#randomroll commission

Randomroll for @witchy-queer, story for Jacint below!

✨i do commissions!| If you fancy tipping✨

Jacint was a people person. Minotaur. It couldn’t be helped, he was raised in a tavern, owned by his loving but ever presently busy parents, what else could he grow to love? Well, besides ale, i suppose. The tavern was filled everyday with new patrons and old, goblins and giants and orcs, that called the sprawling and odd shaped tavern their Local in the deep Verredain mountains. The tavern was warm, filled with food and flowed with drink and such things only lead to happy customers who will happily regale a tale or two of their own travels to the excitable little calf Jacint. They would sit him on their table or comfortably their lap (or on the floor if the story teller happened to be smaller than the growing boy), and tell him anything and everything. 

 Harebell didn’t think much of her life before the Trail. It wasn’t something that felt important to mull over, not when there were things to do, wheels to fix, kindling to find and customers to smooth over with her best patter. Harebell prided herself on her patter.  Anyway, most of Harebell’s thoughts centred around how many more miles til they dropped off the next package, the next customer... and how much longer it would be til dinner.   Dinner was her favourite time of day, not so much the meal, but the period of peace and warmth around the campfire, everyone chatting and eating. All were welcome, the odd customer who either accompanied their escorted item or were the escorted, the crew, which waxed and waned in its number but all good people and even the odd stranger who had stumbled on them in the dark. All were welcome to sup and join in the warmth. Dergar was good that way.

The Dwarf had led the armed group for years, her guidance and gruff demeanour making her a strong leader, never trifled with, never argued against. Her scars lent a hand with this, dug across her face and arms, from wars, from scuffles on the job and they brilliantly hid the soft centre Dergar fought hard to hide, the kindness her crew knew only too well.   It was that soft centre that had brought Harebell to the group, a teenage half orc found wandering the roads, dehydrated and dazed.   (Haraan, the horse hand, later told Harebell that he’d never seen Dergar so worried before, and she, a veteran of several civil wars before coming to this line of work! Harebell never forgot this, the memory a warm coal in her chest) Harebell was starved, had been walking for days by the guesses of the crew and had no memory at all of how she came to be. Even after three days of solid sleep, nothing seemed to return to her, not even a name.   Alright, said Dergar, hands on hips and her smile crooked as she stood over the confused orc youth slurping down stew, i guess I’ll give you one.

Dergar, and the rest of the crew, set about teaching her the ways of the Trail as soon as she was able.  no lax hand on my crew, Dergar would say, handing the girl a tool she could not place a name to and set to teaching her. How to fix a broken axel, how to change a horseshoe, important things. Useful things. Harebell was not, particularly good at these things. She seemed to be naturally clumsy and for some reason her lessons never stuck, never made sense. They seemed to twist and disappear in her mind when she reached for them. Dergar’s attempts at teaching her to read and write in common concluded the same way, a frustrated Harebell who struggled the make the words stay still. But she had good eyes, alert and shar, and so was set as the main watch, sitting a top the caravans, waiting for trouble with her crossbow. She was happy to do it, happy that she could be helpful, that she could do something.

Then she was given the harp. To this day, Harebell still doesn’t know who left it on her bunk but there were many that could of, many of her new family that smiled so widely at her first off tune pluckings. It was a strange thing, how this delicate stringed instrument changed her days. Practise filled her spare hours, any moment where her hands weren’t busy, they were softly playing, melancholy tunes and happy songs for the rest to work to. The small pluckings became long compositions, ones that actually stuck in her head and she would happily repeat when requested.   It was rare that Harebell’s night watches were not accompanied by music, lullabies, quiet and sweet.   She was ecstatic, something she could do, something she could do well, something her big clumsy hands didn’t mess up! Harebell could never give up her life travelling but maybe, she could make something, something that she could remember, something that maybe others might remember too.

How nice would that be? A random roll commission for @wiiinterva Thankyou!

A bounty hunter is dressed to blend into the crowd, dark hoods and quick disguises, their movements fast and subtle. Easier to get the jump on the target that way. Of course, some Hunters go for the big and bold effect, fear can be powerful enough to immobilise after all.

