Noctis's mysterious headaches, along with the stunningly mercurial weather, has all of them in a tizzy. That, and the fact that a decent chunk of night driving in an effort to avoid the nigh-constant MT patrols has drained the gas tank and their collective wallets.
...that, and the Regalia took an unfortunate swipe from a Yojimbo's blade and Cindy hadn't been pleased. At all. And Ignis wasn't pleased at the repair bill (which even Noct had winced at). So here they were, running around Duscae, taking on hunts and slaying monsters and selling everything they didn't desperately need for just a few more gil.
Even Prompto's wise-cracking had taken a nose-dive after their third night munching on cheese pizza in the pouring rain.
So to say that Gladio was riled up was... a little bit of an understatement. Thankfully it was just the four of them - Luna was with Crowe and Libertus and Nyx, trying to sanctify new Havens to help with the slowly creeping nights, and Iris safe in Lestallum. The work was steady, at least - their slaying of Deadeye in the Nebulawood has given them a profile that turns attention away from Noctis as the Prince (technically King? it wasn't clear) and towards them as a unit of Hunters.
Unfortunately, that also meant that Gladio's hackles were permanently raised when they went in to cash the bounties, when they were hunting, and even just when they were moving from place to place.
It all came to a head when at the end of an arba hunt, a griffon swooped in and grabbed the decapitated head of the largest one, making off with the magnificent curling horns that someone in Lestallum would pay a high price for. Noct yelled, trying to warp up to the immense creature, but it was already flying too fast for Noctis's heavily depleted magic.
Briefly, Prompto aimed down the sights of Cocytus, but sighed and dropped his aim. "It's got cover from the treetops." Gladio snarled, hand clenching tight enough around the handle [there's a more proper word but I forgot] of his greatsword that the tendons in his arm stood out.
The infant squalls in his arms, and Ardyn runs a hand over their downy head, trying desperately to calm them. Their mother had been bleeding black when she'd approached their camp - and upon seeing them she'd placed the baby down and tried to run. She hadn't even made it out of the clearing before her spine had cracked and her skin split open.
Ardyn sprinted over to the baby, grabbing it just as a tail whip-cracked at him - only to deflect off Gilgamesh's shield as he throws himself between the healer and the new, horrific serpent daemon.
The former mother wails as they flee - an awful noise that they know is going to draw more daemons to the area. It's just on dusk, and they'd been trying to make it to Morskangr, but that plan's gone out the window.
A goblin leaps out in front of them, cackling, and Ardyn curses as he slips, losing his footing in the leaf litter as he tries to stop from running directly into it. It reaches out a bony, grasping hand towards the baby and he gasps out a "No--"
Its fingers graze the bared skin of his arm and it shrieks as it seems to wither, body contracting in on itself until it simply disintegrates. The forest echoes with the sobbing screams of the snake daemon, and the panting of the two men as they try to process what happened.
Abruptly, Ardyn realises that the baby's stopped crying, and he looks to down to see tiny hands clenching on a miasm-smeared blanket. The baby is crying black tears, and there's a hideous dark tracery visible beneath it's delicate skin. An advanced infection, and he has to fight down the urge to be sick.
He's still staring at the child when Gilgamesh's gauntleted hands grab him under the armpits and haul him upright.
"We need to move, Ardyn." He's right. The forests that surround Morskangr are no place to stay at night. Besides the obvious problems of literal daemons, there are rumours of couerls moving through the area, and he really doesn't want to find a dualhorn when it's pitch dark. But if he doesn't heal this baby soon they'll die, and another daemon will rise.
Gods damn that zu that decided their airship was flying too near to its nest.
They're stalked briefly by a couerl - but it backs off when Ardyn lobs a weak lightning grenade at it. There's easier prey in these woods. For now, at least. The hairiest moment is when a swarm of hundlegs comes rustling towards them, and they have to climb a tree. It probably looks ridiculous, the way he's cradled in Gilgamesh's lap as the scourge-infected infant burbled miasm all over them.
Then again, Ardyn's claimed to be many things, but dignified is not one of them.
The hundlegs, for once, aren't interested in the presence of fresh prey - instead continuing to skitter... north? East? He's gotten all turned around in this darkness. Ardyn huffs soft breaths into the crook of Gil's neck, and waits until he can't hear the multitude of insectile legs scrabbling to speak.
"The airship shouldn't be too far. It's our best bet for waiting out dawn." Gil hums an assent, and Ardyn can feel it in his bones. For some reason, daemons don't like the the brightness that the magitek circuits give off, even when the ship is powered down.
Somewhere off in the gloaming, the mother wails for her child. The infant stills, and then lets out another bawling cry. Ardyn can heal them, but not here. Not - not where Gilgamesh can see the awful transfer. So instead he awkwardly tucks the sodden bundle closer - and that's going to be fun to clean later - hushing it with gentle pressure.
