Malacai | Parallel
June, 1492
Though Sequoié had a near-constant lingering threat of beastly interference, most of Kankou's more civilized regions are not as used to more unordinary threats as such. Instead, cities such as Nourítíaní were more used to threats related to revolt, military enforcement, and rioting. Malacai found himself at the tail end of the events that are now referred to as Sfagí tou Nourítíaní– the Nourítíaní Massacres– exactly as Julian had feared when the boy asked to travel in the first place. He wasn't particularly in the middle of the event– in 1492 the riots had technically ended. However the streets of the urban sector were a mess and tensions still high. And eerily, the primary concern of the urbanites as of late was a recent string of gruesome deaths that were hard to explain by anything related to the massacres.
Intrigued, he listened in during a local gathering held by one armor-clad official-looking woman leading the clean-up operation. She explained that someone had been found in time to survive one of the attacks, and that the description of the perpetrator matched that of a Death Dog, according to frantic research done by one of the woman's companions. Malacai watched perched on a crate in the far back of the masses and was surprised to recognize such a creature. The woman on the platform called to hunt the creatures if seen by all means, but he couldn't help but be perplexed– Death Dogs didn't dwell in densely populated cities. No, they weren't even native to the country. The occurrence was odd, and such a creature wouldn't have come out of nowhere. His immediate assumption was that someone, somehow had brought or summoned the beasts and for a specific reason– the creatures were only attacking people part of the clean-up operation, not a single noble name had been listed, and thus he had his first lead. He hopped off his crate, put up his hood and started for the noble sector of the city.
The thing about post-massacre Nourítíaní was that, though the rebellion had done a great deal of damage to the local government and certain agreements were compromised to halt the attacks, the wall still stood. The wall wasn't the greatest in the world, but it stood on a hill and was monitored by arcane alarms on the urban side. If anyone was to head in without proper permission to disarm the alarms, they would sound off, whereas leaving the wall from the noble side didn't seem to trigger anything at all. Malacai had just gotten to this city and knew only what he'd heard from reports, chatter, and stories, however seeing the wall and knowing the general reason for the massacres, he assumed it was guarded in some way or another. For a few hours he walked up and down the premises just out of sight to look at the thing and figure out some way to get by, but nothing came to him and eventually he figured that waiting at the gate into the part of town where the attacks were happening would work just as well.
For another few hours he waited, bored, starting to question why he was taking this upon himself rather than informing the powerful-looking lady and carrying on his way– they would certainly handle it better than he could, he was a seventeen-year-old from out of town with hardly any urban experience. Those thoughts were cut off and all regrets wiped when in the dead of night, a man walked out from the gate, not triggering an alarm, wearing all black garb, but well-tailored and expensive looking garb. Going on a limb, he followed the man for blocks just far enough to be out of sight. And eventually the man stopped, looked a storefront up and down, and without much difficulty got inside and headed for the shopkeeper's flat. Malacai could assume what was about to happen, and knew it was absolutely stupid and suicidal of him to interfere. But those thoughts came to him by the time he was already in the building, and he knew they were pointless.
Though he'd studied such things a good amount in the past few years, Malacai had never seen a true summoning take place. He'd seen a few spells here and there, mostly by his father Julian, however Julian was a ranger and didn't particularly specialize in magic, rather used it for convenience in his occupation. The words the man spoke were gibberish to him, but it was clear what they summed up to. By the time Malacai was up the stairs it was too late to stop the enigmatic ritual from being completed, the last few words of the incantation muttered as he finally came into view. A woman, and presumably her child slept soundly before the roars of the creatures woke them in a panic and still thinking the entire situation was ridiculous to put himself in the middle of, Malacai drew the blade Astrum and found himself lunging at the man, not the beast. In hindsight he could have gone for the man in the thought process of, "maybe the hounds will disappear if he's unconscious," but in reality he simply did so out of resentment and disgust. He was brought up to despise beasts, that was certainly true, but the man had caused the beasts and killed seven people– and for what– political gain? to decrease morale of the lower class? Whatever it was, his eyes were locked on him first and foremost, and what resulted was a surprisingly effective swipe of the blade across the man's torso.
The woman was calmer than he'd ever be in such a chaotic scene, though she was shaken to her core and standing paralyzed with her child held tight to her chest. The creature blocked the path towards the door and all Malacai could think to do was distract it as well as he could to provide just a slim, tiny chance of the two making a run for it. So he did; the man stumbled back and was left alone as Malacai turned to the wretched two-headed hound and from behind took a swing at it, knowing it wouldn't do much to hurt it; his aim was bad, his hands were shaky, his focus was divided, and he was in the middle alone. But it did enough for the monster to turn back and face him instead of the woman and her daughter, and as it did all he could do, thinking these might be his last words, was lock eyes with the woman and say, "run."
