Distant Seeds (Warframe/ZnT)

[Mashadarof402]

Scraped from here.

So here we are, with yet another piece from the depths of my mind that refused to go away until it was written. A tiny bit different from the usual ZnT crossovers, I hope you all will find it good springboard for what I have planned.

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DISTANT SEEDS 01​

Somnolence​

Fire.

The primeval element that existed since before memory, burning itself into the collective psyches of all living things from the mightiest of beings to the meekest through uncountable millenia. It evoked myriad feelings from all that witnessed it. Warmth, light, familiarity and comfort to some. Danger and painful death to others.

A hut writhed in the embrace of an inferno, hellish light in the Albion night, two figures half ran, half stumbled away, each supporting the other. Hellish light danced behind, painting lurid shadows of pain and torment, the crackle of flames the laughter of the damned. Choking soot coated lungs. A hand clutching tight at torn flesh. The iron stink of blood. Drip drip drip.

No comfort. No succor or familiarity.

"I'm sorry."

Only loss and raw terror.

"I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry."

It had gone so wrong. So terribly wrong. They were supposed to be safe. They had escaped from the purges, the fire and death. No one would have found them after they had slipped the net. If they were careful. If they kept to themselves, hidden and quiet. But none could escape hunger.

"It hurts. It hurts so much."

"Open your eyes, please. Don't go. Stay with me."

They had found a simple hunters hut. The promise of shelter, sustenance. They had been running for so long. Deprivation overrode caution. They had crept inside. In stealth they drank, but no one came. In the darkness, they ate, ears open for the slightest sound. Only silence.

"Just hold on, I'll get you to a healer soon."

The flapping of wings had been the only warning. The shattering of wood. Glinting steel. Shining scales. Men and dragons in royal colors. Then it had been shouting, steel, seeking spells of fire and wind.

"You can't. They'll find out."

One fought back with magic of her own and the rage in her heart. Men of stone and men of iron warred against flesh and steel. No quarter asked or given. The other watched on in horror, unable to act as nightmares became reality once more. Until she saw the glint of steel. A striking shadow unnoticed by the whirlwind of destruction. The blade bit deep.

"Don't worry, I'll think of something."

She did not fall, even as blood spilled, her cloak ripped away. She raged. But the hunters knew now, even as they were driven back and broken.

They could not stay, could not delay. The hunters would return soon, and in strength. Hasty bandages torn from corpses clothes to staunch the bleeding. But it was not enough, and they could not run fast enough. Dragon cry trumpeted the night.

"We... we can't outrun them."

"We have to. I won't leave you behind."

They drifted in shadows, hidden beneath trees and within bushes. But shadows followed. Dark shapes in the sky. The calls came closer.

"There's something... something I want to try."

An idea was born of desperation. A hope against all hopes. Against the pain, the wounded one objects.

"It's crazy. It won't make a difference."

"I have to try. I don't know what else we can do. I... I just need a little time."

It burns her insides. The pain intensifies. She cannot cry out. She must not. For the sake of the other. Magic flows. Earth ripples. In the far off distance, a man of stone hefts a spear. A piercing shriek. Dark silhouettes plummet from the sky.

"!"

"That... should buy us a few minutes. Hurry."

"Oh noble being who exists within this universe, hear my desperate prayer..."

**********​

It came swooping down from the sky, a dark shape in the moonless night. It's flight, predatory grace that belied its imposing size. Wings flared out, catching the wind as the dragon's flight slowed, legs stretching out to touch the ground as it landed on the forest clearing. Armored men in royal colors were there to meet the beast.

But not with sword, musket or spell.

As one, they saluted the person on its back.

Captain Dunwell replied in kind, his voice muffled by the face concealing helm he wore. "Sergeant Bailey, report."

"Archibald's squad reported a flash of light in this area, thought it was the objective and called it in." A man with painted stripes on his breastplate responded, "they were first on the scene sir. No sign of our quarry, but we found their tracks. I've got a squad of hunters on their tail now. The hounds have the scent."

"You've passed on the orders to bring them in alive?"

"Yessir, heathen creatures or not, they tire like everyone else, and the men know their jobs," Despite the confidence of his words, the sergeants eyes darted uncertainly to the side. "But we don't know what to make of that."

Dunwell was hard pressed to disagree with the sergeants nervousness. Even as he had been coming down, the oddity had been apparent to all. It was a coffin, at first glance, but one like no other. For one, coffins did not glow with an aura of clearly magical light. For another, it's shape was wrong. Circular, with a profusion of steel plate and that capped either end of the object. Even stranger was the glass enclosing much of its surface, permitting an unimpeded view of its contents. But even that did not account for the audible hum that seemed to permeate the object, a constant buzz that seemed to crackle with barely restrained energy.

More concerning was the contents of the container, and why a coffin had been his first impression.

Something lay in repose in the coffin. It could have been a human, though it was impossible to tell for certain. It resembled a human woman, in that it had the right number of limbs and curves. But the unnatural material covering every square inch of it, even assuming that it was armor and not the things flesh, spoke against it. It enveloped her form entirely, the jet black material bearing no resemblance with any substance he had seen before, some areas a smooth expanse that seemed to hug tightly the body inside like an elastic, others bulging with hard contours, giving the impression of a bizarre combination of muscle and chitin.

Stranger still, no seams or breaks were visible anywhere that could hint at its removal. Nor were the joints articulated in a fashion that might have permitted them to move if the material was rigid. Even the helm with its odd, curling horn, was seamlessly connected to the neck, with no eye holes to permit sight to the wearer, much less breathe through. If anything, it more resembled a statue by a demented artist than anything living. He would have thought it a golem, save that the earth mage they were after would have used it against them, rather than leave it here, much less enchant a heavily warded box to put it in.

That it was sitting on top of what was clearly a hastily drawn summoning circle only served to disturb him more.

"Have you tried to secure it?"

The sergeant shook his head. "Anderson tried to touch it, damn fool. Got a nasty shock for his troubles, nearly blew him off his feet the moment his hand made contact. Luckily for him, the healers say he'll survive. We tried levitation magic after that. Couldn't even make the thing budge. No idea what it's even made of either. Charles tried earth magic to divine it's nature, but whatever it is, it isn't glass, steel, or anything we know of."

Dunwell frowned. Clearly their quarry had attempted a summoning spell, likely to improve their odds. It wasn't a normal summoning, it wouldn't have brought something like this, but who knew what those heathen creatures could accomplish with their twisted magic? But in the end, it didn't matter. Whatever gambit they hoped for had failed if they had to abandon it here.

"Have a watch set up over that thing, and send a message back to the Royal Academy. They'll have some-"

Dunwell's instincts screamed in warning.

His wand was out in an instant, before the first audible sign, the beginnings of a defensive windwall spell forming in the same heartbeat.

Too late he realized his mistake. The coffin shifted, panels sliding open in formerly featureless metal. A spiteful hiss filled the air.

Then everything was choking, frigid winter.

**********​

Silence.

No shouts. No cries. No monstrous roars. No clash of steel or roar of battle. Not anymore.

Only the crackle of snapping ice. The caress of boiling supercooled fluids.

And then, the crunch of frost shrouded grass beneath nimble feet.

Observations made. Emergency reactivation protocol. Not reanimation facility. Planetary system. Location... unknown. Principal memory... principal memory... what had...

Delay. Pause. Reprioritise.

Cadavers tagged. Human. Uniformed. Hostile. Language sample unknown. Translation protocols initialized.

Megafauna. Non-standard abilities.

Irrelevant. Appraise situation.

Cryopod unsalvageable. Weapons retrieved. Equipment loaded. Sentinel, active.

Frozen tracks. Two. Leading away from cryopod.

Pursuit.

Answers.

**********​

The hounds were drawing closer, their baying growing more excited with every passing moment.

'Damned dogs.' Matilda, once of Sasche-Gotha, thought bitterly. An hour ago, she would have smirked at the thought of hounds being sent after her, even if they had mages handling their leashes. Without the dragon knights to lead the chase, they were easily dealt with. Twenty minutes ago, she would have grit her teeth, expecting a tough chase, but one she could have escaped with guile and a few well placed traps.

