What the hell are you supposed to do after seeing the sky for the first time in your life?

It'd been awesome, yeah. The best minute of Relic's life - but then it was over, and she had to go back to doing... Whatever it was that she did.

Loiter.

It'd been such a grand, euphoric moment, something that sweeps you up and changes you for the better. Relic didn't FEEL changed. She didn't feel much of anything.

Maybe she'd screwed this up without realising. Maybe there was an angle she'd yet to see, couldn't factor in - she'd been stuck in stasis for cycles, so that didn't feel likely. She knew this cage like the back of her hand.

(And she was a mother now. Probably. Technically. Wasn't that the perfect opportunity to be transformed? She'd already gotten a second chance at this then, and wasted it too.)

She was trying at least. She was headed back to Canis, because maybe she'd find something there. Best case scenario: Advice. Most likely outcome: Dust, bones and depression. She'd taken the route through Gemini, to find that it was the one cave the Forge hadn't cleared yet - hop to it, assholes. Relic had been looking forward to forgetting what the fungus smelled like.

Was it safe to drink the water here? It wasn't still, sure. But every inch of this place was coated in mold. She stood by the Crystal Waterfall, staring suspiciously at the pool in front of her. Was it always this cloudy?

From the alcove near Relic came a rattling hum—the rift was quivering, the light wobbling around it like a black hole. Something large was passing through down to the nest and Relic would just happen to be in the right place at the right time.

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Some time in the past...

Within the wooded copse hid a large band of warhounds—wolf-like, hulking creatures crouched in preparation to ambush their target when their leader commanded so of them. Most of the hounds were armored in simple plate, except for one: its burnished, gunmetal plate was bordered with gold decorations and red leather. The foremost backplate featured a wolf-like skull decoration etched in the same gold lines—the mark of the BLACK WOLF, the Prince of the Verin Empire. Red ribbons trailed from its left breastplate and its leg guards. And on its left shoulder plate it read: VER'KAHN.


*art by silkwyrm!

She was the commander's warhound, a well established warrior in her own right, and she led the pack when they were not beside their empire's finest army. Today they had cornered a group of travelers believed to be housing a witch in their caravan and the plan was simple: the soldiers would engage first, holding the attention of the travelers while the hounds came in from behind. A well executed pincer attack should land them an easy victory.

Overhead, a falcon screeched.

The signal.

From the other side of the narrow valley, the black-armored soldiers rushed from the treeline and immediately began to subdue the caravan members. Ver'kahn turned her head to her lead scout and gestured for him to scent the carriages. His armor was cloth and made for stealth, perfect for recon. He dipped into the shade and made his way toward the carts, careful to stay hidden and avoid the horses—then he lay beneath one toward middle of the carriage line.

That one has the witch.

Ver'kahn snarled an order and at once, the pack of warhounds burst from the shadows—some hundred-odd wolves descending from the hillside and spilling into the fray like a dark tsunami wave. With the humans otherwise engaged, Ver'kahn leapt straight for the carriage the scout had laid beneath. As she tore through the cloth flaps of its covering, she was instantly suspended mid-jump.

Before her burning yellow eyes was a white-haired older woman. Ver'kahn's lips peeled back over her black gums; she had no other accents than her gold eyes, gold lines on her armor, and her fluttering red ribbons. Black fur, black skin, black pads, black claws—she was the monster in the shadows, and the witch was prepared for her.

"Not so agile like that, are 'ya?" the witch teased as Ver'kahn's legs thrashed in the air, hungry for purchase. Her long, fox-like ears pressed sharply forward and she snarled so fiercely that she spit saliva directly on the witch's face.

How dare you...! she growled. How dare you touch me with magic! Suddenly, her paws were on the wooden floorboard of the carriage and her teeth were deep within the witch's abdomen—it happened even too quickly for the witch to process. Ver'kahn had seized the witch by her obsidian womb.

Gold eyes locked onto the witch's green ones and the hound narrowed hers with the most spiteful hate she could muster.

Got you. Bitch. Not so agile now, are 'ya?

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"What happened next?" a child asked, and the retired commander laughed; he was a keen old man and loved to spend his later years regaling tales of his beloved warhound to the empire's children.

"Well, that was another one in the bag for Ver'kahn! We retrieved the witch and brought her back here. She's probably still up there—" he said, pointing to the tall tower where the witches conjured their magic in a secure fashion, "—with those bite scars on her side. Do you guys remember how many witches Ver'kahn successfully captured?"

"Five!"
"Twenty!"
"No! I heard it was a HUNDRED!"

The children shouted random numbers and the commander laughed again.

"Close! She really wanted to hit that mark. She got ninety-five in the end, though. Still a hell of a number."

A wave of gasps and audible approval rolled through the group of kids sitting around his table. But alas, his mug was empty and his belly was full: it was time for this old man to head home and take a nap. He pushed up from the table and gathered his things while the kids begged him to stay and tell them more stories.

"Where is she now?" one of the kids asked.

"Sleeping," he said with a grin. "She's an old girl now. She likes her time in the sun." The kids seemed satisfied with this answer and scrambled off, pretending they too were soldiers with warhounds capable of great feats like Ver'kahn.

He made his way home in silence. When he reached his humble shack, he wove his way around back to a flowering tree and sat down with his back against the trunk. Beneath the tree, next to him, was an etched gravestone adorned with a single red ribbon.

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Ver'kahn's armor deposited into the cave as if it were simply meant for Relic. It was imbued with the strength and passion of a decorated warhound and it exuded nothing less than power—for Relic was yet to be crowned Champion, but perhaps the armor could elevate her through her Brawler cycles. She'd fit into it perfectly and surely earn the ribbons as much as Ver'kahn had. The name on the left shoulder plate would mean nothing to Relic without some sort of—ironically—magic such as hindsight, but it didn't need explaining.

Ver'kahn! Ver'kahn! No creature earned armor like this by being weak. Ver'kahn! Ver'kahn! Someday those chants may be for Relic. Ver'kahn! This armor was for her. Ver'kahn! And it was she who would next become Ver'kahn!

The clatter nearby caught her attention as it echoed through the alcove, and Relic suddenly had something much more interesting to investigate than water quality.

The skin around her nasal cavity twitched, still able to take in scent. She did so now as she stalked toward the alcove, unsure of what to expect.

She understood what armour was, vaguely, and recognised it when she saw it. But she'd never seen metal this clean, this maintained. She followed the gold outlines of the back plates to the image at its end, a grinning canine skull.

The fur along her spine shifted, bristling with a chill. But Relic was not afraid.

She'd just been offered a third chance at becoming something more.

It was such a shame she couldn't read.

exit