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Post by Askr Mimameith on Jan 20, 2024 19:49:22 GMT -5
It’s been a while since the last time Askr drew his blade for the sake of coin alone. He knows his roots well– knows the gilded blood coursing through his synthetic veins, knows the time he spent waiting for someone he now knows likely never intended to return, knows his first introduction to a world he was denied was one defined by broken bones and weighted purses, one with little room for all the kinder minutiae of living. Within those first key moments of stepping into this world, one with open expanses and rich air and a sky as transient as a mother’s heart, he’d had a sword placed in his hands and expectations placed upon his shoulders, and that had become his life. He has not forgotten that. He has seen kinder things, met kinder people, felt the loving touch of the sun and the sea and the skin of people who’d made boundless wells of their bleeding hearts and let him take what he needed, but he has not forgotten that violence made him and violence shaped him, and violence will always be what he returns to. Especially now that it has made its mark on him, dug its unrelenting fangs into his glass heart and made a ruin of it, run off with the shards and left him to patchwork it back together when it will forever be incomplete. It is… a dramatic way to think. Too dramatic, maybe, but it feels… right. Askr has never been one for metaphors, never quite understood them, never had any skill for tying greater meaning to his feelings, but he finds his mind wandering that way more often, now. It is not easy to think of things as they are– it is not easy to look at Death and what it’s taken and say it frankly. It is easier to understand through a lens. Regardless, he should not pay metaphor any mind– should not let his mind wander back to the reason he is here to begin with. When you are a mercenary, your reasons die as soon as you have your mission– all that matters is getting it done. And today, he is… meant to hunt down some strange, horse-like creatures terrorizing King’s Valley. They are not like the horses he has become acquainted with– Byrr is a far gentler beast, strong and sturdy and acquainted with the flames of war, but he is not vicious. He is not designed to kill. These creatures– Wyldmares, Askr believes– are; they bear the teeth of a predator, the claws of a wolf. They are vicious. They are designed to kill, and so Askr must kill them. That is what he is here to do– it is only a matter of finding them. So he wanders the plains, Yggdrasil in hand, Yr and Eik sliding along beside him, the chains holding their blades together clinking idly as they follow. So far, there has been no sight of any of the creatures, but Askr knows they are there– he merely has to wait.
Bringing: 1. Eir - Dancing Chain 2. Yr - Dancing Chain Two Wyldmare's have been causing problems for locals, having engaged in a fight among themselves outside a nearby village or town. Something has stirred the two and enraged them, causing them to become even more violent than normal. Their fight is disrupting trade and travel as locals are afraid to further disturb the creatures. Help is being asked for, someone who can come in, break up the fight, and deal with the creatures any way they can. Be cautious, however, as one disgruntled Wyldmare can be a handful on its own, let alone two.
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Post by Lady Astrid Stormstone on Jan 20, 2024 20:59:35 GMT -5
Ever since learning of an unexpected loss, one that had been covered up and hidden away, the world made to think it never really happened, Astrid has felt… Guilty. For a number of reasons, guilt eats away at her, a moth nibbling on the curtains of her heart. She forced the information out of more than one person, people who didn’t want to share their pain – maybe in some effort to protect her from feeling the same – and at the same time, she brought trouble to people she cares a lot about. There’s so little she can do about the situation at hand, no matter how much she wants to help or apologize – she can’t fix it. Some things can’t just be mended with magic or rebuilt in the forge. Not everything in the world is as sturdy and malleable as metal.
That being said, she can at least do what she can now to watch the backs of the people she cares about. Del and Cyran noticed someone close to Zarius and his family in the area, an apprentice of sorts to Caedes. This individual has blond hair and a lot of swords, so they’re not terribly difficult to spot from a distance. Del and Cyran’s suspicions are that he’s likely looking for the elven couple, especially after Astrid tromped right into Zarius’ home with Marsh Flats goop leaking from her boots. Astrid’s never met this person, and no one is sure if anyone would have mentioned her to this person, Askr is his name, so she can do some reconnaissance to see what his intentions with being in the valley are.
The half-dwarf sure isn’t stealthy, having only practiced some of her footfalls. Not wearing her armor helps her keep more quiet, but she’s still as heavy-footed as any dwarf in thick boots. Her information gathering led her to follow Askr out of the nearest town. Apparently, he seemed listless and took on a job hunting down a couple of strange equine beasts called Wyldmares. If anything, Astrid can also help the locals by joining up on this.
