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@Ozie

I understand if you’ve pulled your creative muscle (or whatever may have occurred), please take a well-deserved break ^^ no need to refund me!

@Cytus Hi! I've finished Invictus's redo, and I hope it's alright this time around. If not, just lemme know and I'll change it up a bit more! (I did say I'd edit the original posts but it's late and want sleep [emoji=coatl sleepy size=1] so I hope you don't mind!) [quote=Invictus]-1- He walked the streets of Solstice alone that night. Drizzle spotted his armour, wetting his hair. His helmet dangled at his waist on a strap. As rain dribbled down his neck, nestling into his scarf, he was thankful for a break from blazing heat. For weeks now, each campaign he’d lead had been near-disastrous, with a few of his soldiers needing to be hospitalised because of heatstroke afterwards. The rain was a welcome change. Streetlamps swung low in the breeze that swarmed Solstice, the kind that nipped at cheeks and scratched at digits. Candles flickered low in windows, and lanterns sputtered outside of doors. The sight warmed him. While he was out working, at least everyone snuggled in blankets before fires or cuddled cushions in beds. Everyone was safe because of his campaigns. That, beyond other things, was what mattered most to him, as well as their faith in him. Familiars nickered and mewled at him from alcoves and alleys, their eyes glistening with curiosity. Solstice’s pets took to him immediately after he arrived, welcoming him with greetings and appropriate attention. They all treated him with some odd kind of respect. They even walked with him sometimes until their owners recalled them. They’re cute when they plod along with you, the Goddess Liberation once told him. He had to agree with her. “You’re out a bit late, aren’t you, Invictus?” Raising an eyebrow, his gaze fell upon Thanatos. He sat on the porch into his home, twiddling with his Katana. For a male constantly chasing the deaths of others, he looked alive and well. That nature intrigued him. Thanatos wasn’t immortal, just like Invictus wasn’t, and he never aged either, and yet there was something about the male that seemed different. Perhaps it was his age; Invictus, compared to Thanatos, was a meagre hatchling, despite being millennia years old. “What are you doing out so late, my friend?” he inquired, relaxing in his chair. “You’re usually asleep by now.” Invictus snorted, smiling awkwardly. Thanatos chuckled. “Don’t feel uncomfortable. I check up on everyone at night to make sure you’re all okay.” He nodded. It made sense, as the Reaper, to check up on everyone. “Are you off to the library, by chance?” At his confused expression, Thanatos continued, fixing the scarf around his neck. “I heard Lebirantio suggesting going to the library with a companion. I thought it might be you.” He chuckled darkly. “Everyone knows his son isn’t one for books.” He nodded again, rubbing his cold paws together. “Make sure you don’t smuggle any familiars in with you, this time. I don’t want to have to reap your soul because of Vanir and her allergy towards fur.” Chuckling, Invictus bowed his farewell and left Thanatos to whatever he was doing. Perhaps he needed air after a long day, or he stayed up because he was waiting for a job to do. Invictus couldn’t blame him either way. Sitting somewhere dry with the rain pattering down around you sounded like an amazing pass-time. He hoped it was still like this when he got to the library. The rain, just on cue, got worse. He didn’t mind. Pulling out his pocket watch from a small slit in his armour, he became tempted to walk the rest of the way there. He choked and broke into an immediate sprint. It ticked ten minutes towards the hour. He was twenty minutes late. Harnier’s grand library sprouted up before him. It didn’t look like much from a distance, for its librarian protected it with a spell that made it look broken and run-down. As soon as you got close enough, you could see its splendour; its tiled porch covered in chairs for sunny days, the ivy crawling up the side of the Starwood building, the cosy candlelight flickering in each window. Invictus skidded to a halt just before the grand doors and shook off the excess rain. A small puddle formed at his feet. Avoiding it at all costs, he slowly cracked the door open and let the lights flood him from head to toe. It set the droplets still speeding down his armour alight in gold and orange. Harnier, he knew, disliked the library being messy. However, he couldn’t wait to dry off, or else Lebirantio would smack him with a scroll and scold him for his lateness. He snuck his way inside and shuddered against the sudden wave of heat. A huge fireplace sat in the centre of the opposite wall, fire lit and dancing on the inside. A portrait of the Goddess Liberation hung above it. There, she held the scales of Justice, the sword Excalibur balanced in her other paw. Red carpet formed a path from the door to the portrait and around the winding rows of library shelves. Each one was colour coded; gold for the Goddess and her legends, red for war, green for potions, blue for runes. The second floor was cornered by more shelves left colourless. They were the miscellaneous shelves for the unsorted books Harnier order ahead of time, as well as the homes for ancient legends that found themselves in her gentle care. The only way to get up there was travelling up winding staircases that made you trip and flail. Flying in the library was banned. It was a rule everyone respected, more for the respect of the librarian and for how much care she put into organising them. Everyone knew she’d lay down her life for these books. It was only fair to treat them and her with the same respect. Harnier sat in front of the blazing fire in a huge red chair, fingering her way through a purple book—fantasies—with a cup of something warm in her paws. Vanir the Cryptic sat opposite her, her ancient tome floating at her side. She, too, had a cup of warm liquid in her paws and hummed to herself as she stared into the fire. Lebirantio was nowhere to be seen. “It’s lovely that you finally came, Invictus,” Harnier cooed from her seat, gesturing for him to come closer. He did so. “You missed Lebirantio, I’m afraid. He went to go find his son and pick up Picea.” Invictus bowed his understanding. He shouldn’t have dawdled. “Sit. He told us you need our help.” He did as he was told, unfurling his scarf and laying it before him to dry. He closed his eyes and listened to the rain as his pass-time. Each swish of a page or tail, each sip of warmth, echoed in his ears. He didn’t mind. It gave him something to focus on as he relaxed, with the rain hammering down on the roof of the dainty library a white sound to accompany him. “I love the rain,” Harnier hummed. “It’s so peaceful.” “I don’t like it so much; I’m soaked.” Invictus, with a wide grin, recognised that voice instantly; the blunt and croaky tone of Solstice’s Judge, Lebirantio. He faced him to see he was correct; rain dripped from his snout and mane, with dark patches on his scarf and wings glistening with excess droplets. The scarf hung limp against his neck and torso. Invictus could have laughed. The glare Lebirantio shot at him kept him from doing so. His son and Picea followed close behind. Liebrinato, for what it was worth, was bone dry, grinning mercilessly at his father as he passed him. Picea was the opposite; he was just as soaked. Neither of the older dragons looked pleased to have ventured through the rain to get here, with only the Judge’s son looking content, if not bored. “It’s so nice to see that you’re dry, Liebrinato,” Harnier said, her voice gentle. Her attention turned to the two older males. “If you both want to hang your garments over the fire to dry, you can do. The same goes for your scarf, Invictus.” Invictus stroked his scarf and shook his head, smiling his gratitude. His scarf was damp, yes, but he could live with that. Picea and Lebirantio needed the fire more than he did, for they seemed to have caught the brunt of the downpour outside with their efforts to get here. He felt almost guilty for them, but this meeting was necessary. As they both sorted their garments over the fire, Liebrinato sat down next to him with a sigh. His kilt ruffled with the movement, shirt rustling and sword thumping against the wooden floor. The Judge’s son, in Invictus’s eyes, was an interesting male. Though he knew nothing of what happened to him—he and his father refused to disclose it—the wisps of black smoke that curled around his wrists and ankles, toes and digits, always caught his attention. He remembered a time when they weren’t there. Now that they were a permanent feature, he caught himself staring at them. “What is it with you and my smoke?” Liebrinato inquired, chuckling. “You’re always staring at them.” Invictus shrugged. His lips pursed in thought and digits tapping against the floor, he waited until Lebirantio and Picea were both comfortable with their garments over the fire to dry and waited for the conversation to begin. They needn’t wait long. Harnier’s book slammed shut, startling all but Picea. Plastered on her face was a gentle, if not worrisome, smile, her eyes glistening like the stars curling along her body in constellations reflecting the night sky. The bird skulls on her shoulder held a flickering blue fire in their eyes. For being dead, they looked oddly lively. “We’re all here to discuss the next step,” she said in a worried voice, “yes?” Everyone murmured a soft agreement. Lebirantio shifted uncomfortably on his feet, while his son clacked his iron claws against the wood. Even Picea and Vanir looked uneasy, the former brushing his feathers with his claws and the latter fiddling with the tassel of her book. Only Invictus sat still. Her gaze shifted to the Judge. “Lebirantio, would you care to begin?” “I would.” He sucked in a deep breath and crossed his arms; face a carving of solemn intent. “The threat from our opposition is getting worse. We’ve lost many soldiers this week alone from numerous ruthless attacks, and we can’t keep sitting back and letting it happen. Invictus’s attempts at neutralising the threat peacefully have failed time and time again. We need to have a new plan soon, or else we could be overrun.” “And what is your intention with the rest of us?” Picea asked, gracing Lebirantio with a sideways glance. He had the vague feeling that the male already knew but asked on behalf of others in the room. At Invictus’s nod of approval, Lebirantio faced everyone in turn with their task. “Invictus and I hoping that you, Harnier, can lead us to the books with the most information on our opposition’s history as a lair, and any rune books that could help us.” She bowed her head. “I can help you with that, yes.” “Liebrinato, you can go with Invictus tomorrow morning and assess the attack, see if there’s anything we can do for the prisoners.” Liebrinato frowned at his father. “But—” “Please?” His silence was answer enough for Lebirantio, gaze drifting to Vanir. “If you can, Vanir, I’d like you to have a look through your book and see if there’s anything on the opposition’s leader, Kathika. We could use anything that could be a weakness.” “If you hear me,” Vanir drawled, her book floating into her lap, ready for use. That left Picea, the Prophet of Solstice. He raised his eyebrow at the male next to him, waiting for his given task. It fell when Lebirantio sighed and gave him a level look. “Whether or not you give us any information on what may happen is entirely up to you, Picea. We can’t force you. We invited you here so you could have the option.” He nodded his respect and meandered over to the nearest shelf, tugging a thick tome free of its place. No one could force the prophet to speak or reveal anything of the future. Everyone in the lair had tried at least once—including Invictus—and none had succeeded. He once told him that the unwilling can never be forced to speak, so giving him the choice to help was their only option. “If you’d like to come with me, gentlemen,” Harnier said, standing. She saved her chair with the book she read. Through the winding shelves they went; following her to not get lost through the maze that it became, they tagged along up towards the second floor. Though he felt a vague irritation at how their books were lost in the inventory of the library, he was grateful for her helping them at all. She soon gave them free rein of half of the second floor, where their books resided, with only one plea: “Please don’t mess them up. They look a mess, but I’m currently sorting them.” “We’ll be careful, Harnier,” Lebirantio promised, smiling warmly at the librarian. “We swear our lives on it.” With Invictus’s agreeing smile, she grinned and left them to it, her oceanic silks swishing as she made her way back down the dizzying staircase. Lebirantio waited until she was gone before making his way towards the nearest shelf, fingering his way through the books. Clouds of dust picked up around him, followed shortly by a sneeze from Invictus. “Don’t like dust, eh Vicky?” Lebirantio drawled, smirking. Invictus pulled a face and went stared at the shelf before him. The books were like a rainbow; from red to green to purple, each colour was there, just in a disorganised fashion. He knew of Harnier’s habits when it came to books; she gave them a temporary sheen to indicate the appropriate shelf they’d find themselves living in. How did he know this? He visited the library often enough for new techniques and a time killer to pick up on it. The books they were looking for—history—were a deep grey. They decided between them that Invictus should look for the history books and maps while Lebirantio flicked through blue rune books. He quickly found a title-less grey book. Tugging it free from its dusty seat, he flipped it open to a random page. With a quick roll of his eyes, he put it back. The page had read ‘[i]The Kitsune and their Legends[/i]’. As much as he’d been meaning to learn more about the Kitsune for some of their Clan members, now wasn’t the time to be doing so. He needed history books on their opposition, and fast. In the morning, the fight would start up again. “Why not just use Excalibur?” Invictus started, dropping the second book he pulled out. It landed on page 237, with the vague drawing of a mineshaft and the title ‘[i]Three Wise Mines[/i]’. Liebrinato appeared in the corner of his vision, eyebrow raised and leaning against another shelf. At his inquiring gaze, he continued. “I mean, the sword’s an ultimate weapon, so why not use it?” “To use it would be to taint it and its wielder,” Lebirantio explained in a soft tone. “It can’t be used just to make a job easier.” “But we’re neutralising an [i]enemy[/i].” “Many of those soldiers’ are there against their will, because Kathika has something on them, like holding a family hostage.” He put his book back and faced his son. “We need to figure out which ones.” After a few seconds, the Executioner shrugged. “I suppose that’s a good point.” Lebirantio moved over to his son and patted his shoulder, smiling. “Don’t worry; you’ll figure out which ones. It shouldn’t take too long.” He threw a glance towards the outside world and grimaced. Invictus could understand why. “Why don’t you go wander around for a bit or head home? I know libraries aren’t your strong suit.” “I’ll go out and find some food,” the Judge’s son said with a ghost of a smile. “Then, probably go home.” “Go ahead. We’ll be here if you need anything.” Liebrinato nodded curtly at Invictus, patting his father’s paw, and disappeared in a puff of smoke. It bothered his father little when that happened, yet there was always a flicker of worry that he was never able to dampen. He quickly shook his head and got back to work, the flare dying as quickly as it began. Invictus did so too, but instead of opting to stay upstairs and stand around, he tugged every grey book from the shelves—including the one from the floor after slipping his pocket watch between 237 and 238—until he had a pile almost as tall as he was. Lebirantio caught on quickly and did the same, following him downstairs. The only reason Invictus wanted to go downstairs was so he could sit by the fire, though he was grateful to see his friend follow him down there. Harnier, who held a tray in her paws, smiled at them as they came down. She took half of the piles each and set them down before the fire, easing some of the aches that would no doubt come of doing this all night. Then, just as they came close enough, she turned to them with eyes gleaming with kindness and worry. “Are they from the unsorted shelves?” Invictus nodded, gently placing her books down on the floor and sitting next to them. He had a pile on either side, both up to his shoulders. That fact unnerved him. He felt slightly better when he saw the same for Lebirantio, who was still taller than him even sat down. “Could you put them back on the shelves you found them when you’re finished?” He nodded again, then another time when she handed him a mug of scalding tea to ease him along in his reading. It took him an hour to finish it. He was grateful for that. With the tea, he’d not only managed to stay awake but he’d read through three books and an ancient tome. However, he had to stop after that hour. His mind felt ready to short-circuit and melt. All he’d learnt that was of value was that their opposition sat above an ancient mineshaft that stretched for miles in all directions from the ‘[i]Three Wise Mines book[/i]’. It held information on where the entrances were and had a tiny fracture of a map inside. With Harnier’s input, they figured it was an old journal type-written and published in an ancestor’s name, one who must’ve worked in those mines when they were still active. The rest of the books contained a meagre history of the clans that came before, such as [i]Mayaki[/i], a clan that had specialised in medicines, and [i]The Cloreto Clan[/i], a scholar’s lair. From the disappointed look on Lebirantio’s face, he hadn’t learnt much either. “These runes would be useful,” he murmured, his digit between his teeth in irritation, “if we weren’t on the verge of an outbreak of war.” “Why don’t you draft that declaration?” Harnier inquired, quietly taking his empty mug. “I’m sure that it would be better for you, if not more interesting too.” Silence fell upon them all for a couple of seconds, with only the faint flicking of Vanir’s book to add any sound. Then, much to his surprise, Lebirantio nodded and closed his book. “You’re right.” He looked up at her with wide eyes, almost like a puppy’s. “You wouldn’t happen to have any spare sheets of parchment and a quill, would you?” “Of course, I’ll get you them now.” “Thank you.” She quickly scooped up Invictus’s mug and hurried into the back rooms of the library, where she lived, but not before calling another inquiry. “Would you two like some more tea?” “Ooh, yes please!” Lebirantio threw a glance his way and Invictus nodded. “Invictus would like some too!” She grinned at them both. Then, she was gone. Invictus wondered what it’d be like if he lived somewhere quiet and secluded, without the constant murmuring and pacing and emptiness that was his own home. He’d imagine it to be lonely and perhaps too quiet, and yet Harnier lived by it just fine. [i]Perhaps I should retire for a year to live in the countryside.