A hollow crack; half a tonne of metal recoils as though it were a bag of feathers; heavy stomps carving deep holes in the wood as it stumbles, trying desperately to find purchase. The As’tiki inside shoves the suit forward, putting the hands out to prostrate himself before Damien of Volos. He holds the small staff like a mace, glaring at the armour; shaking his head.

“Until this troll has woken from its nap, however long that may be, you will not touch him. I swear this as Damien of Volos — on all of my titles. As Worldseeker Damien; as the Minstrel Damien — as the inventor, as the trader.”

Damien moves the staff; the soft humming rapidly escalating until it is more akin to the background noise of a city — only in peaceful note instead of bustling commerce. He smoothly passes it through the air, and the humming changes tone; like a finger ran upon the rim of a wet wine glass.

Green air rises from his back, and pools behind him, and from it comes another rhythm; then another, and another — until the air changes into the shape of a band of people playing various instruments; a phantom orchestra that sings or plays to Damien’s mere flick of a wrist.

The suit rushes forward; Damien’s wrist extends. The music swells; the force of the staff cracks the air; the suit topples as a massive impact rocks the entire suit and the knee gives out, planting the suit into the floor once more.

“I have warned you. Approach, and you will suffer the full might of my Legend; for I stake it all upon this promise.”

The suit raises its head, the visor staring up at Damien. Before it has a chance to attack; or seemingly even think, the humming staff smashes into the faceplate, plummeting the metallic monstrosity into the ground.

The Arbiter raises his hand; and Damien raises the staff. Behind the Arbiter, a violin forms into existence and laces its bow across the Arbiter’s neck. A face comes into view; old and decrepit — and looks down upon the Arbiter with malice unbound.

Movement is death.

“Understand this, Jonas, Legend is as much a curse as it is a blessing. If one is known for unbeatable rhetoric, they will magically become better at it the more know of it. From no amble time spent practising; but the simple fact it is known.”

Jonas rubs his eyes. There is… ambience around his Father. Heard with sight; seen with sound… but felt with the heart. Jonas knows that Damien is powerful, now, simply because he can see it.

But he never has, before. It doesn’t make sense. If he had this… then why?

Damien smoothing steps to his left, putting himself directly between the troll and the Swornslayer. The staff vibrates in his hand; he puts one hand behind his pack, lowering it ever-so-slightly and thrusting the tip out almost like its a rapier.

“I have duelled with blades. I have walked the world. I have convinced tyrants of error. I have given to those who have nothing. I have orchestrated songs that none would ever match. That Damien is the one you will see today.”

The troll stirs; but Damien doesn’t move. The Vahum, however, rises up to his full height within the suit. It towers over Damien — yet is probably only half the size of Grug, give or take.

Jonas can practically hear the whirring inside; the constant movement of mechanical gears so advanced he couldn’t hope to replicate it within his lifetime; or his next or the next again a thousand times.

“This will be my final performance — as any Damien other than Damien of Volos. An Elegy, if you would.” He sings; his voice growing in volume. His eyes close, and he begins to wave the staff around slowly… methodically.

Sorrow creeps in; a melody of pure sadness in slow, mournful tempo. It grips his heart and plays it like the strings of a harp. It makes him want to not… decidedly.

To lay down and listen; to grieve over nothing. A piano comes in; like the ebb and flow of heartache. The suit of armour doesn’t seem to share the feeling; instead sending a sweeping fist for Damien’s head.

Jonas wants to cry out; to warn him — but a horrible screech cuts through the air, as though part of the orchestra has just burnt to a crisp in an instant.

The suit stops dead; and there upon its arm is Damien of Volos — no… Damien the Harmony.

Where had that come from… why had the words entered his mind and overwritten his thoughts?

Damien brings the staff down on the head once more; and a Counterpoint begins to flood the air, changing the tone from sorrow to… almost annoyance.

As he lands on the floor, he speaks — and the normal tone resumes. “Agrekelk… if you do not cease your Vahum — I will have to damage your relic, and I will not vouch for the safety of the operator.”

The Arbiter sneers. “The Swornslayer is gifted to us by a God! You cannot harm it.”

Damien shakes his head, and drops the staff — putting out a single finger instead, which he rotates around. The mourning tone drops in an instant, smoothing transitioning into a rising crescendo.

Air warps into… less air. Jonas struggles to see it clearly — but the music holds a grip on his heart. It feels as though the air is a heavy blade made for execution, and the music holds it aloft with the very tension from the swelling of the music.

