Chapter Text
The rejection of magic is rare in a world permeated by it, where the gods themselves imbued their creations with their own elements. A nearly unthinkable prospect, in fact. Garth isn’t one to dwell on it. He keeps clear of mages, and most clans by extension, including the entirety of the Starfall Isles, where he was born. The permanent reminder of what magic can do is branded into his flesh, and though it hasn’t pained him in a long time, it still makes itself known as a feeling of tightness. Restriction.
He puts all his focus into a physical existence. The repetitive beat of his feet, taking him to the next place. The weight and sound of his armor as he moves. The familiar, satisfying swing of hatchet or sword - the target is less important than the precise execution. The greasy softness of Baby’s fur beneath his fingers, her warmth on his chest at night. He doesn’t need any other comfort, or conversation, or company.
In the Tangled Woods, but especially around the Ghostlight Ruins, the air always feels stagnant, leaving an invisible layer of grime on his skin, under the joints of his armor, making his eyes itch and his breathing more labored than it rightly should be. As if that malaise from long ago still lingers, somehow, ready to infect him, make him one of the shambling horrors that crawl up from the earth. Still, cutting them down is fulfilling work, if not terribly challenging for a swordsman of his caliber. And he will grudgingly admit that it’s nice to have a reasonably trustworthy sentry patrolling within sight of his tent when he catches a few hours of sleep.
Right now he is dreaming of spirits, some angry, others sorrowful. If they once belonged to the undead he slays in his waking hours, he will never know or remember. He wakes to a voice he hasn’t heard in months.
“You know, there’s a perfectly good wall your tent could be behind, right over there.”
Nyreen. If only sentries could warn Garth about her . She’s squawking at him in the form of a raven today, barely visible in the pre-dawn light filtering through the canvas. Baby chitters at her from the safety of his helmet.
“What do you want, trickster?” Garth sits up, since there’s no way he’s going back to sleep now. He may be used to waking early but he doesn’t have to be nice about it, let alone to unwelcome visitors. It’s just like her to show up when he’s starting to get comfortable in a new place. He’s given up questioning how she finds him; losing her has proven to be impossible, no matter how much time has passed.
“I mean, I’ve always suspected you were lackin’ in common sense, but this is just silly! You know there’s a ton a zombies wandering around here, right?” She preens one wing and Garth briefly fantasizes about tearing them off and feeding her to a wraithound. The thought is interrupted by the sentry’s cry and the banging gong that signals an imminent attack.
“Speak of the devil.” If a bird could smile, Garth is sure Nyreen would have one to match the glint in her Arcane-glowing eyes. He’s positive she had something to do with this, but doesn’t bother worrying about it as he quickly straps on his armor. Baby scrambles into the satchel pocket on his hip when he grabs his helmet. By the time he’s ready, Nyreen has already disappeared, no doubt to find a choice spot to watch the carnage from. He brandishes his sword and throws back the tent flap, quickly scanning the area to determine the threat.
The sun is rising, yet half the sky is black from the treeline to the Soulpurge Covenant’s camp on the shore. Undead corven and vultures, swarming in larger numbers than he’s ever seen. The archers need only shoot upwards to hit a target, and some are already burning on the ground, pierced by flaming arrows. Garth approaches along the shoreline, beheading the crawling and snapping ones for good measure. Suddenly a searing light bursts up from behind the walls, dropping a few enemies straight out of the sky and blasting the nearest back. A dome of light flickers into existence, shielding the interior of the camp. The paladins and mages have joined the fight, then.
It makes him hesitate, and seeing a lone target with no cover in sight, part of the flock breaks off and descends on him.
Garth pushes down the sick feeling he gets about magic. It’s all in his head anyway, and right now he needs to be focused on fighting. Despite the numbers, he isn’t too concerned; talons and feathers are no match for iron and steel. He lunges at the flock, cutting a swathe with his broadsword, and two of the beasts are cleaved nearly in half by the first swing.
His mind settles down, going quiet as his muscles take over. Garth whirls his sword as he steadily makes his way towards the walls, a deadly dance along the shore. He slices into a corven’s shoulder, dragging it through the air in a downward arc, then flinging it behind him in time to fend off more of the fiends. Slash, thrust, slash - striking mortal blows with the cold precision of a machine, he leaves a trail of congealed blood and dark corpses crumpled at his feet.
