RP:This Hollow Bastion

Part of the What You Leave Behind Arc

Summary: A peasant of eminent goodwill, Bastion offers his aid to a tiny hovel of a town. The settlement is soon put to the torch, prompting Bastion to make a fateful decision.

Somewhere Off The Beaten Path

Lionel | It’s a chilly wintry morning out here at the edge of the frontier, where the trees grow taller and the grass would be gorgeous -- were it not blanketed in snow. But the snow lends its own austere beauty, as red-tailed foxes bark and trill, their little paws leaving prints in the white. Overhead, a falcon soars, taking stock of its territory in these precious few hours of brightness. Just beyond the next few hills is the tiny village of Elon, so inconsequential as to miss its mark on most maps. Barely more than ten log cabins in full, Elon sports a population under 50, mostly humans but with a few elves and gnomes who have stayed on here far longer than their temporary trade work had originally dictated. With so much simple happiness here, it’s easy to see why. Children play at making angels in the snow whilst their parents laugh over lighthearted things. The smells of nutmeg and patridge and incense prevail as cooks tend to their burgeoning feasts in celebration of all this fading year has supplied them. The world is at war, but Elon is at rest. It’s a nice place to take a load off, to relax and be at peace with oneself. And, should anyone choose to approach, the children will smile, the parents will smile, everyone from the slightest tyke to the most elderly sage will welcome them good and true.

Bastion spent a lot of time among villagers, sharing in their labors. Ever since getting this bow, however, the village kids have teased him relentlessly, stating that he harms things, if he uses a bow. Well, he's set out, this fine winter morning, to prove them wrong. Three kids stand around with him, as he doesn't even bother sneaking through the woods. No one volunteered to be shot with an arrow, of course. One tried, but lost their nerve. Now, he was aiming down his bow, with a hare lined up, which watched him curiously. Whatever gentle aura Bastion had, it affected wildlife strongly. Animals walked fearlessly near to him, often, much to the children's delight. He fired a pink arrow, and it shot like a streak at the rabbit, which panicked with the suddenness of it. It leapt into the air, twisting and turning, thinking it's life at an end, and scrambled in the dirt, then stood up, no arrow in sight, no wounds upon it, breathing heavy and eyes wide. "See? He's fine." The rabbit looked around, and a female rabbit came out to inspect her friend, wondering what the trouble was. While they weren't exactly in season, the rabbit Bastion had shot seemed to have forgotten that. Bastion tried to cover the other kids eyes and shuffle them away as the male rabbit demonstrated his affections profusely and insistently to the female. It was nothing the kids hadn't seen on the farm a hundred times already, but they were laughing at Bastion and making dirty jokes, and he'd turned fifty shades of pink.

Lionel | “Petar, Pilawen, Ratchel, come fetch yourselves some fresh-made gingerbread,” Anita calls with her hand cupped over her lips to carry her voice over the wind. The children, who have been all giggles over Bastion’s antics, giggle even louder at the promise of a yuletide treat. “Um, Mister, would you like some gingerbread, too?” Ratchel peers up at Bastion, hoping to impress him with her sincere display of kindness. Doubtless, Anita and the rest of the village’s hungry denizens won’t mind one extra mouth to feed, least of all to a fellow like him. Occasionally, a villager blinks or whistles or their jaw goes agape in Bastion’s presence; it’s not everyday they see a lad quite like him, after all. But they don’t judge. Elon is a friendly place, one of the friendliest in Lithrydel -- one of the most secluded, too, and certainly one of its most unknown. No wonder they’re so jolly. Anita will indeed usher Bastion in to home and hearth if he accepts her daughter’s invitation, or even if he cares for a bit of time by the hearthfire before moving on. Best-dressed folk will check on him quite frequently to see if there’s anything else he might like and answer any questions he might have. “If it’s work yer lookin’ for, ah kin have ye clear out some o’ this snow o’er by the windmill, aye?” Old Becker strokes his curly white beard thoughtfully. “Be needin’ access to the windmill, aye.” Anita waves her hand at him, smiling. “You go find someone else for your odd jobs, papa! He is our guest.”

