Chapter 1: A Daughter's Return

Violet

Hey Journal,

This is messed up. What is messed up you may be asking? Simple. Standing in front of me, at this very moment, was my father.

My jaw was on the floor, shocked at the surreal sight before me. I was at a loss, struggling to comprehend the moment's gravity. There, against the backdrop of the city walls, stood my father. His figure, silhouetted against the shadow of the airship, seemed familiar and foreign, a paradox of emotions washing over me.

How could this be? Why was he here, in this place, at this time?

Questions swirled in my mind, but before I could gather my thoughts, his gaze met mine, and in that silent exchange, a myriad of unspoken truths hung heavy in the air, binding us in a moment fraught with uncertainty and possibility.

Did he recognize me? How could he, the last time he saw me, I was just a child. A little girl. Those feelings of the little girl who lost her dad came flooding back into me. I might be piloting a robotic body as a puppet, but I still had a heart: damn it.

Well, a dungeon core, not a heart, but you get my point.

Okay, Vi, just breathe. It is simple, breathe in with your mental lungs. All these thoughts raced through my mind as I saw the man who looked like a carbon copy of my father, plus or minus a few years. How could any of this have happened?

Then I finally took a mental breath. I knew how this could have happened. Freaking Magic. Simple as that. How could I, a 20-year-old girl, get teleported to another world? Simple. Magic. My father must have ended up here in the same way. He might not have made a deal with Verani, the Goddess of the Hunt, but he might have made a deal with another being in the void.

I went to open my mouth, and all I could say was…

A single word, "Father!"

My father was among the guards, but apart, his expression was one of surprise and profound uncertainty. The bustling sounds of the city receded into the background, overshadowed by this surprise reunion.

"Violet," my father's voice trembled with emotion, “Is my daughter. Who do you think you are calling me Father.”

That emotion was anger.

For a brief moment, I had thought he recognized me, but I could see that he was angry that this strange being would call out to him in such emotion. I was the leader of my people now. I needed to think with a rational mind. I settled my core. Regulating my life energy better, mana cooling my feelings.

In a more grounded tone, “Is there somewhere we can talk, maybe not so public.”

My father glared at me for a moment. One of the other guards nodded and tapped my father on the shoulder.

“Come, you can leave your crew with your ship. This is a guard’s room, just down the wall, we can talk there.”

We walked along the high walls of Gungrave to a simple but well-made guard’s room. My eyes went wide in awe and joy. The room was where the industrial meets the medieval, blending old-world charm with futuristic machinery. As I stepped inside, I was immediately struck by the juxtaposition of aged stone walls adorned with gears, pipes, and brass fittings. The room was lit by flickering gas lamps hanging from the ceiling, casting eerie shadows across the polished wooden floor.

In one corner stood a massive steam-powered contraption. My engineering skills activated and I was flooded with notifications and a few experience points as I looked the machine up and down. Its intricate valves and pistons hissing and churning as it regulated the wall's various security systems. Behind a sturdy oak desk sat an important-looking guard, clad in a leather trench coat adorned with brass buttons and goggles perched atop his head. He surveys the room with a stern expression, his hand resting on the hilt of a cog-adorned revolver holstered at his side.

The man who looked like my father barked at the man to get out. He stood and nodded and joined the other guards. Just he and I stood in the room. The doors were open and the guards were waiting outside, their backs to us.

I continued to look around the room. Along the walls are racks of weapons, ranging from traditional swords and shields to more exotic steam-powered firearms and electrified stun batons. A large map of the city and its surroundings hangs prominently, marked with strategic checkpoints and patrol routes.

Despite the rugged aesthetic, there are hints of luxury scattered throughout the room—a plush velvet armchair tucked in a corner, a mahogany side table displaying a crystal decanter of aged whiskey, and a gleaming brass telescope positioned near a window overlooking the city grounds.

The atmosphere was charged with a sense of vigilance and readiness.

“So, who or what are you?”

“Umm... Hi, I know, this might sound weird.” I paused for a second, I felt like I was five again, getting yelled at for playing with a basketball in the living room.

