People could observe it a million times, try to describe how there was an indescribable beauty in the badlands topography of Baccia. But honestly? It was ugly. They got a good look at it all from the bars of their wheeled cages, not much else to be seen but vast expanses of reddish dirt. It was hot, too, a dry swelter with a heat that seemed to come more from the ground than the sun overhead. At least the sky was still blue, though the absence of bird calls or anything else one might expect on the road was unnerving.

“Damn.” Mikhail chuckled, turning to Fennic. “Tyr again?”

“Must be.” Fennic smiled softly. None of them liked being bound in chains, but they weren't the only ones who'd been caught. Nobody knew what the Baccians were up to, but every so often they'd scour the fringes of Amistad for people. That was ultimately what the Fingers were out there for, or so said the more talkative guards. Men with loose lips and little regard for their prisoners finding out, which was usually a bad sign in Mikhail's experience, meant they were men destined for death and little else. “Told you he'd come for us.”

“Shut your mouth, cur.” One of the guards clipped Fennic's temple with a baton and sent him flopping to the side with a groan. At the right angle to see Tiber with his long black hair, greased and dusty from their time on the road, face thick with stubble. The 'old' man had his head down, but Fennic saw him twitch at the cacophonous booming they'd heard in the distance. It was odd to see old Tiberius like that, bereft of everything that made him, his characteristic rigidness and well manicured appearance. Now he didn't look much different than the average man, sans the iron in his eyes. Samson sat by him, as always, hulking and brutal in the face.

“He didn't mean to.” Fennic winced, staring at the big man. “Tyr, I mean. He didn't mean to break his oath.”

“He did no such thing, brother.” Samson rumbled. “We lost. A prisoner is not a slave, not yet, and we shall see what becomes of us. Until then, I'd save your strength, as you will need it. The Ooni cannot lose.”

And so Fennic did, playing a quiet game of dragon, phoenix, kraken with Mikhail. Something to pass the time, problem was the man was so damned good at gambling and always cheated. Fennic felt a bit lucky, if not for their circumstances then for the fact he didn't have any money to lose. Just time, and that was a gift in the present. He prayed to the only god he'd ever paid much attention to, to ensure that his friends made it out of this whole and alive. Aran, the hunter god with the stag's head that watched over the forests and wild places of the world.

“Rations.” Some time later, a burlap sack of bread was thrown into the carriage, loaves scattering about in the thin layer of dust that seemed to mark everything in this place. Before, the men within would've scrambled for it, scratching and snarling at one another. Now, they stared nervously at these strangers. Samson in particular, anxious after seeing the brutality his massive hands were capable of. The first man who had challenged him, producing a shiv in the process, had died with a crisp blow to the throat that had tilted his neck at an unnatural angle. Now, Samson, and Tiber by extension of the respect the big man offered him, were the 'bosses' here. Their new reality, that the split be equal for all men present, strangers and blackguard alike.

Nobody grumbled or complained, this was the best they'd ever get.

As for the blackguard, they'd always been road men. They'd lived soft lives these last few years but a lifetime of struggle and scrapping couldn't be forgotten so quickly. Fennic was well acquainted with the hunger. Starvation was rare, but an empty stomach was not. The common-folk still lived on breads and cheeses, stews and the like. If a hunting season came and the catch was light, he'd go hungry. Too many mouths to feed back home, it wasn't unheard of – and he'd always been the type of man to go without in lieu of a child having their fill.

“Guard.” Tiber called out for the first time in days, lifting his gaunt face toward the young man responsible for their 'care' in any capacity.

“Yes, Lord Tiberius?” The guard replied nervously. Status was status, and they were naught but simple soldiers. Whether bound here amongst commoners or not, the Baccian's had the good sense to respect a true knight. That was good. But it would not save them, not from the Raven, and most assuredly not from the Wolf.

Tyr was far more efficient and cold than Tiber had ever been.

“Have you heard the Woeful Snow?” Tiber asked, and the young man shook his head in the negative, excitement blossoming in his eyes at this chance to speak directly with what he'd called a living legend. “The Oresundians seem a crude lot but they know their arts well, especially all those oral. It's a poem that ignores all the conventions of us southern folk. My young charge, the prince, he thinks it is quite amusing. Do you wish to hear it?”

