On a lone passing cloud, high above a withered wasteland, two women bickered while sharing a pack of peppered jerky. Tevzaga sat backwards on Rascal’s shoulders, balancing cross legged as the [Winderstepper Griffin] loped across the open sky. Her [Mage Killer] rested on her knees. She had a piece of jerky in both hands, waving one around while she took a bite out of the other. Across from her, Moka sat near Rascal’s haunches, her shoes tied together by their laces and hanging from her neck. She buried her bare feet in Rascal’s long coat, her toes clinging to chunks of fur and feathers for grip. She had one hand in Rascal’s coat, hanging on for dear life. In her other, she gnawed on a piece of jerky. Her rope hung, unused, across one shoulder to her waist, next to her duffel bag of tools.

Tevzaga wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes narrowed on Moka.

“Admit it.”

Moka sniffed disdainfully, her earrings clinging as her ears laid back. The wind playfully pulled at the feather in her hair, sending strands of her bangs into her mouth and eyes as she tried to chew and talk.

“You said the material was nearly as strong as iron. I can build fast, way faster than should be possible because of my Class. You said a trebuchet would be too big, but if I create a giant suit of armor-”

Tevzaga cut her off, sounding much like a responsible older sibling.

“Little sister, you are creative and I can’t fault you for that. Please know that I say this with every ounce of admiration I have for you and your capabilities. That is the dumbest idea I have ever heard.”

Moka’s eyes widened. She popped her jerky in her mouth and went for her chisel. Tevzaga was faster, her jerky mostly shoved into her mouth already. She used her knees to pop her gun into the air, and her waiting hands. With a twist of her wrists, she reached out and bopped Moka over the head with it. Moka nursed her bruised head with a sour look as Tevzaga lectured her.

“I heard you the first time, you stabby little imp. I don’t care if the weight of one of your fists would be enough to pulp a grown orc, or if you can ‘power it with your rope.’ Who your grandfather was means nothing to me. You would be a massive target and anyone with a third cousin that knew a Fire Spirit would light you up like a solstice bonfire. Do you hear me?”

Tevzaga waved the butt of her gun at Moka until the goblin mumbled reluctant assent. Satisfied, the orcish hero put her weapon down and snagged the pouch of jerky next to Moka. Grabbing a handful of dried meat, Tevzaga tapped Rascal on the shoulder with three heavy pats and addressed Moka.

“Alright, so, worst-case scenario, they have wyverns. We are going to assume the worst and land here, then sneak up on foot. The goal is to arrive around dusk, then attack during the dinner shift change. I will hunt for key figures. You get some supplies and choose your side.”

Moka winced as she prodded the goose egg forming on her head. Azarus playfully flicked her image in the mirror. It was a fair turnaround, as far as he was concerned. Moka had lost her temper and tried to threaten Tevzaga with her chisel earlier.

Moka did not mention Tevzaga violent tactics, choosing to address the elephant in the room instead.

“If you are so unsure of my loyalties, why don’t you put an iron slug in my head now and save yourself the headache?”

Watching Tevzaga’s reaction, Azarus thought the skinwalker did a better impression of the cat that got the cream, but hers was not bad. Looking deeper, Azarus saw a shadow of uncertainty lurking behind her eyes. He suspected she was wearing her confidence like armor, protecting the tender emotions beneath. Tevzaga puffed her chest, looking Moka straight in the eye.

“Because I think I am right. As someone with an outside perspective, I think you know I am, too.” Tevzaga hesitated. Her gaze wavered. She ran a hand through Rascal’s fur, as if to reassure herself. “Someone has to be on my side, and I think it’s you. Break my heart and I’ll let Rascal chase you. It’s a worse fate than a bullet.”

Tevzaga’s smile softened the threat. Azarus did not buy it. This was a person who did what they must, regardless of the price. There was no doubt in his mind she would have Rascal kill Moka if chose the other side. If Moka sensed the same iron in Tevzaga’s voice, she made no sign. Her tone carried a sense of judgment.

“Your argument is reasonable, but are you more hopeless than Davok against the Empire? My god sent me to aid the hopeless.”

Tevzaga’s eyes flared, her mouth opened to retort. Azarus could see the moment her past failures crossed her mind, the angry words dying in her throat. Her posture slumped, and she glanced away from Moka to check their rate of descent. Rascal was taking a languid path down. When she looked back, she met Moka’s eye and shrugged.

