Hurt so Good

Jigano listened raptly as they placed the 'soldiers' back in their rows and lines, ready to repel the next attack by machines of war or men and women learning the blade. He knew a little of Helovia's history from Melita, but this was the time he was hearing of their magic in any depth, and given his new powers he was even more curious than usual. It sounded as though Deimos's magic had come with a terrible price, one now mitigated - and far healthier for the General, given how happy he looked when he was with Amalia. He perked up particularly at the mention of patron gods, nodding his understanding.

"Yes... the gods of my world, too, granted magic to priests and clerics, and their warrior paladins as well. Druids received the blessings of the gods of nature. There was great power in divine favor. My mother's lineage stemmed from Oracles who could channel it, though we pursued ideals rather than individual deities." Always the odd ones out, were the Oracles, their power balanced by the price they paid in the balance. Blessings of light and curses of darkness, of weakness or lameness or constrained tongues or sight.

A curse lifted when he came to Caido, for good or ill.

"Did you have a patron god on your world?"

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The instances with deities sounded familiar, similar, the twist and turn of their fabrications, their powers, churning into those honored, worthy, or deserving of the enchantments. Menders, soothing the ridiculous amount of battle lacerations and wounds, leaving the scars to settle into place, engineers, crafting and honing things no one would be able to conduct normally, and their Haruspexes, peering into mirrors, into glass, hoping for a sign from the celestial being that wove their way across their earth. The gods had been haughty, moody, mercurial, tempestuous things too – a genesis to his irreverence and indifference towards them, staring into the damned reflecting glass and listening, or being ultimately ignored. He’d had no need of them, other than the way they preserved their lands. They’d apparently had no need of him either; no matter how often he defended, scorched, and bloodied the plains in the name of their sovereignty. His eyes wandered over the targets once more, and he pondered over grabbing hold of another weapon, of throwing or thrusting it between a goal’s eyes just to hone in precision, just to pretend, for an instant, it was Confutatis’ malicious sneer or Gull’s antagonistic, smug, superior face. “Yes,” he finally answered Jigano, after a space of silence and rumination, a shrug or two, undulating shoulders and muscles, the past billowing around him, unfolding like rampant ghosts, and he started trying to fumble them away, pile them back into their spectral, gnarled lacquer. “The Aurora Basin’s was the God of the Spark. He also controlled time.” For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

Ah. Not a pleasant topic for the General, Jigano decided as Deimos stewed in silence for a time before shrugging off the past as if it had no place in his present. For once the bard decided not to push and pry any farther, though the concept of a god that controlled Time had him itching to ask a half dozen questions. Deimos did not appear overly fond of theology though, so Jigano just nodded gratefully for what had been shared, and stood back to admire their makeshift toy soldier army.

"Just what did you do to these to shred them so thoroughly?" He asked, a little bemused at the signs of repair on the regiment. "Or is the militia so fierce that they're blowing through practice dummies like flower petals? I don't know that I've ever seen damage like that on them before. Not from bladed weapon or blunt, at least. Nor magic," he added thoughtfully, though perhaps if he flung rocks with his earth magic it might do the trick? It would have to be a lot of rocks, and heavy ones too, he decided with a faint grimace. Unless Deimos had recruited a half dozen enterprising young earth mages to live in the barracks it seemed like an unlikely setup.

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Jigano must’ve known better than to continue prying into past distinctions, the archaic grounds clenching over his jaw and sewing his mouth shut; no more bleeding, no more presiding, in its wake for longer than necessary. There were plenty of things to be proud of in its unrelenting force, and so much more to be ashamed of, drowning in the revolutionary spread of bones and mantles, of broken, chipped victories and hollowed defeats. The notion of the wrecked targets, now salvaged once more, seemed to skim over his sentiments though, lend him back to the present, to the here and now. Maybe Jigano had uttered the magic words: the havoc within the fiend alive and well again, just by the mere semblance and possible rendering of upheaval. Immediately irreverent, as if a boyish, juvenile mechanism slid right over his nonchalance and chiseled it straight into mischief and melee, he turned to Jigano with a Cheshire grin and a devilish enterprise. “I made a catapult.” It was with a strict foundation of pride and insurrection, wayward acclaim of weaponry and munitions that might have made his vehement heart bleed with a warrior’s version of amusements. He maneuvered over to the corner where it’d been tucked away, removing the sheet covering its existence, placing the fabric off to the side, and pulling it by its handles so that it appeared before the range of targets all over again. If only the goals and bullseyes might have been sentient, he would’ve liked to have seem them shudder in the wake of its disastrous calamity again. He patted the wooden bombardments as if it were an old friend, maneuvering the arm, rendering it ready for anything they yearned to place in its basket. The Sword had re-piled the rocks days ago, thinking to utilize them for something else, but now they were doomed to be cannon fodder for a little while longer. An arch to his brow, and still the grin in place; a look of impending disaster for someone or something. “Want to try?” For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

