she has an open distrust of magic and that’s not much of a secret. what is a secret is that she is genuinely scared of even the most basic kind of magic and as a result has a lot of trouble seeing mages as harmless. she is aware that this is a kind of prejudice (especially since she knows some really nice mages) but she can’t stop herself being wary around them.
20. What-ifs/Alternate Timelines
bad ending: faolín follows orress to court dorchadas as before, except this time serraden’s attempt on her life actually succeeds. faolín is killed in the lower reaches of court dorchadas by a shade-possessed rúth.
good ending: faolín already has her good ending! she and orress get to raise a family together. faolín teaches her kids about proper shield-use from an early age
alt ending: faolín is never hired to investigate the dead emissary’s murder, and as a result she never comes to clan fuil darach. she continues to travel around sornieth, doing mercenary work, trying to avoid the mercenary band led by her awful ex girlfriend. she probably never settles down but has a decent life doing what she loves.
i love faolin's armor, the little "winged" bits on the leggings are so extra i lov
she likes to pretend that she’s tough and utilitarian but in reality she’s so fuckin vain and she spent a LOT of gems on her armour. she polishes it every single day and gets mad if anyone but herself or orress touches it
“I hate this,” Richard said in a low tone. “I just. I hate this."
Luke and Vaska had been fighting over the book for the past twenty minutes.
“Oh, he’s finally talking,” Pastore said cheerfully. “Hi, Richard. I take it you haven’t met Luke yet?”
Richard folded his arms, scowling. “Do I want to?”
“Don’t worry,” Pastore said, casting Luke a sideways glance and a smirk, “their bark is worse than their-”
“That’s not funny,” Luke snapped. “Never say that again.”
They finally succeeded in wrenching the book out of Vaska’s grasp, mostly because she was trying not to laugh, her grip slackening. Luke glared at her, affronted. What good was a weak pun when everyone was still trapped in this...
“Where are we?” they said, finally taking stock of their surroundings. Hugging the spellbook to their chest, they turned on the spot, squinting past the brilliant sunlight. It was odd to have sunlight hurt their eyes like that, since they were supposed to be a Light dragon. Weren’t they? Or maybe they’d just spent too long underground.
They’d claimed the tiny patch of sunlight under the barred section of the roof, and the faint warmth on their skin was therapeutic. Wispy clouds slid past, blocking out the overwhelming light.
“We’re cargo,” Pastore said. “Captured by traffickers? Where were you after the attack, anyway?”
Luke frowned. They didn’t really remember any attack. There had been cannons, coming up the hill. Then... damp darkness, a persistent lack of air that somehow didn’t matter. Dull voices. Things creeping across their limbs, across their face. Out of their skin. Breathing now felt strange, somehow formless.
They pressed a hand over their eyes, blocking the light. The slave traders hadn’t provided them with an eye-patch, so the... foliage... sprouting from their empty eye socket was on full display. Threads of mycelium clung to their skin like cobwebs. Judging by touch alone, there were several thorns growing out from their skin. But it didn’t hurt like it used to. It felt normal.
And then. After the darkness, the light, blinding, their book being wrenched out of their arms. That was what had woken them fully. The book.
“Someone took my book,” they said, lowering their hand to direct a reproachful look at Vaska.
“I didn’t know you were in there!” she snapped.
“You should have known not to touch it,” Luke insisted. It was a weak argument, anyone could see that. “It’s mine.”
“You’re going to tear it if you hold it like that,” Vaska said, turning away as if she didn’t really care.
Luke glanced down, saw the claws digging into the leather, and froze. Those weren’t their hands, were they? They weren’t supposed to have claws. They relaxed their grip. The curved, hook-like claws had dug tracks through the mouldy leather. Luke waited for the supernatural protectiveness to seize them, but it didn’t. Sure, they didn’t want to damage it, they didn’t want anyone else to touch it, but the fact that it was damaged... didn’t really matter.
“So are you going to tell us about that thing you turned into?” Pastore said, his voice growing serious for once.
“You’ve seen trees before, haven’t you?” Luke said snidely, forcing down the panic, refusing to let it show.
“No, the other thing,” Vaska said. The blue guardian, to whom Luke had not yet been introduced, was nodding. Even Faolín looked concerned.
Luke did remember the other thing. They remembered feeling different, off-balance, their wings useless... but so many other things had change for them lately that it had hardly been worth noting.
“Never mind that,” they said brusquely. “You still haven’t told me where we are?”
