What do you do when you fail at something?
The answer varies, naturally: if you’re undertaking a madman’s task, then you should definitely stop. Things like trying to make a frog fly by surgically attaching a pigeon’s wings to it are… not impossible, considering the powers the System grants, but inadvisable at any Level inferior of 50, therefore being part of this category.
Alternatively one can go about things in two different ways: either keep trying ad infinitum until things work out, changing small details here and there and hoping it won’t cause anything to explode in your face – again, a somewhat inadvisable method to use… on Rodar, that is – or one can plan things out, analyze information until your eyes bleed and your brain begs for sleep all while the rest of your body keeps on barely functioning, constantly wondering ‘how is this possible?’
Finally, there’s the solution to most of life’s problems: giving up.
And let me be honest here: sometimes giving up is the best option. If one knows one’s limits and sees that they’ve been reached – and maybe even exceeded – then it can be good to just… stop, and do something else, or just forget about it.
Continuing bullheadedly down that same road will just hurt you more and more, until your metaphorical horns break, leaving you with less than what you started.
Giving up, changing one’s mind, does not make someone ‘less’ than they were before: it is, sometimes, even a sign of wisdom.
And maybe this option may sound the same as the first… well, trust me: they aren’t the same. Some things are just impossible, while others may just be beyond you at the time. That is the main difference between the two.
Liam sat in his bedroom, having chosen to undertake the third of the four options: planning. A lot.
His room, once clean and sparsely decorated, was now filled… not floor to ceiling, because to do such a thing would have required him to climb up stairs, which, considering he lived in Rodar, wasn’t a good idea, but floor to ‘Liam height’, with pages upon pages of sketches and drawings and projects for his impossible dream.
But… not just that.
If one were to overlook the sketches of components for his ‘Endless Gun’ – he was still working on the name – and other items Sigmund was teaching him to make, they’d see a lot of less… professional things.
Like drawings of Amarie in various poses, a few of Sigmund doing something extremely silly or working at a workstation or other, and then, if one had looked deeper down, removing some of the surface chaff, they would’ve found… more disturbing things. Drawings of an endless plain with a black sun, with barely visible things on the ground, a single figure standing over it all: a knight in armor, its head missing. There were dozens of such sketches, all well and truly hidden away underneath a wave of pages and parchment – Liam wasn’t picky – that showed off the things he loved, while he tried to hide away his fears.
After all, there was no reason to worry Sigmund further, and there certainly was no reason to tell Amarie that nowadays the pendant he used to sleep without nightmares at night was no longer enough: for now, the Headless Knight appeared even in his waking moments. Whenever he got too distracted and let his mind wander, he could feel the nightmarish thing’s grip on the back of his thoughts. Every time he sat down and started working on his projects, the bloody being’s presence lingered in the back of his thoughts, tainting his reasonings, trying to give suggestions on how to achieve what he desired, attempting to trick him into making use of that damnable Skill: [Gift of Blood].
He knew, deep down, that if he allowed himself to succumb to the temptation, he would get what he desired, what he needed: a way to make his impossible dream into a reality.
But he was also certain that it would come at a heavy price: namely, the creation being Its and, probably, with it, his mind.
The only thing that gave him rest was a strange thing happening to the Red Skill binding the Headless Knight to him: it was changing color.
[Condition: Dreams Painted Red]
And, with it, the strange sense of urgency beyond the armored specter’s actions.
Something, he didn’t know what but something was changing the nightmares in which the Knight existed, and whatever that something was it was completely out of the being’s control.
He hoped that, whatever it was, it would rid him of his problem if he just waited long enough.
But that was the thing poor Liam hadn’t understood, couldn’t understand because he couldn’t know and he didn’t talk about it with anyone: waiting wouldn’t help. If anything, it would make matters worse. For in his attempt to wait out the storm he was just suppressing it, trying to do the impossible and lock a hurricane in a glass jar hoping it would calm down.
Because that’s what Red Skills were: a representation of trauma. A weakness in a
being’s mind, a crack that allowed things from beyond the veils of reality, the strata of Creation to get in, to colonize the mind and turn it into something dark, twisted, broken beyond repair. Red Skills were a band aid, a hopefully temporary solution to help the poor soul fight off the invasion. But they were just that: temporary. Not a solution, not a cure, but an antidote to help the body restore itself, one that couldn’t help if the person was too weak to fight off the poison.
The only way to get rid of the Skill was to fight it off on its home ground, to face the problem head on.
