“I really wish you weren't so sloppy.” Tyr frowned. As per usual, Alex's room was covered in clothes, makeup, and all sorts of knickknacks. Things for styling her hair, little heating rods and... Well, in any case, it didn't even make sense. She looked the exact same with or without the small bits of eye shadow she put on, and her hair was naturally wavy to begin with. For what reason did she need a curling iron...? She had roomed with Leda once upon a time, but a student could not live with a professor officially, so now she lived alone with no roommate. And in the process, both sides of the chamber were cluttered with boxes of things. Dresses strewn all about, stockings and unmentionables. 'Unmentionables' meaning panties and brassieres, Tyr didn't feel any shame picking one off the ground and sniffing at it much to her abject disgust. “What? It smells great.”

She was always so neat and tiny, almost compulsive with how clean she kept his office, but then you saw her room and... It was like this...

He stood with his back towards her facing a startlingly photo-realistic painting of Okami howling at the moon before a silver lake. The stars reflected in its shimmering surface. Tyr had no idea that Alex had been painting, but she was clearly using her own two hands and not magic given the brushes and palettes laying all around. In the corner of the room there was a small, foot powered potters wheel with a lump of dried clay laying on it. The shelf beside had all manner of fired figurines, intricately worked knights with swords arrayed in formation.

A prancing horse painted in vivid and unnatural colors. Their features were all true to life on a scale that showed him how hard she'd worked, how talented she was, but the colors in which she'd used to decorate them were abstract. The paint must've had some mana dust mixed into it, little lines and accents on the armor of the knights glowed softly in the gloomy chamber. No more than a six inch ball of clay was what she'd worked with and she'd managed to capture so much... Soul.

She's really good at this... It served as a lesson that he truly didn't pay enough attention to his friends. People who were supposed to be his friends, at least. Tyr only ever thought about himself and had to force himself to consider them. He'd thought he'd been trying his hardest, but that was plain incorrect.

“Sorry I'm not the perfect girl, alright? Staying so... Well put together is exhausting, you know? Sometimes, I can't stand you.” Alex glared at him angrily. “You're the one who followed me back to my room, and I told you not to. I don't have time for all of this. It's bad enough that I have to slink back and forth like a mistress with a bag.”

“Bro, all I'm asking is that you let the maids pick up after you. Your entire room is covered in clothes... You know what.” Tyr paused, capitulating instantly in a rare show of submission that wasn't actually quite so rare when it came to her these days. “You're right, I shouldn't be so unfair. You work hard and I am so proud of you. I'll clean your room as a uh... Thank you, or something.”

“Really?” She paused, not so angry anymore. Words of praise from Tyr were very welcome, and equally rare. Except in those special moments... In the night, Tyr was so cold and straight in the face. If not, she couldn't tell if he was being himself in the moment. It was natural for a partner to want for these words of encouragement. Favors and offers. Tyr was the same, and like his own consideration of these things, Alex no longer felt herself weak for treasuring them. “But... Bro? Do you make love to your 'bros'?”

“It's a sign of equitable affection. And yeah, probably, if it was the right moment.” Tyr answered. “Don't look at me like that. All I'm saying is that sometimes, Brenn is looking a bit, ah...”

“The dump truck.” Alex nodded, giggling. “I get it.”

“That irritates me and I don't even know why.” Tyr frowned.

“I have to go.” Alex said, kissing him softly on his lips. Just a peck, arms around his neck and stroking the back of his head affectionately. The feeling of her nails sending cold electricity up and down his spine. “Leda needed my help grading papers. Do your husbandly duties and carry my bag back, and I'll find you when I'm done.”

“Alright.” Tyr nodded, hoisting the satchel over his arm without complaint. That was another testament to his character. He was so proud, and yet he had a naivety, lack of masculinity or... Perhaps it was the complete opposite, true masculinity. No task was 'too small' for him, unlike many of the noble relationships Alex was familiar with. He'd carry her frilly black night bag over his shoulder, even put on dresses when she asked, thinking it was funny. And he'd just stand there, like a statue, moving how she wanted him to, striking poses and waiting for her to tell him it was time to stop.

