xAlter

{ ᴀ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ & ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ }

Siegfried Aschwin

Location: The Wilds

---

"Their corpses will feed the land," Siegfried said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp against the wind as he accepted a shovel from Illaria. He didn't offer a surname; out here, names were just another thing that could be used to track a man down. "Siegfried," he supplied simply.

He tested the weight of the tool, finding it balanced well enough for digging. The ground in the North was unforgiving even in the best of times, but this close to the border, beneath the layer of recent snow and slush, the earth was bound by a deep, stubborn frost. Digging a proper six-foot grave in these conditions with hand tools would take them hours, perhaps the rest of the day. They didn't have that kind of time.

"Don't need to dig deep enough to hide them from the gods, just deep enough to hide them from the scavengers and the patrols," Siegfried repeated to himself, stepping over to the headless body of Goldilocks. He brought the shovel down hard, using his boot to drive the iron edge through the crusted snow and into the frozen topsoil. The earth yielded with a reluctant, brittle crunch.

He fell into a steady, brutal rhythm. Lift, drive, heave. It was physical labor that demanded nothing of the mind, which suited him perfectly. The repetitive motion helped burn off the lingering adrenaline from the fight, settling the beast that the Luxun mages always managed to wake inside him.

He paused only to toss the blond mage's severed head into the shallow trench first, followed by the body, ensuring they fit compactly. He didn't handle the corpse with any reverence, but he didn't brutalize it either. It was just meat now.

When it came time for the silent knight, Siegfried moved with noticeably more care. He dragged the ruined, hollowed-out southern man to a freshly dug hole separate from the mages. He arranged the severed torso as best he could within the dirt, a silent apology to a man who had been denied the dignity of a true death.

As he worked the dirt back over the graves, packing it down tight with the flat of his shovel, he listened to Brig outline the plan. The roads were too exposed, and if the Fenris outpost had indeed fallen to the Luxun, walking up to the gates would be suicide. Maybe... He pushed the thought aside. He was on a job, extended as it may turn out to be. No time for being reckless.

He leaned on his shovel, breath pluming in the cold air, and watched Eirún and Aslan prepare to scout ahead. He then looked toward the strange blue-haired woman and her horned companion, Aviti. He hadn't commented on the horns, having seen far stranger mutations born from rampant aura exposure and wild magic, but he noted the way they carried themselves. The cook and her escort. He didn't buy it any more than Brig did, but a blade was a blade, and out here, you used what was available.

Siegfried grunted, tossing the shovel aside. He checked the bindings on his axe and sword, ensuring they were secure for a hard march through dense brush.

{ ᴀ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ & ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ }

Siegfried Aschwin

Location: The Wilds

---

Siegfried held Soren's gaze for another long, heavy moment, ensuring the physician understood the exact shape of the threat hanging in the freezing air. Satisfied that the boundary was clearly drawn, he turned his back on the man in a gesture of utter dismissal. He wiped the worst of the gore from his axe into the snow, then slid the weapon into the iron ring at his belt.

He crunched through the snow, stepping over the scattered debris of the skirmish, and made his way toward Brigitte. She was nursing a skin of whisky, the sharp smell of the alcohol mixing with the metallic tang of fresh blood. Siegfried looked down at the ruined face of the southern man, noting the sunken eyes, the hollowed mouth, and that foul, pulsing violet stitchwork around the neck. Aslan was right; it was a perversion of the highest order, the kind of magic that treated souls like cheap fuel.

"No idea," Siegfried rumbled, finally answering Brig's earlier question as he came to a halt beside her and Nika. "Mages have been popping up more often up here."

He let out a dry, humorless breath that plumed white in the cold air. "It is a bitter irony. The North is practically crawling with these robed bastards and their metal clad lapdogs these days, yet my coin purse has remained irritatingly light. You would think a man in my line of work would be eating roast pheasant every night with this kind of infestation, but most towns would rather hide than pay to have the rot cut out."

He hooked his thumbs into his wide leather belt, those pale draconic eyes scanning the distant treeline before settling back on the eclectic group of strangers that had suddenly become their allies.

"I have been noticing a steady uptick in Luxun activity for a while now. It's not just random border skirmishes or scouts getting lost in the storms." Siegfried shifted his weight, his armor creaking softly. "Three years back, I stumbled onto a fully entrenched Luxun camp a few valleys over."

He shrugged a broad shoulder, treating the memory as an offhand inconvenience, a mundane chore he had been forced to attend to. "They weren't even looking for northerners or old dwarven caches. They were hunting for fae, trying to snatch them up for whatever twisted plans they cook up in their towers."

His jaw tightened, the muscles ticking beneath his skin as he looked back down at the corpse at their feet. The thought of those labs, the smell of death and deacy, and burning and opened flesh, clawed at the edges of his mind. He forced the memories down, burying them under a familiar, cold layer of indifference.

He turned his attention fully to Aslan, seeing the shared disgust in the other man's eyes. The southerner clearly recognized the absolute horror of what had been done to his countryman, the indignity of being turned into a meat puppet for western mages.

"Help me bury the others?" Siegfried asked, his voice losing its conversational cadence and dropping back to a rough, gravelly grate. He cast a dark, sideways glare back toward where Soren stood with his crossbow. "Before the local scavengers get them, or worse, our new physician decides to start his research. Someone carving up another for science..."

Siegfried turned his eyes to the corpses, his upper lip curling into a snarl of pure, unfiltered revulsion.

"...makes me sick. Let us get them in the dirt where they belong."

{ ᴀ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ & ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ }

Siegfried Aschwin

Location: The Wilds

---

Siegfried rose slowly from the ruined shell of the silent knight, his joints popping in protest against the cold and the adrenaline fading from his blood. The stench of the dead man inside the armor lingered, clinging to the inside of his nostrils. He turned his head and spat a thick glob of saliva into the snow, aiming deliberately near the headless corpse of the blond mage.

