Weaving - Loser's Losers

Grimmel bodily rolled from the back of his degrading dragon. Landing hard on his good— well… not good, but better shoulder. Everything hurt. Rage alone kept his bones in concert. He’d been wounded in that fight, but not this badly. His new body had suffered comparable injuries before, but these festered. 

Something was wrong. Was it punishment? He hoped so. Punishment was discipline, direction, and most of all it meant what he feared was not true. 

That single moment lived vividly in his mind. A narrow gap so thin he sometimes wondered if he’d conjured it as explanation. Real or not, he thought of it often.

The all powerful storm, Magnus’ deformed dragon rising above the waves, a surreal divine presence, and then something quiet. Darker. A single wisp reaching from between the seams of the wind. Sinister and secret. Not Adrathar, but something older. Greater. 

A presence not in, but behind the storm. Connecting with him for the smallest piece of a moment. He couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever that thing was hadn’t finished what it was trying to do. And now he was slowly coming apart, like a loose braid. That sliver of cowardice still left inside him trembled at the idea of people knowing he wasn’t Stormblessed.

Rage and shame tore from his throat as he beat the dirt with his fist. Over and over. A cry that left him raspy and breathless. Next to him, a loud, crumbling thump marked the death of his most recent creation. Whatever. The hastily made dragon had served its purpose.

Grimmel pushed himself to his feet. Stalks of grass standing through the perfect, absent circle in his palm. He’d gone west. At least, he was pretty sure this was west. Maybe a little south too. Here, atop the foothills, the young man felt like he could see all of Alderun. A distant sun peeking over the great curve of the Nothing’s cliff. Maybe… he could just stay here?

Storm that. And storm fucking Magnus Steelhart. He’d wasted all of spring seeding the mountains with dragons when he should have been hunting. Hopefully Silvermask would make good on his end of the deal.

He’d finally had the chance to track down Magnus only to discover the bastard had gotten a lot stronger. Made friends too. And that isn’t even mentioning the fact the other guy was in the saddle when Magnus had jumped him.

Grimmel’s… other half was a real problem. He’d started leaving notes for him. Disturbing. Begging to communicate— work with him. That idiot would be next after Steelhart— to be cut out like a cancer. Though, seeing how that last fight went, maybe his stowaway needed to go first? 

No. No it didn’t matter. He should have been able to kill them. Kill all of them. It was just as his father always said. It didn’t matter how strong he made his body. His mind was still weak. Pathetic. Frivolous. He deserved these wounds. Next time he wouldn’t flee— wouldn’t let Steelhart get the better of him.

Again, fear writhed within him. No… No! He wasn’t afraid of Magnus, wasn’t afraid of losing to him again. Because he wouldn’t lose! This time he’d—

“Oh? Now what do we have here…” A deep, noble voice cut through the silence. Grimmel whirled on the sound. Staggering backwards when his nose brushed the cloak of the towering figure that had suddenly appeared. The young human let out a panicked sound, tripped, then landed butt-first in the pile left by his dead dragon.

“Begone, demon!” Grimmel fumbled for his sword, but it crumbled to rust before he could fully draw it. 

Dark, slender, looming, and incredibly tall. The… man wore a trench coat with a disproportionately high collar. The wide, brimmed hat upon his head made it so all that could be seen was the suggestion of orange eyes glowing dully.

“Demon? I’m no demon. I, my dear Grimmel, am a friend.” The figure said, resting his weight against his ugly, dangerous looking cane.

Unconvinced, and still panicking, Grimmel tried to scrabble over the dirt mound. Thinking quickly he reached out with his shaping hand. Seizing a protruding root and let the wind speak through him. 

The tap root unburied itself with a squealing roar, revealing itself as a small wingless dragon. He didn’t have nearly enough power to create something substantial. Grimmel let go of the tail he was now holding and the dragon sprang at the looming figure.

“Hm,” The man casually raised his freehand as if to slap someone across the face. The limb was skinny relative to his form, but on its own it looked like the trunk of a young birch tree. 

Then in a motion nearly too fast to see, he swung the arm at its full extension. Like the boom of a mainsail. Bowing unnaturally under the force, as if his bones weren’t completely rigid.

SMACK. The sound of his too-long hand hitting the dragon sliced through the hilltop like ice cracking on open sea. Grimmel blinked in confusion. He hadn’t killed the dragon. He’d caught it.

“Daww… I like him!” The figure held the writhing creature against his chest as if it were an ornery cat. “Shh shh shh,” His opposite hand stabbed the point of his cane into the dirt, then raised to stroke the spine of the wriggling, squealing dragon. “You’re lucky I can’t harm anyone right now, dear Grimmel. I should punish you for being so naughty.”