“I guess that is for you to judge. How very much like a [Paladin] of you.”

Moka leaned back, letting out a slow breath. Azarus wondered if she was remembering how excitable and girlish the [Mounted Gunslinger] had seemed when she thought Moka was a goblin [Paladin]. He was.

“So be it,” was all Moka replied. She touched the rope slung across her chest, as if seeking reassurance. Late into the night, Moka had scribbled in the dust by fire-light, sketching out ways to use the rope. She had grand plans of harnessing its elasticity.

Azarus thought back to [Tinkerer], which was offered as a Class upgrade at the beginning of the run. Maybe that was a missed opportunity.

The pair landed in silence and continued toward their destination without a word to each other. Tevzaga took a minute to rub dirt in Rascal’s coat, despite his vocal protests.

“Oh hush, you know they’d spot you a mile away. Big fluff ball.”

Rascal lifted a paw to his chest, his beak hanging half-open. He looked at Tevzaga as if experiencing a great betrayal. She rubbed dirt on his feather crest.

“Stop being such a crybaby or the wyverns will get you.”

Rascal flinched as if struck. He made a great show of gathering his shattered pride and bearing the dirt bath with a look of stoic suffering. Tevzaga rolled her eyes at his theatrics when he wasn’t looking. Part way through, she started sneaking the pouting griffin pieces of dried meat. After soothing Rascal’s feelings with treats and pets, Tevzaga led Moka through the trees, taking care not to break any.

Azarus leaned back from the mirror, uninterested in the pair’s brooding. He had given the dilemma of sides much thought and made a decision. His primary concern was that he was feeling pressure to advance through the Trials more quickly. The screens implied he would ‘discover what his stubbornness had cost him’ as he rose through the Trials. As much as he would love to ignore the threat, he thought it may be unwise. The screens wished him ill. Gloating was not a good sign.

With that in mind, supporting Davok seemed like a mistake. It would be a campaign of years and many battles to overthrow an Empire. Azarus was certain it was possible, but it would be grueling. In contrast, supporting Tevzaga would be a short, bloody endeavor. And he liked Tevzaga. Davok sounded like a genuine leader, but the lonesome [Gunslinger] and her mount were a charming pair.

Azarus tapped the Mirror of Eons, which graciously allowed him to adjust the view as he wished. Swinging out and over to the group’s destination, Azarus examined the outpost. The first thing he noticed was why Tevzaga wanted to approach at dusk. The orcs had cleared the land in all directions for as far as a mortal could see. A thick cloud of low smoke hung over the wasteland like a haze. It was not enough to hide the approach of an orc, a goblin, and a griffin.

Three wyverns spun through the air, weaving in and out of a stack of smoke rising over the outpost, twirling in lazy arcs. Two bore orcs with armored, calf length coats, like Tevzaga’s. They carried repeating crossbows on the verge of transcending to arbalests, complete with multiple quivers of oversized bolts mounted next to their saddlebags. The wyverns themselves were massive, scaled beasts with thick, muscled legs and powerful tails ending in vicious, hooked stingers. They had teeth like daggers and talons to match. [Divine Insight] showed more.

[Mountain Wyvern]

Subtype - Dragon/Wind

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Gifts - Moderate Perception and Vigor

Major Might and Resilience

[Mountain Wyverns] are distant descendents of dragons. Normally found lording their aerial might in mountain ranges, these wyverns have been bred and trained by an Orcish [Warlord] and his Skills. Uniquely suitable for battle, an evolution is in their near future.

Azarus looked at the third wyvern rider in her gleaming armor and thought that maybe Moka would benefit from an animal companion. Rascal and Tevzaga got along so well, and these wyverns look like useful beasts. Watching the three riders monitor the land around the outpost made Azarus think Tevzaga was more hopeless than he had originally given her credit for. He examined the armored orc, clad in segmented metal plates etched with runes, through [Divine Insight].

Kenasha Ironborne

Archetype - [Soldier]

Class - [Wyvern Knight]

Bloodline - Orc

Gifts:

Natural - Moderate Will and Spirit

Class - Moderate Vigor, Might, and Knack

Major Resilience

Skills:

[Wyvern’s Impact]

[Bonded Companion: [Mountain Wyvern]]

[Bonded Ability: Partial Transformation]

[Knight’s Aegis]

Spells:

[Armor-Bound]

A quick look into [Armor-Bound] showed that Kenasha had spells, in that her armor had enchantments she could use. Her single magical ability allowed her to bind herself to the relic she wore. Azarus judged she would be a difficult foe regardless of the armor, if her Skills did what he thought they did. He used [Divine Insight] on the armor to appease his curiosity. The Skills, he had a feeling he would see in action soon.