Another shriek - and then the snarl-zap of a coeurl on the attack. Closer. Too close for comfort, if the way Gil's arms and legs tighten against the tree.
"Hold on," says Ardyn, and extricates an arm, a set of chopsticks appearing in a swirl of magenta crystals. Gilgamesh sighs, and pulls him in close as he lets go of the tree trunk. There's the too-much pressure of the warp and then they're on the ground.
At ground level (and now that his face isn't buried in Gil's hood) he can see what had his friend spooked - the crackle of couerl-lightning is visible through the undergrowth. And with it, the oversized midgarsomr with a woman's face. It rears back, shrieking, and slams into the couerl.
Ardyn, wisely, holds the baby close, and begins to run again. Gilgamesh, as always, follows just a step behind.
The ship, thankfully is unmolested save where the zu tore at the engines, and unlike that one time near Nidavellir, it isn't crawling with goblins. The sound of the daemon fighting still echoes through the forest, and it's with a certain amount of relief that Ardyn heaves open the door.
The interior is a little small, yes, and still smells faintly of ozone thanks to the engine malfunction - but it's a damn sight safer than the outside world right now. Gilgamesh heaves the hatch closed and throws the bolt home while Ardyn runs through an abbreviated power cycle. There's a moment where he holds his breath as the core whines - but it soon settles into the steady thrum of a happy engine, and the lights brighten up.
There's a thunk as Gil discards his breastplate, and his bodyguard slumps into a chair, long legs eating up the precious deckspace. Ardyn shrugs out of his over-robe, and roughly folding it, nestles the baby onto the table. Under the lights it's far more obvious how advanced the infection is. The swaddling cloth is filthy, but it's equal parts waste and miasma.
It's also a boy, for what it's worth. Likely a total orphan by now.
Ardyn breathes in, breathes out, and feels for the swell of the scourge within the infant's tiny body. Gil moves, brushing past him and into the cockpit proper. He lets it fade away, and resting his hands on the infant's body, pulls.
The slide of starscourge moving into his body feels... wrong. It's alien, awful, and he wants to be sick. The baby trembles under his spasming hands, and then - then finally it's over, and the baby wails, high and hungry.
It's four steps to the basin and then Ardyn's heaving, bringing up oily, viscous bile that clings to the inside of his throat and mouth. He can barely breathe - it feels like his whole body is congested with the miasm, spilling out of him through his eyes, his nose, his mouth--
Then there are strong arms holding up his sagging body, a hand rubbing at his back. It's soothing, even though he's tearing up from not being able to fucking breathe -
And then it's over.
He coughs wetly, spits, trying to clear the foul slick from his mouth. The sounds filter back in - the baby wailing, the low hum of the engine. Gil's humming, a soldier's hymn he learned from Gentiana. Ardyn fumbles for the tap, twists it on, flushing away the evidence even though he's fairly certain Gil has seen it, seen the blackness he just vomited up.
But Gilgamesh keeps humming the hymn, gently brushing wine-dark strands of hair away from his sweating forehead as Ardyn watches the miasm evaporate in the light like so much mist, burned away by a dawning sun. The tension drains out of him, and he slumps down against the basin.
Gil reaches up and around, turning off the tap. The baby's wails have subsided into hiccoughs. A Healer's work never truly ends, it seems.
The baby is cleaned, and after some quietly heated discussion, is tucked in Ardyn's (spare, not as nice) robes, skin-to-skin. After they've figured out a nappy, at least. Ardyn will pull Ifrit's plague from all and sundry, but he draws the line at being peed on.
"This doesn't bode well for Morskangr." Gil says, from where he's gnawing at a ration bar. Ardyn lets his head flop back against the ship's wall and only winces a bit at the thud.
"I thought that this close to the rift would be safe." He could feel the energies emanating from what was once Taelpar's verdant hilly forests even miles away, but apparently even the lingering magic of the Astrals couldn't prevent the spread of daemons.
Taelpar itself had been completely obliterated in a single night when Bahamut had rained destruction upon Titan's favoured, a stunning move that even Ardyn wouldn't have believed unless he'd personally seen swords larger than even Oskorpnir's tallest towers rain down upon the land and carve out a permanent scar.
Nyyrikki knows only the howling snow - to burrow beneath for warmth and slumber, where to look for small game. The snowy wastelands of Uelthham are not for the faint of heart, but they are all Nyyrikki cares to know. At night, daemons ooze up from the snow - bussemand that leap and snatch, and snaga, nimble and hungering.
Once, Nyyrikki even saw a Wraith stalk and ensnare a patrol - it choked them to death and devoured their souls, leaving lifeless corpses behind. Nyyrikki has scavenged from the bodies - a handgun, and bullets. Some rations. Cold-proof inners, which they wrapped around their hands and feet.
Over the past cycles of moon rise and set, however, Nyyrikki has seen something new. Patrols in airships, carrying massive crates. The patrols did not see Nyyrikki, hidden under the insulating snow, watching them. They even heard one of the patrollers say that they hoped the 'daemon traps' would catch something interesting.
