Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You love Eldago. The people are amazing, the food is good (if maybe a little bland), and you’ll treasure most of your memories here. You hate the Kingdom.

These truths are incompatible.

Apparently, a few knights are totally more than enough to fight a veritable horde of Elder Dragons and the entourage of chaotic stupid monsters they rile up as their vanguard. Hell, the Kingdom even threw in a handful of useless chevaliers too! What more could you need? You will always hate them for making you their spearpoint. You’d die for them. You’d die to save anyone from any monster, much less a leech-spreading demon of an Elder Dragon. The tattoos on your face are emblematic of your oath to protect, an oath backed up and reaffirmed by your actions and hammers and blades ad infinitum.

…Did it have to be you alone?

Fiorayne was at your side for some missions, and the other knights would invite you out for smaller hunts, but Galleus got cagey around the bigger stuff. You fought Gaismagorm almost entirely alone. The Risen Elders you did fight alone, and it was your buddies that paid the price. Hopper, faster than lightning, will always bear the scars pulling at sinew and muscle from the jet-propelled wing blades of Risen Valstrax. Spot, loyal Spot, who would heal anyone that asked, is still growing back his fur, barely recovering from the Ultimate Frenzy of Shagaru Magala. The Kingdom tried to give you a medal for their sacrifices.

You did apologize later, but the fact that Galleus’ greatsword is still stuck in the wall where you threw it in a fit of rage is nothing short of hilarious. You gave him a better (Kamura) greatsword later. It’s fine. Totally. (Jae had never looked so horrified it was amazing.)

Funny enough, the one person in all of Elgado you truly bear no ill-will to is none other than Princess Chichae. She was, after all, the one to take pity on you and explain several of the Kingdom’s… oddities. Being so removed from the frontier and the realities of hunting has apparently blinded many of the citizenry to the harsh truths you take for granted; Palicoes and Palamutes are apparently uncommon there and are seen more as simple pets or tools. A sentiment the Princess vehemently didn’t share. You knew you liked her for a reason. Her even going to the outpost to serve as quest manager was as much a political move of support as it was an honest effort to help. Apparently. You’re glad to have her, but you still don’t get why the King and Galleus won’t let you or Utsushi or even Fiorayne train her in the Hunt. She’s only four years your junior, and Iori had started training alongside you and Utsushi at half that age. (You see the way she looks at your charge blades sometimes and promise yourself to teach her when she’s Queen and damn anyone who says otherwise.)

Anyways.

It’s clear your time in Elgado is, for now, at an end. They understand, everything is much too fresh. Hopper and Spot need Kamura-style Buddy Care. They send you off with well wishes and promises of aid should you want for anything.

The only problem is that you’re not sure if you’re going to be able to stay in Kamura, either.

Fugen gets it. You’ve slain so many horrific creatures that it’s become nigh-impossible to relax, even in the Guild Hub with Ayame eating even more dango across from you and Hojo droning on about a secret agent Tetranadon or some similar nonsense. Utsushi calls it Bladeshock. You call it bullshit. It’s real though, and painfully so, however much you hate it and curse yourself thrice over in front of the mirror. Thunderstorms remind you of Narwa and Amatsu now, and you’re utterly sick of the shrine ruins, always wondering if you’re going to be playing chicken with a Chameleos for the next week. The migration of Elder Dragons that’s become semi-regular has finally passed Kamura by. But it hasn’t passed you by, not yet.

You need space away from the memories of Thunder and Wind and death.

Hopper and Spot also get it, in their own beastly way. They were proud when you were first partnered and they’re prouder now, and rightfully so. They as much as you slew the monsters that you have, after all. They want… not exactly privacy as they recover, but they don’t want you to see them weak, strange as that may seem to you. They demand of themselves to be strong for you, just as you hone your blades and yourself to protect them. None of you are abandoning each other, ever. You’re merely taking different trails for a while, all headed to the same camp. Eventually.

Hinoa and Minoto do not get it.

The screaming match that follows is apoplectic. Kamura in its entirety bursts out of their homes, thinking that the Rampage is somehow back yet again, and once they’re close enough to hear your collective fury and anguish clearly, they wish it was. It would be better than this. Hinoa and Minoto’s perspective is centuries vaster than yours and they leverage this to terrible effect, coating their insults like so much venom. You’re being a child. Let them take care of you. They know better, after all. This will pass in a blink of their eyes. They will always be your family, but right now you want nothing more than to be a continent away from them. Wearily, you turn to your bed, determined to sleep away your fury.

You collapse, exhausted, and blink back to awareness in the Pit.

The sky burns red, though Gaismagorm has long since devoured the last of the Qurio. You stand alone, on top of a crumbling pillar as a blast of corrupted energy smashes a hole through the demon’s prison, seawater crashing around you in a futile effort to extinguish the fiery hatred in front of you. The corpses of the Royal Order lay strewn about the wreckage as Galleus’ ship (perhaps the one useful vanity project in the history of the human race) strains against the rushing tide. Your shaking hands clutch the hilt of Kamura’s Legacy, the once-proud edge shattered a hand from the blade’s guard. You toss the hilt (gift gift it was a gift from Fugen to carry your honor and you have no honor here) to the side and reach, unthinking, for a new weapon, only to look in horror as a swarm of Qurio join together in your grasp in mockery of a blade. Galleus is tossed from his ship, cursing your name as he’s sucked into Gaismagorm’s maw. You cannot look away as he’s crushed into viscera within the monster’s inner set of jaws. You stumble back, looking down at your body, which is covered in armor patterned after the demon (that can’t be right you swore never to wear the set they forged in their hubris), hyperventilating as the Qurio swarm around you. Gaismagorm raises its forearms and the already-drained husks of your friends (I was supposed to keep you safe) jerk upright as if suspended on the strings of a marionette, speaking as one in a voice so deep the air shakes in visible ripples.