Swallowing her anxiety and putting on a friendly face, Astrid rushes up the grassy hill in the midst of the plains. “Heyyy!” she calls, waving her hand. “Are ya lookin’ fer the weird horse thin’s too?”
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Post by Askr Mimameith on Jan 20, 2024 21:40:48 GMT -5
Askr is not expecting a voice.
As far as he is aware, he is supposed to be alone out here– supposed to be taking this mission by himself, setting his blades against these monsters and seeing who would ultimately prevail without anyone else to see it. He had made no requests for backup, had asked for no other man to stand beside him in his hunt– he was supposed to be alone.
So he cannot help but be startled when he hears a voice cut through the wide, open air; it is light, cheerful, boisterous, the kind of voice that could be called friendly, from the tone and pitch to the words it weaves, and yet, the unexpected nature of the sound cuts deep, his nerves alight as he whirls around, hand on Yggdrasil’s hilt and his breath hitching as he searches for the face of the stranger who’s elected to approach him and finds–
A girl. Small, youthful-faced, hair as gold as wheat and eyes as green as grass, silver armor glinting beneath the light of the valley’s gilded sun. She dances somewhere between imposing and approachable, her sharp edges tempered by her smile, the brightness in her eyes muted by the strength sleeping in her tiny frame, the way lightning sleeps in a cloud. It is a curious contradiction, and yet, she stands there all the same.
For a moment, Askr merely stares. He stares, wary, like a rabbit deciding whether it wants to brave darting past a coyote, and then the tension melts from his frame, his hold on Yggdrasil’s shining hilt loosening ever so slightly.
She is dangerous. That much is true. But he does not think this girl is dangerous to him.
“...the horse things,” he repeats, voice monotonous. She must also be searching for the Wyldmares– unless there are more vicious, flesh-eating horses Askr does not know about. “...Yes. You… You are, too?”
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Post by Lady Astrid Stormstone on Jan 21, 2024 2:05:46 GMT -5
Welp, this is it. This guy fits every description that Astrid has which her narrator unfortunately cannot describe as eloquently as another might. As best Astrid can tell, he seems more aloof than anything – not some hardened assassin or information seeker who’s after a pair of wayward elves, but a young man looking equally as lost as she has felt herself at times. His gaze is less stubborn than a dwarf who furrows their brow as they march onward stoic as stone. Instead, he just looks… Well, he looks surprised at her appearance, which is probably a good thing. Either Astrid has some element of surprise should a fight break out or he genuinely has no idea who she is. She’ll take either option.
“Aye, I’m lookin’ fer the freaky horse thin’s,” she affirms, which is in part a lie and in part a truth. If she found the Wyldmares first, then she would surely find him too. Askr, or at least, she thinks this is Askr based on the description. Somehow Astrid expected someone more dwarven, at least the name is reminiscent of some dwarven words. To find someone who looks as stock standard human as any other human makes her curious, but he doesn’t know that she knows his name.
“We can split ways if ya like,” Astrid offers, almost as a strange peace offering, something to avoid intruding too much. “Or we can work together. I don’t mind either way, but I figured if someone else were on the same job as me, there’s strength in numbers, ya know?” With a shrug, Astrid approaches, though she notes his grip on his sword, loose or not. "Nice ta meet ya. I'm Astrid Stormstone, noble lady by name, adventurin' smith by trade!" With great confidence, Astrid offers her hand to Askr to shake.
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Post by Askr Mimameith on Jan 21, 2024 12:40:49 GMT -5
There are a lot of questions Askr knows he should be asking– where did this girl come from so suddenly, who gave her this job, why is she so willing to take it on together with someone who is a complete stranger?-- but each and every one of them dies in his throat long before they can leap from his tongue. Skepticism is always a worthy traveling companion, but he does not have the spare energy for interrogation right now; it is easy enough to loosely map the reasons why this girl may be here, anyway. Adventurer, noble– the two things rarely coincide, but it is easy to imagine her interests may lie in the safety of the public, and these creatures certainly pose a threat. Where she came from is unimportant. As for her willingness to fight beside a stranger…
It is clear from her stance, from the power thrumming from within her tiny body, that she has nothing to worry about if he is any danger to her. She has the means to do what she must, if she must. It is something he must note.