The General looked downright gleeful that Jigano had asked his innocent question, bearing a rare grin (not as rare as they used to be, though) that was filled with teeth behind the simple joy in his four little words. Blue eyes widened and the bard found a laugh bubbling up at the sheer infectiousness of the big man's deviltry. "No!" he exclaimed, though not a true expression of doubt so much as delight. Gadgets and gizmos and the theory of engineering had once been his cup of tea, in a different place, on another world, and he had seen the schematics for such a device but never had reason to see one up close.

He followed to the hiding place, the sheet hiding an instrument of destruction that had no place in the half-ruined settlement except as a novelty, perhaps... but what a novelty, sleek and wicked, with well-oiled springs and strong, clean beams. Jigano crossed his arms to keep himself from reaching out to touch it, letting Deimos steer and direct the grand weapon into position, but there was an edge of eagerness in his step as he followed, not-quite-bouncing until it was placed to its proud maker's satisfaction. He examined the curve of the arm, the sturdiness of the bracers, the fittings of the basket, and his grin curled into something of matching mischief. "Let's get the rocks!" he declared, heading over to the pile to begin carrying them over, as many as Deimos deemed appropriate - or until the basket was full.

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Deimos had never really bothered avoiding his predilections towards violence and vehemence. Weaponry was in his blood, stirred long before by incantations searing and scathing with detrimental qualities, and soldier emblems only came next – so the ease in which he stoked rapture and reverie in the art of warfare was neither surprising or mystifying. Born to decimate and ruin, creation interludes had only sparked a series of cycles in his Machiavellian mind, and once capable of orchestrating many of them, the possibilities amassed in those seething webs and intricate lines were seemingly endless. For now, it was partly amusement and primordial dreams of terror, but he could rest in its irreverence, in the way it cut through swarms of makeshift infidels and enemies. They gathered the rocks, the pre-determined course of demise, and the juvenile, mischievous contortions to him lingered below the surface, thriving, yearning, to see the wasteland punctured and pierced again. The stones were placed, the weight balanced, the arm thrown, and then he stepped back, extending a hand, a wherewithal motion for Jigano to have his turn. “Go ahead.” For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

Rocks were placed until the basket was full, and Jigano waited for Deimos to check the trajectory and distance of his wonderful weapon, trusting to the general's experience and aim. He did not precisely vibrate with eagerness, but he was quick to step to whatever task the catapult's proud parent indicated to prepare it for its coming fusillade of fury. "Thank you," he murmured as the final check was made, each rock lovingly tumbled into place in the basket. He reached for the lever, savoring the moment as he stared down the ranks of recently-repaired soldiers, and for a moment his grin turned downright gleeful before he pulled the release and let fly the rocks of war.

With all the hard work already done - the placement, the angle, the measured span of open ground betwixt the engine of destruction and its hapless victims - Jigano could hardly miss. The missiles rained down upon the strawmen in a glorious rain of wreckage that knocked the ranks askew and asunder as they came apart at their newly-restitched seams. Jigano let out an indecorous Whoop! of triumph, turning to grin at Deimos in unabashed delight. "Damn, that feels good," he crowed, previous tribulations forgotten in the rush of the moment.

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Deimos never considered Jigano being amongst those satisfied with demolition, wreckage, and general havoc. He seemed of the sort to be frustrated, vexed, or contemptuous in the face of destroyed, discarded remnants of knowledge or sagacity, things lost in sanctions of irreverence, sedition, and war. But as he launched, rocks flying with the catapult’s range, with the ferocious cascading of stones thundering down into the assembled targets, bludgeoning a few more heads, limbs, and chest cavities – with the resounding crow – the Sword arched a brow. Now there was a side he hadn’t seen. “I did not take you for one who enjoyed destruction.” A sensation of bemusement ran through the attuned bond, before he took over, grabbing some of the scattered stones, leaving the rest where they stood along the battered remnants. He adjusted the aim, rendering it upon those who hadn’t met the prior siege or assault, the bucket full, the arm pulled back, the ballista primed. The triumph of potential puissance, precision, and ruination clambered along his entity, a breath of soulless, unrelenting means – as if those targets were more than just mere fodder for amusement, as if they represented something far greater, far more deadly, far more lethal, and he’d demonstrate the same in turn. The beast allowed the arm to fly, and watched as the rocks’ fury, vehemence, and force blasted into the makeshift skulls and figures. Some toppled. Some blew apart. Some lost entire sides, and the weightlessness caused them to capsize. Some merely felt the agony of defeat and surrendered by torn shoulders and broken limbs. There was satisfaction in it – the tides of primordial, primeval yesteryears coiling in the corner of his eyes, when they’d been capable, able, of tearing apart whole kingdoms, when the world knew who they were. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