[/i] In the corner of his vision, something moved. Upon gazing at him, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, he spotted Picea gesturing for him to come to him in the shadows of the library. He did so hurriedly, hoping to hear something yielding more worth than what he’d currently read. He cocked his head at the prophet and waited for him to speak. Then, he wished he hadn’t. Picea spoke, his eyes faceting into mirrors of the future. “The Evil and the Good shall face each other on the battlefield,” he said, “but on the same side. When that time comes, I implore you, watch your back and trust your Goddess, or else your life is forfeit.” The Prophet, much to Invictus’s bemusement, turned and left before he could inquire further, waving goodbye to Harnier as she made her way into the main room of the library. In his grasp sat a book, one that’s title shone against the stark red sheen; [i]Morgana and Liberation; the Queens of Cruelty and Justice.[/i]  -2- “Fight me, coward!” Invictus raised his eyebrow at the tiny male before him. Having recently been admitted to Lumen’s care a second time in three weeks just a few days ago, he didn’t particularly want to fight him. It was bad enough that he’d broken his arm twice in three weeks. It was even worse than how each time he broke it, it made it harder for the bone to heal properly and in the right place. Now, his irritation began to flicker. He shook his head, arms crossed. “What?” he cried, arms thrown out at his sides. Invictus didn’t miss his wince. “Does my size put you off, O’ Ethereal One? Or are you trying to put down my meagre existence?” “Back off, Mordred,” Aradhel hissed at his side. She went no further when Invictus patted her arm, hoping to reassure her. Mordred choked out an evil laugh, eyes flickering with an infinite firey rage. “Your damn Angel’s scared of a homunculus, and you want [i]me[/i] to back off?” “I don’t want you to break your arm again,” Invictus said, irritation pooling in the pit of his stomach. “Lumen’s exhausted, and he suggested you rest. Therefore, you should rest.” “Fight me, and then I will! Prove to me you’re not a coward!” “Mordred...” The homunculus grabbed a nearby sword and pointed it at him, a nasty sneer plastered across his face. “Come on. Prove to me you’re worthy of my time.” Aradhel scoffed. Invictus could feel her anger at the disrespect, as a soldier worthy of the dread her name brings. “Of [i]your[/i] time? You’re lucky he even wasted his time saving you.” Mordred growled, pointing the sword at Aradhel. “Say that again, I [i]dare[/i] you.” Invictus gently pressed down on the tip of the blade, wary of any sudden moves. “Your opponent is me, not her.” “So you agree to do it?” “If you finally rest afterwards, then yes, I wholeheartedly agree.” “Invictus—” Aradhel began, warning in her tone. He patted her arm again and gripped his sword. He nodded to the centre of the field. “We do it over there, or not at all.” Mordred grinned and rushed into the centre of the field. Invictus soon followed. The field they stood in was the soldiers’ training grounds, with dummies, weapons and sparring arenas. Behind it, where Aradhel stood shrouded in shadow was the barracks. It was home to Solstice’s soldiers and volunteers. Though he didn’t include himself in either, it was Mordred’s home too. All of the three-hundred or so soldiers sat inside, eating and relaxing after a long morning of relentless training. All of them except Mordred, of course. “When do we start?” Mordred growled, dancing on the balls of his feet. “Rule number one,” Invictus drawled, pulling his sword free. “Always make the first move.” His eyes widened. Invictus thrust his sword forward. It met steel, sparks flying in every direction. He swiped at his left side. Mordred dodged it, a pleased smirk on his face. As soon as he let his guard down, he sliced his left side. Thin gashes lie in his sword’s wake. “Rule number two, never let your guard down.” At Mordred’s animalistic snarl, he backed away. He scanned his opponent for further weaknesses and faults. His right side went unguarded; his feet were too wide apart. This male wasn’t used to sword fights. Mordred learnt something. While Invictus’s guard was down, he swung up towards his torso. It missed, slicing the air where he once stood. Invictus dived to his right, swiping, catching him below the ribs. Mordred, to his credit, grunted and did no more. He met his blade with a clang of steel. Invictus had no time to react; Mordred caught the back of his paw with his blade. “Given up yet, weakling?” he panted, putting a paw to his side. It came away bloody. “Not quite.” Mordred dodged his next thrust and another. He caught his final one with his sword. Pushing it back against his neck, a twisted grin stretched across his mouth. It faded when Invictus wrapped his tail around his ankle. With a single tug, he wobbled. Then, he fell, greeting the ground with a cloud of dust... And a snap. Mordred screamed. His sword fell to the dirt, his paw clutching his broken arm to his chest. Sweat beaded along Mordred’s brow, drifting down his face. It mingled with his mane. Invictus could’ve sworn some of them were tears, though it was hard to tell. Invictus tucked his sword away and knelt beside him. “Rule number three, don’t leave your stance too wide. You wouldn’t have fallen, otherwise.” “C... coward,” Mordred hissed through gritted teeth. “You’ll pay... for this.” “Make sure that’s when your arm isn’t broken, yeah?” He turned to face Aradhel, who shook her head and smiled faintly. She leant against the barrack wall, her halo of flames dancing in the faint breeze. “Can you go see if Lumen’s awake?” She nodded and headed inside. She left the door ajar for Invictus and Mordred to get through. Mordred attempted to crawl away, only to grunt in pain. “Get... get away from me. I don’t want your... otherworldly touch on me.” Invictus stood, shrugging. “You can get yourself there, then, yes?” He looked at him with disbelief and rage, eyes shining with pain. Invictus raised an eyebrow at him. He almost frowned. “What are you waiting for? You don’t need my help.” “You’re being difficult,” he snarled. “Am I?” Mordred growled almost like a Beast. He attempted to sit up. As soon as his paw left his broken arm, he yelped and fell back to the earth. Invictus only watched it unfold. He didn’t find it amusing, nor did he want this to happen. Only if he wanted help would he help, however. They’d only known Mordred for a few weeks, and already he’d been vicious with everyone he came across. To help him when he didn’t want it, he found, would warrant him plucking your eyes out like he nearly did with Lumen. “Would you like some help, Mordred?” he inquired, peering at him. He watched a stream of blood from a bite in his lip dribble down his cheek and into his hair. “Go to hell,” he snarled, spitting at his feet. It came out slightly red. “See you later, then.” Aradhel stood in the doorway ahead of him, frowning exasperatedly at the barrack’s newest recruit as he struggled. Invictus could hear every struggle, every curse and grunt. He was about to head inside with Aradhel to go and eat when he heard a soft, “Wait.” He raised his eyebrow at Mordred as he panted, waiting for him to speak. “Come... come help me.” He soon reached Mordred’s side one more and peered down at him. “You’d like help, did you say?” “Just... help me to my... feet, Angel,” he sneered, the name angel leaving a bad taste in his mouth guessing by the crease in his snout, “Before I bite you.” Invictus did as he was told, gently grasping onto Mordred’s good arm’s elbow and helped him onto wobbly feet. He quickly stumbled. A pained grumble, muffled by clenched teeth, left his mouth. He tripped as he tried to walk on his own. If Invictus hadn’t reacted, he was certain he would’ve fallen straight over. “I’m going to need you to work with me, Mordred,” he mumbled, keeping him upright. Mordred snapped his teeth at him. He looked pale, sweating heavily. “Get... screwed.” His head-feathers fell back against his neck, a frown pulling at his mouth. “If you refuse, I’ll leave you out here and you can get there yourself.” As soon as he tried to take another step, Mordred gave in and handed him his good arm. Invictus quickly looped it around his shoulders. He had to bend down to do so. The sudden weight of being leant against did little to sway him from helping, and nor did the crick in his back that he would likely gain later. Each step dragged, followed by a colourful curse and a pant. It got to the point where Invictus used his scarf to make a makeshift sling, even though it did little to help. It took them a solid minute to get to the doors of the barracks, where Aradhel still waited, unamused and disappointed in both of them. “You broke his arm, didn’t you?” Neither of them answered. Mordred, it seemed, was too focused on putting on foot in front of the other than making snarky remarks, and Invictus just wanted to get to Lumen as quickly as he could. Not because he wanted to be ridden of Mordred, as much as his behaviour was a hindrance, but because the soldier needed his help. He was almost certain the healer would strap the homunculus to the bed after this. It took a few minutes to travel the corridors that lay between the entrance and Lumen’s room. Their claws clacked against cold stone floors. Mordred’s curses echoed through the empty halls, along with Aradhel's hissed condemnations. Invictus found himself chuckling before long. Two opposite dragons having their argument without him being involved was, as Lebirantio would put it, certainly amusing. “Are we nearly there?” Mordred said. He sounded broken, like a vase someone had dropped. “Nearly,” Aradhel reassured with distaste in her tone. “The door’s just ahead.” Sure enough, she rushed past them both to hold the door open for them to get through. Lumen’s room, in contrast to the dull barracks, was a soft yellow and white, with tiles instead of stone as the floor. The beds in the room were stark white and unoccupied. Lumen’s desk, on the other hand, had a very unamused healer as behind it, his record book open and quill tapping against the Oakwood of the top. “Please, could you lay him down for me, Invictus?” Lumen asked of him, his face softening. “I’ll do it myself,” Mordred growled, smacking his paw way. “I don’t need some stupid Angel’s help with his unnecessary existence.” Invictus, despite his anger towards Mordred’s hatred for him, stayed close until he felt Mordred wasn’t going to collapse straight onto the cold tiled floor. He tried to sit on the bed in a rush to escape him. It earned him winces and a grunt. “Who broke it?” “I did,” Invictus admitted. Lying got no one anywhere in Solstice. “Mordred challenged me to a duel.” “And did you tell him no?” “Multiple times, yes.” Lumen sighed, rubbing his forehead with his digits. The poor thing looked exhausted. With eye bags as heavy and as dark as anvils weighing his eyes down, his shoulders slumped and face grey with exhausted, he felt sorry for him. He knew it couldn’t be easy to travel across the entire Clan for medical emergencies. “Is there any way we can help you?” Aradhel suggested. She, too, looked sorry for him. “It’s alright, Aradhel.” The healer smiled warmly, the feathers at the sides of his head rustling as he stood. “You can go. I’d like Invictus to stay, though, so I can have an account of the incident.” “Of course.” She bowed low; a sign of respect for their healer. “If there’s anything you need—” “I’ll be alright, soldier. Go occupy yourself.” Aradhel took that as a sign to leave, a subtle glint of gratitude in her eyes. She could go back to her home and relax with a book on the sofa, or train in the fields, making her skills even more deadly. Even with the irritation that sat inside of her, ready to burst like a bubble, she always looked content after gruelling training. He'd never known another soldier to [i]enjoy[/i] such extents. She soon left, though not before patting Invictus’s shoulder. [i]Good luck[/i], it seemed to say. Invictus knew he was going to need it if he was to stay and give his version of events. “Please sit, Invictus,” Lumen said, waving his paw towards the empty chair beside Mordred’s bed. “You can give me your account while I slip this nuisance’s arm back into place.” “Oh, brilliant,” Mordred growled. “Now I have to sit [i]next[/i] to the Angel.” Lumen huffed, though showed no other sign of his irritation. “You brought this onto yourself, my dear.” “All I did was ask the self-righteous to a duel—” “And look where it got you, Mordred. This [i]self-righteous[/i] you’re referring to has you back in my care.” Mordred snarled at the healer, relishing in his wince, but shut up, lying down on the bed at last. “Fine, as long as I don’t have to look at his ugly mug.” Lumen gestured towards the chair again. Invictus slowly made his way towards it, making sure to give Mordred a wide berth. The healer sat down next to him on the bed with two objects in his paws; a leather strap and a vial. “Do you want the strap or the potion?” Mordred chuckled darkly, catching his attention. “Leather strap, if you please. I don’t like potions.” Shock and some resemblance of awe flooded him. He felt tempted to inquire why, but left them to it, waiting for the opportunity to give his account of the event. Even Lumen looked confused when Mordred’s words finally sank in. He obliged anyway. Quickly slipping the strap between his teeth, he got to work with undoing Invictus’s temporary sling. He had to give him credit for being brave, at least. The screaming began within seconds. Lumen gently plucked Mordred’s arm from his abdomen. From the veil of concentration in his tired white eyes, Invictus could tell he was trying to be gentle. It wasn’t working in his favour. Each pressed against the swollen lump on his arm prompted a cry from Mordred. Each cry made Lumen wince. Yet, even though it was undoubtedly painful for them both, not once did Mordred yank his arm away from the healer. Naturally, when it’d finished, both of them were panting and sweating. Mordred had his face turned away from him, yet he could’ve sworn the bags under Lumen’s eyes had grown darker within the last fifteen minutes. It took the final dregs of his effort to etch a rune of Painkiller into his skin. By the time he’d finished, he swayed and had to lean on his arms to stay upright. Invictus immediately went to his side, though the healer brushed him off. “That took a bit... longer than I expected. Could you possibly—” He yawned, rubbing his eyes. “—could you possibly write down your account? I’ve got somewhere I need to be.” Invictus nodded, making his way over to the desk. With Lumen’s permission, he tore a page from the book and opted to use his quill to scrawl it down. “Thanks, Invictus. If I’m not back soon, just leave it on my desk.” He nodded again, eyeing him as he left. Not once did he miss the subtle swaying on his feet, or the muffled yawn. Wherever he needed to go, Invictus hoped there was a bed for him to lie in, or at least a sofa for him to sleep on. It wasn’t fair for him to go without rest. Any mistake the healer could make while tired may well be fatal. Just as he began to scribble down his account, in his messy, blocky blots of handwriting, Mordred attempted to sit up, guessing by the grunting and hissing. The thump against the pillow almost made him snort. [i]For someone so arrogant[/i], he thought, amused, [i]he doesn’t give up, does he?