Golden motes of aura were drifting up from the bodies now, swirling lazily in the cold air like lazy fireflies. To most, they might look beautiful, ethereal. To Siegfried, they looked like poison leaving the body. As a cluster drifted near his face, he backhanded the air with a short, sharp motion, and instead of passing through his flesh, the magic flared violently. It burned a bright, angry orange for a fraction of a second before snuffing out entirely, leaving nothing but the smell of ozone in his wake.

He didn't waste time marveling at the phenomenon. A dead mage was a good mage, but a looted mage paid for the next meal.

He moved first to the headless boy. The kid had been dressed well beneath his tabard, too well for a simple patrol. Siegfried knelt, his hands moving with practiced efficiency to produce a heavy pouch that clinked with a dense, satisfying sound—platinum, by the weight of it. More interesting was a small, ornate vial tucked into a padded inner pocket containing a thick, golden liquid that caught the sun and seemed to hold it. Siegfried eyed it, gave it a gentle shake, and tucked it into his own pouch without a word.

Next was Goldchain, lying in the snow where the blue-haired woman had hamstrung him. He found another pouch of platinum, identical to the first. Beneath the man's breastplate, wrapped in a scrap of silk, Siegfried found something heavier: a chunk of solid Aurite, which he wrapped back up quickly and stowed away.

Finally, he returned to the ruined silent knight, where Brig had already done the work of severing the aura threads. Siegfried rummaged through what little remained of the corpse's clothing with a grimace, his fingers closing around something hard and faceted. When he pulled it out, wiping the coagulated blood on the corpse's tabard, he held a gemstone the color of a bruised plum. It was dark, sullen violet, and it felt cold even through his callouses; he pocketed it too.

Only then did he stand and take full stock of the newcomers. The giant woman who had punched Goldtooth into the middle of next week was still radiating heat, her eyes slowly returning to normal. The blue-haired assassin who had hamstrung Goldchain stood near the horned woman, quiet and watchful. Siegfried gave them a brief, assessing look, capable, dangerous, and currently useful. He could work with that.

He listened to the doctor's introduction, his eyes tracking the man's casual posture. Soren, he called himself, offering healing that was useful, though Siegfried needed none himself. But when the man spoke of his true intentions, taking the bodies for scholarly interest, studying magekind through their remains, the air around Siegfried seemed to drop another ten degrees.

When the 'doctor' spoke of scholarly interest and studying magekind by taking the remains, a profound, visceral disgust curled Siegfried's lip. He had spent his childhood strapped to tables while men with soft smiles and scholarly interests took him apart to see how he worked. They had called it 'study' too.

Siegfried stepped over the headless corpse, placing himself deliberately between Soren and the bodies. His pale, inhuman eyes fixed on the physician, the pupils narrowing to absolute slivers of ice.

"Study," Siegfried repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. He didn't raise his voice, but it carried perfectly. "You want to peel them open and see what makes them tick. Because it's an 'opportunity.'"

He took half a step forward, looking up to the physician, the fresh blood of the mages still slick on his axe and hands.

"I've known men like you. Men who look at a body and see only meat to be weighed and magic to be measured." He gestured sharply toward the ruined silent knight. "That thing right there? That's what happens when scholarly interest decides the dead are just material. I'll have no part in your desecration of the dead, whether for your science or not."

He shifted his grip on the axe, just slightly. "The living one is for questioning. The dead ones get buried or burned. You touch them with a scalpel, doctor, and I'll see how interesting your insides are."

{ ᴀ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ & ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ }

Siegfried Aschwin

Location: The Wilds

---

Siegfried read the battlefield the way a wolf reads wind.

Even as the blond mage's head was still finding the earth, his eyes were already moving. Eirún pulling back from Goldchain's scattered steel, blood weeping through the slash at her ribs. Aslan circling wide, the crossbow bolt still smoking in the mage knight's shoulder. Brig, gone, dissolved into snow and shadow the way only a Snowstalker could, her voice cutting through the chaos from somewhere near the bald-headed bastard. The wolf locked to the man's leg like a bear trap, savage and relentless.

And then Nika.

The pact knight's underhanded axe swing connected with the silent one and split the cuirass clean at the side. Siegfried heard the sound it made on impact—felt the wrongness of it before his mind had even processed what was wrong. Not the crack of parted flesh, not the wet resistance of muscle giving way. Too light. The impact had a hollow quality to it, like driving a blade into rotted timber.

"This bastard doesn't bleed!"

Nika's shout reached him at the exact moment the silent knight reoriented, the crimson glow behind the visor tracking Nika's retreating silhouette as the pact knight turned to sprint toward Brig. The armored figure started to pivot on its heel with that same mechanical, airless precision it had shown from the start. No breath heaving in the chest. No grunt of exertion. No shift in weight that suggested a man compensating for an axe wound at the hip.

Siegfried was already moving.

He cut in from the knight's blindside, closing the distance in four hard strides. The silent knight was mid-pivot when Siegfried arrived, and rather than collide headlong with a fully plated opponent he dropped his shoulder into a crouch at the last heartbeat, catching the man not at the chest but at the hip and thigh. He drove through it, legs churning, using the exact momentum of the knight's own turning motion against its balance. Not a tackle meant to overpower, a lever, a fulcrum.

The silent knight left the ground.

They hit the snow hard, Siegfried riding the impact down, and he was already moving before the spray of white had settled. He shoved off the armored body and got a knee onto the breastplate, planting himself over the downed figure with his axe reversed in one hand, pommel first. His other hand reached out and gripped the helmet's rim.

Something was wrong.

It registered in his palm before his eyes could confirm it. The armor beneath him was hollow. Not hollow like empty—hollow like a drum, like a vessel filled with something that wasn't a man. He had pinned knights before, felt the frantic thrash of muscle and bone fighting back beneath him, the desperate animal need to survive that no amount of training fully extinguished. This thing did not writhe. It did not claw at him. The arms moved, yes, methodical and reaching, but there was no weight behind them. The full kit of a mailed knight should have been pressing into the snow at somewhere near sixteen stone. What Siegfried had driven to the earth felt like half that. Like grasping a suit hung on a frame of straw.