He pauses for one, long moment before giving a short nod.
“...Askr,” he says, voice as monotonous as ever, flat and devoid of inflection. He tilts his head as he eyes her hand, as if he’s forgotten the significance behind a gesture, before placing his gloved hand in hers and stiffly shaking it. “I am Askr. Mercenary. It is… good to work with you, Lady Stormstone. We should… get going, yes?”
He untangles his fingers from hers and takes a few steps forward onto the sun-haloed plains, looking over his shoulder as if to be certain she is following, before continuing along, his steps purposeful, searching, intent on finding any traces of the Wyldmares he can see. He is more accustomed to hunting men than monsters, but it is not entirely out of his line of expertise, and he knows enough about the creatures to know that their defining feature is their insatiable desire for blood– the hunger for violence that radiates through them.
It is inevitable that they should find some trace of that hunger. It comes in the form of scarlet staining the grasses, a trail of organic blood leading straight to the husk of what must have once been a horse, now rent asunder by the teeth and claws of something made to hunt it.
Seeing blood is always a… disorienting experience. It is not as though he flinches at the sight of it, not as though Askr is troubled by the hell one body can wreak upon another, but it is strange to see just how different the workings of a normal, natural body is from his own. Scarlet blood, solid bone, as opposed to gold and chalk– something real, something spun by nature, by the world, rather than by the hands of someone desperately playing god.
It’s a difficult thing to linger on. But it is not something he should be musing over when a mission hangs over their heads, and it is not just his time they’re depending on.
“...this looks recent,” he manages to say. “They cannot be far off. The… horse-things.”
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Post by Lady Astrid Stormstone on Jan 21, 2024 14:18:15 GMT -5
Despite how much Astrid tries to appear relaxed and friendly, there’s a certain amount of tense energy in her shoulders as she offers up her name. The next few seconds will determine how the rest of this day is going to go. Is this truly the person she’s looking for? Will he recognize her name if it is?
He is. And he does not.
Astrid’s shoulders relax just in time for Askr to take her hand, which causes her to notice how stiff his handshake is. Of course, someone being approached randomly by an armor-clad girl in the middle of the plains might be off guard or on guard. It’s not a typical situation. Still, there’s no recognition, so things can go smoothly, at least for now. Widening her smile, Astrid gives Askr a firm shake of the hand before releasing it and stepping back.
“Just Astrid is fine!” she assures him. “Good ta meet ya, too. An’ aye, let’s keep goin’. We can walk an’ talk. Or not if ya don’t like talkin’ much.” Without any hesitation, she carries herself beside Askr while they walk through the grass. Admittedly, it could be much more challenging for her because of her short stature and the grass reaching up to her chest at times. Rather than trying to move through it with any amount of care for the plants grasping at her, she simply barrels through unimpeded.[1]
“Mind if ya ask where yer from, Askr?” Astrid asks after a few minutes. “Yer name sounds a bit dwarven, but I s’pose there’s lots a’ folks with names that don’t match their ancestry. Sometimes people just like a name. But far as I know, ya might have some a’ the ol’ stoneblood runnin’ through yer veins.”
Speaking of blood, they find the desiccated corpse of an equine after a while, and it is… Gross and off-putting to say the least, but Astrid is accustomed to monster hunting with all her adventuring and work with the WEF, so she fearlessly strides up and takes a look over it. “Seems ta match what a Wyldmare would do. Poor thin’...” Standing up, she looks around and notes the trampled grass in the area and where it leads. “Probably gone that way, given that’s where the blood trail leads. This one probably got caught up in the fight a’ the two that’re causin' the locals problems.”
1. Raider’s Loincloth
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Post by Askr Mimameith on Jan 22, 2024 13:01:46 GMT -5
This girl is strange.
Askr supposes “strange” is not the right word anymore– he has met people like her, knows that there is nothing especially odd or unwelcome about a young lady who is sociable and friendly, but there is some deep, profound strangeness that comes with how readily she offers it toward someone she does not know, how welcoming she is to the needs of a person she only just learned the name of. There are people who are just… like that; who are kind, who value the needs and wants of others, who are bright and talkative and handle the world with ease, but it is always, somehow, a surprise.