Pastore didn’t look too keen about changing the subject, but he obliged Luke nonetheless, explaining all about their current predicament. Luke examined their hands. Other things occurred to them, too; they could sit with their back pressed to the wooden wall, as if their dorsal spikes had been removed. And their horns were back, as wooden as ever, as if Luke had never cut them off in the first place.
“So, listen,” Vaska said. “Do any of those spells in the book work?”
Luke picked up one of the fallen pages. It was a reversed healing spell with one incomplete rune. “They work,” Luke said, pointing out the rune. “The spell actives once you finish that one rune. So we’d need writing implements.”
“And the healing spells?” Faolín said gruffly. “Those would be handy.”
For the first time, Luke actually took in her position. She was lying with unnatural stillness, as if to avoid inviting pain. “I suppose they would,” Luke said, flicking through the book. “Here. You can use blood to finish the runes if you really need to.”
“So you’re a healer?” the blue guardian said, his strange, dark eyes widening. “Oh, that’s good news - see, Richard? Things are looking up.”
“Who are you?” Luke said, passing the spell tags over to Faolín. “And him? You look familiar.” They frowned at Richard, who had been staring with a look of faint disgust since Luke had awoken.
“I’m Tiberius - Prince Tiberius, of the Sirenian Empire,” the blue guardian said, bowing, “and this is my betrothed, Prince Richard, of Court Dorchadas.”
Luke stared at Richard for a long moment. Then a delighted leer appeared on their face, revealing their broken teeth.
“How is your mother doing these days?” Luke said.
“Dead,” Richard said dully.
“You’ll join her soon, I hope,” Luke said, their hands curling into fists. Claws pricked at their palms. “If these people won’t kill you, I will.”
Tiberius’ smile vanished. “Please,” he said, “there’s no need for this - excuse me, Luke, I’m sorry, but wouldn’t it be more constructive to try to escape together? We shouldn't fight in here.”
The light emission from a spell tag at work distracted Luke. They glanced around. Faolín had dragged herself into an upright position, gasping, one hand clamped tight on Pastore’s shoulder.
“Thanks,” she rasped.
The sunlight started to fade, with surprising rapidity. Darkness filled the cell again, broken only by the glow from the book. The prisoners tried to sleep. The gloom made Luke feel odd, but they’d already slept too long to even begin to feel tired.
Tiberius sat up. “That smells like... Oh! Richard!” He nudged Richard awake. The others roused themselves, Vaska grumbling a sleepy complaint.
Luke could smell it too. A fresh, cold wind, salty and damp.
“We’re over the sea,” Tiberius said.
The guardian courier was descending. Seagulls flashed overhead, disturbed by the great wings. And then there was a crash and a huge wave rolled over the cell, drenching the prisoners. The guardian had touched down on the water. The cold didn’t seem to matter to Luke as much as it should have, but the salt in the water was hideous.
Shouts sounded from outside. The guards were rousing the other prisoners, yelling for everyone to get up. Cebor’s voice rose above it all, ordering someone to march. Someone mentioned a gangplank. Firelight washed over dull grey clouds overhead. Locks clicked, doors creaked open.
It seemed that the prisoners had arrived at their destination.
rich draws the short straw this time. he has tiber and that’s all he cares about, but he knows they’re not going anywhere good and neither cebor nor nirn will give any clue as to what’s going to happen to their captives. once a day the prisoners are let out of their cell, but there’s nowhere they can go - bound magically so that they can’t transform and fly, there’s no way off their flying prison that doesn’t involve jumping to their deaths (which some prisoners have done).
nirn treats their wounds (mostly faolín’s, she needs a lot of medical help and her spine is Fucked). he’ll go as far as to keep you from dying, nothing more. and nirn seems very busy, too, with some mysterious project at the far end of the flying fortress. sometimes the prisoners can hear agonised screams and strange, furious roars.
rich, tiber, vaska, pastore, and faolín are kept together, but there are more cells, each a box made of old, dark-stained wood, devoid of light or furniture on the inside. the walls are so think that almost no noise gets through, but the screams and odd sounds still make it in, disturbing the prisoners’ sleep.
pastore tells stories (he is a bard after all, but his precious lute was confiscated and kept for resale with the other prisoners’ valuables), and he rarely lets his fear show, because he knows that the younger dragons are always five seconds away from totally losing it and it’s up to him to keep everyone motivated. faolín would help, but she can’t do much. she and pastore know that orress and amiri will come looking for them, but as the days drag on it seems increasingly unlikely that the disguised dragonback fortress will be found.
vaska flies back to warn the clan of the impending attack. set slightly in the past, during the attack itself + the immediate aftermath.
