Fandom The Ties That Bind Us || Private

[Drekasal]

Come closer now, and heed this tale
Of His Majesty Valemon...

THE WHITE BEAR KING​

collab with @ Cyanide-Latte

Long ago, in the age of magic, there once lay a summer land. A great kingdom, ruled by a wise king for many years. He was kind, and he was just, his wisdom matched only by the love of his people. His greatest joy, however, was his only son, the young prince Valemon, who was good of heart and just as beloved. The kingdom prospered, and there was peace.

At the edge of the kingdom, however, a shadow loomed, cast by a powerful witch. She was beautiful to behold, yet a darkness lay in her heart, an avarice beyond compare. For years, she eyed the king’s lands with envy, a prize just within her reach, yet one she could never fully grasp. But she was not without patience—the king had grown old through all those years, and the witch knew it was only a matter of time until he fell.

One dark day, the king died, and the kingdom mourned his passing. With a heavy heart, the prince Valemon was to succeed the throne, and the witch finally saw her chance. For what better way to seize her prize, than to marry the prince and become queen? She approached him at his weakest, promising to ease his pain, and to bestow power, wishes and pleasures far beyond his wildest dreams, all in exchange for his hand.

But the prince would not be so easily swayed, and spurned the witch’s affections, an insult which he would pay dearly for. The witch, in a rage, cursed Valemon, trapping him in the form of a great white bear. Only in the dark of midnight would he become a man, yet none could ever see him, or else he would be bound to the witch for eternity.

In shame and agony, the prince fled, refusing to accept this fate. On and on he ran, away from the warmth of his homeland, to the cold, bitter lands of the north, until at last, alone and weary, he could run no further.

In these winter lands, there also ruled a king, stern yet just. He had three daughters—princesses, all of them—the youngest of which was beautiful and gentle in every way. To her, the king would have given everything she asked—even a wreath made of gold— much to the ire of her sisters, who were neither beautiful or gentle. One day, she came across the exiled prince deep in the snowy wood, and when he spoke to her, she knew him to be no mere beast. Taken by his words and the golden chain he bequeathed to her, she brought him to her father’s court, and it was there that the white bear told his tale.

The prince asked for the youngest daughter to be his bride, so that she might help him break his curse, yet the king was loathe to part with his favorite child. Twice, he offered his elder daughters in his youngest’s place, yet the prince refused them. The king tried to drive him away through force, yet none of the king’s men could defeat the great bear. At last, the king conceded, and the youngest left with the prince to be his bride.

The daughter was brought to the prince’s castle, where she lived well and had no other duty than to make sure the hearth stayed lit. By day, her husband was away in the shape of a bear; at night, he came to her bed as a man. They were happy together, but after three years, the princess grew to become discontent. Three children she had borne for the prince, yet they were whisked away by him the moment they arrived, never to be seen again, and she longed to see her husband’s face.

When given leave to return home one day, she told her parents of her plight, and despite her father’s warning, her mother gave her daughter a candle, so that when her husband later returned, she may see the face of her beloved in the night. In doing so, however, the princess broke the sacred rule of the curse, and had thus forsaken the prince to the evil witch. Valemon was forced to return home as a bear, and despite her attempts to cling to him, his bride was left behind.

Ashamed of what she had done, the princess continued after the prince, determined to make amends. On her path, she came across the cabin of an old woman, who was secretly a sorceress herself. In her hands, she held a pair of shears, and wherever she snipped, ribbons of silk and cloth emerged from thin air. For the shears were blessed with magic, and could make anything that was so desired.

The old woman was a sworn foe of the evil witch, and taking pity on the princess offered the shears as a gift. With them, she fashioned a cloak of hiding, and boots that could walk the sides of mountains, amongst many other treasures. Armed with these gifts, the princess made her way to the summer land, where the witch prepared to wed prince Valemon in three days.

The princess begged the witch for a night with beloved, with the hag only accepting in return for the cloth snipped from the shears. She drugged Valemon with a sleeping draught, however, determined that her plans would not be disturbed. The next day was the same, with the princess offering another treasure for a night with her husband, and again the prince was drugged. That night, however, an artisan heard the girl’s weeping, and come sunrise warned Valemon so that he and his bride would not be thrice deceived.

The third night, the prince tricked the witch, and when his beloved came they were joyfully reunited. With the shears, she snipped away the fur of the great bear, and together they sought to put an end to the witch once for all. Upon the bridge which the wedding procession would ride across, Valemon ordered a trapdoor to be built, so that the next day, when the witch bride-to-be came with her bridesmaids, they would all fall.

The princess awaited them that day when they fell, though it was only the witch who survived. The rest had died with broken bodies, but the evil witch had a far worse fate. The valiant daughter drove the shears through the witch's heart, and the hidden curse placed upon them by the old sorceress did its work, robbing the hag of her magic, until that was left of her was a puddle of poison.

And so at last, prince Valemon was finally freed. He was crowned king, and the princess became his queen, and they ruled fair and justly, beloved by their people to the end of their days. The treasures were given to their three daughters, though the shears themselves were lost to the ages, never to be seen again...​

code by ditto (head empty go bonk)​

​

​

​

 

[Cyanide Latte]

There are fundamental rules of that part of the world that touches magic, and there are fundamental realities with it as well, neither being popular with those creatures affected by or in practice of it.

One, both a rule and a reality, is that—much how Newton's Law affects the principles of physics—for every sort of magic there is a counterbalancing magic. No one with any spark of magic cares to consider or admit to this fact. Goblinkin—that is to say, all the magical creatures of the slithering dark—dislike their weakness to the power of the Faerie, who in turn chafe at the superior power and sheer might and majesty of dragonblood. Humans of course, often consider themselves invincible when they latch onto any sort of power and incapable of being crippled by anything "beneath them", and despite the fact that many dragons would rankle at comparison, it is one thing they can often have in common with humanity, that sense of invincibility.

But all things have their weakness, just the same.

