I updated the pictures on the story, and in the process found a picture of Ami’s bucknasty original appearance where he had actual coral growing all over him, hahaha haaaa haha
Part of the reason he got so attached to Rennic in the first place was Rennic managed to stop the coral from growing on him, through some kind of early experimental Plague magic concoction.
Rennic, Captain Ballius, and Lorvicca in the marlin festival skin.
Marlin!Lorvicca:
not my type | alright | cute | adorable | hot | sexy | LORD MERCY
More a reflection on marlins than on Lorvicca though really.
Rennic:
not my type | alright | cute | adorable | hot | sexy | LORD MERCY
Look just don’t even look at me okay.
Ballius:
not my type | alright | cute | ???? | adorable | hot | sexy | LORD MERCY
I dunno I find it difficult to think of Ballius in that way because he’s like… he’s been with me so long and he’s an asexual character anyway and he feels more like a family member or something y’feel me? I’m sure if somebody had an OC who was vaguely Ballius-esque but not Ballius I would find them attractive though.
Writing up that piece on Boneyard Legends made me remember the sinking feeling I’d been getting that Berserk hosts the black mirror’s human (demon?) equivalent in Nosferatu Zodd. Fight-everyone strangely honorable generically goodlooking giant catbeast things with giant bat wings that really shouldn’t be able to fly but do anyway... seems legit. The least-expected crossover continues.
I fully predict that the next part of Rennic’s master plan involves using the black mirror as a battlesteed.
The way
No one has seen the Speckled Bear. Some are relieved; more, however, fear that this is an ill omen—though of what, no one can say.
*
The ground felt strange under her feet. Clean. Devoid of life. Poisonless. No scent of iron or rot; only the salt tang of the sea, dry driftwood, seabird feathers, shore plants.
She'd left the Scarred Wasteland before, of course—hunting nocturne chests and valuable items, checking the caches she'd left elsewhere, or opening them to send to the clan. This time was different, in some wistful way. Before, she'd always known it was temporary, as temporary as any journey she'd taken from Cindercone. Even when she'd traced the route through dream and scent to the canyon itself, it had been more like visiting her hatching-clan.
Winds blew off the plateau above; now the scent of cherry blossoms, now the dragons of some clan or tribe, now the cold brine of the Outer Ocean. Under it all, hot grass and green bamboo.
She didn't know if she'd ever return, this time. Just as she'd foreseen, so many seasons ago, the Abiding Boneyard had become her home, as much as Fire had ever been.
She continued down the beach. Retracing her steps. The way was in her now.
*
She deviated from the path when the festival began, making instinctively for the water. She'd always planned on swimming some of the way, but the waves called to her with unexpected strength. She hadn't swum in seasons, not far, at least.
The water rose over her wrists, then hocks. A wave swept it over her shoulder, and the patched and tattered banner and birdskull she still wore. Then she was swimming, at first with half-panicked, dog-like strokes, but swiftly strengthening.
She took one last breath, floated for an instant with wings outspread and all four legs down, then dove.
She swam stiffly at first, hindlegs tucked back, wings up and half-spread, propelling herself with strokes of her forelegs, and held her breath. When, at last, the bubbles streamed from her nose and mouth, and she took her first breath, in seasons, of the Sea's mild brine, the memories came flooding back.
Above her she could sense Khohuark, coasting on the rough winds, thoughts sad and distressed. She beckoned to him, offered him her water-breath, but he only sent thoughts in turn of sodden feathers and clumsy paddling.
She swam out and down, until the winds from above were lost, down until the waters grew dark.
*
She was still swimming, but the waters had gone cold; at first chilled, like southern ocean brine, then cold as if she were treading through the heart of the Fortress of Ends, and then her forefeet were catching on ice crystals. Soon she was more tunneling through snow than swimming through water.
She could just see far enough to find cold, cyan eyes watching her. Inquisitive.
Amused.
She realized, suddenly, that Spearmint was nearby and turned—
She awoke underwater, and was immediately and irrationally afraid she would suffocate. She forced in deep breaths, letting the water curl heavily through her lungs, and looked around.