Damien pulls it down; and the blade drops. The blades, actually — for he continues to play the notes; continues to swipe blades of air across the surface of the Swornslayer’s armour.

They feel so, so heavy, as though only Grug could only have the strength to hold them… perhaps even not him. A sudden sound; a rend of metal.

The Vahum falls; right through the floor and onto the stone lip below. Damien swells his hand upwards; and a bass comes in, swelling air into a massive ball of raw, crude iron that seems too real.

It drops; directly down the hole — rumbling and grating against the wood all the way down until…

The sound of metal crushing metal. Damien moves his finger closer to him, then away, then a little closer; the music moving with his smallest adjustment, simmering, simmering; then a flourish… and the orchestra disappears.

The end of the show.

Grug moves; but doesn’t get up.

“You were wrong, Arbiter. I can harm it.” Says Damien, then lets his arms fall loose. “I just cannot destroy it.”

There’s a sound like splintering wood, like something is crushing it into pieces. It grows louder; then louder still — until a red-steel hand appears, reaching from the hole sawn by Damien’s music.

It stomps upon Damien’s discarded staff, stands high, and stares right back at Damien — but a gash is carved into its chest, near the left shoulder.

Red blood leaks out. Jonas smiles. It isn’t invincible.

“I hope I have shown you what a Legend can do, Jonas.” He says, turning to Grug. “I have no doubt in my mind that Grug here will garner his own Legend. If not now, in the minds of the As’tiki, then by whoever else he meets. I get a feeling — that holds itself stubborn in my head — that the troll won’t know what the hell to do with it… if he even cares to try and cultivate it. You’ll need to guide him.”

Vaastilimi jumps for Damien; swinging back the arm of the Swornslayer. Jonas cries out; puts a single step forward, but it’s too late.

Except the Swornslayer’s fist impacts on thick skin; heavy muscle; tough bone — as Grug puts his hand in the way and scoops up Damien. The skin bruises; the troll’s eyes water — but Damien is safe.

“Why you hurty damien-thingy?” Grug speaks, putting Damien down and rising up to his full height. The two As’tiki councilmen other than the Arbiter stare up with horrific fear in their eyes; as though a God has manifested itself in front of them and they are not in its favour.

But Grug smiles — much to their chagrin — and utters only a few words. “Hi, freend.”

The power of the word rushes through the space; a word of Absolute — understood by any who hear it. If only it weren’t pronounced completely wrong.

“Dat good nap.” Grug says… then points to the fire whilst simultaneously patting his belly. “Me greatest water-spit troll! Flicker-hot weakest… flicker-hot!”

The Arbiter stops choking on his own fear long enough to raise his staff. “Sworn!” he shouts. “You dare to wake!?”

Grug hears the noise, even if he doesn’t understand the words. Or, perhaps, he does? He understood some of their non-spoken language, after all. “Hi, freend.” He says to one of them, seemingly forgetting he had already done that.

This time, however, he speaks it to each of them in tandem. The As’tiki practically peel in disgust, drawing back like a cat exposing its hackles to a rival. Then he turns to the Swornslayer, smiles just the same, and repeats it. “Hi, freend!”

The Swornslayer rushes forward; smacking Grug in the chest and sending him stumbling back. “Ow.” Grug says; but that’s all he has time for as the Swornslayer sends another punch into his thigh; then another into his arm.

Why isn’t he fighting back?

He stumbles just out of reach, and the As’tiki begin to blow air — speaking in subtonal. He can’t hear it… but Grug immediately blinks and snaps to them. “Me no hurty you.” He says; they take it like a declaration of war.

The Arbiter stabs forward with his staff; and the two besides him places their hands upon it. An arc of lightning zips across the narrow street and straight into Grug’s chest. He screams in pain, jumping backwards and gripping the fresh burns, breathing like a panting dog.

Through the wheezes, he speaks as always. “Why? Why dey hurty me?”

Jonas rushes forward, standing in front of the troll before he even consciously knows he’s doing it. “Stop this!” he shouts at the councilmen. “He has no—“

The Swornslayer puts a hand out and bats Jonas aside. His left arm shatters; his shoulder-joint pushes into his collar and breaks that too. He’s thrown to the ground, discarded like trash.

Jonas feels hands on his back; on his head — and then he’s dragged. Father.