“Certainly, my lord.” The guard nodded eagerly.

“Don't get too close to the cage, Trevor.” His superior warned with a wry chuckle, a gaggle of rats with poorly maintained leathers and missing teeth. “Raven will pick your eyes clean from your skull.”

The guard shied away just at the last moment. Unfortunate, Tiber could've taken hold of him if he hadn't. Now, he had to recite poetry... The Milanese he'd once called kin loved their arts. Their song and prose, painting and sculpting. Some said the Varian style was actually the Milanese, that they'd invented it first. In any case...

“Edda said.” Tiber cleared his throat, spitting out of the bars of the cage. “Among the roots are flutes and lutes. Spring and summer go. The stars are lies, sunrise. The lone wolf dies.”

“...Is that it?” Trevor asked, confused. An odd name for a Baccian, Hastur seemed to have a penchant for hiring knavish ones from the Brotherhood. Mercenaries with no conviction beyond a few coins in their purse, an ill sort of man. “But the book of Edda is very long, is it not?”

“I only remember one other part.” Tiber admitted. “Do you want to hear that as well?”

Trevor nodded.

“Edda's addendum by George Martinsson said the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. It's funny, Trevor. Because from my perspective – the lone wolf is the only one of us who doesn't know how to die proper. What say you get off that horse of yours and pray that he does not find you?”

–

CRUNCH.

“I thought a liver would taste better, truth be told.” Tyr bit again, chewing. Hans' horrified visage was reflected up at him, the gaping wound in his abdomen spraying arterial blood in all directions. All around was cracked earth riddled with black grass. A crater. Tyr was a walking bomb, a little deuritium would cool his fire but it wouldn't stop him, it'd only make it much worse – allowing him to reach a pressure variable in his emission beyond the norm. Giving him an interesting idea... Inspiration came from the oddest places.

Hans tried to talk, but he couldn't, making silent movements with his mouth like a fish out of water. Hard to do that when Tyr had pinched the tongue between his fingers and ripped it clean from the man's skull.

“See, I've had duck liver, like... Foie gras? Deer liver, elk, uh... Cattle liver definitely, but I think that's about it. I didn't mind those, but this... It's not good, Hans. It's really not good, I think a change in diet is in order, my good man.”

CRUNCH.

The human liver was chewy, gummy, and altogether unpleasant. Too sweet. It made sense. Few animals consumed as much sugar as a human did. There was another component to the taste as well, but Tyr couldn't put his finger on it. Impurities, perhaps. They tasted like the ash from a tobacco pipe, or at least they smelled similar.

“I told you I would, didn't I? You're acting like this is all so sudden and unexpected. Believe me, I wish I hadn't, you taste like shit. But an oaths an oath, Hans, and a man's gotta have a code.” Tyr said, finishing half of it before calling it quits and caving the man's skull in with the heel of his boot. The others hadn't been ready. Hans had shied away and ridden off at the last moment and that had saved him, lucky... Or maybe not so much. They were all still alive, obviously, but it'd take them a while to recover and catch up.

Tiber and the others were close, he could feel them. That was the true purpose of the buckles he'd given them all, homing beacons attuned to a divination prism in the spellbreakers. Forty three of them. Forty three... Meaning at least fifty had perished at the hands of Cortus' lackeys. Tyr sighed, it was what it was – nothing to do about it and certainly no time for regret.

More walking, there was a lot of walking to be done in his life – but he didn't particular mind it, taking the time to play around a bit.

He found that running, while effective, wasn't quite as efficient as 'skating'. That's what Lina called it, she did it with her ice but he'd found a way to do it with fire – emulating again. Sliding his legs along the ground, his toes barely gracing the dirt, and in such a flat place as this he was quicker than ever. Arms held aloft in an awkward attempt to keep level on the ocher plain, falling quite a few times before he got the hang of it. No need to rush, even at a time like this it was important to enjoy the little things.