You have failed, interloper. I gaze once more upon the World Without.

You’re going to die here. If you’re smart about it, you could still take the abomination with you.

Slayer of my lesser spawn, you have failed and failed utterly. The Primordial Guardian and the Dragon-Fish together could not steal the skies from me. The Emperor who sealed me Below is long dead now.

Your thoughts turn to Narwa and Ibushi, and you do not want to follow them. The demon is lying.

What reason have I to lie to a worm, oh fool of all the World Without. I drink deeply of the lifeblood of the earth once more, I feel wind and biomancy on my flesh. My wings return to me.

Gaismagorm arches before you, and the Qurio arc from its back once more, before flashing in a blinding red-unlight. When your sight returns, massive wings adorn its back, connected to its front two pairs of arms with massive membranes. Its hindlegs flex and become flippers (Amatsu keens in the storm) as the demon rises in one wingbeat, lasting seconds yet bearing it aloft to look you in the eyes.

“So long as I have a weapon, so long as I live, I will live only to kill you.”

You have nothing and are nothing. You exist at my sufferance and you will die for my amusement. Already you lose yourself in my trappings, fool.

Your hands, unbidden, fly to your face. It is hidden behind the helm they forged for you (sealed away sealed deep locked with chains so thick only Wyvernfire could blast them apart) out of the monster’s corpse. You pull off the helm– except you cannot. You claw at your neck, searching for the seam between gorget and breastplate. There is none. You draw your carving knife and stab yourself in the heart, but you barely break your chitinous exterior and bleed a hideous aquamarine.

You are no-body, lost forever in my demonhood, fool. Die now, but in mind only. The prison of the World Within awaits you.

Gaismagorm turns in the direction of Kamura. Your screams, muffled by the armor, finally tear into the air as the cursed helm splits apart at the jaw, revealing your flowering, six-petaled maw. The cliff crumbles, and you fall into the Pit below, drawing ever-nearer to an ominous red flame rising to meet you.

You wake up a sodden mess of sweat, gasping for breath and pressing a hand to your mouth to mask the wretched sobs of horror threatening to tear their way from your throat. Your gaze lands on Kamura's Legacy, mercifully whole and unshattered in its place of honor upon your mantle. As you tumble out of bed to cradle the blade in your arms like a lifeline, the tears fall, blurring your vision until it finally fades back into merciful nothingness.

The next three days are spent huddled in a corner with a bottle of some painful liquor Jae had gifted and copious amounts of incense, trying to blot the nightmare from your memory.

You can’t stay here, not anymore. But where can you go?

Wait a minute.

The Research Commission, that Guild-spanning entity. They’re sending Fleet number five to the New World soon, aren’t they?

Turns out, the Research Commission is incredibly disdainful of your Hunter’s Guild, and as a result, you. It also turns out that having Princess Chichae herself write a, shall we say, strongly worded letter of recommendation can reverse the Commission’s perspective on damn near anything. Suddenly their policy of not believing any hunter from what they consider the boonies is worth anything more than Lowest Rank has done an abrupt about-face, and you’re presented with a small armoire to stow away any gear you so choose. It’s tiny, not nearly enough to fit even a tenth of the armor and weaponry you’ve accrued. (So, only a few dozen sets then.) It’s also colossal compared to their usual weight allowance for their ships.

Thank you, Chichae.

In the end, you’re able to cram in a few sets of armor and weaponry, your favorites and nothing else. On your back goes Kamura’s Legacy, honed by the fires of Hamon and Minayle both, and crafted beyond comparison by the essence of Qurio. You’ve not told anyone, but you’re looking forward to the challenge of getting more armor and weaponry all over again. The Kamurai garb, a village favorite, goes over your clothes. A slinger is mounted on your vambrace. It won’t be the same as wirebugs (which are apparently classified as invasive life, which, fair, but still you can’t help but be annoyed), but the new addition of something called a Clutch Claw should be a workable substitute. The rest of your gear you leave with Fugen, who has very specific instructions to only let Iori handle any of them. Or Chichae, if she somehow travels to Kamura and asks. Iori pairs you up with a Palico from Elgado who took one look at the wide world and jumped on board Kamura’s Argosy. You think you’re going to like Caspian.

You go to Commission Point, and then onto a ship. On to your future.

Chapter Text

The ship you are on is crowded beyond belief. The Commission called for the best, brightest, and above all the craziest for their monumental expeditions, and people answered their call in droves. Despite yourself, you’ve learned a few names and faces, and your weapons and armor have drawn some attention all by themselves. Currently, Aiden (an A-lister) and Lenore (a… Handler? Whatever that job is and what the Handlers do is still a mystery to you) are staring at the Hellsire Blade you’re sharpening with stars in their eyes. They’d waxed poetic about the matching armor you’ve chosen for today (look, Fugen always said to look your best for first impressions and you’re not about to let the old bastard down) and you figured you might as well show off a weapon or two and give them the complete experience. You can’t blame them either; those Silver Rathalos you’d tracked down to the secret hunting grounds of Elgado all those months ago had yielded a bounty of absolutely gorgeous weapons and armor.

Utsushi Training Rule #12: Style Points are always worth it. Combine the above with your fondness for fire-element weapons and there was no doubt in your mind that you’d be bringing the SR set to the New World with you.

Everything could be more on fire.