Bastion laughed when it was suggested that he was a guest. "Not at all, good Anita! Please, understand. I'm a peasant monk... sharing in your labors is perhaps the greatest of my sworn duties. I'd more than happy to clear the snow for you!" He didn't turn down the offer of sweets, though. Ever since being turned down to near half his normal age, his sweet tooth had come back with a passion... and if he'd ever been embarrassed to accept charity, he'd have starved long ago. He didn't like seeing a village so friendly and full of cheer struggling, though. He'd vowed to work very hard to see them through winter easily, and had the means to direct a little favorable trade towards the village. He was going to see to it that they had what they needed, whatever it took. Bastion had a shovel in hand, and was heading towards the windmill with a few buddies for company, soon enough, always eager to be of assistance. Old Becker was a thoughtful man, and Bastion wanted to win his respect most of all... he appreciated the wisdom of his elders, and their stories taught him much that he would otherwise take a lifetime to learn. It was the prerogative of youth to take advantage of the wisdom of their elders. Ratchel indeed impressed him with her kindness... all such displays impressed him, and he appreciated such heartfelt sentiments, but he always had to be careful about letting anyone get too terribly close. Romantic involvements were not in the cards for him, after all, and more than one village had tried to trick him into marrying a young lass and staying in the village for good. Of course, that never worked, no matter how well laid the scheme. Bastion didn't spend much time by the fire either, preferring the harshness of the cold. Ever since the trials of Larket, he'd re assessed his strengths, and his weaknesses, and determined that he needed to grow much stronger in order to protect those he cherished, and thus, constantly challenged himself, in everything he did. Being a pacifist was hard enough, it was much harder when one had many to protect.

Lionel | In the Shadow Plane, time seems to hang on-end, never quite still but never motioning forward as it ought. The environment varies per its real-world counterpart, but monochromatic elements -- such as the slate grey sky above -- are common. The Shadow Plane’s twist on the outskirts of the Southern Sage is that the trees all grow horizontally, piled atop one-another and snaking over and under in impossible ways. It makes for an even blunter snowy canvas, with no towering oak nor visible hills. The white of snow peeks out from wherever the trees do not dominate. It’s tough terrain for the squadron of heavy-plated green-skinned orcs whose armor is emblazoned with the symbol of a serpent eating its own tail. They groan at the sight of it, and groan harsher still when the black-robed wraith lifts a bony finger in command that they climb atop the strange horizontal trees and line up in single file. The wraith hisses at their insolence and snaps its middle finger upon its thumb to fry one particularly moanful orc to ashes. Upon seeing this, the rest of them are silent as the crypt. Green tendrils of magic swirl above the orcs, then envelop them in their aura. They stare, their leathery skin tingling at the feel of it. Within seconds, they’ve been teleported one and all to their precisely matching coordinates on the other side of the portal. As it happens, those coordinates take them to Elon’s perimeter fence. They’re quick to climb the few paltry stones, axes and halberds and rapiers and war hammers held upright as they squeal in delight. Such easy conquest! Villagers scream and flock and flee; few true hunters live in peaceful Elon, and them that do are quickly dispatched as they rush to their cabins in search of bow and arrow and knife. Blood pours into snow everywhere the eye can see. Pacifism is indeed no easy thing.

Bastion saw the twisting of energy before they entered this plane, like an ominous cloud of portent. Before the shovel even hit the ground, he was halfway back to the village. Too slow. It crashed to the snow, silent and muffled, unnoted, and he was on a roof, pink wings a glorious sight to behold upon his back, blindfold around his eyes. Too slow. Blood flew, crimson splashes against the white and brown of the snowy dirt paths. People screamed. Bastion drew his bow, and knocked his arrows. They would do no harm... but they would prevent a great deal of it, as well. "FLEE!" The call was raw, his voice straining to be heard, and heard it was. To one and all, do not stay, do not fight. Abandon your homes, protect your young, flee. His arrows flew. For each one he fired, he need not nock another. He simply drew back the string anew, and another arrow of pink light replaced it. Each one found a mark, despite his blindness, and cherry blossoms fell around him as he fell into a deep trance. Each arrow paralyzed, even the poorest of shots sending orcs into states of numbness that left half their bodies useless, for several minutes at least. He showered arrows upon their swell of numbers, and leapt down in their paths, to stand between them and their prey bodily, to strike with fingertips and toes and open palms and closed fists... never doing any harm at all, only numbing and paralyzing, sedating and even charming some to fight for him, should they be weak enough of will. He knew he couldn't hold them long, if they came in great numbers, but he was a fast, relentless foe, and he would prove a hindrance... hopefully enough of one that lives would be saved.

