Nerd In the North 5-18

Cloud's hooves beat as the horse clopped forward, steady but not at all slow. Five days out from Riverrun. It was almost mind-numbingly annoying how insane it was how much time it took to travel without a car. Horses were fast, kinda, but horses needed sleep and food and rest time on top of that too, which you didn’t really think about when you were watching fantasy movies about rings and wizards. Can’t believe I’m gonna miss Michael Bay’s Hobbit movies.

It sucked, but then again, a lot of shit about being in Westeros sucked.

Guts' massive destrier moved beside him like some kind of black mountain that had decided walking was more efficient than staying put, the big bastard barely seeming to notice the weight of armor and sword that would've crushed a normal horse.

Still felt weird not having Robb breathing down his neck every five minutes but somehow, Greg felt he would live without it. Speaking of breathing down my neck…

Over a hundred pounds of black-scaled black-furred red-eyed death in the form of an infant dragon circled overhead, Ash’s dark wings starkly visible against clouds that threatened rain. At least somebody's enjoying this trip. The pony-sized horse was enjoying his freedom more than ever, but Greg couldn’t help but feel like he missed his high perch atop Riverrun. He really does love his perches.

Guts rode in the comfortable silence that came with being able to throw full-grown men like lawn darts, dark eyes scanning the treeline like he expected trouble. "Road's too quiet," the big man rumbled after a while, voice carrying despite how low he spoke. "No merchants, no travelers… nothing." It was something even Greg noticed, after he and Guts had decided to scout ahead while the rest of the group made camp, making sure this side road was clear for their travels in the morning.

Greg nodded, shoulder blades itching as he felt that instinct of his prickling. "Yeah, I noticed. Where is everybody?" He shifted in his saddle, white armor catching light like a beacon. "War's been going on for months. Maybe they've learned to stay inside."

Or maybe they're all dead. He really didn’t want to be that guy, but… well, he kinda had to be that guy.

A smell drifted on the wind, Greg's nose wrinkling as his senses tracked something thicker and messier than simple cooking smoke. Oh, fuck. His hands tightened on his reins. That's not a campfire.

They crested a small hill and the village spread below them like a picture from the evening news, the kind that made you change the channel because nobody wanted to see that shit during dinner. Smoke billowed from half a dozen rooftops, black columns rising straight up in the still air. Figures moved through the streets with the kind of organization that meant this wasn't random chaos—too purposeful to be fleeing villagers, too coordinated to be panic.

Bandits. Has to be bandits. Greg's jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth.

The screaming reached them on the wind like something out of a horror movie, high-pitched terror mixed with the particular sound people made when they knew they were going to die and there wasn't shit they could do about it. A woman's voice cut off abruptly, replaced by laughter that made Greg's skin crawl.

His hands tightened on Cloud's reins without conscious thought.

Guts counted attackers with eyes that were as calm as ever. "Dozen men, maybe more. Mounted and on foot." He paused, watching the movement below. "They're herding people into the sq-”

A sound echoed up from the village, thin and desperate. A kid!

Something like ice water hit Greg's chest, cold and sharp. Fuck this. Fuck all of this. His hand clenched , muscle memory taking over where rational planning should've been. "We're going down there."

Guts didn't argue as he held out Dragonslayer in front of him, the dark steel as eager as its wielder to turn people into bloodstains. "Thought ye might say that."

Greg didn't wait for strategy or planning or any of the smart shit war was about. No, the blond lord of the Brightlands spurred Cloud forward, the warhorse responding instantly to the pressure of his heels. They thundered down the hillside, dirt flying behind them in clouds.

His white sword materialized in his grip, light bleeding from the blade like liquid starfire. The familiar weight settled in his hand like coming home.

"Ash!" he shouted skyward, voice carrying over the sound of hoofbeats. "EMBER!"

The dragon-bear's answering roar split the air like the world's angriest foghorn, a spurt of flame following it and causing more screams and shouts from the bandits in the square, all their attention going sky-high.

Guts followed a heartbeat behind, his destrier eating ground with the kind of momentum that meant anything in the way was about to have a very bad day. Dragonslayer held ready, a promise of violence written in steel and inevitability. "Missed this!" he barked out.

Of course you did, you psychopath.

The first bandit turned at the sound of approaching hoofbeats, eyes going wide at the sight of two armored figures bearing down at full speed. He opened his mouth to shout warning, maybe alert his friends, maybe just scream.

Greg's blade took his head before the sound could form. Clean cut, no hesitation, the kind of surgical precision that came from months of practice. The body stood for a confused moment before remembering it was supposed to fall down.

