doubt he’d stop at nothing to make sure his love made it through whole and unharmed—but to little effect, surely, because he would sooner die himself than let anyone else meddle in such a fragile situation, even though they might be far more skilled than him. what if they got it wrong? what if they changed something in him? how would he know?

(it’s still you in there, love, isn’t it? it’s okay. it’ll be okay. you know i’d give myself to keep you safe.)

△ Name one thing from their past that they regret.

there is a fallen tower at the mark of the erasure. and in that fallen tower there is a chamber with a grand mirror all along one wall, and through that mirror you can see the city of first light, and in front of that mirror is where hadrian nearly died—where tabard did die. he regrets not finishing the paladin off first. he regrets being such a poor sword that samot would choose another over him.

☣ Would they kill someone close to them if they had to?

in every case but one, yes, without a second thought. so many years around no one but stone soldiers and the overwhelming presence of his god has stunted his ability to make genuine connection; there is nearly no one he has ever met that he would not sacrifice in an instant should the situation call for it.

ϟ Have they ever gotten pleasure from causing others pain?

not yet. violence is a very impersonal act to him. if he ever meets hadrian again, however, that might change.

❣ If someone had the power to bring them back after death, would they want them to?

▼ What is their greatest fear?

there is a place in hieron where the death of a god turned a city into a monument. samothes’ gravestone is monolithic, oppressive, a grand structure in the heart of the city of first light. tabard imagines a second tower at its side, sometimes. samot is charming and powerful and behind so many machinations but even the most clever have their enemies and the blade in the dark is still out there, somewhere. gods are not supposed to die—but anything can be killed.

Oh, thank God, you were thinking, Somebody with a head on their shoulders.

Can’t always ask you to move mountains with plastic forks and spoons, can they, Tony? You breathed a second sigh–this time, relief.

“Tony Stark. What with the suit of armor, I don’t think you’ve heard of me.” You reached out a hand for him to shake. Instinctual response, really. Muscle memory from years of business ventures and suited meet and greets. It didn’t get retracted, though. You actually wanted to shake this guy’s hand. He seemed friendly enough.

As for the other question. “I’m an inventor,” you answered. “Stark Resilient. That’s the name of my company back on…” Shrug. “Back on my world, I guess. Not completely sold on sleepy village with a castle inbetween being anywhere on Earth.”

Was that a good thing? It almost sounded like a good thing. (It wasn’t. You were thinking about the power vacuum of you not being on Earth had to be leaving. Pepper must be losing her mind.)

“I could use the help, yes. God, yes. Help.” You nearly spelled it out. “Anything to get this show on the road as fast as possible. The longer my hands are idle is sooner I have to coming unglued.” And an unglued Stark was a broken one. You would prefer avoiding it to that end.

Then came the logistics. The long, long line of it. And you’re not quite smiling anymore.

In fact, your head was hung. “We’re going to have to fell our own trees and scour out our own rocks, aren’t we.”

You reach out and clasp your hand around the man’s forearm, that universal sign of brotherhood, or a contract sealed. With the scope of the undertaking the two of you are about to begin, it feels like both. You’ve built things from scratch before, sure, but that was a few sturdy cages in a city-tower full of materials, not a whole forge in a frozen wasteland.

At least your business partner seems agreeable.

“I knew of an inventor, back in Hieron. Well--an Artificer-Divine, but I think the jobs are more or less the same. Making things. Suns. Me.” You trail off, awkward. Something about the look of Tony really makes you doubt he could build anything quite like you. “I’m sure your crafts are just as impressive.”

And then you sigh, as well, roll your shoulders and crack your knuckles, and nod as decisively as you can. “Unfortunately so, unless there’s a market around here selling the raw supplies that we have somehow completely missed on our journeys. Not to worry. I can just call on my men, and--” No, Tabard--your men are a million miles away in a fallen tower in the snow and cannot hear you, no matter how much you might wish they could.

@tabardalon–

    This was them: short, stammering, hot under the collar.

    This was you: cross, taller than that, and ready to empty the contents of your lungs for a sigh.

    “You have electricity.”

    “Yes.”

    “And industry.”

    “Some.”

    “Presumably, a whole wild of animals that could kill you if they so much as looked at you past the barrier.”

    “Well…”

“And not a single one of you operates a blacksmith.”

    “…” They were tugging at their sleeves, but silent. You looked on, though you might be gobsmacked.

    “My suggestion,” you said to them, “Is for you to tell your mayor that Stark Resilient is moving in. And I’m gonna need a plot of land. Run off, now.” You waved them away and they hurried on, the rest of the moment held by you pinching the bridge of your nose.

    Some town. If it weren’t for the barrier and crystal castle, you figure all these townspeople would be little more than fresh meat for the wolves. Ever the go-getter, eh, Tony Stark?

    (Or people-pleaser, but that’s beside the point.)

     You turn your head, seeing someone else about that must’ve heard your little, shall we say, tirade. You would’ve ignored the fact were they not almost pauldron-for-pauldron a knight in shining armor. Literally. Was that silver?

    “Doing my part,” you said. “If I’m going to be stuck here, I need somewhere to do work. Someone’s gotta stoke a smithy’s fire.” As long as your suit’s out of commission, you don’t have much of a choice.

    Now… you just needed to remember how to handle an anvil.

    Back to the knight. “Who’re you? Prince Charming?”