 No one, not even the regular clients of Tycaurax, usually members of law enforcement or families of victims, really expect the Kenku to come back with results. They smiled encouragingly at the tall legged cleric, who would wave cheerily back as they set out to hunt down whatever monster had been haunting their clients lives, with only a holy book and a mace as defence, but did not expect much.  To expect a old, gangly and fairly clumsy kenku dressed in clean cleric robes and spectacles that caught the light to catch criminals and rogues with nary a scratch on them (Tycaurax always brought them back alive, never took lethal jobs) or the kenku themselves, was lunacy surely. Or at least your coin wasted.  If the kenku took the coin that is. But somehow it worked, though the clients never figured how.

 Within the space of a month, the cleric would return with whatever scoundrel they had been tasked with, often chatting in their low tones over how it would go from there, keeping the target calm as the law took them in. New recruits to the peacekeepers were often confused by the gentle hand the kenku would leave on the criminals arm before they were taken away, as if the monsters the cleric brought in were scared or even worthy of the gesture. Tycaurax, the gentle kenku never pulled a punch or left a mark on those he escorted into the arms of the true law, or ever took a reward for their work (although they never refused a meal from the grateful families, they could never do that).  When questioned, the criminal’s feelings towards the cleric ranged from a seemingly deep seated respect to great fear, though none ever told their reasons for doing so. This was greatly confusing, connecting the calm and composed priest of the cloth to the wide eyed fear of these convicts. They simply couldn’t make the connection. Tycaurax would simply smile when asked, as much as they could as a creature with no lips, their head tilted benignly with a happy cluck and offer that you cannot completely know the soul of another, no matter how hard you try. And it was true. It was simply that, both law keeper and criminal, rarely saw past the veneer of Tycaurax’s calm complexion. What the clients never saw was the tick in their jaw as stories were told as to what the criminal had done, or how their hands gripped at the pain caused to these families, these poor innocents. And certainly, what they never witnessed, was the priest’s iron clad will. Tycaurax, a travelling cleric had seen many distressing things in their long years of life, things that would make another shiver, wounds that could never heal, minds that were tarnished at the hands of others. Yet. Tycaruax believed solidly, that souls could change, and that violence dealt or damaged threatened, could not be the path to change them. The Cleric had been raised on a bedrock of peace, that talk and words could convince the most stalwart monster to change. Even before choosing a life of hunting, Tycaruax had been good with words, persuasive and charming and their mentors had utilised this for their work.  What the kenku did, to the confusion their targets after hunting their location, finding their hideaways, their secret hangouts, was talk to them. At first in short bursts, insinuating themselves into the targets everyday life, a stranger, a kind soul on the street. Then Tycaurax would be found in their lives at great times of weakness (situations never orchestrated by the cleric of course, what kind of soul of the cloth would do such a thing!) and offer themselves as an ear, with kind words and encouragements of good deeds. This would work mainly in the respect that, no matter the religion of the target, not many would harm a cleric, either from respect or fear. (bad luck to do so, some god of another might want revenge when you hurt their representatives on the mortal plane, better not risk it) And usually, this slow inserting of a good presence and a reliable shoulder into their dark lives would be enough to turn a criminal in. This would surprise many, if people knew of Tycaurax’s methods, but the results could not be disclaimed. The Kenku would wait as long as it took, slowly working on the target, as patient as a rogue unpicking a master lock, finding those pinpoints of light and good within the soul.  Sometimes, the cleric would be sad to find, that their usual methods of kind words and friendship would not be enough to penetrate through the dark walls of their targets heart. It pricked at their soul to have to admit and the cleric would often work longer at these jobs, determined that through goodness, the soul would admit their crimes. But when it did not work, the kenku did not give up. Not any more. They had done so once, long ago as a young bird, abandoned an attempt of conversion, seen that their kindness was not accepted or absorbed and had left, apologising to their client that it couldn't be done. They had left, but the target, a highly positioned gang leader, had not forgotten and was outraged at the revelation that their companion had not only been a cleric but had been hunting them down for the peacekeepers.  Tycaurax had no family, but few beloved friends, other travelling clerics who chose to settle down in towns to dispense their knowledge and peace. Few knew of them but it was information discovered and savoured by the Gang leader who swiftly and brutally had them wiped from the mortal coil. The news passed to Tycaurax a few months later, through wills and testaments of one of the clerics, a past lover who left them his holy book.  It was then, the book filled with the writings and musings of one of their closest companions, that Tycaraux decided that they would not stop in their mission, ever, no matter the cost, so that this would never happen to another. Tycaurax continued with their words, but these were perhaps, less kind. Far less kind. Tycaurax often felt guilty for their words spoken, words to provoke guilt and fear of souls immortal, made not in anger but spurred by the iron will that ticked their jaw but again, the results could not be denied. The method would often taint their feeling of accomplishment when leading the criminal, their eyes darting in panic at their feathered hand laid gently on their shoulder to lead them forward, to the lawkeepers. But as they watched the targets handcuffed and locked away, hand on the battered holy book, Tycaurax decided that, it was enough.' Randomroll for @mllymauktealeaf, thanks again!