A roar shakes the ground. It shakes the mountain; it makes the grass on the Savannah sway in new wind. It makes silence reign.

Until the sound of metal-on-stone shatters it. Grug holds the Swornslayer upside-down; slamming it into the stone below the wood over and over and over and over.

It kicks out; one of his fingers snaps back; his grip goes — he catches it again on the Swornslayer’s leg, pulling it over his head and smashing it back down into the wood like he’s breaking in a fresh whip.

The troll staggers back… and the suit stands up. Even with the crack inside it — it’s ridiculously durable. What would have pulverised a normal As’tiki a thousand times over is nothing to the Vahum inside.

A bolt of lightning hits Grug from behind; and he staggers forward into the Vahum — who delivers a bone-shattering uppercut into Grug’s chin.

The crack reverberates off the walls; Grug falls to the ground. Jonas looks upon the troll’s face. A broken, bloody mess. Shards of grey bone stick out, having stabbed their way through the troll’s skin. An entire novel could be written for the pain etched into the troll’s face.

That same hatred creeps back into his heart. He imagines himself dipping Vaastilimi into the molten gold one leg at a time before letting it harden and throwing it into the desert so that he can bake in the sun, unable to even begin to move as he dies a slow, painful... and utterly hopeless death.

He’d find other ways to deal with the rest; but none would suffer less than others. Equality is tantamount to civilisation.

Then, suddenly, the Swornslayer is gone. Grug’s face starts to recollect in front of him. A second passes, then two — then the Swornslayer crashes into the ground so fast Jonas barely had time to hear the wind rush.

He looks up — and Gaem’a stands atop the once-burning building — and stomps upon a flickering ember. A small device twitches in his hand, then like a wilting flower starved of water for years, dies.

He shouts out; his voice carried by an unknown amplification.

“You may consider this my resignation from the council,” he declares. “I regret to inform you that I, Gaem’a, have decided that you are all a bunch of ’fucking idiots’, to borrow a term from my good friend — and ally — Damien of Volos.”

Gaem’a moves his hand ever-so-slighty, and suddenly he, too, is gone. A cry comes from the As’tiki councilmen — because Gaem’a is among them.

He vreeks — an As’tiki greeting in their subtonal — and throws down a small ball. It lands; flattening in a second, then it sprawls out and curves upwards, forming a ball of near pitch-black… something… that traps the three councilmen inside.

Something clear-as-day splashes on top of Jonas, and he feels… better. His arm doesn’t hurt as much — though it still hurts.

“Gaem’a.” Says Damien, holding Jonas’ body upright. “Was that… the Tear of Dryad?”

“I never found a use for it. Better your son have it than it go to waste.”

“Mad bastard.” He says, then nods and looks to Jonas. “Alright, Jonas. Don’t. Move. The Tear isn’t a healing potion — it simply suspends animation. If that hit caused internal bleeding, or your arm broke badly and pierced an artery — it’ll stop it. But you aren’t okay.”

A burning-hot red circle appears in the inky-black sphere Gaem’a had conjured, and a flash of lightning rips out of it. Then the sound starts again… the suit once more climbing up from the bedrock.

Jonas shoves himself forward, holding up his body with his arm. “Grug!” he shouts; and the troll’s eyes — or eye — snaps open, rolling around in its head almost like he can’t control it until it locks onto Jonas’ face.

“Jon— fr—. Dey —rty jonas.” He says, almost whimpering. “Me — feel —d. Me —cky-wat—… an’ me st—ch —rty.” Jonas frowns. The jaw muscles work, the tongue moves… but half the words are lost to the ether, nigh unintelligible from the damage sustained.

The suit raises a hand over the hole, and clamour back up. If it shows any signs of being damaged — or Vaastilimi inside being injured beyond the blood…

Blood… what? Why does that…?

Dark.

His vision swims. What is??

Blurry.

“Father.” He says, as the voidorne spits words he can barely understand.

Chastising him for moving,,?

What?

“Blood…? As’tiki is?” Something his wrong. Can barly speak. Father talks right his face there’s nothing

Black.

—

Not black. Smound of smashin bnone.

Black.

—

Finger on the flecher.

Bolt in. Aim..?

Black.

—

Hit the gash.

Blood is… red.

Not As’tiki. NOT AS'TIKI!

—

Awake. Crack. Grug’s arm snapped in half. Lightning smashes into him. Jonas can think again; can he?

Damien is gone. Gaem’a isn’t around. Look for them; can’t see. What was he doing?