Idiot patrols. Catching daemons is bad luck. But the daemon traps had an interesting effect - they drew in game, of many sizes. Ptarmigan waddle right up to the cold metal boxes, inspecting and pecking at their reflections. Foxes stalk the ptarmigans, and eagles swoop at the foxes. And if there's game, Nyyrikki is interested.
They stalk the ptarmigan, crouching low over the snow, before pouncing all at once. Nyyrikki breaks the neck of the bird and scurries back away from the cage. It is precious warmth and energy, and Nyyrikki carefully plucks it clean beneath the shelter of a pine thicket.
A lone fox watches carefully from a distance and to it Nyyrikki throws the intestines and entrails. The meat is cooling fast and chewy, but it is delicious. Nyyrikki scrubs their hands and face with snow, and then eats the pink-stained snow, determined not to waste a drop.
That night, as Nyyrikki dozes fitfully beneath the snow, a daemon wanders into the trap. The bussemand howls louder than the wind and they startle awake. There's an awful metallic tearing noise, and the bussemand pack shrieks in return. Nyyrikki cowers under the snow as the daemons above holler and scream, metallic crunching and dull thuds echoing across the night.
The dawn comes slowly, and then all at once. The whirring of an airship cuts through the howling gale from the corpse of the Glacian, even as Nyyrikki is debating where to move to. The bussemand disappeared with the morning sun, save for the one in the trap, which still wails for its kin.
Cautiously, Nyyrikki makes a peephole through the snow, shading their eyes with feathers. There's four airships now, instead of merely one. Lots of patrollers, as well as the MT units that move too smoothly. And standing amongst them all is a tall figure, all in black. The hairs prick up on the back of Nyyrikki's neck.
That one moves like a predator. The patrollers, the MTs - they move in a way that's a pale imitation. A pet dog, to a wolf. That one is dangerous. They watch the one in black as he gesticulates, waving a hand grandly at the cage. Nyyrikki cannot hear what they say, not with the Glacian's wrath howling through, but they mislike it all the same.
The bussemand slams against the cage walls and the patrol leaps back, MTs ignoring it. But the one in black - they tip back their head and laugh. Unconsciously, Nyyrikki bares their teeth in a snarl. Every instinct they have is screaming danger, run, hide-- But they force their body to remain still, to wait and observe.
The patrol refuses to get close to the box, so the MTs attach chains and hoist it up into the airship. As it lifts above the bustle it's very clear that the bussemand pack have done considerable damage to the metal box. Several of the struts and poles have been bent or snapped clean off, and panels are dented with the force of an impact.
Nyyrikki shudders, and draws back from the peephole. They've seen enough. Someone is hunting the hunters, and that's bad.
The Glacian's howl dies down to a whimper, and Nyyrikki's life continues much as it had before. The ptarmigan are drawn back to the metal shards left behind from the daemon trap, but after snow covers them, they move on. And where their prey moves, so too does Nyyrikki. They track the flocks across the sky, moving between hill and vale - but always, always digging out a shelter before dark.
Except tonight. The ground kept trembling, making building a stable shelter near impossible. Worse yet, a slide had filled one of their backup rock crevices, so they were picking their way around a patrol base, trying to find somewhere to hide before the temperatures dropped any lower
The sounds of a creche of snaga echo up the rocks as they try to descend a steep escarpment, and they freeze, one foot dangling in the air, halfway to a foothold. The chattering ebbs and builds, but doesn't get any closer - so Nyyrikki dares to ease down a cramping leg to the foothold. Snow crystals squeak but the snaga noises continue at the same pitch and distance.
Undetected, for now.
The rest of the descent is just as nerve-wracking - Nyyrikki's eyes are good, but they aren't quite good enough to make out more than the high-lighted towers of the base off in the distance, even from the top of the ridge. Now, with every inch of their body straining to move stealthily to the bottom, they were incredibly stressed.
The bottom of the escarpment is splinter-sharp, and slick with a rime of ice. Nevertheless, Nyyrikki sprawls out, heaving breaths that puff bright and sparkly. Soon it will be absolutely dark, and their eyes will be less than useless. That, and there's an entire creche of snaga in their way.
Their parents had only told them once, "don't fight a daemon, child. you won't come out the winner." And given that they'd seen MTs with frankly scary weaponry go down against even half a creche? Nyyrikki took it to heart.
Slowly, painfully, they crawled over the rubble to the snow - and then shifted to a slumped over, deathclaw-like walk to wade through the knee-deep snow. As Nyyrikki rounds the corner they see the creche backlit by the fort's spotlights - they're just out of range of the moving spotlight, but what's very visible is the large daemon trap with multiple entries.
If the bussemand couldn't break into a daemon cage, then maybe that means that they can't appear inside them either. And perhaps they're too small for a snaga to crawl out of... or into. The only trouble remains in trying to reach the damned thing without getting torn to pieces.