Siegfried stabbed down with his axe's spike, then the wind shifted.

It came from inside the armor. A seeping, slow exhale of trapped air disturbed by impact, forced up through the visor's grille and into Siegfried's face at point blank range. His nose caught it before his lungs could reject it: the deep, cloying sweetness of meat gone black, the ammonia bite of dissolved tissue, the faint underneath note of old earth and burial cold.

Rot.

Not the fresh blood stench of battle. Not the animal sweat of a fighting man. This was the smell of a thing that had been dead long enough that even the cold couldn't fully hold it together anymore.

Siegfried's pupils contracted to those thin, draconic slivers.

The gauntleted hands were still reaching for him, fingers flexing with that same mechanical patience, no faster and no slower than before, as if whatever was directing this thing inside the armor felt nothing of urgency or pain or fear. The eyes behind the visor were steady, unblinking, a cold ember of aura burning in a chest that did not rise or fall.

A corpse. Someone had put a corpse inside a suit of armor and filled it with enough aura to walk it around like a puppet. The axe strikes hadn't done nothing, there was simply nothing alive inside to injure.

Siegfried let out a low, disgusted sound through his teeth.

"What in the hells...?" he growled at the thing beneath him, jaw tight. It wasn't the dead man he was speaking to. It was whoever had made this, whoever had threaded aura through a cooling body and sent it north as a killing tool. A mage's work, rotten and arrogant in equal measure. The kind of magic that had no care for what it used. His head whipped to where the other two knights were. "KEEP ONE ALIVE FOR QUESTIONING! THEY'RE REANIMATING THE DEAD!"

{ ᴀ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ & ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ }

Siegfried Aschwin

Location: The Wilds
Mentions: @Andreyich@Haha@13org@Theyra

---

Siegfried felt them before he truly saw them. His heart gave a sudden, eager kick in his chest, a rhythm he knew too well. His vision tightened, the world narrowing down to the men in the wolf tabards and the wrongness curling around them. The pale blue of his eyes constricted to hard little pinpricks, the pupils thinning to something just a touch too sharp, too vertical, catching the light like chips of ice.

Mages.

The hairs at the back of his neck prickled, like lightning about to crash. For a heartbeat he stood very still, measuring them. The leader’s aura condensed into that spinning, silver mass, metal humming as if it wanted to leap from every sheath and joint. The blond whelp with the dagger snapped his fingers, yellow flame licking to life at his fingertips. The other two locked into position around the sphere, shields and blades angled without a word.

“Cowards,” Siegfried muttered under his breath, feeling the pull of the sphere tug at the rings of his own hauberk. “Hiding behind tricks.”

He shifted his grip on the axe.

The trick was simple: you never fight a mage on their terms. You make their magic work for you.

He stepped forward just enough to draw eyes, boots crunching into the snow, then twisted his torso and let the axe fly. It left his hand in a brutal, low arc, not aimed straight at the blond boy with the fire, but off to the side, as if he had misjudged the throw. He had not.

The tug of the magnetic sphere caught the steel almost immediately. The axe’s flight shuddered, then bent, curving unnaturally as the invisible force dragged at it. For a breath it seemed like it might be pulled off into the swirling metal mass entirely, but Siegfried had thrown wide and high, knowing the field would bend its path inward. The weapon curved like a hunting hawk banking, scything around the outer edge of the sphere’s pull, straight towards the blond kid.

At that same instant, the bolt came shrieking in from the treeline.

Siegfried saw only the flicker of motion, and heard the taut snap of heavy strings. The crossbow bolt slammed into the blond knight’s helm, not punching through, but with enough force to smash the bucket sideways off his head. The boy staggered with a shout, yellow fire flaring as his concentration shattered.

The flame in his hand surged out of control.

It became a fat, pulsing globe of sickly yellow light in an instant, then tore itself free and hurtled outward in a clumsy arc, more a dropped lantern than a crafted spell. Siegfried was already moving, boots digging in as he launched himself forward. The fireball bloomed directly in his path, swelling, then bursting apart in a blossom of roaring light and heat.

He did not slow.

He squinted hard, lids narrowing against the glare. The wash of heat slammed into him, crawled over his skin, tugged at the edges of his cloak. The flames threaded through his hair, licked at his skin, wrapped around his outstretched arms and armor, then broke apart and guttered away, unable to find purchase on him. The aura boiled, then slid off as if repelled, leaving only a faint smell of scorched leather and a halo of dying sparks.

Inside the explosion, Siegfried was a dark shape cutting straight through the heart of it.

To the blond mage, it must have been like watching a nightmare step out of his own spell. One moment there was blinding light and the satisfying rush of ignited aura, the next a hand was clamping around the front of his cuirass, fingers biting into leather and steel. He barely had time to see the eyes, those pale, inhuman points of blue burning inches from his, before he was yanked bodily forward off his feet.

Siegfried’s other hand snapped up.

The axe, dragged by the magnetic pull, had whipped in toward the sphere, but its path intersected with the man now hurtling toward its unseen well. Siegfried reached out into the chaos and caught the haft as it passed, the impact reverberating through his arm like a bell strike. Momentum did the rest.

He turned his hips, using the jerk of the mage’s body as leverage. For an instant they were locked together, the boy choking on his own surprise and fear. Then Siegfried’s grip shifted, his thumb rolling along the haft to set the blade just so.

“Should have stayed in your tower, whelp,” he growled, voice low enough that only the blond could hear over the roar and clatter. The axe came down in a brutally efficient arc.

There was no flourish to it, no wasted motion. Just a clean, practiced swing that took the mage’s head just above the collar. Steel parted the neck and spine in a single, heavy stroke. For a heartbeat, Goldilocks’ eyes remained locked on Siegfried’s, wide and uncomprehending, then his head tumbled away into the churned snow, spraying a hot arc of red across the white ground.

The body collapsed limply in Siegfried’s grip. He let it drop without ceremony, the severed neck pumping steam into the freezing air.