Lionel | The orcs do indeed come in numbers, and it’s their numbers chief of all which keeps them from faltering in their task. Their minds were not always so weak, but weakness was inflicted upon them by the wraithen overlords which subjugated their tribes and turned them into little more than meat for their masters’ armies. Battle honing and the lust for destruction are what plagues their brains now, every waking moment and well into slumber. Such simplicity of purpose has made the orcs susceptible to mental alteration from other sources, too -- a kink in the system not presently known by anyone with the wisdom to take advantage of it. Perhaps Bastion will remember well the looks on these terrible orcs’ faces as they contort in confusion. Perhaps he’ll remember the relative ease by which he twists a few of them into swinging their weapons toward their allies. Steel clangs against steel as hammers and rapiers clash. But the numbers… the numbers. There are too many orcs in this squadron to be quelled one and all, not by one man, no matter how strong or clever. Cabins are lit aflame as torches are swung with great heft. A few ill-fated townsfolk are burned in their homes like witches to the execution pyre. The orcs cackle in a way not unlike the foxes whose barks have gone into a high-pitched distressed frenzy now. The falcon, whose elegant soar is now a direct dive, reveals glowing red eyes as it comes closer and closer to pecking Bastion straight through his blindfold. Is it some kind of evil-tainted animal, then, to work alongside the orcs in spreading thorough chaos upon the land? Meanwhile, the people flee, taking full heed of Bastion’s command. Poor Pilawen is not so fortunate; an orc grabs her and twists her head clear off of her neck like a bottlecap. The other children shriek in cold despair, but Anita wraps her cloak around them and ushers them into the crowd as they make to escape. Elon is aflame, a quarter or even a third of its denizens dead, but the rest will run. Numerous orcs join the dive-bombing falcon, too, heading for Bastion in hopes of slicing him to ribbons with their crude weaponry. Two of them are stopped by others of their kin, who remain under the arrows’ spell.

Bastion was the epitome of discipline. Of a creed turned into an artform, of objective analysis, self control, and dedication of purpose. He knew his path, but his heart bled as he watched Pilawen die. No time for tears now, though they still stained his blindfold, and he shuddered in sorrow. The bird was dodged with a backwards dash, and then his hand shot out with speed to match a vampire's, as he grabbed it from the air, pumping Ki into it to knock it into a coma. He watched the orcs, noted their energy lines, so skewed, so horrendously altered. They were as wet clay, easy to mold and manipulate, broken from their true forms by their masters. It was as plain as the blood on the snow to him. They came through their comrades though, and Bastion had stayed too long, tried to do too much. He dodged a cudgel, swat aside a blade, and took an axe in the thigh, before he took off upwards, holding that bird, wings carrying him away from the battle. His leg was worthless, the cut went down to bone. They were so strong... he could have easily lost his leg there, if he hadn't twisted in time. He was too weak, still. Too weak. He ignored the bleeding, and fired more arrows, focusing now on turning them upon eachother, while he made a hasty retreat. He had secured their escape, and now, needed to blaze a trail for them, and secure aid... he shoved a needle in his waist, and the bleeding nearly stopped, though it did nothing to heal his wound. He needed a real healer. Perhaps this bird would prove of some worth…

Lionel | Bastion has cut a path for the temporary safety of as many people as he can. Their faces are stunned, shocked, trance-like dazes as they run. Never had war come to Elon before now. And in one fell stroke. Behind their terrified forms, fading rapidly upon the horizon with each passing frenzied step, the cabins combust. The farm roasts. The windmill topples, crashing down hard enough to quake the earth and blow away the snow that, in another life, a peaceable life, Bastion would have shoveled to far less catastrophe. Four young men and women, three humans and an elf, just barely escape their lodging in time to avoid a fatal blast. But they’re too slow to catch up to the herd, too injured from their perilous fiery escape to make a real break for it. Curiously, the orcs only slay the elf. After her blood splatters to join the reddening snow, the others swallow hard, but they’re pummeled in the ribs and rendered unconscious before being tossed into burlap sacks. The same green tendrils which brought these orcs to Elon now brings them back to the Shadow Plane. They’ve slaughtered any of their manipulated peers, leaving their bodies alongside the corpses of villagers for carrion. The foxes bark. The battle ends. Another settlement is gone forever.

Bastion watched behind him as he flew, his blindfold removed, his eyes piercing far, and wide. The elfess was murdered, but the humans taken... he could do nothing for them, no matter how he might try, and he knew it. But it was curious... he could only assume they were somehow going to be fuel for the army, and he felt his sorrow grow. Still, he felt no anger, no righteous indignation. No hatred, for any of his enemies. Only sorrow... and determination.