Outside the sheltered rock nook where she’d slept, the ocean stretched for thousands of feet in every direction. Somewhere in the dry skies above her, the noon sun was lighting the waters. Ahead, the ground fell away further, and there it was dark, the waters silted and murky. In the distance, she could make out the faint outlines of other dragons—a guardian and an imperial swimming within speaking distance of each other, and the faint shape of spirals.
She waited until they were out of sight entirely to set out. She felt an odd sense of guardedness, as if there were something sacred or shameful about her journey, and somewhat ill-at-ease at the thought of speaking to another dragon. She almost wondered how they’d react, and whether she’d prefer to be addressed as the Speckled Bear, or some stranger named Kellinlii.
She headed east, deeper into the sea. Toward the heart of it all.
*
She swam for days without meeting another dragon, until the festival came. Dragons of every species and every element descended when the tides turned, even a few of the bolder ridgebacks. She remained wary of meeting any of them, and dove every time she caught scent of a party. Soon, despite the depth, she was brushing the sea floor.
It was dark constantly, dayless and nightless. She swam until she tired, slept until she woke, continued onward. The few dragons at the depth passed her without contact. She felt almost invisible in the gloom, a sleepwalker, her dreams more intense and meaningful than her waking journeys. The waters pulsed with Tidelord’s strength, moving with their own will to curl about her.
She dreamed every night beneath the waves. Many had the tang of prophecy, a few that of memory. None were restful. Dragons and beastfolk she knew drifted in and out of them—Cataclysm with ignited circuits, Sprucetip haloed in shadow and frost, Hrijikirrik tending a furnace, Soriss and Merixith both, Lyrrkril looking mutinous. Spearmint, though it was hard to tell if she saw her back or not. Rennic, in chains, incased in a gembond the color of sunlight. Her father, worn and exhausted-looking. Others she didn’t know, but had seen before—the strange, blood-stained tundra that had spoken with her uncle last season howled a battle-cry beside a mirror in red-feathered hat in a place that looked like the sea bordering the Contagion; a corven she’d seen in a marketplace perched high on the wall of a canyon and laughed at something below; a wolf-like tundra stalked a blood-colored wildclaw whose appearance was pricklingly familiar across the snowy floor of a southern forest.
She alternated swimming with forefeet and with wings as each tired. To stop her journey longer than to sleep risked her turning back. Slowly she grew stronger in the waters, and the scent of the Scarred Wasteland faded from her fur, the taste of blood and vitreous humor leaving her tongue.
Further. Deeper.
*
An icy-white female ridgeback was watching, both eyes fixed intently on her. They were a cold blue, element indistinct, as undraconic and watchful as an elemental’s. Though she was not transfixed, she knew that no matter where she moved she could not escape their sight.
She was walking in the Abiding Boneyard, a casual stroll naked of armor, hood, or crown, Khohuark alternately flying and skipping by her shoulder. Something as indistinct as a shadow and slim as a knife slid out from behind a tall rib and began to slink after her, jackal-like and swift. Try as she might, she could not alter path or pace, nor turn to look closely at the thing drawing near.
She was pacing Lyrrkril as the mirror ran through the Shifting Expanse, muttering curses under her breath. They darted together under a criss-crossing web of wires, around machine parts, through puddles of coolant, up and down hills more like cliff faces. Lyrrkril’s oaths grew louder and rougher as they raced together up and down the Expanse—though what the mirror might be searching for, Kellinlii could not tell.
There was a sudden screech of corvid laughter—
She was deep underground, and the air reeked of lubricant and oil, metal and dark water. Her breath came harsh in her chest.
Something pulsed nearby, like a massive, too-regular heartbeat, pounding soft and rhythmically. Though quiet, it resonated too deeply, trembling in her bones.
Lucid, she looked around, and cast about in the dark for smells and sounds. Above her, and far in the distance, a single, stark white light pierced the dark, hinting at metal and stone above and catching in the dusty air. Underfoot, the ground was a mix of sand and silt studded with small, flat stones, wet and river-smelling with a certain tar-like undertone. Faintly, she could see the glint of water around her, dark and reeking of petroleum.
Things scraped, claw on stone. A few bats, chittering.
Too few.
Head high, eyes wide, ears flared, she took a step forward, and her foot touched the dark waters—
Blood-soaked bones. Scorched earth. Snapper-scent, thick and overwhelming. Fire, the smell of heated air, smoke. The sear of flames across her nose. She turned and fled, and all around her fires welled up.
