#story chapter

PYCHOPOMP: ohhhhhh...i dont like that. WARL0CK: ... I suddenly have the urge to punch this man really hard in the middle of his face. VORTEX: Is that a smoking jacket over a turtleneck? Did he piss off his sartorial aides? PSYCHOPOMP: ...I'm a scientist but uh, I dont think this is fashionable? I dont know. my brain is trying to eat itself looking at this LEAF: I can't help but feel in some way responsible for Max's plight. So I'm going to try and set things right. LEAF: That Taraxacum that Lord Castor-Eyros gave me - I'm going to give it to him. Not an ideal frame but it's better than having to beg and grovel before... THAT. VORTEX: A little help goes a long way. It's also just the right thing to do.

And thus, the Lunar Falcons had convened in the Stables - minus Delamar, who was currently listed as "Intentionally Unreachable; Do Not Contact" on every single status feed. He'd apparently wanted to see all of Throne Karakiz' attractions, without being recognised as a noble of the House of Sand, and so was going incognito. Atreyu wondered how ahead on his studies the man must've been to afford an entire weekend doing the tourist circuit, but it was his scholarship to waste, they supposed.

In any case, they only needed a majority of the Lunar Falcons to transfer the frame to Max, but all four of them had turned up in solidarity.

"You have no idea how much this means to me," Max repeated breathlessly, having said it about six or seven times at this point. Finally, the license transfer sequence finished, and he began tapping his slate. "Okay, okay. Let's get this thing open and see what we're working with..."

There was a brief pause as the cockpit ramp lowered. Atreyu looked away for a moment, just in time to catch Tuera's shield turning from blue to red to white around her shoulder. Then they heard the gunshot. Turning back, they saw three hooded figures bursting from the darkness inside the mech. One had a knife, the second a pistol, and the third was aiming down the sights of a suppressed rifle, its barrel still smoking.

Soundtrack: Michael McCann - Neon Arterial - Ending the Family Presence

Tuera hit the floor - it seemed like her shield had absorbed the brunt of the blow, but from the way her shoulder was hanging, there'd still been enough force to dislocate it entirely. Immediately, without hesitation, Atreyu's revolver was in their hand and their shield was on. They threw themselves between the rifleman and Tuera, squeezing off four quick shots, not really aiming so much as trying to keep the sharpshooter's head down.

Caelan was a blur of white fur, bearing down on the assassin with the pistol with his knives drawn. Without the benefit of range, the assailant struggled to fend off the wolf's flurry of quick strikes. Bullets careened off the floor and nearby machinery as he fired blindly, until Caelan stepped under his desperate thrashing and sank a blade straight into the man's wrist. The pistol clattered to the floor, but the man didn't so much as blink - simply pulling out a knife of his own with his one good hand.

Over the other side of the bay, Persephone and Max cowered behind a crate as the knife-wielder advanced on them. Persephone was struggling to get her submachine gun unslung, and Max was desperately trying to fiddle with a fuel cell.

There was a snap of air and a pain like being struck with a baton, right in the chest. Atreyu felt their ribs creak under the strain, and looked down briefly at the angry red of their shield as a bullet fell to the floor in front of them. The rifleman was clearly unconcerned with how many people they had to kill to get to their target, and was already lining up another shot. Atreyu could feel the thrumbing of the air around them fall out of rhythm, becoming disjointed and staccato - their shield wouldn't survive another hard impact.

Atreyu could see the beast rising over the edge of the cliff they'd left it beneath, face bloodied, screeching in anger. In his mind's eye, the Wolf itself rose with hungry jaws.

They steadied one arm on another, and squinted, looking for a gap in their adversary's armour. They'd spent four bullets - two left. They took a deep breath. Time seemed to slow down as they let it out, seeking their target.

There.

The bullet struck the monster square in the hip, right where the ballistic plates had to be jointed for the sake of mobility, and suddenly he was just a man again - just a man, with all the vulnerabilities and weaknesses of a man. The oversized bullet rent flesh, sundered muscle, severed tendons, smashed bone apart. The assassin dropped to one knee like a puppet with half its strings cut, letting out a grunt of agony.

He hefted his rifle again, but suddenly Tuera leapt from behind Atreyu, her cavalry saber drawn in her off-hand, and faster than the wounded man could react, she had brought it down on the barrel, tearing the weapon from his shaking hands.

