I have written so much lore for my AU today that I'm honestly impressed my brain worked that well. I've got language-bases to work off, fashion, clans and societies, styles of warfare, government and a bunch of other stuff figured out now! Yay! Maybe I'll actually manage to write something postable for once next 😭
Rating: Mature
Words: 2,905
Fandom: Hollow Knight
Relationship: Hornet / Tiso
Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Spoilers, Canon-Typical Violence, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Esteem Issues
Summary: Tiso, ever so desperate to reach the top of the victors' tower and become a Champion Fool, is threatened by the arrival of a mysterious princess in red.
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There was always a cold breeze that seemed to be ever present near the Colosseum of Fools.
It was one that whipped around like a violent knife, cutting through layers of armour and fabric, and sinking right down into the bone, leaving you shivering and frigid. Those who made their way to this side of the Kingdom's Edge, so close to the Farlands outside of Hallownest, would often hurry to make their way inside the Colosseum itself.
Down below, a nest of would-be warriors and bandits and naive wanderers rest, sharpening a blade and polishing a shield. Down in the crowded warmths of the barracks, many wait for their chance, their opportunity to become a fabled legend. A memory, a legacy— passed down through generation after generation. To come to the Colosseum of Fools meant you were ready to die in the name of being remembered. To waste your time in the barracks, huddled close to other wannabe fighters, meant you would give up comforts and luxury for the chance to to fill your pockets with geo.
Like a watchful owl, he stands at the edge of the perimeter. Enduring biting winds for a moment of peace away from the chaos and crowded areas beneath the dirt. His chitinous exoskeleton was dark; black in color, with a layering of scars here and there to decorate. He was smaller than most who came here, but it was a fact used to his advantage. Not many expected strength from those with a smaller stature.
Adorning his dark shell was a set of dark blue armour, glistening and cleaned meticulously, as well as the silver shield he had resting at his feet, both hands propped on the top. A blue hood pulled over his head, and in the darkness of the night, only his white eyes could be seen, glaring out in the abyss that yawned before him. Clipped to the fabric of his hood, around his neck was a single token; light grey in colour, with inscriptions into the surface, and shaped like a waxing crescent moon. His posture indicates a tenseness— one that never really left him, even when he was out of the heat of battle.
Tiso did not know calm; had never known it a day in his life. To be calm, to find peace was a fool's dream, and unbefitting a warrior such as himself. It was beneath him, really. He knew he had only one goal in mind, and that was to ascend the tower of warriors before him. Those slain in battle, he would become more than, and those at the top, he would join their ranks.
Even now, as he stands watch over the expanse of sand and dirt, looking out into the emptiness of the Kingdom's Edge, his mind focuses on his target. The next trial in the Colosseum; the Trial of the Conqueror. He himself was only ranked a Warrior; the single token at his neck showed that he had fought his way through, and won the right to be seen above newcomers and failures. No matter; it was only given that he would win the next one, or die trying.
His grip tightens on his shield. To live as a Conqueror, or to die in the Trial; only one outcome was the preferred, and he would give everything to achieve that right, that victory above all. He swore to his soul that he would do it. For those who bested that Trial of the Conqueror would be given the right to the next one.
The Trial of the Fool.
And how rare Fools were here. Many died in their final trial, desperate and clawing, determined to win, only to suffer beneath the final strike of a beast or warrior stronger than they. And even if you managed to survive every wave, any surviving challenger with you was now your enemy in a fight to the death, to be the last standing. And how the last one, bleeding and broken and bruised, would gain the honor of the utmost challenge. To defeat the Colosseum's Queen, the beauty and terror above all—
The God Tamer.
His hands twitch at the memory of her.
The God Tamer.
He sucks in a deep breath.
The God Tamer. She was a mortal god on earth, it felt like. A beautifully dangerous warrior, clad in red armour with gold adornments, carrying a deadly weapon that Tiso has seen slay hundreds. How captivated he is when he watches her fight. The God Tamer, the final challenge of the Trial of the Fools.
Even if you survived every wave, and the fight to the death with your companions, you were still at her mercy. And merciless she was, atop her Beast of a mount, her lance drawn like the hand of God. Her skill unmatched, it was no surprise that there were so few Champion Fools in existence. Even at her smaller size, she was quick and deadly, and she took great joy in slaughtering those who dared to challenge her weapon, those who even bothered to enter and train in her Colosseum.
Tiso took another deep inhale.
He worshipped her. An open secret, he wanted nothing more than to be the one standing above her, his shield drawn, and the mortal god at his mercy. The idea thrilled him beyond belief; the ultimate goal he wanted was to be seen as the Champion Fool— to have her concede, and affix the final token to his neck, as she had done once before, when he had won his first trial. Bleeding, dizzy, nearly dead, and standing tall as her hands pinned it to his hood.
So close, he could see her scarred red chitin, and he could breathe in her scent; blood and metal, and faintly like cherries. Like the most addicting elixir, it was burned into Tiso's memory.