Astrid Stormstone is not the bad kind of strange, at least. She is not overwhelming– not fully, at least–, she is not invasive, and she does not make Askr’s skin crawl with something he cannot place. She is just… friendly. Friendly towards a stranger. That is all.
He is content to stay quiet as they walk together, though, all too happy to take Astrid up on her offer of not walking and talking– idle conversation has never been his strong suit. He speaks best with his sword and poorly with his tongue, better at delivering intent with a blade than he ever could with words. It is just the kind of person he is– common speech is practically his second language when weighed against war.
And yet, as a few moments pass, Astrid asks him a question, and–
“...the Ash Lands,” he says, but it’s… hesitant. Not fully true. “I am… not dwarven. I do not have any ancestry. I was named for a tree.”
It’s strange, really, that Astrid is one of the first people he can think of that has simply… asked about his ancestry so blatantly, even if it was merely a subset of a broader question. Askr does not mind talking about it, does not mind mentioning that he is not a real person, that he was forged from pieces of the earth– it is not a secret. It is just who he is; what would he be doing if he tried to hide that? What right does he have, to play at being real?
It is a mercy that Astrid is so forthright, that she is good at assessment, good at moving forward. Askr does not want to weigh on these things– he wants to find the Wyldmares and handle them and go from there.
“...Then we need to continue that way. Yes,” he says, nodding as Astrid gestures to the blood trail leading to a portion of trampled grass. It certainly seems fresh, recent– their mark cannot be far, now. “Let’s go.”
He continues along, but he makes sure that Astrid is beside him, still– he does not want to go on without her, to leave her behind. Whether he planned to have her on this mission with him or not, he will not be a bad mercenary partner– he refuses that much, at least. He keeps his movements slow, not wanting to walk too quickly lest the Wyldmares are closer than he thinks, only to stop suddenly as the grass evens out and the blood staining it starts to lighten.
“...they’re somewhere here. Move carefully.”
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Post by Lady Astrid Stormstone on Jan 23, 2024 21:12:02 GMT -5
Despite Astrid offering silence while walking, she is not exactly the type who can keep silent. Whenever she’s questing with Xalmann (whom she knows as Red), she does almost all of the talking for the both of them because the lizardfolk really just does not speak much. And that’s fine with her. Regardless, the offer of silence between herself and Askr does not last.
Astrid doesn’t immediately notice the hesitation in Askr’s voice, largely figuring that he simply took the time to consider how much information he wants to give to this talkative child. The Ash Lands, huh? He probably does have some connection to Zarius’ family, and if that’s the case, then… Regardless of his intentions here, he must be hurting too. But for Astrid to bring that up is out of place, isn’t it? It could put Del and Cyran in danger if she confirms it, couldn’t it? She wants so badly to ask, but she has to restrain herself because the lack of restraint made things worse.
“Askr…” She repeats his name quietly, the sound almost lost in the breeze. With a name that sounds like a dwarven word, she wonders if it has any meaning. When he mentions the tree (and the puzzling lack of ancestry), it clicks. “Ah, like a…an ash tree!” A humorous smile plays at her lips. “Askr the ash tree from the Ash Lands.” Looking up at him, she puzzles out what he means about a lack of ancestry and assumes that maybe he says that because he simply doesn’t know it. “Just ‘cause ya don’t know yer ancestry don’t mean ya don’t got it. Everyone’s got ancestry. I s’pose people just feel different ways about it dependin’ on their upbringin’. Fer instance, I don’t know a whole lot about me own ancestry on account that I don’t know me birth da. Sure, I s’pose I’d like ta know more, so maybe that’s why I hang on ta what little I can get about what I do know outta the dwarves.”
Yes, a very relaxing walk in silence, just like the tree man prefers.
After they determine the general direction that the warring Wyldmares likely are, she follows beside her new partner, keeping in stride with a watchful eye and good attitude. Unlike Askr, however, her movements are not necessarily slow or methodical. She doesn’t seek to spook the creatures. In fact, if they’re so bloodthirsty, then she wants to make herself a distraction so they can get right to the fighting. “No sense in that,” she says simply. “They ain’t gonna stand a chance against us!”