An arrow flies within spitting distance, taking down one of his attackers in blazing orange flame. Garth spares a glance upwards, in time to see the Mirror archer in the midst of knocking another arrow when they are slammed into by a corven, whose brethren quickly descend upon the fallen defender. Their terrified scream drives him on and he quickly sheathes his sword before sprinting the last few lengths to a rock jutting up near the base of the wall. His leg muscles bunch as he reaches the tip of the rock, sending him sailing over the palisade in an impressive leap, even for a Wildclaw. He lands on a vulture, crushing its skull, and immediately draws his sword again. The Mirror is barely visible under a mass of feathers, curled up with their arms over their head, crest already shredded by wicked grey beaks and talons.
Their frenzy is interrupted by Garth’s arrival, the slower ones cut down by his broadsword and the quicker ones taking off in a flurry of wing beats. They may be regrouping, but Garth is more concerned with the archer. The Mirror’s wounds looks a mess of torn flesh and blood, but he reaches for the scruff of their leather jerkin, heaving them down the wooden stairs and towards the safety of the light dome. Before he reaches it, a blow from behind sends him staggering, though his armor absorbs most of it. The flock is diving again, but the Mirror is still vulnerable, so he drops his sword and picks the archer up bodily, hustling them to the ward.
He can feel the power emanating from it like static electricity, and he quickly shoves the archer through, hoping a medic will take care of them, before turning back to get his sword. What he finds is the paladin Irik, dual-wielding it along with his own huge sword, as if it weighs nothing. White-hot magic illuminates both blades with an unearthly glow, turning anything they touch to ash. A cold, leaden feeling washes over him, seeing perhaps his most precious belonging infused with deadly magic, and he watches numbly as the last waves of undead are slain or beaten back by the paladin and his fellow Covenant warriors.
When the flock has retreated back over the woods, towards the Ruins, Irik approaches him, proffering the broadsword, which has returned to being simply cold steel. “You fought bravely. Thank you for helping to defend the camp, and aiding one of our soldiers at the risk of your own life.”
Garth stares at the sword before finally taking it,forcing himself to look up, and up, into the Imperial’s icy eyes. “Just doing my job. Excuse me,” he replies with a grunt, shouldering passed, intent on getting to the river to wash off the gore. Irik stops him with a gauntleted hand on his arm. It feels almost like a brand, and he struggles not to flinch, going still but refusing to turn around.
“I thought you might want to know that our Lady Moira believes she is getting closer to discovering the source of the undead. When she walks the Astral Plain, she is met by a heavy shroud over the ruins, difficult to breach even for a cleric of her power. Still, she can hear the voices of the spirits, and though many are feral, wailing, there is one that seems to be reaching out to her, perhaps even asking for help.”
“I’m just a swordsman. In my experience, spirits aren’t much deterred by a blade, so I don’t think I need to know anything about them. Your Covenant can handle the soul stuff, I’m only here to take care of the bodies.”
Irik is silent for a moment, then the hand falls away. “Very well. Barring any more sudden attacks, take the rest of the day for yourself. I’d say you earned it.”
Garth nods stiffly and makes a beeline for the gate, exerting a monumental effort to wait patiently as the guard opens it for him. Finally free of the camp, he takes a breath and slows his pace down to the shore, adjacent to his tent. Some of the corpses along the way are still twitching, but none seem able to get up and do anything, so he can’t muster the will to finish them off.
The sun is barely risen, light filtering paley through the mist. Stripping quickly out of his armor and leathers, Garth wades into the slow-moving water with a sigh of relief. Baby watches from the pebbled shore as he dunks his head under, scratching his nails through his hair and letting the current carry the grime and blood away. When he surfaces, slicking the water away from his eyes, he is startled by something bumping into his side. A massive, dark-skinned toridae is staring at him, jaws just beginning to open to display rows of conical teeth. Yelping in surprise, he flounders backwards, feet scrabbling on the loose river rocks and sticking in the mud, until he gets enough purchase to launch himself out of the water. The beast is climbing up after him as he lunges for his sword, but suddenly his ears fill with familiar cackling, and when he turns back around Nyreen is rolling with laughter in her usual Nocturne form.