“And Tyr...?” Alex said, heading out the door. “Are you okay?”

“I heal fast, remember?” Tyr said with a smile. But he knew what she meant. Not his body. Well, it was his body, after all – he had scars on his face now. Scars that wouldn't disappear even after he'd slept. Those on his body would return at times, and then fade, returning again in a bizarre cycle. It was an odd phenomena that he couldn't explain. But those on his face seemed permanent. Red streaks of ruined skin. One racing up his neck and splitting the left side of his jaw. The other leaving a pale line at the corner of his right eye. They weren't large, nothing to deface him, or so she claimed. He'd been concerned, but Alex thought they made him even more handsome. If there was one good thing about Tyr with no trade-offs or disadvantages, it was his incredibly violent good looks. Enhancing, that's what she'd called them, just like Brenn's, but some people had stared when he'd first returned and she thought he might've been self conscious about that.

“I don't know.” He said in response to the piercing stare that followed. “It's better perhaps not to know. But I am doing better, and I'll be fine eventually. I still get the headaches, but like all things – they will fade. Now get out of here so I can clean up your mess.”

“Are we okay?” She asked, a question that they hadn't really addressed in its entirety. She'd attacked him with no hesitation, only realizing after the fact what she was doing and falling into a panic. And he'd done the same... Striking her. Whether it was a psychotic break and no fault of his own, she didn't want to be abused by her partner, she still feared that part of him a great deal.

“That is a silly question.” Tyr replied with a smile, chopping his hand down gently on her head. “I am a grown man, I'll get over it. And Alex, this art you've made... It's incredible. I am very proud of you, and Okami says he is too.”

“You can't have them.” Alex said quickly, lingering a bit with her fingers on the door before flashing a smile and going about her way. On her way out, she couldn't help but beam so hard that it made her mouth hurt. A warm flush in her cheeks that matched the hot feeling of triumph she felt in her heart.

–

Clink. Clink. Clink.

“This is awful!” Tythas complained. Again. “Why do we have to do this?”

“You don't.” Tyr laughed. “I told you this was volunteer work, you didn't have to come.” All the while, his pick broke the ground. Strike by strike, they labored from one point to another. That 'other' point being Asmon. The old scarecrow of a count had really and truly struck gold. Not literally, of course, gold wasn't worth very much by itself. After Tyr had inadvertently expanded their domain, Asmongold had entered a sort of... Well, it was a golden age.

Gold, gold, gold. Or in this case, a mana crystal mine. It might not seem like much, but centralized locations like that were fairly rare, and the dungeon within was like finding a diamond in a puddle. If not for their isolated location and the deal brokered with the empires to the north and south, Tyr was sure one country or another would've considered invading.

There was another thing, though. That was all on paper. In truth, the race of mycelians living below them had a lot to do with their relative safety. Any of their scouts who went into the hills would mysteriously disappear, and avoiding their haunts was an unspoken rule. Use the roads or don't cross Asmon's border at all, they said. And Tyr was more than happy to keep it that way, it kept the forest safe and they didn't bother the beasts. Only bipedals, eliminating all threats on sight.

He knew exactly what he'd done by creating them, and while he felt little remorse for his actions – he was at least partially pleased the effects hadn't been all bad.

“It'd be...” Brenn grunted. “Easier...” Each word punctuated by a heavy swing of his pick. “If we could use magic.”

“What fun is there in that?” Tyr laughed, not as nearly exhausted as the others. It was true, though. Magic was convenient like that, that's why they called it magic when the word had no real meaning. Even though he'd said it, Brenn knew well enough why mages wouldn't come so far east.

The 'red caps' didn't like that. That was to say the 'mushroom men', or variant of them that were most sensitive to mana combustion's. Somehow, it wasn't common knowledge that Tyr had created them himself, and that was good. Few people knew, and the friends laboring alongside him hadn't pressed the issue, though Iscari had sent him several strongly worded messages after he'd found out. Telling Tyr to be more responsible, or something, he'd barely listened to them.

Or rather... Alex had received them and forced him to sit through it all, because he still hadn't turned on his communication amulet.