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Post by Askr Mimameith on Feb 3, 2024 23:25:20 GMT -5
All Askr can really think to do as Astrid puzzles out his name is give a little nod, his expression unflinching, lips scarcely even twitching– she is correct, after all. He was named for the ash tree, echo of the loved elm, born in the shadow she left behind– built from her remnants, in her gilded image, but forged in the ribcage of the ever-burning earth, beside its drum-slow heartbeat, by its flame-forged pulse. Made to be her, but never capable of doing it– a distant mimicry with all the wrong leaves, the wrong roots, filling in the right spots, but all too shallowly. Not a daughter, just a son. It is an embittering thought– one that has followed him since he has learned to find it embittering, since he has learned to be self-conscious of the body he was built into, of the form his maker wished for him to take. It is a strange thing, self-consciousness, when applied to the physical; a body is just a body, a vessel to sustain you, to carry you toward your purposes, and yet, Askr supposes that feelings do not obey the laws of practicality to begin with. And so he is, he supposes, self-conscious of the very thing he relies upon most, no matter how little sense it makes. It is silly. And yet it is true. He could never be “her” daughter. He isn’t sure if he’s her son. Either way, he was never the elm. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Like an ash tree.”Askr falls silent all over again as Astrid continues talking, chattering on about all the things inherent to the human experience like “ancestry” and “upbringing,” “birth” and “growth” – terms he knows, terms he has studied, but terms he will never truly understand. He believes she is trying to… comfort him– he thinks that is what this is. It seems like she’s misinterpreted, assuming that he merely doesn’t know where he came from rather than truly having no ancestry at all– it is a fair assumption. He thinks most would come to that conclusion. They do not know better, after all, even if it is no real secret in his eyes– he does not think he ever even remembered to properly tell– … “...I appreciate your efforts to… comfort me, if that is... correct,” he begins slowly. “But I…meant what I said. I do not have ancestry. I was made– created, not born. I’m not a… real person.”And with that, Askr continues walking, walking until he catches sight of hulking shadows and scarlet-stained teeth, catches sight of the unmistakable sign of the harrowing creatures they had agreed to come here to fight to begin with– he does not stray too close, does not move suddenly or quickly, making sure they do not look his way as he draws Yggdrasil with one hand and opens a swirling golden portal with the other, drawing out a second long-sword as carefully as he can– Barnstokkr, its blade glinting golden beneath the light of the sun. [1] He keeps his focus on the Wyldmares, a pulse of magic in his palm, and very carefully lets Yggdrasil take to the air beside him, taking Barnstokkr’s hilt in both hands. [2] He has nearly perfected it, he thinks– working with multiple blades at once like this. There will come a time when he can keep all four of his standby blades in the air beside him, a time when he can say he’s fully surpassed the layman he’d been on the arena of a god, but he will not test those boundaries today– no, this will do, at least for now. “...be ready, Astrid,” he whispers, before flicking one wrist, and sending Yggdrasil’s pointed blade flying straight into the hind-quarters of the closer of the two Wyldmares. Its rage is potent, its pain evident in the screech it lets out, rearing back and turning to find its attacker– and Askr immediately lifts his hand, beckoning the creature– and his sword– toward him, stepping backwards as if to bait the enraged beast his way. It immediately starts to storm his way, teeth gnashing, ready to draw the blood of that which drew its own, and Askr is as ready as he will ever be. Astrid had best be, as well.
Passives:
2 Hit Preventions (Dancing Chains) Drew Barnstokkr (Gerhart's Guardian Blade) - can give one hit prevention to ally
1. Space Pocket 2. Telekinesis
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Post by Lady Astrid Stormstone on Feb 4, 2024 0:31:35 GMT -5
Astrid feels proud of herself for remembering a less than common word in dwarven that at least sounds familiar enough. To be able to draw the lines and connect the dots between language can be really challenging, and it isn’t something she has to do often. It feels nice. To her, it’s almost this strange sense of bonding with the man who was potentially sent to kill people she cares about. This is going well. She could probably even get through to him to keep him from going after Cyran and Del!
Except, he is still so very muted in the way that he says things. The matter-of-fact tone makes her furrow her brow. She can’t tell if he’s joking or if he literally means it. But then again, a lot of folks older than her tend to overthink things, don’t they? Astrid doesn’t exactly have the wherewithal to question existence, at least not today.