An imperial reared up through the smoke ahead of her, a rippling wall of sunset scales and purplish fur, covered in battered scraps of armor. Flames reared around them like seven extra heads.
She threw herself past them, scraping on her belly beneath their outstretched foreleg, and scrambled onward. Ahead, the flames were thinning. She gathered her feet beneath her and leapt out.
Chains clattered on stone, clicked on something brittle. Unwashed tundra, male and very familiar, a chemical tang, a hint of beeswax.
“Kellinlii?” her uncle’s voice rasped. A pause. The chains scraped again. “How have you been, my dear dead niece?”
Just a little drabble, playing with Firn and Rennic’s dynamic and the current situation with Sylvanite.
Written from the perspective of Firn, resident I-can’t-believe-he’s-not-actually-a-giant-plushie burly Ice Tundra and somewhat impromptu jailer for the instigator of the War of Swords.
Nervously, he leaned forward, bobbing his neck, trying to hear what they were saying. They always spoke softly, murmuring, and his pricked ears could only pick up the occasional word. He was almost certain some of the words they used were in coatl, so low and insubstantial were they.
The other dragon left, as she always did, and Firn sniffed her over as she exited the tunnel, while she waited patiently for him to do so. She smelled the same as when she'd come in; the weird metallic smell of her scales and gems, Coatl scent, the faint underlying trace of another clan. He could smell the fresh flowers she wore, and Chessi's scale balm, and the sandy earthy smell of the new Island about her feet. There was also the new smell, the one he was almost sure hadn't been there a season or two ago; the smell of other lands, of travel and marshes, of sword oil and leather. But the scents were no different than when she'd entered the cave, so he shuffled back and nodded. A small polite blink in his direction and the Coatl waddled through, heading out.
Firn flicked his ears back a little and watched her go with worry written across his large face. What did these visits mean? They filled him with unease. She came so much more often than the other dragons, and they talked for so long. What could they possibly be talking about??
"Sylvanite!" he called, just before she rounded the end of the tunnel. Surprised, the golden Coatl turned back to look at him, poking her long neck around the corner.
"Yes?" she said, blinking at him.
Firn opened his mouth, then shut it again. He had no words to articulate his confusion, he had just, as usual, blurted something without thinking, his curiosity overcoming his manners. He shuffled his tail closer to himself and hunched apologetically.
"Er... nothing. I'm very sorry Sylvanite, my mistake. Please, have a good day."
The Coatl smiled at him in a friendly fashion and made a little humming giggle, before vanishing around the tunnel bend.
Firn listened to her departing footsteps recede. Soon, the only sound in the stone cave was his own breathing. Not even the lamps sputtered; the light they gave was steady and magical, the pale crystals dim but silent.
Behind him, he heard the faint clink of a chain.
Firn glanced in that direction. ...Should he ask him?
Warily, but still burning with confusion and unease, he approached the smaller prison cave. The likelihood of getting a straight answer out of Rennic was small, even he knew that, but the Coatl had come so often in the last few seasons. Talking, just... talking. Waving her tail above her head. Sometimes laughing. It wasn't his business what other dragons did with Rennic; Firn was only there to mind his chains and guard the caves. But...
Firn reached the long stone bars of the prison. The light beyond was dimmer, but he could see the bulky outline of the traitor clearly enough by the low light reflecting off his fur and the glittering mass of crystals growing from his shoulder, his face, his back. The enclosed area smelled thickly of male Tundra.
"What's the matter Firn?" Rennic's smooth voice came from the dim little cave; relaxed, a trace of benevolent concern.
Firn hunched his wings and sat. He wasn't exactly afraid of Rennic- he had never been able to bring himself to that- but he made him nervous. He was still such a riddle.
"What.. I mean- sorry..." Firn fumbled for the correct words. "What is it you keep talking with her? I mean I don't mean to be, um, rude but. It's.. odd.. and.."
"...and you feel obliged to ask in case we're plotting something."
Firn shuffled his pink feet and glanced up into the cave, eyes wide and silvery. "Well... yes."
An amused chuckle floated through the bars.
"What would I be plotting, Firn; escape? I will never leave the Shore. I've said that many times, though nobody seems to believe me."