There are many thoughts going through the mind of Jesse Orion Macallister this particular quiet, mist-shrouded afternoon, but that specific rule-and-reality continues circling back to the forefront of the young dragonborn mage's mind. His eyes stray often to his feet the unseen path he follows, only glancing up periodically to be sure he's still going in the correct direction through the mist as his hands shift their grip constantly on the smooth staff he walks with, the damp chill seeping beneath the layers of fabric and settling between the ridges in his disguised scales. This isn't his first time going to meet this contact and any initial anxiousness or fear he once felt in Grimmur's presence has subsided to a healthy respect, but still, as he slips through crumbling stone and ruin, the young man wonders again which weaknesses Grimmur sees when he looks upon Jesse.

The human, or the dragon.

 

[Drekasal]

As Jesse presses on, a loosened stone is kicked out from its place, revealing a small lizard among the rubble. Its hiding spot exposed, it darts away as the mage passes by, skittering over the ruins in its desperate haste to find cover. A gleam of silver suddenly flashes before Jesse's eyes, sailing through the air and striking the reptile. The force of impact momentarily stuns it, flipping the creature onto its side, but it soon recovers and runs into a hole nearby, though it is not unscathed—the lower half of its tail is left behind wriggling, pinned beneath the knife which severed it.

"You should be more careful of where you step," a voice mutters, feminine in tone and colored with disdain. "You never know what may be lying in wait." Soon after, shape steps forward from the shadows, the mist parting in its wake until it is standing before the dragonborn. In the low light, features are hard to discern, but at this moment the last rays of the setting sun briefly pierce through the haze and shine onto the newcomer, revealing them to the male. Stormy grey eyes flash beneath the light, set in the sculpted face of a young woman in her twenties, clad in shield-maiden armor. A braided mane of coarse blonde hair frames her countenance, and on the right of her neck are emblazoned three runes, sharp and black against her flesh. From her hip, a scabbard hangs, the pommel of a sword glaring visibly from its case.

The light fades as swiftly as it came, yet the image she leaves does not. She says nothing as she stoops to collect her knife, grasping the bone handle—dragon bone—and pulling it from the ground with a soft shink. Raising it to her face, she frowns in concentration, until she spots an otherwise unnoticeable blemish and pulls a cloth from her hip-pouch. Her movements are slow and meticulous as she begins to wipe down the blade, and for a moment it seems Jesse is completely forgotten, her focus dedicated to her task.

After some time and a final inspection, the warrior woman appears satisfied, and only then does she spare a glance at the the observing mage. Her gaze alone would strip away skin if it could, and a look of undisguised contempt mars her expression, her silent assessment of him apparently completed. "So it's true," she mutters, straightening slowly. "The exile found his protégé." Sheathing her knife, she scoffs, making no effort to hide her distaste. "I suppose you are this Jesse that he speaks of?"

 

[Cyanide Latte]

For a second, Jesse was taken aback—Faith?—but no, the longer he stares and watches the intentional and methodic display of weapon-cleaning, the differences between Faith and this woman become evident and painfully clear. A fool, to make such a mistake, and it is only luck that it wasn't a disadvantage this time. He leans heavily against the staff at his side, brown-amber eyes studying the woman from beneath long, ill-kept red hair, tracking the expression on her face and the muscles around her eyes.

The knife, now that is a temptation. Instinct whipcracks tension up-and-down his spine and he knows what it is, knew from the moment he saw it hit the ground near his feet. An itch, an insatiable urge to study the knife up close, to see if the bone still carries any properties of the dragon it came from, crawls along his skin. But to even consider asking is laughable, and he refuses to look away for an instant. If there was any one thing Taranau stressed upon her surviving children, it was that survival came first and above all else. Somehow, he doesn't think he would last long if he let down his guard around this woman for the sake of self-indulgence, not when every inch of her visage screamed "slayer" to him. Even in the faded light with his limited halfling vision, her entire body is still poised to attack, and so he waits, and is finally rewarded with more venom.

He tilts his head as he listens, chewing the inside of his cheek and mulling over how carefully he should choose his words.

"That is one of my names, aye," he concedes after a moment, speaking slowly in hopes of minimizing the thickness of his accent. "Protégé's a well enough word, but you should just call me whatcha like. I'd rather ya be all the way honest with disliking me than just half-assin' it, especially if we're going to be in close quarters with His Grace. I know by virtue of your profession I'm an abomination, so don't worry about mincin' words." He cracks a bitter half-smile.

 

[Drekasal]

"Oh, I don't intend to," the woman answers sharply. "And if it were up to me, you would be dead where you stand." Her hand rests on the pommel of her sword, a subtle threat that she can and will make good on that promise if she so chose. She is distracted, however, by the severed tail still writhing on the ground, and does not waste a moment in kicking dirt over and burying it from sight.

"But of course, it's not up to me," she continues, turning to scowl at the mage once more. "It's up to him, and since he seems to be so convinced that you are useful, I am forbidden to lay a hand against you." Her expression wrinkles in disgust, making clear exactly how she felt about such a command, especially from a being she hated more than the half-breed that stood before her. "But you know what I am, and what I will do should you prove to be a liability to us. Failure to do what is asked will not to be tolerated." Her eyes narrowed upon him, daring the dragonborn to argue with her—it would be a grave mistake. "Do I make myself clear?"

 

[Cyanide Latte]

"Oft, listen to yeh," he snorts, words pouring out in a rapidfire cascade as his accent starts creeping back in. "Canna decide whether yeh sound more like someone's mam, or someone tryin' too hard to fit a role what belongs to someone older and more jaded!" He waves a hand. "I donna intend'ta fail, I've too much respect f'r His Grace and a promise t' uphold, 'sides." The unbothered attitude vanishes as his eyes go cold and fix on her. "But I donna answer to you. Aye, sure as hell you'll be watchin' me for the first chance to do your nasty bit o' business, egg-smasher, I expect that. But I answer to His Grace, and unless he gives me a direct order to answer t'yer authority, don't waste yer breath tryin' to bark me 'round like some peon."

 

[Drekasal]

The look she gives the mage is laced with enough venom to kill twenty dragons in midflight. The cold silence that follows is dangerous and tense, crackling as would the brief moments before the fury of a storm. The dragon slayer has a palpable urge to cut out his tongue for his insolence. Or better yet, kill him now and be done with this. No matter what "His Grace" says.