Jarret wasn’t sure if they missed the old days or not.

Certainly, their day to day life as the cousin of the king, noble but safe, in no way in line for the throne, was definitely cushier. Cushier than the life of a fighter for sale anyway. And drier, the dwarf considered, using a gloved hand to wipe away the rain collecting on their brow and the long plaits of their beard. The journey to the city was long, but they had taken all the jobs they could in the last. Working for the law, working for private commissions, but the clean jobs ran out fast. They never took the dirty ones, no matter the pay, no matter how much they knew that money could change their life, and the life of-

How easy it had been then, and how young and undeserving of the soft cushions and hot meals brought without a word. Caring for nothing but learning and training to be the captain of royal guard, a position they were born for, a position only family could take.  (Safety in family, their mother said, binding the wounds and scrapes of a young training Jarret, soothing the new calluses with creams, you can trust family.)  The oath was taken after Jarrett passed their training and their majority, with the scars to prove the former and the long decorated beard to prove the latter. They remembered the ceremony, not much of it, so many of the later events shadowed that bright day but they remembered the oath they took, word for word.   They swore to protect, beyond all other law, all other reasoning, the king and his descendants.  An easy thing to promise, in those golden days standing before the throne, jade circles of nobility in their beard and the golden armour gifted to them girding their body. Jarret remembered little of that day but the feeling of rightness, of true righteousness. They had been so young and happy.  And stupid.

There were fifty good years then, fifty kind years where the King’s wife bore the kingdom five heirs. Jarret, whose oath forbade them from a family of their own, loved these bright shining pebbles perhaps as much as their parents. The dwarf’s time was split between that of the royal couple and their children, reluctant to allow another to take on their true duties to the crown, believing they could protect them all. Perhaps that was where it began, where Jarret failed them.

Maybe it was in the hours spent away from the children, some growing close to adulthood but still pebbles in Jarrets mind, was when the eldest’s mind was poisoned. Perhaps during a lesson, a tutor a double crosser, whispering toxic words into her head. Perhaps a sorcerer who crept into her room to bewitch her while she slept. Or perhaps, and this hurt Jarret’s heart the most, a slow march of madness that could have been preempted if only the captain had seen the low rise of it in her eyes.  Sweet Gerder, Jarret thought, eyes closed to the rain in a moment of grief. In any case, the eldest daughter of the king did what she did. She killed her mother and father while they slept, her siblings as they began to scream at the blood on her hands. Jarret, who had been alone, stationed outside their bedroom and burst in the moment they heard one of the children (it had been Erdi, little Erdi’s screams) cry out, was only in time to see Gerder turn, begin to smile, eyes wide and white and knife raised only to cry out herself, a short scream of almost outrage, before falling dead to the floor. It was Duri, Little Duri who hadn’t even grown her whiskers yet, that had done it, the little knife Jarett had carved each of them for protection, still in her hands. Her eyes were as wild and as pale as her sister’s, but no madness in them, only grief and horror.

There was no time, Jarrett remembered, the city in sight now, grey in the rain but a happy sight for their sore and wet body.  No time, as they heard more footsteps coming, so many, so many witnesses. So much that could ruin the lines reputation, ruin the reputation of the kingdom and God’s, the life of the little one, frozen in fear before them, knife still in hand.  She would be blamed, or if not, ruined and twisted by others, perhaps by the ones who caused Gerder’s own defection. If Jarrett missed that, thee could be more that they were not seeing. So many footsteps.  Before the other could arrive, Jarret made the decision. The official story was this; a defector had broken in and slaughtered the entire family. It was believed that one of the children had been taken, considering that their body was not found with the others. The kingdom mourned for their loss and another of the Royal line, lesser but nobility nontheless, took the weight of the crown.  The captain of the Royal guard, in grief and shame, resigned from their post and left the kingdom. Quite right too, was the public opinion, an oathbreaker cannot remain in such a position. The rain let up as they reached the gates. A good thing too, Jarett’s arms were getting tired.  The dwarf gently bounced the weight in their arms, smiling when they felt the wrapped bundle shift and grinning at the sleepily curious face, gaping at the great walls and statues.  Jarett may have failed at many other things, but they were no oathbreaker. Jarett’s last little pebble at least, was safe. random roll for @wiiinterva, thanks again hun!