“What the fuck are you? What do you want?!”

“To help, dear Grimmel.”

“I don’t need your stormin’ help!” Just as Grimmel said the words, the tap-root dragon in the creature’s arms went limp. Killed not by his captor, but dying just like the invalid dirt dragon had a minute before.

“No?” The thing held the dragon up by its neck like a dead turkey, “but you can’t even keep it up right now, dear Grimmel.” He jiggled the ragdoll, then brought the head to his face. A terrible slurping noise emanated from him as the dragon disappeared into the gap in his collar. The tip of the tail vanishing with a pop. “Mmm… tastes like desperation. My favorite!”

Grimmel just stared at him in abject horror.

“Where are my manners?!” The being made an apologetic gesture, “I have many names. Bennilial King of Grave Hill, Champion of Chaos, The Quiet Evil, He Who Roams Within the Gap of Your Walls… but all of those are so,” he bobbed his head back and forth, as if searching for the right word, “formal. My friends… They call me Ben. Unusual Ben.”

It was then Grimmel noticed them. People standing two dozen feet behind the demon, hidden in the dim morning light.

“You aren’t the only one with a bone to pick.” Spoke a short man in fine travelling clothes and a wolfish masquerade mask as he stepped into view.

“Right you are, my dear Lord Septurn.” Unusual Ben plucked his cane back up then made a theatrical gesture with it. “Allow me to introduce you to your peers, dear Grimmel. This fine specimen of noble fortitude is Lord Septurn, always keen to make sure everyone knows he exists.”

“Hey!” The nobleman shot the demon a petulant look.

“Then there’s our dear sweet X Zero, but we just call him XO. He doesn’t have free will yet but he does have quite the task set before him by his dear-old-dad.”

A short, brass-colored warforged with a skull-like face joined Lord Septurn. Giving Grimmel a very macho downward nod of respect. 

“Eggfucker.” His robotic tone was serious. Matter-of-fact. The strange greeting momentarily broke Grimmel from his discomfort, but before he could react Ben continued.

“They have this whole will-they-won’t-they thing going on,” Ben gestured to the two figures, “It’s adorable!”

“Hey!” The mask guy said again, even more petulantly.

“And last, and possibly least we have our token grump, Negan! He hates me! I killed his girlfriend. Well not his girlfriend. His friend, who was a girl, who he had a big crush on, that my dear sweet Winter had a little shin dig with. Envy can so easily turn to wrath, can’t it?”

Negan didn’t step out from the trees like the others. But Grimmel could see the man’s dead eyes through the shadow. Like dying coals peering through ash.

“I really wanted the bear…” Ben whined, crestfallen, “but they cooked him! Ahh well… the Street Dogs are excellent at making enemies. We will have lots more friends to recruit, I’m certain.”

This was too much. Grimmel looked around at the newcomers, desperate for anything to ground himself. A million questions bouncing around his likely concussed mind. “Street… dogs?” He found himself asking stupidly.

“Yes! Magnus and his friends! Don’t you know?” Ben scoffed, “Oh my dear, sweet, sweet, Grimmel you have so much to learn! Fret not, we will bring you up to speed.”

He knew he couldn’t stand against this creature. Not like this. “I… uhh… appreciate your offer… dark one. Though I… I don’t need your help… Bennalial.” Grimmel said uncertainly. Finally gaining enough sense to stand to his feet.

“BEN.” The demon’s correction echoed off the distant hills. Scaring flocks of birds high into the sunrise. Perpetual joviality entirely replaced with pure malice. 

Then, as if the blip hadn’t occurred, he spoke again, “And of course you do. The Street Dogs are losers. Magnus is a loser. He failed to meet the expectations of everyone in his life. Was kicked from his home. Its the same for all of them.” Ben let the silence back in for a moment, “but they beat you— all of you. You’re not just losers. You’re loser’s losers!” Ben made a wide gesture, encompassing the others. None of which reacted.

“So… what? You expect me to just… follow you and,” Grimmel shook his head, “Go back down there and burn their tavern for you or something? Kill Magnus and his friends? I don’t need telling to—”

“Burn their tavern down?! No! Dear gods, no! The follow part, yes, but the burning? The killing?” He waggled a finger, “that’s not what we’re doing here.” Ben looked up at the sky towards the departing birds as a tear in reality— a portal, opened next to the terrible being. “Not yet, my hounds. Come now, we have others to find.”