The air shifts suddenly, and a deep, guttural growl breaks the silence, echoing through the ruins. The woman does not turn at the sound, however—she knows it and its owner far too well to warrant a reaction. Even as she felt the tremors indicating his approach, she stubbornly refused to yield, remaining in her place as the dragon stepped into full view behind her. A formidable beast, standing roughly twenty five feet at the shoulder with claws the length of a man. His armor, hardened scales the color of rust, with slightly darker stripes running down his spine, and slashed with scars throughout.

His golden eyes cut through the haze like hellfire, glittering as he stared down at the two. "Well, well, well," he said, his voice dark and brimming with power. "It seems I do not have to get you two acquainted after all. Getting along nicely, I hope?" Amusement colors his expression, as if he found them entertaining—a notion not far from the truth—yet it quickly changes to one of distaste as he focuses upon the woman. "You are dismissed, Hildr," he hisses. “Go and ensure our friend was not followed. Unless, of course, you would like to make some more empty threats?"

The muscle around Hildr's jaw noticeably tightens, and it seems that she does indeed have more to say. Much more. After a moments deliberation, however, she seemed to think better of it. "Of course not," she says instead, tight-lipped and voice low. "I will return shortly." Shooting the dragonborn one last look of disgust, she shoulders past him into the mist, her steps slowly fading away.

 

[Cyanide Latte]

The mage spares her the briefest of glances as he sinks into a bow, kneeling on one knee and lowering his head in deference to the dragon, feeling a sense of envy for Grimmur's majesty and presence that has become increasingly familiar with their encounters. One day, he hopes, one day he'll inspire the same.

"Your Grace," he murmurs, forcing himself to slow his tongue enough the accent doesn't strangle his words. "I'll do my best to get along with her, as needed." He doesn't mention his skepticism over choosing to work with a slayer; wiser to hold his suppositions in check, and besides, he has a damn good guess Grimmur can intuit his skepticism anyway without him needing to voice it.

 

[Drekasal]

“A noble thing of you, but hardly necessary,” Grimmur says with a dismissive snort. “Slayer she may be, but at the end of the day, she is only human. A means to an end, nothing more.” He scowls. “Besides, you would only lower yourself in my eyes if you meant it with any truth. Pay her no mind, for she is beneath us.'

“But I digress.” The dragon then steps past the mage, climbing onto a mostly intact structure roughly resembling a throne. He took his seat here, taking care in hiding the glaring stump of what remained of his tail, ragged and layered with scar tissue. From his chair, Grimmur becomes even more of an imposing sight as he looks down upon Jesse, making bluntly clear his place before the dragon. “You know why I have summoned you here. What news do you bring? Speak plainly, and be brief and to the point. I do not have time for wild tales.”

 

[Cyanide Latte]

Jesse glances up with a tilt to his head as if to suggest 'who, me?' in response to the remark about wild tales, but the corner of his mouth turns up slightly in a half-smile of good humor as he slowly gets to his feet, tapping the silver-capped lower end of the staff against the cracked stone floor.

"Actually, Your Grace, if yeh'll humor me, it might be easier and quicker to show ya," he says, slipping threads of his magic down the shaft of the staff, where they twine and start to coalesce into a silvery, swirling essence that grows, like water spreading over the floor into a round, shallow pool. More of the young mage's power joins the initial spell, brightening it from a dull shimmer to a starlight glow. Finally, leaning his forehead against the staff, he lets out a long exhale, new, golden-yellow lights darting from his body and dancing along the staff in a double helix pattern before they plunge into the shallow pool.

Immediately, colors blur the liquid silver, and images begin to form. Jumbled, half-coherent sounds fade in, a gramophone starting to get on track.

The image sharpens, a straight-on view that presumably comes from Jesse's own memories, of a young woman with bright amber eyes full of life, a broad, happy smile, and unusually short, fiery red hair.

"Jesse-Jesse-Jesse!" she says excitedly, rattling off his name like a child's chant, "I couldna ask for anyone better t' help us out right now!"

"Come again?" the young mage's voice says, soft and distant in the memory.

"Jesse, y'know who this is?!" she says, dragging the vision a few steps forward before bouncing a few steps away, as though she cannot contain a bursting, wild energy, and indicates a young man with brunet hair nearby, watching curiously. The second the redhead comes near him, his cheeks pink a little and his expression turns just a little shy. "Getta loada this, this is Kevin, and he's bound t' Teighenth, Jesse. Teighenth, like in Mam's stories!"

"Come off it—" Jesse's voice starts to say, only to be cut off by his sister's breathless exclamation.

"I'm serious! Oh! Oh, you donna have to worry none, he's not like the stories!" Then, as if realizing she's being a touch rude, she spins to face Kevin, gesturing in the direction of those viewing the scene. "THIS is my big brother Jesse."

Her voice fades on the last words as the image blurs and the colors shift in the liquid. They twist and flow, and reform into something else, another scene from the young mage's perspective.

"And, who are you?" Jesse's voice asks of a different young man, one with pale hair and eyes at once young and soft yet ancient and profound, and it is clear from the tone of his voice and the ripple in the water that the dragonborn is shaken, unsettled.

"Please, forgive my rudeness," the young man replies formally, dipping into a quick, straight-backed bow. "I am Haru Takeshi. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Macallister."

The edges of the liquid pool shiver as the water trembles, and an image superimposes itself behind Haru, the phantom of a massive, coiled dragon with piercing eyes and an aura that surpasses normal dragonfear. The mage must have been rattled, because even this ghostly shadow of the memory bleeds an essence of power that no dragonborn could imitate.

[Aye,] his thoughts intrude, clear and low as the image starts to blur again, [but I canna say the same for you, Azure Leviathan of the East.]

His mind-voice fades completely as the colors twine and mix, before bursting apart and feeling to opposite ends of the pool to bleed in a new scene.

This time, the scene focuses again on the other young dragonborn, his sister, the one he calls "Catty". Her expression looks hurt and stricken, and she stands some distance away, balling her hands into fists at her sides.