Side note: Basketball was invented in Canada. Did you know that?

Arg. Stop it, Vi, just write the story down. I still have a frog in my throat.

So, I paused.

“Which faction are you with? Are you with the wolves? I doubt it because you have a few from the north, but you came from the south. Plus, I remember those two. They used to be mercenaries that worked out of here. We got reports that their last caravan was wipped out. Was that you?

I looked him up and down as he talked to me. He didn’t want me to answer, because he never paused or let me say a word. Oh, my goodness, is this what I sound like in my journal? I just ramble on without pausing or letting things get caught up.

Anyways, enough self-doubt for the moment, please.

My father had on the guise of a weathered cowboy, his appearance a blend of rugged charm and steampunk flair.

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“No wonder, no wonder,” I kept whispering a few more times.

“No wonder what?”

He is tall and slender, with a wiry build honed by years of crossing the rough terrain of the frontier. His face is weathered, engraved with lines of experience and adventure, and framed by a scruffy beard from days spent on the edge. A well-worn cowboy hat sits atop his head, its brim decorated with gears and metal trinkets, an homage to steampunk technology.

His attire exudes a mix of practicality and style. He wears a long, leather duster coat, its surface adorned with patches and repairs, hinting at a life lived on the edge of civilization. Brass buckles and cog-shaped buttons line the edges of his coat, adding a steampunk twist to his cowboy ensemble. Underneath, he sports a simple, faded shirt and vest, both bearing the marks of countless adventures and close calls.

Before I could confess that I was his daughter he continued to ask me questions.

“I am wondering why you would call me father. Or are you some religious robot here to teach us the ways?”

“Telling you where I come from, and who I am is going to be hard. I don’t know if it will be harder for you or me,” I said.

Then I look down at his waist. He was carrying a holster housing his trusty blaster, or at least something that looked like a blaster out of science fiction. It looked like a sleek yet rugged weapon modified with steampunk-inspired embellishments. I would wager that Alex would love to get her scales on that weapon, or Go-nu to take it apart. The holster itself is a work of art, crafted from fine leather and adorned with intricate engravings depicting scenes of frontier life.

His boots are worn and scuffed, evidence of countless miles travelled across the dusty trails of the Badlands. Each step he takes echoes with the soft creak of leather and the faint whir of gears, a reminder of the fusion of old-fashioned cowboy grit and steampunk technology that defines my new world.

Overall, my father cuts a striking figure in this steampunk incarnation, embodying the rugged spirit of the classic cowboy while embracing the technological wonders of a world powered by steam.

“Just spill the beans.”

“I am Violet. I died back on Earth. I came back. How are you here?”

It was his turn for his jaw to hit the floor.

Nightmare

For the past few hours, Violet’s attention had been on events leading up to and happening at Gungrave.

The swamplands back in Violet’s Queendom were shrouded in a thick veil of eerie fog, obscuring the view of the landscape beyond. The air is heavy with moisture, and the sounds of unseen creatures echo ominously through the mist. The murky waters of the swamp revealed nothing in their darkness. The water’s surface seems to swallow all light that dares to touch it.

Twisted roots snake their way out of the water, gnarled and tangled like the fingers of some ancient, malevolent entity. They reach up from the depths, creating a labyrinth of shadows and secrets beneath the surface. Tangled vegetation clings to the banks of the swamp, its twisted forms adding to the sense of foreboding that hangs heavy in the air.

The atmosphere is one of oppressive gloom, where even the faintest glimmer of sunlight struggles to penetrate the thick canopy overhead. Shadows dance and flicker amidst the twisted branches, casting strange, unsettling shapes upon the ground below. It's a place where time seems to stand still, where the natural order of the world feels twisted and distorted.

The defenders, such as the deadly teddy bears, of this zone can see glimpses of movement in the shadows—a ripple in the water, a rustle in the underbrush—that hint at the presence of unseen creatures lurking just out of sight. The swamp is a place of mystery and danger, where the line between the real and the supernatural blurs, and where those who dare to venture too far may never return.