The great metal sphere still whirled behind him.

Siegfried straightened, rolling his shoulders as if shrugging off a cloak, and flicked his axe of the excess blood, as if he hadn’t just decapitated the mage. The blade dripped, bright crimson hissing as it hit the cold, half frozen earth at his feet. He turned then, setting himself between the remaining mage knights and the others, his outline still haloed by the fading ghost of the fireball.

His pupils were still pinpricks. His lips peeled back in something that might have been a smile, but had no humor in it at all.

“One,” he said, voice flat. “Three to go.”

{ ᴀ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ & ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ }

Siegfried Aschwin

Location: The Stone's Throw Kitchen
Mentions: @Haha@13org@Theyra

---

Siegfried accepted the iron coin with the same impassive weight he gave to everything. He turned it over in his calloused fingers, feeling the wolf's head etched into the cold metal. It was a tangible promise, heavier than platinum in its way, because it meant something older than commerce. He tucked it into a pouch at his belt, not with his other coin, but separate.

He watched the interplay between Brigitte and Nika, noting the exhaustion clinging to them like wet snow. The casual intimacy, the way she leaned on him and he braced her without thought, it spoke of a bond forged in necessity, not just duty. He had seen it before in mercenary bands, that unspoken language of survival.

"Tomorrow," he echoed, his voice low. He didn't offer a nod or a bow. He just acknowledged the contract.

When the door closed behind the pair, the room seemed to exhale again. Siegfried remained still for a moment, his gaze shifting to Maeki, then to the other two mercenaries. The mention of Luxun nobles and a pyromancer in the forests... that was interesting. Pyromancers were loud, messy, and arrogant. Easy to track, hard to kill if you let them get the first shot off. But fire needed air, and Siegfried knew how to suffocate a flame.

"Eastruin," he muttered, more to himself than the others. Without waiting for a response, he turned to Maeki. "I'll take that room. And a whetstone, if you have a decent one. Mine's worn to a nub."

An hour later, Siegfried was moving through the darkening streets of Blackpebble. The town was settling into its evening rhythm, miners washing off the day's grime, merchants packing up their stalls, the smell of coal smoke and roasting meat thick in the air. He wasn't looking for comfort. He was looking for preparations.

He stopped at an apothecary first. The shop was a cramped, herbal-scented hole in the wall run by an old woman with hands like dried roots. He didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"Hunting something nasty?" the woman croaked, eyeing him.

"Cleaning up a mess," he replied shortly.

Next was the general goods store. He needed simple things: dried beef, hardtack, a new coil of rope. He checked the rope carefully, testing its tensile strength with a sharp tug. Satisfied, he added a few torches to his pile. Fighting in the dark was one thing; fighting in the dark against things that could see you when you couldn't see them was another.

He walked with a purpose that parted the crowds. People instinctively gave him a wide berth. It wasn't just the sword and axe; it was the way he moved, like a predatory animal patrolling its territory. The slight limp from earlier was gone, masked by focus. As he made his way back towards the Stone's Throw, the iron coin in his pouch seemed to burn against his hip.

On his way back to the tavern a duo of mercenaries bearing a flaming skull patch on their tunics were bantering amongst each other outside the entrance. The taller willowy shaped man with slicked greasy black hair leaned over the tying post for horses and proceeded to puke his brains out. It smelled mostly of dark malt liquor and blood, the stench of a wounded man drinking his pain away. The opposite of the barfing man was plainly of southern descent with tanned skin and dark brown eyes smirk and patted his compatriot on the back before speaking cryptically, though not all that quiet.

”We’ll have to take you further north before we head back home. The waters from the glaciers are rumored to have healing properties for old dogs like you.” The southern man chided out affectionately, possibly only half-believing a wife’s tale about old superstition.

”Tha’ shit’s made up t’ stop younguns from drinkin’ nothing berry juice ‘nd milk.” The ailing mercenary with slicked back hair groaned back, barely able to keep himself conscious.

”Nah-nah, a whimsy told me once that the further north you go, the more potent it is. They even used to call it.. dragon’s blood, right?”

The mention of dragon’s blood seemed to spark something of hopeful memories and curiosity in the ailing Northmen, finally mirroring that smirk back to his compatriot and shaking his head with half-rotten teeth. ”Tha’ is wayyyy north, m’friend. Neigh to th’ ice caps, where th’ wyrms don’t even like t’ travel.”

Siegfried slowed his pace as the voices drifted toward him. His hand tightened reflexively on the strap of his supply sack, but he didn't stop walking. Not yet. The flaming skull patch registered first, a band he'd heard of, mercenaries who took contracts from anyone willing to pay, loyalties as fluid as melted snow.

Dragon's blood. Healing waters.

The words hooked into him like a barbed fishhook. He had heard the term before, whispered in the bowels of Luxun laboratories when they thought he was too delirious to listen. Something about potency, about raw magical essence crystallized in the ice caps where even wyrms feared to nest.

He shifted his weight, stepping back into the deeper shadows cast by the Stone's Throw's overhanging eaves. The light from inside spilled out in warm, flickering patches, but he remained outside its reach, a silhouette among silhouettes. His breathing slowed, controlled, as he let the sounds of the town wash over him, the creak of wagon wheels, distant laughter, the clink of a blacksmith's hammer ringing out its final blows for the day.

His fingers brushed against the iron coin in his pouch, the wolf's head cold under his touch. Tomorrow they rode east. The north called to him with a different promise, one that had nothing to do with coin or contract, but information never hurt. ”Scuse me.” he called out, stepping from the shadows, throwing on a face of curiosity. ”Dragon’s blood? Up north? You folk wouldn’t be talking about the Heavenspeak, yeah?”

The two stopped their conversation dead in its tracks as the stranger appeared from the shadows, and a stranger who they were familiar with to some degree. Infamy, notoriety, whatever you wanted to call it followed you around whether you wished it or not. And especially within the social circles of mercenaries who like to run their mouths with gossip and hearsay about their fellow sellswords, it was parasocial in a way.