"Why're ya actin' like this, Jesse?" she asks, confused and wounded. "They're my friends, since when was it a problem if I have friends."

"I never said it was a problem," his voice answers evasively. "Just donna think yeh always need to be hangin' around with humans, actin' like yeh are one."

"I'm half-human," she says with a bit of a pout. "You are too, if yeh'd pull yer head outta yer arse for more'n two seconds and remember it."

"Aye," he snarls, suddenly vicious as he advances on her, the image of the young woman drawing closer. "But I certainly don't go hidin' my heritage, now do I, Catty?" When her eyes widen, his vicious tone continues, "Oft, don't think I donna ken you've been tellin' your friends that you're some pyrogenetic metahuman. I'm insulted, Catriona. Why do you act like it's shameful, being a child of a dragon?"

But if he'd been hoping to incite shame, his words seem to have an opposite impact. Catriona's eyes narrow sharply and she bares her teeth, looking just a touch more draconic in that one expression already.

"Gonna split hairs? You're actin' damn odd," she growls. "Or didja forget there are still slayers? Maybe I'm playin' it smart."

"Oh~?" Jesse's voice says pleasantly. "But didn'tcha say one of your new little friends is from a slayer family?" She flinches visibly and he adds in a low undertone, "Well now, Catty, one'd think ya don't trust yer own friends."

The image blurs, and the colors swirl rapidly one last time.

Kevin again, and this time, another figure, large and imposing, covered in scales that evoke the thought of rust, or of dried blood, stands with him. Overlayered in Jesse's vision, glowing threads bind them, thousands of cords of magic that pulse gently. The pulsations move between the two figures through the threads that tie them together, symbiotic... and yet there are several hundred threads that have grown dull and hang loose and lip, like the rigging for a sail that's been slackened as far as possible.

Nobody else seems to notice the threads, not that Jesse's observations can tell.

"Och, yeh've severed the binding, then~?" the dragonborn prompts casually, nodding from Kevin to Teighenth and back again. They haven't; the threads are evidence enough of that, but he's curious to hear the answer. Other voices—Catriona, Haku, and another young woman—somewhere out of sight, fall silent, eliminating a white noise that had run undercurrent to the scene.

"Oh, no, not really," Kevin answers. "It's kind of a work in progress." His face brightens, and a sensation emanates from the pool again, the sense that for some reason he can't explain, Jesse really hates that confident, innocent smile. "But it's at least nice to finally talk to one another face to face!"

The dragon's eyes shift to the mage, and he seems ready to say something but the image fades again, and the colors appear to vanish from the pool. The spell doesn't completely dissipate, as Jesse keeps the silver end of the staff touching the pool, but he looks up to Grimmur with a grave expression on his face.

 

[Drekasal]

The dragon answers the mage's offer with a hmph—his way of saying "It matters little to me", though the glint in his eyes betrayed otherwise. Regardless of his thoughts, he nods for the dragonborn to continue, reclining into his "throne" as the memories take shape before him. He does not utter a word as they run their course, though words are hardly necessary to interpret his reactions, if they could be called as such—the first memory did not seem to prompt anything other than the wrinkling of his snout, a thinly veiled sign of disgust.

The second memory, however, is more intriguing, as Grimmur's eyes narrow and he straightens in his seat, leaning forward to better examine this "Haru" and the looming figure of the dragon behind him. He only has a few moments to do so, however, before the image swirls again to be replaced by the next memory to his mild annoyance.

Yet that feeling just as quickly fades as this one proves to be equally interesting: an argument between the mage and his sister. A thoughtful frown befell him as he regarded the latter; she he remembered clearly, when she trespassed into his court in Muspelheim. An encounter he had been very careful to keep hidden from Jesse—it would not do to lose someone so valuable over something as trivial as family. Even if it did seem that they were estranged.

These thoughts, however, were chased to the wind with the coming of the final memory, the sight of which made the dragon stiffen in his throne. There they stood...his least favorite dragon and human in all the realms. Standing...together...yet he knew that was impossible. The last time he saw them, they spoke from one body, two souls bound by powerful magic. Erroneously, he believed once it would make them easier to dispose of. He had been wrong, and that was the reason he was here now. Defeated, cast out...

Disgraced.

But if they were separate now...if he could get his hands on just one...

He snarls then, as the memory slowly fades away in a flash of color. No, he thought venomously. It still wouldn't work. The fleshling still has his insidious friends.

And of course, if he laid even a scratch upon the boy, his guardian would come to his rescue...and for Grimmur's throat, without question.

Taking a breath, he glowers down at the mage. "So the wretch and my...brother...they are still connected, then." His talons drum against the stone as he thinks, recalling next the second memory, and he scowls. “You call this Haru the Azure Leviathan of the East, and yet he has been dead for centuries. What is your explanation for this?”

 

[Cyanide Latte]

Jesse looks up, and truth to tell, he had been expecting such a question even if he hoped it wouldn't get asked. He doubts Grimmur would accept such an answer as what he would normally throw at his human connections—"call it a gut thing"—and taps a short rhythm with his fingers on the staff he carries, which promptly changes form to a long, slender rowan wand he's carried for a very long time. With a precise, neat slash, the wand trails cobalt-blue light, a small comet tail, and this time four orbs of varying color rise from the silver pool. Spinning an orbit around each other like a mandala wheel the four orbs change, each solidifying into different, titanic beasts that move in place, surrounded by swirling marks of calligraphy that speak their ancient names in low whispers.

"Lucky me I wound up with contacts able t'give me an idea how this works," the dragonborn remarks wryly, with a downward flick of the wand at one beast orb and a sweeping slash at another. The two indicated separate from the wheel and grow in size, while the remaining two dull and sink closer to the surface of the pool. The larger two emanate light, azure and scarlet, that accentuate the beasts rather than overpower their appearance. Jesse's amber-brown eyes go heavy-lidded as he observes the images of the beasts.

