The trek back home through the forest was difficult; Mazael had a shredded arm and a badly damaged leg, a condition that wasn't conducive to long-distance travel by any stretch of the imagination. Gritting his teeth and watching for Nowarn patrols that might be out looking for their missing encampment. Nowarn, pronounced Noh-Varn, is the name of the rebellion he had been sent to locate. He didn't know too much about what their whole deal was, but he knew they were a buncha bitches who would set fire to orphanages and churches.

Mazael wasn't a philosopher nor a politician- he was a weapon, and weapons didn't ask questions.

After a few hours of walking, he knew it wasn't going to get easier; his head was spinning and the blood loss was leaving dark red trails down his leg, leaving a definable crimson path in his wake. He knew the odds of making it to the nearest town with a healer weren't very high- which was unusual, given that his body healed so rapidly compared to that of a normal Human. must've been a property of the things that bit him- some sort of anti-regenerative property. Tryarchs like Mazael were deadly creatures but they weren't invincible. Tonight was a reminder of that.

"I swear to god..." his raspy, shrill voice called out into the forest's dark, muffled by the overgrowth around him as he stumbled through shrubs and valleys of the Kreat landscape.

"...If I die out here... to some bulb-headed weirdo's gross ass bite... I'm haunting your ASS Roze Lightier..." his long, ocean-blue hair was matted with sweat and creature blood as he dragged his increasingly useless leg.

Mile by mile crept by with mounting sluggishness. Disorientation and Fatigue were becoming more and more apparent- Mazael became more and more frustrated, his emotions becoming inverted blurs and opposites. He wasn't scared of what might be death, and he wasn't worried about what he would leave behind. All he felt was a stinging resentment and bitter obstinance at being sent on a mission that spelled his doom- live as a weapon, die as a weapon.

He felt his legs give out underneath him and cold earth embrace his body, his skinny frame lost amongst the forest duff and refuse in a discouragingly comfortable clasp that made his aching muscles cry out in relief.

Fine. Rest here. he scolded himself I hope you die in the dirt like the rusted sword you are.

Unconsciousness claimed him swiftly.

The first surprise to greet Mazael as he woke up was that he woke up at all- a gracious thing after having accepted the bitter end. The eruption from a death-like slumber was not a welcome one. Mazael wasn't suicidal, he just liked his beauty sleep.

The second surprise was that he was comfortable, placed on a bed of linen and silk, something reserved for royalty and others, not for creatures of the blade, not for soldiers. The air was thick with a warm, cinnamony flavor that felt like fall leaves and crisp air, making Mazael nostalgic for a time he couldn't even remember, a time he most likely had never even properly encountered.

The third and fourth surprise were the bandages across his many wounds and the voice that called to him from the doorway; a warm, timid, feminine voice that caused Mazael to slowly sit up and face her where she stood in the doorway- Standing there holding a hot towel was a woman only a few centimeters shorter than he was; she wore a witch's hat and a simple robe that clung to her form like milk skin on hot chocolate.

"You're awake," she mumbled, staring at him with lurid green eyes that made his face go flush with pink across his pale skin.

"Well I'm certainly not fucking asleep." his voice sounded meaner than he meant it to- he didn't know how to be nice.

Her face went flush when he cursed and she set the towel on the bedside table.

"Marion Forge would like to hear of this." she muttered, more to herself than anyone else, scurrying out of the room. Mazael called out and attempted to step out of bed, only to immediately tumble to the ground, his legs weak and unable to support himself as his world spun looking up from the floor. How long had he been out? Where was he? a million questions spun in his head but he fought against the nausea and rose to his feet, slowly, regaining his balance on weak legs and a fatigued nervous system. Over the course of the ten minutes it took for him to work his way back up to a stand, he had been joined by an older woman and the woman who had greeted him.

Marion Forge, where had he earned that name?

"Mazael Deveyos." the older woman smiled; he took this to be Marion Forge "I never thought I'd see you so wobbled."

He felt like a baby deer on new found legs, being studied by a Wolf in tall grass. So much possible danger, so much unknown to him.

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"Who the fuck are you?" Again, he sounded meaner than he felt; A cornered animal lashing out in fits of frustrated anger and defenselessness.

"You certainly haven't lost your tongue. Meriam, assist him."

The blonde woman who had brought him the towel rushed over to offer him a hand; He swatted her away.

"I want answers before I accept any further help."

"A little late for that; You've taken up a two-month-long residency here already and received no answers."

Two months!?

