Half-Demon Channeler
Those without liking for alternate universes may quit reading, but those who do may proceed and enjoy.
Fish Foot Note: I've been thinking of having this fic moved back into the X-over category because it's my mistake to think that there are more people who play DMC than read WOT than those who read that also play the game. Maybe delving too deep into the universe has lost me the sense that this fic isn't as versatile. I intend that readers and reviewers of this fic know both side so that there's no confusion.
A big 'Thanks' to Skykhanhunter for the trigger and the rest of the reviewers for everything.
The WOT series belong to Robert Jordan, may his soul forever walk in the Light. And Capcom owns DMC3. I own Thwane, though. Metallica owns their respective songs.
The Other Introduction: Bards and Troll Locks
The guns-and-sword wielder felt like he had been brainwashed after all that lecture, and following his mental rest, he will have to learn the names of the important people in the place, or places; the redhead in a fine coat can make gateways and help other people travel through them.
His name was Rand al'Thor and he is the proclaimed Dragon Reborn. To Dante, when he hears the word 'dragon', he can only call to mind the mythical creature with four legs, a buff figure, a spiny tail and a head large enough to snap a cow in half. And not forgetting his belief that dragons breathe fire.
But the Dragon banner depicted a somewhat more classical version of the mythological creature, long-bodied and spiny all the way with mustaches and beards, and big eyes.
Dante could not picture Rand as a dragon himself, but the name appears enough to mark him as one of the most prominent rulers of the current age.
Before he knows any other name, he would like to know the first man in this medieval world who had found and met him. Thwane Aromari is not as fragile as he makes others think he is. In fact, the unrevealed half-demon witnessed first hand the way he strums the metal strings of his guitar with a bone plectrum. The Lord Dragon has not witnessed this yet.
Next to be known is Mazrim Taim, the Saldaean man who can test men for their ability to channel the One Power. He and Rand both had to go through the concept explanation with Dante, who was not exposed enough to this kind of culture. To him, magic is magic, and demons can use demon magic. In public, he still cannot let the ruler-man to know that he is only half human.
After the middle-aged male channeler came a man of war: Marshal-General Davram Bashere. Bashere has led his Saldaean troops to Andor in search of the False Dragon Mazrim Taim to capture him, but his actions are cut short by the real Dragon's need to have a teacher for men who can channel. Speaking of soldiers, a childhood friend by the name of Mat crossed Rand's mind. He also seems to be a person of great significance during his time around here – were Rand to explain ta'veren on the same day as the stranger's transition to a new world, he might faint of the information overload.
So far Rand has conquered some lands somewhere, and to manage those places he can teleport there the way he always does. The names of the nations alone made a twist of consciousness in Dante's mind.
'Maybe Vergil could adapt to this kind of place,' the holder of the silver amulet-half assumed as Rand introduces him to the Maidens. They are pretty women, most of them. It seems they area all trained in combat and taught some sort of hand language that other societies do not use and cannot understand. Some of the younger women, or those about his age, did whisper to one another about 'singing' and 'Maiden's Kiss'.
Perhaps admiring the Maidens' appearance would ease his adaptation into the world of darkness and light, even if he didn't do it openly.
He left the gold crown in his usual seat in the inn, which is the corner of it. That would be the least he can pay Ryen for treating him so well.
Now he needs a destination, unless that can wait until after he gets a horse. He has his way with the beasts as he is the more traditional of the twins.
Vergil began walking north, having differentiated which way it is when the sun set some hours earlier. It is not hard to endure long distances when he inwardly acknowledges himself as a demon; there was nobody around him to see it at the moment anyway.
He decided it would pay to play safe when he turned to see a small group of people – who seemed smaller because of the way they moved – tailing him whilst trying not to make any sound he might hear.
They were wrong; he can hear those soft taps loud and clear.
The foremost of them dashed forward at the turn he made which indicated he knew they were there. He took a knife seemingly out of nowhere and tried to stab Vergil, but the pale-haired liveried man just grasped the wrist of the hand that held the killing object. Taking out Yamato would be a waste if he had to use the sword on petty footpads. Something snapped against that wrist, a mechanism that held the knife in the assassin's sleeve.
Vergil gathered half of his strength to shove the man against his own underlings and let them fall like bowling pins. If they still wanted to go after him, he might have to resort to martial arts; he never really mentioned how his father taught him things that take sword-fighting to the next level.
When he turned around, though, there were walls of armor mail made of black steel blocking him, supported by hoofed or clawed feet. Beaked or snouted faces with ram horns looked down at him, dark eyes sunken. After seeing Hells, the Abyss and other nasty things brought up in Temen-Ni-Gru, these jerks don't have to perturb him.