Nyyrikki flexes their hands, and winces at the ache - apparently the MTs have been using the escarpment for target practice, and their hands throb with the pain of a thousand little cuts. Their purloined handgun will be less than useless if they can't squeeze the trigger.
They squint, peering closer at the creche of snaga. They seem to be circling something on the ground - occasionally darting in before jumping back, chattering all the while. Nyyrikki has an awful feeling that it's one of the soldiers - but since the snaga are occupied, it's as good as an opportunity as they're going to get to make a break for it.
But between them and the (relative) safety of the cage is a massive open field of driven snow.
The snaga chatter and whistle around them, but even these daemon's clever fingers and supernatural strength can't pry the solid metal sheets loose. Instead, Nyyrikki sits against freezing metal, hands over their face, breathing slow and deep to try and warm up the air. The box they're trapped in is tall, but narrow. Sized just right to keep a bussemand standing, but not quite small enough to stop an undersized human from curling up down the bottom.
The chattering picks up in pitch - and there's the sound of small bodies moving quickly over snow. Ah, Nyyrikki thinks dizzily, dawn is here. They've not slept for over a day, not eaten for three. Time moves wonkily, but they suppose that it's a while before the sound of an airship's whine cuts through the utter darkness of the cage.
Smart. Daemons may linger in deep shadows, but wait until mid-morning and even the strongest will melt away. The snaga shriek, slamming themselves against the cage walls at the scent of prey, rocking the whole construction back and forth. Human voices echo outside, and near-frozen metal shrieks as something is pulled open and then slammed closed.
"Clear!" It's the metallic buzz of a MT unit. Nyyrikki has heard it this close once before, when they still had a house. The metal noise, unbearably loud. "Clear!" Those compartments aren't clear, though. They're full of snaga. The metal noise. "Cle--argh!" Even as the snaga's death shriek echoes, there's the sound of gunfire and ragged breathing. There's a sound of something being dragged over snow.
A pause.
The metal noise. "Clear!" The cycle starts again. Eventually it works its way around to Nyyrikki, who's given up on warming their air in favour of covering their ears from the awful noise.
Ignis follows quietly behind Uncle Caelius, careful not to step on the ceremonial cape that brushed along the floor. Yesterday he had met Prince Noctis, and promised to be his friend and guidance. Their footsteps echoed on the polished stone floors of the Citadel, away from the public corridors.
Every so often, they'd pass a stern looking Crownsguard - and then, as they got closer to where they were going, Kingsglaive resplendent in black and silver.
Eventually, they got to a pair of double doors, flanked by two Kingsglaive. Both had partially shaved heads, and braids in their hair. Galahdians! Thought Ignis, astonished to see the legendary fighters up close.
--
Marshal Leonis was abrupt, but polite enough as he leaned against the bench, watching as a tech scanned both of Ignis's handprints, and then took an identification photo. Uncle Caelius swapped information about upcoming budgetary changes for Crownsguard deployment locations with Marshal Leonis - and all the while, Ignis had the strange feeling that he was being assessed and measured.
Then, with a brand new chipped ID card burning a hole in his pocket, Caelius led him upwards, before stopping in a quiet, cream-carpeted antechamber. His uncle kneels, and rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"You'll be fine, Ignis. I'll be back later this afternoon, and we can go and get pasta for dinner."
Behind him, a door opens and a Very Tall Woman walks in, full skirt sweeping across the floor. Caelius squeezes his shoulder once, and stands, brushing non-existant dust from his clothes.
"Ah, Lord Scientia. I should have expected you to be early."
Maura is nice, and answers all his questions with very detailed answers. She ushers him into an open-plan kitchen/dining area, where there's already a stack of books on the table, as well as an open laptop.
He's halfway through a maths assessment (not as hard as the tests he had to take a month ago, but still kind of tricky) when a door opens, and he hears Noctis's voice chattering happily.
--
Queen Aulea is beautiful, and is happy to sit a suddenly-shy Noctis on her lap and join him on the bench. Lady Maura is the head of the Royal Household, arranging food deliveries, cooking, cleaning, and partially managing the Royal families' schedules.
Noct is quite content to sit curled in Aulea's lap, hand clutching her sleeve. Ignis can't help shooting glances as he finishes each problem - this is the boy he's meant to give his life to protect.
--
The daemon laughs, a horrible rattling sound - and Ignis hides behind Aulea's skirt, beyond terrified. Maura snarls in return and there's a sound like dry wood snapping. Today had meant to be a charitable outing to Crestholm, just outside the Wall - but they were ambushed.
Skeletal figures wielding scythes surround them, and even though Ignis knows Aulea is more than capable, he's still terrified.
--
Noctis looks very small in the hospital bed, still and silent but for the tubes and machines whirring and bleeping. Technically Ignis isn't meant to be in here, but someone forgot to update the permissions on his ID card - and sneaking is good practice. Or something.