He flexes his fingers, swallowing thickly. Ah, he would win no victories out here, standing and staring like a damn fool. And so he lifts his shield from its place planted into the dirt, hoisting it onto its spot at his side, and turning to return to the barracks.
He sees... a figure.
They are slender, with a cloak like blood affixed around their body. Only their slender legs were seen beneath it, a black chitinous exoskeleton like him. A dangerously sharp needle was affixed to their back, glinting and sharp. But their stark white mask was something different; something akin to the lost Vessels once upon a time. It was an odd sight; and Tiso could not place what species they were.
No matter, a newcomer of any kind was beneath him, and he had more important things to do. They stood in his path, and as he approached, he called out, gruff and unkind, “Move out the way, can't you see a warrior is coming through?” Arrogant, cold.
Standing a little distance away, their head turns. Black eyes in the face of the white mask, that seem to stare right through him, like they were searching into his very soul. It made him surprisingly uneasy, and he falters in his steps, standing a few paces away now.
They seemed not at all impressed with his command; rather just watching him with the same gaze as someone staring at a bunch of wriggling worms. Unbothered. Tiso could not place it, but he sensed a sort of... deepness to them. Like they were someone who saw many things in their life, maybe even many lives. Someone who had the same power as the mortal god of the Colosseum, the God Tamer.
No, what was he saying? That was preposterous. They were some simple nobody, come to challenge the arena and die trying. And still... he felt as if their gaze alone could cut down a hundred warriors without a second glance. Speaking of, now that he is actually examining them, he recognizes those features.
The fabled sentinel of Hallownest, the princess-knight. Hornet; a legendary warrior, known for her prowess with a deadly needle, and her speed and power. Even if he didn't know of whispers of her skill, he can see it; three tokens affixed to her cloak, whereas Tiso only held the one. A clear sign of their combat difference. She truly outranked him, and if that wasn't enough to stir his resolve, her response to him does—
“Can you quiet down?” Her voice is deep and melodic, low, and sends a strange chill through his frame. And her tone was dismissive, like she spoke to an annoying child, rather than the Warrior that Tiso was.
It angered him, made him bristle with a simmering heat of rage, but he does his best to keep it hidden. His gaze is filled with disdain and contempt, and he scoffs at her, white eyes glancing up and down her form. Those tokens... it really does falter his arrogance for a moment. But he regains his composure, and he sneers.
“Well, what do we have here, visiting tonight? Someone who actually has a bit of a fight in them?” He snorts, trying his best to appear unimpressed. “And who are you supposed to be?” He inquires, feigning nonchalance and ignorance.
“None of your concern.” Again, the way she speaks, it makes him feel inferior. Has him clenching his hands into fists, stiffening his stance. She turns around a bit, to really look him up and down, before her white mask turns back to the arena, and she continues. “You warriors throw yourself into a pit of fools to try and claw your way to an unreachable top. Sure, if that is how you want to spend your days, then so be it.”
Tiso growls a bit, hissing, “Well, if it is such a pit of fools, then why are you here anyway?”
“I have some important duties to uphold in this area. So why don't you scurry back to your child's play of an arena, and be forgotten like the rest?” And with that, she turns and moves to sit on a nearby rock. She draws her needle, and for a split second, Tiso wonders if she would strike him down in a blink, as easy as one could take down an aspid. But no, she simply draws a sharpening stone from her pocket, gripped in her other hand, and begins maintenance on the needle in her lap. One that has surely seen the death of many, with the way it shines sharp.
The way that she spoke to him like he held no importance in her mind. It makes him flush hot with a mix of shame, and a strange attraction. There was one other bug that made him feel that way when they spoke to him, and she flashes in his mind. Beautiful, powerful God Tamer. Surely, Hornet must be as grand as her if she held the three tokens of the arena on her red cloak.
Both dangerous warriors of Hallownest, and he was most likely nothing more than the dirt beneath their heels. Still, one had to try and become relevant, right?
Tch.
His grip on his shield tightens further, but he doesn't move an inch. The air is thick; with tension, anger. His pride is wounded, his rage flaring, but so does a quiet emotion; a flicker of recognition. He swallows down the venom threatening to choke him, and mumbles, “You're one of those types. The ones who don't need to fight in an arena to prove their worth.”
He turns away, just slightly, jaw clenched tight, and his voice low— not quite submission, but something close to it. “I don't care for your duties or tone, and your flaunted needle.” His tone is beat now, bitter, wistful almost. “I don't care if you think it childish; the Colosseum is worth more to the warriors here than you will ever understand. And I will carve my name into the stones the same way the victors before me have. I'll stand atop the graves of the fallen and broken, and someone like you will be forced to see that I am as grand as any other victor.”
When she does not reply, rather focused on her needle, he feels the bubbling anger flare, and he slams his shield into the ground once— sharply— and glares at her like she had personally insulted him.
“Spar with me? No? Then stop pretending I'm someone beneath you. You want to tell me how insignificant I am? Then spar with me!” His tone is sharp, angered, and challenged.