Mazael's eyes grew wide and Meriam grabbed his arm; he didn't reject it this time. Marion gestured for them to follow and lead Mazael out into a hallway; It was then that Mazael noticed that the entire place was made of wood- not wooden planks, not processed wood, but tree wood, it was as if they had hollowed out an enormous tree and began throwing lighting and various accouterments into the hollowed out core. It was rather nice, an earthy, herby kind of smell permeated the entire building and made Mazael fall into a sense of comfort and ease; Wildly different then the harsh brick, mortar, and myrrh of the Kreat castles he was always confined within.

"Two whole months you've been asleep. Did you know you talk in your sleep? Meriam told me." Marion Forge chirped; she must've been in her 70s but she was tall and graceful, wearing a loose red gown that concealed her body, her silver hair tied in a beehive shape atop her head. Meriam tensed around Mazael's arm as she walked him through the oaken corridor, an impossibly deep blush gracing her porcelain skin. Mazael sighed.

"Yeah; I bet I do. Where the fuck am I?"

"Must you curse every time you speak?"

"Fuck y-" he coughed, his mouth dry and throat parched from two months of misuse.

"That's my right; now answer my question, Please." even his niceties were tainted with the dirt of a curse word.

Marion threw open doors to a courtyard filled with resplendent flowers and worn-down terra clay sculptures; Mazael recognized some of them, others? Not so much, possibly scavenged from ruins throughout Yearn given that some seemed to be from as far east as Rorvich and some as far south as Nex. It was a beautiful sight, half garden, half museum, surrounded on all sides by wooden walls; Mazael realized they were indeed inside a giant tree, and this seemed to be the outermost edge where its ten feet tall roots broke and gave way to sunlight, creating a natural courtyard for flowers to bloom and other people to sit and discuss.

"We, Mazael, are the Rebellion that Kreat has been fighting against."

It didn't even shock Mazael; He had no preconceived notion of what these people were like. In the moment, the only things he felt were exhaustion and trepidation; what were they planning to do with him? Why save him? He was a weapon that was currently being used to kill them- something he had done in the past, something that was not being held in front of him in the most awkward way possible: a direct confrontation by the ones he was victimizing, and not the kind of confrontation he was particularly good at.

"Oh. Well this is awkward." he mumbled. Marion turned and smiled.

"We do not hold you responsible for your transgressions against us; You are like I once was, misguided and used." she smiled a kind smile- the kind of smile that Mazael was unfamiliar with.

"I'm not misguided or used, I'm a Tryarch."

He could feel Meriam tense yet again at the mention of the word Tryarch. Mazael smiled; there was something amusing about her fear.

"What, did the old lady not tell you?" He mused, a mischievous glance to the side at his companion who supported him so tenderly.

"I did not," Marion rushed to defend her pupil, smiling down at Mazael. "However, you are in good company; I was also a Tryarch."

Mazael gave her a queer look, tilting his head.

"Was?"

"If you wish to stay on the pedantry of my language you're more than welcome to; but the fact of the matter is that I know more about you and the role you play in your kingdom than you do."

"It's not just "pedantry" of language you pedantic fuck" Mazael hissed "What do you mean you were a Tryarch? It's not a thing you can stop being."

Marion turned and began to walk through the garden.

"Tryarch assigns a nature, a purpose; it was the term created by Kreat for certain beings that possessed our power; they were hunted to extinction, and those that weren't apart of the extinction were turned into weapons- Weapons like you."

Marion would occasionally throw glances over her shoulder at Meriam and Mazael, watching them half lidded eyes and a furrowed brow. There was something uncannily hawkish about her gaze that offput Mazael; he felt like a field mouse about to be picked up by a brown mop of feathers with a snapping beak and tearing claws.

"To exist outside of the dichotomy of Extinct'ed and weaponized is to escape the definition of Tryarch. I now go by the term Polarch, as it feels more dignified."

Meriam's face was one of steely resolve; Mazael looked bored.

"a Polarch, nice. What does this have to do with me?"

She stopped by a statue of a particularly brawny man with a large handlebar mustache wearing what appeared to be a sleeveless suit of Kreat Guard armor.

"I'm extending an offer to you; Join me, be outside of Kreat's control, become a Polarch, and set yourself free of the role they've prescribed you."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you have two choices: Leave my people alone, or join my garden."

She set a hand on the statue of the brawny man; A man who's emblazoned plaque that sat below his feet read "Hortimer, The Fifth Tryarch."