The Reapers and Ronin that had ambushed them at Crestholm had been one half of a pronged attack - the other was a Marilith that had nearly killed Noctis and slaughtered its way through a motorcade before Commander Drautos killed it.
It seems wrong, though, for Noct to be so still and quiet. He's a bubbly boy, always interested in what people (especially Ignis) are doing. Ignis had meant to just keep an eye on him, maybe catch up on his Ancient Lucian homework. BUt now that he's here, he just wants to hold his Prince.
[...]
It's late when Regis finally limps into the secure room where Noctis is recuperating, Aulea on his left and Clarus supporting him from the right. The Wall is demanding tonight, tested and stretching against the wailing daemonic masses. It makes his hip ache something fierce, throbbing in symphony with the old war-wound on his knee.
What he doesn't expect to see is the Scientia boy curled up carefully next to Noctis - almost but not quite touching. Clarus hums thoughtfully even as Regis sighs and Aulea chuckles.
"Remind you of anyone, dear?" She says, lightly. Regis opts not to incriminate himself by answering, and instead scrubs a hand across his face. Maybe assigning Noct an agemate who wasn't an Amicitia was a bad idea.
The first time Noctis dons the Ring is when they enter Fociaugh Hollow. Luna joins them, despite the boys' misgivings - and it comes in handy when the Naga snatches Prompto.
What is less impressive is the fact that burns creep up Noct's arm and neck, and he's weaker than he should be.
kingoffishing has created 'roadtrip me758'. kingoffishing has invited sharpwit, lockandload, eagleswings kingoffishing [0213 4/18]: so mom wants to hold a 'family dinner' before we go lockandload: ?? what's the problem kingoffishing: ugh kingoffishing: it's just going to be one of those 'remember your manners, you're representing all of lucis!' snoozefests again lockandload: queen aulea's cool tho kingoffishing: you would lockandload: she is!!! she's almost as good as warping as you are, and she's scarier than the king!!
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gladio, gentled (chapter 3; the open world)
...that, and the Regalia took an unfortunate swipe from a Yojimbo's blade and Cindy hadn't been pleased. At all. And Ignis wasn't pleased at the repair bill (which even Noct had winced at). So here they were, running around Duscae, taking on hunts and slaying monsters and selling everything they didn't desperately need for just a few more gil.
Even Prompto's wise-cracking had taken a nose-dive after their third night munching on cheese pizza in the pouring rain.
no subject
Unfortunately, that also meant that Gladio's hackles were permanently raised when they went in to cash the bounties, when they were hunting, and even just when they were moving from place to place.
It all came to a head when at the end of an arba hunt, a griffon swooped in and grabbed the decapitated head of the largest one, making off with the magnificent curling horns that someone in Lestallum would pay a high price for. Noct yelled, trying to warp up to the immense creature, but it was already flying too fast for Noctis's heavily depleted magic.
Briefly, Prompto aimed down the sights of Cocytus, but sighed and dropped his aim.
"It's got cover from the treetops." Gladio snarled, hand clenching tight enough around the handle [there's a more proper word but I forgot] of his greatsword that the tendons in his arm stood out.
"Damn that thing!"
to you, two thousand years ago
Ardyn sprinted over to the baby, grabbing it just as a tail whip-cracked at him - only to deflect off Gilgamesh's shield as he throws himself between the healer and the new, horrific serpent daemon.
The former mother wails as they flee - an awful noise that they know is going to draw more daemons to the area. It's just on dusk, and they'd been trying to make it to Morskangr, but that plan's gone out the window.
A goblin leaps out in front of them, cackling, and Ardyn curses as he slips, losing his footing in the leaf litter as he tries to stop from running directly into it. It reaches out a bony, grasping hand towards the baby and he gasps out a "No--"
Its fingers graze the bared skin of his arm and it shrieks as it seems to wither, body contracting in on itself until it simply disintegrates. The forest echoes with the sobbing screams of the snake daemon, and the panting of the two men as they try to process what happened.
Abruptly, Ardyn realises that the baby's stopped crying, and he looks to down to see tiny hands clenching on a miasm-smeared blanket. The baby is crying black tears, and there's a hideous dark tracery visible beneath it's delicate skin. An advanced infection, and he has to fight down the urge to be sick.
He's still staring at the child when Gilgamesh's gauntleted hands grab him under the armpits and haul him upright.
"We need to move, Ardyn." He's right. The forests that surround Morskangr are no place to stay at night. Besides the obvious problems of literal daemons, there are rumours of couerls moving through the area, and he really doesn't want to find a dualhorn when it's pitch dark. But if he doesn't heal this baby soon they'll die, and another daemon will rise.
Gods damn that zu that decided their airship was flying too near to its nest.
pt2
Then again, Ardyn's claimed to be many things, but dignified is not one of them.
The hundlegs, for once, aren't interested in the presence of fresh prey - instead continuing to skitter... north? East? He's gotten all turned around in this darkness. Ardyn huffs soft breaths into the crook of Gil's neck, and waits until he can't hear the multitude of insectile legs scrabbling to speak.