Without pausing, prompting, or asking, Astrid reaches over to prod Askr in the arm. “Feels real ta me,” she says with childish simplicity. In the end, he is here, standing in front of her. He isn’t some illusion, something that will crumble to dust in the wind or disappear before her very eyes if she blinks or stares too intently. Askr is here, and therefore, he is real. In some strange way, she hopes that can bring him comfort, as she often finds that sometimes people need to look at things in a simple lens in order to take a step back and appreciate the way that things are.
The way other things are is that there are two crazed horse creatures causing a ruckus not so far away, and Astrid is not quiet in her approach, though she does hang back slightly while watching Askr’s more methodical approach. Stealth. Silence. Care. Yes, the makings of one of those silent killer types. Right, he could very well be an assassin, couldn’t he?
“I’m always ready fer a fight,” Astrid says with a smile. Behind her smile, she almost uses this as a warning that she won't let him catch her off guard, not that Askr has any reason to think she would make such a threat.
An icy war hammer nearly as tall as she is manifests in her hand.[1] She wields it with ease as if it weighs nothing more than a feather.[2] The moment the Wyldmare turns to face Askr, Astrid leaps out of the tall grass and flings her war hammer through the air with enough force to ricochet off of the first beast and strike the other in the face.[3] She quickly recalls it as both of the creatures let out a menacing bay and charge them both.
“On yer toes, tree boy! Don’t get no roots!” Astrid shouts, laughing and making light of the whole named-for-a-tree thing.
1. Spell blade - Always there 2. Spell blade - One with the Blade 3. Resounding Rebound
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Post by Askr Mimameith on Mar 4, 2024 23:33:50 GMT -5
Astrid isn’t quite like other children Askr has encountered before. She’s young– he isn’t sure what he’d classify her as, where in the line of development she falls, considering he hardly has a good grasp on it, but she’s a far stride from adulthood and it doesn’t seem to be in sight. And yet, no exertion weighs on her as a weapon that rivals her size sparks to life in her hand– she does not falter, does not stumble beneath its weight, its size, whipping it around with all the grace of a fencer with her epee. It goes against the laws of a body, the constraints of a form, and yet– He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. A hundred mysteries lie within bone and blood, organic or not, and magic can always run its course. There are stranger things in this world than a child with the strength of a monster thrice her size, stranger things than war flowing in a child’s veins as freely as her blood. And, regardless, there are more pressing matters to focus on. As soon as Astrid’s hammer makes contact with the first Wyldmare, the power behind the impact resonant enough to strike the second, Askr leaps into action, ready to answer the retaliation the beasts launch into– he launches Yggdrasil forward, the gilded blade sliding into the first Wyldmare’s shoulder before flying right back out, a splash of blood accompanying it. The beast lets out a harrowing bay of agitation, its focus seized, and as Askr calls Yggdrasil back towards him, the creature is quick to follow. He’s quick to swing Barnstokkr forward, steel striking just as the beast comes into range– Askr can feel the force of its advance, feel his wrists tense with the impact of body against blade, the recoil harsher than he anticipates. The Wyldmare snaps at him with all the blind rage of a feral dog, biting, angry– only to be answered by the cold, defensive sting of the chain swords dancing around him. [1] As quickly as it slinks up to defend him, Eik slinks away, the magic pulsing through its steel form going dormant– and Askr takes the opportunity to slam his sword forward, right into the Wyldmare’s shoulder once again, just to put a bit more space between the beast and himself. “...Astrid,” he calls, voice flat as always. “I believe I have this one.”
1 - Hit Prevention (Dancing Chain)
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Post by Lady Astrid Stormstone on Mar 14, 2024 15:22:49 GMT -5
With the creatures both shocked and slightly iced due to her hammer’s enchantments, they’re angry that their personal battle has been interrupted. In a flash, Askr sends his blades forward, each one moving with grace and precision, which quickly agitate and distract one of the Wyldmares.
Astrid is impressed by Askr’s ability to telekinetically control his weapons, but she’s quickly pulled away from that distraction by being absolutely fuckin’ trampled by the other Wyldmare charging her. Fortunately, she’s heavy on her feet despite her size,[1] and while her armor takes the brunt of the hit,[2] a shroud of spectral thorns whips out and cuts the hide of the angry monster horse.[3] It bays angrily as it charges away, and Astrid turns around to see streaks of blood painting its side.