Y’know, Morse never really planned to land this job. It was only, y’know, moving to a new place, being a couple of feet taller than everyone else, the teeth, the tail, it’s hard to get something customer serviced based, he supposed as he ran his axe over the grinder yet again. A sharp blade meant an easy job. And a quick death for the poor fellow on the block. It wasn’t that he particularly enjoyed the job. He wasn’t bad at it, Morse was, as much as anyone could be, fairly good at it. He was precise, quick and usually had a few soft words, maybe a joke or two, for the soon to be deceased, but being an executioner didn’t make you popular. People didn’t want to go out for a beer with the 7ft fella who cut off the heads of people. The job didn’t make you friends, no matter how many jokes you could tell about guillotines. And he’d spent so much time coming up with them. Morse sighed and quickly tested the sharpened blade against his wood block.  At least he knew he was doing good for the world. He read every file on every soul that he had parted from the world, kept tabs on their trials, on their misdeeds. How could he go on working as he did, not knowing if the one on his block was meant to be there, what taking them from this existence would do for those who had remained?  It took the edge, Morse would try to joke to any who would listen, off the work, knowing that there was one less monster in the world. It was, still difficult, but it had to be done.   So he remembered very well the face of the tie fling, one who had been charged with murder of a family, a rich family whose ties to politics had been their downfall, their deaths gruesome and twisted. The accused had been of a splinter cell, one of a rebellion against the cities government, something Morse knew only vaguely about, in his insulated ways.  He remembered her face, as he did with many of them, her mouth trembling but eyes determined. Not the usual fear or crocodile tears Morse usually witnessed at this stage. She had looked at him, for a moment, through the slits of his black hood and it had struck him in his heart, quite strangely before he did his duty and rid the world of another killer with the twin thuds, first his axe then her head landing in the basket. Another nicer duty of his was to aid in the clean up of the cells and it was not uncommon to find effects of the deceased hidden around it; hand rolled cigarettes, heirlooms tucked into cracks of the walls, notes to family. They were sad, Morse thought, the real ghosts of his job. It was almost the hardest part of the work, clearing the leavings of the dead.   He almost didn’t find it, the room had been fairly clear and he thought perhaps he’d gotten an easy job that day, when his searching fingers found the edge of paper beneath the mattress. And, it was not something he usually did, reading the notes left behind. It was almost impolite, something crass and usually Morse would try to send the notes on to family or whoever they were addressed to. But this note, was addressed to Morse. That was a first. His own mother never even wrote him! He hesitated at first. A note from a tie fling could be cursed or it could insinuate him in something, a crime of some sort. Yet. He remembered the look in her eyes. That pang. Perhaps not  Later, in the safety of his quarters above the dungeons, coffee gone cold in the cup, the letter read and crumpled in his hand, would he realise what that pang was.  It was the pang of killing an innocent soul. It was the cut of killing the wrong person. The note had been short, but concise, in a fine hand explaining the blackmail, the threats of her family killed if she did not take the place of the true killer. She did not name them, but did give him her true name, her family name.  She gave Morse a place to start. Morse quit the next morning, though the administrators had thought this another one of his strange jokes and were quite surprised when he insisted, packing his few belongings, selling the rest and leaving the city for the place of the tie flings birth. It was on his way there, that he travelled with a cleric and Morse decided that surely, aside from telling the poor girls family of her fate, learning to heal after years of ceasing life, was another good place to start. He had plenty of time to learn from the cleric on the road after all. You could say, he had- time to kill. eh? eh? Part 2 of @yourundead‘s randomroll commission. i love making punning characters!

Forte was the wall. That’s what Voce said, often when they sat together in the green room after sessions, Voce’s music box playing something low and soft, washing off the sweat and dirt from earlier clients. Voce had the most delicate touch of the two of them, and would be the one to decorate Fortes crown with plaits and beads, since Forte could barely manage a basic plait alone. Voce would decorate them with delicate beautiful things. Like Voce himself. You are my wall, darling, you keep me safe, he would say to them, as they sat in his lap, their 6ft height bent low between his soft thighs, to keep in the reach of his fine hands. Voce would never say what from.