It wasn't long before he caught up to a prison train. He had no idea what they planned to do with the men, but the oath to Samson wasn't so easily forgotten. Like an animal, Tyr burst into the ranks of the guards. Weak, frail things, barely worthy of the name. He popped their skulls like grapes, breaking their officers cleverly so as to ensure they'd pass before any aid came, but not before being given time to suffer and contemplate their transgressions. Perhaps they were blameless, perhaps they had that excuse of 'we did as was ordered of us' but Tyr wasn't feeling very generous at this current moment. He could still taste Hans in his mouth...

One must consider the origin of the name 'Hans', the gods are gracious. Was that irony...? What was the relationship between iron, as in the element, and irony in experience or...?

Focus.

“For so long.” Tyr stooped over the last remaining. A man who'd fled his horse and flopped to the dirt in the fetal position almost immediately. A coward. “I thought to myself. Tyr? What are you doing, why aren't you getting stronger? But honestly, I should've just done this. You are all so fragile, you know? So easily snuffed out. Little candles to my sun, and who would miss a few hundred thousand of those, right? What is your name, tiny human male?”

The man didn't answer, shaking like a leaf in the wind. A young man, but not young enough to avoid the boot or axe. Eighteen or nineteen, too bad. Face was pale as dawn and he vomited into the dirt violently as Tyr came close to loom over him. A gargoyle's squat, white hair and vivid sapphire eyes stormy and persistently wrathful, a face nobody who'd ever seen it could forget. Demon, vampire, all of the other foul things people called him – they'd never managed to capture the terror he could instill in a lesser man with the tiniest inflection of his aura. That was a far more effective motivator than 'being liked', in Tyr's opinion, if they all feared him – they'd only be better for it.

“Your name?” Tyr asked again, but still no answer came.

“Alrighty, friend. In that case, I'll call you Zell.” Tyr mused, practically to himself rather than speaking directly to the man he was addressing. “Zell was the Orik god of fear and cowardice. Your fellows had the pride necessary to draw their blades, you see, even though they had to have known I was beyond them. Then again, Zell was the god who caused this fear, not the subject of it, who they sacrificed cowards to. Perhaps it's unfair to him. Great Zell, if you are displeased with this renaming, strike me down!” Tyr spread his arms wide and cried up to the sky bold faced, blatantly calling on what many would consider an evil deity. “No lightning bolts or locusts in my ass, lucky us. Guess you're Zell now, eh? So tell me Zell, how would you like to die?”

“I-I-I-I...” The man stammered.

“Y-y-y-y-y-you don't.” Tyr mocked, cutting him off. “Nobody wants to die. Except for me. Sometimes, not always. I wish I could make my mind up, Zell, I really do, and there are so many of those in my head these days. Minds. All rattling around and arguing with one another, they never stop chirping. But listen, the good news is – is that you can die. And--”

“His name is Trevor.” Tiber interrupted, head still low. Despite that, Tyr knew by the sound of his voice that the man was smiling. “Trevor Ampersand. A Krieg man, or his family was. Mercenary father, parents dead. Took a job in Baccia because his magic was shit unlike his well respected sire.”

“Oh?” Tyr asked, calming down. Sometimes those nails just came too hot and too fast. Leaving him staring at a room full of corpses and wondering why he did it all. He felt no regret. But with his abilities, could he not just have disabled them? It was no wonder why his friends feared him, maybe hated him. He really was a monster, sometimes. “So I should let him live?”

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“Don't care.” Tiber replied. “You're an adult now. Do as you please.”

“You hear that, Zell!? I'm still going to call you Zell full time now, I can't stand the name Trevor!” Tyr laughed gleefully. “Swear your loyalty to me, and I'll--”

“I swear it!” 'Zell' cried. “I swear it on my mother, father.... All the gods! Let me live and I will definitely--”

The biggest mistake he'd ever make, and the last one.

Trevor's voice was cut off abruptly as Tyr filled the man to the brim with mana. A spell he'd been too afraid to try on a person he actually liked, a painful one. But alas... Fate was a funny thing, and in this moment so were all those warbling shrieks. Trevor was quite gifted despite his failure to find succor in success, just lacking that spark to push him forward.