Hiding away, not facing the problem, would just make it fester.
And right now, for all that something was happening to the Red Nightmare, as he’d come to call it, for all that the band aid was being helped, even supported, the wound underneath was beginning to fester.
So he began to draw.
He’d drawn what he remembered of the first few nights without the pendant to protect him, hoping against all hope that vomiting graphite on the pages would somehow help alleviate the pain of the Knight’s presence, that it would somehow capture it and trap it eternally in the drawing.
Maybe it was helping, who knew? But that alone wasn’t enough. Not by a long shot.
Still, he’d gotten something out of it: he was now a Level 13 [Sketcher]. What had once started as a [Painter] Class obtained out of pure randomness by doing a simple repetitive action had turned into a little passion, something his and his alone. And sure, maybe some would’ve said that going from a [Painter] to a [Sketcher] was a downgrade, but not for him: he was no good with paints and colors, never had been, but back in his younger days he’d been… decent at drawing with pencils. So many people liked to think that anything made in black and white wasn’t the same as something colorful, but there was a great amount of nuance to it, to communicate the idea of color with its utter lack, or so he’d always liked to think.
So there he sat, in his not-so-little room, the windows set to let the starlight mixed with the waxing moon’s light filter in, illuminating his room’s desk, assisting the tiny light he’d installed not long ago.
It didn’t illuminate his workstation much, but that was the way he liked it: the sparse light served him better in his inspiration. It also helped remind him that sleep was something he required and that actually he should probably be doing just that right now.
With a sigh he rose from his hunched over position, letting go of the drawing
charcoal he’d been using (which was just a normal piece of charcoal sharpened on one end and wrapped in cloth so as not to completely blacken his hands) and pushed himself back.
His chair immediately caught onto a floorboard and tipped backwards, resulting in a barely contained curse and a rather loud bang as wood met wood. Luckily for him he’d tied a cushion to the very top of the chair just for this possibility – because this wasn’t even close to the first time this had happened.
Recently he’d started to feel the effects of Rodar’s proverbial misfortune a lot more and he didn’t know why: luckily for him, though, Sigmund’s home and laboratory – together with the lizardkin’s lessons – had been proofed against the many smaller misfortunes that could affect a person’s daily life.
With a groan he rose from the floor, putting the chair back in place while inspecting the floorboards: naturally, he saw nothing out of place. Even when he tested the damning floorboard with his foot he didn’t get a single groan out of the wood.
With a sigh he moved towards the bed, sitting down on the soft covers, his hand going for the pendant sitting on the bedside table, beneath a framed mage picture of Amarie and her team of [Knights] from that night out they’d all had together.
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His fist closed around the simple gem. And someone knocked on his door.
“Come in,” he said, his voice scratchy from lack of sleep.
A moment later the doorknob turned and in walked Amarie. Immediately Liam’s face lit up as a smile parted his face, showing his whitish teeth, a few of them slightly yellowed by the antibiotics he’d been forced to take as a child.
“Amarie, hi! Sorry if I woke you up.”
The woman with fiery red hair smiled back, stepping inside and closing the door behind herself with her foot, a gentle click filling the silence of the room.
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t sleeping.”
A low chuckle escaped Liam’s lips as he patted the bed beside him: “The great [Knight Commander] Amarie not sleeping at the appointed time? You’re going to make it snow!”
That got a chuckle out of her in turn: “Liam, it’s already snowing.” He frowned: “Really?”
A look outside the window revealed that it was, indeed, snowing. For a moment he wondered how he hadn’t noticed it up until now then he just shook his head.
“Well, that just proves my point,” he shot back.
Another shared chuckle filled the kind silence of the room as Amarie sat down and they shared a gentle kiss. When it, sadly, ended, she leaned against the wall while he leaned against her side, sharing in each other’s warmth.
Then she spoke: “The visions are getting worse, Liam, am I right?”
He froze, immediately trying to hide it while knowing full well that she’d noticed it. “Why do you keep trying to hide it?”
The answer wasn’t forthcoming, of course. It wasn’t rational, as these things tended to be, but he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it, even with his lover.
A firm hand settled on his chin, turning his head up and to the side, deep eyes staring down into his own: “Liam…”
Her voice promised violence… well, not really, but he imagined she would use that same tone when talking to an unruly underling.