"Kinda brilliant and irritating, human magic and human beliefs," he says. "It's almost all tied together in a damn knot. The four god-beasts of Eastern myth have died many times. But so long as humans continue to tell stories 'bout 'em and believe in their power, it gives them power." He reaches out with the end of the wand and prods the scarlet icon of a phoenix. "This one is the key. Suzaku is always reborn, even from the smallest thing, and if the phoenix revives, the others follow. Seiryu's nearly always second; they've always been the most closely tied of the four. And if he's up-n-struttin', then somewhere, so is she."

"As fer how I know who he is," Jesse says, bouncing his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, "Leviathans always trigger a strong magic reaction. Bothersome, actually, but that's no' important in the grand scheme of being able to identify them."

With gentle taps, he sends the icons of the monstrous tiger and the stone turtle back into the pool, where they dissolve into interconnected lines of stars, miniature constellations that break apart and vanish in the molten silver. He nearly does the same with the dragon and the phoenix, but catches himself at the last moment and leaves them, just in the event Grimmur prefers a moment to linger.

Truthfully, he could use a moment's thought himself. Something's been tickling the edges of memory, and he needs a second to think, to stretch his thoughts back to a time he has long tried forgetting. If he can remember what it is, perhaps it can be of use, he's sure of it.

 

[Drekasal]

"And yet this...Haru...seems oblivious to his own power," Grimmur pointed out, gaze narrowing upon the specter of the Azure Dragon. "If he truly is who you claim him to be." Already there was a wrongness to the mere thought that Seiryu had been reborn in the form of a mortal, a human, yet there were other implications to consider. He wasn't a fool: Leviathan never awoke without reason...especially not one who was supposed to be dead. But those matters were unimportant for now, hardly worth mentioning to the dragonborn.

Stepping down from his stone pedestal, Grimmur paces the edge of the silver pool, weighing his options. If everything was as he had heard, and the traitors had a Leviathan for an ally, then retribution had been cheated out of his grasp. Again. The snarl on his muzzle only tells a mere shadow of the rage he feels at this perceived slight, yet he quickly masters it before it can cloud his judgement. Patience, he tells himself. There may still yet be a solution to this.

But what, exactly? That remains none too clear; were it so easy, all his enemies would now be wiped from the earth, and he would be ruler of his clan again. Yet it seemed it was precisely that in which the fleshling held an advantage over him: no matter where he and his brother went, they had their friends. Their own clan to rally behind them...or, more accurately, behind that boy and his sickening innocence and clamor for peace. They followed him as if he were a beacon, a light in the dark, an inspiration to hope.

The dragon felt he would gag at the thought. Sentimentality at its most pathetic. Yet it continued to draw followers, and thus it made the boy a threat. The sooner he was disposed of, the better. Cut off the head, and the body dies.

"There is still the trouble of our favorite duo," he continued aloud, gouging furrows in the ground with his claws. "Separate they may be, but clearly their bond still stands, and I doubt my brother will allow me so much the chance to lay a claw upon the boy. They are not so easily cut apart."

 

[Cyanide Latte]

The tension in the dragon belies his would-be calm. True, he moves rather fluidly and speaks levelly for the most part, but the young mage can see the muscles in Grimmur's neck, moving slowly, as if stiff.

He's pissed off, but of course, Jesse had a feeling the news wouldn't be well-received. He starts to respond, and then something in Grimmur's words knocks the memory back into place, stalling what he had to say. For a moment, he can only recall the sight of his little sister, sobbing as great strands of her mane fall around her quietly to the snap-whack rhythm of one of the most powerful magical items he'd ever laid eyes on. The silver pool eddies and swirls in agitation as it tries to pluck the image from his mind and fails, only pulling out the snap-whack, snap-whack sound.

"Ach, hang on," he says, contemplative as his eyes shift to the restless magic liquid. "Maybe they can be..." He glances up to the dragon, pensive. "Ye' said you didna want any wild tales, Your Grace, but there is one story that could be of use here, even if I just give a condensed version." He feels an urge to check his back, unsettled and wondering whether or not the slayer woman is back. If she is, he knows he'll really have to spare the details this time.

The last thing he'd need is her getting ideas of her own.

 

[Drekasal]

The dragon halts in his pacing, and turns over his shoulder to look at the dragonborn. The expression on his face is unreadable, but in his eyes there is a gleam of renewed interest, shining brighter as he takes note of the agitated pool. A shade of memory, he guessed, yet it was obviously important—otherwise the boy would not be speaking now.

“If there is something you know,” he speaks finally, his words slow and drawn out. “If it will grant me the power to remove the two damned thorns in my side with a slash of my claws...then tell it now.” He was facing Jesse now, the tone in his voice dangerously low, a warning to be quick about it, and not just for his own sake—Grimmur did not know when Hildr would be returning, but he could only imagine it would be soon. Whatever information Jesse had, depending on its significance, the dragon intended to keep it out of the slayer’s hearing, for he distrusted her just as much as he knew she did him.

If any questions arose, she would be told only what she needed to know. Nothing more.

 

[Cyanide Latte]

"Ah, ye'll be lookin' at a different set o' claws," Jesse answers, lowering his voice to speak softly, and in the cadence his father once used for telling stories. "There's a story humankind has, 'bout a prince in a warm country, crowned king."

He taps the slender wand against his hand, sending out small sparks that dart to the quicksilver and quickly move to illustrate the story.

"Evidently, some witch or sorceress of great power sought t' gain the throne of a queen by marryin' him, and when he rejected her, she turned him into a white bear," Jesse murmurs, watching the images form the silhouette of a crowned human man, wailing in agony within the massive white outline of a polar bear. "He ran to the north, seeking the cold, 'n' the kingdom there would have killed him had he no' spoken like a human. Told them his story, 'n' their king offered him one o' his daughters as a bride, to help find a way to undo the curse."

As the images flow, he chances a quick glance over his shoulder, tense, but goes on.

"But whatever the rules surrounding that curse were, she broke the most important one, and the sorceress whisked him off. The young queen woulda done anything to get him back, and that's where the sorceress's most hated foe, another witch, comes in. She offered the queen these."

The image that forms in the quicksilver now is of a crone, handing a beautiful, distraught-looking queen what at first appear to be a simple, slightly notched pair of scissors, but the moment the image narrows its focus down to the blades, it changes. In one hand, the queen's wrist flicks, and the scissors seem to brim, overflowing with a wealth of beautiful golden magic, and as they whisper a delicate snip-whap, a magnificent cloak begins to form itself from out of nothing with each cut.