The tan-skinned mercenary placed a hand upon his companion’s shoulder before leaning toward Siegfried and responding with a slow and dramatic nod of his head. ”The faefolk believe that the fresh water of Fenris all stems from the Heavenspeak, mhm. But who knows whether that’s true or not, wouldn’t explain why it’s called dragon’s blood. Unless it’s from all of the wyrms that die up north.”

The heavier Northmen mercenary with slicked back hair grumbled before finally slumping down onto the floor covered in slush and mud. Apprehension twisted his face into a sullen frown as moisture soaked the leather of his leggings and a slow sigh escaped his lungs. ”One o’ those fuckin’ southern assassins shot m’ with a poison arrow, ‘ve talked t’ a handful of menders ‘nd none of ‘em know of a cure— probably ‘nna die soon.”

”Don’t say that Slate.” The southern mercenary looked down at his compatriot and gave him a light footed kick to the side.

”S’plenty ‘o meatwalls t’ hold a shield for ya’ Haia.” The heavy Northman weakly punched at fellow named Haia’s leg before seemingly, passing out right there on the floor.

Siegfried watched the big Northman crumple into the mud with a dispassionate stare, cataloging the symptoms as they presented themselves. The pallor of the skin, the sweat beading on the brow despite the chill, the sudden loss of consciousness. It was sloppy work, whatever poison it was. A clean kill should be instant or agonizingly slow, not this midway purgatory that left a man useless but alive.

"Sloppy," Siegfried muttered, more to the air than to Haia. He stepped closer, the slush squelching under his boots, his eyes scanning the unconscious man not with pity, but with professional curiosity. "If it was a southern assassin worth their salt, he wouldn't be talking about dying soon. He'd be dead before he hit the ground. Or screaming. You’re lucky you got a chance."

Without waiting for an answer, he crouched slightly, not to help, but to get a better look at the mud-caked gear of the fallen man. "Which way did you two crawl out from? The main road or the trade routes? Because if you came from the east," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly timbre, "you're lucky an arrow is all you caught." He straightened up, towering over the pair slightly. "There's word of pyromancers in the forests near the border. Luxun nobles playing hunter. Fire spells don't leave wounds you can mend, they leave ash."

He watched Haia's reaction closely, looking for fear, recognition, or ignorance. It mattered. Intelligence was currency, and right now, Siegfried was broke on specifics.

"If you saw smoke, or charred trees that shouldn't be burnt in this damp... that's not a campfire. That's a warning." He gestured vaguely towards the east with a tilt of his head. "I'm heading that way. Tell me what the road looks like. Patrols? Checkpoints? Or just dead men walking? I can spare coin if you’re in need of the money, information for gold."

He let his hand rest casually near the hilt of his sword, a silent reminder that information was usually cheaper than the alternative. "And maybe," he added, his eyes flicking back to the unconscious Slate, "if your friend wakes up, tell him to stop shielding arrows with his body. It's bad for business."

There were a lot of things for the damaged duo to wrap their heads around, or rather, a lot for Haia to wrap his head around. The open disclosure of Siegfried’s own information, the openness of offering a mercenary’s advice, and even the offer of exchanging coin, none other than gold — sparked Haia’s mood into a much more social one.

The southern man patted his wounded friend one final time before standing to approach Siegfried properly, extending out a black leather-encrusted hand out towards him to be shaken or not, it wouldn’t make a difference either way. ”We’re not from anywhere in particular, the two of are members of Dante’s Vigil, a big company of hired-hands but we’re spread out.”

Haia’s opposite hand then floated upward with an extended arm to point southeast, over the walls of Blackpebble before he spoke. ”Our last job brought us back from the south, we were sent to rescue the child of a mageblood noble. Not from the royal lineage, Serpentis, the family that’s been on edge with the King’s niece.”

The southern mercenary then drops that same arm that pointed down to his leg and pulls a bloodied knife from the boot sheathe it was concealed within. It was bloodied but the stench was different, the blood had still not hardened to tarnish the dagger’s steel. Haia’s hand that extended out to shake Sieg’s would then retract to tap his gloved fingertip to the blood, and once the crimson liquid touched the surface of his leather it would begin to sizzle and steam like a chemical reaction.

”The twelve year old didn’t make it, whoever wanted the kid dead paid an ox’s weight in platinum to send more than a handful of assassins for him. We lost two fellow company men just making it back safely, but once I deliver this same information I’m giving you to Dante.. he’ll probably dispatch some more of us down there, maybe even go himself.” There was a look of confusion on Haia’s face, and being from the south, he should’ve had just as much if not more knowledge on poisons than Siegfried did. The strange effect that the blood had on his glove, but not the steel?.. was strange to say the least.

”I think whatever poison they used is some corrosive that only affects biological materials, but it’s what Slate got shot with. We don’t have any remedies for acid in your blood— anyway, we did not come across any western shitheads on our way up. You usually see them along the western border, but mage knights travel around so it’s always a gamble. But if you’re not wearing a target on your back, you should be fine, right?” The crooked smile of Haia was warm, a few of his gold teeth were showing in the back of his grin where coin had been paid to replace ivory that had been knocked out over the years.

Siegfried regarded the extended hand for a moment, his ice-blue eyes flicking from it to Haia's face. He didn't shake it. Instead, he gave a curt nod, the mercenary's equivalent of a handshake. "Dante's Vigil. Heard of them. Good company. Never worked with them though."

He listened as Haia spoke, his expression unchanging even as the southern man pointed southeast and dropped the bomb about the Serpentis family. Mageblood nobles squabbling with the King's niece? That was a powder keg waiting for a spark. Siegfried filed it away, his mind already connecting dots to rumors he'd heard in the tavern.

When Haia pulled the bloodied dagger and demonstrated its effect on his glove, Siegfried's attention sharpened. The sizzle, the steam, it was unnatural. Not fire, not acid in the conventional sense. He leaned closer, careful not to touch it himself. "Corrosive to the living," he murmured, more observation than question.

