Event Log: February, Outpost Problems

[faileas]

Event Log: February, Outpost Problems

I. Adventuring We Will Go (Tomorrow) The word gets around pretty quick. Anybody who plans to journey with the group of Wilders venturing out to set up a new outpost is invited to attend a traditional gathering they have before an expedition: the packing party. On the evening of the 15th, the Wilders' HQ is bustling with activity. The whole group is present making the final preparations, sorting gear, and checking the carts for maintenance. The atmosphere is easy and upbeat, very casual, with Wilders laughing and telling jokes and stories as they work. One has to have a little fun before it's time to be serious, after all! A lot needs done, and more hands are always welcome. Camping gear and provisions need to be checked, inventoried, and dispersed into enchanted rucksacks that can hold twice as much as you might think they could - there will be enough rucksacks for each explorer in the party. Everyone is expected to carry their own. Shrunken-down construction materials for the new outpost need to be loaded into the three self-propelled carts the party will travel with (if only they were self-steering as well!). The carts themselves haven't been necessary for an expedition in a while; they could probably use some fixing up, greasing the axles and making sure the enchantments are fully charged with magic. And, too, this is a chance for the group to mingle and get to know each other. You have to be able to trust your fellows out there in the Wilde, after all. So there's a table with food bought off a few street carts: fried hand pies in meat (no one's sure what kind of meat, but hey!), veggie, and fruit varities; a pot of simmering jellied eel to be scooped into cups and eaten with spoons; fried squabs on sticks dripping grease. Beer is plentiful, as are bottles of a non-alcoholic ginger beer. Everyone is encouraged to eat, pack, and get to know each other. Especially because, the lead Wilders on this expedition will say, it's recommended that everyone going out there have a Bonded - whether it be their own normal Bonds if they're also going, or temporary Bonds with their fellow party members. The table also bears a few dozen of the temporary Bonding potions, and it's highly encouraged, though not required, that more experienced explorers temporarily Bond with those who are much newer to Aefenglom. It's nature's buddy system, you know. Whatever you're going to do, do it before the morning - the group leaves at first dawn, and will not wait for anyone too hungover to be on time. While having a Bond isn't required for the trip, the Wilders will strongly encourage it for anyone who isn't Bonded or whose Bond partners aren't going. The three-Bond safety limit does still apply to temporary Bonds, though! If you'd like to tag around for potential temp Bonds, head over to this thread right here!

