AN: In gameplay, the Outrealm Gate is a spot on the map used to access the DLC maps and resources. In terms of narrative function, it's a strange place where the characters can visit different worlds for limited amounts of time. In Awakening, the Shepherds are even allowed to see and change an alternate, doomed future through Naga's intervention, while Anankos gives the trio of Owain, Inigo, and Severa access to the Fates world through his power in the Hidden Truths DLC stages. In the Champions of Yore DLC stages, the sage Old Hubba recruits the main cast to go beat up his collection of sapient Yu-Gi-Oh cards wherever they end up in the Outrealms.
Basically, this gives me free license to mess with crossovers inside the series.
Reading things my heart still needs to know is required, or this ain't gonna make any sense.
The wind whipped through the forest canopy above Aversa's head, setting all the conifers to howling and rattling against one another. Farther up, clouds framed frigid pink sky while forcing the sun back, threatening either rain or snow. Gray stone poked through the earth on either side of a mountain waterfall, while its white waters crashed from a hundred feet above. Across that hazard, five brown goats with horns like a giant's fishing hooks gazed placidly at her.
"Shoo," she said.
The goats didn't even pretend to obey.
The primary silver lining to this situation was that they hardly needed to search for a decent launching point. The slope Aversa and Sombra stood upon, however unsteadily, ended in another sheer drop and the next stage in the river's trip to the sea. Throwing a pegasus off a cliff was even faster than the traditional (and safer) air hop method.
Aversa took a deep breath, fingers wrapped around Sombra's reins. "Pity you can't talk. I'm sure you'd have plenty to say about this little mishap."
Sombra snorted unhappily.
"I leave once on my own and here we are. Lost in the Outrealms." She blew a loose strand of white hair out of her face, as futile as it was while still exposed to the wind. Instead of allowing herself to shiver, Aversa sighed before running a gentle hand over Sombra's neck. Pitching her voice low and patient, she said, "Oh, sweetheart, perhaps I should have left you at home?"
While he stopped short of acting like a misbehaving foal and just biting her, Sombra was a pegasus. He had no real interest in staying on unfamiliar ground any longer than she did. His ears swiveled uneasily toward the forest. He shifted his feet and ruffled his black wings, resettling the feathers even as wind mussed them again.
"I hope Robin appreciates the absurd lengths I go to," Aversa muttered under her breath as she patted Sombra again, "for a blasted birthday gift."
Sombra nibbled at his bit, then pushed his nose against Aversa's fingertips. His nostrils flared even as Aversa tried to soothe him. Perhaps more than a year away from the days they spent as each other's only companion, her voice lost influence over his moods.
"Perhaps between the two of us, we'll find another hapless fool in this unknown wilderness." Despite her jaunty tone, the prospect of an aerial search already grated. She was no scout. Still, Aversa climbed back into the saddle. She wrapped her traveling cloak tighter, gripped the reins, and nudged her heels into Sombra's sides. "Walk."
Sombra edged down the slope, wings flaring just a bit. Despite Aversa's weight on his back, he handled the steep angle better than any creature other than the absurd goats. As the trees became more and more untenable, he slipped from a walk into a bounding trot. Soon he leapt between patches of earth, using his wings more as jumping aids.
Aversa dug her heels in more firmly when Sombra leapt one last time, just at the edge of the cliff. Then, his wings finally took over. With one massive whoomph, he carried them both into the sky.
The wind grew even stronger as Aversa steered Sombra away from the mountainside. While she'd been prepared for any weather—more out of paranoia than actual planning—the cold wind cut through her like icy knives. Not even her emergency cloak, scarf, and coat could compensate for a wind chill that was as harsh as a Feroxi winter. With both her discomfort and Sombra's lineage in mind, Aversa urged her mount toward better—and hopefully warmer—pastures.
Or just any place that allowed human life.
Which only barely included Regna Ferox.
They flew for hours, following the white rapids down the mountain. While the sun crept above the peaks and finally dyed the sky a pale, wispy blue, mountains turned slowly to rolling hills and steep meadows. With more light, Aversa could see a vast array of colorful alpine wildflowers carpeting lazy slopes of grass. The occasional fir trees stood out like dark spires. It was beautiful, but unfamiliar and unsettling nonetheless.
"You're a good boy," Aversa said to Sombra, once the air was warm enough to risk opening her mouth. There was a careful balance to strike, managing the risks of freezing one's tongue and eating a bug by accident. "Onward, dear."
Not for the first time, Aversa wished she'd thought to bring along a traveling companion. Perhaps her older niece. Though even someone disagreeable like Tharja would be adequate for this. If nothing else, another person's presence would keep Aversa from speaking to Sombra as though he could talk back.
By the time mid-morning's golden sunlight streamed across the valleys, Aversa and Sombra landed for a break. Exhausting themselves with no goal in sight was a risk Aversa would not take now. She'd change her mind if they happened to spot, say, smoke from cooking fires in the distance.
During the respite, Sombra drank from the now-calmer river, his ears swiveling wildly to track the mountain noises. While pegasi had few predators, they were naturally skittish creatures even when trained for war. With one eye on her mount's nervousness, Aversa dug into one of his saddlebags for a packet of jerky and a wineskin. Which actually contained wine.
Flying drunk was a recipe for disaster, but Aversa hadn't thought to pack any other liquids on what was supposed to be a harmless trip to a peaceful Outrealm and then an afternoon flight to Ylisstol. Now, instead of lounging in lovely hot springs and trying to get a discount out of the proprietor, she was stuck in some mountain range two steps short of snow, with only her pegasus for company.
Ah, well. At least the wine was watered down to nearly nothing.
"That's enough, Sombra," Aversa said, once their brief snack break was over. She had to hex her mount away from the river, because of the risk he'd overindulge and bloat. As intelligent and capable as pegasi were, they still had the bodies of horses.