Forte was not the smartest, but they were strong, that they knew. They had known it from their childhood, what little they had of one, when traded for coin by the orphanage. They did well at the physical work, lifting, hefting, as long as it didn’t call for too much thought. It had been strange then, to be traded after long years of manual labour, into this line of work, such soft arts, of sultry soft words and slick bodies. Forte wasn’t ugly they supposed, but the false words they’d been taught tripped on their tounge, their hands too rough and clumsy to be seductive, too blunt. Voce, a longstanding worker in the Bower, had found a way to use that, to use forte’s sharp tounge and hard hands to their advantage.

(It turned out that some took their pleasure from being the weaker, from receiving pain and harsh attentions from the strong. It also turned out that many paid stupid amounts of money to be treated so. It was something that Forte would never understand but Voce would simply shrug and explain that it ‘took all sorts’.) The Job was easier after that. Everything was easier with Voce on Forte’s arm, softly murmuring about the books he was reading, or the constellations he had seen the night before, speaking of anything and everything other than the Job, his low lidded eyes only on Forte’s. Soft and sweet and smiling, only for them. They were rarely seen apart in the Bower, only parting for the Work. The Job both brought them together and kept them away, Forte thought one night, doggedly watching the door that connected their bathroom to Voce’s own, waiting for him to finish up. It had occurred to them after a gruelling session with a man who Voce had told them was a Governor of… somewhere or other. Forte rarely remembered such things, the outside world held no real thrall for them as it did for Voce. It was while watching the connecting door that forte heard something strange. Voce was well known as a worker of soft words, a conversationalist offering long sessions of tea making and poetry reading as well as more carnal affairs. Voce rarely worked above a murmur and Forte had never heard his voice rise above it in their time together. But such a strange sound was coming from the room…  It took Forte, and they would remember this always, it took Forte too long to realise the sound was Voce screaming. Voce’s lovely soft voice screaming. It took less time for Forte to knock down the connecting door, a thick thing of mahogany that gave no resistance to their muscled shoulder. Forte had never felt such fear, a clenching grasping fear, as when they saw Voce’s room, tables tipped, china broken, and the only leaving of its owner, a spray of blood on the book case. The gossip and whispers began after the room had been searched by the local constabulary - Voce always attracted the strange ones, all that reading, have you seen all his books? oh yes-  and Forte allowed the words to flow over them, meaning nothing, as such large swaths of words often did. They sat, gently cradling a small handkerchief of Voce’s over their nose as they stared into the empty space the door had been. Yet, a name the gossiping workers mentioned pricked at Fortes thoughts.

That man, that human man. Voce’s last client. And Forte began to move and no one stopped them. ( No one who knew Forte dared. ) They packed a bag, found their hidden bag of tips and without a pause, one of the instruments used for their sessions, a great war hammer that threatened many a quivering and naked politician, and left. Their contract did not matter. The money that would soon be on their head for breaking it didn’t not matter. Forte was a wall, gods dammit. And walls were made to protect. randomroll commission for @yourundead​! One of two! I love doing random rolls so much, really stretches my narrative capabilities!