You’re just about to go try and find your Handler (you’re about 60% sure the Fleetmaster remembered to assign you one, and you want to ask them what the hell their job even is) when the ship around you rocks upward as if it had been decked in the metaphorical face. Given that there are a few monsters capable of pulling that off, you decide heading to the top might be best. Better to know what you’re about to hack into bits, after all. Caspian is by your side in an instant, clad in SR gear to match your own. It had been a long conversation with you, him and Spot back in Kamura, but eventually you’d convinced Caspian to finally accept that you were giving him the best armor and he’d have to deal with it. Hamon had understood, and hammered in different patterns than on Spot’s armor. Soaring filigree and oceanic crests instead of grounded lines and etched forests. The same goal and drive, but unique, just like Caspian and Spot themselves. Your Palico will be able to tank any hit short of an Elder Dragon descending from on high, period.

(You won’t let another companion down.)

Just behind you is a woman clad in some form of survey gear, grinning maniacally and ranting to herself about new monster discoveries and potential marine and botanical applications. She doesn’t seem to have a weapon so… Handler? Well, the kind of crazy needed to run towards an unknown threat capable of removing a multi-ton ship from the water is the kind of crazy you want on your side. Your Handler now, and the pencil-pushers can suck it. Upon reaching the top deck, the reason for this chaos becomes clear. Your ship has run aground on a volcano, as you do. A volcano that… has legs. And arms. And a head. And it’s moving.

Fucking Elder Dragons. You weren’t even on the new Gogdamned continent yet and they’re already ruining everything. As per usual.

Almost as if the beast has read your incredibly murderous thoughts (or seen the look on your face), you and the Handler are bucked off the ship, which begins to slide back into the sea. An earsplitting whistle tells Caspian to stay aboard and secure your gear (and make sure nobody tries to steal any, weapons and armor have been known to “go missing” or “be reallocated to those in need” when a Hunter is presumed dead, especially when said Hunter is far from home and the governing body doesn’t think well of them). Precautions are a necessity.

The moment you land on the beast’s back, the Handler is calling out directions, advice, dangers and signaling for a wingdrake even as she tap-dances around lava-flows and falling rock-carapace. Faster than lightning, you realize what the Handlers are. Most Hunters, even A-listers and Guild Knights, have only ever really Hunted in one or two environments; guarding a town or city, traveling alongside a caravan, that sort of thing. A whole new continent with relatively uncharted biomes would essentially be a glorified graveyard for these people if they tried to set off into the wilds alone, or even in a full squad of four. Unless, that is, they had trained, Hunt-conditioned survivalists watching their backs, ready to call in support or evacuation as needed and capable of surviving in the wide unknown. If the Hunters were blades, the Handlers were the, well, hands that kept them from being caught in vines or wedged in rock.

You can’t help it. You laugh to yourself. Kamura Hunters trained in every survivalist skill Master Hojo could think of and a dozen more he couldn’t before ever picking up their first weapons, right at the beginning of their training in the Hunt. Even so, you’re not about to turn down free, competent help. The Handler’s knowledge of the New World (they did study for this, you’re 80% sure of it) will be invaluable, and it would absolutely not hurt at all to have someone make sure you don’t make some horrific survival error as soon as you step ashore.

After what seems like eternity tap-dancing across the walking talking seismic catastrophe but was probably more like two minutes, your wingdrakes (finally) arrive and your impromptu party of two disembarks from the massive dragon. And if there just so happens to be a few new, painful flaming rifts on the beast’s rocky hide, who can say? (The Handler can say. The Handler has never been more terrified of a Hunter in her entire life. The visions of a dark, laughing God of fire and destruction filled her sight as you spun the Hellsire Blade around and smashed it into the living volcano that is Zorah Magdaros, its magma-lifeblood spurting out in offering to some primeval embodiment of the elements, seeming to halo you in flame and ruin. The Handler has absolutely no idea what has become of you to shape you into what you are now. The Handler has never been more excited in her entire life. She is going to study you.)

As it turns out, even a volcano can be more on fire.

Regrettably, your treacherous mounts are, in fact, constrained by the limitations of flesh, and you are deposited (dropped) none too gently into what the Handler tells you is known as the Ancient Forest, and…

Wow.

The place has definitely earned its name, if only judging by the absolutely gargantuan tree which dominates the landscape, seeming to shape the land around it and literally diverting some of the low-hanging clouds which dot the sky in almost idyllic fashion. As it turns out, the Commission Base is barely a ten minute walk away from where you’ve landed, and so far your only obstacle is an extremely, pitifully unfortunate pack of Jagras. The Hellsire Blade bisects them faster than slicing a pizza.

Yes, you know what pizza is. Kamura is isolated, not removed entirely from this mortal plane of existence.

You walk about thirty feet before being found by a kid (He’s impressively jacked and rocking that mohawk but if he’s older than Iori you’ll give someone one of your few Gunlances and let them shoot you) who identifies himself as the Field Team Leader, and you can hear the capital letters in his title. You spend the next few minutes walking and talking about what to expect in the New World (monsters), what to expect in the Commission Base (It’s called Astera, and apparently the research team will attempt to dissect you), and if there are any stupid politics you’ll need to worry about (hopefully not). You’ve almost, almost made it to Astera, you are literally sixty feet from the gate when a cartoonishly oversized and hilariously fat Jagras leaps from the grass on your left to block your path. And just when you think, well, on top of the Bladeshock, the Elder Dragon, the crappy wingdrakes and now this thing, you can’t possibly be any more done with today, something else jumps down from a rise on your left just ahead of you to challenge both Fat Jagras and your incredibly stupid belief that it can’t get worse.

Anjanath.