Sombra protested, of course, and turned his head toward the water again with longing.
She patted the side of his neckin compensation. "I have nothing for a decent rub-down here, but you are owed one."
Sombra, obviously, said nothing.
"And possibly a carrot," Aversa added, before climbing into the saddle again. "Shall we?"
Sombra walked in a quick circle to readjust to her weight, then jumped four feet straight into the air from a standing start. To the sound of his beating wings and the wind rushing in their ears, the two of them continued following the river west, downstream and away from the sun.
The environment remained beautiful—if cold—but there was a point where even sweeping vistas lost their appeal. It was probably around the point where Aversa craved creature comforts such as hot baths, which wasn't long at all.
And, eventually, there was civilization on the horizon.
"What have we here?" Aversa muttered, holding a hand up to shade her eyes.
Sombra didn't reply.
Aversa guided Sombra to the ground just next to the dying excuse for a treeline, landing on an unpaved road with ancient wagon-tracks embedded deeply in the dirt. The ground was cold enough with morning frost that her riding boots barely left footprints when she dismounted.
She made sure Sombra's feet were safe one at a time—one never could trust a pegasus to care for itself—then grasped his reins to guide him into town the long way.
From this angle, she could see the way the town was built on both sides of the river, united by a wooden bridge with decorative flower garlands. Low stone and wood fences were similarly adorned all along the road, tied with cloth ribbons in patterns she couldn't place. It was as though the place was preparing the guide visitors toward a party. While none of the mountain flowers had made their way this far down their slopes on their own, that wasn't a huge loss. There were clearly people here, and that was far more important.
If she'd arrived in the middle of a festival, it'd be easy enough to blend into the crowd until she could form a more comprehensive plan.
The town was…honestly fairly similar to what Aversa remembered seeing in parts of Regna Ferox over the last year, especially as peacetime prosperity set in. The style of the architecture was practical, closely packed where possible despite the steep, snow-shedding angle of the roofs. She couldn't see a stonework wall like those around the Plegian capitol, but perhaps it didn't matter for these people. The building that dominated the landscape appeared to either be a longhouse or some kind of temple at a glance, and bore the lion's share of the decorations. That building sat with its back to a cliff, as defensive as they could make it, but otherwise the place was more of a riverside port than a fortress-city.
The people were tiny from this range, but Aversa spotted more than a dozen in the nearest field alone. The fields nearby were heavy with late summer grain that rustled in the constant wind. It was strangely idyllic.
Aside from the constant calls of ravens, who fought gulls for space above most of the buildings. She could see their black wings from here. Some of the laborers were occupied chasing them off.
And where there were people, there were languages.
"Hello there!"
Aversa hadn't killed anything recently enough to count as a sacrifice for a long-lasting translation spell. While there were local languages specific to various Outrealms, the Gate itself contained at least fifteen enchantments for smoothing the road to mutual understanding. Aversa never found the time to inspect that ritual site—it defied observation with uncanny persistence and a headache curse—she could think of no better explanation for why the Shepherds looked askance at Say'ri and her Chon'sin speech patterns and not those of heroes two thousand years dead.
Still, she was grateful for it now.
"You're early for the—oh."
Ta-dah, magic. Of the serviceable, replicable kind.
When Aversa finally turned to face the new voice, with an accent she could only just hear through the Outrealm Gate's magic, and paused as she spotted a young man wiping sweat from his brow as he hiked out of the forest.
He was probably no more than fourteen or so, a basket laden with small feathered game tied across his back. His clothes were carefully layered cloth and furs, adaptable to changing degrees of cold as the day wore onward, and wore a green-and-gold scarf edged with red over the lot. A shock of white hair half-hid his forehead while the back was braided into a tail, and his blue-green eyes met hers with the sudden surprise of someone confronted by a stranger in the place of a friend.
Not that Aversa really blamed him. Aversa wore purple and black in deference to her brother's preferred colors and because she knew how her tastes ran. But the long boots, thinner cloth, and light armor of a pegasus knight matched nothing about the young man's clothing. Their skin and hair were similar, but her skin's undertone was ashen instead of warm. She also hadn't thought to hide the tattoos on her neck or face, and sudden self-consciousness made her grimace.
"I'm sorry, I thought you were here for the procession," he said at last, bowing just a little. His gaze drifted sidelong and his face scrunched in confusion. "With your pegasus…?"
Well, I am certainly here, Aversa thought, and I do have a pegasus. But that is not the end of either story, I'm sure.
"No harm done," Aversa said, trying for disinterested and feeling herself fail. Stepping back far enough to run her hand over Sombra's nose, she groped for some meaningless pleasantry.
Then the boy said in a bitter tone, "The king doesn't have any Duscur people as knights anyway." He straightened his burden on his back and strode a little closer, with that quintessential bluster of a young man who'd never seen much more than his childhood haunts, but was blithely determined to bluff his way through it anyway. "Are you looking for courier work or something, Miss?"
This was useful.
"My, my." Aversa's fingers stilled. Her mouth curved into a courtier's smile, meaningless at best. A mask at worst. "A little presumptuous, aren't you? Do I look so poor?"
"I dunno, maybe. And it's Otta," the boy said. Pushy little thing, but kind of cute. Sort of like a half-grown hound unable to find its feet. "You can call me Otta, Auntie."
Aversa wasn't sure if she should be affronted by the crack about her age or charmed by how quickly she'd gained a backhanded family title. After a split second's consideration, she decided on the latter.
"Auntie, is it? Then you should respect your elders," Aversa replied, with just the edge of a scoff. She patted Sombra's mane. "Now, find me a place to quarter this rascal and we can exchange stories properly."
"Sure. So, with all those fancy Faerghus clothes," Otta began, already walking onward, "you've been past the mountains. What's it like there?"