Her willpower all but depleted, now she could only stumble along in an attempt to keep ahead of them and try not to bleed to death.

It was a lot harder than it sounded.

'Damned knights too.'

The hastily applied bandage wasn't working. Her hand was already slick wet with blood, and each step was getting heavier by the second. A few inches higher, and she would have been dead on the spot. Maybe that would have been for the better, she thought grimly. Then she wouldn't be slowing down the only other person she valued in the world like this. Wouldn't be risking the both of them.

"I'm sorry Matilda. I'm so sorry." The person beside her whispered, half hugging, half carrying her as they slipped through the woods.

"Don't be Tiff," she whispered back, trying to project the image of the big strong sister she tried to be. Tried and failed. Even in the dark, Tiff's face was a mask of worry and misery, her thoughts clear as day. "We'll get through this, I promise."

She just didn't see how.

They weren't going to make it. Neither of them could fight, and couldn't run for much longer. She had expended every last scrap of willpower she had, and Tiff didn't know any other magic but the one they had pinned their last hopes on.

Even that had failed spectacularly.

Silently, Matilda cursed the nobles, the royals, the vultures who raped and pillaged their way across her family's lands for no other reason than blind hatred of anything not human. But most of all, she cursed the Brimir and the way his summoning spell taunted them. Corpse, golem, firstborn, she didn't know what it was that had arrived in the summoning circle, save that it set all her instincts on edge. Whatever it was, it was not to be trifled with.

If only they had could have found a way to awaken it-

Suddenly she felt Tiff shift beside her, the supporting arm slackening as her adoptive sister began lowering her to the ground beside a tree.

"Wait..." she whispered, straining to get her increasingly weak voice out, "Tiff, what are you doing?"

The girl looked at her sadly. "It's ok, Matilda," she said, uncertainty and determination in her eyes, "you've done so much for me already."

"No!" the green haired woman hissed, both in pain and in denial. She couldn't be planning to... "Don't be foolish Tiff."

A shake of the head was the answer, dislodging the hood and revealing the tips of her pointed ears. "It's me they're after. They're still some distance away. If you hide here-"

"We find you anyway." Came a voice from the underbrush.

Alarm shot through Matilda, her hand almost darting to her wand. Almost. Men were already beginning to melt out from the surrounding forest gloom, dressed in the the concealing browns and greens of trackers. A dozen in all. Several men carried muskets. Others wands. All pointed at them.

She let out a pained hiss. A trap. They'd walked right into it.

"Surrender abomination, and submit to the Founder's mercy." One of the men ordered, brandishing his wand. "Lord Dunwell wants you alive for now, but your corpse will do if you resist."

Mercy? Matilda would have spat at the cretin. The royal vultures had promised as much to her family if they didn't resist, not so long ago. Now she was an orphan.

"I'll surrender, but only if you let Matilda go." Her adoptive sister bargained, her voice trembling with the effort of keeping steady.

The man barked a derisive laugh, the beginnings of a sneer on his face. "You're in no position to-" he blinked, the sneer falling away, "to-"

His face writhed.

"AaaAAAaaAhh!"

Fingers become claws. Tearing bloody rents on cheek and jowl as he doubles over.

The hunter howls like a lost soul. "Get out, get out!"

"Charles!" One of the hunters breaks out of his shock, quickly moving towards the struggling man. The others focus on the two fugitives.

"You!" One of the others barks, pointing the musket for emphasis. "Undo your spell!"

"Outoutoutout of my he- no nonono-" The howling hunter bats aside his comrade, arching back in pain.

Tiff falls back a step, eyes wide. Horrified. Pleading. "I don't- I didn't-"

His finger tightens. Matilda tenses. One chance. One last sacrifice.

"Now!"

"nono-nnneee-"

Tearing pain lances through her body as she jumps, latching onto her sister. Dragging her down. Bracing for-

"-eeEAAAHHHH!!!"

Cracking thunder. The sound of flesh ripping. She cries out as the agony overwhelms all her senses. Warm wetness covers Matilda's back. Iron stink and charnel. But there's another cry, anguish and torment greater than hers. Through tear stained sight, she sees.

The second hunter collapses, a ragged hole where his chest used to be. No longer screaming, the first man flicks his wand. Night shaded grass painted red. The others hesitate, muskets and wands wavering. Face completely blank, the man doesn't.

Fire immolates another hunter, a screaming torch in the night.

The others react, broken of their shock by the murder. Muskets whirl about. Spell chants in the air.

Blink and miss, she see's it. Emerald shards trailing wisps of glassy smoke. Streaking out from the darkness. Three. Four. Five.

Blood doesn't spatter. Flesh doesn't part. Armor doesn't turn the blades. Throats. Chest. Temples. One for each shard. They slide in like phantoms. Vanishing completely.

Without even a cry, five men furthest from the ring fall to their knees like stringless puppets. Faces only begun to register surprise.

The others don't see. Don't react to anything but the obvious threat. Musket fire crackles. Spells lance across intervening space. The blank faced man collapses, body butchered beyond repair. Only then do the remaining hunters turn, the corpses of the five slumping over on the ground.

Before they can do more than gape, another scream fills the air, wet and gurgling. One of the surviving hunters clutches at his chest, a slice of liquid midnight protruding from it. The shadow vanishes, and the hunter slumps over. Still.

Leaving only three standing.

She see's it then. They all do.

Behind the freshly made corpse. A shimmering in the dark, rippling eye searing un-color. Changing. Shifting. Becoming reality. A human shaped nightmare of dark hues and emerald lines. Eyeless helm, crest curved like an elongated horn. Forearms shrouded in distorted diamond light. Twin swords of translucent midnight in gloved hands.

A pause.

The hunters scatter.

A wand snaps up. Distorted shimmers in the air. Spears of wind faster than the eye can track.

The spell washes past the nightmare without scoring flesh or armor, trailing sparks in its wake.

Bolts of azure light pulse in the darkness. The air crackles. A scream. The sound of flesh boiling.

Another shimmer in the night. Floating above the ground. Insectile. A metal wasp of monstrous proportions, sole crimson eye glaring in the darkness.

The eye pulses again. Strobes of light that melt steel and boil flesh. Once. Twice. An even dozen.

The last of the men fall, their torsos perforated ruin and smoking char.

It turns then, towards them, the wasp hovering protectively behind its shoulder. Through the haze of pain, and tear streaked vision, she can feel its eyeless gaze on them. Her adopted sister squeaks, tensing in fear.

"Matilda," she breathes, voice low in fear greater than before. She knows. They know this thing. The very thing that they had pinned their hopes on not so long ago. Dead. Inactive. But now animate, cloaked in a palpable aura of bloody violence.

Wafers of obsidian glass disappear behind its back with a sibilant hiss. No further movement follows the action, the threat of violence not gone, but no longer displayed. Sheathed. Leaving a question hanging in the night.

"Who-" Her words end in a strangled groan, agony lacing her entire body as the adrenaline ebs.

"Sister!"

Tiff is on her in a flash, breaking free of the hold, lowering her to the ground. In the dark, her eyes grow wide in terror as she takes in the extent of her wounds. Trembling, fingers tear the hem of her ragged skirt to form another makeshift bandage.

"Don't die!" She begs, all but forgetting the thing that might either be their doom or their saviour. "No no no. Please. Don't let it end like this."

She tries to smile reassuringly. Tries to hold in the iron tang filling her mouth, to keep it from spilling on her lips. It's harder than she could have ever imagined. It doesn't hurt so much anymore, but she's tired. So tired. But she tries. She's the elder sister. Can't let Tiff see her like this. Can't let her worry.

"No no no. Please." Tiff whispers desperately, tears welling in her eyes. Pressing tighter with the already sodden bandage. "I can't stop it. Why won't it stop?!"

She wants to say something comforting. But then the thing begins to move. A single loping step towards them. Hands empty, but still dangerous.

"Tiffania..." her words barely more than a hiss. It's strange. She's dying. Scared. But not for herself. "...get... get away..."

