A short stress piece, just a little look into what might be behind the curtain of Canon Timeline for the M9
It's a quiet morning, the air somewhat heavy with moisture. It's not enough to be cloying, there's just the right amount of breeze to balance it out. Her mask is cool to the touch, painfully noticeable where it meets her skin. Most often, she can forget it's there, but now, she's hyper aware of where the porcelain edges rest.
Her most recent haul could have been better, but she'd drank a little too much and her hands were a little too shaky. She's been out of sorts for the past few days. There are always nightmares, but she'll forget them more often than not.
These past few days have been bad. She we'll wake up drenched in sweat, head hurting, flashes of images she remembers, and ones that she doesn't. Those mornings she swears, she'll drink herself so deep under that she won't dream.
But it's not enough, not recently anyway.
She sits on the roof of an inn, rewrapping the bandages on her hand, taking the occasional sip from her flask. She'll need to head out soon, sooner than she'd like, but such is the nature of the nomadic lifestyle she'd taken up. Word around the tavern was that a bandit scouting party was spotted a few miles out of town, maybe a dozen or so of the green bastards.
Nott breathes in deep and secures the final bandage in place.
She was starting to quite like this town. People are so wrapped up in their own business that their glances never linger long. There are plenty of shadows to hide in, plenty of things to collect. But she needs to get a move on, make it to the next town, and the next one.
Distance is best, she knows this.
Beauregard wraps her hands, movements steady despite the many drinks she's had tonight. The linen strips fall over her skin in a pattern she's come to know over the years, the tug of each strip, the security that comes with the snug wrapping, all familiar by this point. She finishes after only a few minutes and unravels the bandages to start again.
It's not perfect. She tells herself that she'll leave when they're perfect.
Then they're perfect, so she starts in on her feet.
Her bag has been packed for a while now, sitting beneath her bed and close to gathering dust. She's not a coward, she can do this, she's been planning this for a while now. There comes a time when enough is enough. She has her own way to go, her own path to forge.
There's ill will enough to go around this place and she refuses to remain in place. She's refused before, but she'd be all bark and no bite if she didn't actually do something about it. So she has to do something about it.
She doubles checks the content of her bag before slipping it on. Her staff rests against the wall as it always does and she stows it at her back before making her way toward the window. It's a touch less dramatic than waltzing out the front door, but there are less chances of being intercepted. Subtly is what she needs right now, so she tucks away the part of her that wants to make a grand show, a drunken rebuttal, leaving in a non lethal blaze of glory.
With deft movements, Beauregard swings down from the ledge, landing in near silence. She stands from her crouch, touching her wrappings to center herself as she draws in a deep breath. There's no point in reminiscing, she'd have to dig deep to find something fond to remember this place by.
Exhaling, Beau sets her sights ahead of her and begins walking.
It's time to go.
Molly pricks his thumb again, profanity slipping out in Infernal as he sucks the blood from his newly acquired wound. He glares at the needle until it stops glowing and begins again. The coat was a gift from Gustav, colorful but not quite what Molly needs. Mollymauk needs vibrant. Mollymauk needs eye catching. Orna taught him to stitch, taught him a few patterns, and he's doing his best.
He came out of the ground drab and dull. He won't be that ever again.
He's saved every coin since, bought the brightest and gaudiest thread he could find, and now he's set to work. He wants each pattern to mean something, like his tattoos.
He stitches until the light begins to fade, and even then, he finishes the design by firelight. Orna smacks him upside the head with a rolled up towel and tells him to go to bed. He just flashes her a grin and ties off a knot to hold the stitch in place.
The designs serve a utilitarian purpose as well, and maybe he's defeating that purpose by being so gaudy about it, but it's much too late to turn back now. He touches each stitch with a clawed finger as he lays in his cot.
The world around him is dark and quiet, too much like the ground. He'd taken out one of the glass walls of a lantern, replacing it with a painstakingly put together stained glass panel. It holds some semblance of their circus brand, Molly tried his best. It reminds him of what he has, what he's made for himself.
He's in a good place now.
Land is too stiff for Fjord, he wobbles like a fresh deckhand and that just won't do. He breathes deep, tosses back the last bit of liquor he has in his canteen and shoulders his pack. He walks until he can't smell the ocean anymore, the scent of salt in the air and the cloying humidity start to dissipate.
It's not that he wants to leave the sea, it's his one true love after all, a place where no one gave a damn what he looked like, just that he could do his job and do it well. He had a family on that ship, a life on the waves. But he's at a loss now, and he has to find answers, he's not the type to let such things alone.
He smacks his cheeks and keeps walking, deep breaths to counteract his unsteady gait.
The weight of the falchion at his side is enough to keep him awake as night falls over the world.
There are gaps, some are slow to fill in. But he knows he's gained something, something more than just a weapon. There's a hunger growing inside him, a storm building in his head, a desire with a stranglehold on his spine, pulling him forward ever so slowly.