Aversa pursed her mouth in thought, leading Sombra by the reins in the boy's wake. She'd never heard of a kingdom or a clothing style called "Faerghus," but her own experience with the Outrealms, reading history in Plegia Castle's library, and living in Ylisse… Well, suffice to say the experiences formed a certain image in her head of what a knightly culture looked like. Horses, pegasi, and wyverns probably all featured, though the exact proportions of useful mounts varied by country. Plenty of armor, grand speeches delivered to crowds of cheering peasants unaware of the butcher's bill of war—
There was no point to exhuming that corpse.
"Different," Aversa settled on, for a teaser. She smiled wryly. "In some ways, much less friendly. And I never could get used to the food."
Ylisse boasted better harvests than Plegia, but Aversa missed being able to pluck fish straight from the sea. This town might have been small, but hopefully that little factor was consistent across worlds.
"That's what everyone says," Otta said, nodding seriously. Aversa had no idea which part he most agreed with. "Honestly, it seems like the King of Faerghus is the only one who wants anything to do with Duscur. It was probably a good idea for you to come home when you did, Auntie. There are all these proclamations—"
Aversa made agreeable noises as the boy's chatter kept them occupied all the way into town.
As she'd assumed, the town was preparing for a festival. Or a royal visit, given Otta's remarks. The two might be very similar at first glance, but one of the options felt more genuine and the other like tax collecting with smiles pasted to everyone's faces. As it was now, the remarks the boy made about Faerghus sounded less like a great celebration and more like a very expensive threat.
"You can hitch your pegasus here," said Otta, "and then I'll take you to the elder. I'll be right back!"
Before Aversa could protest, the boy kicked up a dust trail by running off so quickly. Warding off the worst of it with a tiny Wind spell, Aversa led Sombra to a wooden post in front of what was either an alehouse or an inn. Possibly both, and possibly neither. She didn't know enough about this place to be sure.
"Did I just see Otta…?" an older woman—probably fifteen years Aversa's senior, with close-cropped hair white and long ornamental earrings—stuck her head out of a shuttered window nearby. Her brown eyes landed on Aversa. "Oh, hello. I haven't seen you before."
"Likely not," Aversa agreed easily. "I'm afraid I've never been here before."
The woman's assessing gaze pinned her like a bug in a collection. Then her gaze swept over Sombra, whose nose was already in the water trough, and over Aversa's flying gear. "Are you from one of the border towns?"
"No, no. I'm actually rather lost at the moment, so I arrived with the hope I can learn enough to get my bearings." As long as the old man was still loitering at the Outrealm Gate, Aversa's luck wouldn't turn. All things considered, though, waiting out her time in temporal exile would be more pleasant in a town than sitting on a rock in the mountains.
"Lost? So far into Duscur?"
"Unbelievable, isn't it?" Aversa sighed theatrically. She finished tying Sombra's reins to the post and went on lightly, "But sometimes when you trick a mage, the consequences are disproportionate to the crime."
Strictly speaking, Aversa hadn't robbed the old lecher. According to Robin, the far reaches of the Outrealms contained at least one other version of Aversa—presumably one who still lived and breathed loyalty to Validar—who flirted with and robbed a sage who controlled one of the few reliable pathways between worlds. Getting into this kind of sideways, guilt-by-association trouble was strange, but Aversa knew the kind of woman she'd been. One sabotaged trip to another world wasn't too bad, in the grand scheme of things.
The woman she'd been back then would have hurled the man directly into the maw of a whirlpool in retaliation, but that was fortunately not Aversa's first thought anymore.
The woman's expression was politely puzzled. "I'll have to take your word for it."
"Kind of you," Aversa said. She clasped a hand above her chest and mimed a bow, though it was Ylissean more than anything. There was no particular need, but it served to emphasize her foreign origins and avoid any further deception. "My thanks for your courtesy to a poor, misplaced soul."
"At least you're a polite foreigner," the woman said. After a moment's consideration, she said, "Wait there."
"I already agreed not to move!" But by then the woman had already shut the window.
People were very consistent about asking for patience here.
It helpfully gave Aversa more time to observe the town's general goings-on, though, so she decided not to even think of complaining. That was for when she was safe at home and much more sure of her figurative footing. And when she could kick up her feet on her own furniture.
The front step where she emerged was an unfenced affair, with another shuttered window and neatly stacked firewood as high as Aversa's hip. She had no doubt whatsoever that more was hidden all around the house. Someone's well-crafted wooden furniture offered a convenient vantage for anyone who wished to people-watch or enjoy the crisp air. Most of the woodwork was lovingly carved and painted with patterns of flowers and vines, while the house itself bore carved wolves and seagoing hawks.
A strangely wistful feeling rose in Aversa's chest as she traced the patterns with her eyes. For, of all things, her ridiculous little cottage in Plegia. She hadn't even liked the place when she lived in it.
Sombra nickered next to her, so she stroked his nose to calm him. Unfortunately, she had not miraculously acquired carrots in the last few minutes.
The townsfolk were out and about on a bright, late morning like this. Many of the people who passed her and Sombra gave them both curious looks, though few seemed inclined to stop and talk in the middle of their work. She saw a dozen different clothing patterns and color combinations as people passed, but those who appeared to work together seemed to share accessories. She saw not a scrap of plate armor or mail anywhere, though some men carried axes and steel gauntlets here and there. Guards, perhaps, though none of them seemed especially wary of her.
What a change from home.
"Please, join me," said the woman's voice from her left, where she'd emerged onto her front step and set a basket on the porch's wide railing. When Aversa obeyed and sat in the opposite chair, she found herself accepting a warm round bun sprinkled with salt. "Though you found your way here by accident, let me be the first to welcome you to our home."
Aversa blinked, looking down at the bun. She knew an offer of hospitality when she saw one, even if every country in her world had a different custom. "I haven't even given you my name."