II. The Silent Forest It becomes clear that, while the journey starts off easy, it won't remain that way. The group leaves out at dawn and passes first through stretches of land considered 'safe' - safe enough to be generally habitable, and the first couple of hours see the occasional farm on the way. There are few to no signs of Cwyld this close to the city, but then they start to slip into the region considered 'in progress'. These are the lands the Wilders have been focusing on, and so while there are the occasional patches of infected plants, they're easily dealt with by small, controlled burns. As the day drags on and the hike continues, though, the landscape changes. The trees grow thicker and the underbrush more dense. The machetes have to come out at points to clear the path for the carts; whoever is currently on cart-steering duty, please don't damage them! The atmosphere, too, changes around this time; the laughter dies down, expressions become more serious, Wilders are noticeably more alert to the possible presence of Shades or hostile creatures. By evening, the forest is thick and dark, the trees around them ancient and twisting. No one has ventured out to this area in quite a while, the more experienced Wilders will say, and that becomes very obvious. The once-beautiful forest is heavily infected by the Cwyld, and the small cabin that served as a Wilder outpost is overgrown, still bearing the 5-year-old corpse of a dead Wilder. Adventurers are advised to take caution when touching anything - wear gloves and heavy boots and watch your step out here, folks. The way still needs to be cleared. a. The Flora The oldest of the trees present are fully dead, thick trunks turned black and shiny, letting in light from above where their leafless branches reach out to the trees around them. The brush is thick and thorny; even small pricks and cuts in the skin are liable to be infected, a black ring forming around the wound, darkening the veins branching out from it, and need immediate treatment to keep it from spreading. It's hard to avoid other than by simply wearing thick clothing and hoping for the best. Nestled in the roots of the trees are pitcher-like plants filled with a sticky sap; the Wilders are excited to see these, and despite the dangers, comb through them to see if any remain uninfected. The sap in infected plants is black and tarry, while in uninfected plants it runs clear. This sticky liquid is excellent for smearing over wounds to seal them and draw out minor infection, and they'd be delighted to take some whole plants back for cultivation. As well, a certain breed of tree seems to have escaped infection entirely; these tall, woody trees have shiny green leaves, a contrast to the rest of the forest, and bear small green fruits that smell (and taste, should you eat one) deliciously sweet. All is not always as it seems out here in the Wilde, though - be careful which fruit you choose to imbibe. These trees are not immune to the Cwyld, they only hide their infection well. It can only be determined which trees are infected by cutting into them and inspecting the sap (difficult, because the sap of all the trees is highly toxic, and even inhaling near it will have nasty side-effects of vertigo, vomiting, and even temporary blindness). If it runs black at all, the tree is infected, and the fruit, sweet as it might taste, is deadly poisonous. Trees that are only mildly infected are a Russian roulette: you have an 80-20 chance of getting a toxic fruit or a good one. Most of the Wilders don't feel it's worth the risk. b. The Fauna The party spends a couple of days in the Silent Forest out of necessity. Initially, it seems as if there is no animal life left on this desolate patch of land. No birds chirping, no mammals scurrying about, not even an insect to buzz around the explorers' heads. It becomes quite clear that the Cwyld has consumed nearly everything, and the life left is hardly life at all. Shades are not uncommon. When camp is made for the night, capable fighters will have to rotate guard duty and patrols around the campsite, to fight off the shadows of what used to live here as they sense life and magic to consume. Dessicated, white-eyed bucks with cracking antlers, bloated and mutated birds screeching angrily, even, perhaps, the Shade of a bear, huge, enraged, and difficult to take down. But that second night, those who are alert may get the tingling sense that they're being watched. They are, in fact, by a band of nomadic Monsters, primarily Harpies and Arachne passing through. They don't approach the camp, and they won't speak to any of the Wilder group, merely watching them with something like curiosity before they flee into the forest again. It's hard to get close to them before they disappear, more at home in this dead forest than you will ever be, but close observation shows that all are scarred in some way; missing parts of limbs, eyes, or bearing even worse marks on their bodies. c. The Solution It's too thick an area to clear simply by burning. They'd set the whole dry patch of forest alight and kill who knows what along with the Cwyld. Some smaller areas can be taken care of with fire and careful supervision, but the rest of it... The lead Wilder on this expedition, a prematurely-greying Witch named Rilla Sparks, puts forth a suggestion. She admits, it's one based heavily on theory and speculation, along with the findings of certain prominent researchers in the city. If they can find the leyline, she thinks the Witches in their party can flood it with enough positive, nurturing magic to 'flush' the Cwyld out of the vicinity, so to speak. Or, she hopes, enough to make it passable in the future. It's experimental, but isn't that what this trip is about? Discovering new things? If enough of the party is game, the first step is finding the leyline in the area. This can be sniffed out by Witches and Monsters both, as they're drawn to sources of magic, even tainted magic; and, too, if anyone takes a look from the air, the leyline becomes obvious, as it cuts a much darker, more heavily infected line across the forest floor, like a blackened vein. Once it's found, it's up to the Witches in the group. Gathering over the blackened ground, anyone who wants to participate in the ritual should join in pairs or groups, down on their knees to be closer to the earth, and should 'push' their magical energy into the leyline through their hands pressed to the dirt. Each push results in a pulse of light beneath the blackness of the ground, weak at first, but stronger the more magic is expended. It will take several hours, which means the occupied (and then spent) Witches will require the protection of their Monster fellows, and interacting this closely with a tainted leyline will have side effects. A low degree of Cwyld infection is possible in the hands, but not guaranteed. Intense fatigue and dizziness is certain, along with pain when casting spells, and terrible nightmares for as long as the symptoms last - anywhere from 2 to 6 days, depending on how much magic the individual Witch expelled and how much rest they get after. It will take some time to see if their labors bear fruit. They'll check on the area again on the way back; they can't stay in one place for too long.