There was a cry of pain from Atreyu's left as an assassin's knife found Persephone's arm, but without any fanfare, Delamar was just there. He took the would-be-murderer's wrist and with surprisingly little effort snapped his arm back against itself with a sickening crunch. The knife fell to the floor, but its wielder didn't even blink.

Atreyu turned as a body hit the floor - Caelan's knives had made short work of the gunslinger - he still drew breath, but he was out of the fight. Tuera was busy beating the rifleman into unconsciousness. The third and final assassin turned tail and made as if to flee, but suddenly, the voice of ELIGOS, the College's NHP, filled the room.

"I think not. You'll stay right here, worm."

The Taraxacum moved on its own, seizing the masked man in both its manipulators. He struggled a little, clearly attempting to bite down on something, but restrained as he was, he couldn't stop Delamar from ripping his mask off and stuffing it in his mouth.

ELIGOS sighed theatrically. "Remain where you are. I have already summoned security. Oh, some of you are injured? Very well, I suppose I must also dispatch a medical team. Yet one more drop in an ocean of distractions."

Soundtrack: Sound of Syndrome - Wondrous Places

The next few hours were a blur. Everyone had insisted that they were fine and that the medics should tend to the others first, and the medics had insisted that no, they all needed to be treated. There had been a rush of well-wishing visitors - Ladies Elsa and Kiriona, Lord Tomas, Rawan, Marquess Fonatgue - but Atreyu couldn't help but obsess over who hadn't checked in on them.

Delamar had demanded to interview the assassins personally, only to be soundly rebuffed by College security - which meant Persephone had to hack into the mainframe and download the files herself.

What they learnt only raised more questions. The assassins were from the Dusk Wardens, house company of House Helsing - the minor house that had adopted Persephone in order to sponsor her at the College.

"Venthrax," Tuera spat. "My progenitor. He's always been angry that I chose to be a woman, and this isn't the first time he's tried to have me bumped off. But I'm too popular with the Raven Guard, our own house company, for him to do it openly - so using House helsing as cat's paws? He'd get me out of the way, and have a perfect casus belli to seize another house's holdings."

"They do not simply have you poisoned at breakfast? Or knife-fight your much older cousin, perhaps," Delamar enquired. "Fillicide via proxy fratricide is a time-honored tradition in House Leonasius."

"My family doesn't assassinate unwanted children," Caelan remarked, pulling a loose strand of fur. "They just make sure your survival pack is missing one or two vital things when they leave you out on the glacier for your rite of passage. Persephone, how did your family deal with its problematic scions?"

!?

*Suddenly, the door starts to slightly creak open. Natsumi, sensing immediate danger, starts to move back and puts her right hand into her pocket to retrieve something. However, once she starts to look at who's coming in, she starts to retrieve her hand out of her pocket and calms down, as a familiar face walks inside and shuts the door behind him...*

SLAM!

...

Tch! Took you long enough! What the hell took you so long?

What do you think I was doing? I was talking to my parents!. And can you please explain to me why you're lying down on my bed?

We-Well, it was comfy! Excuse me for actually trying to get some rest after you almost killed both of us!

How many times do I need to say it was an accident!? And it's not like your taxi driver was that good of a driver either!

Chaffuer, bitch! Get it right in your braindead head of yours or are you just bulit like that!

It's still the same thing! And at the very least, I'm not an utterly, annoying asshole that whines about the littlest of things!!

*takes out a pocket knife from her right pocket* SAY THAT AGAIN!! Say that comment again, motherfucker!! Say it again, and I'll shove this knife right down your fucking throat!! You want that, do you? DO YOU!?

!!

*Both of them stand completely still as if time has completely stopped. Natsumi is currently holding the knife a quarter inch away from Hajime's throat with a death glare towards him, nearly piercing his flesh!. Hajime is currently standing motionless, aside from the absolutely panicked expression on his face, unsure of what to do or say in this moment...*

... *puts the knife back in her pocket* Sorry, I just don't appreciate it when people say shit to me like that. It gets fucking annoying real quick.

Yo-You were holding the knife at MY THROAT!! What does that say about you then if you're so willing to casually threaten anyone who disagrees with you!? Are you insane!?

Look, I don't have time for this shit! It's late and I wanna go to bed, alright? And stop whining like a fucking baby! I wasn't actually going to kill you, ya know?

Well, that still doesn't excuse you for putting that knife at my throat!. What if that knife actually penetrated my lungs? What would've you done then, huh? What would your response be?

...