"The airship shouldn't be too far. It's our best bet for waiting out dawn." Gil hums an assent, and Ardyn can feel it in his bones. For some reason, daemons don't like the the brightness that the magitek circuits give off, even when the ship is powered down.
Somewhere off in the gloaming, the mother wails for her child. The infant stills, and then lets out another bawling cry. Ardyn can heal them, but not here. Not - not where Gilgamesh can see the awful transfer. So instead he awkwardly tucks the sodden bundle closer - and that's going to be fun to clean later - hushing it with gentle pressure.
Another shriek - and then the snarl-zap of a coeurl on the attack. Closer. Too close for comfort, if the way Gil's arms and legs tighten against the tree.
"Hold on," says Ardyn, and extricates an arm, a set of chopsticks appearing in a swirl of magenta crystals. Gilgamesh sighs, and pulls him in close as he lets go of the tree trunk. There's the too-much pressure of the warp and then they're on the ground.
At ground level (and now that his face isn't buried in Gil's hood) he can see what had his friend spooked - the crackle of couerl-lightning is visible through the undergrowth. And with it, the oversized midgarsomr with a woman's face. It rears back, shrieking, and slams into the couerl.
Ardyn, wisely, holds the baby close, and begins to run again. Gilgamesh, as always, follows just a step behind.
pt3 cw emeto
The interior is a little small, yes, and still smells faintly of ozone thanks to the engine malfunction - but it's a damn sight safer than the outside world right now. Gilgamesh heaves the hatch closed and throws the bolt home while Ardyn runs through an abbreviated power cycle. There's a moment where he holds his breath as the core whines - but it soon settles into the steady thrum of a happy engine, and the lights brighten up.
There's a thunk as Gil discards his breastplate, and his bodyguard slumps into a chair, long legs eating up the precious deckspace. Ardyn shrugs out of his over-robe, and roughly folding it, nestles the baby onto the table. Under the lights it's far more obvious how advanced the infection is. The swaddling cloth is filthy, but it's equal parts waste and miasma.
It's also a boy, for what it's worth. Likely a total orphan by now.
Ardyn breathes in, breathes out, and feels for the swell of the scourge within the infant's tiny body. Gil moves, brushing past him and into the cockpit proper. He lets it fade away, and resting his hands on the infant's body, pulls.
The slide of starscourge moving into his body feels... wrong. It's alien, awful, and he wants to be sick. The baby trembles under his spasming hands, and then - then finally it's over, and the baby wails, high and hungry.
It's four steps to the basin and then Ardyn's heaving, bringing up oily, viscous bile that clings to the inside of his throat and mouth. He can barely breathe - it feels like his whole body is congested with the miasm, spilling out of him through his eyes, his nose, his mouth--
Then there are strong arms holding up his sagging body, a hand rubbing at his back. It's soothing, even though he's tearing up from not being able to fucking breathe -
And then it's over.
He coughs wetly, spits, trying to clear the foul slick from his mouth. The sounds filter back in - the baby wailing, the low hum of the engine. Gil's humming, a soldier's hymn he learned from Gentiana. Ardyn fumbles for the tap, twists it on, flushing away the evidence even though he's fairly certain Gil has seen it, seen the blackness he just vomited up.
But Gilgamesh keeps humming the hymn, gently brushing wine-dark strands of hair away from his sweating forehead as Ardyn watches the miasm evaporate in the light like so much mist, burned away by a dawning sun. The tension drains out of him, and he slumps down against the basin.
Gil reaches up and around, turning off the tap. The baby's wails have subsided into hiccoughs. A Healer's work never truly ends, it seems.
pt4
"This doesn't bode well for Morskangr." Gil says, from where he's gnawing at a ration bar. Ardyn lets his head flop back against the ship's wall and only winces a bit at the thud.
"I thought that this close to the rift would be safe." He could feel the energies emanating from what was once Taelpar's verdant hilly forests even miles away, but apparently even the lingering magic of the Astrals couldn't prevent the spread of daemons.
Taelpar itself had been completely obliterated in a single night when Bahamut had rained destruction upon Titan's favoured, a stunning move that even Ardyn wouldn't have believed unless he'd personally seen swords larger than even Oskorpnir's tallest towers rain down upon the land and carve out a permanent scar.
tear your skin to taste your beating heart
Once, Nyyrikki even saw a Wraith stalk and ensnare a patrol - it choked them to death and devoured their souls, leaving lifeless corpses behind. Nyyrikki has scavenged from the bodies - a handgun, and bullets. Some rations. Cold-proof inners, which they wrapped around their hands and feet.
Over the past cycles of moon rise and set, however, Nyyrikki has seen something new. Patrols in airships, carrying massive crates. The patrols did not see Nyyrikki, hidden under the insulating snow, watching them. They even heard one of the patrollers say that they hoped the 'daemon traps' would catch something interesting.