Firn licked his nose. He did. Logically, rationally, following all the serious and repeated lectures of his elders and superiors he shouldn't, but trying to deny the trust he'd put in Rennic for years upon years was hard. Plus, in all the seasons of his incarceration, Rennic had not once resisted or been anything but cooperative and courteous. But.. that hadn't been the reason for his imprisonment.
"Well you might be... trying.. something." he finished lamely. He tried to fix his silvery eyes on Rennics', but the other Tundra's eyes were invisible in the darkness. "..Another war." Firn finished, fur prickling slightly.
"Ah yes, a menacing army of one Coatl. That sounds a little silly, don't you think?"
Firn thumped his tail and sighed. "Yes... I guess. But then.." he bobbed his head about. "..what are you two talking about?"
There was silence for a moment. In the back of the cave, Rennic's sparrowmouse fluttered its wings and ran in a tight circle, rattling the cage that confined it and letting out a petulant chirp.
"...I suggest you ask Sylvanite about the details; it's her business." Rennic's voice was as smooth and unhurried as ever. "I will say that she comes to me for advice, which I'm happy to give."
"Advice on what?" Firn asked, ears pricked.
"As I said. Her business."
Firn's heavy brow furrowed, eyes intensely curious. "But what kind of business??"
Rennic's voice came low and soft from the dim enclosure. "Firn, you're being rude."
Almost reflexively Firn sat up straighter and apologised. "Sorry! Sorry. Of course, her business, yes." He sighed. "I guess I'll... ask her next time she comes." Sylvanite made him about as nervous as Rennic did. She was new, and pretty, and giggled at him a lot. She was also just as mysterious; covered in gems and all.
"Best you ask her directly. She may not come back for a while." said Rennic.
Firn blinked. "Why not?"
There was a jangle of icy chains, and the silhouette of Rennic shifted as he stretched, spreading his claws out luxuriously. Cold air and the thick smell of Rennic's fur drifted in Firn's direction.
"She's taking a trip. After the Saturnalia. Which must be soon, surely; I can smell Water in the air." deep sniffing noises came from the cave. "I miss that old Sea horizon."
Firn flared his nostrils slightly, sniffing the distant scent of the coming festival but also automatically scanning for more information. As usual, talking to Rennic in his cave felt like being presented with only half a scroll. He could sense there was more information there to be read, but he was missing it: Like a scroll folded in half, where the other half of the text was sort of but not really visible through the rest and backwards.
"Okay." he said. "I'll talk to her when Isril's on duty." He shuffled his feet. "May I... check your chains please?" With every visit, Firn was required to examine Rennic's ice-encrusted shackles afterwards; a routine precaution against tampering.
The other Tundra got to his feet and approached the stone bars of the prison. He lay down and put his forelegs through the gaps, the thick metal chains clanging against the stone at the very limit of their reach.
Firn hunched over to examine them, lifting up Rennic's heavy arm slightly. To him the manacles were only somewhat chilly, but flakes of frost fell away under his claws and the powerful thrum of Ice magic through the steel was deep and unsullied. He pulled gently on the chain link, then examined the other paw. Rennic's face was close to the bars, illuminated and watching him. Firn looked up, catching Rennic's vivid red gaze and the sharp strangeness of the crystals in his skin. He looked down at the shackle again hurriedly, heart beating a little faster.
"Ah.. t-there...um." he said, letting go of Rennic's foreleg and shuffling back. "All seems to be fine, thank you."
"I'm glad." said Rennic, and settled back down at the back of his cave. In its cage, the sparrowmouse made a fluid little chatter, moustache feathers bobbing.
"Well um.. thank you for talking to me, Rennic." said Firn, awkwardly.
"It's always a pleasure." said Rennic, gladness in his voice. "You know you can talk to me any time, Firn, it's the only medication I have against boredom."
Firn lifted his fez with automatic politeness and turned, heading for his usual post at the cave entrance. What exactly had Rennic talked with him about? As usual, he'd come away with essentially nothing but Rennic's musings and pleasant conversation, though maybe he could talk with Sylvanite tomorrow and get more answers. What could she possibly be asking him for advice on? His eyes flicked back and forth as he sat and pondered, in the crystal-lit silence of the empty cliff caves.
Behind him, in the darkness of his prison, Rennic smiled.