[/i] “Thanks for getting me into this, [i]Angel[/i],” he heard him mutter. Invictus quietly put his quill down and gazed at Mordred. “What have I done to make you hate me so much, Mordred?” “You ethereal dragons are disgustingly perfect,” he sneered, his voice scratchy. “You ignore everyone below you; you waste [i]lives[/i] of those below you on wars you could end yourself.” He said ethereal like a hatchling would say vegetables; hatred and disgust laced his tone together. “[i]That[/i] is what you’ve done.” “Okay, a few things are wrong with that.” “Like what, [i]Angel?[/i] Did my worthless existence offend you?” “Your existence isn’t worthless, Mordred.” He sighed and leant back against the desk. “I’ll admit some gods, goddesses, even angels are like that—ignorant—but if that was true for us, we wouldn’t have bothered saving you.” Mordred snarled. “I bet you almost didn’t.” “No, there was no debate on it. We weren’t about to leave you to die and that was that. It was a unanimous decision.” With no counter-argument, the homunculus shut up and rolled onto his side. Invictus began writing again. He felt like he had to say [i]something[/i] to him to at least soften him up, especially if he was going to stay. What could he say, though? His hatred for Solstice ran deep, and even deeper when it came to him in particular, and he wasn’t sure why. As soon as he was done with his account, he spared Mordred a glance and found him facing away from him. “I guess I have to give you credit for one thing, Mordred,” he said. “Oh yeah, oldie? What’s that?” “As much as it was unbelievably stupid to challenge me to a duel, you’ve proven yourself significantly braver than the rest of my soldiers.” Mordred scoffed. “I’m not one to take orders from someone. I wouldn’t count that as brave.” “I would.” Invictus leant against the desk again. “Not many would dare challenging an Angel, or use a strap over potions for that matter.” “What can I say? I hate potions and Angels.” “I can tell. I just hope you use that bravery you showed and put it to good use instead of fighting against me.” “What makes you think I’m gonna join [i]you?[/i] All you’re doing is wasting mortal lives for a war you find amusing.” “Mordred—” He sat up, though refused to face him. “Tell me I’m wrong, Angel. Go on.” “You’re wrong.” He faced him then, shock in his wide eyes. “You’re—” “I’m not lying. Lying gets one nowhere in Solstice.” Invictus sighed and took a step closer. “We’re trying our best to minimise the number of casualties, and war has always been the last option for us. The last thing we want is to put lives in danger, especially our own.” “So why do it?” “If we don’t,” he explained, “we’ll be overrun. They’ll kill everyone they can get their hands on.” Mordred rolled his eyes “That’s a typical reason.” “I know, but trust me, if I could avoid this war, I would. Whilst I’m not a pacifist like Lumen, I’d much rather be at peace than at war, with my soldiers safe and sound with their families.” “So you admit to starting it.” “We had to. I won’t let the lives already lost go in vain, and I refuse to leave my home in the path of danger.” Mordred scoffed again and turned away from him, laying back down. Invictus left it there. With his account on the desk and quill sitting in its pot, he made to leave, stopping only at the door to see Mordred glaring at him. He bowed. “I hope to see you in training in a couple of weeks.” “What makes you think I changed my mind?” “You’re not insulting me.” “I’ll kill you and take you to hell myself if you don’t leave,” Mordred snapped, “now get out and stay away from me if you want [i]anything[/i] from me, you cockalorum!” Invictus ducked out of the room, chuckling, with only a single thought on his mind. [i]This is going to be fun.[/i] [right][size=1][i]Made by Ozie in "[URL=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/art/2371542]Ozie's Lore Shop![/URL]"[/i][/size][/right][/quote]

@Cytus Hi! I've just gotten Mordred's lore done, and so I hope it's okay. If you need anything changing this time around, please lemme know. I'll change it as soon as I can. If you *do* spot anything wrong, please let me know as soon as you spot it so I can fix it as soon as possible! [emoji=coatl tongue size=1] [quote=Mordred]-1- Each movement was agony. No matter what he tried, from tentatively prodding his arm to trying to stand, he couldn’t stop the sharp pains coursing through him every time. A few times, he’d debated falling back into the comfort of his bed. He wouldn’t let that happen. Even if every time he moved brought him blistering white pain, his hunger was a powerful motivator. He could smell the soup from his confinement. Mordred stumbled towards the door, hissing through clenched teeth. For a few days now, he’d been in pain. It never got any better, he just got better at managing it. Lumen always left him some vials on his bedside table in the morning. He never took them. He’d never had an affinity for potions, especially healing ones. He glanced around his room, hoping for a distraction. Though he wore everything he owned, it was a habit he’d learned from home. The bed—Starwood with a quilt of deep red—sat in one corner, a desk of similar wood in the other. Though the room wasn’t huge, as it could house no more than three soldiers in side-by-side single beds, at least it was bigger than his bedroom at home. [i]Stop looking around.[/i] He winced. He couldn’t tell whether or not he’d thought that, or if his Mother decided to invade his mind. Shuddering, Mordred heaved the door open and left his room, cradling his broken arm. He didn’t bother grabbing his sling. Why use it? It could be enchanted to tie him down or make him exhausted and keep him in bed. He didn’t like either option. This clan—one everyone called The Solstice Clan—was new and hideous. Everything was a mixture of white, gold and blue, the barracks a steely grey and cold. His trust for the Clan dwindled, a single drop in a pool of hatred and disgust. The only one to earn that single drop was Sol. Other than him, he resented the rest of them. “Mordred?” Dazed, he gazed in the direction of the voice. Sol stood a few feet away, paws stuffed into his pockets and mouth pulled into a frown. Hanging from his wrists were chains of ice-white. “What are you doing up?” he said, voice husky but kind. “I’m not staying bedridden,” Mordred groaned. “I’m bored out of my mind, [i]and[/i] I’m starving.” “Want me to help you get there?” At his hiss, Sol laughed and came up to his side. For an Imperial who was much taller than his midget form, he was a gentle giant for an ex-soldier. His smile was kind, his gaze was soft. Even his stature was slouched and calm, unlike that damned Angel he kept spying from his window whose back looked ready to snap from being so straight and stiff. “Do you want me to walk you down there?” Sol inquired, eyebrow raised. Mordred stayed quiet for a few seconds, debating, and sighed. “If you don’t mind.” Sol waited for him to take the lead, following half a step behind as they made their way to the staircase. As many did, it spiralled down to the ground floor. He vaguely knew why. That didn’t stop him from hating them. He could rightfully say that going down with a broken arm was a pain in the backside. It didn’t help that some steps were doused in moss. “How’s your arm doing?” “It’s like you read my mind,” Mordred grumbled. “Or my agony.” “Have you tried those painkillers?” “No, and I’m never going to. I’ve had it up to my back teeth with potions.” The conversation dropped and, after a few slips and curses, they finally reached the ground floor. He felt ready to collapse and stay there. Those stairs, he decided, were going to be his mortal enemy for the next few weeks. “I’m going to die next time I go down those stairs,” Mordred said, leaning against the wall. “I’ll make sure you don’t, Mordred,” Sol said with a smile. “Come on, the mess hall’s this way.” Mordred followed, blindsided by the onslaught of pain. Sol slowed so he could catch up, then subtly led the way. They passed Lumen’s room, where he felt tempted to ask for some painkillers. He refused himself the liberty. Before long, they turned into a brightly lit room that burnt his eyes. “Why is it so bright?” he hissed, rubbing his eyes with his good paw. “Because you’ve been trapped in a dark room for a few days,” Sol said matter-of-factly. “Go get yourself settled, I’ll get you some food.” Mordred eyed the tables around him with a glare that could slice through lead. Soldiers chatted and laughed, shoving each other in their seats and acting like rowdy children. He supposed it made sense. They were made to train for three hours straight, then given a brief half-hour break. He’d watched them from his room. Such an attitude towards war appalled him. Much to his dismay, every table was full. Every except Invictus’s. Ge felt his eyes roll into the back of his head, a groan on his lips. The last place he wanted to be was sat with the Angel, and yet Sol seemed adamant on him sitting somewhere and eating. Still, he stood in the centre of the hall. He wanted to wait. Perhaps somewhere would open up before Sol— “Come sit over here, Mordred,” Sol suggested. He stood beside Invictus, two bowls in his paws. “Do I have to?” Sol gave him an apologetic look. “Come on, Mordred. He’s not poisonous.” “You sure? He’s an [i]Angel.[/i]” The only sign of Invictus’s irritation was the twitch of his head-feathers. Mordred let loose a wicked grin. To get him to show any emotion at all was a victory, let alone irritation. “Please come sit down, Mordred.” “I’d much rather sit on the floor.” “Be my guest,” Invictus drawled. “Gentlemen,” Sol sighed, pleading in his voice as they glared at each other. “Please don’t fight.” “Tell your damn Angel to go somewhere else, then.” A muscle feathered in Invictus’s cheek. “Or you could just go back upstairs.” “Mordred.” The firmness in Sol’s voice was almost entirely unlike him. His gaze fell upon him with his arms crossed and eyes sheened with a pleading exasperation he’d not seen before. “Please sit down and eat. You need only stay until you’ve finished it, then you can go explore if you want.” A sudden temptation to go against him burned in his veins, but he couldn’t do it. He did as he was told. Pulling the bench out with his good arm, laying his bad one to rest on the tabletop, he slid onto it and inhaled the scent of freshly-made soup. It wasn’t much, just tomato, but it was already better than the gruel he’d had to live off of. He dug in. “Someone’s hungry,” Sol chuckled, back to his normal self. He sat opposite him with a spoon hovering over his food. “It’s so good,” Mordred moaned. “You might want to eat yours before I do.” Shaking his head, Sol sipped up a spoonful of soup, eyeing the slip of parchment laid before Invictus. Mordred di the same. He expected it to be a letter or perhaps a newspaper, but what he saw was a map of the area north of Solstice, littered with blotchy scribbles and angry, jagged lines. He sucked in a quiet breath. “Something wrong, Mordred?” Snarling, he glared at Invictus. The Angel merely eyed him with concern. Not a single flicker of suspicion or irritation danced in those pearl-white eyes of his. “No.” He heaved a deep breath and forced himself to focus on his soup. “Just want to know why you’re interested in that area.” “Why do you want to know?” He frowned. “If I’m to stay, I want to know what you’re doing. I’m not a mindless zombie, not like the rest of your troops.” Invictus’s head-feathers fell back against his neck. They looked almost like bruises. Mordred then noticed the bags under his eyes, the ruffles in his feathers, the sloppy frown at that pulled at his face. No wonder he was irritable today. Mordred guessed he’d been up all night with the map, scrawling down notes only for him to cross them out again. “Mordred,” Sol began, “if you know anything about this area, it’d be helpful if you told us.” “I want to know why you’re interested first.” The male opposite him threw a glance at Invictus, only for him to rub his brow and nod. He looked ready to pass out. “You know that we’re at war, don’t you?” “Who doesn’t?” Sol nodded at the map. “The war will take place over that land, near Heaven’s Cliff. We’re planning on getting there first, but they have—” “An outpost,” Mordred finished, eyeing the black square in the centre of the map. “That’s Brackenwood Barrier.” “You know of it?” Invictus said, words startlingly clear despite his exhaustion. “I used to play near there all the time, of course, I know it.” The Angel leant across the table, determination fixed into his gaze. “I need you to tell me everything you know, Mordred.” “Say please,” Mordred drawled, “then I might.” He didn’t miss the slight twitch of his eye. “[i]Please[/i].” They stared at each other for a few seconds, Mordred refusing to shrink under his glare. He eventually caved in. Invictus, with a smug grin, sat back down, satisfied with his efforts. Sol looked as confused as ever, eyebrow raised and a droplet of soup trickling down his chin. “There’s a swamp on the south side of the outpost,” he began, tapping the area with his digit. The movement made his arm sting. “They leave that side unguarded for two reasons; one is because the swamp acts as a natural deterrent, and two is because a few miles south of the outpost is the lair.” His paw drifted to the centre of the outpost. “In the outpost itself is the entrance to an underground mine that leads towards the lair. There’s one close to Solstice, though you’d need miners to open it up.” [i]I may or may not have caused a cave-in.[/i] Neither of them said anything, listening intently. Their full attention was on him. He continued. “I can take you there, to the old mine entrance, and can navigate you through. However, I have a condition.” “What’s that?” Sol asked. Invictus, to his credit, sat there in shock, staring at the map. “Don’t go to the west.” “Why not?” He sighed, only to hiss when he gestured in towards a forest in the corner of the map. “My Mother lives in that woodland. Please don’t bring the war to her.” [i]Otherwise your life is forfeit.[/i] Invictus sat forward, gathering the map up in his paws. “We promise not to go near the woodland, Mordred.” He froze, uncertain, before folding the map up and tucking it away. “Thank you… for your help.” “Did I surprise you, Angel?” he drawled, smirking. “You did. I didn’t think anyone lived near that area, much less knew anything of it.” He hummed, squinting at Invictus. It was rare to hear something like that from him; that there was something he [i]didn’t[/i] know, something he’d readily admit. Still, it did little to persuade him that he was like the rest of the soldiers. He was still wasting lives in a war that felt unnecessary. He was still [i]him.[/i] “I have a question for you before I go.” Mordred rolled his eyes. “What is it, Angel?” Invictus frowned at him. “You know all of this. How did they not kill you?” “They never saw me.” “And—” “Let’s just keep it at that, eh Angel?” Mordred suggested, snarling. “They didn’t see me, never had.” With a sigh, he handed him another bowl of soup. It looked untouched, with digits of steam curling in the air. “Think of it as a thank you for your help,” Invictus said, standing. “I haven’t touched it. You don’t have to worry about my [i]otherworldly touch[/i] diseasing it.” “I’m good, thanks,” he sneered, pushing it towards Sol. Invictus only shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He stepped over the bench and began to walk away, only to stop and turn to face him. All emotion evaporated. “I’ll expect you at a meeting later this week. Whatever more information you have could be invaluable.” “And if I don’t go?” “You’ll come, Mordred.” He grinned. “Or what?” Invictus shot him a twisted smile. “I know you have more than you’re letting on.” With that, he turned on his heel and left, sword bouncing against his tail and legs. Each step sent a shiver through him, and yet it was almost melodic to hear him walk away, the scraping of his armour against worn stone getting quieter until the chatter of the hall covered it completely. “Please stop getting on his bad side, Mordred,” Sol said, his voice a whisper. “He’s trying his best.” “He’s wasting lives.” “It wasn’t him who declared this war. Surely, you know that.” Mordred growled. “He told me he did.” Sol didn’t answer, avoiding his piercing glare. “He lied to me, didn’t he?” He continued to stay quiet for a few moments more. Then, huffing, he nodded. “Yes.” “So he’s a hypocrite, too.” He dumped his spoon in the dregs of his soup and growled. “Brilliant.” “I can’t protect him from your irritation, Mordred, but I can tell you that he’s not perfect—” Mordred choked out a laugh. “He’s an Angel and yet he’s not perfect, you say. Excuse me when I say I don’t believe you.” “He said it to take the heat off a friend.” Sol shot him a level look. “After all, he can take the irritation and insults.” “So who [i]really[/i] started this mess of a war? Your damned Goddess?” “I decline to comment.” Mordred shook his head. He eyes the room Invictus slipped into, hoping the Angel could feel his glare through stone and wood, before shooting to his feet and stalking away, paws stuffed into the pockets of his coat and pain threatening to make him pass out from the movement. He couldn’t care. He hated being lied to. Now it was his time to explore the dastardly place he’d sworn never to enter; Solstice.  -2- Heaven’s Cliff wouldn’t deserve her name after this. Within the next few hours, blood would spatter her side, corpses would crown her top, swords and spikes would litter her base. The very thought irritated him. Heaven’s Cliff held a special place in his heart, for it’d been his haven as a child. To have a war upon her would ruin that memory. “A war is a war,” he whispered to himself, eyeing Brackenwood Barrier with her sky-scraping tower. He forced himself to believe his lies. “Wars aren’t pretty, and this one is necessary.” [i]Spoken like a true patriot[/i], his Mother snarled in his ear. Only recently had she began to talk to him again, hatred lacing her words. Mordred stayed quiet. He knew better than to talk back to her. She may well break his arm again. [i]You know what you need to do boy. Disobey me, and I’ll kill you.[/i] “I promise I will, Mother.” He made sure he spoke softly, without malice, like a slave would his master. With any hint of irritation, even exasperation, in his tone, she’d make him pay. He couldn’t have that. Mordred waited for an answer, but none came. With a sigh, he stared beyond the Barrier and into the horizon. He tugged his coat further around him. With the waking sunlight came a growing bitterness in the air. The sky began to turn to blood with the sunrise. He shuddered. Without knowing what caused it, he lied to himself again; [i]it was just the cold.[/i] A presence, light and unburdened, appeared at his side. He sighed. “So you’ve joined me, Invictus.” “You haven’t insulted me yet, you know,” Invictus drawled. Mordred glared at him. “You’re an itchy sweater.” “There it is.” Growling, he stared back at the horizon. He didn’t know where else to look. “We’re going to have a final meeting in a few minutes. Would you like to join us and offer any final insight?” Shrugging, he brought himself to look at Invictus properly. Donned in his best golden armour, a scarf of midnight black hanging from his neck and a sword similar to Mordred’s swinging at his waist, he looked ready for battle. In his eyes was a dangerous calm, with only a slight hint of regret. “If you don’t want this war to happen,” Mordred began, “why are you going through with it, Angel?” “We have to, Mordred, otherwise we’ll be slaughtered like sitting ducks.” He sighed and gripped the hilt of his sword. “On that note, we need to do as much planning as possible, or else we’ll have too many casualties. We’ve lost more than enough soldiers already.” “Then I’ll be there.” The phrase left a disgusting taste in his mouth, one that lingered. “I’ll help.” Invictus smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Mordred.” “Don’t worry about it.” For what felt like mere moments, the two of them stood in silence, eyeing the commotion below them, at the base of Heaven’s Cliff. Volunteers in glinting gold and bronze armour lugged wood and materials from A to B for makeshift barriers. He couldn’t hear their conversations as they worked. Some made spikes for familiars; others made larger pikes for dragons. Only very few made proper protection, making fences and trenches for traps. Invictus tapped his arm. He had to force himself not to smack his paw away. It was one thing to be stood next to him; it was another to have him touching him. Still, he had to live with it. It may well be over within the next few hours. Surely he could wait that long and do his Mother proud. [i]For once.[/i] “We need to go, don’t we?” he inquired, tucking his paws away in his pockets. “Yes.” With a sigh, Mordred deadpanned him. “Lead the way, Angel.” Invictus did as he was asked, leading him away from Heaven’s Cliff and down into the cluster of soldiers. Aradhel stood with a particularly malicious group of ex-mercenaries, assassins and war heroes, her grin twisted with bloodlust and as sharp as her blade. Even Sol was in the camp, though he stood outside a tent, smiling proudly. Mordred’s heart panged. “It’s still good to see you, Mordred,” Sol said. “I’m not leaving yet, Sol,” he reassured him, stopping at his side. Invictus didn’t wait for him. “And I hope you don’t leave at all. You’re a good male.” Mordred frowned, peering at him. He rarely ever received compliments, much less from dragons that barely knew him. “Why are you so kind to me, sir?” The title felt strange on his tongue, like velvet. “After everything I’ve done?” “You mean after you almost clawed me to pieces at least a dozen times, or when you launched a book at me because I was chasing you up about a meeting?” At his grimace, Sol barked out a laugh. “Everyone needs a friend,” he said. “That includes even you, Mordred. I knew that no one else would want anything to do with you.” “So you did it out of sympathy?” “No, I did it because I saw the goodness in you.” Sol smiled softly, his teeth glistening as brightly as his shackles. “Turns out you have more than you thought.” [i]He’s lying about you, son. He’s not worth your attention.[/i] He winced and Sol chuckled, gesturing towards the tent. “Go inside, I’ll meet you there. I’m just going to wait for the others.” Mordred nodded, shouldering the tent flap aside and staring around the tent with discontent. It was barren like you’d expect, with a large desk in the middle for mapping, planning and drafting. Six chairs sat around it in an oval. Invictus perched in one, legs crossed and eyes roving over the map before him. He slunk into the chair opposite him and waited. Neither of them had to wait long, thankfully. The first one to arrive was Lebirantio, the Judge for Solstice and the one who held the power to kick him out if he got out of control. Just like his title would suggest as the highest male in Solstice—unlike the highest female, this [i]Liberation[/i]—he was terrifying, but soft and caring once you washed away the rough exterior. At least, that was Mordred’s experience. The next one to come was Thanatos. Thanatos, surprisingly, was a much calmer male, one you could hold decent conservation with if he wanted to talk to you, all this while being the Reaper of Souls. The only reason he was here, Mordred supposed, was to round up all the souls of the dead and lead them away to safety. Aradhel and Sol were the final ones to come inside. Aradhel shot him an evil look as she sat next to Invictus, with Sol seating himself between her and Mordred. Ever since their first encounter, she’d never had much trust for him. [i]It’s for the best. Trust gets you hurt.[/i] He knew that first-hand, of course. “That’s everyone,” Sol announced, patting Mordred’s shoulder. “Shall we begin?” The murmured agreements rebounding around the tent were the last thing Mordred heard, his mind involuntarily drifting into a world of his own. It wasn’t his doing. As much as he tried to focus and offer insight, as much as he tried to [i]help[/i], he couldn’t, claws keeping his mind from focusing as they dragged across it. Each nick they made had him wince. “Mother,” he whispered low enough so no one could hear him, “what are you doing?” [i]Why, keeping you from screwing up, of course![/i] “Mother—” [i]Don't you dare talk back to me, boy.[/i] He took that for what it was—a threat laced with endless torment—and let her keep him from focusing on anything but Invictus. He hated it, and she knew that. It was [i]why[/i] she did it. Each time he spoke, his voice a blur of words he couldn’t discern, Mordred winced. His skin would crawl; his head-feathers would twitch; his blood would boil. She was stirring his irritation. “Mordred?” She let go of him. He forced down his gasp, blinking rapidly to bring himself back to the present. Peering around the room to see the other dragons staring at him, Invictus in particular, he tried not to squirm. “Sorry, I wasn’t—” “Nerves?” Lebirantio inquired from across the table. “Sure, something like that.” “We were hoping to know if you could offer any adjustments to our plan,” Sol said, his voice soft. “After all, you know the area better than we do.” “What was it again?” he asked sheepishly. “I wasn’t listening.” Just as Sol went to repeat the plan, tapping on the table snagged his attention. It came from Invictus. As soon as his gaze fell upon him, he nodded towards the entrance of the tent and stood, scarf swishing and sword swaying. Mordred followed. He told himself to act natural, to keep his cool. He started at the hissing of metal. Glaring at Invictus, he grinned back at him. His sword swung idly between his digits, the pearls flaring to life under the waking sun. “What are you doing, Angel?” he growled, keeping his distance. “You need a distraction.” [i]As if I didn’t already know that[/i]. “I thought we could have a duel to relax you.” Mordred snorted, snout wrinkling in a sneer. “Sure, because [i]fighting[/i] calms dragons down. Must be why so many wars break out!” Invictus shot him a tired look and began to tuck his sword away. He stopped when Mordred grunted in pain, clutching his forehead and hissing through clenched teeth. His brain pounded against his skull. His Mother’s claws ripped at his mind, almost tearing pieces away. Only when he swatted them away did his Mother snarl at him. [i]Accept it. Now.[/i] “Mordred?” Invictus crouched before him in his doubled-over state, eyes glistening with worry. “Are you alright?” “Yeah,” he wheezed. “Just got a bit of a headache, that’s all.” “Do you want to sit—?” “I want to take you up on that offer.” He started. “Mordred, if you have a headache, you should sit down.” “Who are you, [i]Lumen?[/i]” Mordred groaned and rubbed his head. The pain subsided slightly, though he felt sick under the Angel’s worried gaze. [i]He doesn’t care.[/i] “I’m fine, Angel. Besides, a distraction will help my nerves.” Invictus looked inclined to disagree, but sighed again and scooped his sword up from the ground, wiping excess grass off on his gauntlet. He nodded towards Heaven’s Cliff. “Let’s do it up there.” “What, so I can kick you off to spare you your shame?” Laughing, Invictus sauntered away, leaving Mordred to eye him with uncertainty. He soon followed. The nervous chatter echoing in his ears from the camps soon died, though their words made his skin tingle and churned his stomach. He counted himself lucky that he hadn’t eaten earlier. The way up to Heaven’s Cliff was too long. As soon as he reached the top, he was greeted by the song of a blade. He ducked. A sword went soaring over his head. Of course, it was Invictus’s. “Oi, idiot,” he snapped, standing up on stiff legs, “try not to kill me, eh?” “I was testing your reaction time,” Invictus chuckled. “It seems you’ve improved.” “I’ll kill you if you do it again, Angel.” He bowed, a cunning smile twisting his lips. “Bring it on, Homunculus.” Mordred didn’t need to be told twice. With lethal speed, he gripped and swung his blade. Invictus dodged it, rolling to the side. A fleck of iridescent purple twisted in the wind. He smiled. Maybe he [i]had[/i] improved. Starting, he leapt backwards. It’d become a habit within recent times; he got easily distracted, let his guard dropped. It turned out to be the right call. Invictus’s blade sliced at where he once stood. A stubborn growl left the Angel’s throat, rumbling across his armour. Mordred dodged his next attack and swiped at his arm. Both blade and limb rebounded. Invictus, with his balance thrown off, barely missed his next thrust. Sword met sword, reverberations travelling through bone and sinew. Skin tingled, muscles ached. Neither male was finished. Invictus was the first to give way. He let Mordred’s sword fall, counting on his daze to shoulder slam him. He counted wrong. Mordred’s focus stayed sharp. He slid to one side, Invictus slipping on loose dirt. Swiping at his iridescent wings, he drew blood. Not much, but enough to stain some feathers red. Something snapped in him at that moment. [i]Not much isn’t enough.[/i] The Angel swivelled around and swung blindly. Mordred ducked. Invictus, his attention snagged by the light wound, left him a window. Mordred thrust his blade through the curled golden cross-guard of the blade. With a firm yank, it came free of his sweaty grip and went flying over the edge. Mordred didn’t care where it landed. With his sword pointed at Invictus’s neck, he panted. His paw shook. He’d growl if he could, but his energy reserves dwindled, running on meagre fumes. Invictus raised his paws in surrender, pride and amusement glistening in his eyes. “Look like you’ve won,” he stated. Mordred glared at him. He wouldn’t lower his arm. “Mordred,” Invictus said, brow furrowing. “You [i]won[/i]. You can put the sword down now.” With a curse colourful enough to make Lebirantio blush, he swung at Invictus’s neck, nicking it. A tiny droplet of blood stained his white skin. “Mordred—?” He growled. It sounded almost animalistic. Fear and confusion sparked in the Angel’s eyes. He dodged every thrust and swing, using his gauntlets to block what he couldn’t escape. Mordred refused to give in. With every twist, every clash, his energy sizzled lower and lower. He began to make careless mistakes. He became desperate. Invictus, in his rush, didn’t seem to notice. “Mordred, what’s gotten into you?” he snarled. He used his gauntlet to stop him from getting to his neck. “Just [i]die[/i] already!” Mordred screamed, blade slicing down the side of the gauntlet. It left a fine, white mark in its wake. Invictus stared at him, doe-eyed. He almost didn’t see his next attack. It caused him to flail, leaving his paw in the wake of his swing. A bloody red line appeared across the back of his paw. Fluid pooled, running down his arm. He hissed. He took a step back towards Heaven’s Cliff’s edge. Beneath was nothing but a fifty-foot drop. He’d have to use that. Mordred noticed something at that moment; he’d left his stance too wide. He seized the opportunity before Invictus could fix it, wrapping his tail around his ankle. Squeezing, he tugged. The Angel’s feet fell from beneath him. His scream was cut short, headdress thwacking stone. [i]Finally[/i], his Mother drawled, her digits caressing his exhausted mind. [i]Finish him, my beautiful son.[/i] Mordred towered over the Angel and snarled like a wild beast. He [i]felt[/i] like a wild beast; he felt powerful and unstoppable, like a predator in bloodlust. Invictus was nothing more than prey. In his cowering, hissing state, he was measly and useless. Maybe Sol was right. Maybe the Angel truly wasn’t perfect. Just as he tried to scramble to his feet, blinking rapidly, Mordred kicked his abdomen. He landed on his side, winded. With no weapon at his side, he could finish him easily and shove him off the edge. No one would find him until tomorrow. [i]Kill him, you stupid boy![/i] He did as he was told, his grin twisted, eyes wide, mane tangled from the wind. Up went his sword, two paws gripping the pearl-white hilt to deliver the final blow. Invictus stayed down, unaware, wheezing. Mordred felt almost sorry for him. He didn’t let that stop him. Time slowed down. He brought his sword down over his head, aiming for the skull, hoping that his headdress wasn't runed. A flash of white blinded him. His Mother screamed as pain sparked along his nerves. No longer was his sword aiming for the skull, and no longer was Invictus unaware. He lay beneath him still, but faced him, face pained. In his paws sat no sword, but light itself, glaring and searing. It flowed up from his iron grasp... and into Mordred’s chest. He choked. Warmth dribbled down his front, down his back. It spattered red against the gold of Invictus’s armour. His wings spasmed, throwing him off balance. His sword fell. It clattered beside Invictus. How could he tell? He fell next to it, choking and gasping like a fish out of water. Noise—white noise—rang in his ears. It echoed and thundered; a thunderstorm in his skull. His Mother’s screams drowned beneath the noise, then disappeared for good. He was last alone with his thoughts... she’s abandoned him with dragons that just watched, including the very male he’d promised to slaughter. He laughed to himself. Blood ran down his tongue and his chin. [i]She’s going to kill me. She said she would.