Idiot patrols. Catching daemons is bad luck. But the daemon traps had an interesting effect - they drew in game, of many sizes. Ptarmigan waddle right up to the cold metal boxes, inspecting and pecking at their reflections. Foxes stalk the ptarmigans, and eagles swoop at the foxes. And if there's game, Nyyrikki is interested.
They stalk the ptarmigan, crouching low over the snow, before pouncing all at once. Nyyrikki breaks the neck of the bird and scurries back away from the cage. It is precious warmth and energy, and Nyyrikki carefully plucks it clean beneath the shelter of a pine thicket.
A lone fox watches carefully from a distance and to it Nyyrikki throws the intestines and entrails. The meat is cooling fast and chewy, but it is delicious. Nyyrikki scrubs their hands and face with snow, and then eats the pink-stained snow, determined not to waste a drop.
That night, as Nyyrikki dozes fitfully beneath the snow, a daemon wanders into the trap. The bussemand howls louder than the wind and they startle awake. There's an awful metallic tearing noise, and the bussemand pack shrieks in return. Nyyrikki cowers under the snow as the daemons above holler and scream, metallic crunching and dull thuds echoing across the night.
pt 2
Cautiously, Nyyrikki makes a peephole through the snow, shading their eyes with feathers.
There's four airships now, instead of merely one. Lots of patrollers, as well as the MT units that move too smoothly. And standing amongst them all is a tall figure, all in black. The hairs prick up on the back of Nyyrikki's neck.
That one moves like a predator. The patrollers, the MTs - they move in a way that's a pale imitation. A pet dog, to a wolf. That one is dangerous. They watch the one in black as he gesticulates, waving a hand grandly at the cage. Nyyrikki cannot hear what they say, not with the Glacian's wrath howling through, but they mislike it all the same.
pt 2.5
The patrol refuses to get close to the box, so the MTs attach chains and hoist it up into the airship. As it lifts above the bustle it's very clear that the bussemand pack have done considerable damage to the metal box. Several of the struts and poles have been bent or snapped clean off, and panels are dented with the force of an impact.
Nyyrikki shudders, and draws back from the peephole. They've seen enough. Someone is hunting the hunters, and that's bad.
pt 3
Except tonight. The ground kept trembling, making building a stable shelter near impossible. Worse yet, a slide had filled one of their backup rock crevices, so they were picking their way around a patrol base, trying to find somewhere to hide before the temperatures dropped any lower
The sounds of a creche of snaga echo up the rocks as they try to descend a steep escarpment, and they freeze, one foot dangling in the air, halfway to a foothold. The chattering ebbs and builds, but doesn't get any closer - so Nyyrikki dares to ease down a cramping leg to the foothold. Snow crystals squeak but the snaga noises continue at the same pitch and distance.
Undetected, for now.
The rest of the descent is just as nerve-wracking - Nyyrikki's eyes are good, but they aren't quite good enough to make out more than the high-lighted towers of the base off in the distance, even from the top of the ridge. Now, with every inch of their body straining to move stealthily to the bottom, they were incredibly stressed.
The bottom of the escarpment is splinter-sharp, and slick with a rime of ice. Nevertheless, Nyyrikki sprawls out, heaving breaths that puff bright and sparkly. Soon it will be absolutely dark, and their eyes will be less than useless. That, and there's an entire creche of snaga in their way.
Their parents had only told them once, "don't fight a daemon, child. you won't come out the winner." And given that they'd seen MTs with frankly scary weaponry go down against even half a creche? Nyyrikki took it to heart.
Slowly, painfully, they crawled over the rubble to the snow - and then shifted to a slumped over, deathclaw-like walk to wade through the knee-deep snow. As Nyyrikki rounds the corner they see the creche backlit by the fort's spotlights - they're just out of range of the moving spotlight, but what's very visible is the large daemon trap with multiple entries.
pt 4
Nyyrikki flexes their hands, and winces at the ache - apparently the MTs have been using the escarpment for target practice, and their hands throb with the pain of a thousand little cuts. Their purloined handgun will be less than useless if they can't squeeze the trigger.
They squint, peering closer at the creche of snaga. They seem to be circling something on the ground - occasionally darting in before jumping back, chattering all the while. Nyyrikki has an awful feeling that it's one of the soldiers - but since the snaga are occupied, it's as good as an opportunity as they're going to get to make a break for it.
But between them and the (relative) safety of the cage is a massive open field of driven snow.
Shit.
pt 5 (timeskip whee)
The chattering picks up in pitch - and there's the sound of small bodies moving quickly over snow. Ah, Nyyrikki thinks dizzily, dawn is here. They've not slept for over a day, not eaten for three. Time moves wonkily, but they suppose that it's a while before the sound of an airship's whine cuts through the utter darkness of the cage.