III. Ruins of a Past Life In the next couple of days, as the journey commences, the obvious signs of infection lessen in the landscape. The trees thin out again as they head further north. With the Wilde just barely dipping toes into autumn, and no thick canopy of foliage to block out the sun, it's a hot, uncomfortable walk. Those on cart-steering duty are considered lucky, getting to sit for a few hours, but it doesn't last - the duty is rotated between volunteers. Enjoy it while you've got it. At one point, with the sun high in the sky, they stop to refill canteens and jugs with fresh water and to take a bit of a swim. Here, the water cascades into a wide lake below, which eventually feeds back into the main river that cuts through Aefenglom farther south. At the top of the waterfall, it's much easier to see something in the distance, that isn't specifically on the route but is a small enough detour (only a mile or two off) that the guides permit it. It's the ruins of a former settlement, clusters of shells of burned out houses and buildings, a dried up well, and the crumbling remnants of a wall - reminiscent of the Bright Wall, but much, much smaller, only about eight or nine feet high at its tallest point. There is no magic left in it, though, nor any people in the ruined town. There haven't been for years and years, judging from the mossy overgrowth and state of disrepair. Some signs of the former inhabitants can still be found in the houses; the Wilders agree to make camp here for a night, to give everyone some time to explore. a. In The Daytime The ruins are depressing, but safe, in the daylight. It isn't hard to put together what happened here - a Cwyld outbreak must have come on them quickly, and judging from the hasty, half-burned homes, it was poorly contained. Some homes still contain skeletons in rotted scraps of clothing, some bones charred and others picked clean by animals. Many of their possessions still remain, except there are no books left anywhere in the town, even on shelves where books obviously were before. The patterns in the dust indicate that the books, all that survived the fires initially, were removed much more recently, within the last year or two perhaps. Otherwise, much is untouched. There are still dishes and flatware on broken tables, rotted blankets on beds, children's toys scattered over floors, axes hung on walls. A sort of thick, somewhat mucous-y grayish-green moss grows in flat sheets over most of the ruins. It isn't infected by the Cwyld; in fact, the areas where it grows seem to be free from it. Coincidence? Not? The Wilders have never seen anything quite like it, and are interested in taking samples back to study. (And for those of you who can't help but put things in your mouths: yes, the moss is edible. It tastes a little... earthy, but gives a pleasant caffeine-like buzz and burst of energy. Good for Witches still feeling the effects of the leyline flushing.) Outside the remnants of the wall, there are years-overgrown gardens, and perfectly good potatoes, asparagus, and raspberries can be found still growing, hardy and perennial even without human hands to tend to them. These people lived a more simple life than those in relatively-modern Aefenglom, as there isn't any magitech to be found, but somehow, they made themselves a home out here in the middle of nowhere. b. Ghosts of a Forgotten Settlement After nightfall, the dead town comes alive again, in a morbid sense. The party will soon find that the sunset brings the emergence of specters of the town's deceased residents - ghastly semi-transparent echoes of humans and Monsters, men, women, and children, in the state they were in at their deaths. Some are badly burnt, others were obviously infected, on their way to becoming Cwyldtid. Now, they go about their former lives every night, filling the ruined town with a sense of dread and foreboding that is impossible for the living to ignore. The ghosts cannot be touched or physically interacted with, and many of them simply ignore the Wilders and Mirrorbound completely. Spectral children play in the streets, adults tidy shops that are no longer there, or head out to the field to farm. They do so with expressions full of sadness, and desperation, as if trapped in this cycle of un-life. Others not only notice the group, but try to turn on them, enraged at the sight of intruders, though their shouts and screams are silent. They can't do any damage, but if they pass through you, you'll feel a bone-deep chill, despite the late-summer heat hanging in the air, and the specters' 'touch' will fill anyone with an aching, heavy despair, or rage - echoes of the emotions the ghosts experienced before their deaths.