[Kenasha’s Mage-Armor]

This bespoke, enchanted suit of armor amplifies mana and converts it into electricity under the wearer’s control. While the wearer can manipulate the electricity free-form, several spells such as [Chain Lightning], [Electric Armor], and [Lightning-Step] can be cast through the armor at reduced cost.

Azarus tsked to himself. He had hoped to see something new and exciting. Throwing around lightning bolts was something he considered familiar, given his recent experiences. He was quick to reason that out of the four suits, there was bound to be at least one interesting set of powers.

Taking a second to temper his expectations, Azarus admonished himself for wanting too much. The odds of Moka beating a lightning-wielding [Wyvern Knight] were long enough. More interesting was not necessarily a good thing. He shifted his attention from the [Wyvern Riders], to what they were guarding.

The outpost was thick and squat, with walls of packed dirt held up by dark boards of strange material and squeezed between twenty-foot tall boulders. Azarus had no way of knowing for sure, but he would bet the wyverns had air-lifted the boulders here, which said much for their gifts of Might.

Azarus used the mirror to follow the smoke, zooming in on a furnace where a team of orcs were tossing in shovels full of crumbling trees into the fire, stoking it. Nearby, another team of orcs, in cloth masks and full-bodied aprons, were mixing a cauldron of fine sand, ground tree dust, and a thick goop over a low fire. Azarus noted they took care to keep the goop away from the open team.

A third team was pouring the mixture from a ready cauldron into a large, shallow iron sheet with hand-width edges. Four orcs bore the sheet with giant tongs, carrying it over to an oversized iron press. Once they placed the sheet beneath the press, all four ran to a large wheel manning one of four spokes each. Yelling out a cadence, the orcs heaved the press into motion, causing it to put the sheet of goop under immense pressure.

Azarus’s attention flicked to the next step, where a fourth team of orcs placed the sheet of pressed material into the furnace. He watched as the team pulled their sheet out, upending the smoking rectangle of processed material into a pile. They dumped their cherry-red iron sheet into a cooling rack, then marched off with an already cooled sheet to start the process over again. It was strange. Azarus’s instincts urged they should press the material after heating it in the furnace.

He watched two more cycles before he figured it out. Other than cutting it into shape, the material was too hard to manipulate after they fired it. It reminded him of glassmaking, or pottery. Given this technique must be new, a response to the plundering of their natural resources, it was quite ingenious. It impressed Azarus. He wondered what Moka would do with the material when she got her hands on it.

Azarus shifted the mirror’s perspective back to Moka. He was pleased to find she would indulge his curiosity before long. Dusk was falling and Tevzaga was leading Moka and Rascal through dips and valleys near the edge of where the desiccated forest met the cleared land. It displeased him to discover that Tevzaga and Moka were still throwing each other the occasional suspicious glance. Without his direct intervention, Moka would support Tevzaga. That was obvious. There was no way the outpost would trust a random goblin claiming to be a god’s champion while she facilitated a raid. Surely they had both come to that conclusion by now?

The fat orange moon rose over the horizon, framing the circling wyverns and casting the night into shadow. Tevzaga hopped onto Rascal, swinging one leg over just behind his shoulders. She held onto his ridge of feathers with one hand and hefted her [Mage Killer] in the other.

The [Hero] spoke to the [Peasant], with her face turned forward, not daring to look the goblin in the eye. She looked up to the rising moon and soaring [Wyvern Riders].

“Make or break time, little sister. I’m off to see about some wyverns. If you’re quick, you could warn somebody. If you believe in me, you can cause a distraction to help me out.”

Not waiting for a reply, Tevzaga whispered something in Rascal’s feathered ear. He shook like a dog, releasing a dust cloud. Like a cloud rising on an updraft, he ambled into the air, trying to blend in with the haze of smoke as he climbed higher. Tevzaga bent low on his back, hiding in Rascal’s fur to keep the cloud ruse going as long as possible.