A sigh escaped his lips and he shook his head, or rather, tried to, her hand was still keeping him in place. So he just spoke: “Look, you don’t need to worry about it. I… I’ll find a way. I just need to wait a bit and everything will solve itself. This –” he gestured around the room “– it helps, a lot. The drawing distracts me, it helps me focus, and it… it just helps, Amarie, and that’s what matters most.”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously but, in the end, she let go of him, her arms rising to give him a hug.
“...I’ll trust you, Liam, but remember: whatever happens, I’m here.” His arms rose in kind, hugging her back: “Thank you.”
They stayed like that, until sleep claimed them both and they fell to the side, their hug unbroken throughout the rest of the night.
Or so they would have liked.
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The battlefield was all around him.
It didn’t matter where he looked, how he turned, how many times he tried to close his eyes and hide his head under the blood drenched earth, it was there, always, filled with the screaming and shouting, the dying and still living abominations that called themselves human.
Nothing more than monsters, that’s what they were: little monsters wearing the wrong skin, too big for them, too unwieldy, made for beings that should’ve been better, had to be better, because if this was what they truly were then he was better off tearing his skin off his muscles and letting himself bleed out on the ground screaming.
He tried to hide, but there was nowhere to do so.
He tried to run, but no matter where he ran, or how fast, he never escaped the baleful glare of the crimson sun shining over his head.
He tried to kill himself, but he didn’t have the strength of will to do it, so instead he just fell to the ground, looking at his blood drenched hands and clothes, desperately trying to understand why this was happening, what he had done to deserve such a cruel fate.
Then one of the screams came closer, his eyes rising to meet those of an approaching, running, soldier, his jaw unhinged as it made that animalistic, horrifying, sound, his eyes open so wide that they looked like they were a moment away from popping out; his teeth were yellowed and broken, reminding him more of a wolf’s fangs. Anything else he could’ve ever possibly gleaned from the raggedy figure was either hidden by the blood covering practically every inch of him or downright broken. No insignia adorned his armor, which seemed to be assembled from pieces scavenged all around the battlefield, ill fitting and too heavy for the soldier’s small figure.
This war had been going on for so long… did the two sides even remember why it had started? For that matter, were there even sides left to begin with? Or had War walked these battlefields so many times, feeding upon its bloody entertainment, that the people had devolved into an all out fight, forgetting their brothers in arms and just turning everything into a frenzy of blood and flesh and steel?
These and many other questions flitted through his mind in the moments before the soldier reached him, his hands rising to protect his face desperately.
Only then did he notice that he, too, was holding a sword, bloody as the rest of him.
His hands trembled and he tried to drop it as fear pervaded him, but just a moment before he could do this, fingers covered in metal wrapped around his own, forcing his grip not to waver.
Liam’s eyes widened in incomprehension as the steely grasp moved his arms, raising his sword to block the incoming attack. The two weapons clanged against each other, the vibration traveling up Liam’s arms and making him want to let go, but the moment he tried to ease his fingers off the handle the gloved hands squeezed tight enough to hurt.
A scream escaped his lips as he felt his knuckles creaking and, he could’ve sworn, even cracking, as the hands moved him again, raising his sword higher and bringing it down, cutting the man’s head off in one, swift, motion. Then the scream changed from pain to panic. His head whipped up and around, but all he saw was the dark red sky filled with pinkish clouds that promised rain with a chance of more blood. But that was to be expected: after all, the being behind him didn’t have a head.
The Headless Knight stood behind him, emanating an aura of pure, unadulterated, pleasure that would’ve made War itself run away with its tail between its legs. This was Its element, what It existed to do, what It had dedicated all of its non-life – for the beings of his ancient Court weren’t truly alive in a meaningful way – to. Fighting and blood and entertainment and suffering in an endless dance with Death and the numerous facets of it that they’d forcedly created in their eternal game until it had completely given up on them.
More soldiers came and It got ready to force Liam into the fights: It was certain that, with enough training, It could convince the boy that the situation he was in wasn’t bad at all, that it was an opportunity, and with enough work, who knew, maybe It could one day find way to lea –
The train of thought was stopped right in its tracks as the Headless Knight felt something grasping at its legs. ‘Looking’ down, it saw the reason for this offending disturbance: vines of ivy, the despicable gift left by that delightful woman who smelled of ancient knowledge, the one who could’ve revived the Court!