"You will," said the woman, crossing broad arms that could undoubtedly wield an axe or hammer if she needed one. Her bare hands were speckled with faint burns from cooking. "My name is Nadeen."
"Then you should call me Aversa." Then, carefully mirroring Nadeen as she grabbed a second bun from the basket, Aversa ate alongside her. By the time she brushed the lingering crumbs off her lap, Aversa had only one real question: "Now, I suppose I need to know if this makes me a mere guest or some kind of kin."
"Nadeen, did you just steal my visitor?" Otta's voice rang out from the road. Aversa quickly spotted him peering over the edge of one of Sombra's fluffed-out wings, burden gone and expression put-out.
"You need to be a little faster. No use complaining now." With that, Nadeen tossed Aversa a wink and stood, clearly planning to head back inside. "Go on with him and meet with Elder Velka. I imagine she'll have more questions for you, but you've been greeted enough for now."
That was…certainly a word for it. And if meeting a village elder would earn more of the same generous treatment, Aversa held few qualms following such requests. She did, however, silently reserve the right to start setting her immediate surroundings on fire if this meeting turned out spectacularly wrong. Best to always have a backup plan.
At least the Aversa of today was determined not to cause trouble first.
ONE WEEK LATER.
Once she was able to blink the spots from her vision—and made a mental note to bother Old Hubba about how he used the Outrealm Gate—Morgan shot to her feet and snatched up her possessions from where they'd been scattered across the ground. If her missing aunt needed a healing stave, an elixir, or any other kind of assistance involving weapons, Morgan had it covered.
I guess landing exactly where Aunt Aversa is would be a bit too much to ask for. Morgan sighed to herself, just a little. Okay, no moping. I've got this.
With the forest around her illuminated only by starlight, a normal person who planned on dashing through the trees would be better off smacking a limb directly into a rock just to get the inevitable injury out of the way. Between underbrush, pitfalls, and just the trees themselves, being trapped in an old growth forest at night was a situation no one ever wanted to face. Many people topped off the entire situation with panic and were never seen again.
Her father was no woodsman, but he'd managed to teach her better than that. Fear was natural, understandable, and very expected. People like Sir Frederick were only so patient with whiners, but they were teachers and so was experience itself. Morgan only felt the tiniest shiver of apprehension for her own sake, which left plenty leftover for her lost aunt.
Even when it was hard, Morgan needed to think. A little cleverness now could save her plenty of scrambling later.
Morgan made sure to secure her pack before finally peering around the forest, patience and training at the forefront of her mind. While she could only see shades of gray, it was enough to help her pick her way through the forest to a vantage point by continuously traveling uphill. Damp foliage slapped at her long boots and her coat snagged on branches, but she clambered through everything until she stood amid dark stone and howling wind.
The wind stank of smoke on high. It was faint at first, barely noticeable above damp grass, mud, and treefall while she was in the forest. By the time Morgan climbed the tallest outcropping she could, ash dusted her hood and sleeves like grim snow.
Upwind, then. Maybe she could—
Her eyes locked on a line on the horizon. The fires poking through silhouettes of buildings turned the column of smoke into something like an arrow. Looking directly at the town made the stars fade as the glow spoiled her night vision. She averted her eyes before they fully adjusted to it, heart thudding against her ribs.
Though every Shepherd instinct clamored for her to rush toward the burning town, Morgan tore at her shirt collar and pulled her locket out by the chain. Here, its silver surface gleamed with firelight and starlight both, at war in her hand.
"Come on, don't tell me—" When Morgan opened the locket, the sliver of a mirror inside it glowed orange. It hadn't been doing that an hour ago, when Tharja grudgingly cast the tracking spell. Back then, a simple purple arrow just...pointed the way, as long as Morgan held her goal in mind. It tugged faintly in the correct direction if she didn't.
The pull was undoubtedly toward danger, not away from it.
Aunt Aversa was a Shepherd after all.
Morgan snapped the locket shut. The click seemed unaccountably loud, even with the wind howling all around her. She thought she could hear screams carried up the hill.
Battle.
Hopefully. That would mean someone was still alive down there.
"Please be okay," Morgan whispered, then dug her silver-wrapped dragonstone from her pocket. As her magic lit the stone from the inside out and her fingers clenched around it, Morgan took a deep breath.
And she took a running leap off the precipice.
For a second, there was nothing to see. Just fading light, easily overpowered by the raging fires in the town.
The wings sprouted fully-formed first, as they always did. Then the tail, for support and structure, and then the light brought all of the feathers out into the cold night air at once. Talons adorned each foot and kicked briefly in the air, grasping for height on instinct, until the body rose into the night sky.
Morgan had stopped fearing long falls sometime in the vague past, probably after she was old enough to understand what having a dragonstone meant.
A vast, dark beast rose from just beyond the edge of the cliff, blotting out the light and the stars. The brightest point on Morgan's dragon body was the strip of white feathers that ran down the middle of her chest. The rest of her body was nearly invisible to mortal eyes—dark purple, teal, and black by turns in the concealing night—as she swept down the mountainside.
She heard the fire and screams long before she was close enough to spot the first bodies.
Dozens of people, lying where they fell like scythed wheat. The shadowy, backlit specks she identified as people moving through the town didn't appear to break stride or hesitate as they proceeded. So high in the air, Morgan couldn't see details—could barely tell the difference between adults' and children's shadows cast by the fire—but spotted little knots of activity that made her stomach turn.
Morgan bunched her talons together, folded her wings, and dove.
Smoke stung Morgan's eyes on the way to the ground. Even from on high, she kept focusing on signs of life destroyed: smashed shopfronts reduced to kindling, the screams of humans and animals alike, buildings alight and shadows moving chaotically. From the ground, buildings glowed from within like macabre lanterns, with the light interrupted mainly by people and animals in a panic.
"STAND FORTH AND DIE, INTERLOPERS!"