“Whoops,” she says with little worry, having only been jostled. “Guess this one’s mine!” Gripping her war hammer in both hands, Astrid charges toward the angry equine and puts all her weight and strength into an upward strike.[4] It catches the belly of the Wyldmare, and there’s a meaty crunch as lightning and frost creep across the hide and ribs break below the flesh. With a mighty heave, the creature gets launched a few feet into the air. Astrid quickly capitalizes on it by leaping into the air, running on little gathered gusts of wind to get above the creature.[5] Then she leaps down and, using the momentum of gravity, slams her hammer into its back full force for a powerful strike that sends the beast careening into the ground.[6]
Landing roughly, Astrid lets out a triumphant laugh. She may not be part of the Fighter’s Guild presently, but the skills she learned there have served her well.
1. Immovable Bastion 2. Phantasmal Diplopic Plate (-1 hit prevention, 2 remain) 3. Briar Shroud 4. Rising Strike 5. Step of the Wind 6. Guillotine Drop
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Post by Askr Mimameith on Mar 19, 2024 0:40:48 GMT -5
Fighting a beast is always so strange when set against combat with a human. Humans and all things like them are unpredictable– nature builds them in a dozen ways, sculpts them with magic in their veins, with weapons in their bones, their blood, their jaws, creates a dozen wars from dust without even meaning to. Entering a fight with even the simplest of hired blades still means you need to guess their footwork, guess what built them, understand the blade in their hand and how they hold it, how they use it, what it means to them– is it a means to an end or a part of them, an extension of them, the bridge between them and a goal? What is their work to them? What are they? Who are they? A beast is a simpler thing. There is variation, but less so– one type of creature and all its children are sculpted from the same mold. Their instincts are the same. Impulses the same. The bite, the claw, the stalking, movement– it is a pattern. It is second nature. It makes them predictable. The Wyldmare rears back as soon as Barnstokkr cuts into it, a pained whinny tearing from its throat– it gnashes its teeth, snapping again, blind, angry, desperate to bite into its assailant, to defend itself. Muscle memory, the same pattern, rinse and repeat– the way of the beast, the language of animals, set against a tongue of combat. As soon as Askr pulls Barnstokkr back, he sends Yggdrasil flying back into its flank, causing it to stumble, its strong legs starting to fail it. He’s carving his way to an opening, creating a chance to finish it off– But then his gaze wanders, strays to where Astrid leaps from the air, striking down in an arc that’s so achingly familiar, and for a moment his false heart aches with yearning for someone who he’ll never wander by the tide with again, someone who’s left behind seashells and empty spaces and ashes, someone who’s gone and incapable of coming back, and– And Askr hisses as Yr only narrowly manages to rise up to block a strong bite from the Wyldmare, slinking back as soon as the beast is out of range. [1] No distractions. Blade before the heart. He swings Barnstokkr forward, less graceful– it cuts a harrowing arc across the beast’s chest, something he follows up with a weak kick, just trying to put distance between the monster and himself. As soon as it recoils, he leaps back, trying to catch his breath, trying to stop the flow of unnameable feeling making itself known somewhere in his artificial bones. He knows better than this. Knows better than to let that ache take over his work. Blade before the heart, Askr.Blade before the heart.
1 - Hit Prevention (Dancing Chain 2)
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Post by Lady Astrid Stormstone on Mar 25, 2024 16:31:34 GMT -5
The hammer is a tool that Astrid uses for two separate purposes: building and battling. Despite the fact that she has only just over a year of experience using it for these means, she wields the hammer as an extension of herself, as if all of its combined purposes are burned deep into her blood. Dwarves would call that the memories of stone because stone remembers all. It is steadfast, but it can be shaped by tools and formed into anything that one wishes it to be. Even when ground into a dust, it remembers what it once was and what it now is.
And yet, despite the stoneblood in her veins, Astrid is a child of the sky. She rides lightning and turns the air into a battleground with the skill of someone at least twice her age. While stubborn tendencies keep her grounded in half of her being, she is open to change – actively pursues it even. Perhaps her optimism is childish, or perhaps it’s based around her confidence in herself and her desire to see people be their best selves. Unlike the stoneborn dwarves, Astrid seeks the freedom that the open air of the world presents.
Back on her feet, Astrid looks over at Askr to see him struggling to get some distance. In all her fun, she nearly forgot that Askr could be someone trying to kill Cyran. He might be trying to hurt people she cares about. But something about him doesn’t seem driven to violence. In fact, quite the opposite. He’s capable, for sure, but his heart doesn’t seem to be in it.