She got the message, and she got it fast. The two were gone in a matter of seconds, the frantic thudding of terrified and urgent footsteps being the only thing remaining of them before fading out completely. In an extremely messy amalgamation of emotions, he smiled at this, only to be almost instantly lurched at by the creature in front of him, jagged teeth gauging the flesh of one of his left arm and as he stumbled back, taking that flesh with it. Ripped wounds bled profusely and began a timer to either escape or fight back– the seconds ticked by, too many and he'd be out of commission from blood loss. He gritted his teeth, fully expecting to die, and swung to hit the man behind him again, hoping it would be unexpected, riskily disregarding the beast that had just mauled him for the time. He got a win. Glancing back for just a second, Malacai's eyes widened at the sight of the wound he'd inflicted– across the neck, a perfect shot. It wasn't what he meant to do. He wasn't expecting to kill a human being.
Again, the fangs found him easily, this time clamping onto a leg and pulling it out from under him, causing him to drag across the floor, hit his head against god knows what, and get flung back into the wall, opposite the stairs. The stairs were behind the hound now, far out of reach if he wanted to run. And he'd hit his head twice, things were starting to spin– from the blood loss or the concussion, he had no idea, nor the time to ponder it. Breathing profusely, he shakily stood up, gripping his weapon with the most strength he could muster. The weapon was an elven one, finely crafted to be light and mobile, and normally this was a great benefit to him but now it became somewhat of a problem as it required dexterity and he had hardly any to spare in this state. Aiming is difficult when you're seeing double.
This thing had taken almost no damage thus far and somehow wasn't disappearing though the mage had fallen, and yet in desperation he swung. And swung again, and again, and as many times as he physically could before either fainting or being taken down. Blood dripped down the blade and onto his hands, a sign that he'd at least done something to hurt it in his last-ditch efforts. It looked worse off, but so, so much healthier than himself in the moment. Just as it felt as if he'd accomplished something, he was yet again flung to the floor, pinned. His head was bleeding now. Malacai was never the strongest person, nor the most resilient. He invested in resourcefulness and agility, and in this position, pinned to the floorboards by inhuman claws, that meant nothing. He didn't have the strength now to take on this thing, to even try pulling himself from it's grasp– he never did.
His tensed muscles relaxed, his grip on Astrum softened, and his gaze went blank, unfocused. It was a shame, he thought, that he'd put his parents through something like this. It was exactly what Julian feared. Well, one of the things he feared. Malacai didn't expect to die this way, not at all, but nonetheless he wished he'd had the foresight to at least say more to his parents– to thank them, or say he loved them one time extra, or something... All of these thoughts flashed through his head in a matter of seconds. The hound drew both heads back with the intent to rip him apart, growling, snarling, dripping blood and saliva and whatever else onto the near-unconscious body below. Malacai didn't flinch, still in his own head, lost in thought. He had a lot of regrets– he was only seventeen, he'd seen so little of the world, he didn't even have a purpose or path in life yet. But...
He smiled a subtle, broken smile through bloodied lips. He'd saved two people's lives. That's worth something. Maybe that's enough of a purpose for it to count– because of him a family was okay, and the beasts would no longer be summoned to terrorize any more. It was at the very least noble, and though he still held regrets he felt at the very least content with what he didn't regret. He could feel the hound's hold on his arms tighten, and his thoughts were muddled by the sharp pain and a gut-wrenching crack. One of them was broken– he couldn't distinguish which anymore.
The next sound he heard was a yell, something along the lines of "Now!". Then an ungodly howl, and then nothing at all as he finally succumbed to the dark.
The next sensation was an overwhelming ache encompassing his entire head. His first semi-conscious thought was contemplating what would have caused such an intense hangover. But, no, this was too much to be a hangover– though he felt just as nauseous as with a hangover, the headache wasn’t dull, it was sharp and more akin to the dizzying pain of a migraine amplified by about 400%. He groaned and kept his eyes squeezed shut, fighting the sunlight and his own circadian rhythm, then as he would in bed at home turned onto his side.
Well– he tried to. The arm he attempted to push with felt leached of all strength, and though it didn’t seem to hurt that much before, at least in comparison to the headache, putting the slightest bit of weight onto it finally made his eyes snap open, and his entire body jolt in agony.
“If you’re awake and can hear me, I’d recommend you don’t move that much.”
That voice… It was familiar enough for him to know he’d heard it and that it was somehow important, but he couldn’t name it nor connect the dots until his eyes scanned the room quickly to find the source. And– of course– of course it sounded important. The lady from the other day, the one leading the clean-up, the imposing figure on the platform. That was her voice.
“Thanks,” he muttered, instinctively, not really awake enough to filter himself quite yet, “it’s a bit late, though. I think I figured it out.”
To his surprise, she chuckled at this. A closed-mouth, subtle chuckle, but one nonetheless. The woman was still intimidating; she sat a few feet from him on a stool next to a desk where she seemed to have been writing something before he’d woken up. He looked her up and down as nonchalantly as possible. She had long, straight platinum hair, scars across her face that put his dad’s slashes from forest beasts to shame, icy blue eyes that could pierce through even the toughest man with ease, and she donned a blue uniform beneath thick knight-like armor. Her eyes were experienced, like she’d been through hell and back, but the rest of her looked years younger, as if no more than five– maybe six years his senior. The combination made it hard to tell.