It’s the quiet laugh you can’t quite stifle that gives you away, in the end. You hadn’t been trying to be sneaky, necessarily, but you’ve really mastered the art of standing still and looking like a somber bit of decor after years and years of being a living statue. Actually, you hadn’t meant to stop at all, but... Samot was never quite as blunt as this man, but the cleverness and the confidence are almost the same.

Maybe you’re moping.

You give him an appraising look for a moment, and then you snort, turning your head to watch the steadily receding form of the poor citizen the other had been berating. “Prince Charming? Not for you.”

Then you grit your teeth, brief, grind the heel of your boot into the snow underfoot, and follow up with a little honesty: “It’d be an impressive piece of work for you to run a smithy on your own. Not to cast aspersions on your ability, of course--but I’m in the market for genuine work, and I know... a thing or two about a forge.”

There is memory baked into the marble; pala-din belonged to Samothes first, before his husband took a few for his own needs, and Samothes put a bit of his forge into everything he made. Yours is borrowed stone, from a volcano in once-was-Marielda, and you think--if you pick up a hammer, the rest will click into place soon enough.

@tabardalon –

    The village of Eidolon is smaller than the castle of glass it’s ran around would lead to believe. There’s pieces missing, as though by design, not unlike a puzzle whose corners are filled and the rest left to go. Interesting, sure, but not complete. It leaves the lingering taste of an experiment. Maybe it’ll be finished. Maybe it won’t. Which of them comes true appears to be left in the hands of those who’ve never known this place in their lives until a few days ago. It’s also small enough that certain figures do not go unnoticed for very long. In short—

    —should a man of stone go a-walking, well, you wouldn’t stop yourself from watching.

    You were scribbling down something entirely unrelated to the proposition when it happened, some such details banal on this and that in the name of a Mayor of whom you haven’t so much as met in person, a train of thought which was interrupted rather immediately when you glanced up, gears grinding down to a screeching halt. Yes, a man of stone. It had to have been the oddest—least to the eyes—in a town made by the odd.

    And, of course, first instinct was to take the odd by its teeth. (Or tongue, as is your preference.)

    “I haven’t seen a knight in full suit before,” you said, which was a lie by omission. “Are you guarding the barrier?”

    You asked the question because for how threatening the wastes were, the rest of town (by which you meant the natives) seemed not concerned in the slightest as long as the barrier held. It was apparently keeping Eidolon safe and yet so far you’ve not met a single soul occupied with guarding the damn thing. If they looked like this, then, those natives might’ve had a point after all.

    “Isn’t that armor hard to move around in with the cold? Must be manageable here, but out there…” You allude to it with a noncommittal gesture. Frankly, you’re just interested in whatever he has to say.

    And what isn’t.

Another pass of the town, another arduous march without even a sign of something you could use as a serviceable weapon. At this point--well, there really isn’t any other option than venturing out into the wastes on a haphazard and incredibly ill-advised reconnaissance mission. Call it information gathering. Maybe you’ll stumble across the frozen corpse of some other unfortunate wisher and be able to relieve them of a weapon they assuredly won’t be needing any longer.

Maybe you’ll just find a really big icicle and you can pretend it’s a lance until it melts. It only has to last for one hit.

That was what you had been readying yourself--mentally, more than anything else--to do when the voice caught you off guard. A stranger. Taller than you, which is impressive, but leaner, unarmored--horned? It’s not the strangest thing you’ve ever seen, but--everyone else you’ve met here has been remarkably normal. Well, one of them was blue, but again: not the strangest thing you’ve ever seen.

You incline your head, a noncommittal gesture of acknowledgment. And then you find yourself lying. “Astute observation,” is your initial response, content to let the other believe you a guardian. It can be something for you to aspire to. “And no--not at all. I have marched for weeks on end in snows harsher than this. The cold becomes familiar, after a time.”

True, mostly. The walk to the Mark of the Erasure was a long one, and that place is terribly unkind. But--at the time, you were pala-din through and through, not diluted as you are now, and you only felt the cold as much as you might have felt a mosquito. Now, though, the cold is biting, and you find yourself grateful for the padding under your armor.

“She was much larger, until today. I’m really not sure why she’s so small now, but I bow to the will of this place.”

You’re confused, of course you are, but the fact that Silverbell is here, is with you, that you’re not alone in this place of glimmering, crystalline ice and snow is such a comfort you can’t complain. Slowly, turn your face away from her, and stare up at your new visitor.

“Are you well? Do you have a mount with you, too? Perhaps another horse! It would be just wonderful to have someone else stabled next to her!”

Your excitement is getting the better of you, again. Reaching out to lay a hand against her side, breathe in, once, twice. Calm.

“My deepest apologies, I got so excited, I didnt introduce myself! My name is Sir Riparian Amaervanna, most recently of Amaervanna. And what is your name?”

You endure the barrage of comments and questions in steadfast silence, focusing less on the words and more on the way you are leaning a little too heavily on the wall of the stall, every breath spiking pain through the hole in you. Still strange that you need to breathe. Still strange that you feel anything at all. The silence drags on (in, out, in, out, let the wood take your weight) and it takes you too long to realise the other has stopped speaking.

Sir Riparian. You should show him due respect. But then--you’re the right hand of a god, and you owe due respect to no one but your lord--isn’t that how this works?