Flaring her wings, Morgan jerked free from the dive to drift in the false thermals. Hot air and the stink of smoke assaulted her nose and eyes even from above the highest remaining rooftops. And despite the chaos and the drumbeat of rage in her blood, her ears still worked perfectly well.
She knew that voice.
"OFFER YOUR LIVES AS RECOMPENSE!"
Both of those voices.
There was a strange, echoing quality to Deadlord voices when they deigned to use them. Even if the individual in question didn't wear a helmet, Morgan could pick out the sound at a hundred paces and instantly turned her head toward them. Her wings carried her in the proper direction almost without conscious thought.
There, in a gap between two buildings—
"Mus!" Morgan roared, "hold your position!"
Two glowing eyes gleamed through the slits in a red helmet, just for an instant. Then the general brought a greatshield down in the path of a charging line of soldiers, retreating only far enough to pin himself in place in the gap between two burning buildings. The three soldiers trying to force their way past him and farther into the town were stopped dead by his bulk and his strength..
Morgan took careful aim and set everything in Mus's way in fire with a single concentrated breath.
Someone's voice shrieked a warning too late. The noise died in the rush of flame. So did the speaker.
"At last, an honorable visitor." With that acknowledgement, Mus shoved his way forward and stabbed his way through the lighter armor of their foes with the point of his lance. Over the sound of dying men, Mus concluded, "And familiar fangs."
Morgan, landing on the ground amid the flame-twisted bodies, didn't know what to say. This was—something. Something terrible; a throwback to the war against the Grimleal.
"The flame was most helpful. I see you have not lost your edge."
Not that Morgan had planned on seeing the Deadlords again—any of them—but the feeling was nearly mutual. After sending yet more attacking soldiers running with another burst of fiery breath, Morgan twisted her neck back toward her strange new ally. And while Einherjar were one thing, her only experience with friendly Deadlords arrived with a battle to the death in a forgotten tomb. Every single detail about this day felt wrong, except for finding a friendly helm.
Speaking of.
Morgan cleared her throat against the caking ash she must've swallowed during the flight. "Mus, what is happening?"
"Seek the summoner." Mus gestured with his lance, indicating a space broadly behind him. Things were less on fire there, which was both less daunting and harder to navigate. "Of the twelve Deadlords called upon this night, we number ten, and the battle remains undecided."
Morgan went still, unsure whether to argue or not. "Maybe I should—"
Then an arrow cut through the air just ahead of her nose. After a follow-up shot bounced off her left horn, Morgan turned her head and spotted another Deadlord, sitting atop a similarly uncanny black horse. The red-armored bow knight saluted her before wheeling his mount around and charging deeper into the besieged town.
Morgan leapt skyward and followed, leaving Mus to guard his chokepoint.
Bovis wasn't the fastest of the Deadlords—barely—but he led Morgan on a chase through the streets. While she needed to keep above the roofs, she couldn't fly so far above the smoke that she lost track of the battle at large. People back home recognized Morgan's shadow on the ground, so they didn't panic if they saw dark wings overhead. Here, there were too many other concerns to bother with subtlety. The last thing she wanted to do was startle an innocent villager into the waiting spear-points of the bandits lingering within the town's walls.
Ten Deadlords, two dead again already.
Bovis shot two men as they went, sinking black arrows into strange armor with enough force to kill. He didn't stop or let his mount break stride for a moment, just carried onward. It wasn't something the Deadlords usually did. A normal day in their Outrealm was a dozen fights to the death that ended in mutual congratulations for a battle well-fought.
This was quicker. More impartial.
A black-clad mage died with a gurgle just as Morgan shot overhead, toppling off a porch with a spear through the throat. Across the way, Equus of the Deadlords picked up a fallen man's lance and charged off in the opposite direction.
This was the Deadlords at work, earning their dark reputation. Morgan still hadn't seen anyone other than them, the presumed villagers, and the mysterious enemy soldiers. Death everywhere she looked, and still no sign of her aunt.
Morgan shook those thoughts away with effort, bared her fangs, and found a goal before Bovis did. Even if Morgan wasn't in the air, the tug of her tracking spell directed her attention to a fixed point. As she and Bovis approached, the sound of clashing steel grew even louder, and then they cleared the smoke.
The town square was like an anthill. Between the presence of all three Deadlord mages in full form, the semicircle of blue banners and steel gone gray with the detritus of battle, and a glowing purple barrier funneling black-armored opposition into the center of the town, it wasn't hard to work out that this was the center of the remaining defenses. People fought and died here, on the cobblestones, even as Bovis shot a black-robed mage and charged into the fray. Barriers barred his way to some degree, but either he'd been there when they were erected and the defenders ignored him, or else the "summoner" was giving him some kind of help.
Her tactical mind went to work.
It didn't take much to recognize the desperate straits of the defenders. While their enemy didn't have any fliers, Morgan could add steel and leather and magic together and figure out who was going to be blackened char tipped carelessly out of armor by the end. They were overmatched and with their backs to a series of buildings—a temple?—where the wails of children were just high enough to pierce the general cacophony. There weren't enough pikemen or fortifications to defend against a proper cavalry charge, and not enough walls for a siege. The flame barrier was as much a help as a hindrance, here—Morgan recognized it from Plegia's throne room, when her grandfather had tried to turn the momentum of the entire war on a forced duel.
Her father won then, but Aunt Aversa wouldn't have bothered with this kind of magic unless she couldn't run, because the caster could only maintain it from the inside. She wasn't the kind of person who'd trap herself on a battlefield unless there were no better options. Some of those options were even worse than this.
Morgan let out a snarl that rattled through her ribs and chest like a war horn, and spread all of her claws. Heads whipped in her direction, almost too small to spot as she reached diving height.
Just before she crushed her first target, she thought she heard a cackle.
It sounded a lot like Aunt Aversa.
