fears, shmears

Oh, her toys! Shiny sword. Retractable metal talon thingies. What should she even call them? High off a persistent sense of feeling like she can take on the world, Wessex sets out, toys in hand, with no sense of agenda other than to use them at some point. Or throw herself recklessly back into danger. Or maybe just go somewhere she’s never truly dared to go before. With Roana’s sword strapped to her back (in place of her bow, which is not so effective in the winter winds), she pads quietly through the ruins, flowing like water over the stones and snow-covered overgrowth. A little song once again pops into her head and she begins to hum a few short bars in repetition as she heads towards the mist-filled gorge and that creepy-ass bridge. You are not like them. No. She’s better. And she will master one of the few things that have given her pause in her thirty-eight years of life: that damn bridge and the seemingly bottomless expanse beneath it. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

what. Ronin stood before the start of the Bone Bridge, remembering how he and Zariah had walked across it once. The guildmaster turned the collar of his coat up to ward off a sharp winter breeze, the movement causing the dragonling that sheltered against his neck to chirp appreciatively. A frown flickered across his face, Ronin burying his hands in deep pockets - he wore his gauntlet on his left hand, as he had done since receiving it from Safrin, but he had foregone the Snakebite today. The last time he'd used it, he... it hadn't felt good, put it that way. About to set foot upon the bridge to see if he would be able to walk farther than he had done last time, Ronin paused at the sound of... humming. Quiet, repetitive. He turned to glance over his shoulder to see a figure he half recognised. Wessex had fought off demonic gourds with him in the Glade. He was also reasonably sure she had shot him in the arm (the limb was still bandaged - another reason for not wearing his clawed glove). But that was neither here nor there. What caused him to really stop and stare was the sight of Krosis strapped to her back, the claymore instantly recognisable. "Hello," he called, more to make sure his presence was known than as an actual greeting.

 

M E L I T A

---

Her boldness was a lifeline, tethered straight into her raw, untamed ichor, claiming substance and sinew in breaths, in cycles, in minuets poised, prosed, by her reckless ambitions. Underneath all her aspirations, the girl felt justified in her impetuous endeavors, finding a specific branch, sharpening it with a tiny knife, whittling at its edges until it presented a rough-hewn spear. The makeshift weapon would be suitable for light hunting, hopefully, with a dabble into some staff machinations – maybe she could practice along the outskirts, or near the eerie bridge. Fangorn had all but grimaced and hissed at it, but he was partial to staying well out of danger (it was what caused him to survive after all; he hadn’t been amongst the vicious gourds attacking inhabitants, he’d stuck to the plains of brush and thorns). While she worked, a hum on her lips, the sun clinging to her crimson, tangled tresses, the world her battlefield, her making, her choosing, she could hear another’s trill; softer, like the breeze, like the embodiment of the wind, of the rain, and she stopped what she was doing. Melita had only ceased for a second or two; she was an exercise in constancy, in motion, in how many forces she could crush, in how many blades she could thrust. Then she followed, much like a predator, a curious, inquisitive animal, too foolish, too intrigued, for its own good; sliding behind rocks and crags, managing to manifest interest with audacious splendor, noting the overpass’s porcelain edges gleaming (and the usual questions circled her mind: how had they managed to be there? What monsters had been slain? Why?), and the outline of a familiar figure, daring and auspicious.

Wessex: the reincarnated blade. Melita had been amongst the counsel, the strange gathering where those of worth had informed anyone and everyone of what had occurred, the spire monster lurking, treacherous and deadly, and Wessex’s ultimate demise. The honeybee girl had been shocked at first – then eager, fervent, to take up arms, to avenge a known, fallen inhabitant, because that was how she was, how she existed, between vengeance and upheaval, ardent in her part against the wars, the cruelty, the vehemence lurking amidst enigmas and warrens. She’d been disheartened too, for the warrioress had proffered an opportunity to learn - and to have it spurned, taken away from her before she’d even had a chance to collect on the lessons, had been brutal and scalding. The youth would’ve been lying if some rapacious, covetous, greedy little mercenary bit of her hadn’t frowned at the notion; but it’d been split hairs moments later, when the shield maiden walked into the threshold as if nothing was the matter.