Jigano snorted at the comment, his smile wry as he moved to load more stones so the General could have his turn. "I was always better suited to protecting and defending from the rear, bolstering and supporting my allies with spell and song... but I would be lying if I said I never felt the urge to be at the forefront of the battle, being the one to strike the decisive blow. To be the one the ballad was written about, rather than the one doing the writing." He tried to shrug it off, playing the moment lightly as he stepped back to give Deimos room to man his own machine, turning it towards the brave soldiers still standing. "But you've seen my swordwork. I'm better with a rapier, but that's not really a blade for war, so being able to do that much damage with a single blow is... it is immensely satisfactory." He suspected Deimos would understand that at least, even if the General had always been first into the fray.

And when the other man pulled the trigger, one look at his face was enough to confirm that suspicion as Jigano's grin lingered after the last enemy had fallen. "I bet you could make some real mischief if you loaded that up with Memory Mud instead of rocks," he mused thoughtfully. "Do some militia training in dodging and reflexes against enemy fire with it?"

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Defensive maneuvers and protection towards other flanks was nothing demeaning, war was war, and they all had their places, ranks, and remnants within it. Deimos had never held a preference except for action, assault, and violence, given and granted the opportunity to do the most damage effectively, efficiently, a swipe of the blade across torsos before moving on to another, a sword embedded into a back before chasing down similar adversaries, one by one, until muscles ached and dominions fell, toppled, and they tasted victory rather than defeat. But that hadn’t always been the case, sinking and sliding into vanquished proportions far more often, the cost of eminence, prestige, and acclaim, the cost of freedom, the cost of liberation, bloodied hands with nothing to show for it but new wounds and scars. Something in the fragments of Jigano’s ballad statement gave him great pause too – because he’d never been in it for the fame, for the potential rise of soulless renditions of his prowess and potential, hadn’t cared if he dealt the finishing touches or done naught more than pull a friend from the trenches – as long as he was doing something to move them forward, onward, into the onslaught, terror for terror, determination for determination. Too many of them had died, and nothing had been written about them, sung about them. Nothing stayed in those fringes except his memories of digging their graves, makeshift tombs and sepulchers across otherwise empty, riddled fields. For all his ferocity, for all his irreverence, some days it hadn’t been worth it. A stoic void, a sullen shell, gaze narrowed, as if he were elsewhere – staring at the details of drawn defeats, marked and sketched into his skin, into his flesh, into his bone. “Glory soon departs any battlefield.” He remained silent thereafter on the choking brambles, easing into a breath he hadn’t released, striving not to drown in the weight of primitive motions. Satisfactory indeed, to potentially watch worlds burn around them, to dissolve into frenetic, restless shambles, to do unto others the same that’d been wrought upon them. Vengeance, blood for blood, fire and conflagrations and infernos caught, tethered, and lined; rasps of tenacity behind bloodied teeth and malicious derision. Alive, alive, alive, and adversaries not. His eyes swung back to Jigano, to the musing, to the mischief, striving to clamber back into it, away from wraiths, phantoms, and the notched banners of war drums bellowing in his ears. “That could be fun,” at the notion, at the suggestion, the slightest inclination of devilry settling along his mouth again – stare pondering over the wide open plain, recruits emblazoned with streaks of mud and ridiculous statures. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

"Glory is a fickle bitch," Jigano agreed wryly. "It was meant as a figure of speech, though. Most of our battles were done quietly and we didn't dare spread the word of what we were about. Not that it did much good," he added after a moment's thoughtful pause and a shrug that was deceptively casual. "Word got out eventually and... well. Despots don't much care for rebels or how much collateral damage happens in hunting them down." They might have been successful in the long run, but it had cost Jigano his family along the way, and no few other deaths in their hometown when the League sent a myrmidon to deliver a 'warning' that destroyed several buildings in the town, including one where Jigano's parents were sheltering.

No, he'd claimed few of their victories for songs and tales. There was too much danger in it, and afterwards he didn't wish to be reminded of the cost, and had stayed silent over his part in bringing down the mad iron god. There was truth, though, in that however necessary the support troops were to any battle, there was little thanks or recognition of them after, even among themselves. Those who plunged to the front of the battle, taking lives, splashed in blood, risking the most but also around whose arms and weapons hinged the success or defeat of the group as a whole... they never questioned their importance, never had their place called into question. The support troops never talked about leaving the melee warriors behind as useless baggage, never forgot what they did for the group.