Tyr wasn't sure how to feel. Now, they were just as worthy of life as anything else, and he wouldn't touch them unless they got out of control. Might not, even then. He felt no guilt whatsoever, wondering why that was the case. If anything, it impressed him that he was able to shape something capable of throwing an empire into a panic. It made him feel... Powerful.

Their bodies were covered in sweat when the afternoon break was called. It was cold, winter came late this year but it was certainly coming. The air was chill, but the furious pace they kept at to build a new road in tandem with the trade agreement between Amistad and Asmongold kept them warm.

“Asmon struck gold. Asmongold. Golden age...” Tyr mused absentmindedly.

“...What?” Brenn's lips widened, his brow creasing in confusion.

“I feel like...” Tyr said. “I use a lot of the same words. My vocabulary should be wider given all the books I've read. I know these words, but why don't I use them the way that I should to make things sound more... I don't know, artful?”

“You are a very strange man.”

“No arguments there.” Tyr laughed, and Brenn did the same, joining him in his honest expression of joy as the two ragged and considerably smaller men with them stared on in annoyance. There was a thing about those big, tall masculine types. Micah would've observed it out loud, if they hadn't been in front of him. “Feels good, doesn't it? Honest work calms my heart.”

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“Makes the body strong!” Brenn slapped Tyr's back and flexed more than just his biceps, posturing for the mixed group of government employees smiling at him in amusement. “Sweat is justice!”

“But seriously...” Micah asked. Sigi and Tyr alike had collaborated to expand his harness until it was no such thing at all. What they'd called 'marital bonding', but it all worked out in the end. More than braces, it was an all encompassing suit of banded armor reaching to his neck. The features were outstanding. Climate control, self repair, physical augmentation, everything one could imagine. This had been Tyr's oddly welcome 'revenge' for Micah's comment about his forging style. Some kind of, 'what what that – one more time?' - and it had worked. Micah would never critique him again, Tyr might very well be the greatest human runesmith on the planet – some of the professors were convinced that was the case.. “Why don't we use magic? Could you not protect us? I'm using muscles I haven't had to in years, even with your armor. Thank you, again, by the way.”

“It's the least I could do.” Tyr smiled. Both he and Brenn were shirtless, glistening, oiled up and statuesque. Enough to make a man jealous. Tyr was shorter by a slight margin, and thinner. Brenn was all muscle, built like a damn bull. Regardless of comparisons, both were rippling from head to toe. Brenn had that look of a man that had lifted too many weights for his own good, whereas Tyr had the leaner look of an athlete. Thick in the right places, but tight in the waist. No weights for him, this had all been earned through constant effort, along with the scars that covered his chest, arms, and back.

Like a bull and a predatory cat standing next to one another. One new, young, and vigorous, the other old, worn, and beaten – but no less deadly.

“Did those hurt?” Micah pointed at the scars.

There had been that moment, at the beginning of their practicals – when Tyr had stripped himself bare at the chest and stood before the class shirtless. He was covered in scars, dozens of them to the point where very few space was left on his body not twisted and grisly. All apparently aesthetic, but the gasps coming from the class hadn't been quiet – none of them had known. Figuring him for some dauntless titan, the one who walked through fire, blades, even a Saint. But the marks were there, and so was the awareness that many of them hadn't been treating Tyr like he was someone that might have suffered a great deal.

“They did.” Tyr nodded. “That's why I showed the class, it wasn't for posturing. Make a mistake, you get cut, and their scars would be permanent unlike my own. I'll admit that my sensation of pain is different from yours. For a while I thought when I broke someones leg and they shrieked like that, they were just being weak. Now that I can feel their pain, even from a third person perspective, I know that's not true.”

“Your power-set makes no sense.” Micah mumbled, aggrieved. “You're good at swords so you're a swordsman, or at least a melee fighter. And then to top it off, you can heal from any wound and not get sick? Then you decided to go get good at magic. There's that song magic stuff, too – but you don't seem to use that very much. Those chains we saw in the tournament which Alex says is soul conjuration similar to an arcanum summoning but not quite the same. You can come back from the dead. You are talented in forging, enough to make items that normal runesmiths can't even understand. Light metamagic is incredibly easy for you and yet you can't cast a proper healing spell...”