Tiff whirl's her head about, eyes growing wide as she sees and understands. Another step taken.

"No!" She cries out, hurling herself at Matilda. Arms snake about her in a crushing embrace, shielding her with Tiff's own body. "You're all I have left. I won't leave you. Never!"

"Don't be..." she gasps. Her breath won't come anymore. Fingers twitch feebly, a futile attempt to push Tiff away. "...a fool...live..."

"No," Tiff holds her close, crying onto her bloody blouse. "...no..."

The summoned stops then, easily in reach. One hand clamps down on Tiff's shoulder, pulling her away with a despairing cry. The other is raised. The glint of something long, needle thin and sharp within its grasp. Eyeless helm boring into her face. Wordless intent where once there was nothing.

The stiletto plunges into Matilda's heart.

Her world becomes fire and ice.

**********​

TISSUE ANALYSIS COMPLETE

Flickering light. A tear in the darkness and in the void. Shifts in balance as borrowed mass returns from its keeper. Stars birth in the void, dance in purpose as directed.

INITIALIZING RECONSTITUTION

Constellations swirl, eddies of pinprick fire streaming from their brilliant crucible to join together in the beginnings of a familiar shape.

Only one stands witness to the choreograph, unfolding the protocols with understanding that borders on instinct. The human before her will take form once more, intact. The next step towards accomplishing her objective. Information.

But after that… she does not know.

Because she does not remember.

UNPACKING PERSONALITY ENGREM

The blade and the gun, the second skin. These she knows, familiar as any limb was to another being. No secrets, no techniques to call upon in their use. When to use them, where to use them, how. All come without the unnecessary burden of thought. An objective was set, and the body followed, securing those of interest from hostile pursuit.

But beyond the immediate she has no objective.

Her fingers tremble momentarily, an unconscious spasm of thought escaping through to action before it can be calmed. Adrift. Alone. Without purpose. Without… memory.

PAIRING GESTALT BONDS

An immeasurable period had passed in shoreless sleep, held within the cold womb's embrace. Where memory should have been now held echoes, whispers in mists of the mind that faded from attention. Only fragments remain. Infinitesimal parts of a whole that might have defined her identity, now disconnected flotsam in a sea of silence.

All but a name.

Not her Name. Not her innermost self, that separates her from the endless mists of dissolution.

A different name. One that drapes upon her like a second skin.

Not herself. But her. What she is. What she represents. A symbol that encapsulates her as something greater than the self, that there are others like her even if she cannot remember them.

Tenno.

In the still ocean of featureless memory, this one fragment remains, burning bright within the mists. Unmatched masters in the arts of slaying, fading memory reinforced as fact by every action she takes, every life effortlessly quenched as body obeyed thought. It is what she is. What she was. What she would be.

But it is not enough. It does not define her.

BEGINNING REBIRTH PROCEDURE

There had been purpose, once. A solitary focus that honed her being as part of something greater than the self. It's absence keening hollowly since her frigid rebirth.

The who, the why, they eluded her grasp.

And if there was a purpose, a reason for the shoreless dream to end, would she accept it?

Stars swirl their final dance, no longer a constellation as they congregate to the form they had once taken. Their light dims, energy becoming mass once more.

CYCLING PRIMARY FUNCTIONS

A gasp breaks the enduring silence, the human taking her first breath once more in this world, body tensing with spasms as reformed muscles begin their work again. It will be a time before the person of interest can speak.

She does not turn in the interval, does not direct her eyes away. But her attention shifts, counter-senses encompassing the flickering awareness of the other residing in this hidden hollow.

Barely aware, drifting in and out of enforced unconsciousness. A necessity to mitigate the growing panic when she had taken steps to secure the human. In this temporary shelter, she spares a moment to observe this one.

Not human, but human-like. Ears that protrude away from the head like kunai the principal difference. There are other differences as well. Deeper. Within the strings of life not yet studied. Unfamiliar, unknown. And yet…

'...be like gods…'

There is something she cannot grasp. The fragment of memory eludes her scrutiny. Not precise. Not ordered as the thoughts and recollections she still possessed.

'...and I, their father...'

There is a familiarity within her center, within her Name, that says she should know this one. Her kind if not her.

She touches the impression. Beyond the battle instinct that guides her body, the counter-sense that augments her awareness, she knows this. An answer lies within. Purpose even.

But the bundled sense is fleeting, ephemeral. She cannot grasp its meaning or its reason, only the impression that fades from her mind no matter how she tries to hold onto it. But unlike the swiftly efficient motions of her body, her mind proves less adept, the attempts at searching its depths crude. Clumsy. Broad sweeps to snare a fading wisp. Ineffective as it vanishes into the blank ocean of her recollections. Only its ghost remains, the faint awareness that there was an importance she could not snatch.

Her innermost self, the sacrosanct grounds that should be hers in its entirety. Locked away from her own mind.

Unacceptable.

She-

She folds the familiarity away with an effort of will, stores it within the vaults of her mind. It is but a single fragment. There will be time later for reflection and contemplation of this one anomaly.

RECONSTITUTION COMPLETED

But for now, her attention lies upon the stirring human.

**********​

She wakes with a stifled scream. Every sense raw. Every fiber of her being filled with crawling fire.

Her eyes snap open unbidden, pupils dilating, animal instinct casting them wildly about. Fingers stiffen, contract, alternating between claws and fists in rapid fire spasms.

Mercifully, the pain passes, leaving her slumped on the floor, breath ragged. Several long seconds pass before she can remember her name. Longer even, to notice more than just her plight.

It comes slowly at first, eyes adjusting to the patterns of shadow across her vision. She sees the stones, the sheltering trunks of thickly spaced trees arching overhead. A forest hollow, dense canopy almost blocking out the sky completely. And there lying against one such trunk, her arms and knees curled up as if in sleep, is her adopted sister. Relief fills her to note that Tiffania is unharmed, the steady rise and fall of her chest apparent.

Memory only returns as a brief thought flickers through her muzzy awareness moments later, wondering as to where the armsmen went. Memory, and its attendant bolt of panic as realization sinks in.

"I was shot..."

Leaden limbs struggle, flailing clumsily at the place she remembers the bullet entering. But her clothes are devoid of blood, the gaping wound gone. Even her breathing is easier now, no longer labored from the strain. Muted panic turns to befuddlement, unable to countenance her current state with before.

She remembers then. The soldiers surrounding them. The screaming man turning against his companions. Ethereal green wisps ending lives as readily as blades. Shimmering out of the darkness-

An unfamiliar sound intrudes upon her thoughts, soft, but harsh, guttural. It draws her attention to a copse of trees she passed over moments before. Only shadows and forest calls are present.

But then shadow and bark stirs, an humanoid outline separating from the canopy, her eyes seeing what had always been there before as motion shatters the illusion. It steps forward, slim figure draped in shadows and dim light, horned mask lit by a pair of green glowing half circles. Slivers of translucent moonlight glinting behind its back.

A shiver runs through Matilda's spine, remembering the last she had seen of that… thing. Plunging a stiletto into her breast before all became fire and ice. And then all consuming darkness.

"Am I…" She hesitates, all too aware of that the familiar comfort of her wand is keeningly absent. "Am I dead?"

The murderous nightmare before her does not respond with words. It lifts a hand instead, distorted fractal light playing on its forearms. Viridian fire flares on its open palm, casting ghostly shadows in the hollow.

She watches, wide eyed as the emerald fire gently floats into the air. The air tingles in her ears, crystalline humming as the ball of flames grows in brilliance. It shatters noiselessly without warning. Shards of light dart out from its birth parent, reshaping into translucent flat planes. Glowing alien runes, too fast to catch, stream across the planes as a dizzying whirling blur.

And then suddenly, the runes vanish, the planes of light fold into themselves and wink out as abruptly as they had been birthed. Shadows and moonlight return to their rightful place.

The being nods then, looking at her.

"Now," it chimes, voice airy and feminine, "we may communicate."