~
She’d never flown so fast - she had to warn the clan, she had to get away from that undead smoke demon, she had to find Delta and apologise. Oh, she’d definitely be apologising for days to come.
Tears streaked across Vaska’s cheeks as she flew. Behind her - not that far back - a cloud of dragons took to the air. Trees flashed past alarmingly close as she dropped, shock stilling her wings for a beat too long. How many dragons had the commander sent to exterminate Clan Fuil Darach? It was blatant overkill. But the commander was only doing what Vaska herself had done earlier - pursuing prey that posed no real threat, just for completion’s sake.
Not that the shade monster had been entirely harmless, but he had saved her. She couldn’t dwell on it. It didn’t make sense.
Vaska almost overshot the camp. Wheeling back around again, she descended into the clearing. It was peaceful. For a moment she considered fleeing entirely, hiding in shame from what she had done. Thrusting the temptation from her mind, she hissed her paladin’s oaths under her breath and came in to land.
“Can somebody take me to the leader?” she called, turning on the spot in search of him. “Where’s Delta?” Her voice wavered, but only a little.
“He went off to talk to Luke,” somebody said; she hardly registered who. Nodding sharply, she flew to the infirmary. But it contained neither guardian, only the injured tree wildclaw and another spiral.
“I did know about it,” the spiral was saying as Vaska barged in, “but I did not think - I did not think it would hurt like this? That they lied to me?”
“I’m sorry, Rúth,” the wildclaw murmured. He glanced wearily up as Vaska approached. “Ah, it’s our new paladin. Vaska, is it? I’m Fiach.”
She cleared her throat. “Where’s Delta?”
“He left, I’m afraid,” Fiach said. “But I should think he’ll be back soon.”
She nodded, swallowing hard, and backed away towards the exit.
“Wait.” Fiach used Rúth’s shoulder as a handhold, hauling himself up into a more upright position. Vaska couldn’t help but flinch at what had become of his side, when the blankets fell away. “What’s the matter?” he said. “Why do need him?”
Vaska shook. If she couldn’t tell Delta, then she’d have to get the warning out to someone else. “I made a mistake,” she said, her voice cracking. “I attracted the army’s attention... didn’t mean to, but it doesn’t matter. The commander has sent dragons up to attack the clan. They’re on their way now.”
Once the warning was out, things moved surprisingly fast. Vaska sat in the middle of the clan camp, pulling on her armour, while dragons rushed around her, gathering weapons and spellbooks. The deputy, Orress, directed the clan’s militia to form up into lines. There was still no sign of Delta. The beastclans had slunk away, undetected.
The thunder of approaching wings almost drowned out all other noise. Vaska grabbed her halberd and ran to take her place among the clan’s militia. She chanted defensive spells under her breath, running lines of protection around the camp, but her grip on her power was shaky and her tongue kept tripping up, damaging the spells.
When the attack actually came, it wasn’t from the air. The sky thrummed with wing-beats, but there wasn’t a single enemy dragon in sight over the tree line, only a strange brightness through the trees, as though the undergrowth was being ripped way.
With dreamlike slowness, a tree on the edge of the camp toppled. It came down on an empty cabin, thank the gods, crushing the building to matchsticks. In the space where the tree had stood was a long barrel with a blunt black snout.
Vaska didn’t know what she was looking at. The cannon pushed further into the clearing, and then there was a flash of blackpowder and the infirmary blew itself to bits. But there was no time to react - Vaska threw herself to the ground as a second barrel pushed through the forest, and a third - the camp was surrounded - she couldn’t see, bodies jostling past her, wild with fear, no noise at all but a sinister ringing silence-
Something hit her hard in the back, propelling her forwards. She twisted, but a strong arm held her down, forcing her into a muddy trench under a hard metal shell. The ground shook. She cowered under the shield, her head swimming. A dry wall of heat swept past, followed closely by more thundering. Vaska flinched, banging her face off more hard metal.
The rumbling faded, leaving behind a sour stench, magic and explosives intertwined. Vaska was too stiff to uncurl her body, her muscles rigid. She raised her head, gasping mutely as her neck ached. The silence had persisted, as if someone had clamped mufflers over her ears, leaving her alone in the dirt with a hellish whine tearing through her head.
Well, not quite alone. The arm around her relaxed gradually, and the shield slid aside. Vaska tried to rise, but the other dragon jerked her back down again. A member of the militia, wearing more armour than Vaska had ever seen on a single dragon. Behind her soot-covered helmet, the dragon’s eyes were wide, very green, silently warning Vaska from making any other movements.
