"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
It was a craving the creature of the night often had simply dismissed before. However, there is desperation in the way he searches frantically to fill this yearning void within him. It was an essential that simply could not be put aside. He needed to find something to fill this empty hollow within him. Yet, it was not simple nourishment that the devil craved for. It was the very soul of another – the essence of life itself – he needed and so desperately required to live.
He follows the hunger blindly. It is a desire that cannot be pushed away, not when it has for so long been engrained into the biology of the monster that feeds off of others. Even he, the devil himself, could not drive this instinct away. It was in the very nature of him to do so – he was created to prey on others, after all he is a predator, a murderer, a demon.
Rodrik rummages through the jungle, hiding in the shadows and retracing the familiar paths of his past. He knows these trails forwards and backwards, left and right. It didn’t matter what way – the devil knew them all one by one. Each of them came with a familiar. When he follows these paths, Rodrik relives each of the memories. He recalls each of them, remembering the name and faces of those that filled the Amazons.
He doesn’t know why he is here. The Amazons isn’t his home anymore. It used to be, long ago – maybe it still was deep within the very darkness of his heart. Rodrik loved this place. It is filled with every good memory he ever had. However, now it seemed repulsive and haunting. His parents are dead and the rest of his family is long gone or dying. Brunhild, the only friend whom used to live and roam this terrain is gone too.
Everything he knew was slipping away.
But the Amazons was where he had found it all. It is where he had found salvation, revenge, death blood, and most of all life. It was no wonder he had come back here – naturally by instinct Rodrik would find the very thing he needed here. The jungle has always provided his needs. Perhaps this one more time it would again.
Rodrik
angels banished from heaven have no choice but to become devils
When last they’d met, Lagertha had been no more than several years old, and already quite determined that one day, she would wear the crown of thorns. Rodrik was the young, handsome King of the Chamber, and she was no more than a simple soldier. And oh, now the roles have changed. Who now wears the mantle of power, and who comes creeping into the other’s territory?
Oh, how times have changed; and in more ways than one.
She smells the death on him, and the masculine musk, which makes her don her metal spikes. They cover her in sheet metal, leaving her outer areas protected from basic attacks. The sickly-sweet rot masks whatever may have jogged her memory of the past. The Khaleesi’s memory is keen, but not perfect - not for one so completely changed. With a soft growl in the back of her throat, Lagertha moves towards the intruding smell, recklessly pounding down the path. She is a battering ram in her own right, and knows these trails as well as Rodrik does.
The Iron Lady bursts through the dappled brush, trumpeting her challenge to the once-chestnut, now-decomposing stallion. She has had it up to her ears with trespassers. He just happens to be the unlucky one. She doesn’t stop charging at him, and is more than fully prepared to run him down and trample him to death, or impale him, or something similar, if he doesn’t quickly find a good reason for her not to do so.
A crown meant nothing to him now. Rodrik had once believed the symbol of a crown meant everything to ensure what you wanted would be given and done with. However, through his power-hungry nature, he had found out it was not the hard way. The crown he had adorned during his ruling in the Chamber had merely been a stepping stone and was beyond what he was capable of now. It was perhaps kind to thank his now queenly daughter, Straia, for overthrowing him and letting him discover his full potential, but he would never do that. It was out of his very nature to thank anyone for their “kindness” and truly Straia’s intentions had not been. It was her selfish nature and so called “loyalty” to the kingdom that she used for an excuse. He, however, honestly had never had a strong dedication towards the Chamber as his daughter did. Rodrik has always been selfish and ready to use full force with what he wanted.
And this time was no different.
It is the very carving of the red devil now that comes prepared to the sister’s kingdom. A place he knows surely can provide him with what he wants and desires. However, Rodrik is no fool in the matter that such prices for what he wants will be handed over willingly. It was a task he knows he is prepared for because instinct drives him forward and there is no consequence personally he takes for the price of filling his hungry that rumbles in his soul and drives him forward at full speed.
So, it is no surprise when the creature of the night equips himself with his own armor at the sound of pounding hooves. He pushes the poison into his blood, where the blood reaches to every inch of his body. The poison seeps through the skin and through the pores of his skin, latching onto his decomposing body. If it was death the approaching horse meant for Rodrik then it was death they would get. He did not fear that he would lose on this matter. After all, he was the devil and killing something that is simply already dead seemed to be entirely impossible to do.
When the possessor of the pounding hooves bursts through the dappled brush, he lunges forward and bares his teeth in defense at the mare. He can feel the poison pumping through his veins, seeping through the pores on his skin, and the adrenaline rising. Rodrik has never faltered away from a battle at hand – he was a warrior, trained by the best in Beqanna just as Lagertha was. However, Rodrik is quick to notice this mare is not a foe of his. He never forgets a face because he simply knows someday there will be a use for all the others he meets.
And today was that day.
“Lagertha!” His raspy voice roars loudly, like a lion in the jungle. It has been years since he has seen the solider mare. He recalls their brief meeting quickly in the Meadow. Lagertha’s words that day to the once king ring clear in his head. And he cannot help smirk at her now, a gruesome smirk crawling its way across his torn, decomposing lips. Rodrik has heard the rumors of her being crowned years ago; no doubt she would strut herself in all her glory at the truth in her worlds all of those years ago.
Rodrik
angels banished from heaven have no choice but to become devils
Given the toxic nature of their bodies, a collision and subsequent infection of either of their poisons may not do much. Or it might be an absolute disaster - neither of them know. She could choose to ignore the fact that he knows her name (she has been Khaleesi for awhile now, she is probably fairly recognizable to those who are familiar with the kingdoms), or she could pull up and be responsible.
Goddamn it. Lagertha really wants to run someone over and see just how quickly her toxins work on someone her own size.
At full speed, it takes her a bit of time to slow down, so that the two warriors come within inches of each other. The gray mare glares daggers at the decomposing stallion - he reeks of rotting flesh and nothing that is familiar to her. She’s met one like him before, in the Tundra, but that doesn’t mean that her lip doesn’t curl slightly in disgust at the sight of him. Her eyes roam over his body, and then finally find their way to his own, searching for something familiar in them. Silence stretches between them while she wracks her brain, punctuated only by her heavy breathing.
There’s nothing. Not even the sound of his voice is recognizable. The Warrior Queen demands his name, growling out the order in a tone that is not to be disobeyed. “Tell me who you are and what you’re doing here. Quickly." He may consider himself the devil, but he has no power here - not in the kingdom of women, not while Lagertha holds the reins.
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