IV. The Northern Outpost The sparse forest thins even more to the north. The terrain grows more uneven, rockier and hilly, with drier soil and hardy, sun-bleached grass instead of moss and leaf litter. Several natural rock formations can be spotted in the distance, growing larger as the group gets nearer. The trees here are few and far between, shorter and sturdier, casting only small circles of shade on the baked landscape. Wildflowers dot the grass in every color of the rainbow in the areas that remain uninfected. A low degree of Cwyld infection can be found here, turning the grasses overgrown, dry and brittle, and the sparse trees gnarled and blackened. This is to be expected, though. You can't venture this far out and expect anywhere to be completely untouched. The spot Rilla Sparks chooses for the new outpost is cradled between two large spires of stone, with a cliff-face at the back of it - protected on three sides to defend from animals and Shades, with a relatively clean stream within an hour's walking distance. Construction has to commence immediately. Once they land, it's a flurry of activity, as there is much work to be done. The building supplies are returned to their original sizes and it's all hands on deck to put together the low wooden building. With everyone working as quickly as they can, it should take about three days to get set up enough to consider the outpost open. Also on the to-do list: setting up the teleporter waypoint given to the Wilders by the Coven, to shorten the trip from Aefenglom to this far-flung outpost. It's smaller than the one in Dorchacht, only able to transport three people at a time, but the technology is the same. They'll need as many magitech-capable hands as they can get to calibrate it to the local energies and get it up and running. While all this is going on, exploration of the local area is high on the list as well, to ferret out any potential dangers that may be inherent to setting up here, or potential boons that can be taken back to Aefenglom, and to start work on their maps. There's a job for everyone, and while they're happy to let people do what they're good at, or rotate between different tasks, anybody slacking off will get the stink-eye - you came to work, right? This is no vacation! After the first day, though, things start... getting a little weird. Items start disappearing at random times, just out of nowhere, no rhyme or reason to the things taken. Hammers, half-drawn maps, scraps of wood, your half-eaten lunch if you look away from it for long enough. Personal items may go missing as well, if left unattended, so keep your precious things and weapons close. You may hear muffled voices - laughter, indiscernible chatter - around the times when stuff goes missing; it could be the voice of a stranger, or maybe it's the voice of someone you know, someone you've been traveling with for the last several days. But why would they want to steal your pen, or your handful of nails, or your drink cup? Weirder still, holes in the dirt start turning up in the night. Maybe six feet deep, dug at an angle like the beginning of a tunnel, and cutting off abruptly. Digging further down in these holes doesn't turn much up at first, but checking enough of them will turn up only a handful of the smaller missing items with teeth marks in them. Inconsequential, uninteresting, inedible things, or straight up trash in some cases. With enough persistence and maybe a good old fashioned stake-out, the culprits turn up: a pack of sand-colored, hyena-like animals that perfectly mimic human and Monster voices that they hear (often repeating words out of context, like much dumber parrots - they don't know what they're saying, only what the words sound like), and scavenge for whatever they can get their paws on. The hyenas are aggressive when confronted, and pack-oriented, but can be won over eventually by feeding them, or talking at them: different hyenas like different sounds and different words, so it might take some trial and error. Several bear low-level infections that can still be cured. Maybe eventually they can be trained. But then, where is everything else they stole? Please note that only a very small number of the items missing will be found on this trip! If you don't want something of your character's gone for an indeterminate amount of time, don't have it stolen. It's just possible they might turn up at a later date, however...

Welcome to February's event log, Outpost Problems! The expedition will last about an IC week for everyone who completes the trip; characters can return to Aefenglom with a pair of Wilder scouts at any stop along the way, though. As always, please direct your event-specific questions here! You can tag around for temporary Bonds in this thread, and if your character would eat the fruit in the Silent Forest, please post here for your dice roll (we did say it's a Russian roulette). Enjoy the trip outside the Bright Wall, everyone!

Comments

[mensrea]

[ Stiles has vacillated back to starstruck. A dragon is speaking with him – with him. This is the kind of insane, phenomenal thing that happens regularly to Scott back home, not to the designated sidekick like Stiles. The inner child in him is screaming in delight even as he struggles to play off just how embarrassingly excited he is. Be cool, Stiles. For once in your fucking life, be cool. ]

How long has she – they – been asleep?

[ What if it coincides with when the first Mirrorbound showed up? This could be the lead he’s been hoping for.