A hateful expression blooms across your face, takes a look at the beast, and puts on its own, even more hateful expression. Somewhere, a visual metaphor continues drinking itself under the table. You hate it that much. Practically from the start of the Rampages back home, this disgusting, constantly nose-shrieking fucking fire hazard that only trains legs (to the exclusion of both arms and wings, both of which are atrophied to the point of uselessness) has caused you no small amount of problems and grief. They got in your way so much you snapped to the point of crafting a full set of armor from the desiccated corpses of every single one you ran into, along with every weapon you could manage. And you left them in Kamura. You even made an exception to your nobody-touch-my-stuff rule; anyone who wants or needs to can use your Anjanath gear for the small price of absolutely free because if any of it somehow gets broken it will be a measurable net positive for humanity.

One of them has shown its hideous face on your first day in the New World. It is not on fire, nor is it dead. You are going to rectify both of these things.

The Handler and the Field Team Leader both scramble through the gate as Anjanath manhandles (monster-handles?) Fat Jagras like it’s a chew toy above them, but you square your stance and unsheathe the Hellsire Blade once more, sword and shield sending out one last, resonant peal as your vision narrows, your world focuses inwards until all that remains is you, your prey, and your Hunt. And your hatred. This was supposed to be a fresh start. You’ve moved your entire life across literal continents to get away from the memories and you’ve literally ran aground some new calamity on day fucking zero. Your patience has been dragged out behind Fugen’s house to be summarily executed and you’re not going to run and hide behind a meager gate. Your blood is fire, singing for death and desolation. The Hellsire Blade glows ever brighter, seeking to once more cleave through your enemies. You oblige it.

Just as Anjanath finally stops dicking around and tosses Fat Jagras into the underbrush from whence it came, you slam the Hellsire Blade, fully transformed and spinning, into its left leg like a comet from on high, grinning at the sickening snap and Anjanath’s cry of pain. The monster stumbles, seeking to regain its footing, but you’ve spun your weapon around and back into a sword and shield, easily keeping pace with the ungainly creature and scoring its underbelly a half-dozen times before it can regain its equilibrium. Snarling, it pivots to try and crush you beneath its feet, but changes its mind as your blade cleaves between its talons. Shrinking back, the monster tries desperately to disengage, but you’ve spun your weapon into its bludgeon-pole-spinning-doom form once more and manage to hit its left once again, toppling it to the ground. The beast meets your eyes and panics, flailing harder as it fails to get up. You see the moment the wretched affront to existence realizes it is well and truly helpless; its ability to stand unaided has been destroyed beyond repair.

You grin.

You don’t see the Handler look at you with something approaching awe as you render the horrid thing from living to on fire to dead-and-on-fire with almost spiteful indifference. You don’t notice the Field Team Leader watch in horror as the monster that had ground almost every expedition to a screeching halt is batted about like the world’s most flammable chew tow, as he wonders who precisely let you have weapons to begin with.

It takes a solid hour for what’s left of Anjanath to stop smoldering.

Chapter Text

You don’t know what the Commander is thinking. He has a really, really good poker face. You make a note to find out when poker nights here are, and make another note to find out when the Commander plays so you can be somewhere else those nights. His thoughts are completely hidden, but he’s smiling and giving you a quality handshake, so you figure things are off to a good start. Solid as a rock, this guy is. It’ll be nice to work with someone who’s got his head on his shoulders again, like Fugen and not like Galleus. Someone rooted in the practicals, who won’t panic about nobility and titles and politics and all that nonsense. Your only hope is that the Commander, unlike Fugen, has no love for dad-jokes.

(You don’t know what the Commander is thinking. The Commander is very much panicking about nobility and titles and politics and all that nonsense, thank you very little. The Commander is flashing back to the last communique he’d received from the Commision Proper back home, which had contained orders for him to “provide suitable accommodations for a personal guest of Princess Chichae and the Kingdom of Elgado”. Left unsaid but practically screamed directly into his face was that the Kingdom of Elgado had been putting forward a staggering amount of money towards the exploration and settlement of the New World and that they, and therefore their guest, ought to be kept happy. The Commander had read this, noting that the Commission referred to the guest only as the “Fierce Flame of Kamura”, and also noting that the Commission did not write about them favorably or make note of any skill sets. The Commander had made peace with having to put up with some Court Bard or Viscount who’d charmed their way into seeking glory, and had lined up a few surveys that wouldn’t get them killed but would get them out of Astera for days at a time. And now this.

Clearly, the fine folks back at Commission Headquarters had either been staggeringly drunk to a man while writing this missive or they were talking out of their collective ass, because the Fierce Flame of Kamura was arguably the most accurate moniker in the history of the written word, if for no other reason than the newly-landed hunter’s borderline-arsonist combat tendencies. If their Handler (who had ran directly to the Commander, made her report, and immediately set off to file every conceivable bit of paperwork needed to claim the Hunter as hers) was to be even remotely believed, the Fierce Flame of Kamura had succeeded in setting a living volcano on fire out of spite and irritation alone. The Commander wondered; if he wished really, really hard, would Astera magically become fireproof?)

(However, you know none of this.)

(The Commander makes a killing on Poker Thursdays.)

As the Commander gives you a once-over, you chuckle somewhat abashedly, realizing you definitely didn’t have time to stop and get all the tastefully splattered Anjanath blood off of your armor before making your way to deliver your report and get settled. Hopefully it looks at least a little cool. (It looks terrifying, and the fact that you’ve removed your helmet and have set it on the table in front of you does not detract from this.) The Commander gives a maybe-impressed hum, at least, before beginning to speak.

“Now, that was one hell of a show you put on for us! The Commission definitely lowballed your skills, and even though I don’t know why I will never turn away unexpected good fortune and good talent. Astera is glad to have you here.”