Nightmare, the scion entrusted with protecting Violet’s borders, was walking alone down the stone path. She was heading towards her doll house. Nightmare had completed all her regular duties back at the temple grounds. She checked on all her underlings and puppets. All her traps were in good working order. The snakes and other creatures living in the waters of the swamp were happy.

She went back to her doll house and began to create clothes for the boys and girls in Miss Jaclyn’s school. Nightmare loved visiting the children. They weren’t afraid of her like the other humans. They didn’t judge her for not being able to talk. At least not talk like the “regular” scions. She could talk but had to use her hands, so what if she was different?

That is when she noticed a change. The group of worried humans, their faces etched with concern and fear, converge at the edge of the swamp like moths drawn to a flame. Among them, Emily's distraught parents stand at the forefront, their eyes filled with anguish and desperation. Their voices tremble as they recount the events leading up to Emily's disappearance, each word heavy with the weight of their worst fears.

Emily, a sweet and adventurous child with a penchant for exploring, had been playing near the swamp's edge earlier that day. Her laughter had echoed through the air, a joyful symphony that now seemed hauntingly distant. But as the hours passed and the sun began its descent towards the horizon, Emily failed to return home, sending her parents into a panic.

As the villagers gather around them, murmurs of concern ripple through the group like waves on a troubled sea. Some recall tales of the swamp's dark and mysterious scion, fuelled by stories passed around the tavern at night. They were more whispers than truth. Drunk talk is more than reality. Mostly made-up stories to blow off steam. But now with a missing child, these talks sparked fear that speaks of lost souls and vengeful spirits.

Others offer words of comfort and reassurance, promising to do everything in their power to bring Emily home safely.

But beneath their brave façades, a sense of unease lingers, a gnawing fear that time is running out and that the swamp holds secrets darker than anyone dares to imagine. As the search party prepares to venture into the murky depths in search of Emily, they know that they may be entering a realm where danger lurks at every turn, where the line between reality and nightmare blurs, and where the fate of a beloved child hangs in the balance.

As Nightmare, the doll scion, went to greet the search party tensions among the group reached a fever pitch. Lanterns, held tightly in trembling hands, pierce through the suffocating darkness, casting flickering beams that dance across the twisted roots and tangled vegetation. Each step forward is met with a chorus of whispered prayers and frantic calls of Emily's name, the words echoing through the oppressive silence like desperate pleas to an indifferent void.

Time becomes a relentless adversary, each passing moment a cruel reminder of the precious seconds slipping away. With every heartbeat, the fear that Emily's fate may already be sealed gnaws at the edges of their minds, driving them onward with a sense of urgency bordering on desperation.

But still, they press on, driven by a determination born of love and desperation. For Emily's parents, each step forward is a prayer, a plea to whatever gods may be listening to guide them to their lost child.

And for Nightmare, it is a solemn duty, a vow to protect those who have placed their trust in her, no matter the cost. She approached the villagers, but they wouldn’t listen to her hand gestures. Their fear was more powerful than their willingness to understand. A few even threw their lanterns at the scary-looking doll. The majority of them screamed and blamed Nightmare for the missing girl.

Screams of…

“It is all your fault.”

"You're the one who should be lost, so it's your fault things went south."

"You're to blame; you should have communicated better."

“It's your responsibility, so if things go wrong, it's on you."

"You made the mistake, so it's only fair that you take the blame."

"She is lost because of your negligence; you should have been more careful."

Finally, Emily’s parents stepped forward to Nightmare. Her father yelled, "It's your fault for not taking the necessary precautions."

Nightmare turned away and walked into the swamp on her own. She was going to save the girl on her own. The scion knew she wasn’t to blame, but she wasn’t going to let a child be hurt on her watch.

However, as the darkness deepens and the night wears on, Nightmare feels that time is running out. But she refused to succumb to despair, clinging to the fragile hope that somewhere, amidst the tangled maze of the swamp, Emily waited, her small voice calling out for salvation in the darkness. And with that flickering flame of hope to light their way, the doll pressed on, her resolve unbroken, her heart filled with determination to bring Emily home, no matter the cost.