Garth is momentarily stunned, his grip white-knuckled on the hilt of his broadsword. Then the anger takes over, rushing into his limbs and lashing out at the shapeshifter. He has a hand around her throat and the blade held alongside it in the blink of an eye. Still she laughs, strangled though she is.
“Your sense of humor has yet to evolve, I see. All fight and no fun makes Garth a dull boy - and here I came to congratulate you on surviving! Not that I really doubted you would, but anything could happen,” she wheezes, and Garth can’t believe she’s still cracking wise.
“Pardon me for failing to find maiming and death particularly amusing. But I think I could begin to see the humor in your case,” he grits out, letting the edge of his sword press just a little harder against her face.
Her smug smile stays firmly affixed, “You could certainly try. But then, I might not tell you the juicy little tidbit about the Ruins I came to let you in on.”
It only gives him a moment’s pause before he’s shaking his head, “You’re a liar. All you do is lie, why should I believe you know a thing?”
“You wound me. That’s not true at all! Certainly I’m darn good at lying, but it’s not all I do, not even a little! Maybe I shouldn’t tell you, just for that.”
Garth takes a deep breath. This is Nyreen, and nothing he does short of actually murdering her is going to change anything. He can’t let her get to him. He gives her a good shake, nonetheless, and drops her before going to fetch the oils and cloths to clean his gear. “Do what you want.” She is still waiting by the pile of armor when he returns from his tent, and he settles on a rock to start, prepared to ignore her.
“Crows are quite talkative things, even undead ones,” she starts again, taking his silence as an invitation - as usual. “It didn’t take much coaxing to get the story out.” She pauses expectantly, like Garth will be just dying to know at this point. He smooths the oil over the dented iron of one pauldron, rubbing the dried blood out. Nyreen lets out a little huff before continuing, “Plague necromancers! I mean, okay, not the most surprising, but they’ve done a pretty good job hiding their presence, wouldn’t you say? The why of it is a bit less clear, seeing as the corven I chatted up didn’t actually know, but I’m sure with a little digging we could suss that out. What do you say?”
Garth is careful not to let anything show on his face as he polishes, considering her words despite his initial instinct to dismiss them. The idea of necromancers wasn’t unreasonable. It made perfect sense, actually. And it probably wouldn’t hurt to… well, see if he could verify it. Not for Nyreen, but for himself. Then again, perhaps he should inform the Soulpurge Covenant - but he is reluctant to do so only on the trickster’s word.
Cleaning his armor is soothing , mindless work and affords him the time to mull over his options while simultaneously letting Nyreen stew. Garth has no idea why the Nocturne would be interested in the motivations of necromancers, so why would she want him to accompany her there? It could be a trap, but… well, yes, it probably is a trap, though not in any elaborate way. Just in the sense that everything Nyreen tries to get him to do is ultimately for her amusement, to see him flounder or embarrass him, or fight for his life. If he outright defies her, she would just find some way to throw a wrench in things, whereas if he acts like he were going along with what she wanted, he could have at least a small amount of control over the situation. Of course, he has to put up a good protest, or she’d suspect something.
“If necromancers are behind it, what good would it do for me to go with you into the heart of their stronghold? Assuming we could get by the hordes of deathrisen? Do you expect them to lay out their evil plan for you if you just ask?” Garth snorts, assuming an expression of disdain, which is his usual expression, other than rage, when dealing with Nyreen. `
“Noooo, I was thinking more along the lines of me luring one of them out and you bashing them over the head, actually! Well, not too hard, because we do want them to be able to answer questions.” The Nocturne’s face is positively gleeful. “As for the zombies, well, most of them are inside the walls, or fighting your friends on the North side. The trick is getting a necromancer to come out, which you won’t have to worry your pretty little head over because I’ll take care of that.”
“Go away, Nyreen.” Garth moves onto his boots, wrinkling his nose at the fragments of skull and decayed brain matter still lodged into one tread. He knocks it against a rock a few times, then wipes it off in the grass. A surprising amount of silence greets his demand. Once finished, he looks around to find the Nocturne is nowhere to be seen. Of course, that meant nothing, it was simply unusual for her to quit pestering him so quickly. She must have notice he’d never actually said “no.”