He straightened up, fishing a small pouch from his belt. He tossed it onto Slate's unconscious chest with a soft thunk. "That's for his care," Siegfried said flatly. "Tell Slate he owes me a drink when he wakes. If he wakes up." He didn’t give his own name.

Turning back to Haia, he fixed those unnerving eyes on him. "When you say 'the King', southern royal lineage, or northern? Royal lineage can mean many things depending on where in the world you are, but if a niece was involved, I need to know whose niece we're talking about."

He paused, then nodded at the dagger. "Can I have that? The bloodied one. Never seen anything like it, biological selective corrosion. And..." He jerked his head toward the door where Brigitte and her group had gone. "Just took a job hunting mages who might have tricks like this up their sleeves. Could be useful. Sample for the apothecary, or whatever passes for one out here."

He held out his hand, palm up, waiting. His tone was casual, but there was steel beneath it, the kind that said he wouldn't press if refused, but he'd remember.

As he waited, Siegfried's mind raced. A poison that ate flesh but not steel? That changed how you fought. Arrows dipped in it would punch through armor and melt the man inside. Nasty. Luxun work? Or something new from the Serpentis labs? Either way, it was another reason to sharpen his blades tonight.

“Vigil’s a good bunch despite their, uh— unsavory exterior, Dante’s from that oldblood village where they used to practice necromancy. But he’s a good leader, hates the king.” Haia shook his head with a smile before looking at the blood as Siegfried spoke of it.

“It’s chemical, which is weird, no aura involved in the slightest. But southern folk and alchemy go hand in hand, I would know.” •[/b] He snickered and shifted his weight, leaning forward to take the mystery pouch from Slate’s chest with a thankful short bow for Sieg and offering a few quiet. “Winds at your back friend.” A southern phrase of gratitude.

The mention of ‘what King’ was the last thing Haia would address before extending the blade out to the mage hunter, winking at the man. “We all know there’s only ‘one’ king.. the Mage King of Luxu. And it was a quarrel with his niece, the one with a penchant for— working with alchemists and apothecaries. Take the blade though, I know you’re a reputable hunter of magi but I’d like to give our boss your name.”

Siegfried watched Haia take the pouch, his expression neutral, though those unsettling eyes cataloged every nuance of the man’s reaction. Chemical. No aura.

When Haia winked and extended the blade, mentioning the "Mage King" and his niece, a muscle in Siegfried’s jaw tightened. The niece. A lover of alchemy and apothecaries. He stored that information away, locking it down tight. That was a thread worth pulling later. A name attached to a method.

He looked at the offered blade, then back up at Haia’s face. The man wanted a name for his boss. Fair enough. Reputation was currency in this trade, and Siegfried’s account was long overdue for a deposit with the right people.

He reached out, his hand engulfing the hilt of the weapon as he took it from Haia. The weight felt familiar, balanced. It would do.

"Siegfried," he said, the name rumbling low in his chest like distant thunder. He didn't offer a surname. Aschwin was for official contracts and ghosts of the past; Siegfried was enough for a message passed between mercenaries in the dark.

He gave a single, curt nod, acknowledging the gratitude and the unspoken understanding between professionals. "Tell your boss Siegfried sends his regards. And tell him..." A cold, mirthless smile touched his lips, barely there. "...tell him if he finds any information about why she was wanted dead, I'm buying."

With that, he turned, sliding the new blade into his belt with practiced ease, already scanning the horizon, his mind moving on to the hunt. The winds might be at his back, but the storm was always ahead.

”Siegfried,” The southern man melted back down to meet his unconscious friend on the floor, his right arm flopping over to rest on the upper of Slate’s back.

”I’ll be certain to tell him. Wind at your back, Sieg.” Haia raised two fingers with his left hand and put them to his own forehead before yanking them away for a half-assed salute.

Siegfried returned the salute with a nod of his own. He held Haia's gaze for a second longer, a silent acknowledgment that the transaction was complete, before turning his back on the alley's shadows. The cold night air bit at his face, smelling of snow and old stone, but he barely registered it. His mind was already turning over the new information: Vigil, Dante, necromancy, chemical signatures, the King's niece, all pieces of a puzzle he hadn't known he was building.

He pushed the heavy door of the Stone's Throw open, the warmth and noise of the tavern washing over him instantly. It was a jarring transition, from the quiet menace of the alley to the boisterous, drunken life inside. He stepped through, letting the door swing shut behind him, cutting off the night.

As he moved through the crowd, he reached behind him, fingers finding the empty loop at the back of his belt. With a fluid, practiced motion, he slid the new dagger into place. It settled snugly against the small of his back, a cold, hard reassurance against his spine. Another tool for the work. Another edge for the fight. The blood though… that got him thinking.

The hunt was never truly over. He needed another drink. And then, he needed to think about how much damage a chemical-loving princess could really do.

{ ᴀ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ & ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ }

Siegfried Aschwin

Location: The Stone's Throw Kitchen
Mentions: @Haha@13org@Theyra

---

Siegfried stood in the corner of the cramped kitchen, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the hanging pots overhead. He had remained silent through Brigitte's speech, those pale eyes—too bright, too cold, with that faint elongation to the pupils that made people uncomfortable—tracking her movements like a predator watching prey. Except she wasn't prey. She was something else entirely.

A Fenris. Kurt's daughter. The wolf's pup, standing there with scabs on her lips and madness in her eyes, swearing blood oaths in a tavern kitchen. The irony tasted like copper on his tongue.

The universe had a sick sense of humor.

Siegfried watched Eirún give her silent approval, watched Aslan lower his hood and pledge himself with earnest conviction. Young fools, both of them, caught up in the romance of rebellion. But he understood it. He had been young once too, before the Luxun burned that out of him.