Voice lowered, he asks, ] Does the Coven know about this?

[usurpers]

[ how disappointing is it that he wasn't born a dragon? there's something giddy about the way this guy talks and stares at him, eren could at least acknowledge. maybe it's the legend itself, and he just wants to hear more. it's exactly that.

if eren could shrug his shoulders, he would. it ends up looking like a simple shuffle of his wings to his sides. ]

They brush it off. It's become a story to these people, the kind you'd tell to children and sing in songs. [ it's . . . sad, really, and while it's difficult to see that in a reptile's facial features, there's something about the dragon's eyes that . . . looks upset. ] But I've seen her, and spoken to her. It's been this way for hundreds of years, I'm guessing as far back as when the infection started.

[ the truth is: ]

She's forgotten.

[mensrea]

[ Don’t worry, Eren. That bright, enchanted look on Stiles’ face? All you, scaly buddy. And no matter how many more Dragons he potentially meets, you’ll always be his first. And what a way to pop that cherry, honestly. Anyway…

Well, there goes the lead. Stiles has gone through the archive of older network messages and knows they seem to have started less than a year ago. That doesn’t necessarily mean Mirrorbound weren’t present before then, but he’ll have to dig deeper if he wants to find a connection between that timing and Créia’s slumber. ]

How…how’ve you talked to her if she’s, uh, petrified?

[ Oh god, please tell him this Dragon can’t read minds. That’d be embarrassing. Desperate for any alternative, Stiles scrambles to find another reason. ]

Did it happen in one of those dream things? Or something else?

[usurpers]

[ i can’t believe stiles took eren’s astonishment virginity. luckily for stiles, he won’t know of that aforementioned sensation even if he tried. looks like he’s right on the money, and the dragon merrs in agreement. ]

It was a dream of Talam’s future. Everything was healthy and the Wilde was free. I could smell her— [ his tongue flicks out; the scent of sharp pine and lush, healthy forest, something ethereal and hinted floral of the wild flowers in bloom. it’s what made him pursue: ] Then I dreamed alone the second time.

[ it wasn’t actually alone, but it wasn’t a mass shared dream like the rest of them. he’ll explain that if it ever came to giving him ishmael’s contact. ]

She has a tree. All the dragons have an object that’s, [ his jaws snap, he pauses, looks for the words, then clicks his teeth, because he doesn’t know beyond what the forest dragon had told him. ] wrong. Something’s wrong with them.

[mensrea]

[ Without tearing his gaze away from Eren, Stiles crouches down, distractedly pats at the ground to make sure there’s nothing there, and then sits. While he’s normally not the type to remain stationary for any period of time, the grandeur of Eren’s dragon form instills him with respectful patience. It’d probably be for the best if he didn’t piss off the giant lizard by pacing all over the place. That said, confusion furrows his brow as he struggles to follow the tale. ]

But not you…?

[ Stiles is operating under the assumption that Eren is not, in fact, a Mirrorbound; having yet to see another Mirrorbound with as extensive a transformation or shifted form, he doesn’t know it’s possible for their kind to reach such a state. ]

Okay, so. She’s petrified in a boulder, but her tree is what’s wrong with her? [ It’s always a fucking tree. (Obligatory: Fuck the Nemeton.) ] I’m guessing we can’t just burn the tree or chop it down if we want to help her.

[usurpers]

[ (not that he’d mind pacing, when he’s used to it himself through high anxiety.)

eren does, though, offer a stare at the first question, his massive skull slowly tipping until his ear fins flick— ah. he hasn’t realized. well, he wouldn’t want to break his train of thought with something so trifling. he’ll let him know later, when not directly on the topic. at least, he also isn’t much the type to trick people for merriment. ]

If it’s infected, [ which, given the state of the forest, it probably is, ] healing it would be the best bet. [ the way she touched the dream version, and looked at it . . . ] We’d kill her with the former.

[ he guesses, but it’s a well estimated guess, considering the infection made her comatose. ]

That goes for the other two, but she’s the closest. We already have a Cwyld healer, [ one of his bonds, to be precise. ] all we need now are more people.