“What you did was absolutely suicidal. Do you know that?” the woman commented with absolute certainty. What she stated was fact, not opinion. Malacai tried to sit up, and though it took him a moment, heaving his body weight until upright and looking straight ahead. When he finally accomplished this he could note that, in comparison, he was tall. She was absolutely no less intimidating, but from laying down or when she stood on a pedestal she seemed so much… Bigger. She had to be shorter than him by a good six… even seven inches.
Her fingers started to tap on her leg impatiently and those thoughts flew out the window, the imposing aura overwhelming once again.
“Yes ma’am– uh– wait, what’d I do?” Malacai eyed her with genuine confusion, his functioning arm running through his hair anxiously. If she didn’t know better, she’d consider this some kind of bad joke– but, considering the head wound and just how genuinely lost and unnerved he looked…
“You have a concussion. A bad one,” she explained first and foremost, getting characteristically straight to the point. Malacai nodded slowly, adding it all up. It explained alot, and he felt a bit foolish not adding it up earlier. She continued, looking stern, but strangely gracious in telling him his own story, trying to get his memories back.
“You tried to take on a death dog and it’s summoner completely by yourself. It was an inch from snapping your neck when Lieutenant Syri shot it down. What’s your name, kid?”
Malacai continued to nod at her with every sentence, taking in everything and not knowing how to react. Some memories began to reawaken in his mind– the images were one thing– the gore, the fear in the mother’s eyes, the snarl of that thing. But the feelings as they came in were so much worse. The worst coming to him in the moment being the feeling of accepting death. In hindsight he couldn’t believe how calm he was in total helplessness.
“You look like you’re having a stroke.”
“Huh? I’m sorry, I… What was the question?” Malacai blinked himself back to the present, staring blankly at the woman. She looked as if she was trying to be sympathetic but her patience was undeniably, naturally thin.
“Your name.”
“Malacai.”
She continued to look at him with the same declining patience and waved her hand vaguely in front of her as if asking to continue.
“Lykaios. Malacai Lykaios. Malacai Dionte Lykai–”
“Yes, alright, I get it, first and last is all I needed,” she glared and instantaneously Malacai shut his mouth immediately as if under an enchantment to do so. She noted the fear in his gestures and recomposed herself, shutting her eyes for a few seconds and exhaling before writing something on a document of some kind on the desk beside her and continuing on.
“I’m Commander Hydra. Have you heard of the Aspída Lodge?”
Malacai shook his head, then winced in pain from the sensitivity still apparent and aching.
“I’m from Sequoié, we’re kind of remote,” his gaze drifted to the side sheepishly, “I’ve only been out of the state for a few weeks.”
The woman– Hydra, as she called herself, narrowed her eyes. Not in anger or suspicion, but rather a certain curiosity.
“How old are you, Malacai?”
“Seventeen,” he muttered.
Her eyes widened just the slightest bit to be noticeable and her hands reached for the clipboard with the mysterious documents on it, quickly scribbling something on the paper and looking back up at him. Malacai wanted desperately to ask what she was writing; he was starting to feel like some kind of test subject or asylum patient. He was far too scared of her to ask anything at all.
“I figured you were young, but I wasn’t expecting that young– though it makes some sense considering your choices,” she quipped casually, still writing, and he felt the comment jab at his chest, “I’m going to assume you’re unemployed. You just got out of your village in the middle of nowhere and now you’re alone and wandering the streets to find some kind of calling. But, unfortunately, you found yourself walking into the aftermath of a warzone instead of finding abundant opportunity. Am I correct?
Malacai nodded slowly and cautiously. She was correct, and eerily so. The pen in Hydra’s hand ceased writing and her eyes met his again. In these moments, every single time, Malacai would think to himself that he should look away– as if he was caught staring or something– but if eye contact is what she wanted then he couldn’t look away, and this dilemma in his head warred while he looked at her and ended up showing up as a strange half-anxious, half blank expression.
“You’re extremely lucky,” she somehow sounded accusing despite the statement being obviously non-hostile. Trying to bow his head out of gratefulness, Malacai winced yet again, continuously forgetting the injured state he was in. Nonetheless he slowly moved back to his place and smiled a sheepish, embarrassed, lopsided smile.
“Yes, I know. Thank you for saving me, Miss Hydra–”
“Commander Hydra,” she corrected with the most serious and imposing tone of the entire conversation– her piercing blue eyes glaring daggers.
“I’m sorry, Hy– Miss– Miss Commander Hydra–” he went from sheepish to absolutely terrified in the span of a few seconds, tripping over his words, face slowly tinting red. She calms herself again in the same manner as earlier– closing her eyes, pausing, taking a breath, and opening them again.
“It’s okay. You’ve been through alot since yesterday. And, yes, it was lucky my compatriots and I were around to help you out, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say I saved you. Actually, I’d say that the shoppe owner– Lanae is her name– she saved you. She ran down the street and yelled for help... And, well, technically,” Hydra paused, thinking out her choice of words carefully before using them, “you saved them. If you hadn’t you’d probably all be dead. So, you technically saved yourself to an extent by doing what you did. There’s some luck involved, like I said, but nonetheless it was an impressive feat. Especially for someone your age.”