"The shears when handled one way, can create just about anything, and the queen used them to make enchanted boots an' a cloak an' other things to help her passage go unnoticed in the palace of her foe," Jesse explains. "But that's not all they could do."

The image changes, and this time in the queen's opposite hand, the sheers ooze a black-purple and green magic that boils like sickly, suffocating smoke and drips from the end of the blades with an almost living maleficence.

"Y'see, they're made o' cold iron, forged by goblins. Takes a mighty fine power, weaving a blessing magic inta cold iron, but dark magic...cold iron sucks that up like the desert drinks water," he says, as the image shows the queen using the shears to cut the white fur from her king, and finally using them like a vicious knife to kill the sorceress, cutting out the connection between her heart and her magic before she dissolves into so much poison. "Trust the crone t' have laid a powerful curse on the things, to make sure they'd kill her enemy for the queen and absorb that additional dark power."

The image stops for a moment on the king and queen restored, holding the black scissors between them, dripping the maleficent magic and bursting out the golden rays of blessing in tandem.

"The queen's name's been lost, so the king's is attributed to 'em," Jesse explains. "The Shears of King Valemon. They were supposed t' just be a myth; after all, the story tells that the shears passed onta the princesses and then faded from the world." He shrugs as the sight of the fairy tale fades. "And so they did. Until, well..."

This time he tilts the wand toward the quicksilver pool, allowing the memory to burst free, showing the face of a woman he has not seen in a very long time.

At least, not wearing this face.

Silver-white with an ethereal, dangerous beauty, she directs a pair of black shears dripping with their invisible dark magic without touching them, as a tiny, sobbing dragonborn girl—one who looks more dragon than human—cries where she sits.
Snap-whack, snap-whack.
And a mane the color of fire falls to the ground in a slow rain, as a long, shimmering cord vanishes from view.

"It will never grow back," the silver-white woman says in a low, steady voice, soothing the crying girl, whose hair has been shorn boy-short. "It is necessary, my love. Your Saurian longevity was severed in the process. You will age as a human..." her voice falters a moment as a hurricane of emotions dance behind her dragon eyes, "And you will die as one too."

The girl in the memories continues to cry as her eyes widen in shock, but the younger Jesse hadn't missed the way his mother slipped the sheers into the folds of her sleeves.

The memory halts as though frozen, Jesse glaring down at his mother's human-yet-not face, struggling to reconcile a deep love that every child feels for their mother, and a long-nursed anger that came from being abandoned.

"Either she still has them," he says, his voice coming out in a low, venomous rasp, "or she knows where they are. It's a long shot whether or not they'll do the trick, but still..."

 

[Drekasal]

“Goblin magic...” The dragon’s lips pull back slightly in a snarl, the words leaving a poor taste upon his tongue. He was familiar with the miserable creatures and their kin, the dwarven folk especially so. Crude and diminutive, they were like maggots in his eyes, yet he acknowledged their master smithing and enchanting of their craft. However, it was a begrudging respect—their weapons had taken the lives of many of his brethren.

With that in mind, it came as no surprise to Grimmur that these “shears” were of their making, the power they emanated only confirming it. He would be lying if he were to deny the shiver of unease that ran through him as their image imprinted itself in his mind’s eye: the black magic dripping like oil from the edge of the blades, power that could topple even the mightiest dragon should they be foolhardy.

Of course, Grimmur knew well that his brother was no fool, and goblin forged or no, he doubted anything less than teeth to his neck would kill him.

The boy, however...

The dragon tapped a claw thoughtfully, the dark glint returning to his eyes. “The brat unraveled his side of the binding magic,” he drawled. “But my brother did not undo his. His fate is still tied to the mortal.” He smiled then, the first time ever that evening, a twisted snarl baring all of his teeth to the mage. “He is making this too easy for me...”

 

[Cyanide Latte]

Jesse watches the great dragon bare his teeth in his warped smile, and quells any errant thoughts or questions. He doesn't know what unsettles him more: Grimmur's vicious delight, stemming from a wellspring of hatred Jesse still doesn't know the full story behind, or the truth in his statement, that Kevin was somehow able to unweave part of the magic binding him to Teighenth...and yet the dragon could not undo the part of it on himself.

Or chose not to. That had an entirely different set of possible implications behind it, and none of the mage's suppositions about that were anything short of bleak. Annoyance prickled at him. He didn't trust anyone like that not to inadvertently harm Catriona or drag her to her demise.

Regardless, he bit his tongue about opinions. He sensed Grimmur was probably nearing the limit of his generosity with patience, and bent forward into a bow, once again speaking slow enough to avoid the worst of his accent tripping him up. "Then, your orders for me, my lord...?"

 

[Drekasal]

Hearing Jesse speak once again, the dragon seemed to recollect that he had an audience, and his smile fades just as quickly as it came. “Your orders,” he hisses, “are to retrieve the shears, by any means necessary.” Glancing toward the frozen image in the pool, he snorted with disgust before continuing. “Obviously, that means you’ll have to confront your mother, assuming she still has them in her possession, and if not at the very least knows it’s whereabouts. Regardless, I trust you’ll have no difficulties in...extracting that information without my help.”

“I’ve finished,” Hildr’s voice rings out, accompanied by crunching footsteps as she emerges from the mist. Looking between lord and protégée, her eyes narrow suspiciously. “Have I missed anything important?”

“Ah, you’ve returned,” Grimmur says, barely giving her so much as a sideways glance. “On the contrary, you are right on time.” Returning his attention to Jesse, he gestured with his wing towards the slayer. “Hildr will be accompanying you—“ He ignored the look of displeasure the shield maiden shot him. “—though I doubt she will be truly necessary. After all, your mother surely has no cause to think you’d ever betray her. You’re her son.” A look of bitter hatred briefly flashes across his face as he says those words, though somehow, one would tell it was not meant for Jesse, but rather something...else.