[/i] Someone turned him onto his back, gently adjusting the spear so that he could lie on his wings. He half-expected Invictus but instead saw Lumen. His face blurred with tears of anguish and agony. He sounded worried, but Mordred couldn't tell. Everything was far away. [i]He[/i] was far away. Behind the crowd gathering around stood a male he dreaded to see; Thanatos. Still donned in glistening silver, his white scarf fluttering in the wind, he manoeuvred his way around the back of the crowd and to his side. Mordred tried to avoid his gaze. He couldn't. Thanatos smirked at him, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "I didn't think I'd be doing this again, to be honest with you." Mordred tried to inquire. [i]Again? What does he mean "again"?[/i] Blood bubbled in the back of his throat. The coppery taste mingled with the scent of death that Thanatos carried around with him like a burden. He didn't get to ask his question. He sat down beside him, eyeing the Healer and then Mordred. No one else noticed him. "It's unfortunate, really. I have to watch you suffer again, yet such is my job. I just wish Lumen would let you go." Spitting blood, he shuddered, heart seizing for a split second, darkness cornering his vision. Lumen used his silks to wipe away the blood. "Aren't you..." His voice trailed off into a breathless whisper, pain draining the last of his energy. Thanatos frowned. "Going to reap your soul?" His groan was answer enough. "It's simple; I can't." Mordred's eyes widened, a chill running down his spine. Thanatos, in his splendour, looked nothing like the male he knew; confident, pleasant, unburdened. He looked older and exhausted. In his eyes sat a flicker of guilt that shone just for him. "Your Mother has claim over your soul, Mordred," he explained. "I wish I could reap your soul anyway if only to save you from more torment, but I can't break that claim. I've tried." His heart hammered, palpitating against the spear still in his chest. He never knew claiming a soul was possible, much less that his Mother had done it to [i]him[/i]. A thought with the weight of thousands of anvils hit him in his weak state. [i]How many times have I been brought back for him to attempt to save me?[/i] His vision blackened further, like smoke filling a room. That wasn't reassuring anymore. Thanatos sighed, ears flattening against his deep-red mane. "The least I can do for you is keep you company, and unfortunately it's the most I can do, too." He should have growled, screamed, cursed, [i]anything[/i] for his sympathy. Instead, he stared at the Reaper in disbelief, his skin prickling with a sudden coolness that iced his blood. Lumen continued to struggle with the spear, despite the blood loss. A faint dreg of hope rose in the image that he might live. It quickly disappeared alongside his vision. Thanatos offered him a final meagre smile, one that stuck with him as his vision faded. Regret shone there. "I'm sorry, Mordred. Stay safe." [center]*[/center] Gasping, he awoke. Cold pricked his bare skin, wringing his wrists. Something tied his wings down. No matter how much he flapped and struggled, the weight wouldn’t budge. Nor would whatever kept him on the cold stone floor, knees digging in between cracks and crevices. A paw, silken soft and gentle, crept under his chin. The touch felt vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t tell who it was. Their digits pushed on his chin and raised his gaze. Feathers and scales stuck on the end. The aura of this dragon... he hated it. It made his skin crawl. Just as a snowflake settled, melted away, on the end of his snout, he stared into the eyes of a female, a headpiece made from white glass feathers resting on her brow, a jewel nestled in its base. She looked cruelly soft, like snow, but something felt wrong. He recognised her. “Hello, Mordred,” she drawled, smiling. He sucked in a breath as her grip on his chin tightened. “My name is Morgana. I’m your Mother, and you’re here to obey my every command.” When he didn’t answer, shock chilling his blood, she brought his face up to hers to grace him with the full view of her deadly snarl. “Understand that, boy?” He nodded. “Yes.” “Yes, what?” “Yes... Mother.” She grinned and let him drop back to his knees. “Good boy. Now, here are the rules of living under my gracious care...” Her smile turned evil, maliciousness and infinite rage flaring in her steely gaze. “Disobey me, and I’ll kill you. Run away and I’ll find you. Whatever I say goes, and if you dare defy me, I’ll torture you until you understand.” He didn’t answer, shaking involuntarily. He wanted it to stop. He knew where he was; he could be blindfolded and he’d know where she’d chained him. He could hear the war raging on above, screams echoing through the stoned halls. They were in the mines below the Brackenwood Barrier. “Do you understand me, Mordred?” she snapped, talons appearing at the end of her digits. He nodded frantically, shuffling away from her. “Yes, Mother.” The talons disappeared as quickly as they’d appeared, her smile turning soft and nurturing once more. “Good boy. Let’s get you out of these chains, shall we?” [right][size=1][i]Made by Ozie in "[URL=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/art/2371542]Ozie's Lore Shop![/URL]"[/i][/size][/right][/quote]

@Blueberrypodoboo Hey, two lores in one day! That's unusual. Either way, here's Vladimir's redo! Sorry that it took way longer than expected; I've got a new editing technique. It takes longer but hopefully improves my writing! Anyway, I hope you enjoy his new lore, and I hope it all fits in one post. [emoji=coatl winking size=1] [i]Note: I realised how many mistakes I made through other lores--like calling Vlad "Alvin" not "Alvis" and thinking Nova had a birb mask, so I'm gonna fix those up as soon as I can![/i] [quote=Vladimir]-1- When he’d come to, he’d felt sick to his stomach. Now wasn’t much different. Even after what felt like hours—though could’ve been minutes—of laying in darkness, he had no idea where he was. It only made him feel worse. No ticking sounded, no voices fell upon his ears. He was alone with his muddled thoughts, and that terrified him. He tried to sit up. Whatever was left in his stomach threatened to come back up with every moment, causing him to give in and curl up into a ball just to ease it. The comfort of the bed enveloped him, giving him something to focus on. At least, that was until a groan rose in his throat and out into the open, the sound scratching on the insides, did it give him something else to focus on. Sucking in a breath through his nose, breathing out through his mouth, helped his nausea to an extent. It wasn’t like having a glass of water to help his sore throat, but it was close enough, especially since he didn’t want to call for anyone just in case the dragons he’d found himself with weren’t pleasant. The thought made him pull his quilt over his head and shiver. A slam sounded outside of his dark confinement. He poked his head out from under the quilt and propped himself up on his elbows. At first, all he heard was white noise; words that made little to no sense and sounds that found themselves muffled through his walls. He gave up after a few minutes. Only then did words start forming. “...We going to do if he’s awake?” someone asked from beyond, soft footfalls following his words. He sounded anxious. The other—a female—had a lot more confidence. “We’ll talk to him if he is. The poor thing won’t have had a conversation for weeks—” [i]Weeks?[/i] “—and maybe he can tell us what happened.” He bit his lip, brow furrowed in confusion. Then, a flare of anger lit up in the pits of his stomach. [i]Have they deliberately kept me away from others?[/i] “And if he... can’t?” “Oh, ye of little faith,” the female hissed. “Look, if he’s awake, then we can talk to him and then [i]I[/i] can get a proper diagnosis for his condition if there is one, capisce?” The male sighed, something thudding on the floor. It could be his tail, foot or even a bag. He couldn’t tell. “How likely is it,” he began again, “that he’s awake, do you think?” The other one huffed. “I don’t know, Walter. If he’s not awake by now... well, there could be a chance he won’t wake up again.” It took this Walter a few seconds to respond, with only a soft gasp to indicate his mood. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” “I’m a doctor. Of course, I’m serious.” “Then I pray to the Deities that he’s awake, for Rose’s sake.” [i]Who’s Rose? She sounds familiar…[/i] When the doctor responded, she sounded quiet. “I do too, Walter.” Anxiety rose in his throat like a thick bubble. It constricted his breathing. Nothing in the room helped, for nothing felt familiar, let alone looked or smelt familiar. The voices were odd, too. Though one was completely new to him, another rang a distant bell that echoed in the crevices of his mind. It didn’t reassure him. To make matters worse, they’d locked him up and kept him from talking to anyone for weeks. No wonder he felt like he’d only just woken up today. The door clicked open, light illuminating the room with a rich white flare. Some kind of wood—Starwood, guessing by the star-spangled bark—held the walls, with a dark wooden desk opposite his bed. On it sat a ruby red hat, dusty and leaning against the wall. His bedsheets, he noted with horror, were a soft minty green and spotted with red. He shuddered. He didn’t want to know if that was a design choice or blood. “You’re awake,” a gentle voice pointed out as if he didn’t know that already. His gaze fell upon a blurred, black-cloaked Wildclaw, a gown sweeping down by her feet. A tome swung at her waist, held onto her only by a leather strap. The worst thing about her was her mask; it was a skull mask obscuring her features, bleached white against her black skin. He scrambled away from her, whimpering. He backed away until the wall kept him from going any further. She immediately took her mask off and held it before her. Behind it sat a beautiful rounded face with large cat-like eyes of ruby red, a worried frown playing at her mouth. Plague eyes, he supposed, were suitable for a doctor. “I’m sorry I scared you,” she said, placing the bird mask on the desk. “I didn’t think you were fully awake.” He went to speak, though no words exited him; only one long groan—meant to form “Get away from me”—echoed around the room. Words failed him. His tongue felt fat and heavy and dry. No wonder he couldn’t speak. She gestured towards the bed he cowered on. “Am I alright to come closer?” If he was to tell her the truth, he’d shake his head. Terror thrummed in his blood. It quickened his breathing. He didn’t want some random dragon doctor getting closer to him, not when she already looked like she towered next to him. Who knows what she could do to him in his state of confusion! The doctor’s expression fell into an emotionless frown. She didn’t come close. Instead, she closed the door, drowning the room in darkness. His fear spiked, muscles tensing. At his gasp, she quickly lit the only torch in his room with a match. He gulped. Wood and fire didn’t seem like a good idea to him. She soon noticed his fear and smiled softly. “Don’t worry about the caravan setting on fire.” She gestured at the torch, paw waving through the flame with ease. “It’s been enchanted so that it can’t spread. As a side-effect, it can’t hurt, either.” He didn’t believe her. He couldn’t tell her that, of course, considering his tongue felt tied down to the bottom of his mouth. Whether it was fear or some other factor, he couldn’t tell. At that moment, she pulled a clipboard from the inside of her cloak, a colourful quill resting in the metal clasp. It was the only thing of colour that he could see on her. Everything else was monochromatic, and yet the quill was some kind of green and orange combination. He couldn’t tell if he saw it correctly. It blurred with the other colours hiding in its midst, confusing him. “Oh! I forgot to mention—” She slipped the quill free from its home and raised her eyebrow at him. “—my name’s Nova. I’m hoping that, with your permission, I can ask you a few questions about what happened. Is that okay?” Again, he yearned to say no. He wanted to say something, even if it was a simple ‘no’, but no matter how hard he tried, words wouldn’t form. His head betrayed his wishes, nodding curtly at her. Nova grinned, seating herself on the desktop and placing the clipboard in her lap. The only indication coming of her first question was the click of her quill against the metal clasp. “I’ll start with the basics, okay?” He nodded again, ears flattening against his mane. Her gaze shifted from soft to level. From here on out, he hoped that she was going to treat him like an equal and not a toddler. “The first question; can you tell me your name?” [i]This is basic?[/i] He could’ve laughed if his tongue wasn’t weighed down. His name was... His blood chilled as he searched his mind for memories, pulling empty files from alcoves long lost. [i]My name, she asked for? I should know this; it’s[/i] my [i]name![/i] Of course, he had to know, right? His name was his, one he could use for himself. So why did his mind stay blank? [i]Maybe I just never had one[/i], he thought with another gulp, pleading her with his eyes. [i]Give me something easier.[/i] Nova’s brow creased. “You can’t remember your name?” “Ti-ed,” he managed. He would’ve revelled in what felt like his first word if terror didn’t paralyse him against the wall. “Tied?” “Tiiiii-ed.” “...Tired?” He nodded, hoping that was answer enough. Nova didn’t look impressed. She noted something down with a pout, her eyes gleaming with some emotion he couldn’t place. “So, you don’t remember?” He sighed. That was answer enough. As soon as she’d finished scrawling, her gaze locked onto his, eyebrow raised. “Do you remember anything of the event?” [i]This isn’t simple.[/i] Nonetheless, he tried to find something—[i]any[/i]thing—to use as the event, but he didn’t even know what this event was. Files piled up in the back of his mind, having been flung there once proven useless. He even debated making it up, and eventually... “I fell.” Nova snorted, disbelief written all over her face. “You fell?” “Yeh.” “You fell into the Plague Mist, covered in injuries?” He started, grimacing. “...Yes.” “Are you making that up?” Feeling compelled to say no, his head betrayed him yet again. He nodded. “So you don’t remember; am I correct in thinking that?” He bit his lip and nodded again. “Is everything okay?” the male from earlier—Walter, was it?—called through the door. He sounded anxious, even more so than before. “I haven’t heard anything good, and—” “We’re getting there,” Nova growled. The receding footsteps were the only cue for the male leading. His heart panged. Walter’s voice was the only vaguely familiar thing to him; he didn’t want to be in here with some scary skull doctor asking him silly questions his brain couldn’t handle just yet. The clack of her quill against the clipboard brought his attention back to her. She looked unamused. “Let’s move on, shall we?” He nodded, desperate to get this over with. Her next words were sugar-sweet, and he grimaced. He didn’t like her. He wanted Walter in the room, acting as some kind of barrier between them. “Do you remember anything at all? I’ll take anything from your birthday to something that happened when you were five.” He felt tempted to ask if that was genuine, but that only fed into his dread. He couldn’t begin to imagine how much was missing from his life. He didn’t even know his age! What else was he supposed to remember; his favourite memory with this [i]Rose?