Malacai’s anxiety faded just a bit and was quickly replaced by confusion and flattery.
“You– I mean, not to discredit you or anything, but you said what I did was suicidal...”
“And?”
Malacai looked at her with horror. The insinuation that she wanted him to die was very uncalled for to say the least. Before he could retort everything was called by a halt by the singular fact that she was chuckling. A genuine chuckle, not like the tiny one earlier on but a genuine, low-toned laugh. He looked at her with an even more puzzled face.
“Got you with that one, huh,” she smirked and crossed her arms confidently, completely bemused by Malacai’s awkward, vacant stare, “I don’t want you to die, Malacai, don’t be ridiculous. Why would I have healed you up and dragged you to an inn if I wanted you dead? You can’t be so presumptuous working for someone like me.”
The words processed slowly. The joke had just barely registered, so the next bold statement was lagging behind for a good moment before understanding her intent. He continued to look confused, but this time without the horror or fear from before. His heartbeat shook him like an earthquake– though, maybe that was the concussion.
The wounds across the entirety of his body from the night before– his broken arm, the other that was nearly torn to shreds, the chunk of flesh bitten off his leg, and of course his head– it was all bandaged. Not haphazardly either like the first aid he’d do on himself; professional-level care, following procedure almost. It hit him now that, in the shopkeeper’s room, the pain was significantly more searing and disorienting and now it was only called to attention when he’d move too quickly or put weight on a sensitive area. Though there were those carefully wound bandages, there were fewer than he would have expected. He was bleeding out, after all, and torn up horribly for the most part.
As the awe set in, Hydra’s smug look morphed into a small, rare but honest smile. She casually lifted her left hand. Adorned with an inscription and the symbol of an eye bordered in intricate blue markings, Malacai didn’t know what to make of it. It was vaguely familiar, maybe he’d seen it in a book once, but was definitely not something he was familiar with.
“I’m a paladin,” she explained plainly, “don’t worry, I’m not going to force any beliefs onto you or anything. Frankly I find people who do that to be ironically narcissistic. My protectorate has nothing to do with religion, just the belief that justice for those without it is a necessity.”
“What exactly do you mean by protectorate,” Malacai narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, “Like, police? Or a political group? Vigilante justice?”
“Vigilante justice is the closest. Though, I wouldn’t call it that because it doesn’t cover all that we do, and also because it’s hard to define anything as vigilante justice when there’s no real law enforcement for many in this city, the country, and many other places. In the past few weeks, on this side of the wall have you seen a single guard? Policeperson? Anyone keeping this place safe?”
“Other than you? No, I haven’t,” he answered with surprising confidence, showing that he’d thought about the topic and had his suspicions on the case, “and I was deeply confused how there could be seven murders and two assaults and no one official investigating or anything...”
“Good eye,” she complimented him again and his climbing confidence rose even more, “they don’t come around these parts. They don’t care. They stay behind their wall and luckily I signed a treaty to get them to stop killing us for petty things, and to end the massacre but... Though there’s less bloodshed, it’s not much better than it was. They still take their taxes and goods from our port, they still keep us separate as if we’re cockroaches they want to keep out of their mansions, they, apparently, summon beasts to murder our innocent townsfolk to prove a fucking point...”
She got more intense, more furious with every word from her lips. She seemed to be rambling a bit, like this was her life’s purpose, and it likely was. Malacai listened intently, connecting things to what he’d seen and experienced just in the past week. And he respected her. He respected the cause and validated her anger, even if he wasn’t from the city, the place was obviously unyielding and warped.
Hydra calmed herself just slightly; just enough to connect her prior monologue to the point she was originally trying to make. Her eyes softened, her hands that were just gesturing fervently fell to her lap.
“I singled you out and chose to speak with you directly for a reason, Malacai,” she looks at him seriously, but with some kind of heartening nature behind the shell she dons, “What you did was reckless, yes. But I wholeheartedly want you to continue doing similar deeds. This time with backup rather than completely on your own. That was the part that was suicidal– going in alone– but other than that, the choice you made to save two people over yourself for the sake of stopping this depravity, or at least helping someone get out alive... That’s exactly what proves you a perfect fit for the Lodge, and that you have the potential to be an underling of me, specifically. In time, of course, but you’d be fast-tracked and headed for Lance Knight status and with the kind of boldness and determination you showed last night I don’t think surpassing others who want the position will be too difficult.”
Hydra reached for the clipboard once more and placed the pen atop it, then holding it out for Malacai to take. With his functional arm he did so, head spinning for a million reasons now. More than anything he felt sheer awe. Awe at what was happening, awe that he was personally approached, remaining awe that he was alive in general, awe that within a couple weeks he’d found something promising to involve himself in...
The clipboard held a few documents, but the top one was the most relevant and first read. It was a recruitment form, as she was suggesting, but a somewhat odd one. He, of course, didn’t have much experience with recruitment forms, but the odd parts that stuck out to him had to have stood out for a reason. It appeared like a contract, but in a way reminded him more of a paladin’s oath– there was a list of rules, but also a group-wide set of core beliefs. The document was designed to not look or act like a company hiring employees, but instead to represent dedication to a cause.