And when one’s heart isn’t invested in a fight, that is when things are most dangerous.
With the Wyldmare’s attention on Askr, the beast braying angrily and preparing for another charge, Astrid lifts her hammer and points it at the equine. Magical lightning runs down her arm, through the haft, and gathers at the head. It crackles loudly, dangerously, building up intensity as Astrid prepares to fire it. For a brief second, she glances toward Askr. If he’s an enemy here, then she might need to direct this toward him. But… No, if he’s upset with Cyran, then he must know Zarius, and he must know that Cyran had something to do with his loss. Askr has done nothing to warrant retaliation nor does he deserve to be struck for no reason. He's simply someone mourning, just like her.
Maybe that’s why his heart isn’t in it.
With the magic gathered, Astrid fires off a powerful bolt of lightning,[1] charged with all the magic of the sky she can manifest, and it strikes the Wyldmare true. First, the hair of its hide smolders and burns, and then its flesh, and then the bolt enters its chest cavity and dances around throughout its body. It brays in pain before collapsing to its knees, tumbling into the grass to become one with the hills once again.
Astrid looks over at Askr with melancholy overwriting the victory of the battle. Concern furrows her brow as she lowers her hammer. “Are ya alright, Askr?” she asks.
1. Lightning Bolt
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Post by Askr Mimameith on Mar 31, 2024 0:36:46 GMT -5
It’s done.
Somewhere in the silence that follows the deaths of the Wyldmares, somewhere in the quiet that creeps after their dying breaths, there’s the muted sound of steel against earth, of rustled grass and disturbed earth, of both of Askr’s swords falling from hand and sky and landing on the ground. Distantly, he knows he should pick them back up– send one away and sheathe the other, stay on guard the way he’s been taught to be, poised to fight at a moment’s notice.
But his swords feel far away– everything feels so very far away. He’s distantly aware of the gentle wind whistling around them both, pulling at his hair and the cape pinned to his shoulder, distantly aware of the brilliant warmth of the sun hanging in the sky and seeping through his clothes, distantly aware of the earth itself breathing beneath him, around him, still turning, spinning, moving on in the way he cannot. The world is radiant and golden and alive and moving all around him, thrumming with life, and Zarius is still dead and gone.
It was stupid to think he could come here and run away from that fact. Stupid to think that he could fight death with more death, cut away the grief festering in his heart by cutting away at monsters, try to fold himself back into what he once was when he’s been reforged into something he can no longer recognize.
Askr does not know how long the silence lasts, how long he lets the world pass him and Astrid by– he cannot bring himself to care. There is a once-foreign, now-familiar ache stirring in the shell of his heart, twisting, burning, drying out his throat, stilling his tongue; he can feel his mouth opening and closing, forming the silent beginnings of words that refuse to leave him. Why won’t they? Why are all the things he needs to leave him the only things that refuse to?
“You know him, don’t you?” he manages, voice a hushed whisper, strained so tightly at the edges that it’s practically fracturing, cracking at the edges like a battered mirror . “...Knew him– knew him, I mean, I… you must have. You fight like him.”
He swallows. His throat feels tight. He does not know why. Still does not understand why.
“...Do you know what happened?” he asks, still unable to glance up at Astrid, gaze fixed on the earth beneath his feet. He hopes she knows. He does not want to explain. Does not want to recount what he knows of his world crumbling to pieces, of losing what he cannot get back. “To Zarius, I mean?”
He can’t look at her. Won’t look at her. Askr’s made this mistake before, back when he looked Mr. Cyran in the eye for what he knows must have been the last time– the longer he locked eyes with the older man, the longer he looked Zarius’s killer in the eyes, the more that strange, foreign feeling had hit him– the wet eyes. The dampness in his eyes overflowing, going down his cheeks. The– the tightness in his throat, in his chest, the– everything. He’s seen other people fall victim to it before, but it’s never struck him.
He hates it.
So he won’t look her in the eyes– won’t let the ache settle in deeper, won’t let it build a home between his bones the way he knows it wants to. He can’t. Askr will look anywhere but at her, talk until the ache goes away, push it all away until it’s manageable again, fold it down small enough that it no longer threatens to shatter him, cast it away like a paper bird.
That he can do.
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