Cloud crashed into a knot of bandits like a battering ram with legs, scattering them like bowling pins. The white sword carved through leather and flesh with the kind of ease that Greg knew he was insane to think it looked beautiful.

A bandit swung a rusty piece of iron he probably called a sword at Cloud's legs, probably thinking he was being clever. Fucker! A growl on his lips, Greg swung back with a gauntleted fist that had eleven men's worth of strength behind it. The man's jaw exploded in a spray of teeth and blood, the impact sending him flying backward into a burning house. He didn't get up.

Strike one.

Guts stomped in, not-exactly silent but all-too-fucking-dealy as he swung Dragonslayer in a hard arc. Before they could even scream, three bandits became three half-bandits as their upper halves simply ceased to exist, lower halves standing confused for a moment before toppling like confused trees.

"「影喰らい」" Greg called on shadow magic, the Japanese spilling out automatically like it always did. He still didn’t speak it, but he understood the words as soon as they left his mouth either way. Darkness poured from his fingers like living ink, wrapping around two fleeing bandits before their feet could carry them to safety. Both men screamed as shadows lifted them off the ground, before they went splat, crushed with a sound that reminded Greg of the time he stepped on a beetle.

"Behind you!" Guts whipped around, voice cutting through combat noise.

Greg spun, white blade meeting a thrown axe mid-air with a ring of steel on steel. The weapon spun away harmlessly, thrower already drawing a knife and lunging forward with the kind of desperation that meant he knew he was fucked. Greg's pommel met his temple with a sound like cracking a fresh lobster, brain matter spattering against stone.

They moved through the village like a two-man natural disaster; when Greg went left, Guts went right. When one engaged, the other flanked. Muscle memory from months of fighting together, the kind of coordination that came from shedding blood together.

Ash dove from above, claws raking across a bandit's back. The man stumbled, screaming and bleeding, right into Guts' path, the worst place to be. Before he could even turn around, Dragonslayer swung and opened him from shoulder to hip, organs spilling onto cobblestones that were already slick with blood.

A bandit leader emerged from the largest house, mail hauberk catching firelight, proper sword in hand and face full of scars that said he'd survived this long for a reason. "Who the fuck are you?" he snarled, voice carrying the kind of authority that meant he was used to being the biggest predator in the room.

Wrong day to think that.

The massive blade punched through the bandit leader's chest like it was made of paper, not mail and bone. Physics didn't apply to Guts apparently, four hundred pounds of steel moving faster than a fastball and hitting harder than a truck. The man's feet kicked uselessly a foot off the ground, pinned to the wooden wall behind him like some kind of fucked up butterfly collection.

Guts walked over, grabbed Dragonslayer's hilt, pulled his sword free with a sound like stepping in mud. Wet. Final.

Greg turned toward the last three bandits who'd formed up in what they probably thought was a defensive circle, weapons raised like that was gonna help. "Yield," he said quiet, because maybe they weren't completely stupid. "Walk away."

"Fuck you, boy!" one spat, and Greg could smell the fear-sweat on him from twenty feet away. "We ain't afraid of some—"

"「影鎚…」" Shadow magic erupted from his free hand before the guy could finish being an idiot. Not gentle this time, not controlled like usual. The darkness hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest, body folding backward at an angle that would've made a yoga instructor wince. Every bone in his midsection crumpled as he flopped to the ground like a broken marionette.

That's what you get for not taking the hint.

The other two broke and ran, which showed they had at least two brain cells to rub together. Greg let them go because they weren't a threat anymore and honestly, he was getting tired of killing people today. Pick your battles. Save your energy.

Ash had other ideas.

The dragon-bear descended on the fleeing bandits like something out of a nature documentary, wings spread wide, claws extended, fire blooming from his jaws and turning their retreat into a rout. He landed on one guy's back, crushing spine like stepping on a twig, talons punching through leather like it was tissue paper. The scream cut off real quick when Ash's jaws closed.

Scary good boy.

The remaining bandits scattered like leaves before wind, those still breathing anyway. They wouldn't be coming back. Wouldn't be telling stories about what they saw here. Ash returned to Greg's side, muzzle bloody but satisfied, looking for all the world like he'd just fetched a tennis ball instead of committing murder.

"Good boy," Greg cooed at his not-so-little guy as Ash’s hot tongue spilled out of his mouth, scratching behind horns that were getting bigger every week. "Scary good boy."

Silence settled over the village like someone had hit a mute button. Just the crackle of dying fires and distant sobbing, bodies littering the square but they were all bandits now, which felt like an improvement. Villagers stumbled out of their hiding spots and back into the square, terrified and clutching each other, clearly wondering if they were saved or under new management.