She stares mutely in surprise at first, unable to speak, the being's voice completely incongruous with their first blood soaked meeting. When she finds her voice, it is barely more than a whisper.

"How… how am I alive?" She asks slowly, not looking to where she remembers being stabbed. Not wanting to remember dying. "I was stabbed… you stabbed me."

"Deconstruction was necessary to preserve your engram." It says, voice echoing softly with an odd duality in the forest air.

Her eyes bulge. It's all she takes not to start, not to pat every inch of her body down in frenzied panic. Deconstruction. Deconstruction.

"You were reassembled." The being continues, tilting its head slightly at her reaction. "You are alive, are you not?"

She shivers at the matter-of-fact delivery. Not an ounce of concern or empathy. As if she was nothing more than a broken doll to be put together. "What are you? And where have you taken us?" She demands, taking in details that terror, pain and desperation had blanked out before.

Slim feminine curves in the shape of a human, but soft lines blending so seamlessly with hard edges that could have only been armored plate that it became impossible to tell either apart. A single curved horn cresting the center of its helm, rising from where the nose would be, arcing back and over. Golden edging tracing the hard contours of its body, shimmering in and out of visibility. Encircling its forearms, multi-faceted panes of light blink in and out of existence in dizzying numbers. It resembles nothing she has ever seen. Nothing she has ever known, it's alienness as disturbing as its demonstrated deadliness.

"Your rescuer." Is the being's reply, the lack of inflection forbidding any further inquiry more effectively than any shout or threat. "Both your tracks from my cryopod predated the others. You were deemed more valuable alive than dead."

A blast of winter runs down Matilda's spine at those words, the ones she understands. More than the lie that she was taken apart. More than claim she had been put together again. There is no malice she can sense, no cruel viciousness like the ones in the wretched kings troops. But the utter lack of malevolent inflection is even more chilling than its presence. No hate, no anger. Only the cold calculus of value.

Her eyes dart towards the figure of Tiffania, the half elf still sleeping peacefully, the rise and fall of her chest steady, not frantic. But then in the gloom, something catches her eyes. Something she'd missed before. Bands of wispy green light, almost invisible against her clothes, encircling her wrists.

"She is unharmed." The being tonelessly states at her outraged expression. "Incapacitation was necessary to prevent her panic at your deconstruction from jeopardizing the evasion of your pursuers. She will wake in an hours time."

"Why should I believe you?" She challenges, trying and failing to keep the rising hysteria from her voice. Eyes dart about, looking for paths of escape. But none present themselves. "You may have killed our pursuers, but that doesn't mean you saved us."

She freezes as the being raises a hand, a sliver of silvery moonlight dancing on a fingertip. "Because you are alive." It says, smoky tendrils of emerald light rise from its hand to whirl around the spinning blade. "And because your mind is still your own."

She doesn't say anything. Not immediately, those last haunted few seconds flashing to the forefront. The hunter screaming like the damned. Turning on his own within a heartbeat. Face slack. Mindless.

No.

Not mindless.

Subsumed to another's mind.

Horrified eyes rivet on the twirling knife, bathed in a ghostly aura of emerald light.

With a snap of the beings fingers, the knife vanishes. It's glowing cloak persists a moment longer before fading away, dissipating like the morning mist.

"There is much I can do human." The being states, a brittle edge entering its voice for the first time, "but I will not kill without reason. Your mind remains your own because of the same."

She swallows, trying to match its eyeless gaze with a confidence she doesn't feel. There had been doubts, but by calling her human, as if to separate itself from the rest of them, the being could not have made it's inhumanity any clearer.

"If you want me to believe that," she begins, voice barely above a whisper, "then let her go."

The being goes still for a moment as if considering her words, then nods slightly. Fractured diamond light on its forearms flickers, the wispy bonds on Tiffania's arms fading into nothingness.

"She is no longer restrained, but will remain here until I have what I came for," the being cautions, dashing the brief flare of hope in her heart before it elaborates. "I seek information that either of you may possess. Cooperate, and you both will be free to go."

The seconds tick by like hours. There are no tells behind the being's inhuman mask. No assurance she can discern for trustworthiness. But she slowly nods in the end. Here and now, without her wand and with Tiffania still unconscious, there is very little she can do if it turns out to be a lie.

"I have been taken from my resting place." The being states, acknowledging her acquiescence. "Awakened from my long slumber to a world I do not recognize."

The being pauses in her speech, letting the words sink in before it adds.

"Why?"

A chill runs down her spine at those words. The daughter of Saschen-Gotha doesn't answer. Not immediately. The possibility had always been there in her mind, hanging in the air the moment she had recognized the being as the same one in the summoning circle. But the reality in front of her, the few words spoken, makes it far more stark.

Would this thing take offense upon learning the truth? She focuses on the mask, trying to see within by sheer concentration. But just as there had been no tells for untrustworthiness in the being's posture, there are none she can discern for anger or outrage.

"You were-" She begins hesitantly, wracking her mind, the mind she'd always prided as sharp and quick, for a plausible explanation.

"The truth, human." It reprimands firmly, cutting through her words and attempts at deflection. "Do not attempt to deceive."

She bites her lips, closing her eyes as she surrenders the attempt. "You were summoned."

A second passes in awkward silence. But there is no explosive rage as it passes, only the short tilting of the being's head. "Summoned?"

"The familiar summoning spell," she explains hurriedly, assuming nothing of what the being knows, "a ritual penned by Brimir for mages to call forth-"

"Brimir…?"

She stops, looking on warily as the summoned being stiffens ever so slightly.

It tenses, the motion so subdued she almost misses it in the gloom. That lone word carrying the faintest tinge of frustration like cracking glass. But no eruption follows, no sudden explosion of rage or anger. Quickly, so quickly she isn't sure it actually happened, a tremor passes through its entire frame before it suddenly goes as still as a statue.

"You've heard of him?" She cautiously probes, trying to gauge the reaction of the thing before her.

It doesn't answer, eyeless helm dipping to focus on an outstretched hand instead. Fractured light on its forearms flickers, sparks, casting dancing shadows throughout the hollow. Long seconds pass without further response, the summoned being standing motionless in the shadow.

Uncertainty weighs on her mind, the survivor of Saschen-Gotha wondering whether she should speak or take the chance to escape.

Until the being speaks again.

"...are my fondest achievement…"

She blinks, confused. No chiming ring to those words coming from the being before her. No airy feminine lilt. The words are fainter than before, softer in volume. Yet deeper, masculine. Proud and triumphant where before it had been coldly emotionless. More human than anything it had ever said before.

"...a greater purpose than dreamed by those old…"

Her hand cautiously rises, waves at the summoned being. But it doesn't react to her motions, attention riveted solely on its glowing hands, speaking words that seem to come from very far away. From another throat. A part of her, the coldly logical part that's kept her and Tiffania alive all this while, tells her to take this opportunity. To flee while it's distracted.

The chance never comes.

"...and you, you will be-"

There is no warning. No sign. Silence suddenly falls like a headsman's axe. The being shifts. Moves. A blur and it is elsewhere. At the edge of the hollow. Then nowhere. Slices of emerald light erupting from empty air. Ghostly trails of reflected light vanishing past the trees with deadly accuracy.

A panicked cry penetrates the darkness, only to terminate in a bloody gurgle.

A crash in the underbrush.

And then there is a body, hurtling out from the trees and into the hollow. It rolls several times before it comes to a limp halt, staining the forest floor black.

She sucks in her breath, wishing she still had her wand. Even in the dim light and the gore of the corpse's butchered chest, it's impossible to miss the decorations on the armor. The mantle of a royal guardsman.

"Your pursuers are persistent. More will likely be arriving shortly." The chiming voice observes from empty air, devoid once more of emotion as the being reappears in a puff of mist. Twin blades of translucent darkness, slide home behind its back without a sound. "They must want you both very badly."

The unspoken question hangs in the air, the sliding scale of value clear behind the being's eyeless mask.

She doesn't say anything. Doesn't have to as a ball of brilliant yellow light bursts in sky, visible even beneath the dense forest canopy. Two more stars rise into the air to join it. Both red.