[/i] His twelfth birthday? Again, the temptation to lie came up, but he got caught out twice whenever he tried to dodge the question. His nausea reminded him of its existence. The guilt, it seemed, was enough to make it bubble in his stomach like a concoction in a cauldron. “Do you remember?” With a sniff, tears of dread pricking at his eyes, he shook his head. Nothing remained of his memories. Not [i]one[/i] thing. If anything, the only anchors he may have to his past were two dragons; Rose and Walter. Neither of them held any physical place in his mind; he couldn’t imagine how they looked, nor tell you anything other than their names. “Hey,” Nova cooed. When he looked at her, her face was soft and almost maternal. “It’s alright. We’ll figure this out.” His heart thundered in its cage. His lip trembled. He couldn’t look at the doctor, not without feeling some kind of heartache, so he focused on the wall next to him and on the spotted red of his quilt. A clack against wood echoed in his ears. As much as he tried to, he couldn’t bring himself to care about what Nova did. He desperately tried to search his mind for any inkling of who he was. Nothing, not even the dullest memory of all, came to the forefront of his mind. Soft footfalls shuffled across the wooden floor, followed by wisps from her cloak. “Walter,” she said through the door. His attention snapped towards the door as footsteps sounded on the other side. “Can you come in?” The door nearly swung open in her face at the suggestion, and on the other side stood Walter. A softer, more translucent version of him outlined him. Grey-blue and red merged into the half-blurry form of a Ridgeback, with spots of yellow drifting down into the black-white hugging him. Just like Nova, Walter’s eyes were stained red, though his eyes were softer and rounder. Wonder and gentleness filled them. His smile, one that stretched from ear to ear, radiated warmth. He almost smiled back. Nova sighed, “Are you in or out, Walter?” Sheepishly, he entered the room. He stayed beside the door even when it closed, with Nova heading back towards her desk to scribble down more notes. Her gaze, though emotionless, looked ready to burn a hole through the clipboard she soon held. “I hope Nova didn’t scare you too much,” Walter said, smiling warmly at him. “I know she’s a bit terrifying, but she’s all lovely and soft once you get to know her.” She scoffed. “As if, I’m only nice to you because you pay me.” “You love me!” “Uh-huh.” He moved closer guessing by the gentle footsteps, paws clasped before him. “How... how are you feeling, by the way?” At his frown, he sucked in a breath and grimaced. His gaze went from him to Nova. “Is there anything we can do?” “Ask him, not me.” He did so, coming closer again, even though he was almost certain he’d bump into the end of the bed. When he didn’t answer, he sat down opposite him and gently patted his leg. “We’ll fix this. I’m certain we will.” He appreciated the reassurance, though he still tugged his leg away and curled up into a ball against the wall. It took whatever remained of his efforts not to throw up from anxiety, tears burning in his eyes, his lip trembling. The more he dove into the depths of his mind, the guiltier he felt. “Walter,” Nova said, swishing accompanying his words, “while you’re there, could you help me with something?” Walter grinned. “Sure, what is it?” “I’m going to need your help checking this young man’s left eye.” He tensed. Throwing a glare towards the pair of them, he shrank away until the headboard of the bed dug into his back, crushing his wings. His tail wrapped around him, acting as a shield. He didn’t know what they were on about, but he’d had enough of this and wanted to get out. Unfortunately, the only exit was the door. “It’s alright,” Walter spoke softly, paws out in surrender, “if you agree to it, I’ll tell you how it’ll work, yeah?” [i]He’s treating me like a toddler[/i]. A small growl rose in his throat, one he had to dampen. He nodded slowly. “Am I okay to come closer, then?” At his second nod, Walter edged closer. With each movement, he tensed more, until he felt his muscles would burst from the pressure. He soon thought about pushing him away, at least until he offered him his paw and a warm grin. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said with confidence. “It’ll take just a few minutes, and then we can get you something to eat and drink. You must be [i]starving.[/i]” Each slow movement towards him—he had to grip onto Walter’s arm in the end so he could help him—made him feel ill, stomach twisting and turning with almost unbearable amounts of anxiety. His breath hitched each time he felt he got too close. Sweat began to bead with every inch of his personal space that he surrendered for this exam, of sorts. By the end of it, lying flat on his back with his wings tucked beneath him, he felt ready to throw up, run or both. “You’ve got a strong grip, haven’t you?” Walter chuckled, rubbing at his paw as it slowly loosened from his arm. “You can hold my paw while I do this if you want.” He nodded earnestly, gripping it in a hold of steel to save from being consumed by panic. Then, with a voice as gentle as a puppy, he explained every detail of what he was going to do. “With my left,” he said, “I’m going to cover your eye until you feel comfortable keeping it closed. Then, if that happens, I’ll hold up my digits and you can nod for how many you see. Is that okay?” “Yeah,” he muttered, voice shaking. “If you get too scared at any point, just pat me, okay?” “Yeah.” “Let me know when you want to begin.” He took a single deep breath before allowing Walter’s left paw to come down over his right eye. At first, the whole world faded from view. He kept from crying out and stilled himself from squirming, yet it didn’t work in his favour. Without thinking, he squeezed his paw. Walter sensed his panic and quickly withdrew. “Are you alright?” he inquired. He nodded, keeping his eye closed. “Mm-hmm.” “Are you sure? I can stop if you want.” Shaking his head was all he could do. He couldn’t see anything except for a bleary, mirage-like figure before him. He assumed it was Walter. If it was anyone else... well, they’d get the scream that’s been building in his throat since he lost his vision. The very thought that someone else was sat there, or that his vision was almost as bad as his memory, made his heart skip beats as he waited for Walter’s word. “Right, can you see how many digits I’m holding up?” He had to squint at the paw before him. To see one paw while he spied two, one fuzzier than the other, with bleary sight was one task, and yet to determine how many digits he held up was on a whole other level. By the end, after a while of squinting, he nodded once. Twice. “Correct!” At his jump, his paw squeezing Walter’s again and eyelid flinging open, Walter apologised and helped him sit up. “It took you a while, but you got there in the end.” “Those glasses must’ve been his.” The pair of them stared at Nova, who had her eyebrow raised and her mask swinging from her digits. “You mean the specs we found?” Walter inquired, petting his paw. “Yes.” She slipped from the desk to the floor and sauntered over to them, her gaze never leaving him. “May I have a look at your eye?” Just as he went to shake his head, Walter piped up with a suggestion that almost made him breathe a sigh of relief. “I’ll take a look. I was your assistant, for a while.” “You’re also squeamish, Walter.” “So? It’s just his eye.” “Fine,” Nova said after a few seconds, staying away from him. He could only just tell where she was, thanks to the shadow she cast on the floor from the torch; she stood in the centre of the room, arms crossed and lips pursed. “Go ahead and examine his eye.” Walter did so, smiling again. His own brilliant red and slightly sunken eyes shone with curiosity and focus. His grin soon fell into a grimace. “That line isn’t meant to be there, is it?” “Lie... line?” he squeaked, shrinking away. “Thought so,” Nova muttered, scrawling at her clipboard once more. Her gaze shifted to Walter. “Do you see the scar over his eye?” “Yeah, why?” “He was attacked, and so the assailant managed to slice into his eye, damaging the cornea.” “Is it reversible?” “It could be however only time will tell.” He tensed again, wings cracking as he splayed them. They served as a better shield that his tail. It still wasn’t enough. Just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, his eye is now subject to the same torture as his mind; a broken, confusing story that he knew nothing about, only that he’d been attacked and scarred. Hesitantly, he gazed down at his arms, his torso, and his wings. Scars littered them in various places, some pinker than others, some more gruesome and jagged like a ritual blade. He couldn’t help but count them. He noted where they were, felt for more along his collarbone and neck. He retched when he found them. Clutching his abdomen, tears of dread stung his eyes. He felt like a statue; stiff and useless. The only indication to either of them noticing was the shutdown of their conversation, with Nova quickly leaving the room and Walter grabbing something—he soon learned it was a bucket—from the corner of the room. Nova soon returned with a glass of water and sat beside Walter, further away from him. “Here,” Walter mumbled, shuffling next to him. “Let’s get your hair out of your face.” He hadn’t noticed his mane was in the way, but let him anyway. As much as he’d been craving for it, he couldn’t drink the cup of water sitting in his paws. Each gentle tug of his hair gave him something else to focus on. “I might have a diagnosis for your condition,” Nova informed him, leaning over to gaze at him, “if you want to hear it.” Both he and Walter stilled. As gently as he could manage, put his glass on the floor and stared at her, pleading her to enlighten him. He knew the news wasn’t great. Her eyes were soft, almost apologetic, and she picked at her claws absentmindedly. Still, she told him. He wished she hadn’t. “From your disorientation to lack of memory including personal information, I think it’s safe to say you have retrograde amnesia.” “Isn’t that permanent?” Walter inquired. He sounded just as apologetic as Nova looked. “Not always.” Just as a spark of hope flared to life, it died. “Though, your case is quite serious. I can’t say how it came about, for I need proper look, but it can only be blunt force trauma that caused it. What may become of it is uncertain until you trust me.” “What about the wheezing?” [i]Oh Deities, there’s something else?[/i] “Definitely asthma, though I believe that was already developed. It’s hard to tell.” Walter cursed beside him. He could only stare at her with disbelief. Before he knew it, he collapsed against the headboard of the bed, eyes rolling back into his head and brain ready to melt. He felt far away like he wasn’t a part of this world. The paw that pressed against his head, the one that tucked him under his quilt, wasn’t his. He must’ve blacked out soon after. When he woke up, Walter snored at the end of his bed, curled up in a ball with a tuxedo thrown over him. As soon as he shuffled, his eyes snapped open. A grin as soft as silk appeared. “How are you feeling? You kinda passed out back there.” He smiled back at him, yawning. It wasn’t much to offer, considering he felt like a bag of hammers. “You know,” he said, shuffling closer until he leant against the headboard beside him, “I’ve been thinking of what to call you until your memories come back. Want to hear the list I’ve made?” With nothing better to do, he nodded. Maybe one will ring a bell. He soon began to laugh at the variety of names; Janet was the first one, for whatever reason beyond his reckoning, followed by Bob and Weltan. With each one he went down, counting them on his digits, the weirder they got, and that was saying something considering how the list began with a female name. “How about Alvis? That’s a cool name!” He shuddered and shook his head, tucking a strand of his mane away. The name rang a distant bell that echoed around his empty mind, though it didn’t bring with it a feeling of euphoria like he would expect. Instead, his blood went cold. Something about that name made him want to claw at his skin until it bled. A realisation came to mind, one that made him want to hide. [i]Alvis must have been my pursuer.[/i] “Aww, but it’d suit you!” Shaking his head again, he looked up to see Walter pouting. As much as it was his choice, he seemed determined to call him Alvis for some reason. “What if I told you that he was an adorable warlock capable of tearing the world in two with his own two paws?” With one final shake of his head, tugging his quilt up under his chin to fend off the horrible name, Walter hummed and threw his tuxedo to the other end of the bed. He didn’t need it anymore, it seemed. “Let me think…” He gazed down at him, grinning. “Have we said Vladimir yet?” He shook his head, intrigued. It was now the hundred-and-twenty-first name Walter had suggested, and among them, only those two names sounded familiar. Such a fact irritated him. He didn’t know why they sounded familiar, nor who they belonged to, and as much as he tried to guess, he only hoped he’d know soon enough. Walter’s grin grew idiotic and wild. “I think that name would be best for you. After all, it was said he could kill whole lairs of Beastclan with his bare paws and survive even the toughest of conditions no matter where he was, what he wore or even what he had with him!” Propping himself up on his elbows, he raised his eyebrows and waited for him to continue. “One day, he came across the lair of Vermouth Heights, a lair he protects even to this day because of their service to him after he’d been wounded by a twelve-foot Manticore. It’s said he went there to die after a lifetime of fighting, finally settling down with a partner, and wanders the land in his death, scaring everyone away by merely bellowing his name.” Walter, coming back to the present, smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I got a bit carried away.” He smirked at him, his mind shrouded by curiosity and an ember of guilt. It quickly dissipated, Walter’s bright, enthusiastic voice slicing clean through. “What do you think?” After a few seconds of thinking—of weighing the name and its implications, of debating whether or not he should wait for his name to return to him if he ever had one—he nodded. As much as the thought of settling with it unsettled him, he needed some kind of identity until he remembered his own. “It’s decided, then!” he exclaimed, the brightest possible grin lighting up his whole face. “Your temporary name is now Vladimir! Now, let’s think of a surname!” He—Vladimir—chuckled, getting himself comfortable for a long list of surnames that were no doubt just some letters mashed together to create something pronounceable.  -2- [i]You asked for this.[/i] He’d told himself that numerous times in the last few minutes alone, sitting alone on his bed and leaning against the wall beside him. It was common for his mind to lie to him, but what else was he to believe. His trust for it disappeared long ago when it began to question every emotion he felt in light of the Circus’s irritation with his low mood. [i]Do you feel that? You’re happy for once? You don’t think he means that, do you?[/i] Vladimir groaned. He sat up and rolled his neck again to stop the stiffness. How long he’d sat there since coming inside at lunch, he didn’t know. All he knew was that the moon hung in the sky and rain hammered down on the roof of his caravan. He found himself wishing he was out there. Not because he wanted to, but because he was tired of feeling so numb. Outside of the window beside him, he spied his husband-to-be chatting with Aries and Broken Mirror. In the rain, no less. Despite feeling nothing, he let a tiny smile break loose. Walter cared, perhaps too much, about everyone in the circus and about getting the wedding perfect, even if it left him exhausted the next day. He resented himself for that, if only because he wanted to help him but his mental health wouldn’t let him. It’d prompted a few internal fights, often leaving him sobbing in a corner and [i]still[/i] not helping anyone. He must’ve stared for too long. His fiancé turned, face dripping with rainwater and waistcoat soaked through, and grinned. Vladimir forced a smile back to keep him from worrying. How he could be in a good mood, despite the rain, he wished to know. Vladimir supposed he could learn a thing or two from him. He didn’t miss the sudden frown. It took a mere couple of seconds to say goodbye and walk away from both of the Imperials. He was coming back. Vladimir sighed, biting his lip hard enough to bleed. “Damn it.” He got to work on making himself look [i]normal[/i], if not presentable; he dragged a comb through the matted nest that was his mane and sprayed on some cologne to mask how he may have accidentally missed having a bath earlier that afternoon. It didn’t hide it very well. If anything, it mixed with the stink already there and made some disgusting new scent. [i]Maybe that’s what you’re good at; horrible perfume.