You smile. Finally, finally things make sense again. “Thank you sir,” you say on autopilot, “I’m glad to be here.” An awkward pause. “Soooo… may I ask where I’ll be staying? I understand completely that space is a premium, so if you need I can set up a hammock nest somewhere, I just need to know what spots are off limits.”

The Commander, who’s started pacing as you talked in that formal military way Galleus did and Fugen pretended to do, stumbles and crashes into the table, surprise painted on his face. Was hammock-nesting not a thing outside of Kamura?

Weird.

Laughter rings out from behind you both as a figure walks into the command area, though it’s clear that the laughter is directed at the Commander from the way he slumps into a chair and groans good-naturedly. The newcomer walks past (holy shit is that Rathian Blademaster Armor)-
-Whoever this is, they are one of the deadliest people on the face of the planet.

Their gait is completely even. The Rathian Longsword in their hands seems to fade out of view whenever you don’t focus on it, which is rather impressive given that the blade is taller than anyone present. The fact that they move silently in full plate armor on a wooden deck. Whoever this is, they’re putting Galleus and the Royal Order to shame, and you’d bet they’re better than Kagero back home as well. You aren’t even sure how you or even Utsushi stack up against whoever the hell is sitting down next to the Commander and that is Saying Something. The Huntsman (you’re 90% sure, the armor is probably-male-body-shaped and the laughter was a healthy baritone) barely tilts his helmet towards you, but you’d put money down on being measured intently even as he spills into his chair, deceptively relaxed and sword across his lap.

The Commander slugs him in the shoulder pauldron before opening his mouth to speak again, but the Huntsman beats him to the punch. “Well, thanks to Princess Chichae essentially sponsoring you. We had a private cabin set aside, and the Commander here’s in a tailspin because you’re actually good at your job and the letter we got didn’t imply that at all.”

The Commander coughs abruptly and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like shuthefuckup. “Anyways,” he continues, weirdly loud all of a sudden, “you do indeed have a private cabin, but worry not, you’ve just earned it more than twice over on merit alone today. Even if you’d been the newest Hunter on the Fifth Fleet, after taking down that Anjanath I’d have handed you the keys myself.”

You sigh in relief. You hate nepotism, and you definitely didn’t want to be seen as the guy taking advantage of the fact that he Knows People. At least Astera seems to have some sort of merit-based system going around.

“What I am admittedly curious about is why the Commission seems to have it out for you– be honest, was it that you skipped on some of the paperwork?”

You laugh at this, moreso because you were tempted but the Commission already had it out for you and you didn’t want to give them an excuse to not let you bring some of your gear along. The Huntsman also laughs, but you get the feeling he chose to be amused by stupidity a while ago because the alternative would have been a long walk off a short cliff.

“Fugen and Hojo are why, Commander. Kamura’s continued survival and existence in the wilds is bad enough, but for it to become the head of a massively successful guild capable of protecting the region on its own is an embarrassment, especially because that means the Commission itself has zero oversight. And zero access to Kamura-forged weapons.”

The confusion and disdain that have written their way across your face as the Huntsman talks must have been more evident than you thought, because the Commander looks at you, sighs, and tells the Huntsman to fill you in later, once you’ve settled into your cabin. You personally are very on board with this plan, if only because you’re reasonably sure you can fake the need for sleep and continue the politics talk sometime never. So, with a friendly goodbye and a promise to drop by for missions soon, you bid the Commander farewell, entirely missing the look of mild curiosity mixed with dread he shoots at your retreating back.

Clearly, you think to yourself, the Huntsman is a crafty opponent on top of being merely lethal, because he calls you out on your well-intentioned bullshit as soon as you and Caspian (you’d found the little furball perched on top of your armoire in the dining pavilion, beating off researchers with a stick while quaffing a flagon of ale) finish dragging your belongings into the cabin.

It is, to your quiet awe, easily just as nice as your home back in Kamura, perhaps even moreso. As you enter, you mentally map out the room (Utsushi Training Rule #126: Always know where everything is in case a fight breaks out), and it’s very easy to like what you see. The leftmost wall is completely open to a sort-of nature courtyard from which tree branches gracefully rise inwards to fill the space, lit with a scoutfly hive that lights up the windowsill, itself littered with all sorts of potted plants. A small sitting table on a rug with stools completes the ensemble.

On the back wall, there rests a (woefully inadequate, judging from the piles of books across the room) bookshelf, along with a variety of hooks and stands to hang your sets of armor. Looking across and to the right, your armoire rests under a shelf decorated with incense and fossils, next to a low-slung queen-size bed. Behind and above, an impressive piscine skeleton hangs from the ceiling, complimenting a mounted ship’s wheel and another small shelf. In the far corner, there are presumably a pair of work desks, but they’re buried under maps and books so you can’t be entirely sure.

The right wall has a tasteful writing table in front of a tastefully sunken (literally sunken, the view outside is of the lake that feeds into Astera’s landscape–dominating waterfall) -window, and in the corner next to it Caspian has set up shop. By shop you mean blanket fort. It is adorable. As you turn fully around to look at the far wall, you’re pleased to note it’s filled with enough blank space to display a good portion of your gear. Above the door hangs a canoe, which really shouldn’t tie the place together but serves to anyways. The whole room is a tasteful cherry wood built in a nautical style, and you can’t wait to pass out in the comforts of your new home and sleep for maybe a year.

You’d feel bad about describing the room in such detail, but it’s new in all the best ways and hopefully there aren’t any mind readers around to call you out on it. So you have the heart of an interior decorator, you have plenty of monster skulls to make cool furniture out of. You’d like to see someone call try and you out on it.