Whatever it was, however, he did not disclose to his company. “Still,” he carries on, as if nothing had happened, “should she decide not to tell you anything, a little encouragement never harmed anyone...not terribly, anyway.”

 

[Cyanide Latte]

In spite of himself, Jesse's ears prick just a little higher as he listens to Grimmur's instructions. He can hardly pretend at being pleased with the circumstances, but the edge in the dragon's words, the subtle shifting of his expressions all point to that vulnerability he tries so hard to hide, and the young mage's curiosity is again piqued. With a great deal of effort, he stifles the urge to prod. Grimmur has shared so very little about himself—likely he still doesn't trust me; wise move, really, I wouldn't trust me either, in reversed circumstances—Jesse can't help but wonder exactly what old wounds his new master bears. Still, he bites his tongue on the matter and sketches another respectful bow, despite also tossing Hildr an irritated frown.

"As you wish," he murmurs, giving an elegant twist of the hand to summon the quicksilver and draw it off the floor with the rowan wand, letting it hover and dance around him until it fades into the mist, taking the image of a false human mother with it. "Besides, suppose it's about time I paid her a visit. She'll chalk it down to familial duty."

 

[Drekasal]

"Well, now, that makes your job all the more easier, doesn't it?" Having made his instructions clear, the great dragon turns away, his wingtips sweeping the ground behind him. "You are both dismissed. Return to me once you have what we seek."

Hildr, however, remains where she stands, her gaze fixed upon Grimmur as he stalks off. "What we seek?" she asks dangerously, scoffing. "Perhaps you'd like to inform me on what exactly you intend us to find, since I was occupied covering your mage's tracks." Casting a glance toward said-mage, she does not miss the frown he gives her—of course he didn't want her there with him. That makes two of us, she thought sourly, returning the gesture with a dark scowl of her own before continuing to speak. "And in case you don't recall, I did not fall in league with you only to be relegated as a bodyguard. Not for you, and especially not for this...half-breed."

"Oh, please, Hildr, spare me your theatrics," the dragon growls, flicking what was left of his tail dismissively. "You're only there to ensure that his mother cooperates, nothing more." Talons grate against stone as he climbs once more into his throne, his eyes narrowing upon the slayer once he is in place. "Surely you can stomach working with our good friend until that is done."

The shield maiden snarls. "He is no friend of mine."

"With that attitude, of course he isn't," was the dragon's smooth retort. "Now, if you're quite done, then I suggest you leave at once." Lifting his claws to his face, he examines the tips closely, before dragging them down the arm of his seat, leaving deep, gouging marks in the solid stone. A low growl of satisfaction rises from within him, the malevolent fire in his eyes burning brighter than ever.

It won't be long now. Soon, we shall gain what we rightfully deserve.

ACT I: SHADOW OF THE STORM​

— ᛏ —​

The small hours of the morning found Kevin roused from sleep, gasping slightly as his eyes flashed open, only to be greeted by darkness. A surge of fright ran through him—where am I? Why is everything black?!—and he quickly moved to rise, pushing himself from his bed.

His bed...he stopped in his haste, and warily clenched his hands. His fingers closed around soft sheets, and he frowned. Yes, that was his bed, wasn't it? Which meant—yes, this was his room. His sight was beginning to adjust now, and he could start to see the faint outline of the walls around him, the silver light of stars streaming in through his window. There was Poe's bird stand in the corner, and his desk was beside his bed as always, along with his pencils, his disorganized stack of sketches, and of course, his books.

I'm home. The words repeated in his head, and he willed himself to believe it. A long, shuddering breath left him as he finally began to relax, and he could feel his panic being dispelled. But rather than feel relief, there came instead a growing confusion. Where had that even come from? There shouldn't have been any reason for it. Not anymore. What could've caused him to wake up in such a state?

It was then he became aware of something else: his cheeks were damp, and his vision, he realized with a start, was unusually blurry. Gingerly, he raised a hand, fingers grazing against the side of his face, and met with a path of tears not long after.

He was crying.

Well, perhaps it was better to say he had been crying; his eyes felt wet, of course, but they also seemed to be drying out, as if he had spent all his tears just recently. And while his fingertips glistened when he pulled them away, they weren't noticeably wet, and the dampness felt like it was starting to go away as well. He found himself hoping that there wouldn't be stains; the others worried about him enough, and the last thing he wanted was to add to their concerns.

Frankly, even if they did ask, he wasn't sure he'd be able to explain. It wasn't simply that he hadn't cried in his sleep before—this wasn't the first time by any means.

But the only times he ever did was whenever he was dreaming about...her.

He felt his chest tighten at the thought, and for a moment it seemed he would cry again, but he shook his head to clear the feeling. No, that wasn't it this time. He would have remembered the dream, had that been the case. In fact, he didn't think he'd had any dreams at all. If he did, then perhaps his strange reaction just now would make more sense, and he could piece it together from there...but there was nothing. He'd just been asleep, and then he woke up like this. No dream to provide an explanation.

But then, maybe it wasn't one of my dreams. The thought struck a sudden urge in him, and feeling considerably more awake he clambered out of bed. He tried his best to be quiet about it, but a croak from the bird stand quickly told him he failed in that endeavor. Sighing, he turned his head just as Poe came to fly to his shoulder. "Hey, you," he said softly, rubbing his thumb gently against his head feathers. "Sorry, I woke you up, didn't I?"

The raven croaked again—whatever it meant, the boy could only guess—but he didn't seem to be upset about the matter seeing how he leaned happily into his human's touch. His response helped to put Kevin more at ease, however, if only by a small margin, and he obliged the bird with a few more caresses before heading toward the door. As his hand reached for the knob, he wondered briefly if he ought to change—he hadn't checked to see what time it was, and all he was wearing, really, was a t-shirt and sweatpants.

Well, if it's still dark out, he thought after he considered this, I don't think it'll matter too much. No one else should be awake, anyway, so it's not like anyone will see me. Decision made, he turned the knob, the latch making a soft click as he slowly pulled, until there was sufficient space for him to slip into the hall.