Morgan landed on top of a man on horseback, bearing both beast and rider to the ground with her entire weight and shattering every bone beneath her. As screams rose around her, her head jerked down on instinct alone. When it rose again, the commander's arm dangled from her bloodied jaws until she flung it toward the rest of the soldiers. At the same time, her tail swung and sent an entire row of armored infantry scattering like cards in a strong wind.
"Captain!" someone howled, horrified.
Blood gleamed on so many of the weapons—there were so many bodies already. How dare these men act like victims? The thought crawled up Morgan's spine like a spider, bringing fury with it instead of web.
As though the thing they were doing was not already more monstrous—
"What is that—"
"Shoot her and you're dead!" Aunt Aversa, it seemed, hadn't forgotten the spells she used to project her voice across a battlefield.
The enemy wouldn't listen to her.
They'd regret that.
"Time to even the odds!" Morgan stood tall among the scattered enemy, feeling the fire build in her throat the more dead she saw.
Somewhere around the fullest extent of her wings and tail, she felt more than saw the defenders begin to rally. It might've been a sixth sense.
Or it might've been down to her aunt's shouting.
"The gods gift you a dragon straight from the sky and you dare falter now? What sad excuse for chivalry and honor is this?!" Dark magic was probably a worse motivator than rage, but Aunt Aversa could stoke both.
Someone—a man whose build and manner reminded Morgan instantly of Khan Basilio—managed to get under one wing and chop down at one of the men Morgan had knocked over. There was a wet crunching noise, and then a gruff voice in an unfamiliar accent saying, "Less talking, more fighting."
Not like Khan Basilio, then.
The metallic groans of two armored Deadlords managed some agreement. The ragged cheer that followed was encouraging, but no one wanted a charge into the thick of the enemy when they were still very outnumbered. Men staggered back upright to Morgan's flanks and rear, soot-streaked faces filled with desperate hope when she looked.
In that time, too, the attackers got a little over their shock.
Her auntie's new friends wouldn't be outnumbered for long.
Spells splashed harmlessly against Morgan's feathers as the black-robed mages turned to face her, and they met her pink flames as well as the knights had. People screamed and died alongside their horses and in their armor, whether burned Morgan's fiery wrath or under her curved talons and sheer weight.
In no time at all, the defensive line was surrounded by a ring of scorched earth and paving stones.
And still, the enemy tried to wheel around and persist.
What, exactly, kept pushing them forward?
"Form up! Use your battalions to wear it down!" roared the commander. Aside from the plumed helmet, he wore dark armor and carried an axe low at his side. His horse was loaded down with house sigils Morgan didn't recognize on top of full barding.
He looked like a great knight. He looked like someone who was never supposed to command his men to burn a temple to the ground and slaughter every single person in this town. He led the vanguard. He charged. He fought at the front and so did his soldiers.
His soldiers squared up behind him, weapons raised.
Morgan lifted her wings and let out a hissing growl that rattled what intact windows still existed in nearby buildings. She crouched with all of her talons digging into stone and earth, lowering her head to receive an attack.
One of the few remaining mages—a hooded figure wearing a beaklike, face-obscuring mask—raised a sparkling silver barrier between Morgan and the most obvious target. It settled over the plume-wearing commander like glittering dust.
The commander spared a moment to nod toward his ally, then bellowed, "Charge!"
Morgan leapt thirty vertical feet, with just the tips of her talons skimming the tops of the lower-ranking soldiers' raised lances. Owing to her divine dragon magic, she also whirled in midair without losing height before landing among the less-protected members of the attacking force.
Who were, for the most part, in the vestments of assassins, mercenaries, and common soldiers. No heavy armor or shields.
"It's just a demonic beast! Forward, men!" shouted someone else, though Morgan couldn't see him. Regardless, lances rose and stabbed at her belly and wings in time with that order. "Leave no one and nothing alive, not even their disgusting beasts!"
Morgan beat half the initial lance strikes back with a sweep of one wing, shattering wood without issue. Even if her feathers were soft to the touch in peacetime, the rush of combat turned each one as hard as steel with divine dragon magic. None of the other strikes could hope to pierce her hide.
"They never learn…" Aunt Aversa's voice, from somewhere behind Morgan's tail, was accompanied by a wash of purple flame that arced over everyone's heads and turned an archer into a human torch. "Here we go!"
"Checkmate."
Morgan reared and slashed forward with her front claws like a great hunting cat, batting a rider off his horse and killing both with the second swing. As her talons sank into flesh and she lifted her head, flame surged up her throat and aimed directly at the man who'd been shouting orders so much.
A throwing spear bounced off the protection spell an instant later, after arcing high over Morgan's wing. There was a faintly audible, "Damn!"
The shiny protection spell also made him easy enough to spot in the crowd. Even if they didn't admit it, every other manakete Morgan knew had a magpie's eye for glitter.
She leapt again. Lance, banner, and bone snapped beneath her weight. When Morgan lifted her horned head this time, some of the feathers in her crest stuck together with blood. Her lips drew back from her fangs in a silent snarl, wings lifting to make herself look even larger as she faced down the remaining soldiers.
"For Faerghus! For the King!"
"For Duscur!"
Morgan ducked her head and spat fire directly at the struggling form beneath her talons. Around her, the defenders fanned out and engaged everything that'd come close to killing them before.
Fighting alongside humans again was harder than just attacking everything under knee height. While Morgan was more dextrous than any wyvern approaching her size, that bulk came with the cost maneuvering space. If she trod on someone's toes, they'd lose a foot or a leg. More than once, she needed to flap her wings and land herself in a knot of enemy fighters to make sure the only living beings near her were the ones she could hurt.
"Get down!" Aunt Aversa's voice called, and purple fire slashed across the battlefield ahead of Equus and Mus bursting out of a side street and slamming into an unguarded enemy flank.
Morgan jumped into the air and picked her targets.