Two choices. Become the grazing deer or be as the predator was, friend or foe, Tyr hated odd numbers so he'd rarely offer them a third. Certainly not a craven wretch who'd forsake all for the simple joy of living, men were fickle. Then again, criticizing them for much of anything while he warped and shattered the mind of a living thing might've been... Hypocrisy?

“Damn, son...” Tyr said in wonder, observing his first wholly independent creation of an actual nephilim. He'd tried it a few times, or version of the 'spell' – and they'd never been successful. The results were always less than ideal, bodies turned inside out or leaving nothing behind but a vegetable. It still wasn't anything that would serve to be as much use, but he had some ideas. “It actually worked! Too bad, really. Like... This guy? It is what it is.”

To summarize, Tyr had been around adventurers and fighting men for so long that he'd understood that simple killing wasn't efficient. It would get one there, and that was the whole point of the precursors of their race, the 'high humans'. First men, sons of God. Over time, they'd devolved, and that led to some complications. The human body as it was wouldn't accept changes that could kill it, making their capacity much lower, and the process lagged behind in return. Alexis, who came from the line of a primus who'd failed to bear a male child, was perhaps a 'pure blood'. In any event, if he could figure out what stabilized the process, allowing them to metabolize more energy, he'd be able to do this at will with none of the unfortunate side effects.

The kobold and other contacts he'd made in the past would make for fair soldiers in the days to come, but an army of nephilim? Nations took decades to culture talent and that effort wasn't always a guarantee, centuries of labor to create the college system. Tyr, on the other hand, hoped to find a way to do it within a span of a few months. Proximity to him, allowing others to touch upon his aspect... It was virulent, infectious, and it would force their gates open in the same way awakening did – only much faster and more efficiently.

Were all the primus' capable of this? He considered the fact that the Arcanum Rex, the prime arcanum, might've been a part of it. Jartor did not have one, only Tyr, Iscari, and likely Cortus of the past. Perhaps connected, the primus' of old were the heralds and the first, growing an army at will would indeed be useful to someone engaging in the invasion of a war. The more they developed, the more they needed, becoming as the goldfish. Only growing so large as the tank provided to them. This was an era of plenty, food was cheap and he was more than happy to buy a few farms in order to culture an host of superhuman soldiers.

But what about Alex? Every time they touched, her spirit was invigorated, proof that Tyr would do this thing passively with no need of forcing it. More symbolism of the sun that brings life, forcing his wives down that path seemed... Inappropriate, but he couldn't stop it, he fed from others and they in turn fed on him.

Tyr grunted as he tore the barred frame from the first carriage, letting the prisoners run free. Many tried, falling flat on their faces after days in a compartment that didn't allow them to stand.

“What happened to giving them a chance to surrender?” Tiber asked calmly. There was no accusation in his voice, he was just curious. Very much wanting to know if Tyr had given up on the convoluted 'self improvement project' of his. Tiber would never disrespect a primus directly, but he had some reservations about this 'law of attraction' Alexandros propositioned. It seemed to have the opposite effect. Tyr was trying, working hard at it, but Tiber had a feeling his boy was on a cliff of emotional instability. Too much had happened too fast, and while he didn't appear to be traumatized outwardly, Tiber doubted it hadn't had some ill effect. Even now, Tyr was acting very bizarrely, twitching and jittery as if caught in the withdrawals of a drug.

Tyr pursed his lips, a flash of disappointment, something almost forgotten. “Considering the circumstances and the timetable involved, I don't think that would've been the best option. It is what it is, but you're right. I'll work harder.”

Snorting, Tiber dragged himself out of the cart. Rubbing at his sore knees and cracking what seemed like every bone in his body with a stretch. “I would have done the same. Believe it or not, there are men who return from war with their honor intact. War is different, it is sacred and even the gods know it, it is not simple murder. You killed armed men, men who would've tried to kill you, there is no shame in that. Let's go, I do not wish to tarry any longer, this place is a shithole.”

“I'm not coming back.” Tyr said. “I'm going to Baccia, alone this time, and I'm going to speak to Hastur myself. Flush him out of whatever dank and dusty rat hole he's crawled into. I have a plan, but it doesn't involve killing him just yet. I need to know more, to feel more.”