Of course, there was more than that on the paper, and reading the fine print he figured would be necessary, but overcome by a newfound confidence and purpose, he hardly skimmed it before etching in the information required and signing his name. With one arm still intact, he returned the clipboard to Commander Hydra with a smile on his lips. And she smiled back, thoroughly pleased with his choice.
“Welcome aboard, Privateer.”
Intrigued, he listened in during a local gathering held by one armor-clad official-looking woman leading the clean-up operation. She explained that someone had been found in time to survive one of the attacks, and that the description of the perpetrator matched that of a Death Dog, according to frantic research done by one of the woman's companions. Malacai watched perched on a crate in the far back of the masses and was surprised to recognize such a creature. The woman on the platform called to hunt the creatures if seen by all means, but he couldn't help but be perplexed– Death Dogs didn't dwell in densely populated cities. No, they weren't even native to the country. The occurrence was odd, and such a creature wouldn't have come out of nowhere. His immediate assumption was that someone, somehow had brought or summoned the beasts and for a specific reason– the creatures were only attacking people part of the clean-up operation, not a single noble name had been listed, and thus he had his first lead. He hopped off his crate, put up his hood and started for the noble sector of the city.
The thing about post-massacre Nourítíaní was that, though the rebellion had done a great deal of damage to the local government and certain agreements were compromised to halt the attacks, the wall still stood. The wall wasn't the greatest in the world, but it stood on a hill and was monitored by arcane alarms on the urban side. If anyone was to head in without proper permission to disarm the alarms, they would sound off, whereas leaving the wall from the noble side didn't seem to trigger anything at all. Malacai had just gotten to this city and knew only what he'd heard from reports, chatter, and stories, however seeing the wall and knowing the general reason for the massacres, he assumed it was guarded in some way or another. For a few hours he walked up and down the premises just out of sight to look at the thing and figure out some way to get by, but nothing came to him and eventually he figured that waiting at the gate into the part of town where the attacks were happening would work just as well.
For another few hours he waited, bored, starting to question why he was taking this upon himself rather than informing the powerful-looking lady and carrying on his way– they would certainly handle it better than he could, he was a seventeen-year-old from out of town with hardly any urban experience. Those thoughts were cut off and all regrets wiped when in the dead of night, a man walked out from the gate, not triggering an alarm, wearing all black garb, but well-tailored and expensive looking garb. Going on a limb, he followed the man for blocks just far enough to be out of sight. And eventually the man stopped, looked a storefront up and down, and without much difficulty got inside and headed for the shopkeeper's flat. Malacai could assume what was about to happen, and knew it was absolutely stupid and suicidal of him to interfere. But those thoughts came to him by the time he was already in the building, and he knew they were pointless.
Though he'd studied such things a good amount in the past few years, Malacai had never seen a true summoning take place. He'd seen a few spells here and there, mostly by his father Julian, however Julian was a ranger and didn't particularly specialize in magic, rather used it for convenience in his occupation. The words the man spoke were gibberish to him, but it was clear what they summed up to. By the time Malacai was up the stairs it was too late to stop the enigmatic ritual from being completed, the last few words of the incantation muttered as he finally came into view. A woman, and presumably her child slept soundly before the roars of the creatures woke them in a panic and still thinking the entire situation was ridiculous to put himself in the middle of, Malacai drew the blade Astrum and found himself lunging at the man, not the beast. In hindsight he could have gone for the man in the thought process of, "maybe the hounds will disappear if he's unconscious," but in reality he simply did so out of resentment and disgust. He was brought up to despise beasts, that was certainly true, but the man had caused the beasts and killed seven people– and for what– political gain? to decrease morale of the lower class? Whatever it was, his eyes were locked on him first and foremost, and what resulted was a surprisingly effective swipe of the blade across the man's torso.
The woman was calmer than he'd ever be in such a chaotic scene, though she was shaken to her core and standing paralyzed with her child held tight to her chest. The creature blocked the path towards the door and all Malacai could think to do was distract it as well as he could to provide just a slim, tiny chance of the two making a run for it. So he did; the man stumbled back and was left alone as Malacai turned to the wretched two-headed hound and from behind took a swing at it, knowing it wouldn't do much to hurt it; his aim was bad, his hands were shaky, his focus was divided, and he was in the middle alone. But it did enough for the monster to turn back and face him instead of the woman and her daughter, and as it did all he could do, thinking these might be his last words, was lock eyes with the woman and say, "run."
She got the message, and she got it fast. The two were gone in a matter of seconds, the frantic thudding of terrified and urgent footsteps being the only thing remaining of them before fading out completely. In an extremely messy amalgamation of emotions, he smiled at this, only to be almost instantly lurched at by the creature in front of him, jagged teeth gauging the flesh of one of his left arm and as he stumbled back, taking that flesh with it. Ripped wounds bled profusely and began a timer to either escape or fight back– the seconds ticked by, too many and he'd be out of commission from blood loss. He gritted his teeth, fully expecting to die, and swung to hit the man behind him again, hoping it would be unexpected, riskily disregarding the beast that had just mauled him for the time. He got a win. Glancing back for just a second, Malacai's eyes widened at the sight of the wound he'd inflicted– across the neck, a perfect shot. It wasn't what he meant to do. He wasn't expecting to kill a human being.
