[Turning]
— Jenevelle —
Her Dragon Lord had spoken, and as always, Jenevelle had listened closely so she might best see his will done.
‘Explore and experience this new Age,’ Ancalagon had said. Insisted, even.
Jenevelle would be a poor cleric in his name if she refused.
He hadn’t said it outright, but she recognized a scouting mission when she was given one. It was up to her (and likely her alone, knowing most of her companions) to build the Hoard a map of their new Age.
So she set out with plans to fulfill her Lord’s orders to the fullest. This Age would be explored; it would be experienced. Jenevelle wouldn’t dream of returning to her Lord’s side without working knowledge of their immediate surroundings.
Exiting the lair into this new Age, Jenevelle found herself and her peers in the Hoard on an otherwise nondescript roof overlooking the city, their ‘starter town’.
The urban setting was familiar to her, mostly from her last Age with her Lord. The details weren’t.
Jenevelle had gotten used to the modern concept of cities in that last Age. She’d learned of, lived and worked in, metroplexes that stretched from horizon to horizon, and often beyond. She’d seen the hectic happenings of truly urban living, all of its horrors and advancements.
Brockton Bay didn’t live up to the metroplexes of the Sixth World, but it far surpassed the relatively simple city living from Jenevelle’s native Age.
It was still undeniably ‘modern’ compared to the ‘medieval fantasy’ (as her Lord had dubbed it) that Jenevelle had been born into. This Age’s ‘modern’ simply fell short of the Sixth World’s ‘modern’.
Still, that meant there were lights in the night, and technological marvels made mundane. That meant there were great feats of construction and urban sprawl. That meant Jenevelle didn’t quite feel at home in Brockton Bay.
It was stilled urban sprawl; it was living urban decay. It was a city that perfectly captured the Age her Lord had declared one of ruin, dragged to the brink. A testament to progress, yet also an undeniable example of how progress could falter, stagnate, and even die.
It stubbornly persisted, though, clinging to life with labored breaths. Brockton Bay was a collection of lights in the night, dim as they may be, that refused to go out.
Jenevelle thought there was something worth praising in that stubbornness.
From the roof they’d arrived on, the Hoard looked out over Brockton Bay’s nighttime skyline. Buildings rose and fell as the uneven steps of giants, artificially constructed but naturally integrated into the stubbornly persisting whole.
They had a startlingly good view of the city, even if their roof wasn’t particularly tall, with clear enough sightlines in all directions but west.
Ancalagon must’ve picked this spot for them, and Jenevelle used it to full effect, already starting on her planned mental map of their starter town.
Aside from a notable oasis of higher-rise buildings and skyscrapers, most of the city wasn’t all that tall. That ‘Downtown’ oasis sat a short distance to their south, and it was extensive, almost splitting the city in two, east to west.
On the other side of Downtown, Jenevelle saw urban sprawl transition into suburban sprawl, visibly more well-off than the northern half of Brockton Bay. There was a similar urban-to-suburban transition to the north of their vantage point, but the relative and often outright decay remained on this side.
The city was built on a bay, as the name suggested. Two bays, effectively, with the smaller one as a harbor within the larger one.
The larger of the two bays was an almost perfect, two-thirds, semi-circle cutout of the coast, extending more south than north. The southern end of that bay, on the other side of Downtown, coincided with the city’s seemingly wealthier commercial and residential areas.
The northern end of the primary bay came to a small peninsula that marked the southern boundary of the smaller secondary bay, the harbor. That harbor was much more enclosed and protected from the open ocean, cutting deeper into the coastline, and the city immediately surrounding it to the near-south, west, and north was more residential and industrial than commercial.
It was fed by a relatively small river, likely often overlooked, that cut through a portion of the city’s northern half from the west. The area around the harbor was almost all industrial, with all of the warehouses and port facilities one would expect from a port city.
But even from a distance, one thing was entirely clear to Jenevelle: the harbor and the ports within were a graveyard.
On land, warehouses were visibly rundown, some crumbling and barely standing. There were no ships in port. There were, however, plenty of wrecked silhouettes in the bay: nautical corpses that would likely never move under their own power again.
They clogged the harbor almost entirely. There would be no ships of significant size coming and going so long as that graveyard of nautical corpses existed, one even situated almost directly across the harbor’s mouth.
As a result, half of Brockton Bay (perhaps more, all of it) felt the sting of interrupted purpose.
Brockton Bay was a port city without a workable port. It was a center of trade, without much trade to be found. And that, likely more than anything else, contributed to the city’s stagnation.
Without such set purpose, Brockton Bay was lost. Floundering and barely, stubbornly clinging to life. Jenevelle could empathize with that.
Without purpose, she too would’ve been lost.