“All parts of a puzzle I haven't completed yet.” Tyr frowned, falling back into deep thought. Little things of no consequence, he wasn't special or the best at any of them. But there was a lot, he was a hoarder of irregular magic techniques, multiple adept ability in one body. “Song magic, at least, is a medium. Not a discipline I'm diving into, it's like how you dimensional mages practice arcane magic to improve your control in preparation for gate generation. I'll never be a bard, but it helps in more ways than one. But I'm close to the end of my journey Micah, and I can't wait for you to see.”

“It just doesn't make sense, and there's no consistency to it.” Micah mused.

“Neither does the guy who can turn regular dirt into clay with his mind while unable to use regular earth magic.” Tyr shrugged. “Modern convention has turned magic into a science but that doesn't mean we understand it any better, I think it's the inverse. I get what you mean, though. I've picked up a lot of little things along the way, but I wouldn't say it's inconsistent. In a fight, you're not going to use all of your abilities at the same time. I do as instinct compels me, I guess, in the moment.”

“Famous adventurers always have a gimmick.” Micah spoke with a full mouth, chewing on a piece of jerky as they walked off the road and seated themselves at the periphery of the forest. “Like how Alex uses lightning magic mostly and Astrid uses light. Sir Rafael uses ice. Defining characteristics that make them famous.”

Tyr could feel the mycelians below, reacting to his presence – treating him like some precious article – perhaps even a god. He enjoyed that, reveled in it, but it wasn't time yet to bring them out. One day, though, he'd have a use for them. One day soon, and the world would shudder when he called their name. The greatest weapon ever forged, and it was cast from his hand – the triumph in that was palpable.

“Mine would be fire, obviously.” Tyr replied. “I'm not bad at that.”

“Sure, but there are a lot of fire mages out there.” Micah said. “Maybe you're right though, I see a lot of people try to force coolness in a really contrived way and it's pretty cringe. Like, even though near all human mages can use all magic they still use inferior elements to do the same thing. I still think it makes characters more interesting and easier to relate to when they have some kind of trademark style, or again, a gimmick.”

“I've been looking for mine.” Tyr said with a sigh. “If I had one, it'd have to be fire magic – and always has been. Fighting somewhat akin to a battlemage is what I've always done. I wish I could combine all these little things into one big thing, but I can't say I'd ever willingly rid myself of my healing factor. I'd have won almost no fights at all if I didn't have it. You said I was talented but I'm really just lucky, all of my experiences have brought me to where I am right now, and I'd be as dead as a door-nail without my ability to never actually lose a fight. Yet, at least. To be honest, it's pretty astonishing nobody has ever just covered me in deuritium or put chunks of my body in a metal box and dropped it into the sea...”

Tyr shuddered, that was his greatest fear and often the reason why he forgot so much in the heat of battle. 'Forgot' as in, didn't use his skillset properly. Some things were just too hard to do in the moment, but a lot of it was out of fear he'd be held down like he had been by Brenn and the others. Suffering an eternal imprisonment like the god Dolder, on the mountain the other gods had nailed him to, picked at by crows as the centuries passed by. Worms and bugs in his guts.

“Isn't it boring, though?” Micah asked.

“Not really.” Tyr replied. “I think life is an adventure and we have to take all of our experiences big or small and get what enjoyment we can out of it. Everything can be like that, a good meal can be an adventure, smelling flowers, drinking tea with a good view. It's been such a strange journey, and I'm still looking for my identity. Doesn't need to be more complicated than that. You expect to find one thing, a circuit of fighting – losing – and coming back stronger, but that's not how it works. Not for me, at least. I'm not some fantasy hero. What about you, what's yours?”

“My identity?” Tyr nodded, and Micah answered as best he could. “I'm just a normal guy with the fortune to be friends with all of these crazy talented people – I think. I want to become a great mage and allow my adoptive parents to retire comfortably. To make a lot of money and help make the world a better place, and to keep being a good friend to you all. I hope we stay together forever, but I know one day you'll all leave me behind because you have other responsibilities in places I can't follow.”