The Huntsman seems intent on actually finishing your earlier conversation. Bastard.

On the bright side, he does offer to help you and Caspian set yourselves up, and, well. Okay, maybe you’re looking forward to seeing his reaction at some of the gear you’ve brought along with you. What stories will he ask you to tell? What stories will he share in return? You see him pause as he lifts the Golden Lunehelm from your armoire (and of course he’d stumble upon that one), and smile in the knowledge that curiosity is bound to win out eventually.

“Now this is armor that’s bound to tell a story, no? How’d you come by such a wonder?”

You fight off the urge to cackle as you pass him the Luna Eostre, moving to help Caspian unpack and display the rest of the Golden Lune armor. “At the edges of the Elgado Kingdom, there’s a secret hunting ground called the Forlorn Arena. Used to be an arena, wouldn’t you know it? Anyways, turns out it’s a mating spot for a lot of monster subspecies, and I got called in to handle them after-”

Qurio Fiorayne in danger Malzeno threatening the Outpost where is all the endemic life we have named the demon Gaismagorm you must help us slay the beast noble hunter

“-After. Hunted my first Gold Rathian there. The armor and weapon was forged by Minayle of Elgado, hell of a smith she is.”

If the Huntsman notices your slip, he’s polite enough not to comment on it, instead choosing to focus on your story. “First, you say? Most don’t even see the one. Or live after seeing the one.”

“Well, they’d been suitably riled up, so a friend in the Royal Order and I took on a mated pair not long after. That’s where most of my Silver weapons came from, funny enough.”

“And not the Gold?”

“Nah, I only started using Rathian weapons recently, I usually stick to Rathalos for the heavier balance. I brought the Luneset and the Eostre with me to practice while the forges back in Kamura hammer out the second armor and full set of weapons for me.”

The Huntsman turns. “You don’t seem the type for duplicate sets of armor.” It’s not a question.

“Nah,” you grin, “The second set will be for Chichae. To this day I have no idea why they wouldn’t let anyone train her, but she’ll take the throne in Elgado Proper next year and then I can offer again without Admiral Stick-In-The-Mud bringing peerage into it again.”

The Huntsman sort of twitches upright like he’d been stabbed, but notably doesn’t drop the Luna Eostre as he continues to examine the phial mechanism. Good man. “You really don’t even bother with politics, do you? What did Fugen even teach you in Kamura?”

You grin. “He taught me how to not die. Besides, how would politics even be an obstacle at this point? She’ll be the Queen, her word will be law, et. cetera. On top of that, even if the upper-crust hate me for not conveniently dying, I didn’t and I’m the reason the big scary things did, so they have to pretend to like me.”

“You might have a head for politics after all-” You shudder in horror “-but even with all that, a Hunter-Queen would be seen as almost barbaric by some of the other kingdoms, and just the idea would strain Elgado’s ties to the Commision, financial backing notwithstanding of course.”

The Huntsman says this last part with enough honey in his words to drown an elephant. You sigh in agreement. How people manage to complicate something as simple as not letting yourself be killed and eaten by horrible monsters is something you can’t quite wrap your head around.

“Look,” you start, “I’m not saying anyone should put her on a hunting expedition or anything, but Chichae wants to lead from the front regardless and thinks Charge Blades are cool, as she should. I just want to teach her so that if Elgado’s next colony wakes up a Garangolm or something, she can defend both herself and her people. Besides, tell me anyone could look barbaric in that armor.

You see the Huntsman look back toward your set of Golden Lune armor, resplendent in the afternoon light and being placed in a suitably dramatic pose by Caspian. The whole image was adorable, as was rapidly becoming the norm when your Palico was involved. It had to be the ears, their tufts were magical. The Huntsman sighs, visibly conceding the point.

“And,” the man sighs, “did you for one single moment consider the more… improper views some might take of such a gift?”
Your complete and utter befuddlement could be reliably observed in Kamura. The Huntsman bashes his head on one of your walls.

“You slew a monster with armor made of gold, personally, knowing full well it can throw down with the likes of Elder Dragons, for the explicit purpose of gifting the world-class weapons and armor such a beast yields to the Crown Princess you hung around for months on end upon her ascension to the throne. Do you know what most would call that?”

You don’t have anything even resembling an answer, so you think what would Utsushi do and blurt out “Totally gnarly!”

Why did you do that.

“Most,” the Huntsman begins, sounding like he wants to kill himself and take you with him, “would call that a gift of betrothal in all but name, matched only by the most storied of legends.”

A heat rises in your cheeks as you collapse backwards into a chair, one you’ve only ever felt before when Ayame pulled you out of the Narwa’s-dead-for-realsies feast the village threw at the end of the rampage and-

Ahem.

“Oh,” you say like an idiot, three full octaves higher than usual. “I hadn’t considered that.”

The Huntsman laughs. And laughs. He keeps on laughing as you unpack a bevy of armor, only pausing to admire the Imperial Flickerflame before collapsing once more into spasms of hilarity. It takes you chucking a Moofy doll at the slit of his helmet to shut him up, and even then he’s still chuckling softly to himself.

“So… you’re not intending to court her, then? I think you might have a shot.”

Your face is redder than fiery dango. “No! No. Chichae is my friend. Galleus went on a whole spiel when I got to Elgado about propriety and deference and peerage but right afterwards, she sought me out and helped me understand the Kingdom’s… weirdness, helped me make sense of all the chaos. They wouldn’t let me repay the favor through training even when she asked so I figured if I offered in an impressive-enough manner once she’s Queen no one can say shit against it.”

The Huntsman ponders this as he helps you square away the last of your armor. “So, she has a crush on you, broke all laws of propriety to brighten your day and make life easier, and you just hadn’t noticed?”