Without her Lord, she would be nothing. She would be worse than nothing, a broken woman chained to the cult that had once tried to shatter her and reforge her in their image.
Thankfully, for her, it was not to be. A Dragon had come for her in her time of need. Now, Jenevelle had her Dragon Lord to follow through Turning Ages, never to leave his side again.
Brockton Bay had nothing of the same to keep it afloat. Only a cape ecosystem that fought over what value and life remained.
To the northeast of their vantage point, the shipping graveyard dominated the horizon on the water with its dead silhouettes. Directly east, the horizon on the water was dominated by another shape.
That shape was a grand one. A beacon of shining light, surrounding and illuminating a great monument of human ingenuity. It reminded Jenevelle of the arcologies of the Sixth World.
It was a visible marvel of architecture, with rising spires and curving arches, all seeming to float atop the water. A great shield, one that Jenevelle would’ve mistaken for a thing of artifice and magic if she didn’t know better, protected the grand monument.
It stood guard in the bay, protecting the way into the ocean and protecting the city at its back. It was a heroic sight, undeniably.
As Jenevelle watched, a lightshow emerged from the monument. A shining bridge connected it to the city it protected. Tiny, ant-like shapes — a pair of armored trucks and a pair of motorcycles, it seemed — traversed across the bridge at speed.
Teams of the city’s heroes, Jenevelle could only guess. Identifying them would be part of her night’s mission. A lay of the land was only worth so much without the players and hazards that land also offered.
Nodding to herself, Jenevelle turned to the rest of her companions, “Now, we have a mission from our Lord. This ‘starter town’ must be known to us, inside and out. I propose we familiarize ourselves-…”
She paused, brought up short by certain absences, “… Where did Princess Pyrite, the Calamity, and the Goblins get off to?”
Belladonna smirked, “They left a few minutes ago, while you were occupied with the view. Too slow, Jenevelle~…”
Jenevelle began to scowl at her. She didn’t get far.
Dharla interrupted with a light chuckle, “We can hardly hope to wrangle the young and eager. Let them have their fun, Jenevelle. They have the same goal as you in mind for the night, if only vaguely and in their own ways.”
Jenevelle accepted the wisdom, but still asked, “Is it wise to split up like this?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Dharla merely shrugged, not a worry in her zealous mind. “It shouldn’t lead to ruin, at least. The Daughter of the Moon and the Daughter of Calamity can more than take care of themselves. And for the Goblins to get into trouble, they have to be caught first.”
“Unlikely, to say the least,” Belladonna agreed. “And take heart, Jenevelle. Dharla and I haven’t abandoned you for the night just yet.”
“Joy,” Jenevelle cut dryly. “A slattern and a zealot. And me, so responsible and focused on our Lord’s mission, to watch over both kinds of unique enthusiasm.”
Belladonna waved, unconcerned, “I am a wanton woman only for our lord. Without him here, I’ll content myself with looking into these odd Alien powers.”
“So long as I am able to spread the good word of the Moon, I will follow any plan you set for us, Jenevelle.” Dharla smiled with peacefully closed eyes.
The expression still sent a shiver of trepidation down Jenevelle’s spine.
There were no lengths Dharla wouldn’t go to in spreading that good word. Jenevelle wasn’t looking forward to whatever consequences she managed to stir up tonight.
Belladonna’s statement of intent was simultaneously more reassuring and more worrying. Her arcane curiosity could be just as… enthusiastic as her sexual curiosity, if given the chance. But without their Lord present, at least it wasn’t the latter.
“You shall both follow my lead, then?” Jenevelle asked.
She received dual nods of confirmation.
“It’s something, at least,” She sighed. “My intentions tonight are to build our Lord a map of the city directly above his lair. That should give both of you suitable opportunities to indulge your interests. But first and foremost, this is a scouting mission for our Lord. Remember that. And don’t reflect poorly upon him.”
Belladonna waved, “As tempting as the idea of our lord’s punishment is, I wouldn’t dare. Not for a debut this important.”
Still smiling peacefully — zealously — Dharla agreed, “Everything I do is in the Moon’s glory. I embody its light on the world in the night, and I wouldn’t Dream of doing so with anything less than my best.”
Jenevelle glanced up at her Lord’s domain in the night sky. Tonight, that reassurance was colored blood-red with their arrival. A Blood Moon, hanging heavy above…
If Dharla planned to embody that tinted light, there was no telling what omens she might spark with her actions tonight.
“That’s as good as I’m going to get, I suppose,” Jenevelle sighed. “Come now, there is scouting to be done.”
“Those heroes crossing the bridge looked to be heading into the heart of the city,” Belladonna noted, grinning with excitement. “Shall we, too, head… Downtown~?”
“We shall,” Jenevelle agreed, glaring a bit of warning Belladonna’s way. “Keep hold of your enthusiasm if we encounter them, slattern.”