He's been trying to refrain from sleeping these past few days. He faintly remembers a dream. Not because it was memorable, but because it happened in the span of a heartbeat before it scared Fjord back to wakefulness the moment it began.
Things have changed.
There's a magic academy somewhere further into the Empire, Solstice- Solstryce- Soul Strike- something. All he knows about it is that it's the best place to learn, highly acclaimed and accredited and he needs to know what's going on.
That's all.
Jester squeezes her eyes tight so the tears don't fall.
It's raining, she doesn't feel the cold but she certainly feels the wet. She's soaked to the bone, clothes clinging tight to her frame while the raindrops hit her horn ornaments and send echoing sounds ringing through her ears. Her bag is treated to keep out the elements and she hugs it to her chest. She's taken cover as best she can beneath the trees.
She's between towns, horses gone and more than a little scared. She's never shied from adventure, and she's been alone before, but this is different. She can't go back, she's well and truly on her own and she misses her mother so badly that there's been an ache in her chest since she left.
There's a part of her that resents her mother, for keeping her hidden, for sending her away. But it's a small one, a part that she spends soothing every day. She has to reason with it, reason to herself, prove that her mother loves her, that she's always done what's best for Jester given the circumstance.
That doesn't mean Jester has to enjoy it, or agree with it, or be okay with it. She doesn't like being alone, hates it with a burning passion, loathes it, abhors it-
She roots through her soaked clothes and pulls the Traveler's emblem from her belt, clasping it between her hands.
She's heard of temples and other gods and their clerics. She knows that the Traveler is different, that she is too. Maybe some people don't speak so freely with their god, and Jester finds that pointless. What is the purpose in devoting yourself to someone unless you can tell them about anything and everything?
She passes the night praying, waiting for warmth to bloom in her body before falling asleep.
The forest isn't so bad, it's quiet, no one to disturb him, no one to fight. Just him and his cat and the weather. Caleb adjusts Frumpkin, muttering under his breath as the cat protests. Moments of peace, of clarity, are rare, coveted almost. For the past few days he's been moving along, dirt streaked on his face and through his hair, spell books pristine, no conflicts to be found.
There's been paranoia clouding his head ever since he set out, ever since the-
Very rarely does he feel 'okay' anymore. And maybe that's too strong a word even, too positive.
Frumpkin lets out a yowl for attention and Caleb obliges, allowing his thoughts to drift. His only function right now is to keep Frumpkin happy, it's a goal he can attain without much trouble, something he can accomplish.
It's the only way to survive, the only way to keep his mind intact. He can't let it break again, won't let it break. Tasks have to be small, he has to be able to accomplish them. Pet Frumpkin. Read his books. Stay out of sight.
He can do things. He's still capable of doing things, even if they might seem small and inconsequential to a normal person. Caleb's not normal though, he's not entirely sure if he can be classified amongst most of the populace anymore.
He knows how long he's been away, what that sort of isolation has done to him. He understands all of that on a level, and he understands that he can't expect himself to function like he once did. Then again, he doesn't want to do anything like he once did, so maybe this is for the best.
It's relearning, tearing through the small bouts of fog, the old habits, the old words and phrases and actions and consequences and-
He takes a breath.
Caleb falls asleep to the sound of Frumpkin purring, and everything is all right for this single moment.
She keeps away from the roads, content and more or less familiar with the heavy cover provided by the trees. She does keep the road in sight though, wouldn't do for someone to get the drop on her. Those of Xhoras aren't welcome and she knows that. What she doesn't know is how obvious she may or may not be.
She'd rather not know what the consequences of being found out are.
She has to keep moving, she knows that. But she's fighting herself with each step. Turning back, she could break into a dead sprint and go back. She could go somewhere else. Could, but won't. She promised, she owes him this much to move, to serve his wishes.
She doesn't mind, not really, she governs herself by basic principles and listening to him is the very base minimum she can do. But it's difficult to convince herself that she'll be okay. The world outside Xhoras, outside her own personal piece of it, is different, she knows that. If her appearance doesn't give her away, then her mannerisms will, her behavior.
It's going to be a challenge. She'll just have to find a place where people stick out as a general rule, where people are different and no one bats an eye. Does such a place exist?
Yasha rests one hand on the hilt of her sword. She'd taken it from her back some time ago and lashed it to her hip. While it was a comforting weight, it began to feel as though something was watching her, and she didn't appreciate that.
There is no destination in mind, though a rather colorful caravan passed down the main road a short while ago. She's never seen anything like it, might be worth taking a look.
She alters course just a touch, singing quietly to herself as she moves. It's a language she knows but doesn't, no one else she's met speaks it so she's not sure what it is. Maybe, if she makes it out far enough, she'll run into someone and they can tell her about it.
I played calvinball with some of these since we don't have all the backstory info yet