Again, the fangs found him easily, this time clamping onto a leg and pulling it out from under him, causing him to drag across the floor, hit his head against god knows what, and get flung back into the wall, opposite the stairs. The stairs were behind the hound now, far out of reach if he wanted to run. And he'd hit his head twice, things were starting to spin– from the blood loss or the concussion, he had no idea, nor the time to ponder it. Breathing profusely, he shakily stood up, gripping his weapon with the most strength he could muster. The weapon was an elven one, finely crafted to be light and mobile, and normally this was a great benefit to him but now it became somewhat of a problem as it required dexterity and he had hardly any to spare in this state. Aiming is difficult when you're seeing double.
This thing had taken almost no damage thus far and somehow wasn't disappearing though the mage had fallen, and yet in desperation he swung. And swung again, and again, and as many times as he physically could before either fainting or being taken down. Blood dripped down the blade and onto his hands, a sign that he'd at least done something to hurt it in his last-ditch efforts. It looked worse off, but so, so much healthier than himself in the moment. Just as it felt as if he'd accomplished something, he was yet again flung to the floor, pinned. His head was bleeding now. Malacai was never the strongest person, nor the most resilient. He invested in resourcefulness and agility, and in this position, pinned to the floorboards by inhuman claws, that meant nothing. He didn't have the strength now to take on this thing, to even try pulling himself from it's grasp– he never did.
His tensed muscles relaxed, his grip on Astrum softened, and his gaze went blank, unfocused. It was a shame, he thought, that he'd put his parents through something like this. It was exactly what Julian feared. Well, one of the things he feared. Malacai didn't expect to die this way, not at all, but nonetheless he wished he'd had the foresight to at least say more to his parents– to thank them, or say he loved them one time extra, or something... All of these thoughts flashed through his head in a matter of seconds. The hound drew both heads back with the intent to rip him apart, growling, snarling, dripping blood and saliva and whatever else onto the near-unconscious body below. Malacai didn't flinch, still in his own head, lost in thought. He had a lot of regrets– he was only seventeen, he'd seen so little of the world, he didn't even have a purpose or path in life yet. But...
He smiled a subtle, broken smile through bloodied lips. He'd saved two people's lives. That's worth something. Maybe that's enough of a purpose for it to count– because of him a family was okay, and the beasts would no longer be summoned to terrorize any more. It was at the very least noble, and though he still held regrets he felt at the very least content with what he didn't regret. He could feel the hound's hold on his arms tighten, and his thoughts were muddled by the sharp pain and a gut-wrenching crack. One of them was broken– he couldn't distinguish which anymore.
The next sound he heard was a yell, something along the lines of "Now!". Then an ungodly howl, and then nothing at all as he finally succumbed to the dark.
The next sensation was an overwhelming ache encompassing his entire head. His first semi-conscious thought was contemplating what would have caused such an intense hangover. But, no, this was too much to be a hangover– though he felt just as nauseous as with a hangover, the headache wasn’t dull, it was sharp and more akin to the dizzying pain of a migraine amplified by about 400%. He groaned and kept his eyes squeezed shut, fighting the sunlight and his own circadian rhythm, then as he would in bed at home turned onto his side.
Well– he tried to. The arm he attempted to push with felt leached of all strength, and though it didn’t seem to hurt that much before, at least in comparison to the headache, putting the slightest bit of weight onto it finally made his eyes snap open, and his entire body jolt in agony.
“If you’re awake and can hear me, I’d recommend you don’t move that much.”
That voice… It was familiar enough for him to know he’d heard it and that it was somehow important, but he couldn’t name it nor connect the dots until his eyes scanned the room quickly to find the source. And– of course– of course it sounded important. The lady from the other day, the one leading the clean-up, the imposing figure on the platform. That was her voice.
“Thanks,” he muttered, instinctively, not really awake enough to filter himself quite yet, “it’s a bit late, though. I think I figured it out.”
To his surprise, she chuckled at this. A closed-mouth, subtle chuckle, but one nonetheless. The woman was still intimidating; she sat a few feet from him on a stool next to a desk where she seemed to have been writing something before he’d woken up. He looked her up and down as nonchalantly as possible. She had long, straight platinum hair, scars across her face that put his dad’s slashes from forest beasts to shame, icy blue eyes that could pierce through even the toughest man with ease, and she donned a blue uniform beneath thick knight-like armor. Her eyes were experienced, like she’d been through hell and back, but the rest of her looked years younger, as if no more than five– maybe six years his senior. The combination made it hard to tell.
“What you did was absolutely suicidal. Do you know that?” the woman commented with absolute certainty. What she stated was fact, not opinion. Malacai tried to sit up, and though it took him a moment, heaving his body weight until upright and looking straight ahead. When he finally accomplished this he could note that, in comparison, he was tall. She was absolutely no less intimidating, but from laying down or when she stood on a pedestal she seemed so much… Bigger. She had to be shorter than him by a good six… even seven inches.