Pitiful. Rukard, The Prince of the Dark Woods, the Wild Hunter, the Nightmare in Green could not describe his current state more accurately than pitiful.

He was staring at the ceiling, wondering if there was any reason to get out of bed today. He wasn't needed for anything. He did not have any obligations. He was supposed to wait, and he doesn’t need to get out of bed for that. Come to think of it, did he ever have a reason? He closed his eyes and tried to find a pleasant memory, but they all seemed to shrink, fade away, hide in the far corners of his mind. However, one memory, one that he did not want to recall at all, let alone now, was nudging him again and again. 

   -  That idiot! - Rukard couldn’t help but growl, - Running off all on his own! 

“Wait for me here,” he said. “It’s too dangerous,” he said. “Someone has to feed the snake-lions,” he said. Feed the snake-lions! Any servant could do that! It was just insulting, leaving him like that, like some fair maiden waiting for the knight to return with a dragon's head. Does he expect him to make tapestries? 

Well, someone does have to feed the snake-lions. Rukard tossed and turned some more before finally getting out of bed. He looked around the room, wondering if he could find some clean clothes. His choice was quite limited: most of the things he owned were, at their core, fancy armor. Armor that looks wonderful when its wearer is on a horse, wielding a sword and a whip, ready to kill and awe. Armor that isn’t anything but uncomfortable clunking metal and stuffy leather when you’re trying to cook breakfast.

Oh. Oh no. He shuffled through the messy piles on the floor, again and again, unable to detect anything he could even consider putting on without disgust. There really were no clean clothes left. 

He could think of two options. One, he could go about his day in his nightgown until he finds someone and makes them wash his clothes. Two… he hated option number two. He hated that he even thought of it. He hated that he kept thinking of it.

He reluctantly made his way over to an old, abandoned chamber.

Everything was just like when he was here for the first time as if he didn't leave at all. How long ago was that? Five years? Six? Seven? It didn’t matter here. Here, only dust and spiderwebs acknowledged that time still worked.

But enough about that. He wasn't here for nostalgia. Rukard wandered around the room, looking for something. Ah, here it is. A small closet was wedged between two bookshelves, a pile of hay in front of it giving off a strong scent of wild animals and serpents. Of course. In Heshi's room, it's only natural that all space would be given to books and snake-lions, leaving only the bare minimum for its owner. Rukard carefully moved the odorous pile of hay and opened the closet. The good news was that the moths didn’t get to the clothes, probably repelled by the smell of snake-lions. The bad news: these were, in fact, Heshi’s clothes. His "casual" clothes. His “tremble before this Dark Lord, as he brings doom and despair upon the world” clothes. Oh well. Still better than a nightgown. 

He put on the least extravagant attire he could find; a garnet-red shirt and a pair of black pants that could be considered normal if you would ignore the skull incrustations. His old shoes were still wearable, but the light-brown hunting boots clashed so much with the rest that he decided to take a pair of batwing boots to match the outfit.

Now, having something to wear, he could carry on with his day. He carefully examined the pantry. Of course, plenty of dried meat for the snake-lions. Various groats and grains he could hardly tell apart, let alone cook. Salt, spices, oil. Vegetables were kept in a special section, deeper underground for cold storage. Heshi really made sure that Rukard would have everything he could need for a long time. But how long, exactly? How much longer?

Rukard shut the pantry’s door. To Aaa’s way with breakfast. He has to kill somebody, and while that idiot is running around, trying to save the world, he can’t risk crossing water, which would be necessary to get to any living (i.e. killable) people. Hunting it is, then.

Half-way to the main entrance, Rukard stopped in his tracks. Equipment. Hunting equipment. He needed that. The weapons he had with him - a sword and a whip, his usual arsenal, would not do. But this wasn’t his castle, where he had anything and everything needed for his favorite pastime. Was there any equipment here at all? 

A memory flashed through his mind. There has to be a bow here somewhere. He searched every dim, dusty room until he finally found it. In terrible need of care and maintenance, a simple maple recurve bow. His old bow.

It was unstrung, the bowstring loosely tangling from the top limb. The quiver was lying nearby, a few arrows still in it, gathering dust with their fletchings. He didn't expect to leave it for this long.

No. No flashbacks, no nostalgia. He is going to string this bow, go out, kill somebody, and feel better. And then maybe raid the wine cellar.