No matter how hard It fought them, these blasted plants, this… greenery that broke up the beautiful continuity of this memory of a wonderful battle, was, to put it extremely simply, the worst. Not only was it infesting this nightmare, it was drinking the blood right out of it, feeding and feeding and growing and growing endlessly, like the god It had once slain. Unlike that god, though, these were mere plants: they had no heart, they had no soul, they had only their will, the order given to them by the girl of wonder, impressed upon them by simple thoughts and memories of multiplication. And, because of that, It couldn’t get rid of them. Not yet, at least.
The vines contracted like a muscle, tearing him away from Its prey, the subject of Its undesired ministrations, the one that would lead It to the freedom that had been taken from It by that despicable wandering god!
The Headless Knight fought them, his own sword coming down and cutting at the green parasite, managing to free Its legs but, at the same time, unable to reach Liam, who’d started running again, away, leaving It behind.
It would’ve raged if It didn’t know better: calm was the virtue of the greatest of warriors, with patience being a close second. He would come back, eventually. He couldn’t escape from It, for It was bound to him by the will of that god above gods, the One-Of-Many-Eyes that judged all.
And then Liam woke up.
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He didn’t scream as he opened his eyes, which surprised him.
What didn’t surprise him was how wet his clothes felt: he’d soaked through them with his sweat.
Then he noticed something else: Amarie wasn’t in the room and he was tucked away under the covers.
Did she see? he asked himself.
That was when the door opened and his lover peaked through: “You’re awake! I was coming to get you up on your feet. Breakfast’s nearly ready!”
“Thank you Amarie,” he said, a tight smile on his lips as he hid under the covers, feeling guilty for no real reason.
“I’ll come out in a moment, just let me put on my work clothes.” “Alright!”
And she stepped out.
While Liam changed – and stubbed his little toe against one of the bed’s legs – the [Knight Commander] walked into the kitchen, seeing her father looking at her seriously, their breakfast sizzling away on a pan.
“So?” he asked.
“It’s getting worse,” she answered, sitting down with a huff and grabbing at her hair in worry.
“He keeps on saying that he can deal with it, that it’s just a matter of time, but… the nightmares aren’t stopping. Tonight he accidentally didn’t put on that pendant of his and I woke up in the middle of the night to his screaming. I tried to put it on him but it didn’t do anything and… I’m so sorry but I don’t know how to help him!”
For the first time in… over a decade, Sigmund saw his daughter show a sign of weakness and that, more than anything that had happened in these years, shocked him silent. She was always so certain of her choices, so self assured and calm, always ready to give a warm smile when needed… he’d never seen her cry, not since the day her mother had died, but now? Now there were tears in the corners of her eyes.
“I’ve heard horrible stories of what happens to people who can’t keep their Bloody Skills in check, of how they turn into poor copies of themselves, wrong shells, an - hic - and… I don’t want that to happen to him. I don’t want that! But I don’t know how to help him!”
Now she was actually crying and Sigmund… he didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t prepared, he didn’t have a plan, because this had never happened, not with his daughter. Still, he tried his best: “But you do know what you’re dealing with, right? After all, you can somehow control Dame Giulia.”
He stopped before adding: “I fear for the world if you weren’t there. She’d probably manage to burn down all of Rodar.”
And then: “Not that I think the rest of the world would be against it.”
He hoped to get a chuckle out of her, which… he failed at, but at the very least she was no longer crying, her hands rising to dry her tears as she shook her head: “No, no, I don’t… deal with Giulia. I just keep her a bit in check. The real work was done by her uncle.”
Sigmund raised an eyebrow: “Wait, she has family?”
“Sort of? He’s… a very strange man. Calls himself ‘Uncle Soot’ of all things. Apparently he took Giulia in when she was a child and taught her ways to control herself. And anyways, the situation is different: she was born with her Red Skill.”
The lizardman father didn’t know what to say to that, so he turned around towards their breakfast.
It was only after a while that he finally said: “I know you both will do the right thing: you’re good kids. As for me, don’t hesitate to ask for help: if it’s something I can do, I’ll help. Now, eat. Everything’s always easier with a full stomach.”
He slid a plate of eggs and sausages towards her, putting aside two others as he waited for Liam, who was taking noticeably more time than needed to change.
When, finally, he arrived, he was smiling as he greeted them with a ‘Good morning’ that seemed sincere on the ‘good’ part. It didn’t even seem that he’d spent the night having a capital N Nightmare.
As he calmly ate Amarie looked at him, wondering what to do, how to help him in the little time she had left before she was forced to go back to the front, to her [King]’s war. She still had two weeks… she would use them as best she could.