Belladonna’s grin just grew, “When, not if.”
IIIII
Their Hoard party of three set out to the south.
Belladonna, her Witchy arts half specializing in Conjuration, opened a short-lived portal from the roof of their arrival to the street below. The three of them stepped through it and began their journey through Brockton Bay’s nightlife.
For such a stubbornly persisting city, Brockton Bay was surprisingly alive in the dark. It wasn’t an ‘in one’s face’ sort of liveliness, but still, seemingly everywhere Jenevelle turned, she saw something happening.
People walking with their heads down, hurried and purposeful to dissuade the human predators of the night.
Gangs of miscreants on street corners and porch steps, living their lives as ‘polite society’ slept.
Windows alive with music and light, storefronts kept forever open, and abandoned buildings full of unfortunate souls scrapping by with what little they could manage.
It was a downtrodden sort of life, yet undeniably, still stubbornly alive, just like the city they inhabited.
Jenevelle, Dharla, and Belladonna quickly learned that they stood out. Their beauty and unique forms of dress drew many eyes. The confidence they walked with drew even more, if that was possible.
When people looked, they saw Jenevelle’s armor, the mace on her belt, and, if close enough, her pointed, half-elf ears. They saw Dharla’s pink skin, scant silks, and ethereal elven nature. They saw Belladonna’s demonic red skin, curling horns, and dangerously curious expression.
As a result, no one approached them.
If anything, the mundane citizens of Brockton Bay shied away from the exotic curiosities passing them by. Even the boldest gang member didn’t dare do more than look (and almost certainly report their presence up the chain).
Jenevelle noted everything she saw in her mind. All of it went into building her map of Brockton Bay.
Belladonna, her enthusiasm getting the better of her, began to open more portals in their path. She cut them open from thin air with her rapier magic focus. Through them, the distance ahead was cut down to nothingness.
Up onto another roof, Belladonna’s portals took the trio. Back down to the street, two over. Over and over, they progressed, traveling miles in mere minutes. Everywhere they appeared and disappeared, they drew more of that same wary attention.
As frustrating as Belladonna could be, Jenevelle wouldn’t deny that she was skilled and strong in the arcane arts she practiced. She was far from dead weight upon the Hoard. And with their Lord to sponsor her, Belladonna had long since grown as powerful as all but the most legendary grandmaster mages.
The buildings around them grew taller, coming to scrape the sky in many places. Belladonna began looking around eagerly, hoping to spy a trace of this Age’s cape game.
Jenevelle would never admit to the slattern that she was doing the same, if more warily and cautiously.
Dharla, meanwhile, was the most subdued of their trio, yet also the most talkative to those they passed.
She took the night’s attention onto herself without a thought otherwise, letting her exotic, ethereal, elven beauty shock and awe. Man, woman, none could tear their eyes away from the Elf of the Night in her natural element.
And with that attention on her, Dharla called out again and again, “Elune-Adore! What a beautiful night this is, beneath the Moon!”
“Elune-Adore! I wish you the best of dreams, my good lady!”
“Elune-Adore! Worry no more; your daughter is already safe at home, waiting for you!”
“Elune-Adore! Look to the Moon, pitiful soul, and let your mad addictions be soothed!”
Her words were as compelling as always, the silver tongue of a bard who truly believed what they spoke, and the tangible blessings that sprang from that.
Everyone she called out to took notice. They could do nothing else but hear her out. She wouldn’t convert anyone to her Moonlit zeal with just one interaction, but at the new Turning of this Age, the seed was planted by blessings so mundane.
One street they passed was packed with young people, looking for a good time. They were lined up in their night’s best — lively, youthful, visibly looking for fun — outside a club with hypnotic melodies and pulsing bass that spilled out onto the street.
The name ‘Palanquin’ hung over the club’s entrance in gleaming silver letters, cast under spotlights to keep the attention of all who saw it.
Dharla, of course, insisted on stopping to bless the clubgoer’s night, “Elune-Adore, all! May your nights under this Moon be fun and fruitful! I wish you all luck tonight; find the sex you seek, dance to your heart’s content, and bring your dreams to life! Make merry madly, for you are forever young under this Moon!”
Stopping to do so may have been a mistake, Jenevelle thought, for this was the biggest crowd they’d seen so far, and Dharla had successfully gotten their attention, entirely.
The clubgoing crowd reacted with gasps and shouts. They raised technological devices to capture their exotic images. They showed awe and attraction, intrigued to the point that they almost forgot the club they were lined up for.
A young man shouted, “Hot damn!”
“Mommy? Sorry… Mommy? Sorry… Mommy? Sorry…” A young woman got herself stuck in a loop.
“Mommies. Plural,” The young woman’s friend corrected teasingly.