[/i] Just when he sat back down on the bed, the door to the caravan cracked open to reveal his soaking wet fiancé. He looked bone-tired, with purple-black hanging under his eyes and his steely skin paler than usual. Guilt panged in his heart. Here Vladimir was, feeling miserable about himself, while his fiancé rushed around the circus getting everything ready for both show and wedding. Walter spied whatever little he couldn’t hide, for he closed the door and came over to him, smiling warmly. “What’s wrong, Viper?” “I’m fi—” At his fiancé’s raised eyebrows, he cut himself off and fiddled with his engagement ring. Walter said nothing for a couple of seconds before leaning over and pecking him on the cheek. “I’ll get ready for bed, dump a few extra blankets on you and then we can talk about what’s wrong, okay?” “I’m fine, Walt.” “You’re not a very good liar.” “I’m not lying.” He huffed, no doubt irritated at his stubbornness and wandered over to the cabinet full of clothes. Unlike Vladimir’s cheap sense of semi-dirty, baggy clothes littered with holes, Walter loved wearing matching pyjamas. They all sat in neat piles at the bottom of the cabinet, ranging from red to yellow to blue. His favourite pair was a deep red chequered set with cartoony cat expressions on the cuffs, a hood with pearl white ears stitched onto it. White buttons kept it together as he slipped it over his head. Vladimir came to a terrifying realisation; Walter was losing weight. “You’re eating, aren’t you?” he murmured, crawling up to Walter’s side and tugging on his fiancé’s shirt. It looked too baggy to be Walter’s, despite how he remembered the very day he bought them for him; it was Christmas Eve and they’d just begun their tradition of buying Christmas-y clothes and pyjamas to wear the next day, mostly for their newly-adopted son, Torny. Then, he fit them perfectly as he curled up under a blanket and watched the snowfall outside. Now, they looked too baggy. If anything, they looked like Vladimir’s usual style; loose. Just add creases, a few holes, and then you’ve got his sleeping clothes. “Hmm?” Walter looked down at him, his worried expression, and then at the space between the stretches of the top and his stomach. “Oh! I’m eating, just… maybe a bit less than I should.” “Walter…” “Hey,” he cooed, squeezing his shoulder as he strolled past. “I promise, on our wedding night, I’ll eat [i]two[/i] full rotisserie chickens! I’m just busy right now, with getting the Circus ready to pack up and move.” “I’ll hold you to that.” Walter grinned. “I’ll let you hold me to that if you promise to eat at least one.” “That’s a bit much for me.” “You can share mine?” He shook his head, fingering one of the holes in his shirt. “We need to get you some nicer clothes to wear,” Walter said. “I’m fine with these,” he responded absentmindedly. When his fiancé didn’t respond, Vladimir looked hesitantly over his shoulder to see him grabbing a pillow. Sighing, he turned around. [I]With your heightened level of awkwardness, you may as well end the engagement for him. He’s sabotaging himself for y—[/I] Something landed on his head with a thud before he could finish his insult, causing him to swivel around and stare at his husband. He kept giggling maniacally as he bopped him on the head repeatedly with his pillow, eyes glimmering with mischief and too much energy. With a sigh, he asked, “What are you doing, Walt?” “Trying to cheer you up!” His smile widened. “Is it working?” “Maybe,” he lied. Walter caught on and stopped, frowning. He came closer and fixed the specs at the end of his snout, stopping only when he felt satisfied with their evenness. “You know you can talk to me, don’t you Viper?” “Yes, but there’s nothing wrong.” “I know there is—” “I’m fine, Walter.” “Alright then,” he said, backing off. He would’ve thought his fiancé gave up on him if he didn’t have a determined glimmer in his eyes. “How about we have a pillow fight?” “Sorry?” “A pillow fight, numbnuts.” He grabbed the pillow from a few moments before and smirked over the top of it. “What do you say?” He could say no, and he knew Walter would respect that, but he inclined his head and said, “Fine.” “Right, come on then!” Vladimir sighed as he reached for a pillow. “Why are we doing this, Walt?” “I’ll tell you in my formal challenge!” “You need to make a formal challenge?” he inquired, his pillow sitting in his lap. Walter smiled sweetly, gripping his pillow with one paw, cupping his cheek with the other. Anyone who knew his husband could tell just by the twist of his lips that he was about to use his [i]Ringmaster’s Tone[/i]; drawling and pronounced, exaggerated in every way possible. “I, Walter Harose of Plague, invite you, Vladimir Azama of Wind, to a duel of the pillows. Whoever wins this tournament of feather-filled bed items wins the right to either silence or knowledge!” Vladimir frowned, confusion clouding him. “What?” “Basically,” his fiancé began, his voice back to normal, “if you win, you get to keep how you feel to yourself and I won’t pester you. If [i]I[/i] win, you’ve got to tell me what’s wrong, no questions asked.” [i]Now he knows you’re stupid. Well done.[/i] His eyes burned. “Oh.” His smile softened, the glint of mischief dampening. “If you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to.” “No,” he muttered, hoisting the pillow from his lap. “I want to.” Vladimir felt a pang of guilt for lying yet again. All he wanted to do was fall face-first into his pillow and sleep, sob or both. He wanted to pull the quilt over his head, shut the world out, and drown in his misery, sinking deeper until he was almost certain the pressure would drive him insane. [i]It’s your fault. You did this to yourself. No wonder the Circus despises you.[/i] Yet, it’d been a while since he and Walter were alone together. It was time to make the most of it, even if he didn’t want to do anything but wait for the world to swallow him whole. Walter grinned at him and swung at his defence. It almost went flying towards the door, though Vladimir used the opportunity to lash out with a kick at his legs. Just as his fiancé jumped back against their work desk, he leapt to his feet and went to bonk him on the head. Walter’s feathery defence met him halfway. “What?” Vladimir panted, noticing Walter’s stare. He smiled. “You’re grinning.” “Hopefully it won’t last long.” “Aha! A [i]challenge![/i] I’m going to make it last the entire night, just you wait!” From there, it was a messy battle of inaccuracy, yelping and smashing vials by accident. One of them included one of Walter’s favourite perfumes, the one that Lady Jack got him for his birthday. Each time one fell off, they quickly cleaned up and went back to fighting. They attempted to shove each other onto the bed. It was the only way to win the war. Each time they came close, they never quite succeeded. That soon changed. Walter left his right side unguarded, standing between Vladimir and the door to their son’s room. He leapt to one side to dodge his attack. He wrapped his tail around Walter’s leg and tugged. Flailing, he fell onto the bed with a thud and a growl that opposed his devious, excited grin. “Cheeky gint,” he snarled playfully, fending off his attacks. “That’s cheating!” With a determined half-smile, Vladimir launched a final offensive, knocking Walter’s pillow clean out of his grip. “It’s called seizing the opportunity.” His fiancé’s smile fell away into bemusement, realising just exactly what had happened before he sat up and patted the space beside him. “Come sit with me, Viper.” Vladimir gladly took it, flopping onto the bed and dropping his pillow on his chest. Daring not to speak, he thought, was the best option, lest he went on an unnecessary rant about everything drowning him in his mind. Walter used the pillow as a headrest and curled up at his side. “Looks like I won,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “You did, sweetheart. I won’t pester you about what’s wrong.” “For how long, do you reckon?” Walter took a few seconds to answer. “Until I think you [i]need[/i] to talk about it but you’d much rather destroy yourself than tell me.” [i]I think that might be now.[/i] Eventually, he sat up, patted his stomach and put the pillow back where it belongs. “I’m curious about something, Viper.” “What’s that?” “He hated how his fiancé tensed for a few seconds, as if unsure of what to say. When he turned around, he hated his expression even more; he looked [i]pained[/i]. “What’s your opinion of yourself?” Vladimir eyed him, uncertain. “Do you want to know?” It took a couple more seconds for Walter to respond. He nodded hesitantly. “Yes, I do. I noticed you calling yourself stupid the other day for making a mistake during the show, and I want to help.” “Well, Walt...” He sat up and twiddled his digits in his lap. “I do think I’m stupid since I can’t even get my magic right and almost burnt Jackie with my mistake. I think I’m a horrible father, I think I scare our son because—well, have you [i]seen[/i] me? I terrify kids anyway just with my scars. I’m nowhere near good enough to marry you because you’re destroying your reputation to be with me and—and—” With a growl, he stood and paced the length of the room, counting each reason on his digits. “I’m a useless blank slate with nothing else to offer other than some sparkly magic to make kids go [i]ooh[/i], I’m a waste of space because I just bring the entire Circus’s mood down and that it’d just be better if I left because [i]what is there to miss about me?[/i] Just to top that—” A soft, almost inaudible sigh stopped his monologue. Vladimir turned to see tears pricking the corners of his fiancé’s eyes as he nibbled at his lip, uncertainty written all over his face. His heart sank and he had to look away. [i]Good job.[/i] “I’m sorry.” Vladimir hadn’t said that. He rushed over to Walter’s side as he tried to come up with something helpful for once. It didn’t work. All that came out was a soft, “Please don’t be, it’s not your fault.” He sounded broken. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?” “I...” Walter shook his head. His paws found and gripped onto Vladimir’s, his thumb circling the back of them in a soothing pattern. It’d become a habit over the years. Whenever one of them felt exhausted or nervous or even guilty, the other would etch circles into the back of his paw to let him know that he was [i]there.[/i] It’d helped Vladimir more times than he could count on two paws. “I want you to be happy, Viper,” Walter mumbled, head bowed in shame or guilt. Vladimir couldn’t tell. “I want you to be able to smile and laugh and cry just like everyone else, and I wish I could tell you just how hilarious it was to see Lady Jack go from too big for her boots to laying on the floor in shock.” He giggled to himself, a hint of sadness in the sound. “She learnt her lesson that day, I’ll tell you now.” “That’s my fault—” “Did you know she was asking for you to do it again?” His blood chilled. “What?” Walter smiled. It looked strained, tired, but never forced. “She may have been terrified afterwards, but you know how she is. She’s an adrenaline junkie. The risk excites her. She was hoping you could do it again at some point.” Vladimir’s ears flattened against his mane. “But she almost got hurt.” “That’s the exciting bit for her. You know that.” [i]No he doesn’t[/i]. “I guess so,” he murmured, turning away. He hated confrontation. Walter quickly changed that, hooking a digit under his chin and raising his gaze. “And you do know that Torny has his own set of scars, don’t you?” “Of course—” “Then why would you terrify him?” He stayed silent. “If anything, Viper,” he continued, “you validate him. Sure, his scars are minor, but to a kid that’s everything, and so to have a dad with scars, no matter how bad they are, is awesome to him.” With a warm grin, he ploughed on, letting go of his chin. “Also, do you know how little I care about reputation?” “I—” “My reputation is non-existent. You know how many fights I’ve gotten into with someone who hates this Circus or me or anything else on the list. If anything, by marrying you, I’d be fixing it.” Upon being stared at with an immense amount of boredom, Walter giggled. “It’s settling down, isn’t it? I’m no longer this rowdy eighteen-year-old who gets into fights and destroys people’s defences with words. I’m now twenty-three with a beautiful son and an epic fiancé.” “Epic?” “I thought you’d believe that over beautiful,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “Maybe I do.” “And—and!—this whole blank-slate mentality you have? It’s not entirely true. After all, you’ve got about five years worth of memories now. I just...” He sighed and blanketed his paw in a soft hold. “I just hope that’s enough until Nova, Chip and Sylvius can find something to bring them all back.” Vladimir nodded, heaving his sigh. “It’s more than enough, Walter.” Before he could do anything, Walter enveloped him in a hug, nuzzling his cheek. “I’d stay up all night, Viper, just to try and convince you that none of this is true and tell you just how many in the Circus adore you, but I know you won’t believe me.” Guilt weighed down on his shoulders until Walter spoke again. “What I’m going to do instead is stay up all night with you, cry with you if needs be, and make you one sole promise that, just like our vows, will never fade.” Vladimir leant against him. He was surprisingly warm for still being a bit damp. “What promise is that?” “I promise that I will be by your side throughout all of this; through thick and thin, I will never once leave your side.” He didn’t know what to say, the words sinking in. [i]You got lucky[/i], his mind hissed. [i]Look at how he’s destroying his own life for you.[/i] Walter planted a kiss in his hair. “You can do this, Viper. I believe in you.” Vladimir didn’t know why, nor how long he’d been feeling like this since the confrontation started, but at that moment, he began to weep. The act was foreign to him. He hated himself for it, for adding more worry to his fiancé’s shoulders, but Walter didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he rubbed his shoulder and let him, not once intervening. He was thankful for that. [i]Weakling.[/i] “How dare you call yourself a weakling,” Walter mumbled into his mane. “You’re the strongest male I know, Viper. Even more so than Aalish, Broken and Jax combined. None of them has survived as much as you have.” “I think Broken has,” he sniffed. “Not necessarily. Yes, he went through a lot, but he never ended up in a Mist bleeding to death and developing asthma.” He stayed quiet again, burying his face into the fabric of Walter’s pyjama top. He wanted the lump in his throat to go away. The tears, too, needed to leave. They made him feel weak, even with Walter telling him the opposite. “Don’t you dare bottle your emotions up, you hear me?” “Are you a bloody mind reader or something?” he choked out between sniffles. “No,” Walter chuckled. “I just know what you’re like. I’m glad I said it though because now you’re not going to do it.” “Try me.” He laughed and ruffled his hair. “I would but I know that you don’t like disobeying [i]or[/i] lying, even if you [i]have[/i] tried that a few times tonight.” “Sorry.” “Can you make me a promise?” Vladimir nodded. “Sure, it’s only fair.” “Promise me you’ll let me help you. Promise me you’ll talk to me, no matter what’s bothering you or when it is – even if it’s in the middle of a show. It’s not fair for you to fight all of—” He made a polite gesture towards his dirty mane, ragged clothes and torn mind. “—[i]this[/i] on your own. Let me laugh with you, cry with you, so you don’t ever have to feel like you’re battling an entire army by yourself.” “But—” “I know it’ll take a long time,” Walter mumbled, “and it may well take years for you to get to a point where you can confidently say you’re okay. I don’t care about that. It could take the rest of our lives and I wouldn’t take back my promise to you, so can you promise me this?” He said nothing. Was there anything to say in this situation? Even his mind, ravaged by years of insults and battles, fell silent with not a single jibe to thrust his way. For once, it was quiet, like the calm before the storm. Walter stayed silent, too, giving him the space to think. He couldn’t. All he could focus on was the soft fabric pressing into his cheek, the paw that rung strands of hair around its digits and gently held onto his. His silence, though terrifying, was welcome. At least he respected his space. “I promise,” Vladimir said. “Good.” Walter threw his wing around him for a cuddle, nuzzling the top of his head. “Now, how about we go get a bath tomorrow morning? I think we’re both contributing to this horrible smell.” “No, that’s just me.” “You’d think that, but I haven’t had a bath either.” Vladimir snorted, the action almost foreign to him, and let him ramble on about everything he wanted. Once Walter began talking, there was no stopping him.  -3- [i]Think of this as the honeymoon you never had.