An old woman was brave enough to approach them even if she did so on legs that shook harder than leaves in a storm, face streaked with ashes. "M’l-lords," she whispered, voice cracking on the words. "Thank ye. They’d ‘ave killed usl."

Greg dismounted, shrugging off the praise because he'd never been good with that shit. "Are you hurt? Any of you? I can heal injuries if—"

The woman fell to her knees, grabbing his armored hand with fingers that felt like twigs. "A h-hero," she sobbed, and Greg felt something twist in his chest that had nothing to do with physical pain. "A hero Seven-sent."

...sure. He didn't wince at the words, and he didn’t feel like it either, but he kinda wanted to.

Other villagers gathered around, voices overlapping like some kind of medieval choir. "The Bright Lord! It's the Bright Lord!" "Heard tell of him from traders—heals the sick, fights the wicked!" "Blessed be, blessed be!"

Greg felt that thing in his chest twist tighter. This is what I wanted to be. Just helping people who needed help. But it wasn't fun, somehow. 

It felt good but it wasn't fun and he didn't know why that bothered him. Like becoming friends with the lonely kid at school because you were nice to him once, and all he knew was everybody else being mean. Greg would know, considering he was that kid.

Used to be that kid. Before he could run fifty miles per hour and bench press a cow. 

Literally, the cow thing.

He could do that. It was a great party trick; really got people going too, somehow more than throwing magic around weirdly enough.

Guts slowly cleaned Dragonslayer behind him, wiping blood off steel like he was polishing silverware. Guy has his priorities straight, at least.

A young boy tugged at Greg's cloak, face dirty but eyes bright with the kind of hope that was almost painful to look at. "Will you stay, m'lord? Protect us?"

Greg knelt to the boy's level, white armor creaking. "I can't stay, man. But the bad men won't come back." Because most of them are dead. He didn't say that part out loud.

They rode out as the sun touched the horizon, after Greg had healed up those in the village that needed his golden touch. The village behind them was quiet now, safe, smoke still rising but from cooking fires instead of destruction. 

Progress, he guessed.

Greg broke the silence first because Guts definitely wasn’t going to. "You know what's fucked up?” Guts didn’t answer back, as expected, but that still wasn’t going to stop him. Besides, he had shit to say anyway. “That felt good. Felt right."

"World's got enough monsters," Guts rumbled, voice carrying that particular tone that meant he was thinking about more than just today. "Don't need more."

Greg laughed, and there actually was a little bit of humor in it this time. "Says the guy who told me to keep killing till my head's on straight."

Guts grunted again. "Different advice. Different problem."

Ash dove ahead of them, wings cutting through air with predator grace, swooping back up out of the forest with a headless deer clutched in his talons. Blood dripped onto the road below, and Greg's stomach growled in response. I'm kinda hungry too.

"It's different from the war," Greg said after a while, words coming out slower than usual because he was trying to figure out what he meant as he said it.

Guts nodded, understanding without explanation. "Too many people giving orders." 

"But this?" Greg gestured back toward the village with his free hand. "This was simple. Bad guys hurting good people. Just... do the right thing."

"You fought good back there," Guts said after another half-minute of riding in silence, which was practically a speech coming from him.

"Do I not fight good usually?" Greg shot back.

"...eh,” the black swordsman spat off to the side. “Didn't hold back like ye usually do."

Greg shrugged, weight of armor shifting with the movement. True, though. He'd been pulling punches for months, trying not to look too dangerous to get some people to like him. 

Today he'd just... let loose.

The lights of their camp appeared in the distance, small fires scattered through trees like fireflies. Men cooking dinner over flames that reminded Greg of summer barbecues back home, except these guys were probably roasting whatever Daeric had shot instead of hot dogs from Stop & Shop.

Back to reality. Back to the mission.

"King's Landing won't be like this," Greg spoke up again. "Won't be simple good guys and bad guys. Gonna be messy."

Guts adjusted Dragonslayer across his back, leather straps creaking. "Then we'll make it simple. Find the girls. Kill the guards. Kill anyone else who tries to stop us."

Greg laughed, and this time it sounded almost real. "Good plan."

"Great plan," Guts corrected.

As they rode toward camp, Greg reflected on the day. This is what I miss. This is what I want to get back to. Not the killing, exactly, but how simple it all was. 

In the distance, Ash roared.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

5k Words (100 GP)

ROLL: Iconic Music Set (Free) [Final Fantasy XI] {Illusion}: "The soundtrack from the FFXI games will play for you whenever you choose, and if you wish, you can allow other people to hear it too."

Grimoire Points: 500 GP