“You're sure about that?” Tiber raised an eyebrow – a bit impressed at the bold, if foolish approach. He cared about Tyr more than anything else in the world. Maybe the lad was the only thing he cared for at all anymore. So much so that he was willing to ignore his own oaths at times and let the boy do as he pleased, even after promising himself that it was the last time. To suffer alone. Because Tiber knew that Tyr might need that solitude in experience for what came next. That opportunity to prove himself without a helping hand or crutch to lean on.

Sometimes... Sometimes it wasn't so clear.

Tyr would say something.

Notify Tiber that he was off about some business. Tiber would insist that he come, Tyr would refuse, and in the process Tiber no longer wished to go. The implications of it were unnerving to say the least, but Tiber had no life of his own. His life, all of it, belonged to Tyr and always would. Signe had saved him, and he'd been standing at the side of her son for so long that they'd become family. Tyr had saved everything else, giving him a redemption that he knew he did not deserve after so bloody a life. And he kept giving, not just to Tiber but all these souls so alike his own, these lost men. Calling him uncle, remaining affectionate and never blaming the older man for the sins he'd committed, both before and after their first meeting.

“Yeah.” Tyr nodded. “There's something I have to do. I'll be back eventually, I doubt it'll take long.”

“Do you really think you can beat Hastur?” Tiber asked. “You have grown quite strong after all these years, but if the chimera couldn't...”

“Not going to fight.” Tyr turned with a lazy wave. Little sparks joined by thin tendrils of electricity spraying from his heels, scorching the coarse grass below. “I'm going to learn.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving dust in his wake. Tiber watched as his figure became the size of an ant, watching it divert to another figure running toward him. Another Baccian, maybe. Another Tyr would offer no amnesty to, pouncing on the figure like a wildcat. From this distance Tiber hadn't the faintest idea what Tyr was doing, but it looked a lot like he was digging into the other man's guts.

“Huh... He's, ah...” Mikhail muttered beside them, a look of abject mystification on his face, massaging his wrists still sore from the shackles.

“Ooni.” Samson repeated reverently, though he'd never tell anyone want that word meant.

–

“Finally.” Tyr spread his arms and laughed. “A reception worth of my holiness, and what a sight it is!”

“One day.” Rommel put palm to face in observance of her erratic brother, standing there as if in the act of embracing them all. Exasperating was a word for how he behaved. “One day an actual god is going to take offense to those words and wreak vengeance on you for your heresy. If not them, then the Inquisition.”

“I am a paladin, and they are more than welcome to take it up with my lady patron.” Tyr shrugged. Before him stood the arched formation of an army thousands strong. Bigger than he'd expect such a barren place capable of field. At the head of each individual unit was a finger, nine of them again. Tyr had killed Hans until the man had apparently ran out of livers. His power was great, the power to decay via the hands, but without hands... It wasn't so impressive after all. All Tyr had to do was cut them off and the guy was totally worthless.

“Why come back? I'm curious.” Pattoli questioned. Baccian's rode horses like everyone else, and given the flat plains that dominated the interior of the nation, cavalry would be very effective here. But the grazing was too sparse to keep large amounts of steeds in reserve. Instead, they opted to ride long limbed, reverse jointed reptilian creatures. Omnivorous predators capable of surviving in the wastes.

Cleft lips splitting wide maws, stretched across their arrowhead shaped craniums. Skinny creatures, but they were powerful enough to carry a grown man in full kit, faster than the average horse. It seemed like a smooth ride, too. Unlike a horse, their backs remained straight as their legs padded across the dusty earth, none of that vertical bobbing. One of those lizards sniffed at Tyr, extending it's tongue like a snake to lap at his face. He patted the creature affectionately as the nervous rider tried to shy away, but these were proud beasts not so easily broken. Tyr could feel it.

“Kill that guy.” He pointed to the rider. And without delay the viper-like maw distended to swallow the young man whole.

“Nice. That's a good boy.” Tyr chuckled, giving the excited reptile a scratch on the chin, noting how eagerly it accepted the praise. They didn't have any fangs as their viperous heads would communicate, just a forest of 'Y' shaped teeth patterning their triple jointed jaws. Made to rip, tear, and most likely peel the hard outer scales or chitin from arthropods and other reptilian lifeforms.