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Misty tendrils cling to the dull gray cloak Garth had pulled around himself to hide the sheen of his armor. He takes a different path than usual towards the ruins, a tunnel of brambles shown to him by Shadow Warden Douka, which let out to a meandering trail, eventually running along the southern outskirts of Ghostlight. He maintains no illusions that this will keep Nyreen from following him. Even if she doesn’t make herself known, she’s surely about in some form or another. Baby perches on his shoulder, since his pace is steady and unrushed.
The closer he gets to the ruins, the sharper his awareness becomes. Every sound makes him tense, and the mischievous wisps in the corner of his vision have his head swiveling fruitlessly. When the edifice at last comes into view through the foliage, he actually feels better. He has a mission, and he’s going to get something from this trip - one way or another.
Moving with quiet care, he scouts out the citadel, staying under the cover provided by pines and overgrown brambles. The vines are so large he can use the thorns as handholds for climbing, though he doesn’t break the canopy. He keeps a wary eye on the corven and vultures perching atop the battlements, coming and going in no discernible pattern. After about an hour of walking up and down the periphery, it’s clear it would be impossible to approach the walls without being spotted. How inconvenient, to be faced with sentries that have no need of sustenance or sleep.
Surely Nyreen will make herself known any minute now, so he hunkers down and waits, watching a rusty-looking portcullis that bars the only entrance on this side. When another hour passes without an appearance from the Nocturne, Garth starts feeling a bit foolish. Baby had had enough of sitting still within ten minutes; he can hear her digging about in the woods behind him, no doubt in search of duskrats, which she had become quite fond of since their arrival. Just as he was thinking about heading to the North side to slay some deathrisen at the Covenant barricade, a grinding noise signals the portcullis opening. A hooded figure emerges, followed by a gangly undead Nocturne. Garth’s breath catches, mind suddenly racing. He’s never seen a necromancer before, and now there’s one only a stone’s throw away. His hand is unconsciously on the hilt of his sword already, but he remembers what Nyreen said: they need the necromancer alive.
Quite suddenly the figure halts, and red-glowing eyes are looking straight at him from the darkness of the hood. Garth is well-camouflaged and still, yet he feels the eyes like static on his skin. His thoughts grind to a halt as his reflexive fear of magic paralyzes him. The stare lingers a moment, then the necromancer resumes walking, headed towards the treeline in a diagonal from his position.
Garth gets ahold of himself, taking a calming breath and clamping down on the fear. This is it. He doesn’t know where Nyreen is, but he can handle one pathetic-looking zombie and its master. Moving swiftly along the thick brambles, parallel to his quarry on the ground, he looks for a good spot to make his move. The necromancer seemed to be headed towards the path, which would provide him enough space to wield his sword. He positions himself on an overhanging branch, crouching in preparation for a leap; one blow with the flat of his blade should knock the necromancer out, and then he would dispose of the deathrisen.
Except the necromancer has stopped, and those red eyes turned upwards just as Garth hears the words in his head:
< I know you’re there, and that you mean me harm. Come out and face me, then. >
To his mind, the voice felt like the physical sensation of frostbitten flesh - so cold that it burned. It was an invasion, a threat to his very being, and the rage it conjures in him overwhelms the fear brought on by such a casual but powerful display of magic. As he draws his sword, a roar loosed from his throat sends birds into flight and other creatures scurrying. He drops onto the path in front of the necromancer and charges.
The first spell that hits him doesn’t hurt, but his broadsword suddenly feels heavier, his thoughts clouded. Garth grits his teeth and endeavors to close the gap to his enemy. A mere swordslength from his target, a nauseating blast of magic bursts into his chest, causing him to stagger. Instantly he feels pain swelling up his neck, behind his eyes, and his stomach roils. He retches his meager breakfast into the dirt, stomach acid burning his throat as he continues to heave. Even keeping himself upright, leaning his weight on his broadsword, is taking all his strength, the reserve of which seems to be quickly draining away. Never could he have imagined a magic so foul.
When he collapses into his own sick, the necromancer approaches, filling his vision with shadows and the haunting plague-red of those eyes. He wonders if that’s Nyreen’s laughter he hears, echoing far away. Is this really to be his end? What a shameful, pointless death. His last thought, before his awareness disappears, is for Baby.