Random roll commission for a client    “Even as a child, Shen adored the great library of neverwinter.It was a place she went to often, her parents being poor and often working, it was a safe place, warm and out of the rain.   Shen loved to read, though her mind worked slower than that of her siblings and the stories only truly unwound under her pointing finger after having to reread the words multiple times, reading aloud under her breath, but Shen would’ve loved the place even if the books were gone.It was the peace that all seemed to receive under the high marble ceilings and domed lights, with no exceptions or conditions.  Even she, a being of fire, with embers glowing in her eyes and hair that smouldered in the dim lights of the library, was given a card, given the freedom to explore and find what she wanted, at her own pace and with no glances of fear.  Shen didn’t quite understand that.  She’d never hurt anyone, had learned tight control over the heat inside her at a young age and so could not figure why when she walked in the street, others would give her a wide berth, tug their children tighter to them.   She did not understand, but understood that it hurt her out there, amongst them.   In the library, she was mostly ignored, and that was better. Though as she grew older, and especially during the winter months, she would find herself playing storyteller to children, who enjoyed her voices (and the residual heat her body gave off.)  When a sign appeared on the bulletin board near the great front desk, janitor wanted, Shen, whose few talents had never really pulled her in any direction after school, quickly snatched it down before others could read it.   to be paid to be under the gaze of those statues!  to be paid to walk the halls, keeping the beauty of it, being in charge of the building that had given her sanctuary for most of her life!  it was more than she could imagine.  There were downfalls of course. She’d never noticed the remnants left by patrons before, wrappers and newspapers and dreaded gum under the tables. such disrespect she could not imagine! she would grumble such things as she cleaned. Shen was a creature of few words but found her dislike of the patrons to be the main cause of them nowadays.    Of course there were kind people and the children who would tug at her uniform and beg for a chapter of a tale, just one! And the library itself was its own reward.   But the little things began to get at her, her temperature would rise at a spilled drink on the fine carpets, her short hair rising in her temper. Her work days grew longer and they never seemed to consider hiring another custodian.   And the whispers of the librarians, of how wise was it to have a fire elemental in a library of all places, an accident waiting to happen surely!  The great library was large but voices carried and It both infuriated and saddened Shen to hear those things. She vowed to dampen her temper from now on, the very idea that she could accidentally do such a thing was terrifying!     She’d had one close call when a librarian had taken her aside one day to complain at her 'slipshod' cleaning of the foyer. It had been a long and tough day for Shen, nowadays it seemed like she was doing the job of at least five and It had taken a few moments for her to pull back her irritation but she knew the man had seen the red rise in her eyes.    She dampened it and quickly apologised but was still sent home, to ‘cool off’. She slumped home, ashamed of both her actions and how she allowed herself to be treated in her sanctuary, a place that had once been her joy. The great library burned to the ground that night. Well, not exactly burned to the ground, but Shen read that the marble had turned black in the evening standard, all the books, all the knowledge gathered there gone, along with those precious memories of hers.    And her freedom. A neighbour of hers, a fellow custodian but of the mayors offices, had warned her just in time, rushing to her door to tell her of the law keepers storming down the street. The librarian had put 2 and 2 together and pronounced the cause of the fire to be revenge of ‘that lazy fire genasi’, angered by a well placed complaint and decided that the only recourse was destruction.     Shen quickly thanked her neighbour, gathered her things and left. Her parents were dead, from over work, her siblings scattered and close to the same fate, from their letters. Shen had no one to say goodbye to, though her neighbour, a sweet firbolg had given her a kiss good luck.     She would need it, the firbolg said meaningfully. It was on the back of a cart, quickly haggled for a ride out of never winter, that shen realised she hadn’t said goodbye to the library. and to her childhood.  It was gone. and as the evening standard, proclaiming the fire and its causes to the whole of the city, crumpled beneath her hands, smouldering at her touch, Shen promised she would do what she had to, what she must, to find out who took it from her.”

Hyacinth told her, when asked, that she had slept for a long time.  That she had been found by their scouts, collapsed before a barricaded door that had long been broken into when they found her. She had been damaged, her armour scarred, by orc weapons from the look and had somehow lost consciousness in this attack. The ones inside, that the war forged must have fallen protecting, were small and only bones now, littered with rags.    The scout party, a group of Halfling Arvoreen keepers had been checking out the abandoned Dwarven hold that loomed over their lands, after decades of it standing empty.

They had expected to find orcs, taking refuge in the great mountain, perhaps goblins, maybe a few baubles or tapestries to carry home. The trinkets they would find would not be their objective however. Keeping their lands safe, keeping them clear of danger and their people protected was worth more than any gold or jewel. Hyacinth smiled at the war forged now in their keeping, dragged from the keep, once inactive, now awake and seemingly bewildered at the Halfling children climbing its massive copper body like ants over an apple.

It seems they found a little of both.

It had taken little time and more than a little research into getting the war forged up and going, something Hyacinth, as the villages resident scholar was quite willing to do, for such a puzzle and such a reward.  To find the being sentient and comprehensible, despite its preference for few words, upon waking was more than hyacinth could dream of, though, informing the sentinel of the fate of its people, the ones it had promised to protect had been surprisingly difficult. Hyacinth had read of some war forged who had something of a soul, an awareness beyond battle and some who became attached to the ones they were made to protect but she did not expect the tears, almost ghostlike trails of pale green fire to pour down the helmet of the being. she didn’t expect that at all. and there was a time where the war forged may as well have been an ancient set of armour, stood lifeless and empty in the corner of her workshop, so deep in its grief it was.

But the children helped.