It’d been utterly baffling; but a demonstration of her power, of her tenacity, of her abilities. Melita saw it as a reflection of persistence and brawn – wanted to become just as potent, just as deadly, just as sure.

She grabbed her makeshift spear and followed. Fangorn bounded behind her, and with a mighty bellow, the youth announced her presence well before they arrived, meters away: “Wessex! I’ve come to learn!” She held her spear aloft, as if it were something grand and lethal, instead of marred by knots and worn fibers, jubilant and exultant, one of those imps no one could ever truly be rid of. As the pair maneuvered their way across, another wandered into the clearing, recognizable but without a name etched in Melita’s psyche; but she didn’t waste the chance for further introductions (and on a closer look, she noticed that he was one of those who’d presented the noteworthy information). The girl rested her spear against her shoulder, and extended the hand not occupied by weaponry towards the man. “Hello! I’m Melita!”

Well, well, well, it looks like she has company. Someone Wessex wasn’t hoping to see any time soon, but… the Bubble has always been rather small for her taste, and getting obnoxiously smaller. She makes a face on the inside but doesn’t slow her approach. Better to play it cool, pretend it never happened unless Ronin comments on it. She’s wearing more than usual, but nothing like a jacket or a cloak, just a long-sleeved shirt, leather armor atop, and full length pants. The wind whistles by them, heading out into the air before them; it blows her short locks into her face, and she tucks them behind her ears again with a casual movement. “Hey, she says with a short nod, coming to a stop at his side, all semi-friendly like. But like, with a decent amount of space between them. Yep, just two fightin’ people staring at a bone bridge and its deep chasm. Her arms cross as she considers the bridge in front of them - partially to assess the conditions and partially to avoid looking at Ronin. Wessex is about to speak when Melita shatters the potential tension with her springy bits of goodwill. Wessex! I’ve come to learn! What Wessex has done to deserve the good faith of the little red-headed sprite is beyond all knowing. She just hopes it doesn’t get the girl killed. The Ascended glances at Ronin, then back to Melita, sighs quietly and then gestures for the girl to join them. It’s an… interesting group. Once she’s there, Wessex gestures for her to pause with them. At least she won’t be the only teacher today… from what she’s seen, Ronin is fairly skilled at swordwork. “Right. So it’s the three of us, yeah? Melita, which order do you think we should progress in?” There isn’t enough room to safely cross at three abreast, in her humble opinion. It simply wouldn’t be wise. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

what. Ronin turned at the sound of another voice, smiling automatically as Melita came bounding towards him. "Oh! Hello, Melita. I'm Ronin - I believe we met when we were building the perch for the Spark Bird?" At least he hoped the fiery haired girl had been the one he had seen. Else his faux pas would be obvious - ah, well. Too late to take it back now. He took Melita's hand in a warm, firm grip, shaking it and glancing up at the sound of Wessex's voice. Luckily for the Ascended, Ronin was rather busy being shot at the time of her... er, shooting him, and even the clues and descriptions given to him by others there were vague memories at best. "Oh, is this training?" His smile turned crooked - a former captain of that very thing, he found himself feeling very much excited to participate. Letting Melita make her choice, he glanced again at the sword on Wessex's back. "If it isn't too forward, may I ask where you came across that?"