Most people would rise to the warrior's call. Determined to prove their worth, determined to show they were not a coward. Hornet, however, already had confidence.
She did not spare a glance his way, not even at his outburst. Continues to keep her focus on her needle's sharpening, and ignores him, like he were just the buzzing whimpers of grub. No more than a pathetic morsel in her eyes, surely. The way she disregarded him, the way she treated him like nothing— it wounded his pride. And an irrational part of his brain wanted to do something stupid; something to truly get her full attention. Surely, he was worth it, no?
Hornet then speaks, her tone flat, continuously dismissive. "I've no need for pointless sparring. My blade needs to remain sharp, for a real fight. When you die in the Colosseum, say hello to my good friend, The God Tamer, would you? No, you'll succumb to something far weaker before you even get the honor of her gaze."
The audacity; the way she said it all so casually, like he truly was worthless.
Tiso remembered the one time he had spoken to the God Tamer. How she didn't give him a second glance after affixing his first token to his hood, how she was just as dismissive and distracted as Hornet is now. To think they were both friends, both thinking themselves above him— he's spiraling, imagining them both standing above him in the arena, and not even bothering to watch him fight for his life, fight for honor, for glory.
Her words fueled a fire in his chest, and he fought to ignore the sickening waves of insignificance and shame that her tone filled him with. Threatening his persona of the great warrior he was. He begins to shake slightly— every nerve inside him coiled, ready to snap. That blatant dismissal stings, like a hundred needles piercing his pride all at once. His jaw was clenched so tight, he was surprised his teeth did not splinter or shatter.
“I will not die in that arena. I don't need your permission to face The God Tamer.” Each word gritted out, laced with rage, and an almost hidden plea beneath them. Like his very being craved desperately to be recognized as something that was worth it. He draws his shield— to strike, to hide, he is unsure— and continues, “Stop talking like I'm dead already, you little—”
In a flash—
Something strikes his cheek, and Tiso's head cracks into the ground, his hood doing little to protect him, leaving him dazed, ears ringing. His whole body had been thrown back into the dirt, and just a single foot pressed into his chest, keeping him pinned.
Standing above him was Hornet.
In his dazed view, she was... magnificently beautiful. A tall figure of strength, of glory, of greatness— everything he aspired to be. From her stark white mask, staring at him now like he wanted, to the red fabric of her cloak dancing in the breeze, and to the razor sharp needle pointed at his face. He could also see up under her cloak, and she was slender and muscular all at once. Her chitin scarred, with patches of fluffy fur decorating her body.
To die under her hand would be a fine honor. She stands above him like a God, just as fearsome, just as graceful. The aura of a warrior, the allure of a pale wyrm. She was everything he wanted, and wanted to be, and more.
As quick as she had him knocked and pinned, she steps back, lifting her foot off his chest, and sheathing her needle at its place on her back.
“Then don't charge in waving your weapons about until you are truly ready, Tiso.” When had she bothered to remember his name? Why was someone of her rank wasting her time to remember it? “I will see you around, Fool.” And with that final note, she turns on her heel, and walks into the darkness beyond his vision.
Tiso remains prone, laying in the dirt, his world still spinning from the impact. He takes a moment to remember himself, pushing himself to his knees, breathing heavy. His body buzzed with adrenaline, and he can only stare at the disappearing figure in the yawning void; graceful and menacing all at once. His heart races— from the short-lived fight, from her overwhelming presence, from the shame of defeat, from the thrill of being beneath her heel.
He touches a hand to his bruised cheek, which burned like a fire beneath his fingers. And then moves to touch his chest, where her foot had left the faintest dent in the armour, an impression of presence. A strange flutter of excitement mixed with humiliation runs through him, and he swallows thickly, still shaking in the dirt.
I want to compose songe for hypnodaddy but dear fuckign god, i've gotta figure out the melody and lyric placements and shit.
brain is going BRRRRRRRRRRRR and now I must WRITE! THEM! DOWN! The LYRICS! The melody can come later but the LYRICS
GFHSDJKHFDKJSHFDKIS
I just DEFINITELY need to figure those out, as I've always perceived Baggs as a person who could and WOULD use his wit and charisma to sway people first.
After all, though his appearance might give them a slight warning, his words so easily and effortlessly project that he's a man of high intellect and understanding. That he's a curious monster, eager to listen and to learn.
To get people to open up, excited to find someone who wants to hear what they have to say.
"Everyone wants to talk about something. They merely are nervous that no one wants to hear it~... By showing that I am willing to listen, they open up.
They open up their heart, and the things they feel so passionately about. They open their mind, eager to release the thoughts bubbling within.
And an open mind, is a receptive mind...
And a receptive mind is less wary of inviting thoughts.
A receptive mind is comforted by the light airy magic, that flows from my eye.
And less prone to resist,
to listen,
and to obey.
..... so sue me, I'm a bit lazy in my own right. "