She closes her eyes, breathing in deep. Starbursts. Signaling lights to communicate between distant forces, following a pattern established through centuries of their use. A pattern she knows too well.

The decision takes a heartbeat to make. The only choice she can make.

In a handful of words she tells what she knows. The attack on their home by rival noble houses. The betrayal by the royal family, their closest ally, and the purge that followed. The unmitigated slaughter and pillage of highborn vassal and commoner alike by those they had counted among the closest of allies. The scattered flight of those who still could. The relentless pursuit and weeks of running that followed. Until...

"The group you killed earlier was from the Patir barony. Mercenaries most likely. But that insignia belongs to the royal soldiers of the Tudor house." She gestures at the corpse on the forest floor. Grim lines set on her face, she meets the being's eyeless gaze. "Now that they have our trail, they won't stop until we're dead or captured."

The being, silent until now, taps its fingers against empty air.

"You have not said why."

It takes all her conscious effort not to flinch, not to let her eyes slide over to Tiffania's sleeping form. The being doesn't press the question, instead walking to the center of the forest hollow where it stands at ready. It looks at her then, eyeless helm boring into her, an air of judgement and evaluation surrounding its poise.

A nod.

"But perhaps I will ask you later."

She blinks, realization slowly dawning on her. "We're free to go then?"

"If you wish to live," Is the reply. A gesture of its hand, wreathed in diamond light, and the corpse shifts. She starts, only calming a moment later when a slim rapier detaches from the body to rise in the air. With a flick of its fingers, the rapier traces an arc in the air, glinting in the moonlight.

Hands reach out instinctively to catch it the weapon hilt first, her eyes blinking rapidly when she realizes what it is she holds, the familiar sensation of her willpower coursing through the moment her fingers touch it. Not just a rapier as she first thought, but a mage knight's sword wand. Still slick with its former owners blood.

"Though I have been called, it is not my choice to serve yet. For now, this may be of use to you."

She frowns. But in the end she nods, hearing the suggestion for what it really is. She looks towards her adoptive sister.

It is well past time they were gone.

She grips the sword wand awkwardly, her only familiarity with the weapon up till then being on the wrong end. But willpower flows through it easily enough, earth quickly reshaping itself as she desires. In moments, a man of rough hewn stone rises from the ground. Obeying her will, it lumbers over to the sleeping form of Tiffania, gently scooping her the half elf up in its oversized hands.

The being remains silent as she leaves, and she doesn't look back, doesn't want to question her fortune any further. But something pulls at her, tickles at the nape of her neck. Strongly enough that she succumbs to temptation and looks.

"What about you?" She asks the being who still remains in the center of the hollow, head bowed as if in reflection.

"You have provided information, but there is still much I must learn of this world human," silk whispers by way elaboration, wafers of liquid shadow sliding out from behind the being's back. In an eyeblink, before she can begin to process the threat, both blades plunge into the ground, edges glinting in the faint moonlight. "It is now time for your pursuers to do the same."

No tinge of bravado. No boast. Words delivered simply as a statement of fact. She stares, only managing to find her voice after several long seconds of dumbfounded silence. "You expect them to talk to you? Now?" She blurts out incredulously, unable to stop herself. "You can't be serious."

Viridian light explodes around the being, levitating it a good foot above the ground. "There are many forms of communication." It chimes, floating serenely in the air with its legs folded in. A hand extends, palm open as it touches the glowing barrier surrounding it. Ghostly mists swirl around the extended limp, coalesce into a solid form. A shining sphere of translucent roiling light.

"They will not be allowed the privilege of refusing."

**********​

She waits in silent contemplation. Each thought sorted and ordered in the halls of her mind. Recollections are separated into answers, questions and conclusions. Each slice of awareness observed, reflected upon, then archived away where they are most relevant.

She knows why she is here now, awakened from dreamless sleep to join the world of the living once more. Wrested from the cold womb's embrace for a singular purpose by means she knows is not fully understood.

A means created by this… Brimir-

'... a guardian angel, yes. But so much more...'

-to serve her caller until death. Even in the serenity of meditation, the notion is disquieting enough to stir the calm waters. Not because it is repugnant to her, but the opposite. To allow another to define her purpose in such a fashion is not entirely repulsive to her being. A purpose, a reason to be awake once more when there had been a lack is not without its draw. But that knowledge alone...

She puts that particular thought aside, content with the decision she has made. That path is for all intents, closed to her. They are gone now, both of them. The woman and her... companion. Beyond her immediate concern, save for one anomaly. A power she doesn't recognize, wielded by the woman. Not entirely dissimilar to what she had faced earlier, but different all the same. And in that lies a question that has greater importance in the immediate. The limits of its utility, and of those who wield it.

It is a subject she will become intimately familiar with soon, she suspects.

'Oooi?'

She speaks no words, stills her thoughts as a familiar presence borders on her awareness, returning from the task she had set it to at long last. There is no need for permission or acknowledgement, the bond between them obsoleting such requirements with a direct awareness of the other's state of being. It slides smoothly within a niche of her mind, one of several seamlessly blending with her mental landscape and joining together with her as a single entity.

Senses unfold, expand beyond the boundary of her body and its second skin.

The wider expanse of the forest becomes known to her, illumined by invisible probing touches, a thousand in every second. Concealing branches and foliage fall away, revealing anomalies that do not belong in the forest. Moisture laden clouds prove no obstacle to senses many times more sensitive than a normal human's, objects within matching those she has only recently entered in her growing list of known creatures.

They move with purpose and direction. Some swift, others more cautious. But they all move in unity, a feat of coordination for a force so large and with communications so primitive.

All likely to be potential threats.

'OoiOooo…?'

'Maintain position. Continue observation.' Is her silent instruction, the empathic bond between master and sentinel carrying the faintest touch of rebuke at the suggestion. 'It will not do if they cannot find me.'

'Iooo...'

The sentinel's presence dims within her mental landscape as it complies, receding from prominence until it is among the background once more. Through the subdued link, her awareness encompasses the robotic guardian returning to its ethereal vigil. An invisible watchful eye that shows her everything below and above, the movement of air and ground forces approaching her position.

That is good. She would have been disappointed to find her efforts in vain otherwise.

The hollow is gone now, scoured clean of obstructions. Where once there had been a thickly clustered ring of trees that concealed this place from all eyes, now only a wide circle of barren soil remained, stripped of all life. The changes to the landscape were neither subtle nor silent, going against an instinct that whispered for concealment when conflict was not yet begun. But there is no longer any need to hide, no requirements for stealth. The time for such has long passed. It is their attention she intends now. Every eye, every weapon.

She is not kept waiting long.

In the web of shared awareness, she notes their approach on the ground. Stealthy, cautious, muted even to the heightened senses of her second skin. A loose encirclement of soldiers spreading out to cover all escapes. A hundred on the ground, eighty separate rifles between them, all coming in her direction. Eight in the air, mounted on winged beasts as they fly closer, likely having already seen the prepared grounds, making direct line of sight with her in a matter of moments. And many more even further back. The circle is complete now, and their actions speak of their awareness of this fact.

An inhalation of breath, deeper than normal. She stills her thoughts, letting the flow of battle to come play out in her mind. The organic machinery of her body flexes in time with every path plotted out, mindscape expanding to encompass the influx of information, yet narrowing to a singular objective.

There is purpose now, however brief it may last. It washes away her hesitation, cleanses the doubt and silences the questions. All other considerations shrink away to nothingness as her focus becomes singular, a familiarity that enshrouds her as closely as her own Name.

The kill.

**********​

They moved through the dense forest floor, underbrush rustling in time to their marching feet, leather padded equipment softly jingling with every step. A hundred men in all, their formation loose, spread out to allow passage between the trees without slowing. Every weapon gripped tightly, musket, pike or sword wand, ready to bear at a moments notice.

No words were exchanged between them, no unnecessary orders. They had all been briefed beforehand. Silence and stealth was paramount.

But more than one shadowed face was drawn tightly, the taint of fear leaking through despite years of service. Lips moving in wordless prayer, beseeching God and the Founder for strength for what would come.