Perhaps cousins to the terrormaw, they ran quite similarly but lacked the fringe of feathers.

I miss Jura... Tyr frowned, patting away affectionately at the great beast before him.

“He can talk to animals!” Bergen observed, quite astute. What an unparalleled genius that man was, Tyr could indeed communicate with most beasts to a certain extent. If not by language, then through the spira. Anyone who could use it would've been able to, if they'd taken the time to awaken when in the company of a family of very suspicious raccoons. Humans were animals too, only the most arrogant would claim otherwise. It wasn't unheard of for mages to do the same, Abe had been a druid and could speak to creatures.

“I like these.” Tyr nodded, impressed, ignoring the blindfolded dandy gawping down on him. One more pat for good measure. “What are they called?”

“Flatters is what most people call them.” Raj said, petting his own, they were intelligent and seemed to bond quite closely with their riders if given the time to do so. Most of the 'reptiles' were green, but more than a few were more brightly colored. Vivid reds and purples, black with white stripes like a zebra, built like monitor lizards only much longer in the legs and wider in the skull. “Redsalt basilisks technically, but they aren't of the basilisk family as far as I know, so I don't know where that name comes from. Smarter, faster, stronger than horses. A little more willful in exchange, omnivorous creatures that predominately graze on cacti, but as you can see...”

“Can I have one?” Tyr asked, eyeing the lean sky-blue beauty in front of him. “Can I have this one? It has no rider anymore so there shouldn't be a problem, right?”

“Why come back?” Pattoli repeated, ignoring his question.

“Ah, yes.” Tyr sighed in disappointment, extending his hands. “I'd like to submit myself to the mercy of...” Pattoli gave him a look. Obviously, none but the few would know that Hastur and Cortus were one in the same. Sort of. Certainly not the legion that defended the capital city of Taur. “Hastur said he wanted to see me. Here I am. Shackle me, O great and mighty shacklers.”

“Not necessary.” Rommel said. “Ride ahead a dozen meters or so due west and we will follow. Take the flatter. Try another stunt like what you did back in the cage and I'll drop you in a vat of molten lead, understood?”

“I'd prefer to ride behind you, specifically.” Tyr replied with a wide smile. “I said it once and I'll say it again, grandma, you got a fat ass. Thicker than a bowl of oatmeal, and all sexual harassment aside I am a great believer in gender equality. I'll show you mine if you want.”

“That... That's your sister, man.” Bergen's face twisted, staring at Tyr with disgust plain in his expression. “What is up with you?”

“Okay, and?” Tyr addressed him, eyebrow raised as if their relationship was of no consequence at all.

“It's...” Bergen shook his head. “I mean, we have Yucca – right? And what about Shine? Both of them are beautiful women, and decidedly not related to you. Like... Your sister is over 50 years old or something, why her?”

“Don't worry, buddy. Gotta catch em all, y'know?”

“I... I don't...”

“I'm right here!” Yucca cried in offense, she was about as flat as the back of that lizard she rode but Tyr thought her eyes were nice. Based on the smell of her, and contrary to what Bergen had said, he was pretty sure she and Tyr were related as well. “We're not pieces of meat, we're people, and I'm only 17 years old!”

“Yikes. I'd say 'call me on your birthday' but that's pretty gross, so don't. Do not call me on your birthday.” Tyr leaned forward with a goofy and exaggerated wink.

“Good gods...”

“I'll take 'em.” Shine shrugged, the auramancer with the clawed gauntlets, a tight bronzed body and hair cut short like that of a man. “Nothing better than a boy I can tear up as much as I want with no permanent injuries, yeah?”

“See?” Tyr returned his gaze to Bergen, an odd turn of events considering the fact that the young man was surrounded by mana engines and drawn bows in all directions. Stood before an army joking about willful incest, insisting on it – apparently. “I clap cheeks and soak sheets, you wouldn't get it. And one day...”

He winked again, leaving the implication to hang between himself and a very unimpressed looking Rommel.

“Please stop.”