And despite the best protections of enemy mages and armor, Morgan spat fire again and again, until her enemies fled the central square entirely. Even if they had enough bravery for a hundred men or more, their horses didn't. After Morgan spent enough time sowing dragon-fueled chaos, the beasts fled in terror and trampled soldiers in front of them with no more mercy than they'd showed to anyone else.
They ran, or they burned.
And stay out. Morgan snorted as she landed again, feeling tiny tongues of flame licking at the corners of her mouth.
Tacky drying blood made feathers stick to her horns and face, not to mention the awful mess of offal she'd made of a few horse carcasses. If she hadn't already lost most of her sense of smell to sheer overexposure, Morgan couldn't imagine walking around this nameless town without holding something over her nose. Even if it'd be awkward as a dragon.
Fortunately, there were other concerns.
"We heard you speak earlier," said one of the men who'd followed Morgan fastest into the fray. He didn't flinch when Morgan turned her head around, though his grip tightened a little on his axe.
He was only about tall enough to reach Morgan's belly with his fingertips, but that made him one of the tallest humans here. Arching her neck a little, she spotted armored spikes and accent fur of indistinguishable color, under all the blood, but the general trend of this man's equipment said "warrior." Nervous, of course, but that was the most reasonable thing Morgan had seen since arriving on the mountain.
"You did," Morgan replied, crouching carefully to make herself seem a little bit smaller. Looming wasn't good manners. But what, exactly, was she supposed to say here? What would her father say? "Don't worry, you're going to be all right," felt like one of the worst options. "If you could just step back for a moment—"
"Put your back into it," ordered Aunt Aversa's voice, though croaky from smoke and a lot quieter than before without the magic behind it.
Morgan spared a second's hesitation, then lifted her head again to watch two Deadlords cutting their way through the crowd around her. She had to see to be sure, but her heart was already pounding in anticipation.
Tigris, warrior of the Deadlords, did most of the shoving. Anguilla, a dark knight on a glowing-eyed steed, had a passenger Morgan recognized.
"Auntie!"
"Stop that," Aunt Aversa scolded, sliding off the saddle so quickly Tigris had to catch her, though a couple of nearby blue-bannered men tried. As Morgan pulled her head back to give everyone some breathing room, Aunt Aversa flapped one sparking hand and said, "Don't fuss over me while there's work to do."
Morgan didn't immediately reply, but she did shove her head a little closer again, to get a better look. Aunt Aversa obliged her fussing even though she'd just said not to, because everything was terrible.
And Aunt Aversa looked…awful. Dressed in foreign clothes too light to hide blood, dark crimson ran down her left side from a cut across her ribs, while her white hair was singed dark and in some sections hung barely to her shoulders. Her face was half-covered by a damp handkerchief to keep off the smoke. Some part of her smelled burned, the stink unmistakable, but she'd almost certainly snap at anyone who commented. Even her magic felt unsteady, like she was doing her best to stay upright and was only succeeding because Morgan stayed so still. A stiff breeze might ruin that.
In the smallest voice she could, Morgan said at last, "I brought some things. They're in my bag."
"Listen closely, Morgan," said Aunt Aversa, lifting her hands to each side of Morgan's face. Morgan had to hunch her neck to stay within reach. "While I am as glad to see you as ever—if not more so, given our situation—I need you to leave."
Morgan might have protested, but Aunt Aversa's grip shifted to one of her horns. If she reacted too strongly, the sharp motion would toss her aunt and cause yet more injury. Instead, Morgan stayed still and silent and avoided any glances in the direction of her aunt's trembling fingers, though she could feel the vibration.
"The last anyone saw the little prince, he and his personal guard were still alive. They fled together, but at this point the fastest way to find them is magic." Aunt Aversa's expression was as stern as any tactician worth their war record. "What spell did you use to find me?"
"Tharja did it, so I—"
"Show me." Aunt Aversa stepped back, wobblier on her left leg, but that directive was clear enough. "Time is in short supply."
Morgan slipped out of her dragon form in a burst of pink light, and immediately pinwheeled her human arms to avoid toppling. Her pack surely hadn't been so heavy before. One of the ash-streaked knights steadied her with a hand out of sheer reflex, only to remember himself a moment after and snatch his gauntlet away.
They were a lot less hesitant about her pack.
"Leave your poultices and potions here. We can make something of them. But—" Aunt Aversa held out her hand imperiously, caught herself, and then tried to seem less demanding. She rubbed at her temples. "The spell, dear."
Morgan ripped the locket from her neck so quickly that it took her until the sting to realize she'd snapped the clasp. At least her dragonstone was on a different chain.
Aunt Aversa cradled the locket with one hand, curling the other over it like a cage. While two knights took Morgan's offered pack with hesitant thanks and bows, the locket sprang open to reveal an arrow of golden light pointed directly at Aunt Aversa's head. As her long fingers flexed and Morgan leaned closer to watch, the arrow snuffed itself out and left a pinprick of purple gleaming ominously in the flame-lit night.
"Someone get me a lock of hair or a drop of blood from the king," Aunt Aversa snapped at the knights who remained. Her tone raised Morgan's eyebrows. Aunt Aversa didn't seem to notice her noticing. "Gods know any parent would spare some for their child."
There was a scramble and a bit of shouting, but one knight broke from the ranks and rushed to obey. He hurried into the temple complex behind their defensive barricade, and Morgan could already spot people starting to stir from terrified huddles. She could hear murmurs that had to come from dozens if not hundreds of survivors.
So many hadn't made it this far—
"I can't help but notice how you're…in charge here. When Father said you were last expecting to visit one Outrealm, buy a gift, and come home." Morgan picked two staves from the leftovers pile and tucked them awkwardly into her belt, leaving the gem-encrusted heads sticking out from under each of her arms.
"Yes, well, plans change in unexpected ways." Aunt Aversa sighed. "It's been a very long week."