[mensrea]

[ Attention firmly trained on the creature, he doesn’t miss the flick of those draconic ear fins. A trickle of trepidation creeps down his spine; is that the dragon equivalent of a dog pinning their ears back? By no means an animal body language expert – and, even if he was, hello, this is a dragon – he tries not to read too much into it. But Stiles fidgets where he’s seated, all too aware of how easily he might become dinner if something this size was so inclined. ]

So that’s why you brought it up. [ Stiles swallows. ] I’m…not a fighter. Or a healer. But, if you guys let me come with you, I’ll figure out a way to help.

[ Or, if the dragon refuses, Stiles will just try and follow anyway. ]

[usurpers]

[ stiles.......... sweet child of spring. eren has been through enough in his short life span to not immediately take that word to heart and barrel through the obstacle the way a raging shounen would— perhaps, if he cared less about the other like some— random chess piece to throw in and out of a board as something disposable, but. hrm, no. it already made him feel like shit when he had to do it, it wouldn’t be during his free time that he’d pick that up again. not a fighter. or a healer. that didn’t have to be a problem, but coming out into the wilde like this without a plan wasn’t suicidal (since eren’s ideas tended to be just that mad)— it was dangerously imprudent, and he has long since shed his shell of child-like indiscretion.

if he was going to be reckless, then be it calculated recklessness. ]

No. [ it hasn’t been as if he wasn’t already sitting comfortably, but now his belly lowers, his wings fold until they cover his sides and back like a nesting bird’s, and his neck, skull and all, maintains at (mostly) eye level. ] You’re telling me what you can help with now.

[ you don’t have to fight or heal to be useful, but! not later. now. he won’t be responsible for a meaningless death. ]

[mensrea]

[ Stiles is not unaccustomed to being challenged about his worth. In the past, he was without fail relegated to wait on the sidelines due to his fragility as a human. And every time, Stiles would bite back the bitter self-loathing to do as he was told. He doesn’t tuck his figurative tail now; mouth twisting with determination, he meets the gaze of the dragon directly. One way or another, he’s going to see this Créia for himself. ]

I’m a strategist, [ he says, firm for all that his insecurities want to belie the claim. ] Things rarely go as planned. You need someone who can think on their feet and make the best calls to help see the mission through. I can be that person.

[ Fists clench where they’re settled on his knees. Selling his strengths like this is the antithesis to how he normally operates. Stiles has to clench his teeth against the self-depreciating humor that’s desperate to leak through. ]

I’ve also got firsthand experience with druidic nature magic, which is what this protector and her link to the tree sounds like. My knowledge could come in handy.

[ But Stiles isn’t about to offer that knowledge over so readily. It might be his bargaining chip to ensuring a spot on the team. ]

[usurpers]

I’ve had my fair share.

[ of miscalculations, of thinking on his feet. he’s seen strategists completely miss their mark and his own way work better. they’re all fine traits, memorable and useful, yes. it would be pretty easy to take everyone’s word for it. oh, the fire— eren prods at the burning wood to keep it kindling, with his tail.

it is just . . . too bad, that eren believes more in himself and his own strategies than this guy, using the question more to feel than to truly take to heart. it’s nothing personal, but if he could be used for something? eren would consider. he stopped going around in circles a long time ago. ]

If you want to check it out yourself, nothing’s stopping you.

[mensrea]

[ The response is entirely unanticipated. Stiles pauses uncertainty, searching the dragon’s expression with intent. Unfortunately, he hasn’t spent enough time with similar creatures to know how to discern emotion from a reptilian face. What was the point, he wonders, in demanding an answer from him if the dragon was just going to dispassionately tell him he can go regardless? He isn’t stupid; he understands there’s a distinct difference between being allowed to join a group’s venture and going alone. It feels like he’s failed some kind of test. ]

Uh, no, actually there’s a lot stopping me, [ he argues, frowning. ] I don’t know where it is, for starters.

[usurpers]

[ don’t feel bad, stiles. everyone, in the end, would fail eren’s evaluations. even eren himself. but on the contrary! he has failed personal value and trust, but not becoming a possibility he could test and be, uh. unaccountable for. the boy still wins (if you could call that a safe win).

what comes from the dragon then was— a huff? a rumbly, growl-laced huh-huh with the straightest face possible. it might even, might, show resemblance to an old, rusty laugh, especially as the dragon himself begins to move, stand, and walk, thick musculature moving briskly underneath a brilliant hide of black scales. ]

You don’t need to know.