You sigh, shake his hand, and slam the door in his face. Brave new world, same old bullshit. Somewhere, Fugen is laughing at you, in that hideous dad-laugh of his. You can feel it.

Chapter Text

After three and a half of the most singularly exasperating weeks of your life, it’s finally time to try and capture a volcano.

…you should probably explain that one.

Zorah Magdaros, as it turns out, is a large enough pain in the ass to be a problem wherever it wanders in the New World. Unlike your run-of-the-mill (and oh, how you hate that you can say that and mean it) Elder Dragons, however, the bastard is large enough that the Commander has decided there’s enough of a chance at restraining the monster to take a crack at it. You, personally, think that this is more or less a fool’s errand with negative odds of success, but the mental image of this latest Bane Of Your Existence impaled on a Dragonator is so overwhelmingly satisfying that you’ve been putting in overtime helping to get everything ready.

Something doesn’t feel right, though. Zorah on its own is about as directly threatening as a large pile of mud with the walking speed to match, but the back of your palms itch nonetheless, warning of some as-of-yet unknown danger to come. Your instincts have saved your life too many times to count, and right now they’re screaming at you to gear up for a fight instead of whack-a-mole like you had originally planned. You cast a mournful look at the hammer you had picked out, and instead the Ominous Spring goes on your back as you and Caspian make your way to the first set of massive fortifications.

As Caspian runs down to the firing line of cannons (he’d taken to them like a duck to water during training and you’d struggled not to laugh at the look of horror on the Field Team Leader’s face), you cast your mind back to the various vermin you’d gently escorted to the next plane of existence in order to safeguard the construction of Zorah’s hopefully-prison. Nothing you couldn’t handle with one hand tied behind your back (not that you ever would), but to your increasing worry and frustration there’s nothing to back up the now-incessant itching of your palms.

Well, there were those ominous thorns… and the looks you saw the Commander and the Huntsman shoot each other…

Fucking-son-of-a-aaaaaaaghhhhhhh. Today is going to be interesting.

Right before you can debate the merits of trying to swim until you find an undiscovered, bullshit-free island on which to live your days in peace, you’re pulled from your musings by the ground beginning to rumble, slowly at first and then in a steady rhythm. Thrum-step. Thrum-step. Thrum-step. The main event has finally arrived.

All around you, hunters gasp in awe as Zorah Magdaros comes into view, wreathed in a haze of heat and flame. The beast begins to slow as it nears the first wall, but this does nothing to reduce the air of dark regality surrounding the beast. Despite yourself, you have to admit that if nothing else, Zorah is visually stunning, managing to convey its power and experience through nothing but its demeanor. As its volcanic carapace draws into cannon range, you can almost understand some of the old myths about a tortoise balancing the whole world upon its shell.

Zorah’s shell, however, will look much, much better with some cannonball-shaped indents, in your extremely humble opinion.

The Commander gives the order; your gleeful Palico (and probably some other people) open fire, sending great clouds of powdersmoke into the air and a score of cannonballs into the monster’s side. The rocky monstrosity groans as small cracks litter its outer shell, a low, haunting bass note that reverberates across the canyon like a mournful dirge. Before the monster can fully right itself, a second volley is launched, staggering the beast to stillness. It’s go-time. Whistling for a wingdrake, you launch yourself into the air (without wirebugs, like a crazy person), but fortunately these drakes seem to be better-mannered than the ones you employed during your introduction to the New World, and within a minute, you’ve landed upon Zorah’s back.

Standing atop the beast, you can’t help but feel remarkably small. Just one segment of its back could hold a small town with room to spare. Flying above you, riding a wingdrake via survey-harness, the Handler directs your attention to a chasm in the armor leading down to a… magmacore?

Well, they weren’t paying you to name it, so magmacore it is. Jumping down into the small recess, you unhook the ominous spring from your back and breathe, shifting your stance until your very being is aligned with the slow, plodding movement of Zorah Magdaros, completely in tune with the jarring up-down rhythm. In the span of one, timeless second, you shoot the clutch claw onto a wall, pull yourself forwards in a bastardization of a Sakura Slash, and drawstrikesheath across the chamber. Behind you, the magmacore explodes in a dramatic shower of volcanic lifeblood. One down.

Clambering out of the cavern, you’re directed to move up the back of the beast at best speed, which for you is decently fast considering the fact that you’re moving across a fire hazard that might want you dead by now. If it doesn’t, you’ll just have to hurt it more. The second magmacore is as easy as the first, but before you can proceed, Zorah very rudely interrupts by rearing onto its hind legs and smashing through the first barricade. You think that you can hear the engineering crew crying somewhere. The fiery enmity you feel for the beast flares back to life, and before anyone can protest you’ve begun to rappel up to the top of the shell. You think the Handler said the third magmacore was up there (and even if its not you’re annoyed enough to try climbing around to an eye and stabbing there to see what that’ll do) when the panicked shouts of both the Handler and the Commander alert you to the fact that something is clearly not going to plan. Just once, you’d like something to go to plan.

Turning to face the ruined fortifications that were just made into kindling, you see a dragonish-shape hurtling over the horizon like a drunken bull, making a beeline for the center of Zorah’s shell. Before anyone can call out any further warnings, the monster (and this is a monster, there is malice and intent in its bearing) smashes itself headfirst into the rock, thorns breaking off of every surface. You’re just in the middle of questioning why this possibly-a-problem has decided to self-delete when you notice two slight issues.

One: The thorns that Divebomb McSpikey broke off happened to all land in Zorah’s shell point-in. Zorah is now roaring in pain. You’re not particularly upset about that last part, but the fact is no one had really planned for the gargantuan titan to die yet and there is a non-zero chance that if Zorah really, actually falls it could crush half the assault team by accident.