He shifted his weight, the leather of his gear creaking in the silence that followed. His gaze moved from Brigitte to Nika, lingering on those Luxun features with something darker than mere disdain. Pact-knight. Forged by iron and snow, the girl said. The words were pretty, but Siegfried knew what Luxun blood meant. He knew the arrogance, the cruelty, the way they looked at people like livestock to be bred and butchered for power. The knight hadn't run. Hadn't betrayed her when he could have. That counted for something, even if Siegfried's gut still twisted every time he looked at that face.

"Mages," he finally said, his voice cutting through the kitchen like a blade through silk. He pushed off the wall, taking two steps forward so the firelight from the main room caught his features properly—the hard planes of his face, the old scars, those inhuman eyes. "You want to gut the mages who took your keep. That's what you're really asking for."

He looked directly at Brigitte, and there was something in his expression that might have been respect, or recognition, or hunger. Maybe all three.

"I've made a career out of killing spellcasters. Watched them burn, choke, bleed out on their own hexes when they realized their magic couldn't touch me. It's what I do. It's what I'm for." He let that sit for a moment, the weight of it, before continuing. "So yes, Lady Wolf, I'll take your coin. I'll hunt your mages. I'll carve through whatever traitors sold you out and left you bleeding in the snow."

He paused, and something flickered behind those reptilian eyes, something old and bitter and deeply, personally invested.

"Know this, Lady Wolf, I don't do it for your bloodline. I don't do it for your father's legacy or your grandfather's memory." His voice dropped lower, became almost conversational. "I do it because every mage I kill is one less abomination walking this world. One less parasite who thinks they can reshape reality to suit their ambitions, one less bastard who believes people are just material for their experiments."

The venom in that last part was palpable, and his eyes flicked briefly to Nika before returning to Brigitte.

"You want sanguine snow? I can give you that. I can give you mages drowning in their own blood while their spells fail and their wards crumble. I can give you traitors learning what happens when you bet on the wrong predator." A cold smile touched his lips, humorless and sharp. "I charge for my services, yes. But this?" He gestured vaguely at the room, at her, at the situation. "This I'd almost do for free. Almost."

He crossed his arms over his chest, the axe and sword at his belt shifting with the movement. He met her eyes, the eyes of a wolf burning with righteous fury and exhaustion. "You have my blades, Lady Wolf. My name is Siegfried."

Kimetsu no Yaiba AU: Temen-ni-Guru (Arc 2)

Jae-eun Yoshihide

^{Location: Hashira Meeting
Mentions:}

---

Jae-eun's eye snapped open, his breath catching sharp and sudden like someone surfacing from deep water. The meeting room swam back into focus, Takaya's concerned face, Gin standing exactly where they'd been, the assembled Hashira and slayers watching with varying degrees of concern or indifference.

"I'm—" His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat, straightening in his seat with practiced composure. "I'm fine, Oyakata-sama. My apologies. I must have... drifted for a moment." His hand moved to his chest, fingers pressing against where he'd felt the phantom stab wound from Michikatsu's blade in the vision. No blood. No wound. Just the steady thrum of his own heartbeat and the fading echo of someone else's death, but his mind was racing, pieces clicking together with sickening clarity.

The Blood Moon 1 in Hiroshima. "I hope you find this interaction, very educational."

His words to Gin. "I hope you'll find working with us very... educational."

Hikaru's ghost in the dream. "I hope you'll find this very educational."

The same phrase, echoing across decades, across lives, across whatever cursed connection now bound him to memories that weren't his own.

His gaze shifted to Gin with renewed scrutiny, studying them with new suspicion. Two weeks old, they'd said. A joke. But what if it wasn't? What if Gin was something else entirely, something old wearing a new face? That woman in Hiroshima, Sagamiya, the unified Japan, the fallen king, the crown crumbled since Honnoji, pieces of a puzzle he'd never known existed until something in his blood had sang. Honnoji, what was so important about the place where the Demon King of the Sixth Heaven fell?

"Takaya-sama," Jae-eun said carefully, his voice regaining its usual pleasant timbre. "We were discussing the Tokugawa Files. The Black Chapter Tapes. Three threats disclosed, four withheld." He paused, meeting the young Oyakata's eyes. "You asked whether we'd rather be leashed by the Imperial Government or maintain independence, but I think the real question is: can we even survive as we are? The Mark kills Slayers young. The old ways are failing. Our enemies have centuries of adaptation on their side while we're still using tactics from the Heian Era."

He straightened his posture, hands folding neatly in his lap once more. The mask reassembled itself, but behind it, his mind raced. Yuichiro Tokito dying from the mark's curse, writing about their falling-apart Corps while Michikatsu rose to power. The cycle repeating itself, Hashira dying young, the Corps fragmenting, demons adapting faster than humans could respond. Now, a decades later, here they sat discussing the same existential crisis.

"Nothing changes. We just keep bleeding."

"Forgive me for the interruption," he continued, inclining his head toward Gin with perfect courtesy. "Please, continue. I'm... very interested in hearing what Sagamiya-sensei has to say about the special cram class."

Kimetsu no Yaiba AU: Temen-ni-Guru (Arc 2)

Jae-eun Yoshihide

^{Location: Demon Slayer Corps
Mentions:}

---

Jae-eun sat with his hands folded in his lap, posture perfect, face pleasant. But something about the stillness was wrong. Too rigid. Too controlled. Like ice stretched thin over water that was much too deep and much too cold.

Kenzo was dead. Ryunosuke was captured. Guen, fucking Guen, who had dragged innocent blood across Tokyo's streets like a petulant child throwing a tantrum—was now claiming she'd "turn herself in" after two weeks of radio silence and corpses. The letter in his hand felt like an insult wrapped in paper. Take care of my Tsuguko. As if he were her errand boy. As if she had any right to make requests after what she'd done.

His jaw tightened imperceptibly.

The Corps was rotting from the inside. Takaya was brilliant, yes, but he was fifteen years old and already carrying the weight of an organization that couldn't stop hemorrhaging bodies and bad decisions. Miyuki was grieving. Himari was struggling under the shadow of her brother's death. And now they had Dalnim Suga sneering at everyone in the room like he'd earned the privilege.