[ only be crazy enough to follow him. eren would give one more glance over his shoulder, to the other, before he’d keep walking toward where the wilde grows thicker around the camp. can’t say he isn’t curious as to what type of person he’s dealing with, still— if he was all talk or not. ]

[mensrea]

[ Startled by the strange noise – is that what a dragon chuckling sounds like? – Stiles watches with a wide-eyed gaze as the dragon pushes off the ground and begins to tread deeper into the woods. For a moment, he can only assume that he’s been dismissed. That thought burns, a sour and caustic self-loathing that eats away at his insides. Once again, he’s not enough. Another personal failure to add to the rest. What more can he expect? There’s so little that he has to offer anyone. But in the midst of his internal censure, he catches the lingering, backward glance sent his way.

Stiles stares after the dragon, breath caught in his throat. Was that…an invitation? Without hesitation, he launches himself up and darts into the overgrowth after that pendulum-like tail. Because his Arachne lowlight vision has yet to develop, it’s a struggle to discern the shadowed silhouette of the black dragon from the Wilde’s gloom. Knowing how dangerous it would be to lose sight of his guide, Stiles forces aching muscles harder to keep up. ]

[usurpers]

[ we won’t know if tagging along was going to be a good or bad thing— but they can afford to try again, can’t they? eren considers he can, at least, and chooses a different path from his first choice. the second they walk into thick wilde, the lingering scent of smoke sticks to the air and makes it acrid when breathed.

the plantlife was still ripe with infection here . . . without further ado, the dragon positions his wings in a way that would serve as protective umbrella-ing as they walked, with stiles underneath and clear of the vines that hung from above. as long as his armor was in the way, it was fine.

just a little annoying. ]

You could call me Krüeger.

[ let’s do something normal teens do, like introductions. ]

[mensrea]

[ At every turn, the dragon continues to defy all expectations; Stiles gawks as those grand wings sweep overhead and blot out the moon peeking through dense, leafy canopies. He murmurs a subdued thanks, uncertain if he should presume to think the action was done for his benefit but needing to acknowledge it in some way regardless. ]

Krüeger, [ he repeats, testing the name with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. ] What do you mean by “could,” though? Oh, uh, you can call me Stiles.

[ Not his real name, but the only one he ever introduces himself with. A moment later, he trips over a loose branch and nearly falls flat on his face, catching himself at the last second on the dragon’s side. He’s darting away immediately after, breathless with a vague panic, because he’s still convinced that this is an actual dragon and that he’s going to get torched for disrespect. ]

[usurpers]

It means what it means—

[ it means what eren hadn’t fully been expecting to disclose. and perhaps feel slightly better about random omission and dancing around his real name for however long he was going to keep this up. it’s all a matter of quickly skipping over, and made easier with stiles bolting away from him like— oh, no you don’t. not in wilde like this. any further than a step more earns the road block of his tail flipping sideways. eren might be too close by snout for comfort, but. he smells the fear pheromone like it’s being pissed out, and his tongue whips to taste it. ]

If you see something that I don’t, [ genuinely curious and said as hushed as a dragon could sound— except the result isn’t as expected. it’s probably still terrifying, ] you should tell me instead of jumping.

[mensrea]

I don’t see anything!

[ Voice a little thin from surprise, Stiles takes a hint from the tail bumper lane and slides back into place at the dragon’s side. His eyes, meanwhile, remain locked in morbid fascination on that flickering tongue. Inanely, he’s reminded of the elderly boa he once owned when he was younger. ]

Except…what big teeth you have, [ he continues, nervousness translating into an attempt at humor, ] and what a long…tongue you have?

[ Would this native dragon even be familiar with the Little Red Riding Hood fable? Probably not. Embarrassed, he draws his jacket’s hood up over his head and yanks on the drawstrings a little. No talk, he angy with self. ]

[usurpers]

[ the answer is . . . no. not even in fantasy germany. the dude disappears into his hood wrinkling up at the opening until it’s much smaller. eren— eren only blinks, rather the membrane protecting his eyes does it for him: sliding sideways. ]

. . . What’re you afraid of?