Her fingers started to tap on her leg impatiently and those thoughts flew out the window, the imposing aura overwhelming once again.
“Yes ma’am– uh– wait, what’d I do?” Malacai eyed her with genuine confusion, his functioning arm running through his hair anxiously. If she didn’t know better, she’d consider this some kind of bad joke– but, considering the head wound and just how genuinely lost and unnerved he looked…
“You have a concussion. A bad one,” she explained first and foremost, getting characteristically straight to the point. Malacai nodded slowly, adding it all up. It explained alot, and he felt a bit foolish not adding it up earlier. She continued, looking stern, but strangely gracious in telling him his own story, trying to get his memories back.
“You tried to take on a death dog and it’s summoner completely by yourself. It was an inch from snapping your neck when Lieutenant Syri shot it down. What’s your name, kid?”
Malacai continued to nod at her with every sentence, taking in everything and not knowing how to react. Some memories began to reawaken in his mind– the images were one thing– the gore, the fear in the mother’s eyes, the snarl of that thing. But the feelings as they came in were so much worse. The worst coming to him in the moment being the feeling of accepting death. In hindsight he couldn’t believe how calm he was in total helplessness.
“You look like you’re having a stroke.”
“Huh? I’m sorry, I… What was the question?” Malacai blinked himself back to the present, staring blankly at the woman. She looked as if she was trying to be sympathetic but her patience was undeniably, naturally thin.
“Your name.”
“Malacai.”
She continued to look at him with the same declining patience and waved her hand vaguely in front of her as if asking to continue.
“Lykaios. Malacai Lykaios. Malacai Dionte Lykai–”
“Yes, alright, I get it, first and last is all I needed,” she glared and instantaneously Malacai shut his mouth immediately as if under an enchantment to do so. She noted the fear in his gestures and recomposed herself, shutting her eyes for a few seconds and exhaling before writing something on a document of some kind on the desk beside her and continuing on.
“I’m Commander Hydra. Have you heard of the Aspída Lodge?”
Malacai shook his head, then winced in pain from the sensitivity still apparent and aching.
“I’m from Sequoié, we’re kind of remote,” his gaze drifted to the side sheepishly, “I’ve only been out of the state for a few weeks.”
The woman– Hydra, as she called herself, narrowed her eyes. Not in anger or suspicion, but rather a certain curiosity.
“How old are you, Malacai?”
“Seventeen,” he muttered.
Her eyes widened just the slightest bit to be noticeable and her hands reached for the clipboard with the mysterious documents on it, quickly scribbling something on the paper and looking back up at him. Malacai wanted desperately to ask what she was writing; he was starting to feel like some kind of test subject or asylum patient. He was far too scared of her to ask anything at all.
“I figured you were young, but I wasn’t expecting that young– though it makes some sense considering your choices,” she quipped casually, still writing, and he felt the comment jab at his chest, “I’m going to assume you’re unemployed. You just got out of your village in the middle of nowhere and now you’re alone and wandering the streets to find some kind of calling. But, unfortunately, you found yourself walking into the aftermath of a warzone instead of finding abundant opportunity. Am I correct?
Malacai nodded slowly and cautiously. She was correct, and eerily so. The pen in Hydra’s hand ceased writing and her eyes met his again. In these moments, every single time, Malacai would think to himself that he should look away– as if he was caught staring or something– but if eye contact is what she wanted then he couldn’t look away, and this dilemma in his head warred while he looked at her and ended up showing up as a strange half-anxious, half blank expression.
“You’re extremely lucky,” she somehow sounded accusing despite the statement being obviously non-hostile. Trying to bow his head out of gratefulness, Malacai winced yet again, continuously forgetting the injured state he was in. Nonetheless he slowly moved back to his place and smiled a sheepish, embarrassed, lopsided smile.
“Yes, I know. Thank you for saving me, Miss Hydra–”
“Commander Hydra,” she corrected with the most serious and imposing tone of the entire conversation– her piercing blue eyes glaring daggers.
“I’m sorry, Hy– Miss– Miss Commander Hydra–” he went from sheepish to absolutely terrified in the span of a few seconds, tripping over his words, face slowly tinting red. She calms herself again in the same manner as earlier– closing her eyes, pausing, taking a breath, and opening them again.
“It’s okay. You’ve been through alot since yesterday. And, yes, it was lucky my compatriots and I were around to help you out, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say I saved you. Actually, I’d say that the shoppe owner– Lanae is her name– she saved you. She ran down the street and yelled for help... And, well, technically,” Hydra paused, thinking out her choice of words carefully before using them, “you saved them. If you hadn’t you’d probably all be dead. So, you technically saved yourself to an extent by doing what you did. There’s some luck involved, like I said, but nonetheless it was an impressive feat. Especially for someone your age.”
Malacai’s anxiety faded just a bit and was quickly replaced by confusion and flattery.
“You– I mean, not to discredit you or anything, but you said what I did was suicidal...”
“And?”
Malacai looked at her with horror. The insinuation that she wanted him to die was very uncalled for to say the least. Before he could retort everything was called by a halt by the singular fact that she was chuckling. A genuine chuckle, not like the tiny one earlier on but a genuine, low-toned laugh. He looked at her with an even more puzzled face.