'What did I do to deserve being surrounded by freaks like these?' he wondered, clenching his fists with his arms by his sides. It was an instinct to show that he was unafraid of the unknown, which he will soon know.
One of the beasts advanced by a step of its large leg. He needed room if he were to keep fighting.
With a flash he jumped and stood atop the shoulders of one of those things; the creatures apparently belonged to the same species despite their variety of ugly features. Shocked, the creature he stood on raised its horned head, but soon one of the others began coming closer.
A huddle. That could be an advantage to him.
He lightly kicked off the beast and drew out Yamato, its demon-wrought blade shining in anticipation of battle. He dashed through the cluster and sliced a sum of three targets.
There are at least two more to go. Of course, that being estimation, there are actually four that survived when he took a longer look around.
But he needed not worry. Crude steel clanged against the refined sword for a brief moment, but there is an advantage to taking control of the whole situation. It gave a good chance of ending up victorious and alive.
With only the slightest patch of dark blood soaking the sleeve on his left underarm this time, he reviewed his most recent kill from a distance. By a crude degree, they seem to have a structured way of trying to take him prisoner. Obviously they weren't prepared to meet someone who – according to Ryen the absentminded innkeeper – deserves a heron-mark on his sword.
His own advice told him that it is better not to let others know he could be counted as a master swordsman; the magnificence of Yamato has shown enough how he stands out from the figurative crowd of sword-wielders.
There was movement on the roof of one of the Tairen buildings, but as much as he squinted, it faded a few seconds after. The ripple reminded him of the Hell Vanguard back at Temen-Ni-Gru. 'Could it be?' he wondered, but remembered that he had to keep on course if he is to know more of this world so that he can return to the one in which he belongs.
A worn old signboard said 'You Are Now Leaving Tear' before he crosses the invisible border of the place.
Rand gave them one room to share, one narrow bed for each man. It suited Thwane, but Dante is not a stationary sleeper. The latter complained more anyway when the Lord Dragon left, and Thwane had to bear the burden of listening to an outsider vent. "This really ain't right. Maybe when I wake up after an uncomfortable sleep, I can almost be sure that I'm home," the bright-haired man remarked.
Not quite grasping this sense of humor, Thwane took out his instrument and sat on his bed, the one that is closer to the door than the window. He did not know why the arrangement troubled the outsider until Dante remarked that it reminded him of a hospital, a building meant for housing the sick, plagued or ill.
For a guest-room in the Palace of Caemlyn, the place looked more practical than decorative. Most of the things that provided color in this place are tablecloths and mats, cushions for chairs, the silver-trimmed mirror next to the coat-hooks, the quilted covers of their beds and a rack of old books that might have been disposed to make room for a lounging area in a library or something.
Apart from these things, the room was wood and white walls. Thwane strummed a chord, mentally chuckling at how he wished he could add color with some music.
"Are there more guitars where you came from?" Dante asked, a little tense from the sight out the window that will not change.
"I didn't get this instrument from my place of origin. I traveled places and looked for excitement, and I found something I can never part with: music." He began playing a clean, repetitive riff to add the enthusiasm factor to his life story. "I found the guitar when I was in Cairhien; it was the Festival of Lights, then, and the merchants are wild. I was about half-wild at the time as well, so I just bought this. Not many bards or gleemen would take to this stringed instrument for the following reasons: the harp is more elegant; the lute is slenderer thus takes up less space; and the look of this guitar itself is crude."
He began strumming slowly to a riff Dante almost found familiar. "I always prefer to be the different one, you know? I've always been a rebel. Where there is order, I wanted to counter it, but if countering goes against my way of life, I'd follow order and hope I'd survive with some shred of dignity."
Dante nodded, then sat at his bed, opposite from his roommate. "Can I have a go at that?" he asked, extending a hand.
Thwane looked at him cautiously, less than willing to part with the wood-and-steel instrument.
"I know how to play one from my world – it's a little complicated, but you can say there's a bit of lightning running through the strings when you play it," he explained.
"Alright, but please use the plectrum on mine. Just to be safe," said the bard.
"Yeah, yeah…" the half-demon muttered, amused by this concern. Of course, he would feel the same about Rebellion, and his guns. He adjusted his posture to reassure the man and held the plectrum as any player of the instrument would. He began playing one of the earliest riffs he knew of. "Back where I'm from, this song's called 'Enter Sandman'," he said.
The guitar's owner firmed his face in concentration. "There's a similar tune I've heard before I got chased out of – where is it again – Amador? Over there, I think they call it 'Fearful Prayers'," he recalled.
"Was that the reason why you got chased out?"
"No; it was the final straw when I started playing 'Marionette Player'."
When he made that connection, Dante wanted to laugh.