"You survived after that onslaught," Suga said, smirking at Hinotora. "I'm here for something else and yet all I see are weak women and feminine men. Kousai is the only real man!"

Something in Jae-eun's chest snapped. His Tsugoku, his student, his legacy, insulted. Jae-eun's head turned slowly, his smile sharpening into something that could cut glass. When he spoke, the words came out in flawless Korean, each syllable precise and cold as winter steel. "A dog that enters its host's home and barks rudely gets its throat cut, Suga-ssi. If you're a real man, perhaps you should learn manners first?" His tone remained perfectly pleasant, but the venom underneath was unmistakable. He tilted his head, smile widening just a fraction. "Or will you keep barking? It's instinct for dogs to bark at the things that scare them, no?"

Takaya's intervention was a mercy Jae-eun didn't particularly want. He'd been perfectly content to continue dissecting Suga's character in two languages, but orders were orders.

He turned his attention to Akira Yamazaki before Suga could respond. Guen's Tsuguko, her inheritor, the one left to carry water for a rogue Hashira's legacy. The young slayer stood with an androgynous grace that made gender irrelevant, features delicate but posture suggesting coiled steel beneath the surface. Jae-eun studied them with the clinical detachment of someone appraising a tool they might need to use later. Another piece of baggage he was expected to carry.

"Yamazaki-san." His greeting was clipped, perfunctory, barely more than an acknowledgment of their existence. No warmth. No welcome. Just a name spoken into the void between them. "Follow my instructions, don't do anything reckless, and we might get along." There was no offer of mentorship. No reassurance. Just cold efficiency wrapped in the shell of someone who used to care about such things.

When Gin introduced themselves with that poem, that playful jest about being two weeks old, Jae-eun's response was equally brief. "Gin-san." A nod, the greeting equally brief. "Welcome. I'm sure you'll find working with us very... educational."

Inside, something bitter coiled in his chest. Muragarasu's words echoed in his mind, unwelcome and persistent: "Love is both sanctimonious and sacrilegious, it is a seed, nascent and unmolded until a practiced hand gives it shape."

His love for the Corps, for his duty, for the people he was supposed to protect, it was curdling into something else. Something possessive and resentful and tired. Dragon Breathing had always been about holding too tightly, about refusing to let go even when it hurt. But what happened when there was nothing left worth holding onto?

He sat in silence, waiting for the meeting to continue, and wondered distantly if anyone else could see how thin his mask had become. The pleasant mask was still there, technically, but it had become something sharper. Something that didn't bother to hide the exhaustion and contempt simmering underneath. Two weeks ago at the onsen, he'd been tired. Now, he wasn't sure if he was pretending that any of this still mattered.

Trials of New Rome - TEMPORARY HIATUS

Ashton Ignatius White

Location: Coliseum
Mentions: @Thayr@Moon Child

---

Ashton glanced up as Noah approached, and a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when he caught sight of Luka hanging back a few steps. He pushed off from the marble pillar, straightening slightly, though his posture remained relaxed and unbothered. The question didn't surprise him. He'd known someone would ask eventually, and of course it would be Noah.

"Don't call me Ashie," he said first, the words carrying no real heat. It was more reflex than anything, a familiar rhythm between siblings that had played out a thousand times before. His tone was light, almost playful, as if the entire day had been nothing more than a casual stroll rather than a gladiatorial bracket.

He let the silence stretch for a moment, his gaze drifting past Noah toward the festivities still in full swing across the arena grounds. The torches cast dancing shadows, and the sound of laughter and celebration washed over them in waves. When he finally answered, his voice was calm, almost wistful, like he was talking about choosing not to take a second helping at dinner rather than surrendering a fight.

"I just didn't feel like it," Ashton said with a casual shrug. "Simple as that. Woke up tired, went through the motions, and when I got to Gigi, I looked at what that fight was going to cost me and thought… nah. Not today." He tilted his head slightly, considering his own words as if hearing them for the first time. "Sometimes you've got to know when to fold, you know? I could've dragged it out, made it a spectacle, given everyone a show. But what's the point? She was going to win anyway. This way, I saved us both some bruises and got to spend the rest of the day watching everyone else have fun."

His eyes flicked back to Noah, and there was a glimmer of mischief there now. "Speaking of Gigi, though. Sounds like she absolutely dismantled you out there. Should I feel guilty about that?" He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "I mean, probably. She definitely had some leftover energy she was planning to use on me, and when I bowed out, well… you were next in line. My condolences." The words were teasing, but there was genuine warmth in them. He wasn't mocking her. If anything, there was a kind of sibling pride woven into the ribbing, the acknowledgment that she'd made it far enough to face someone like Gigi in the first place.

Ashton crossed his arms loosely over his chest, his gaze shifting briefly to Luka before returning to Noah. "Hey, Luka," he added with a small nod of acknowledgment, his tone easy and welcoming. He didn't press for an introduction or make a big deal of it, just a simple recognition that someone else was there. It was the kind of effortless social grace that came naturally to him when he wasn't buried under the weight of his own thoughts.

"Honestly, Noah, I'm fine," he continued, his voice softening a bit. "Better than fine, actually. I'm content. I got to swing my hammer around, reminded a few people that I still know what I'm doing, and then I got to step back and just… exist for a while. No pressure. No expectations. Just me, this column, and a front row seat to watch everyone else celebrate." He gestured vaguely toward the crowds with one hand, a lazy, sweeping motion that took in the whole scene. "It's not a bad way to spend an evening."

There was something almost serene in the way he spoke, a quiet acceptance that might have seemed out of place for someone who had just walked away from a fight. But Ashton had learned, through years of grinding himself down to nothing, that sometimes the greatest act of strength was knowing when to stop. He wasn't running. He wasn't hiding. He was just choosing, for once, to let the world spin without throwing himself into the grinder.

"Besides," he added with a faint grin, "someone had to make sure you didn't get too cocky after your earlier wins. Consider my forfeit a preemptive humbling on your behalf. You're welcome."