The two of them lay together in the trench for what felt like hours. The ringing in Vaska’s ears receded, and she started to hear again. There wasn’t much to listen to, beyond her own ragged breaths and her companion’s sawing gasps of pain.
“Are you okay?” Vaska hissed. The other dragon was blinking more often, her eyes sliding shut for several seconds at a time, as if she was struggling to remain conscious.
“I’m... perfectly fine,” she said after a moment. “And you?”
“I think I’m all right,” Vaska said shakily. “Nothing broken - apart from a couple of ribs, maybe... oh, gods...” As the danger faded away, her aches and pains were really starting to make themselves known.
“Good,” the other dragon rasped. Her eyes slid shut again. “That’s... I’m glad...”
“You saved me,” Vaska said, glancing up at the shield that still covered most of their bodies. The metal was dented and blackened, the crown and laurel wreaths embossed upon it distorted and bent.
The other dragon didn’t respond, her breaths coming slower and slower. Vaska sat up, pushing aside the shield, and tried to call for a healer. But there wasn’t anyone else around - the two of them had been catapulted uphill, and the camp was below, a burning wreckage.
She glanced back down at her companion. The armoured dragon was well and truly unconscious by now, lurid green blood seeping out from behind her head. Vaska leant to one side, wincing, and clasped both hands over her mouth. The back of the other dragon’s ornate breastplate had caved in from some terrible force, and the dent had forced the metal into the dragon’s back. It was a fatal blow.
Vaska tried to rise, then discovered another problem - her broken leg. She collapsed into the churned earth.
“Help!” she called, her voice barely penetrating the smoke haze wreathing the mountain-top. “We - we need a healer - she’s dying-”
Wingbeats pushed back the smoke. A wildclaw touched down in front of Vaska. Her exhausted gaze travelled up to his face, and her relief turned to icy fear. She didn’t know this dragon. He had a pointed, boar-like face, and his eyes were cold.
“St-stay back,” Vaska said, pain lashing behind her eye as she attempted to summon her magic.
“You’re coming with me,” the wildclaw said. “Both of you.”
Vaska had no strength to resist. The wildclaw came accompanied by others, dragons who had descended on the ruins like crows on a fresh kill. He dragged Vaska down the slope, pitching her and the armoured dragon into the centre of the camp with a contemptuous flick of the wrist. Vaska landed and lay there, her head spinning. The wildclaw her dumped her among a scattering of Fuil Darach dragons, most of whom were terribly injured. The dragon on her other side was already dead, the body slowly going cold beside her.
She turned, with difficulty, and checked on the armoured dragon. Still breathing, though how anyone could breathe around such an injury was beyond Vaska’s understanding.
“Now,” the wildclaw said, striding along the line of captives, “we’re taking you with us. We do have a healer and your injuries will be seen to, but you have to behave, first, and-”
“Faolín!”
“Quiet,” the wildclaw snapped, rounding on one of the dragons at the end of the line. Orress was well enough to struggle to her feet in response, though she wavered badly. Heedless of the wildclaw’s warning, she groped for her sword belt, but it was empty. Her eyes were fixed on Faolín, and Vaska had to look away, one hand over her mouth.
“What did you do to her?” Orress’ voice broke.
“We didn’t do anything,” the wildclaw said. “Sit down, prisoner.”
It didn’t seem right to watch Orress break down. Vaska kept her gaze on the smoky horizon, her breaths hitching.
“Stop that noise,” the wildclaw said, “you’ll only-”
There was a shriek of pain. Vaska spun around again, just in time to see Orress rip a short dagger through the throat of one of the wildclaw’s companions. She rounded on another one, spinning the dagger into a reverse grip. The wildclaw leapt back, his wings spreading, and moments later Orress had gained enough ground to shapeshift.
Now faced with the wrath of a full-sized ridgeback, the captors scattered. Vaska’s heart leapt, and she almost considered joining the fray, but it wasn’t to last. As Vaska finally achieved her spiral form, Orress collapsed. It happened too fast to tell how, but she’d been knocked out. As the ridgeback came crashing to the ground, and the wildclaw’s gang returned their attention to the group of prisoners, Vaska’s nerves broke.
She launched herself into the air, but not to fight as planned. She fled, shooting away from the dead and dying, from her deputy and the clan she’d been staying with for less than three days.
And then she was flying again, not as fast as before, but just as urgently. The mountain slope was bare of cover, a desert of plain ugly dirt. Vaska’s leg wing gave out on her before she’d even cleared the foothills, and she came down into the shade of a small hawthorne tree. Collapsing by the roots, she curled up on herself and sobbed until sleep claimed her.