Smart. Daemons may linger in deep shadows, but wait until mid-morning and even the strongest will melt away. The snaga shriek, slamming themselves against the cage walls at the scent of prey, rocking the whole construction back and forth. Human voices echo outside, and near-frozen metal shrieks as something is pulled open and then slammed closed.
"Clear!" It's the metallic buzz of a MT unit. Nyyrikki has heard it this close once before, when they still had a house. The metal noise, unbearably loud. "Clear!" Those compartments aren't clear, though. They're full of snaga. The metal noise. "Cle--argh!" Even as the snaga's death shriek echoes, there's the sound of gunfire and ragged breathing. There's a sound of something being dragged over snow.
A pause.
The metal noise. "Clear!" The cycle starts again. Eventually it works its way around to Nyyrikki, who's given up on warming their air in favour of covering their ears from the awful noise.
oh, you've always been my north star (baby ignis)
Every so often, they'd pass a stern looking Crownsguard - and then, as they got closer to where they were going, Kingsglaive resplendent in black and silver.
Eventually, they got to a pair of double doors, flanked by two Kingsglaive. Both had partially shaved heads, and braids in their hair. Galahdians! Thought Ignis, astonished to see the legendary fighters up close.
--
Marshal Leonis was abrupt, but polite enough as he leaned against the bench, watching as a tech scanned both of Ignis's handprints, and then took an identification photo. Uncle Caelius swapped information about upcoming budgetary changes for Crownsguard deployment locations with Marshal Leonis - and all the while, Ignis had the strange feeling that he was being assessed and measured.
Then, with a brand new chipped ID card burning a hole in his pocket, Caelius led him upwards, before stopping in a quiet, cream-carpeted antechamber. His uncle kneels, and rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"You'll be fine, Ignis. I'll be back later this afternoon, and we can go and get pasta for dinner."
Behind him, a door opens and a Very Tall Woman walks in, full skirt sweeping across the floor. Caelius squeezes his shoulder once, and stands, brushing non-existant dust from his clothes.
"Ah, Lord Scientia. I should have expected you to be early."
no subject
He's halfway through a maths assessment (not as hard as the tests he had to take a month ago, but still kind of tricky) when a door opens, and he hears Noctis's voice chattering happily.
--
Queen Aulea is beautiful, and is happy to sit a suddenly-shy Noctis on her lap and join him on the bench. Lady Maura is the head of the Royal Household, arranging food deliveries, cooking, cleaning, and partially managing the Royal families' schedules.
Noct is quite content to sit curled in Aulea's lap, hand clutching her sleeve. Ignis can't help shooting glances as he finishes each problem - this is the boy he's meant to give his life to protect.
--
The daemon laughs, a horrible rattling sound - and Ignis hides behind Aulea's skirt, beyond terrified. Maura snarls in return and there's a sound like dry wood snapping. Today had meant to be a charitable outing to Crestholm, just outside the Wall - but they were ambushed.
Skeletal figures wielding scythes surround them, and even though Ignis knows Aulea is more than capable, he's still terrified.
--
Noctis looks very small in the hospital bed, still and silent but for the tubes and machines whirring and bleeping. Technically Ignis isn't meant to be in here, but someone forgot to update the permissions on his ID card - and sneaking is good practice. Or something.
The Reapers and Ronin that had ambushed them at Crestholm had been one half of a pronged attack - the other was a Marilith that had nearly killed Noctis and slaughtered its way through a motorcade before Commander Drautos killed it.
It seems wrong, though, for Noct to be so still and quiet. He's a bubbly boy, always interested in what people (especially Ignis) are doing. Ignis had meant to just keep an eye on him, maybe catch up on his Ancient Lucian homework. BUt now that he's here, he just wants to hold his Prince.
[...]
It's late when Regis finally limps into the secure room where Noctis is recuperating, Aulea on his left and Clarus supporting him from the right. The Wall is demanding tonight, tested and stretching against the wailing daemonic masses. It makes his hip ache something fierce, throbbing in symphony with the old war-wound on his knee.
What he doesn't expect to see is the Scientia boy curled up carefully next to Noctis - almost but not quite touching. Clarus hums thoughtfully even as Regis sighs and Aulea chuckles.
"Remind you of anyone, dear?" She says, lightly. Regis opts not to incriminate himself by answering, and instead scrubs a hand across his face. Maybe assigning Noct an agemate who wasn't an Amicitia was a bad idea.
ring of the lucii burns
What is less impressive is the fact that burns creep up Noct's arm and neck, and he's weaker than he should be.
that terrible chatfic
kingoffishing has invited sharpwit, lockandload, eagleswings
kingoffishing [0213 4/18]: so mom wants to hold a 'family dinner' before we go
lockandload: ?? what's the problem
kingoffishing: ugh
kingoffishing: it's just going to be one of those 'remember your manners, you're representing all of lucis!' snoozefests again
lockandload: queen aulea's cool tho
kingoffishing: you would
lockandload: she is!!! she's almost as good as warping as you are, and she's scarier than the king!!