“Got you with that one, huh,” she smirked and crossed her arms confidently, completely bemused by Malacai’s awkward, vacant stare, “I don’t want you to die, Malacai, don’t be ridiculous. Why would I have healed you up and dragged you to an inn if I wanted you dead? You can’t be so presumptuous working for someone like me.”
The words processed slowly. The joke had just barely registered, so the next bold statement was lagging behind for a good moment before understanding her intent. He continued to look confused, but this time without the horror or fear from before. His heartbeat shook him like an earthquake– though, maybe that was the concussion.
The wounds across the entirety of his body from the night before– his broken arm, the other that was nearly torn to shreds, the chunk of flesh bitten off his leg, and of course his head– it was all bandaged. Not haphazardly either like the first aid he’d do on himself; professional-level care, following procedure almost. It hit him now that, in the shopkeeper’s room, the pain was significantly more searing and disorienting and now it was only called to attention when he’d move too quickly or put weight on a sensitive area. Though there were those carefully wound bandages, there were fewer than he would have expected. He was bleeding out, after all, and torn up horribly for the most part.
As the awe set in, Hydra’s smug look morphed into a small, rare but honest smile. She casually lifted her left hand. Adorned with an inscription and the symbol of an eye bordered in intricate blue markings, Malacai didn’t know what to make of it. It was vaguely familiar, maybe he’d seen it in a book once, but was definitely not something he was familiar with.
“I’m a paladin,” she explained plainly, “don’t worry, I’m not going to force any beliefs onto you or anything. Frankly I find people who do that to be ironically narcissistic. My protectorate has nothing to do with religion, just the belief that justice for those without it is a necessity.”
“What exactly do you mean by protectorate,” Malacai narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, “Like, police? Or a political group? Vigilante justice?”
“Vigilante justice is the closest. Though, I wouldn’t call it that because it doesn’t cover all that we do, and also because it’s hard to define anything as vigilante justice when there’s no real law enforcement for many in this city, the country, and many other places. In the past few weeks, on this side of the wall have you seen a single guard? Policeperson? Anyone keeping this place safe?”
“Other than you? No, I haven’t,” he answered with surprising confidence, showing that he’d thought about the topic and had his suspicions on the case, “and I was deeply confused how there could be seven murders and two assaults and no one official investigating or anything...”
“Good eye,” she complimented him again and his climbing confidence rose even more, “they don’t come around these parts. They don’t care. They stay behind their wall and luckily I signed a treaty to get them to stop killing us for petty things, and to end the massacre but... Though there’s less bloodshed, it’s not much better than it was. They still take their taxes and goods from our port, they still keep us separate as if we’re cockroaches they want to keep out of their mansions, they, apparently, summon beasts to murder our innocent townsfolk to prove a fucking point...”
She got more intense, more furious with every word from her lips. She seemed to be rambling a bit, like this was her life’s purpose, and it likely was. Malacai listened intently, connecting things to what he’d seen and experienced just in the past week. And he respected her. He respected the cause and validated her anger, even if he wasn’t from the city, the place was obviously unyielding and warped.
Hydra calmed herself just slightly; just enough to connect her prior monologue to the point she was originally trying to make. Her eyes softened, her hands that were just gesturing fervently fell to her lap.
“I singled you out and chose to speak with you directly for a reason, Malacai,” she looks at him seriously, but with some kind of heartening nature behind the shell she dons, “What you did was reckless, yes. But I wholeheartedly want you to continue doing similar deeds. This time with backup rather than completely on your own. That was the part that was suicidal– going in alone– but other than that, the choice you made to save two people over yourself for the sake of stopping this depravity, or at least helping someone get out alive... That’s exactly what proves you a perfect fit for the Lodge, and that you have the potential to be an underling of me, specifically. In time, of course, but you’d be fast-tracked and headed for Lance Knight status and with the kind of boldness and determination you showed last night I don’t think surpassing others who want the position will be too difficult.”
Hydra reached for the clipboard once more and placed the pen atop it, then holding it out for Malacai to take. With his functional arm he did so, head spinning for a million reasons now. More than anything he felt sheer awe. Awe at what was happening, awe that he was personally approached, remaining awe that he was alive in general, awe that within a couple weeks he’d found something promising to involve himself in...
The clipboard held a few documents, but the top one was the most relevant and first read. It was a recruitment form, as she was suggesting, but a somewhat odd one. He, of course, didn’t have much experience with recruitment forms, but the odd parts that stuck out to him had to have stood out for a reason. It appeared like a contract, but in a way reminded him more of a paladin’s oath– there was a list of rules, but also a group-wide set of core beliefs. The document was designed to not look or act like a company hiring employees, but instead to represent dedication to a cause.
Of course, there was more than that on the paper, and reading the fine print he figured would be necessary, but overcome by a newfound confidence and purpose, he hardly skimmed it before etching in the information required and signing his name. With one arm still intact, he returned the clipboard to Commander Hydra with a smile on his lips. And she smiled back, thoroughly pleased with his choice.
“Welcome aboard, Privateer.”
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