[/i] That, in itself, was a struggle. At least, it was for Vladimir, anyway. He’d never imagined them going on a honeymoon, much less without their son, and yet here they were, in a lair entirely foreign to them both without Torny rushing around with them, choosing new paints and brushes and even an easel. Yes, he supposed a honeymoon was time to spend [i]alone[/i] with your significant other, but it felt strange to be without Torny. Torny, after all, was the other half of the anchor that kept him in reality. He’d been a huge part of their lives so soon after Vladimir had lost his memories. His absence was a hole he couldn’t fill. “I can smell it,” Walter grumbled, interrupting his thoughts. He frowned down at him. “I just don’t know [i]where[/i] it’s coming from.” “Then your sense of smell isn’t very good, dear,” Vladimir cooed, paws stuffed in Walter’s coat. He stole it that morning in the rush to leave their residence. “You offend me.” “You offend yourself, I merely point it out.” Walter stuck his tongue out at him and got back to the hunt, pouting. They’d only spent ten minutes outside and already Vladimir could tell his husband was beginning to get cranky. It wasn’t like him to do so. However, after sleeping in this morning for the first time in the Deities’ knows how long, they both forgot to eat. He patted his arm with a smile. “We’ll find it, Walt. We don’t want you to collapse in the middle of the street and waste away.” “Oh, you don’t want that. I’m sure the circus would revolt!” “Yes, because the food stall kept running away from you.” “Oh, [i]shush![/i]” Snickering, he joined him, peeking through every gap in the crowded stalls that surrounded them in the search for the ever-disappearing food stall. The mixing of different smells—paints and oils, clay, potions—didn’t help, though it did make it amusing to trail Walter around as he headed in the direction of food and had his sense of smell thrown off by a fresh aroma. “Is it that over there?” Walter muttered, gesturing towards the north. “I don’t know. You’re asking someone who only has half of his eyesight.” Vladimir could almost hear the roll of his eyes, chuckling as his husband mumbled and growled, more at himself than anyone else. He headed off in the direction he’d just gestured and Vladimir soon followed, apologising to everyone Walter bumped into in his rush. “Walter, honey,” he called into the crowd, slithering his way through like the snake his eyes must be stolen from. “Wait up!” He had to stifle his snort as he heard his husband’s excited squawk from a few feet away. “[i]Food![/i]” Vladimir gently shoved his way through the wall of dragons, some of whom were chuckling either at Walter or their conversations, and he smiled along with his husband. He had satay in his mouth, happily chewing away as he neared. “You got one for me?” he said, half-expecting a no. Walter nodded with earnest and picked up a satay from the countertop he stood by; a butcher’s stall. Even though it was cold to the touch, the meat melted in his mouth, sizzling with flavour. He couldn’t blame Walter for cleaning off the stick after he’d finished. Though, he would admit that his sudden change in manners was worthy of a jibe. “Walter, stop wolfing down satays,” he snarled, grinning. “We need to pay for them.” “Buh I’m soh hungweee,” he whined, cheeks puffing out with food. “I know, love, but don’t drown us in debt, okay?” “He can have them,” a quiet voice sounded behind the stall. “The satays are free.” Walter giggled maniacally and carried as many satays as his paws could handle, eating them and cleaning off the sticks quicker than he could process. All he could do was gently pat his arm and let him get on with it. “Are we okay to order some things?” “Yeah, I’ll be there in a second.” Vladimir waited patiently, eyeing his greedy husband with the kind of grin you’d give an adorably stupid toddler. “Happy?” Walter nodded, a massive grin sprawled across his face. “Veweh!” “You better save some for me.” “Ah will!” The flap at the back of the stall swung to one side, revealing a young female manager. She looked exhausted. A forced smile stretched from ear to ear, her eyes unusually dim for someone her age – she looked Torny’s age; sixteen. Her shoulders were slouched, boredom and aggravation hanging heavy on them. From looking at her badge, her name was Reyna. Just as Vladimir went to inquire about her state, she interrupted him. “What would you like to order, sir?” Caught off guard, he bit his lip and quickly scanned over the meats as his husband proclaimed, “More of these satays!” “More?” the pair of them asked in unison. Walter blushed, grin turning sheepish. “They’re delicious.” “I didn’t know anyone liked them,” Reyna admitted. “Well, we do!” She smiled warmly and gestured towards the box of satays. “By all means, take as many as you like.” “For free?” “As far as I’m aware, sir, you’re the only one that likes them.” She glanced at Vladimir, her smile faltering. “Unless you like them too.” “I do.” “Then you [i]two[/i] are the only ones to like them.” “Then please, let us pay for them,” Vladimir said, frowning. She shook her head. “That’d be unfair; they have no price.” “Let us come to one.” Vladimir leant on the countertop and tapped his digit in thought. “How about we pay two-hundred coins per satay?” “Seriously?” Reyna exclaimed, her face falling into confusion and shock. “Like my husband rightly put it, they’re delicious. It’d be unfair if we didn’t pay for them.” “We’ve got at least twenty!” Walter chimed in. “I can’t take that,” she murmured. “They’re just a batch I made; I can’t take money from them.” “Why ever can’t you?” “They’re just satays, sir.” Walter grinned, grabbing a nearby paper bag and dumping the satays in it. “Well, may we still pay for them? They’re amazing!” Reyna shook her head, twiddling her digits. “I can’t let you pay for them. I’m sorry. They’re put down as free, and to have someone pay for them would break my protocol.” “Oh, pish!” Vladimir watched as his husband leant on the counter beside him. “Please, we’d feel horrible for eating something so delicious and not paying for it. You can even keep it yourself!” “Sir—” “Take it from me, ma’am,” Vladimir butted in, cutting Walter off in what would be an inevitable show of his haggling. “He won’t stop until you say yes. He’s like a toddler in that respect.” “Growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional,” his husband drawled with a wink. The young stall manager snorted. She looked brighter than she had been earlier, given the warm smile on her face and the newfound glint in her eyes, but she still shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” “Then I’ll dump the money on the counter and you do what you want with it, deal? You can get yourself a lovely pendant!” At her start, her smile falling away, Walter sighed and continued. “Look, we know how it is; you can’t take it because your boss doesn’t want you to and they think it’s stupid.” He almost fell over the counter with how far forward he leant. Without a care in the world, he stated, “However, it’d be a shame if everyone were to just take these for free.” “He isn’t going to stop, is he?” Reyna sighed, begging for help with her eyes. Vladimir shook his head. “Nope.” “Okay.” With a deep, trembling breath, she stared Walter down. “What are you willing to pay?” Walter grinned. [i]He’s finally able to use his haggling skills.[/i] “Two-hundred coins a piece is a reasonable price. That gives you two-thousand, two-hundred coins to keep for yourself.” “That’s a lot for some satays, sir.” “I’d pay that much at a restaurant, why not when they’re free at a stall?” Vladimir let them debate amongst themselves, leaning against the counter and looking around. Since staying in their residence ever since they arrived a few weeks ago, he’d only seen the lair from the balcony of Walter’s surprise family home; the Harose House. From a bird’s eye view, the lair looked like a shining beacon with jewels littering the pavement and the statue in the centre donned with glistening drapes. “Viper,” Walter cooed, clicking his digits to bring him back to the present. “Do you want to order or shall I?” Vladimir smiled sheepishly. He hated how his cheeks began to burn, and how his blood went ice-cold. “Can you? I don’t—” His husband waved away his explanation, smirking. “I know why, Viper. You go sit down and I’ll get the food, okay?” “I’m guessing you reached an agreement?” “I took the two-thousand,” Reyna mumbled. She looked disappointed with her defeat. Vladimir smiled at her. “Buy yourself something nice with it.” “I will do, sir.” As he moved away from the stall, giving his husband the space to order, he had to admit how Walter’s understanding always surprised him. He never once judged anyone for their reasons, unless they were truly close-minded or refused just for a fuss. The only time he ever judged anyone in the Circus was Arien’s nephew, Kapala, for no other reason than picking fun at both his uncle and Strom. Walter had torn him a new one with no restraints and left him staring after him, wide-eyed and, quite frankly, terrified. Waving his paws around, Vladimir noticed how long the sleeves of Walter’s coat were. They drooped past his paws and dangled towards the ground. He couldn’t resist; he had to give them a little flap, grinning like a hatchling. He then did it again, and again. He did it until all that came from him was childish giggling and flapping sleeves. “Oh, bless the Deities.” Vladimir looked up from his activity to see Walter with his face buried in his paws, Reyna looking the other way. “What?” he said, smile faltering slightly. It came back in full force when his husband almost yelled, “I’m the luckiest male alive; that was [i]adorable![/i]” “Shut up!” “Don’t you agree with me?” Walter inquired, peering at Reyna. “I do.” She gave Vladimir a wide, heart-warming smile. “It was really cute.” “Shush.” “We’re only telling you the truth, Viper.” He huffed, stuffing his paws in his pockets and turning away. Though he was dark in colour, his scar gave away his embarrassing flush; the white of his neck now doused a brilliant pink. He hated it. Walter joined his side, waving goodbye to the stall manager. She grinned back at him, the small pouch holding her tip hanging from her waist. Vladimir peered at the few paper bags in his husband’s clutches. “What did you get?” “Treats,” Walter snickered. He stuffed his paw in Vladimir’s pocket and rummaged around for his paw, finding it eventually. “Can we have a feast tonight, do you think?” “On the satays?” “[i]Yeah![/i]” “If you want to, I don’t see how it’ll be a problem.” Walter giggled and nudged him. “I love what you did back there, with the flapping.” “Oh, let it drop, Azama.” “It was adorable!” Vladimir scowled at him. “I was just messing around.” “Then please, my love, mess around more often.” He scoffed and prodded Walter in the side, prompting him to squeak and rush away from him. “Should I ask you to squeak more often then, you rodent?” Just to prove a point, he squeaked again with a wide grin on his face. Vladimir rolled his eyes and walked on, eyeing the stalls surrounding him. Trinkets and antiques and pillows and rugs littered the tops of every stall in sight, with paintings hung from thin cotton threads and clothes swinging on racks. One trinket a few stalls down the line caught his eye. It was a pair of golden circular earrings. In them lay a triangle, in that lay a square and in that lay a circle. He found himself captured by them, unable to move away. Though they looked slightly dirty, he could easily clean them. “Do you want them?” his husband inquired, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “They’re a lot of money—” “If they make you happy, I don’t mind.” Vladimir grinned. “You’re so sweet, my dear.” “What would I be if I wasn’t?” “A horrible ringleader.” “I think Kapala would beg to differ. I think I ended up traumatising him.” “Lucian, too.” They laughed. After staring at the earrings for a few more seconds, he finally admitted to wanting to buy it. With Walter helping him put them on, their new weight throwing off his balance, they excitedly rushed around the stalls in search for anything for the rest of the Circus. By the market’s closing time, they had a gift for everyone, with most written down on a hastily-purchased notepad as a haunting reminder of their dwindling pouches. Walking back to the Harose House, it didn’t bother them, pockets and bags brimming with gifts. “May I ask you something, Viper?” He faced Walter, his eyes growing heavier even though it was only the afternoon, and graced him with a sloppy grin. “You just did.” “Oh, [i]ha-ha.[/i] Very original.” Vladimir giggled. “Go ahead. What do you want to ask me?” “How do you feel?” He eyed his husband with uncertainty. What greeted him was nothing but a soft smile, genuine love and curiosity flickering in his expression. “Why do you ask?” “I’d like to know.” “Well,” he said, looping his arm through Walter’s, “I think I’m... alright.” Vladimir watched with a good kind of heartache as Walter’s eyes and smile lit up at his answer. “You think that?” “Mm-hmm, I’m ready to say I’m okay.” [center][i]It didn't all fit, so it's below![/i][/center]

[quote=Vladimir (cont)]Before he could react, Walter wrapped him up in a tight hug that almost crushed him, wings enveloping the pair of them. That would’ve been fine if Walter didn’t then begin to smother his face with kisses, causing him to try and wriggle free from his hold. Despite how weak he looked, he was at least stronger than Vladimir. It took little effort to keep him there. “Walter, [I]stop![/i]” he cried, trying to shove him away. He didn’t, smiling against his cheek as he planted one final and almost-too-wet kiss. Vladimir groaned. He finally let go of him, Vladimir using his coat to rub at his cheek. “It’s so [i]wet![/i]” His husband snickered, earning a playful slap with his sleeve. “It’s a kiss, dear.” “It was more than one!” Pulling a face, he stopped rubbing his face raw and forced himself to shudder. “That was, like, fifty-two kisses.” Walter winked. “Should I make it fifty-three?” “No!” “Even if it’s where it’s meant to be?” Vladimir pouted, crossing his arms. “You’re pushing your luck, Walter Azama.” “And your lips look lonely, so would they like to meet mine?” He gawked at him. It wasn’t unlike his husband to make cheesy jokes, but this one topped them all somehow. Shock froze him from head to toe. Under his confused gaze, Walter began to giggle nervously. It reminded him of when they first began dating, when the only way his husband could compliment him was through extremely embarrassing pick-up lines. “Have I earned it, now?” he snickered, a wide grin spread across his face. “Gimme a minute,” Vladimir said, continuing to stare. “I’m trying to erase that from my mind.” “Oh, come on! It wasn’t [i]that[/i] bad!” “No, you’re right.” He moved a step closer and smirked. “It was [i]awful[/i].” Walter chuckled. “You know I only embarrass you because I love you, don’t you?” “I know.” He closed the distance between them, smiling against his husband’s lips. He quickly pulled away laughing when all he could taste was the satay sauce staining them. Walter immediately liked them clean. “Can I have a redo?” “How many did you [i]have?[/i]” Vladimir cried, wiping the taste away. “About five,” he guiltily admitted. “You better have saved some for me; otherwise the only one who’s having a feast is you.” “How about we have a challenge over who gets the rest?” Walter suggested, smirking. Vladimir rolled his eyes. “What’s your obsession with challenges?” “I challenge you—” “I challenge you [i]not[/i] to challenge me.” Walter gaped at him. He could almost see the cogs whirring in his brain to come up with a good counter-counter-challenge. When he couldn’t you could see it; he stamped his foot, crossed his arms and pouted. “Damn it,” he whispered. With a chuckle, Vladimir swung the bags in his paws and gestured towards the Harose House looming over the lair. “Come on, let’s go home. We’ve got a feast to indulge in.” Linking arms with him, his husband drawled, “With pleasure.” [right][size=1][i]Made by Ozie in "[URL=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/art/2371542]Ozie's Lore Shop![/URL]"[/i][/size][/right][/quote] I don't know how necessary this little bit is, but it's pretty cute, so yeah! I hope you enjoyed his lore redo!

@Ozie

I know full well that you are closed, but I am not here to make a request! (maybe in the future but that's is beside the point). I just want to say that you are doing a wonderful job with your writing, like holy cow are you impressive or what!!! You are amazing!! Sorry if this is weird, I just wanted to tell you that... Hope you are having a wonderful day, and I hope you know how freaking talented you are!!

@MaidOfTheDamned Thank you so much! I kinda needed to hear that. If you ever want any lore doing, feel free to come on by! [emoji=coatl happy size=1]

@Ozie Ohhh my gosh lemme just try to make this concise uhhh they way you write anxiety and depression is insane, I find Vlad extremely relatable in that sense. You really have a way of making characters three dimensional and I'm always so impressed like ????? Also! The whole market scene had me grinning from ear to ear like a moron it was precious! Walter and the satay will stick with me I swear [emoji=coatl laughing size=1] Keep up the incredible work, I'm sure I'm not the only one thinking that your writing is top quality!

@Blueberrypodoboo Thank you, I'm glad you liked it! I have to admit, I was worried about his lore mostly because I felt it might be wrong or over-the-top, but knowing that it's not only relatable to me but you as well is oddly reassuring! I'm also glad you loved the market scene; it was so much fun to write. [emoji=coatl star size=1] I'm hoping to work on Torny's/Broken's next, if that's okay!

@Ozie Of course! You have nothing to worry about, if anything was over the top I didn't notice, it all felt very real to me ^^ Oh I'd love to see either! The way you write Torny's adorable, but I'm also curious to see what you do with Broken, whatever you want to do though I'd be thrilled! More than anything though take your time, there's absolutely no rush and as much as I adore your writing take as many breaks as you need [emoji=heart size=1] Side note I'm working on payment for this round of lore, so you can look forward to that [emoji=coatl winking size=1]