Tevzaga and Rascal were above the smoke and rising higher, trying to gain altitude before the [Wyvern Riders] spotted them. Moka whispered a prayer. It landed in Azarus’s ears like falling sand.

“Please god, I don’t know what to do.”

Azarus stilled. He had forgotten Tevzaga was not the only one who wore confidence like armor. Moka was a village girl, despite her competence. This entire experience must feel like an immense responsibility to her.

Azarus weighed the cost of purchasing a [Divine Inspiration] in his mind and disliked himself for it. It was a cold-blooded, mercenary reaction to his champion’s plight. He felt this response was a part of who he was. He rejected it. There were times when his ruthless streak would serve him, but this was not one.

With a flick of his wrist, Azarus pulled up the [Divine Store] and purchased an [Inspiration]. A screen with a recording mic popped up in front of his face, just like it had when he purchased one for Granon. Azarus considered Moka’s dilemma, the three dots on the screen blinking at him to hurry. He refused to be rushed. With [Dreams of Past Life] confirmed for the next run, this could very well be a pivotal moment in Azarus’s developing relationship with his champion. He chose his words with care, hoping they would carry beyond this crisis.

“You act in my name, and represent me to the world. People know me through what you do. I ask that you use the power I give you to weigh the scales of fate in favor of the worthy. I find Tevzaga worthy.”

Azarus hoped Moka would dream of this moment in every life, remembering that when she pleaded for guidance, he asked her to represent him. If his luck was generous, it would give him some leeway to decide who ‘he’ is and claim his domain.

The screen vanished, taking his message with it. Worlds away, on the surface of the mirror, Moka stumbled, her eyes rolling back into her head as a soft tri-color flame descended on her brow. Azarus ignored the feeling of an ember of his domain crumpling to ash. It would be worth it. He would make it worth it. All he had to do was believe the exchange was equal.

Azarus closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath to settle himself. He had purchased the last two Blessings like ripping off a bandaid. There was no pain, and when he moved his domain under his will, he could not tell a difference. He flexed his domain, conjuring flames on his skin. It came to his call with ease, not a single hitch to imply a missing piece. The flames danced on his hands, their flickering shapes forming into shapes and scenes that played out lie memories.

Feeling his domain respond to his will, Azarus confirmed that purchasing a [Divine Inspiration] had not altered his control of himself. The tension was in his head. Knowing that did not make it any less real.

When Azarus opened his eyes again, they flashed with gray flames, verging on white. He made his decree, speaking with all his authority to the empty hall.

“To inspire my champion in a time of doubt is a worthy cause. Therefore, a fraction of my domain was a worthy sacrifice.”

The words rang hollow to Azarus. He did not let it bother him. That was the decision he had made, and he would stand by it. If he needed ruthlessness, it was toward himself.

Azarus glanced inward, at the field of embers representing his domain. A thought crossed his mind. This field was not big enough to contain the pieces of himself he would sacrifice by the end, all for worthy causes. He would bet his domain on it. Azarus accepted the thought for what it was and moved forward. To him, it was not about the price. What mattered was the worthiness of the cause.

Down in the dirt, in a small dip in the landscape, cast in shadow and surrounded by orange moonlight, Moka came out of the vision with a gasp. She fell to her hands and knees, her earrings jingling and ornamental feather dancing in the slight breeze. Her long navy blue coat, with polished horn buttons, shrouded her figure. A thick haze of smoke hung over her, the outpost looming like a fortified hill in the distance. The goblin in ill-suited clothes whispered into the dirt, her head held low to the ground.

“I hear you, Azarus, and obey.”

Moka stood up as if coming out of a daze. She looked around, gauging a path toward the outpost with fresh eyes. Picking a direction, she moved forward while double checking her duffel bag of tools. She mumbled in a voice meant for none but herself.

“Sure. A distraction worthy of the Lord of Chaos. I can do that.”

Azarus sighed, rubbing his temple with a paint stained hand. Maybe it would be easier to just challenge the God of Chaos for their domain. Win or lose, he would be free of Moka’s endless allegations. He would rather win, of course. Being the God of Chaos would not represent him, but he could not deny he was looking forward to the seeds of chaos Moka was about to sow.

He was betting on fire. Lots of fire. Azarus pushed his divine will into [Through Mortal Eyes], intent on finding out. Thoughts of his domain and fields of ashes pushed to the back of his mind, Azarus looked through his champion’s eyes and hoped to find something interesting.