Two: Spikester has already begun to regrow its thorns, and if the way its body is tensing for a pounce is any indication, it has broken considerably less bones than you would have preferred.

The third, additional problem that has just now presented itself to you is that, regrettably, there are in fact other wreak-general-havoc teams on Zorah’s shell, and the Crashlanding Wonder is beelining straight for them.

Fuck.

Fortunately, if there’s one thing you’re good at, it's hauling ass when you need to. A flying leap carries you most of the way towards your newest quarry, and you’re just barely able to sprint into its path before it hits a team of hapless bowgunners. Spinning to build up as much momentum as possible, you slam the Ominous Spring upwards to meet its rearing claws.

Double fuck this bastard hits like a goddamn freight train–

Bracing yourself, you tilt your head as much as you risk and glare at the other hunters as best you can. “Get out of here! Get to range or call for backup I do not care which but I can’t protect you at close range go go go fuck this is heavy-”

The hunters, clearly shaking with fear, do not hesitate to obey your commands. Somewhere above you and hopefully staying out of sight, the Handler shouts for backup. A flick of your wrist paired with a backwards hop lets you disengage from the monster’s downward strike, and you skate out of the way just in time to avoid the follow-up. Good, it's focused on you. Time to take inventory of what you know.

The monster is quadrupedal with separate wings, making it a true Dragon and not a Wyvern.
You’ve been body-checked with less force than it put into what could only be called a casual downwards swipe.
It knows what it’s doing, it’s here for a reason, and it’s clever enough to exploit its regenerative abilities.

Your mind, ever so helpfully, screams “Elder Dragon! Elder Dragon! We get to fight another one! Two for one special today only in this canyon in the back end of nowhere!”.

You elect to ignore your internal musings for the time being. Clearly, it’s time to shut up and fight. Whatever this thing’s name is, it clearly agrees, because between one heartbeat and the next it’s lunging at you, head turned at (that just can’t be a comfortable angle, your neck is cringing in sympathy) just the right angle for it to take a crack at goring you on its massive horns. A backwards twirl barely carries you out of its path, but you’re able to score its right flank as it passes you, its own momentum carrying it on the edge of your blade. The noises it makes in response are decidedly uncomplimentary.

Good. You haven’t lost your skills just yet.

Vaulting over a tail swipe, your blade guards against what could honestly pass for a punch-rush, the beast's forelegs and wings snapping out in an effort to crush you. Wide, arcing sweeps of the Ominous Spring guide its limbs to the ground around you, and Zorah keens as its shell craters. You try to convince the beast of its mistake in being alive via helpful stabbings to the jugular, but annoyingly enough your opponent has functional survival instincts, and catches your strikes on its spikes. An angered swipe cleaves a layer of spikes (thorns?? Sporns?) from its flesh, but before your eyes a new layer is already pushing through the flesh to take its place. Like teeth from a shark.

The beast grins, and a shudder runs down your spine.

Two powerful flaps of its wings carry it backwards into the air, setting its center directly on you. A twist of its body coupled with a wingsnap sends it hurtling towards you, in a rapid-dive with several tons of mass and force behind it. Your mind snaps into overdrive. The monster’s current trajectory will meet the ground just in front of you. Its momentum will carry it forwards several meters past that, regrettably through where you currently stand. Its thorns will launch in front of it, turning everything before it into swiss cheese before it smashes down upon the leftovers like a hammer on an anvil. Your mental math totals out at fuck the hell out of this as you sprint directly through where the beast is about to land and dive like nobody is watching.

On that note, you really hope nobody was watching that, because it was a terrible dive. It has, however, solidly carried you out of the range of being squashed, and even though it is taking you entirely too many moments to pull yourself into a guard position, the Dragon is still flailing about in hopefully-pain and confusion. Readying yourself for another bout, you can’t help but frown as a sizzling noise echoes across the field of battle. Whatever this was didn’t seem like it could naturally be on fire…

As the beast once more drew itself to its full height, the Huntsman jumped over and across its form from a ridge behind, his blade literally trailing poison and flashing a deadly purple as it flickered across wing-membranes. Skidding to a halt besides you, his breath panting, the Huntsman takes a lancer’s stance. You’re on point, apparently.

You can work with this.

Charging with fire in your veins and a growl building in your throat, you toss aside all pretense of defense as the Ominous Spring stabs forwards just above the eye. The Dragon makes to claw you apart, but the Huntsman’s own blade catches in its claws, forcing them once more to Zorah’s shell. The pattern of strike-defend-pivot continues as you attempt to continue circling, the spiked wonder turning to match, attempting to defend with its forelegs but curiously hesitant to try for another flying leap. That must be some damn effective poison…

The Huntsman tenses, a yelled “Brace!” your only warning as Zorah rears once more. The Dragon, clearly the cheapest of bastards, simply allows itself to slide back, its wings snapping outwards as it falls off, furiously chasing an updraft to enable its escape. You look around in confusion only to realize that Zorah hadn’t really stopped to appreciate your impromptu duel, and the curses you scream as it plows through the second barricade are probably better off muffled by the falling debris. Thankfully, you’re able to snag a wingdrake, and then the Huntsman, before either of you become a particularly well-armored stain on the canyon floor. Instead, you careen onto a small rocky ledge a few meters away from what was once a massive construction and now seems intent on being the world’s largest campfire-to-be.

You turn to look at the Huntsman and, in your opinion, politely ask him what that Dragon was.

Any claims that you waited to do this until you had screamed yourself hoarse are clearly secret monster propaganda.