Gash.

Blood.

Flecher.

Only those words come to him. A cry comes. Gaem’a falls to the ground. Lightning. Arbiter stands over him. Sorrow.

Grug falls. Suit stands. Smiles. He can feel it. Inside. Walks to him.

Chance.

Aims.

Fires.

Hits.

Rends, blood. Red. Open hole.

He’s shouting. Arbiter.

Look. Not As’tiki. Blood wrong. Height wrong. Skin wrong.

Lightning saves him; shakes him from the stupor as he bounces back. Arm cracks; pain floods. He shoves himself in one of the holes the suit had made. Doesn’t know which.

Where is Father? Lightning.

—

EMERIC

Lightning smashes into the back of the suit, sending the controls haywire for but a second. A massive, blotchy, purple bruise grows and grows with each second.

The voidorne had a weapon concealed on the underside of his arm. A strong one, at that. But it doesn’t matter. The troll is dead.At least, as dead as it will be without properly disposing of it.

Every time the monster tries to recollect itself, it is an easy break — and nothing can stop him now. The only thing that would have matched him was, in fact, the troll. He is invincible in this!

He puts a hand over the hole in his suit.

So long as he keeps this hand here. It’s fine. He can easily destroy the rest of them with this singular hand. He grabs the troll by the neck, bringing him upright so that the voidorne boy can see his ’friend’; closing off the hole by keeping his forearm close.

They are all going to watch him slaughter this troll; then them — and there is nothing they can do about it.

The voidorne might have damaged it, but that power — whatever it was — is gone.

Friends with a troll? What a disgusting concept. It forces bile into his throat; it makes him want to fill the suit with his own stomach contents.

But now he has the best seats in the house. He’s paralyzed. Emeric isn’t even sure he’s conscious… then the voidorne cries out a helpless, feeble little ’No!’

The troll sways back and forth, broken in both body and soul. Eyes looking to the sky — but there’s only stone.

Has he damaged its brain, perhaps permanently? Is it simply waiting to die?

Well, it’s not like there’s much to damage to begin with. It doesn’t matter, he—

The troll gags, then gags again — then unleashes the most unholy, horrendous, foul-smelling sea of vomit he’s ever had the displeasure of seeing, let alone being covered in.

Chunks of quarter, half, and two-thirds digested duskwraith splatter onto the screen until it goes dark from the sheer volume, but Emeric is safe inside even if the smell reaches—

His closure of the suit isn’t perfect. A little vomit leaks in — and when it touches upon his skin it immediately begins to melt it.

The pain is beyond agonising, beyond torturous. All that runs through his mind is that it burns.

His instincts betray him — he tries to wipe it off.

In doing so, he removes the forearm that covers the hole — and in comes a deluge of acidic vomit. A drop of it was nothing compared to the true agony of it now. It turns down his leg, scoring marks like tattoos into his flesh; then pools at the bottom — at his feet.

He stumbles backwards, letting go of the troll — but the vomit is already inside. He doesn’t have a potion for this; nothing he could neutralise the acid with…

When did he start screaming?

Pain is everything to him as his feet dissolve; he feels himself falling ever-so-slightly as the support disappears and his legs sink into the vomit.

He grabs for a handhold; there’s nothing. He must escape; get out; get away; flee; run!

He releases the backpiece via chain; grabbing onto the outside in an attempt to pull himself up.

He slips off the skin of his own hand as the vomit on the outside separates it from his muscle immediately. He watches it melt from there, and he falls backwards.

He kicks out with stumped legs; he grabs — the suit falls over as the mechanicals inside give out. He crawls out before the vomit can seep out of it and reach him; he crawls along wood.

A hand stops him, grabbing his chest. Somebody pulls themselves onto him. He shakes; but he can’t move it — its the voidorne boy.

His eyes… are so full of hatred. Where has he seen that before?

A glint of gold.

—

Jonas brings the mallet down. The golden-steel smashes into the human’s face; makes it concave. Nose cartilage snaps; cheekbones splinter; jaw cracks in half; teeth chip, then shatter; the forehead leaks blood — then sinks inwards; the lips splay out; blood seeps from the skull until brain matter pulses out with each blow.

He'll remember the feeling forever.

Only when he doesn’t recognise the human’s head as anything other than random assortments of meat does he stop. He lets the mallet slip from his hand… the dizziness and the pain return; he hears words that should be reassurance — then he doesn’t hear at all.