Abel de Ros, second son of the Ros barony, was one of those.

They were all soldiers of the crown. To a man they upheld their sacred duty as paramount, ready to pay the final price if necessary to bring down the enemies of Albion. But this foe was like no other.

The Great Enemy had infiltrated their blessed isle. Poisoned one of the high families with their blasphemous ways. But the Crown had discovered the deception before it could work its roots deeper. The traitors had been brought down as was only proper, but that had been between men, muskets and the Founder's gift of magic.

Now they would face humanity's greatest bane, the lone infiltrator having slipped the purge of the Westwood duchy. But even alone, against the might of the royal knights, there was no guarantee of the outcome. Reclusive, silent, commanding magic far greater than what humans could achieve. Deadly beyond all measure, each worth a hundred times their number in mage knights.

Remnants of a squad from the Patir barony, discovered by their forward scouts, put flesh to those tales. For whatever reason, the demon was no longer content to just flee from their wrath. Abel had seen the corpses himself. Men frozen so quickly that their faces still held expressions of shock and surprise. Still stood where they died. Frozen so solid that they shattered to the touch. Not even a wind dragon's insulating scales had saved the beast.

Those deeper in the woods had died no less gently. Slack faced cadavers without an outward mark. Dead men with fist sized holes neatly cored through their chests and breastplates, edges cauterized black as if by furnace fire, eyes locked wide in panic and fear. Some face down in the forest mud, cut down without mercy as they broke and ran.

The butchers bill to come was not likely to be any less bloody.

"Squad leaders," a disembodied voice whispers in his ear, disrupting his prayer, "you will be breaking through the forest cover in less than a hundred mails. There's something in the clearing just outside. Alone. Might be our target. Prepare a starburst on my signal."

He snatches a quick look through the forest canopy and into the sky, scanning for the dragon knights overseeing their advance. A futile effort, he knows even before making the attempt. The night is overcast, and the aerial knights are to remain hidden in the clouds, coordinating the foot with spells of far speech, only committing once they had pinned down their-

-Craaack-

Willpower flows. Fire forged instinct bringing the wind barrier up in an instant. His awareness follows suit a scant second later, belatedly noticing similar actions from the men across the line.

'Musket fire.'

Against all odds, he sees the brief flash of light in the clouds.

A heartbeat later, snatching the attention of everyone, a draconic roar of mortal agony.

He glimpses it for a moment. A shadow erupting from the clouds, wreathed in blinding lightning. Frost encrusted wings lethargically twitching. It's rider windmilling helplessly in the air, shorn free of his seat. They fall past the horizon of the forest canopy, impacting moments later with the air shattering to the cacophony of snapping trees and bone.

A final, fatal earth shaking crash.

He blinks, stunned by the impossibility. Unable to credit what he's seen, unable to believe. Dragon and rider, slain by a single musket shot.

But then the distant musket cracks again, mere seconds after the last. Faster than any single musket could be reloaded. So fast he only registers its impact after the fact. A linear path of snapping branches, splintering bark. Spiteful death hissing in the air. The crackle of lightning and shattering ice drowning out everything else. Forest night gloom becoming blinding day. A stuttering gurgle as the man beside him is thrown back, breastplate and torso disintegrating in a spray of gore, lightning spitefully dancing from dead eyes.

Only the warm patina of viscera coating his exposed face takes him back to the here. The now.

"Ambush!"

And then he's running, underbrush thrashing beneath his feet as he sprints forward towards the nearest tree. Most follow his lead. Others stand and fight, musketmen firing blindly into the foliage, mage knights launching tongues of fire and blades of wind streaking past their lines and out into the distant clearing.

A curse escapes his lips.

The trees aren't enough. They can't fight like this. Not when they can't see the enemy, hidden behind the tangle of forest undergrowth. But their foe has no such limitations.

Another bark of the impossible musket. An armsman tumbles, bonelessly crashing to the ground as blood pumps through a suddenly headless stump. The mage immediately behind cries out, clutching at the shattered ruin of an arm, wind barrier dissipating with crack of displaced air. His anguished howl like one of the damned.

A hundred mails to the clearing. Against muskets unimpeded by wind barriers or trees. A hundred mails too far.

"Hansen! Charles! Get a shield wall up! Half moon pattern!" he shouts, magically enhanced voice booming across the battlefield. "Now!"

The ground rumbles ahead of him. Trees shuddering as they are uprooted. Pushed aside as a series of thick earthen walls rise from the forest floor. He dives for one, sliding the last few feet. Hard packed dirt slams into his chest as the musket cracks once more, its bullet hissing overhead, reaping another agonized scream all too close. He flips onto his back, sword wand out as he tracks his rapidly disintegrating force.

A double handful followed his example, sheltering behind the magically conjured bulwark.

Half that still running towards the shelters.

A score more lie on the ground, cut down where they stood.

The ghost of a frown commands his face.

'Wait, somethings not right...'

But before he can do more than acknowledge the fact, a familiar voice calls his name.

"What deviltry is this Abel?!" Hansen shouts from behind a dirt wall, panicked expression visible even in the forest gloom. "There was supposed to be only one of them! And since when do the blasted elves-"

The crack of a musket sweeps the rest of his words away. As well as most of his chest. The earth mage spasms, twitches, lightning exploding all across his body. Steaming eyes lock on his, wide in terror and denial. And then they dim, his body toppling over, revealing a fist sized hole punched through earthworks a mail thick.

He blinks, stares in mute horror.

Almost missing the sound of singing steel.

Instincts scream, drives his body ahead of conscious thought. He jerks back, falling down. A sliver of darkness explodes through the wall in the same moment, close enough to strike his helm, carve through the reinforced crest like parchment. Close enough that the stink of blood floods his nose, casts a glassy shimmer across his vision. Gravity pulls him away, slams him into the muddy earth. Leaving the dark blade still in the air, questing for a frozen heartbeat.

His wand snaps up.

But the blade twists, vanishes faster than it arrived. Replaced by a lithe shadow vaulting the wall.

There's no hesitation. Air compresses, whirls, strikes in all of an eyeblink. A lash of cutting wind that would bisect steel.

But the figure twists impossibly around his strike, bringing its feet arcing down in the same instant.

Connecting against his outstretched arm.

The crack of shattering bone drowns out the battlefield.

His vision returns a moment later, head spinning, body numb and unfeeling. He tries to chant a spell. But the lungs won't comply, lips won't open, the strength for either fleeing him. The sharp cracks of musket fire and thunder of spells fills the air. Shadows dance and weave in the corner of his blurred sight, flickering in and out of the battlefield. Pained cries punctuate each flicker, every roar and slash of glimmering moonlight. But it's all distant, muted. Vaguely registering to his mind compared to the ruin of butchered meat from elbow down.

And then the pain filters through.

It takes every ounce of will not to pass out, not to let the tormented howl escape from his raw throat as bits of desperately remembered training leak through. The remaining fingers strain, hooking the catch hidden beneath his arm guards between the waves of body wracking agony. Sleek polished wood slides into his questing palm, nearly falls off as fingers spasm.

But he holds on, lips trembling as he tries to force just a breath of air through tortured lungs. Willpower gathers, flows, erratic channels of magical energy that threaten to slip into oblivion. And then it catches, takes the correct shape as the most basic of healing spells roots into his body.

Frigid winter blasts through his arm, forcing the last of his air out as a pained wheeze. Ruined flesh knits and close, the pain subsiding ever so slowly as the bleeding slows from a flood to a trickle.

Blink.

Slowly, almost too slowly, the blinding torment fades, replaced by a different form of pain as the tatters of lucidity take shapes. The clamor of battle fills the void, anguished screams mixed with the roar of spells and muskets, almost drowning out orders shouted on the verge of panic. The air filled with the acrid tang of blood and powder. Shadowy figures flail and rush about in his tear streaked vision, flaring into brief clarity with the thunderflash of muskets and fire spells.

Blink.