 

M E L I T A

---

Even if Wessex hadn’t permitted to join them, not much would’ve stopped the girl. Her determination and intentions were stalwart and gutsy, someone driven by whatever means or pursuits necessary, someone who’d had a multitude of things taken from them, someone whose grasp was tight and strong, persevering despite her winsome smile and her whimsical nature. Her attention diverted to Ronin first, whom she’d apparently failed to recognize (ridiculous she thought to herself, but she’d been so caught up in the sway of poles, logs, the strength and regard for birds who erupted into flames). She bowed over her slight, bending her head and shaking it, all the ringlets pulsing with vivid fire and ease of temper. “Oh, of course! My apologies! Nice to meet you again!” Her gilded eyes flicked over him once or twice, committing his face and form solidly to memory this time – returning the shake with equal measure and gusto. When Ronin inquired about possible training, she brightened again, never down or pushed aside for long, breath quickening in the excitement, in the possibility, of gaining precision and might. The girl was drawn to all depths of danger and power; wanted it all, every ounce, in order to protect and guard what was hers – it was simplistic enough, but after her childhood, the roughened edges of youth, Melita had only become more insistent on waltzing straight into hazard and peril, defending those who couldn’t manage on their own. “I hope so!” Her smile took on an impish, devil-may-care quality, as if she’d conjured and recalled it from all the other fiends and cretins she’d met along the way.

Then, at Ronin’s inquiry, her eyes ghosted too to the sword strapped to Wessex’s back; a fine piece of craftwork, quite unlike her roughly-hewn spear. Perhaps he wanted one as well, and who could blame him – the weapon was lovely and deadly, a perfect combination for the rumors circulating around monsters, demons, and Long Nights. She tilted her head in curiosity, for she wanted to know (everything and anything; the best qualities).

Per Wessex’s suggestion, suddenly things were in Melita’s control. As the youngest, and likely most immature, though not without a fair amount of bestial, barbaric, chaotic experience, it probably wasn’t the safest, wisest measure. Moments left up to the honeybee child often ended up torn, broken, damaged, and frayed at her impetuous, impulsive tendencies, flames and daggers prospered from foolish enterprises, more bruises and wounds than truly required or necessary. Her eyes still whispered and ghosted over the bone bridge though, the width was clearly not enough for all three of them, then she pondered over strengths, nuances, those who knew about this earth and plain. If this was a test though, she’d likely failed. Fangorn rolled his enigmatic gaze around while her fingers stroked at her chin. “Well, we could have you go first, Wessex,” after all, this had been her idea and notion, best let her lead, “then Ronin, then myself!” The pitch of her voice was made in the most ridiculous of cheer, as if it was all a game, and she was more than eager to play it. Her hands wrapped harder around her spear, and if it were possible, her grin was coiled even broader. “Would that work for everyone?”

She shrugs, physically saying, I didn’t intend for it to be, but fuck it, I guess it is now. It’s fine. She probably would have done something foolhardy and these two will keep her in check. Fate is obnoxiously funny that way. Emphasis on the obnoxious. While the girl is busy thinking, Wessex clocks Ronin’s question, turning back to look at the hilt of the blade as it rises a little above her shoulder. “I won it,” she says calmly. And it’s true, isn’t it? To Roana, the Natural stole it, and to Wessex, she won a battle of bluffs and wills, a test of speed and confidence. The Outlander could have called her bluff - what, did she really think Wessex was going to kill children over a sword? - chosen to believe that though might makes right here, they are not utter barbarians. Ronin can fill in the details with his own imagination, or ask more. But Wessex won’t volunteer answers. Not to him. Anyway.They dive right in, and while her question wasn’t a test, per se, it is used to assess Melita’s instincts, which… aren’t terrible, but aren’t great either. The warrior woman shakes her head a bit, but it is not unkindly, nor does she look displeased. “For this kind of thing, we’ll put you in the middle. Experienced members on the ends to protect against either rear or frontal attacks.” She pauses, looking between the two Outlanders. “And though your instinct is right about putting a native first, you couldn’t have known that I really dislike this bridge and never cross it. So, Ronin, if you’ve been here before, you can take lead if you want. If not, I’ll suck it up and grow a pair.” He got sucked into this by virtue of proximity, it’s his decision, not hers. Should he agree, she’ll line up behind the two of them and follow accordingly - claymore at the ready. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