A little lingering resentment, even after all these years? He shook it off, disgusted at himself as he turned his attention to Deimos's attack on the remaining targets, mowing them down like a grim harvest. Determined to find the light again he suggested mud, but then another idea came to him. "Or we could fill it with flowers and launch them during Fiat Lux to scatter over the crowd," he suggested slyly. "A demonstration from the militia stall, perhaps?"

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Battles done quietly – he’d never experienced that either. Rebellion was a hushed platitude, but thereafter, when the actions demanded rebuttal, when their cloak and daggers had manifested exactly what they craved, naught about their tactics or warfare had been orchestrated in a subtle irreverence. There’d been blood and fire and ash and death – war cries and drums he could still hear in his dreams, cinders and embers spread through their palms, swords an extension of their arms, their limbs, their every waking breath and moment, before dust settled. Even then, with pleas for mercy, with the dying begging for absolution, with the wounded’s words pulsing and pervading, with the screech of victory behind blood-stained teeth, with the shouts for retreat – no, there’d never been anything soundless. The world quaked and shook, and knew exactly who they were in those moments, when they lost their homes, when they lost their legacies, when they lost pieces of themselves (the ocean breaking over cliffs, endless fog, glassy vestiges, decadent moons). He listened but didn’t provide anything else, patting at the catapult one last time before returning to the fallen soldiers, plucking at the ones still somewhat hole, rearranging their stances, and then dragging the rest of the fallen to the sidelines, doomed and damned to be repaired again. No ivory tents here, no medics stitching them back upon, but the concept still the same; they just didn’t breathe or inhabit thought. At Jigano’s final suggestion, he brandished a laugh, finally clambering away from the murkier depths, from the platitudes strung together behind his ribs and over his heart; traces and foundations that made him who he was, even if they were filled to the brim with ghosts. The image alone of flowers or their petal-ed crowns flung into onlookers and passerbys with enough force to break them all apart had its merit, and was now half-tempted to mention it to Amalia as part of some challenge again (to see how many they could take out this year). He shrugged again, guiding the flailing warriors back to repair work. “As long as it is useful.” For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

Deimos had begun his inexorable retreat back into silence again, and no notion of Jigano's history could pry more words from him; neither curiosity nor censure nor platitude. They had come from different worlds, had fought different battles for different stakes against different foes, and though there was enough similar to let them understand parts of each other's pasts their experiences were separate enough that there was always that disconnection at some point or another. The place where they split down their divergent lanes of memory and recalled different smoke and different war cries ringing on the wind or in the halls.

The silence that followed was more like the General's natural state, and Jigano hid a wry smile as he went to rejoin the big man amidst the results of their carnage. He used his earth magic to help shift the boulders back towards the pile from whence they'd come while Deimos collected the fallen and the damned to be revived once more. His suggestions were met with approval, he was glad to note, and his grin broke free once more at the unexpected laugh. "Fun is useful," he argued playfully. "It's good for keeping up morale!" He hoped that the catapult would make an appearance in that case, and he gave the General a wink as they passed each other with their respective loads. "Just let me know if you need a large number of flowers in a hurry and I'll find a way to provide." As Deimos had reminded him, just because the gods saw his new magic as a curse it didn't mean he needed to treat it like one. If it could bring joy, what better use for it could there be?

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Battles waged in different, alternating confines, and it’d chiseled such a foundation into the beast’s furrowed brows and vehement bones, he could scarcely remember a time he hadn’t been affected by its violent constitution. Perhaps it was wise and well that neither of them shared the same experiences, could bring forth different viewpoints and vantages when it came down to other notions, perceptions, and possibilities. There were hundreds of ways to conquer, and they’d likely never touched upon all of them – time would tell, speak, and provide the ultimatums, the reminders, the anthems, the shields, and everything else caught in between. But for now, maybe they should’ve only considered morale; after LongNight, after blights, after deaths, after so many other scorching little pockets and granules come to bury them alive. He propped the remains of the torn apart, cracked, or shorn targets along the side of the barracks, a later adornment, pondering if he should bring them over to the festival or not (put flower crowns on them, see how many could be knocked off, rolling heads, temptation and enticement for those seeking out munitions and means). “I will consider it,” the Sword rendered, mischief still laden in his smile, like ages long before – when wars were extended over flour instead of the succumbing, sinking world. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate