[GW2] Splinter – Reaper

[[ warning: a few gory details ]]

He stares at the paper for a long while, lifting his hand to his chin and scratching the beard absently.

“You’re sure?” he asks, sliding the paper back to his companion — the years had been kinder to him, and he’s certain the Norn has his own predilections as to the situation at hand. “You don’t have to say yes, Farrinsson. I can take care of the bastard alone, but if you’d prefer my company…”

“And let you take the whole bounty all for yourself? I thought you knew me, Ironwood. Truly, I’m shocked.” Fiel’s eyes widen and his lips droop open in pretend shock, dramatic hand over his heart and exaggerated gasp included.

A small smile creeps across the hunter’s face as he leaves the portrait to Fiel, rocking back in his chair. His chair, that has a nice ring to it. A chair that he’d bought with his own money, placed in his own room, rent free of all things — and to boot, a fireplace, a bed, the presence (and absence) of the sylvari sprout that kept him company, all while his mountainous friend loomed over them all from the tops of his waterfalls. The hollow has proven a useful space to everyone involved, if not a little ill-traveled for the Captain personally. That could and would be rectified in time, and hopefully soon; there’s an itch sitting deep in his spine, and a dire, pressing need for a change of pace and scenery.

Today, he’s found a break.

“He’s been seen heading South through the edges of the Hinterlands towards Lions’ Arch. We can detour him back into Queensdale if we’re clever, run him right into the sea in Kessex. Sound fair?”

He watches Fiel’s face for a moment, waiting on an answer but there’s a muted sort of anger and savage delight that radiates from him. That pulls a grin from Ironwood as well, a kind of hearty chuckle at the expense of the Norn. That deep-set malice in him was left there for the people who knew him well enough to detect. Cap knows what has to be done.

“Have your, uh, engineer friend babysit the cat, he likes that, right? The scrawny one with the Facial hair that makes him look like a Dolyak”

“I’d say it makes him look more like a skritt” Fiel raises his eyes to meet the captain’s, “Yes… yes he loves the bird. I don’t think he’d say no.”

But the necromancer’s attention is already back to the bounty slip. Ironwood is watching him carefully, his cheek resting upon his hand as he watches him with rapt fascination. Sure, he’s been on the opposite end of this plenty of times, the revenge fantasy that he’d scripted out and played all too carefully. The Norn mutters the name, more to himself than for his companion. Willhem S. Kendrall. It rolls off his tongue with a taste of nostalgia much too sweet to be about a beloved friend. A human. Expelled from the Priory for reasons only a few knew, a brilliant and astute researcher whose downfall was his willingness to not let pedantic things like “morals” and “ethics” slow his progress, and with more than a few charges making his name in Kryta and on the outposts that sit right on the fringes of that leash that Jesse wears so well, it was just too good to resist for the pair. Along with the added bonuses of a personal vendetta and a hefty pay, this was a shoe-in. The smaller hums, rubbing his pointer finger over his face. A challenge lying in wait.

As it turns out, more people than just the Durmand Priory had to deal with his… methods. Now he was wanted, dead or alive.

Dead is just how Fiel wants him to be. The captain is all too willing to oblige him.

It’s was decided fairly quickly that there was little fairness in leaving the necromancer behind, especially when it came to matters such as these. Jesse doesn’t ask, Fiel doesn’t tell, and they wander on foot towards the gate leading to the pirate fields he’s come back to time and time again with a growing distaste for the freshwater there. It doesn’t quite dawn on him that they’ve been apart for a few long years, where one was galavanting across Orr, the other had been rotting in prison for a short while. Details purposefully remain vague.

“I leave you alone for a day, no — an hour, and you got yourself arrested”

“Believe me, I didn’t want to be there” he hums, checking the barrel of his pistol for a moment before holstering, “I got thirsty, they found me on the way back from the monastery”

“You are perhaps–”

“‘The worst pirate I’ve ever heard of’, believe me. I’ve heard that one before”

“I was about to say ‘very unlucky’, but you’re here now and that’s what matters”

“Right, as a bounty hunter. Really, this is where I wanted to go with my life after being pulled from a caged pit”

“You’re free, you idiot. Being a dog on a leash is still better than being a dog in a cage.”

They fall back into step with each other with an ease that had not been present before. Angry and hurt, Ironwood realizes now the unfairness with which Fiel was treated in that swamp all those years ago, where he’d been nothing more than a dog on the run and the necromancer had done nothing to garner such ire. Maybe that’s why he’s here. Maybe that’s why the remorse feels so heavy.

“A dog is still a dog” he finally breathes after a silence, “and a dog is not a free man”

Fiel readjusts the tall, heavy sword on his back, switches his grip on his staff.

“A dog is alive” he mutters. There’s no reply.

The plains are quiet. The wind is for the moment, as calm as it can be on such empty spaces, and amidst the silence, there is a crackle in the air. The hunter shifts uneasily on his feet. The sun was beginning to lie down over his bed of smooth emerald hills, now blanketed by a quilt of crimson and ochre. Villagers are closing up shops, gathering their linen for the night, dropping off their farming tools and shuffling their weary feet to the local tavern after a long day of honest labor.

“If he’s smart, he’ll give up where he stands”

“Unlikely”

Kendrall was smart, but he was also proud, something at the origin of the downfall of many a man. And so as he traveled, unhidden, and had been seen. On several occasions.

Fiel goes where the people are gathered and immediately begins to flirt his way into more intel while the gunman watches on– it was hit or miss, the necromancer being what he was, and looking as he did. The Captain begins wishing that he’d been the one to talk them down. He starts to talk to the barkeep, joking and sliding coin into his pockets for the right kind of smile, the sly slip of information.

A traveler among many other, with the distinctive trait of looking rather posh for someone traveling alone, and insufferably peckish about the state of his bedsheets, one who was currently renting a room upstairs. A man matching the description of Kendrall, of all things.

The norn looks up and glares at the roof, as if he could already see him through the boards. “Easy” the smaller croons, thanking the barkeep and walking outside, dragging Fiel outside by his furs.

“I don’t think we should confront him right here,” he mutters to the captain, “Too many bystanders” Jesse casts a long glance at him and he can feel the rage rolling off of his shoulders. He’s being calm, despite every fiber of his being wanting something else entirely. “If he’s as dangerous as they claim him to be then we shouldn’t bring other people into it. Besides, we don’t know if he’s even alone. I suggest we wait for him at the edge of the village”

A shrug, the tilting and nodding of a head as he agrees. They make their way to the edge of down, just on the edge of the orchards, just before the birds settle down for the night.

Night rolls over their heads on his starry chariot, chasing the last memory of the day away. They take turn dozing off and standing guard. The captain takes his shifts from the orchards, stealing apples when he can to keep him awake, but Fiel is restless. He’s running the nail of his thumb over the veins of his staff over and over, spins it in his hand, and Jesse watches soundlessly. It doesn’t take an asura to figure out what this means for him, the weight of this name on his mind and in his hands. Sleep, it seems, evades them both in full. Sure, there is time for many things but little is said, and done, save for the moments where they switch their shifts, but they don’t speak at length. Dawn rises over them in her gown of pink and honey, and the sun, well rested and cheerful, greets the birds and the laborers going to the fields with warm kisses.

Another one comes as well, alone, a nicely sculpted walking stick in his hand.

His hair is shorter now, tightly gathered in a neat chestnut ponytail, streaked lighter with age. The man was thin as a plank, and by all means, this is the man they’ve been waiting for — Jesse watches on with wariness, but his focus is drawn to Fiel, who twists his hands around his staff and hefts the greatsword upon his back. His face is unreadable, but the way the necromancer struggles not to twist it into something obvious was… obvious.

He walks at a brisk pace, eyes locked in front of him, not seeing his path but rather his destination. He barely noticed the two standing at the side of the road, barely noticed as they stepped out of the tree line. Fiel takes point. The Captain keeps his hands on his guns to his sides behind him, and as the man stops in the dust, silence falls between them all.

Kendrall makes the first real expression of the morning, his eyes go wide with anger and recognition, then warps with ferocious delight. The gunslinger hazards a glance at Fiel, finding something akin to that same feral glee pulling at every muscle. He stiffens visibly.

“Farrinsson…” the man purrs. He so very subtly squares his stance, grip tightening over his stick.

Fiel finally speaks, excitement riding on his voice, lips curling in a vicious half-smile.

“Glad you remember me, after all those years.”

The human scoffs, looking insulted. “Of course I remember. I have an excellent memory.” He too smiles, perfect white teeth flashing in the morning light. “I also remember Arnlaug, and Geirholf, and–”

“Fuck you!”

He’s never been one to deny revenge, but the norn moves with much more power than he expects, and leaps into action before the captain can call him back. He’s been like a creaking spring pulled taught all night long, and now the man’s voice and the mysterious implications behind them were enough to make him explode into the fight without a proper assessment. The captain is cursing and pulling iron from his hips but by then, the larger has already cleared the space between them. The staff is tossed aside, and the tall dark sword comes swinging from his back. It always looked awkward and cumbersome, riding on the norn’s back like a dull-looking slab of black iron. Now it danced in his hand like it too had a grudge, and behind the thud of his heart and the thrill of the hunt, there is a fear that nestles somewhere in his ribs.

Fiel thrusts his free hand forward, and his soft morning-purple shadow darkens, and stretches, and rushes across the dirt to meet Kendrall’s feet. Long shadowy fingers rise and curl around the man’s legs and they pull him, drag him over the dirt, wide-eyed in alarm, launch him towards the eager tip of the sword.

But the man raises his cane, and a wall of stone springs from the dirt, checking his mad advance with fifteen feet of solid rock to either side. Steel chips stone where it should have met flesh, sparks and dust fall where crimson should have poured, and a patch of frost splatters across the wall like white ink.

Fiel roars in frustration, and as he did, five little red imps wreathed in fire rose from behind it, chittering and grinning with anticipation. He doesn’t like these odds. He doesn’t like this fight and with not much of a second thought, and only the technicals playing out in his head, he unloads one pistol into two imps and races towards the other.

“UP–!”

Fiel barely looks at him before the slighter leaps and uses the necromancer as a springboard, sending him up the wall and perching on top. The conjurer looks up with the smallest hint of surprise before raising his cane again — his scepter, launching a wave of stone slivers at him. Quickly he dodges to the left and leaps downward and into the shadows of the wall he’s made, stepping out quickly and making a break for his flank. One shot, then two. Kendrall shouts and shoves his hand out. Wild gestures, a spell hissed through gritted teeth — one bullet hits him below the elbow, the second he barely avoided by being surprisingly spry. The others are intercepted by the tall homunculus of ice that appeared between the two of them with dull cracks.

There’s no going through it, so he has to improvise. With no time to find his sword, the dagger will have to do, and he distantly worries about what happens on the other side of the wall as he steps to the elementalist and thrusts. A parry, a blow to the side of the head with the cane, and he’s situating his pistol in the skeletal claw of a hand to fire, the the elemental is there again, blocking the shot with it’s shuddering body as per its summoner’s wishes. One arm raises and flings the man a couple dozen paces, easy.

Steel clashes with the stone on the other side of the wall, he watches the flaming shadows of the imps disappear with care as he rights himself. Before he’s on his feet, the necromancer is over the wall and covered in a dark shroud that he definitely doesn’t remember from their previous time together, swinging his sword at and through the elemental on the warpath. Jesse doesn’t pause — his assault on Kendrall resumes with bloodlust, doing his best to ignore a fight that only serves as a distraction.

Their combined efforts however, don’t stop the human’s quicker tactics. The colossus flings Fiel into the stone wall with a cry, and his own wants, his own needs to help are choked out with the desire to end this sordid, pathetic fight as quickly as possible. The pirate raises his gun and fires once, twice, thrice with no effect — Kendrall is throwing up stones faster than he can pull the trigger, hands up and drawing on whatever powers he had to make sure the bounty hunter doesn’t catch him.

The elementalist doesn’t pull any punches, with all kind of tricks to ward himself from the gunslinger’s assault. Lightning shoots from his finger, forcing Jesse to the ground as he avoids the arcing electricity the last acts of a coward. No matter how he tries to step no matter how he tries to move, there is a storm of fire and lightning that keeps him from stepping too close, all while he skips and jumps farther and farther back, one hand clutched to his reddening side.

“Enough of this!” he huffs, and with his eyes he utters a silent order to his elemental minion.

The ice construct leans over and rushes forward, catching the necromancer before he can dodge, and they both crash into the weakened wall. Fiel can barely scream as he is buried under a huge pile of rocks and ice, and then there was no more sound.

The desperation rises in the gunslinger’s throat, he turns towards the fleeing man and the fire he sets in his path as he runs, his strides carried by a strong wind.

Something calls on him, something grabs him from the inside and jerks him out through his throat as he races forward and throws his hand out towards him before he gets too far.

It’s a sliver sliding under his skin, and one being ripped out.

He sees it, he can see it this time. It’s not a strange sight, he’s done this on his lesser marks, the animals and beasts and pests he takes up for target practice. He can see the way it marks him with a great big red target on his back, an ember that grows brighter with every passing moment. He’s done this before, at least, he knows what this means, but his attention is pulled back towards the smoking pile he’s left behind in the wake.

There is silence as a flash of light takes his mark, and disappears into the aether.

“Shit, Fiel-!” he shouts, and turns heel back towards him — the mess of it all, the horrible wreckage left in the course of battle. There’s no lifting the rubble, but he tries. He flings stones and ice to the side in search of him, shaking desperate to find him —

The smoking rocks shiver for a moment, then erupts with an explosion of shadows and a banshee-like wail. Fiel, crushed by stones, pierced by ice, felt his life suddenly escape him. The shadows not only clung to him, but bled from him, morphing him into a simulacrum vaguely shaped like him. He had become a wraith, Death incarnate, as a grim incarnation.

In the awesome, terrifying, thrilling blend of senses, both mortal and otherworldly, he sees him as he ran away, a beacon of warmth in a world of trembling shades. But before it could give chase, the elementalist disappears.

Fiel wails once more, his hunger unsatiated, his vengeance denied.

His initial fury spent in one piercing cry, the wraith that was Fiel unavoidingly turns towards the next beacon closest to him. At least he still has enough senses to know him as his friend and companion, and Jesse is in no danger from him. He raises his hands up and hovers above this shadow of his friend with trepidation, fear and pushes him back. There is no moving on from here. They have to take the step back, lick their wounds.

Still, the shadow peers at him with flickering and yet unwavering eyes, and he feels pierced through.

“…Why are you looking at me like that? You’re the one who looks like shit” he manages, his chest trembling with a fear too deep-set to write off as circumstantial.

The norn’s form, his reprieve from death, finally leaves him with one last mournful sigh, the shadows dissolving under the strengthening daylight. The wounds he suffered instantly begin to bleed once again. One of the necromancer’s arms is broken, his left eye is swollen shut with blood, cuts and burns everywhere, and one sharp sliver of stone juts from his leg. He tries to chuckle but there is no air in him. He falls on his knees and can only mutter a weak “Can’t”. He musters all the strength he has left to summon a pool of thick, crimson liquid under him. The smell of blood fills the air as the norn slowly regenerates. Disgust manifests upon the Captain’s face, and he takes a quick step backwards, watching the road settle back into its pre-dawn stillness. Villagers are starting to come out of their houses and huts, curious as to what just happened to cause so much noise and shouting.

The itch grows on the back of his neck, like a fire set under the back of his skull.

He waits until the Norn pulls himself together while the bile rises in the back of his throat, the trail still fervidly bright, the magnetic draw of something darker. The thick stench of Death fills the air around them with a dusty miasma.

The Captain’s fingers itch for the comfort of the trigger.