Melita

what. "No apology needed," Ronin assured Melita, simply glad that he'd not mistaken her for someone else. A smile still on his lips, he turned his attention back to Wessex as she explained about the sword. The former captain couldn't keep from raising his eyebrows at her forward sort of answer, and there was a touch of suspicion that tickled in the back of his mind. Roana didn't seem the sort to bargain something like Krosis, but... who was he to know the details? "Its previous owner must have been crushed to lose it," he remarked instead, then wisely fell silent so they could discuss tactics. He was glad that the Ascended had pointed out that it would be wiser to have the least experienced in the centre, but Ronin hadn't known, really, what Melita was capable of. Either way, he didn't mind leading one bit, grinning at the two women and giving an easy shrug. "Sure," he said, already stepping onto the bridge. "Not that I think the mist will make it easy going, whatever we decide. But I'm happy to try and spot things before they come up. Not that I want us to encounter anything, necessarily."

 

M E L I T A

---

I won it sounded phenomenal; and Melita was instantly full of questions again, a roaring, tumbling hive of bustling inquiries. Where had she received such a prize? How did she acquire it? Had it been a competition? Were they holding another one soon? The ravenous, covetous contortions in her soul fueled the fire, but then were held in check by the layers, by the undertones, in Ronin’s response. She tilted her head, curious all the more, attempting to decipher all the lacquer in between, but everything moved on quickly (purposefully, she narrowed her eyes and speculated; Fangorn’s stare furrowed in the same instance).

Her first lesson, likely one of the many to come, encountered a bristling faction in her membrane. Her initial instinct was to seethe, because Wessex had no idea of what the child had experienced. She’d survived the descent of Helovia, the shadows, the death waves and knells, the outcries and bedlam; only to continue enduring hardship after hardship, agony after agony, anguish after anguish, along the Rift’s chambers. The crackling kingdom’s anthem and banners had been dipped, etched, and stitched in the seams of kill or be killed, hunt or be hunted. She’d been in the grip of acrimony and vehemence, had come out on the other side, had remained despite the scars, the nightmares, the quandaries and destruction, because of her ability to withstand, because she looked danger in the face and opened her arms. Did that count for something? Or had she measured her, sized her up, simply due to her youth? She fought the urge to huff, to pout, to begin growling or roaring in distaste, crying out against the injustice. You don’t know what I can do.

But as her gaze swept over the older individuals, who had likely seen just as much, if not more, of the world’s intertwining treacheries. Maybe they’d slayed more monsters. Maybe they’d survived more wars. Maybe they’d acquired skills, tactics, and precision she’d yet to even dream of.

So the girl was forced to merely nod, and not shove her chin out in defiance, in sedition, in revolutionary habit. She reined it in, attempting not to pulse the insurgent tendencies throughout her fiery essence, and swallowing down the barbs, quills, and thorns piercing her tongue. The honeybee child nodded towards both of them, accepting the order, shouldering her spear once more, ready to embark into bones and mist.

Melita didn’t ask why Wessex, of all people, didn’t want to cross the bridge. But her head twisted, inclined, in Ronin’s direction, the inquisitive set of her eyes radiant once more; the manner of curious, ridiculous beings who’d seen too much, but never enough. “What could we encounter?” She’d seen her share of demons: the ones who pretended to be mothers, the ones who impersonated beloved beings, the one who sullied and denied and preyed upon the weaknesses in hearts. She’d experienced loved ones suddenly risen from catacombs, the dirt not yet settled across their grave, enraged, incensed, and never whole again (could hear the howls again; how they twitched in agony, how they assaulted those they cherished, how the mark on her back intertwined and sizzled, how she’d screamed into the Stygian ether). Were they due for the same agony – or were their new fiends surfacing?