[ he can still SMELL IT and the jumpiness . . . he doesn’t see any other reason. there’s something, even as he continues to walk and snap some twigs beneath his weight. ]

[mensrea]

[ From his hoodie hidey hole, Stiles cringes. Back home, the pack learned from chemosignals that he always operates in a near-constant state of anxiety and fear. Having to try and explain that to a stranger… ]

Like, in general? [ A short, breathless laugh. ] Or now, specifically?

[ It’s rhetorical; in his nervousness, Stiles runs his mouth without further prompting. ]

I mean, wandering through the Wildes at night is definitely terrifying. [ But not the real reason. ] Mostly, I’m expecting you to lose patience with me and eat me. Or squish me. Or turn me into shish kabob? All of the above.

[usurpers]

. . . “Eat”.

[ okay! he can try having more patience here, but things just aren’t lining up enough for eren to face it with buddhist tranquility! no he is staring his way right through stiles’ skull, and— what the fuck man!!!! this shouldn’t be back to haunt him but lo’ and behold! he’s hissing out his answer: ]

I didn’t bring you all the way out here to kill you. [ he only eats people when they’ve destabilized his freedom!!! i mean ] We need to worry about the things out here that will, got it?

[mensrea]

[ Somehow, that expression of sheer incredulity is readable to Stiles despite the reptilian face. ]

Um, newsflash. Eating people is what dragons do, dude! [ he replies, a touch defensive. ] And don’t worry, I have enough anxiety to spare for the Shades too. No one will be left out.

[ That said, he’s inching a bit closer to the dragon now – eyes darting this way and that through the dark surrounding them. ]

[usurpers]

[ it all makes sense after a moment, then another. then another! the brief silence helps track any sounds they should be aware of, and then almost in a hush: ]

You think I hatched from an egg, don’t you?

[ he’s not— judging him, or making fun of the fact but he was not all dragon the way this supposition is going! there’s nothing out there to make known to them yet, but they are watching at a distance. the pair should be careful about where they step.

plenty of arachne webs to stumble into. ]

[mensrea]

[ There is nothing that could have prepared Stiles for this turn in the conversation. His mouth opens and closes on several silent response, all of which would have been unintelligible from shock anyway. As they continue walking through the night, he wonders if he’s about to get the birds and the bees from a goddamn fucking fantasy creature. ]

…I’ve read that some reptiles give live birth, [ he offers, because yes – he still thinks that Eren was born a dragon and that the means of how he was born is now randomly being discussed. ] Unless this is like, a “do you think I was born yesterday” kind of rhetorical question. I suddenly don’t know anything anymore.

[ Unseen, his foot passes scant inches from the edge of webbing, hidden by foliage. ]

[usurpers]

[ eren briefly wonders, for the most split of seconds, if he’ll have to step out of the dragon meat suit to make things clear. ]

No— I wasn’t even born reptile. [ they have to make!!! that!!! completely and utterly clear before they could go further with this. and they’d have to, with all their perfect timing. webbing snags eren’s horns, gives him room in three, two, ] I came through the mirrors like you did—

[ and then his head snaps, whiplash, and doesn’t budge. he knows what it is already, and doesn’t bother to tug. his throat grumbles, and fumes blow from his nostrils as the general temperature begins to rise . . .

they were almost there, too. ]

[mensrea]

Oh, uh, dude, your horns –

[ The feeble warning is offered too late. As the dragon finally manages to drive home the truth, which Stiles will be extremely embarrassed about misunderstanding later, that draconic head is being whipped backwards. With a sympathetic wince, Stiles peers up into the tree canopy above. Though it’s difficult for his human eyes to make out, he can see the silhouette of spider webbing. Or, given the size of the webbing, perhaps its better to assume Arachne webbing? Dread surges up his gullet. ]

H-hold on. I can find a long stick or something, try to pull you loose?

[ Despite being an Arachne himself, Stiles has had next to no experience with the Monsters or their abilities. ]