Tyr rested a hand on the mans shoulder. “Mages gifted with spatial magic are rare. You can go wherever you'd like and do whatever you please. If you want to stay with Alex and I, as I hope she'll always stay with me, you are welcome to. Your family could come with us and live on the barony she was given, or in Riven. There are many attractive women in Riverwood, but you'd have to become a registered college mage. Serve as my magistrate or in some other station of the cloth, like Tythas is technically supposed to. I may not be primus, but I will be someone important one day, and I'll take care of all of you.”

“I wouldn't mind that.” Micah chuckled. “Maybe they'll give me a cool tattoo like the one you used to have.”

“I'll see what I can do.” Tyr smiled. “Growing old and gray together, sipping tea in our rocking chairs doesn't sound so bad. No more fighting, unless we have to.”

“Wouldn't have figured you for the type who wanted a quiet life.” Micah said. His curly hair had grown long and shaggy, pulling it back and tying it into a bun to keep the sweat from dripping onto his lunch.

“The most content I ever was, I think...” Tyr mused. “Was when I was working as a lumberjack in Riverwood. I know it sounds strange. It's not that I don't enjoy fighting, but it's not my passion. If given the choice I would never be one of those men that spent his whole life perfecting the art of the blade or something ridiculous like that. It's about the little things for me, always has been – I can see that now.”

“Cutting trees is your passion?” Micah gave him an odd look. “What's fun about that? Brenn said he likes what he calls the 'labors of the flesh' as well. Sounds crazy to me. I'd rather be in a nice warm study with a quill and some parchment. I've been writing a lot lately, some day I plan to publish a book. Not a grimoire, but something of the fantasies. I've written some poetry under the alias Fried Pelican and I've actually been published four times. Too embarrassed to tell anyone, not even sure why I'm telling you.”

“I never knew that.” Tyr smiled. “Thank you for telling me. As for me, I'm not sure. Idle hands, I suppose, it's just soothing to focus on such a simple task with little complexity but a whole lot of nuance. Not necessarily chopping trees, I like traveling and if I had a hobby that wasn't runesmithing – I'd say it was seeing new places. The problem is I always get in my own head and end up failing to enjoy it. Because I only travel to fulfill some purpose or drive in me that I don't really understand. But I like forests, I've learned to fish and I like that as well. Music, too, but I'm not as obsessed with it as Astrid is, it's not my passion. I just...”

A minute or two seemed to pass before Micah prodded him on. “You just what...?”

“I know it's crazy. But sometimes I just like living. There was a man in South Lyran, a banished member of Daito's clan, who spent 50 years carving a tree into the perfect likeness of his late wife. 3 centuries later and it's still there – I want to do something like that. To leave a legacy behind that everyone can remember.”

“That's not crazy...” Micah coughed. “I think most people like being alive, man. That's like a, uh... That's certainly a thing. You're talking a lot lately, you know?”

“Sorry...?”

“It's not an insult.” Micah said with a wry chuckle. “Just an observation. You never used to talk this much before, you always looked like you were... Itching. In a hurry to get somewhere and do something else. I know you still stay as busy as ever, but it's nice to have you around more. To participate and not glare at everyone and everything like you've got a stomachache. I always thought you were cool, mysterious, and I looked up to you – still do. But I didn't really think we were friends, I felt like a side character and was just happy to be here. Basically what I'm saying is, you've changed a lot and I like how you're changing. I'm always rooting for you, even if you have another psychotic break and end up wiping out a whole city. I'll be in the front row of your execution crying louder than anyone else.”

“Mmm...” Tyr exhaled in amusement, Micah was very charming and had a good sense of humor when it wasn't about women. “Sorry if I put you off before. You've changed as well. I remember when you always seemed so afraid of us, almost in awe. It's good to see that you've grown a spine, that's not a pun or allusion to your condition, but... You know.”

“I get it.” Micah laughed.

“Can I read your novels and poetry?”

“I'd rather die.”