With that - after stringing the bow, of course, which was trickier than he remembered because he was out of practice - he stomped his way over to the main entrance, threw the door open, and started to make his way edge of the forest, staring right at the tips of his boots, determined not to look at anything that could trigger… 

  -  Hello! Beautiful day today, isn’t it? - a cheerful voice made Rukard flinch and frantically look around

A grey, cloaked figure was sitting cross-legged on the grass, only a few steps away from the main entrance, waving at him, so wrapped up in grey cloth that only its eyes and the tips of its fingers could be seen. There was a book on their crossed legs. They were holding a pencil in the hand that wasn’t occupied by waving.

-  Why are you here, mortal? - Rukard asked, slipping into his usual demon-of-the-forest act, mostly out of habit. The figure scratched its head

-  I am looking for something.

-  What? - Rukard asked sharply, his hand searching for the whip’s handle. If they were here to rob Heshiktow’s old house, then deer-wolfs and birds aren’t going to be the only ones dying today. 

-  I do not remember - the cloth on the figure’s face moved, indicating that it must have smiled

-  Then go look someplace else! Any place is good enough if you don’t know what you’re looking for

-  Of course! If I’m bothering you, I’ll leave. Just let me finish drawing, okay?

Rukard studied the stranger’s book more closely. On the open pages, he could see a few sketches of the castle. But not only that. Almost half of the page was full of snake-lions. No sane person would be willing to approach those beasts if they didn’t bond since childhood - to anyone but their owner, snake-lions could be aggressive and extremely dangerous. The only person he knew willing to approach wild, abandoned, or lost snake-lions, or simply snake-lions belonging to others, was Heshi. And apparently, this quaint creature.

Seeing that Rukard was looking at its book, the cloaked figure raised it above its head so that Rukard could see it better.

 -  Do you like my drawings? - the figure asked in a slightly worried tone. Rukard didn’t quite know what to answer. The drawings were good, but he wasn’t in the mood for giving compliments.

 -  Why did you draw them? - he asked, instead

 -  Because they’re beautiful, of course!

Rukard had no idea how to continue this conversation, as it has gone badly off the usual intimidation script. The figure didn’t seem to pose much of a threat, so instead of continuing this strange and tiresome endeavor, Rukard recomposed himself, scoffed, and headed off into the forest. Kill someone, raid the wine cellar, feel better. He had a plan, and chatting with deranged strangers that like to doodle wasn’t part of it. 

First, he worked with the arrows. Some were fine, but some, probably those that had contact with the sunlight, warped and lost their balance. He heated them on a fire he started and carefully straightened them out. He practiced with the arrows that seemed fine from the start and then with those that warped after they cooled down. If there was a difference, it wasn’t as blatant as it was before.

He practiced some more for the muscle memory to kick in until he was happy both with his tools and his reflexes, then began the tracking. It was the summer’s peak, the worst time for tracking - the fresh, boisterous vegetation covered any tracks that were more than a few minutes old. Still, from broken twigs and bald patches on the ground that indicated common animal routes, he found a place where he could wait and listen. Listening was the best part. 

A few birds stopped singing, waiting for someone to pass by. A small squirrel-hare rushed away, causing some grass and saplings to rustle. The forest was his friend. The forest was willing to tell him where and how to find anyone inside it if only he would be willing to listen. And he was.

After the forest showed him where the deer-wolf was, catching it was hardly a problem. It wasn’t used to people. When it was shot, a look of innocent surprise crossed its muzzle, which quickly got distorted by pain before finally freezing in a peaceful, meaningless expression. Rukard felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He didn’t really need the meat. He just wanted to distract himself. But leaving the animal now would make its death even more meaningless, so Rukard went to the stables, took a soiled carrier-sled, and dragged the body back.

Originally he wanted to cook and eat what he’d catch, but he still remembered the deep surprise in the now-glass eyes of the deer-wolf. Some of those grains Heshi left would do. And wine. The strongest wine he’d find in the cellar, and as much of it as possible. He may be able to eat that meat later.

 -  Pull yourself together, you slob - he scolded himself while dragging the body - this isn’t your first kill. This isn’t even your tenth! You can’t start regretting these things now! Come on, you did this to cheer yourself up! Be cheerful, damnit!

When he returned, he felt that something was missing. He studied the castle and yard, again and again, trying to understand what it was. The castle was quiet. The edge of the forest was black in the twilight. The snake-lions were hissing and roaring in their paddocks.

The cloaked figure was gone. But that can't be it, can it? After all, he told them to leave. He wanted them to leave. He shouldn't feel this empty.