Morgan winced. "I guess so. Wait, you haven't been under attack the whole time?"
"Of course not, else we'd all be dead." Aunt Aversa glanced to the side. "Captain?"
The man who'd approached Morgan so fearlessly didn't seem surprised to be addressed. "Lady Aversa."
"I already told you, I have no such rank."
"Then I am just Cosim, as I explained."
Aunt Aversa rolled her eyes, but let the argument drop. "The attack started four hours after nightfall, then. Most of the revelers were drunk or asleep, and whatever warning we might've had was dismissed."
"'I can feel a dark mage where there wasn't one before,' is not much of an argument." Clearly, Cosim had suffered through this conversation already.
"They didn't let me get even that far." Aunt Aversa glanced in the direction of the temple complex again, frowning. "Whichever wretch of a knight who refused to listen is likely dead by now, I suppose. Else I'd throw this in his face right before a hex or two."
"I'm starting to see why you made Father promise to let you skip any council meetings you wanted," Morgan said.
"Hmph."
Luckily, the same knight came rushing back before the argument could get worse. He handed Aunt Aversa a strip of bandage dark with blood, which left streaks over both of their fingers. The knight recoiled as soon as he noticed, but the helmet hid his expression, and it didn't look like Aunt Aversa cared about squeamishness.
"Good enough," she told the hapless knight dismissively, and slammed her palms together over the sample and the locket. Purple flame and free-floating golden runes spread in a plate-sized splatter from the impact, then retracted back into Aunt Aversa's grip. She spread her palms such that the locket sat in the middle, still open, but with a tiny blue symbol glowing where the arrow once rested.
It looked…like maybe a glowing spearhead? Something roughly diamond-shaped with thorns around it. It definitely wasn't the Brand of the Exalt, though.
Morgan heard the word "crest" drift up from the knights who looked over at the sudden source of clear light. When she glanced at them, a couple of them knelt in prayer. Hopefully, they weren't praying to her. Even Mother tried to avoid this kind of thing. "Um."
"Don't mind them." Aunt Aversa raised her arms and slipped the locket back around Morgan's neck, though the light hardly dimmed. Instead of fumbling with the broken clasp, she tied the ends of the chain together with a hint of lightning magic.
It'd probably come off when cut. If it didn't, Morgan could deal with the problem when it happened.
"Do you think I'll need to take someone with me?" Morgan could only see hesitant knights, a couple of Deadlords who couldn't heal, and a steadily increasing number of dust-streaked people filtering out of the temple. "If—I'm sure any guard would attack me, so perhaps a person—"
"You might be able to carry five people in flight," Aunt Aversa interrupted patiently, "but I need as many defenders as I can keep. And unfortunately, Lepus and Canis were both killed near the beginning of the attack."
The Deadlords' war monk and valkyrie weren't known for healing the living, at any rate. There was no guarantee their ability to repair each other would easily translate to living beings anymore. Morgan mostly remembered Lepus for using a Bolt Axe to zap Kjelle unconscious once, leaving her fellow Deadlords to be cut down without a care.
"AND OVIS DOES NOT HEAL," said Draco, shouting down from a rooftop.
The Deadlords' sage, withered hands clamped over his Arcwind tome, sent a baleful glare up at their sniper. It was almost all in the glowing red eyes.
"Just so," Aunt Aversa said with a shrug. After a moment's thought, she gave Morgan a quick squeeze of a hug and then stepped back. "Hurry, love."
Morgan nodded, picking her way to the nearest clear spot as fast as she could. The awkwardness of carrying two staves the way she did slowed her down only a little. Pink light wrapped around her as soon as her boots crossed that invisible threshold, and she took her next step on talon-tipped feet. With a quick flourish to remember where all her limbs needed to go, Morgan jumped in time with her wings' downbeat and gained height with all the urgency of the tracking spell humming at her throat. In no time at all, she circled above the town, watched the purple magic barrier form a high, protective wall instead of a semicircle, and darted away.
AN:
1. Aversa was attempting to make it to the Hot Springs Scramble DLC resort, which was owned and operated by one of the Anna sisters and otherwise seemed like a decent tourist spot. If you ignore the obligatory Risen battles.
2. The Outrealm Gate dumps its passengers on the destination spot in a blinding flash of light. It's terribly unsubtle. Morgan's exact words to Old Hubba were, "Send me where you sent her." Which is why she lands in the mountains and not where her aunt is.
3. Miriel defines dark magic as "thaumaturgy not based on this world's elemental forms," in her C support with Henry. She also says, "Hex casting is the art of unleashing magic through a series of movements. It is the ritual that grants efficacy, rather than tomes or staves." Basically, I can throw part of the tome limit rules out the window if I have dark mage characters.
4. Aversa canonically summons the Deadlords to battle the heroes in Fire Emblem Awakening's Chapter 22: An Ill Presage. The Deadlords here are those featured in the Infinite Regalia DLC. Einherjar also exist, but Aversa didn't mug Old Hubba (since this isn't the Champions of Yore DLC), so she rolls with the uberzombie crew instead. The Deadlords have their Awakening localization names and classes here.
5. The Book of Seiros never equates the Immaculate One to a person (probably on purpose), and the surprise characters display during Chapter 5: Tower of Black Winds indicates to me that people turning into big monsters is not a Known Thing in Fódlan outside of the Church and Edmund territory. Even if the Immaculate One alone is considered a messenger of the Goddess, dragons are at least known in the Seiros religion.
6. Neither Morgan or Aversa know what a Crest is at the outset, but Aversa has run into bearers of the Mark of Naga and the Mark of Grima, and the Jugdral series canonically takes place in Awakening's past, since Chrom and Robin can both clock Emperor Arvis on sight when he's encountered during the Rogues and Redeemers DLC. It's not that hard to believe an ex-Grimleal might have a working theory of how dragon blood and branding interact.