"Now we need to be quiet, Poe," he whispered firmly, shutting the door carefully behind them. "You and I are the only ones up right now—everyone else is in bed, so for the love of the gods, please try to keep your beak shut until we're outside. Can you do that for me?"

Poe tilted his head curiously at his master's words, making a little warble in the back of his throat, but otherwise his beak remained closed. A sigh left Kevin's lips again, but he supposed that was the best promise he could expect from the bird, and spoke no further. It was time they got going, and so they did, Kevin's soft footfalls echoing through the hall as he made his way to the elevator.

 

[Cyanide Latte]

It was a night for sleeplessness for many in Titans Tower.

The starlight was thinning out, signaling a late—or perhaps, early, depending on how one viewed it—hour, the sort during which even the more high-energy residents would normally be deep asleep. And normally the same applied to the single dragonborn among them, the one who hid beneath a layer of curses, convincing lies and an upbeat smile.

Cat had awoken some several minutes prior, and found herself at a loss for how to handle it, eventually making her way to the kitchen. Her throat was burning again; it didn't happen often, but when it did, she usually found the best thing she could do was drink something to take the edge off. The preference was aloe vera juice, but considering Garfield had downed the last of the jug, milk would have to do...assuming they had any.

As she poured herself a glass—thank all the powers that be someone had taken the time to restock the fridge—she found her gaze continually drawn towards the huge bay windows that looked out over the Jump Sound, shrouded in the witching hour light. There wasn't any real reason for it, insofar as she could tell, but something instinctual kept her wondering. As she pored over the notion, she got as far as the thought "I'm looking the wrong way" when the softest of sounds caught the edge of her hearing.

Someone else was awake, that much was for sure, and she drew closer to the exit into the main hall, listening to the best of her abilities. After a moment, she recognized the pattern of footfalls and the gait, and popped her head into the hall, curious.

"Kev?" she ventured in a low voice. Just because most of the other bedrooms were further away from the kitchen didn't mean she felt at ease talking normally. Her normal was a bit louder than most people's inside voices. Sure enough, her vision adjusted rapidly and picked out the outline of a young man in a comfortable sleeping tee and sweatpants, with a bird perched companionably on his shoulder. Their colors were muted in the dark of the hall, giving a sense of surreality to the scene. Still, they were far from alarming; Kevin was one of the very few friends who knew the truth about her nature, one of the closest friends she had ever since coming to America, and he projected a comforting sort of aura she wasn't entirely sure he was aware of.

Still, something felt a bit off.

"You okay?" she prompted. "Yer up late."

It wasn't just a stab at casual conversation. In the time since they'd met and become friends, she didn't know him to be prone to sleep loss, and something in his posture... She wasn't entirely sure what it was, but she doubted he was just restless and looking for a late night stroll to feel drowsy again.

 

[Drekasal]

Having only made it several paces past the kitchen area, Kevin nearly stumbled in his step when he heard his name called. Crap, someone else is up? He'd been certain he was the only one! His startlement then turned to dismay when he heard Poe cawing with alarm—the poor bird had been jostled from his master's shoulder during the break in stride, forcing him to beat his wings furiously to correct himself. The flapping echoed through the hall, and the boy prayed dearly they were far enough away that it wouldn't rouse anyone else.

It took some time for Kevin to soothe the raven's temper—at least to a point where he wasn't croaking angrily anymore—after which he finally turned toward who had spoken. The light was dim, but he quickly made out the figure in the exit: a young woman with gleaming amber eyes, framed by a crop of familiar, spiky red hair...

"Cat!" Despite the surprise, it was a welcome realization, and he felt compelled to smile; while they'd had a bit of a rocky start when they first met, she had become one of his closet friends out of the team, something which he fervently hoped she understood especially considering her true nature, a heritage that he would always accept as part of her, but he knew she worried others would not see it the same. In a small way, that was their kinship, the same that bound them to the others of their circle.

Still, as glad as he was to see her, he couldn't help but wonder why she was up; she'd never given him the impression of being a light sleeper, and even if that were the case, she looked more awake than he was.

Of course, she was probably thinking the same about him. Probably better to answer her question first.

“Ah, yeah, that," he began awkwardly. "Yeah, I know I'm up late. Or early—you know, I'm honestly not too sure what time it is. I had a bit of a moment—" Okay, maybe I didn't have to mention THAT bit. "—so I wasn't exactly paying attention. But I think I'm okay now?" The hesitance in his voice didn't provide much confidence to that statement, and it occurred to him then that his cheeks had more than likely been stained from his dried tears. With how Cat was scrutinizing him, he could only hope it would be too dark for her to tell.

 

[Cyanide Latte]

Cat tapped her fingernails against the glass in her hand pensively, worried. He definitely seemed out of sorts, but then, who was she to say anything? It wasn't as though she hadn't stumbled out of bed in her oversized shirt and cargo shorts just for a quick drink to parch her thirst before going back to sleep. Explaining her own restlessness would have been awkward too.

Perhaps she was worried over nothing. Still...

She threw an apologetic smile at the raven, lowering her voice a touch. "Sorry for the scare, Feather," she said. "It was an accident." Her smile flickered just a touch as she looked back to Kevin, wondering if the waver in his voice was pure nervousness or an attempt at evasion. "It's right 'round two, maybe two-thirty. Somewhere in Witching Hour." She finally registered where he was heading, and indicated the elevator with her chin. "Need t' get some air? Mind if I come with?"

 

[Drekasal]

The boy hesitated, unsure how best to answer. Up until now, he’d been prepared to go alone—he didn’t think anyone else would be awake at this time. He could’ve been gone and then come back without causing concern, which was really the last thing he wanted.

Of course, here Cat was, and obviously she’d guessed where he was heading, so there went that plan. Not that he had it in his heart to tell her “No, thank you”, now that she’d asked if she could come along. Still...did he really want to bother her with this?

Meeting her gaze again, he could see the worry in her eyes—the worry for him. If anything, turning her away would just compound it, and that would have made him feel worse than he did already.

In any case, the thought of going alone no longer sounded appealing.

His mind made up, Kevin finally nodded. “I’d be glad of the company, honestly,” he said quietly. Stepping off to the side, he tilted his head, indicating that they could walk together.