She sure as hell wasn’t happy about it, Wessex thinks to herself before the topic changes. Probably crushed, yes, but she hadn’t stuck around to find out. Anyway. Moving on. Wessex nods gratefully at Ronin as he accepts her proposition and then falls in line, pulling the sword from its sheath to have at the ready. She follows the girl and also steps on to the bridge, its porous rock odd beneath her feet. What could we encounter? Melita asks, and Wessex takes a deep breath, talking more quietly than usual. Ronin should still be able to easily hear her, but the mist, it seems to muffle the surroundings as soon as one steps into it. “Well,” she begins. “There are the stories of something called a Kappa, which flies through the mists under the bridge. Very few people have actually seen it - or think they’ve seen it, which I suppose means it isn’t inherently dangerous. Other than that… no one really knows. The mists always seem to be here.” Really, she’s no help on this matter. For once. There is only going forward and seeing what happens. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

what. Ronin listened intently to Wessex as she spoke about the... Kappa, was it? He'd not heard of such a thing himself, but he stored the information away for later; it would be useful at the guild, no doubt. His steps were sure but cautious as they proceeded, his arms held loosely at his sides and his fists clenched. A hand-to-hand combatant always earned a few looks, but he'd gotten this far with it and he was still alive. Hopefully that counted for something. "Once there was a... creature, here, I suppose you could call it. With a box. It asked questions and gave strange rewards - I'm not sure if either of you were there for it. But it hasn't been seen since, so I'm not sure I could say we're likely to encounter it here, per say." The mist was thick, near impenetrable, and Ronin sighed and waved a hand to engage his light ring. Around them a halo of soft gold aided their sight somewhat. "Has anyone ever been to the other side?"

 

M E L I T A

---

The impudence and rebellious thoughts billowed away from her; eternally mercurial and tempestuous, one moment a storm, the next a blossom – attention riveted on the tale Wessex shared. She attempted to imagine a monster of the mist, flying through fog, covered and veiled by the shrouds of droplets and mist. What did it prey upon? Would it have long claws that snatched, talons that grabbed, vicious canines set in unhinging mouths? Her mind was thoroughly occupied by the notions, by the haunting fragments of other fiends and infidels she’d come across, and absentmindedly, while she took sure, certain steps on bones and panels, she clutched her spear a little closer to her shoulder.

Ronin even had an encounter, and she captured that into her mindset too, Fangorn bounding dutifully behind her, not a sound made despite his penchant for hissing, growling, and grumbling. Perhaps he understood the nature of the danger, the treachery, the probability of impending, ominous maneuvers too. A creature with a box sounded intriguing; offering rewards, proffering gifts. Would one have to do something to earn these things, or was it merely if it captured an essence, saw a presence? Was it crooked and cruel, or was it weary and kind? She’d had her fair share of both – the former with all the twists, turns, calamities, and injustices, the gods of her homeland ripped apart, torn, and disassembled with chicanery and blight. All Melita could do was shake her head, ignorant to everything except those experiences from before, and she suddenly wished she had a story to share, a legend to unravel.

But in a way, she did, and though she hadn’t yet repeated it to anyone, and the demon was highly unlikely to come swarming out of the mist (though she wouldn’t be surprised, Kaos had his own way of consuming everyone), the youth wanted to be a part of the glory, of the triumph, of the passing of sagacity and sparks. The honeybee girl wanted them to know she’d seen things, that she wasn’t totally lost in the bounty of ignorance, that she’d survived just like they had, scarred and brutalized. “In my homeland, there was a monster who could raise the dead. When someone begged and pleaded for their loved ones to return, he obliged.” She hid the passing shudder roaming through her, the aching memory of those cherished beings rising from the water, never quite the same. They’d been wrath and contempt, anguish and suffering, embroiled to commit atrocious acts on the beings they’d once been devoted to. “But they weren’t the creatures we’d loved – they were angry, upset, that they could no longer rest. They attacked.” The youth ended her story there, didn’t explain the long, jagged, scar down her back (lightning; puckered, a burnt crisp of skin that told an infinite tale of determination, shielding, terror, and torture), and looked out across the fog again, breathing into the abyss. “Could something like that live here too?” She dared not be afraid of the answer; of catacombs opening and wraiths roaming, of false gods who wove their tenacity and deceit straight into blood and violence.