One figure weaves among the rest, faster than the others, horned helm standing out even in the darkness. A musket held in one arm, muzzle flash strobing impossibly fast, illuminating its bearer in hues of green and black. Distant figures fall with every flash of the weapon. He blinks again, tries to dispel the illusion in the distance. But it refuses to vanish. Refuses to stop. It weaves around musket fire. Sidesteps wind bullets and fireballs. Scythes down mage officers with shards of thrown emerald fire that pierce through spell and steel alike.

He tries to lift his backup wand, shout an order. Anything to make a difference. But his arms revolt, leaden limb unmoving. Throat constricted in a vice grip, voice denied. His head pounds, threatens to break from the strain of willpower depletion. Leaving him only able to look on in futile rage.

A quartet of shadows, revealed as musketmen in the flash of spellfire, dart from behind, closing with bayonets out. The shadow twists at the last instant, leaps, rising above the thrusting blades. Slices of liquid midnight extend from both arms, scribing shimmering arcs through the air. Dark liquid sprays into the night sky.

Blink.

Fire erupts, envelops the figure and headless corpses in a ball of destruction, turning night into day. Shadowy figures resolve into armsmen and mages in the sudden illumination. Order begins to filter through the ranks as muskets crack with purpose. Mage knights join in, feeding the inferno with their own power.

Blink.

There's no warning. No sign. The inferno pulses, detonates. A shimmering wall of force explodes outwards from the pyre. Faster than the eye can blink. Faster than any can react. Musketeers, mages. All are picked up, blasted into the air. Dashed against trees and rocks with force enough to reduce them to smears. The blast buffets him, pushes him deeper against the ruined bulwark, embedding him almost up to his face. The nearby trees groan alarmingly under the assault, teeter. Panicked screams from those further out rise as an expanding ring of trees collapse, crushing them in an avalanche of timber.

Silence.

Leaving the horned shadow standing alone in the center of the devastation.

And then he hears it.

The roar of dragons.

Half buried in the rubble, his face to the sky, he see's them as they appear. Seven dark shapes plunging from the clouds, swooping in a shallow dive, the angry glow of dragonfire building in their maws.

The horned shadow turns, looks towards the dragon knights. Its musket snaps up.

Lightning strikes.

He blinks, vainly tries to clear the spots from his eyes. But even then he sees it. In flashes between the afterimages. The horned shadow staggering, wreathed in lightning. Musket knocked away. But then it recovers, brings the musket back.

Another bolt of lightning reaches down from the sky, bathes the demon in holy power. It staggers back, halted, spasms wracking its frame.

A beleaguered cheer goes up from the survivors. A wind bullet detonates against its chest, the impact causing it to stumble. And then another. Lashes of flame wrap around its neck and arms, bathing it in a corona of fire. Muskets, good Albionese muskets, crackle, bullets sparking off the things body. But through it all, their foe somehow doesn't fall, doesn't collapse despite the ruinous devastation being flung at it that should have torn a man to ribbons.

In the sky, the leader of the dragonflight apparently notes this resilience. He steepens his dive, intent clear to all who see it. The dragon's maw parts, fore legs splayed out as it prepares to crush the Great Enemy beneath its massive weight. Despite the distance, he sees the royal knights wand rising, the crackle of lightning upon its tip for the coup de grace.

The horned foe straightens abruptly. Claps her hands together.

Lightning illuminates the sky once more.

Grounding itself on empty space where the foe had stood an instant before.

The frustrated roar of the dragon fills the otherwise quiet air, mages and arms men looking about in confusion.

But then air, the ground, the entire forest reacts. It pulses, sings, screams.

Men stumble and yell, hands clapping to their ears as the unearthly shriek pierces their skulls, the discordant howl sinking into their very marrow. He feels it tearing at him, squeezing his brain like a vice, eyeballs trembling with impossible pressure within. Only his earthly prison prevents him from shutting his ears, gouging at tormented eyes. The world goes black for an instant, returning in a sudden flash of light and dead silence.

His mouth goes dry.

Half the surviving soldiers are gone. Their corpses strewn about the ground in various stages of butchery. And in their place... in their place...

Seamless armor that perfectly conforms to lithe forms. Shimmering plate in ever changing hues of dark greens and browns that effortlessly blends into the forest surroundings. Elegantly patterned blades, curved edges glowing with potent magical auras. Slim muskets of alien design, yet sleekly efficient as their bearers. Finely wrought conical helms with visage concealing face guards, visors revealing piercing blue eyes that stand out despite the forest gloom. And emerging from openings in the side, finely tapered ears that stretch out for a fingers worth.

Elves.

Not one of the dread enemy they had come expecting to face. Not two. A full score.

And standing tall above the battlefield, the crushed corpse of a wind dragon beneath one massive claw, was a thing out of nightmare soaked legend.

Seven obsidian scaled heads, each large enough to swallow a man whole, swayed hypnotically, surveying the battlefield hungrily. Noxious bile dripped from the hydra's maws, every drop turning grassland into steaming ash. It loomed over them all, a giant easily thrice the size of a wind dragon. And atop its back, reins held in one hand, an elf in gleaming midnight armor.

His heart pounds, mind races. Only one line of thought repeating itself over and over again. No infiltrator. No lone agent spreading poison and bewitching minds. Not with these numbers. The worst possible result. Their greatest fear made flesh.

Invasion.

For a single, too short moment, silence rules over the battlefield.

A man stammers defiance, raises his wand. White hot flames envelop him in mid word, roar with an inferno's intensity for a heartbeat. A tottering skeleton collapses into ash.

And like that, the battle begins in earnest.

Armsmen scream defiance, muskets cracking while others charge with bayonets. Mage knights throw fireballs, conjured boulders and wind bullets with near reckless abandon, casting as fast as their lips can move.

But for all their desperation, for all their numbers, elven weapons and magic answer in greater ferocity. A steady stuttering roar drowns out merely human weapons, elven muskets twinkling with rapid fire flashes. Whole squads of armsmen fall, scythed before they can even ready a second volley. Lightning crackles once, twice, jagged lances forking between loosely clustered men. Groups of royal knights fall like stringless puppets, limbs twitching uncontrollably.

The hydra charges, thundering over the battlefield with an ear splitting howl, fire and wind spells all but sliding off its massive hide. Knights and armsmen disappear beneath its bulk, or are thrown aside by a bat of its clawed feet.

Deep roars from the sky announces the arrival of remaining six dragon knights, the royal soldiers diving upon the hydra. But the elf rider notes their approach, reacts. One hand jerking on the reins, the other raised. The hydra rears back, every head pointed in a cardinal direction, maws parting, chest expanding.


Trapped fingers clench, the final drops of willpower squeezed from his exhausted soul as a spell takes form in that instant of terrified realization. A croaking voice shouts a warning. His voice.

Too late.

Seven maws exhale. Seven streams of noxious green clouds. Above it. Behind it. Everywhere. Forest gloom vanishes as streams of sickly green clouds envelop the battlefield in a heartbeat, washing over men and elf alike. It strikes his hastily cast wind barrier, billows around it, the shield holding against the onslaught even as the air inside becomes a sweltering oven.

Those at its epicenter are less fortunate. They vanish completely into its depths without a sound. But not those at its outermost edges. The ones he can still see. A whimper escapes his lips. Tortured cries replace the din of battle as flesh runs like wax. Melting horrors flailing in the brief moments before liquidized flesh sloughs off crumbling bone. And still the elven musketry crackle. Quickfire flashes of light immune to the corrosive clouds enveloping them.

The diving dragons screech in panic, wings frantically flapping to stave off their terminal descent, level off from their attack.

The elven muskets react from within the cloud, rapid pulsing streams of light strobing across the night sky. Tearing at the dragons. Leathery wings are punctured, sheared off at the roots. Heavily armored hides shatter, explode in gory spectacles. Dragon knights die, ripped apart as elven fire punches through the chests of their mounts and beyond. The survivors scream, desperately cutting buckles and casting spells of levitation as crippled mounts go into flat spins, plunging down into the deadly clouds below.

None succeed.

The ground rumbles with each impact.

And then... silence.

No sounds of fighting. No more gurgling screams of the dying. Not even the bone rattling roar of the hydra.

Only the rattle of his labored breathing. The hammering of his heart. The bubbling noxious sludge where once there had been living men.

And through it all, the necrotic clouds remain, toxic tendrils coiling around his bubble of baked air, hissing spitefully.

His eyes cast about, looking for survivors in the poisonous murk. For anyone still drawing breath. His lips part, wrestling with the thought of calling out for help against making his position known to the elves who could still be there.

He doesn't get to choose.

A shadowy giant of fangs and rotting scales bursts through the murk, lunges at him with heart stopping speed as it howls with mindless fury. His wand points, fingers clenching, but no spell takes shape, the last of his willpower completely exhausted. A whisper of a scream escapes his throat.

Silvery light arcs.

The head drops. Skidding on the ground where it halts just before his barrier. The larger mass behind sways once, then topples over with an earth shaking thud.

He blinks, begins to relax, only to inhale sharply as the hydra's head begins to change.

It shimmers, scales and fangs melting away, shrinking in size. Revealing the much smaller head of a wind dragon, dead tongue lolling from its gaping maw. The clouds of corrosive death shimmer as well, fade like morning mist before the sun.

Revealing the battlefield.

His breath catches, all thoughts of respiration forgotten.

Where there should have been a shallow pool of bile and sludge, where there should have been nothing but decay and rot left by the hydra's corrosive breath... is the forest. Untouched save the battle that had raged before the elven arrival. Marked only by a long swathe of burning grassland.

And the corpses... Some lie still, gaping wounds torn into their bodies or limbs ripped away. Some are scattered, thick breastplates unable to stop their bearers from being sliced cleanly in half. Others still are only recognizable by their armor, their limbs and body scorched black. Small hillocks mark the broken and battered corpses of wind dragons, their riders nearby, bodies still and unmoving. But none of them are the puddles of molten flesh and crumbling bone he had seen only moments ago. No sign whatsoever of the corrosive breath that had blanketed the battlefield. Only those who died to musket, blade and dragonbreath. All of them human.

As for the elves...

He blinks again. Disbelief warring within his mind. But the reality remains rooted before his eyes. Uncompromising.

The Great Enemy is gone. Vanished. Neither victorious host nor corpse remaining. Only humans litter the field, as if the elves had never arrived... never existed save the destruction in their wake.

A distortion takes form in the air then. Human shaped, lithe, hues of green gold and black shimmering into place as it walks towards him, pace leisurely.

The glint of a sword edge stretching out from one hand. A ball of emerald fire in the other.

An all too familiar one-horned mask holding his gaze.

**********​

There were entire ledgers of paper on the table. Written testimonies. Casualty reports. The location of supply points and nearby forts. Those and a thousand other minutiae that required the swift attention of someone in authority less the smooth workings of an operation in play come to a sputtering halt. But the man seated by the oak desk did not pay the reports any heed. Leaning back on his chair, fingers tapping a steady staccato, his eyes were unfocused and distant.

And though he spoke, there was no one else in the richly appointed cabin to hear his words save that of a curiously watching owl, perched on a nearby stand.

"... given the total loss of the 7th Foot Regiment and the attached elements of 3rd and 5th Dragon Knight Corps, I regret to say that this endeavour is no longer feasible with the forces that remain in the area."

The man paused, frowning briefly.

"... no, my men were trained better than that. Looking from the aftermath, it's clear they were ambushed by an overwhelming force. And it was fast enough that none of them could even begin to flee before they were cut down."

He paused again, nodding once as the owl cocked its head.

"Yes, I believe we have more to deal with than just the one escapee. Judging by my mens account from the previous engagement, I doubt the wretch could have carried out something like this by herself. With matters as they are, continuing will likely cost us more than just the men we'll lose in the pursuit."

The tapping of fingers stopped, lips pursing before he continued.

"It's the only logical explanation. Most were clearly killed by an outside force, but some of the dead were felled by our own, one of them an officer. The only fortunate thing is that none of the traitors seem to have escaped with their lives."

Glassy eyes briefly focused as he shook his head, but then returned to their faraway look.

"Under the circumstances, I think we can rule out a coincidence. Perhaps the Duke's execution was a little too hasty. Given his associations, he would have likely known more about the other… object we've discovered. And you are certain the vaults remain undisturbed?"

This time the frown was deeper when it returned, worry lines appearing around his eyes in the short silence that followed.

"No, the report from the first squad to find it lacked any details as to its contents, and by the time the second squad arrived, the grounds were scoured clean of all other traces and the container open but empty. As it is, we can only guess as to how it arrived there or where it come from. Still, despite several outward differences, it's similar enough in design that I can make a good guess as to what was inside. In any case, I've had my men secure it for transport back to the capital for study. In a separate ship and under guard of course, just in case. But as it is, we must assume our fugitive, perhaps even her allies now, are the only one with the knowledge to-"

He stopped, eyes widening in surprise.

"Really? So there was another then?"

One hand rose from the desk, rubbing at his chin in consideration.

"That's a fortunate turn of events. I take it that a swift execution is no longer on the table. Were your knights able to get any answers?"

He laughed, a self-deprecating chuckle as he shook his head.

"No, no, I suppose it wouldn't be that easy... are the other Dukes aware of this?"

The man nodded, hands falling to the desk, eyes closing as he stretched.

"I see. I'll draft the orders then. We'll return to the capital by daybreak."

He paused, letting his next words drop to a whisper.

"And you father."

A shiver ran through his frame, and when he opened his eyes again, they were focused, no longer glassy with inattention. He turned briefly in the owls direction, giving it a considering look.

"What a turn of events, eh Sedgewick?"

The owl looked back at him only long enough to hoot disinterestedly before turning back to preening her wings.

The man chuckled back, "oh, to be as unfettered as an owl," he mused out loud. But the mirth faded from his face quickly enough, replaced by a grim mask of the reality before him. With two quick paces, he was at the door, turning the handle as strategems and alliances flashed within his mind.

There was a lot of work to be done, and no place here or in the foreseeable future for him to shirk his responsibility. It was no longer about the possibility of heresy. No longer about a single duke acting far beyond his station. Treason was afoot in Albion. Insidious treachery sinking its claws in far more deeply than anyone had ever imagined. Far more than anyone dared fear, if their discovery was an indication of things to come.

There was nothing in living memory to back them up, no hard evidence to give weight. But the stories had been passed down, from father to son, always in secret, bearing the most forbidding of warnings.

There were things in the dark. Things better left forgotten, undisturbed by greedy hands.

If the White Isles were to root out this conspiracy before it could go too far, then there would be no time for rest, and no leeway for carelessness.

Such was a Tudor's duty.

**********​

 

[Olive]

Argh, I can't seem to tell which Tenno was summoned.

Click to shrink...

The ZnT forum firgured it out from when she made the soldiers hallucinate. Unless you want to keep guessing, it's Nyx.

Edit: Tenno'd

 

[Olive]

Well, I am working at the disadvantage of having never played Warframe.

Click to shrink...

Well that certainly is quite a handicap.

 

[Cyclone]

Well, I am working at the disadvantage of having never played Warframe.

Click to shrink...

Click here and give it a try. It's fun and free to play. It's like Mass Effect 3 multiplayer, except with randomized maps about 500% more ninja.

 

[Mashadarof402]

^ As for the actual story, I'm liking it very much so far. Was Brimir an Orokin in this crossover?

Click to shrink...

All will be revealed in good time. Though admittedly 'good time' is a bit of a subjective value due to the large work load splitting up my creative juices. :s

 

[Whiskey Golf]

Omg Nyx Prime is op, nerf now, sidegrades not upgrades.

So I can make out that she was using Dual Ether, and I think Soma, and judging from the dragon this is before damage 2.0, and Nyx Prime is using a Soma with Cryo Rounds and Stormbringer loaded.

And as usual, awesomesauce.

 

[kellanved]

Whoah, whoah! How did I miss this thread. Awesome first chapter, Brimir has his hands in a lot of pies.