“Are they with Palanquin? Faultline?” Someone asked, Jenevelle’s half-elf ears catching the question.
“Case 53s, right? That’s kinda Faultline’s deal, isn’t it?” Another answered the first question with a question.
“Case 53s can look like super sexy elf women now?!”
“I sure fucking hope so…”
“If only every cape looked like her… The world would be a better place.”
“How?! Is she wearing?! Moonlight?!”
“Capes are weird. Duh.”
“And what’s all this talk about the moon?”
“Capes are weird. Duh.”
The initial reactions were agreeable, at least. And Jenevelle resolved herself to smile and wave, letting Dharla take most of the heat. Belladonna was doing the same, with a bit more teasing befitting her loose nature.
‘It’s just showing the flag,’ Jenevelle thought to herself. For the natives of this Age, cape games seemed just as much about the show as the actual action.
It was a strange phenomenon to Jenevelle, one she was hardly used to. But she did her best not to shrink away from the attention.
Everything seemed to go well. Dharla gave her blessings to the young and lively nightlife. Jenevelle and Belladonna waved and let themselves be seen. Subtly, Jenevelle began to usher them onward.
Then, the interruption came.
“Oi! What the fuck are these freaks doing showing their faces in public?!” A gruff, half-feral voice called out.
Pointedly, Jenevelle made a show of paying the voice no mind, instead turning to Belladonna, “I believe someone’s talking about you, slattern.”
“And so rudely!” Belladonna tittered. “Shall we see what that’s all about?”
“If we must,” Jenevelle made another show of dismissiveness, this one sighing, before she turned to the source of the interruption.
Three figures were approaching them, walking directly in the street as if the passing cars couldn’t harm them — as if they wouldn’t dare.
The first was the one who’d spoken so rudely. He was shirtless, with a crude metal mask in the shape of a wolf’s head on his face. He had no shame, ferally so. He walked like a predator without any worry of other predators.
‘Feral arrogance: earned but undue,’ Jenevelle thought.
Behind him, on either side, was a couple. Perhaps in any other situation, Jenevelle would’ve dubbed them cute and idyllic. A young woman. A slightly older man. They walked beside each other with familiarity. A partnership. On the surface, at least.
But there, anything ‘cute and idyllic’ about them ended.
Capes, all three. The young woman was clad in a skintight red suit. It clung to a slender figure that wasn’t quite graceful, but very much tried to be. Her obvious youth worked against her there, as did her obvious submissiveness to both of the men she walked with.
‘Innocent, misled, naive, pitiful,’ Jenevelle thought.
The younger of the two men was tall and muscular, a seemingly ‘ideal’ male figure. He wore black, modern body armor over a plain red shirt. An almost hawk-like half-mask covered his face, but his blonde hair and blue eyes were still visible.
There was a… falsity to his stride. ‘Pretender’: that was all Jenevelle could think when she looked at him.
“Look, Victor, the freaks think they’re worth something,” The leading bestial man sneered.
“I wonder why that is, Hookwolf, considering all they’re doing is corrupting the good people of our city,” The second man — Victor — hummed.
“Must we do this?” Belladonna drawled, making her boredom clear.
“Don’t go talkin’ all fancy, Freak,” Hookwolf snarled. “Brockton Bay isn’t welcome to your kind.”
“And what ‘kind’ do you even think that is?” Belladonna asked, somewhat earnestly curious.
“The freakish kind! Details don’t matter; you obviously don’t belong here. Downtown belongs to the right kind of people. You ain’t it, girlies,” Hookwolf snapped.
Looking around, Jenvelle at least saw that this interrupting opinion wasn’t popular. Nor were the sources of it. The regular, clubgoing people in line on the street were keeping well clear of the trio.
They didn’t leave entirely, though, as people with clear common sense might. No, the crowd gathered outside the Palanquin stayed to watch, even if they didn’t want to get any closer, much less get involved.
Watching them, Jenevelle saw that this Age’s cape games were as much for a show for spectators as they were action for the participants.
“Why don’t you freaks make yourselves nice and scarce?” Hookwolf ‘invited’. “We don’t need your sins corrupting-…”
“You are a beast that does not even know the glorious natural touch of the Moon,” Dharla declared suddenly, cutting him off. “The Moon abhors you, in fact, for intruding upon its nature-blessing domains.”
That brought Hookwolf up short slightly, “What the fuck-? Who the fuck cares about the moon?! Drop the fancy shit, whore; we’re talking real life here.”
“I don’t think we’re actually talking at all,” Jenevelle cut in dryly. “Not the same language, at least. All I’ve heard from you so far has been threats and hatred. Those things don’t make for very polite conversation.”
“Polite conversation?! Ha!” Hookwolf barked. “The freaks think a real man would ever stoop so low!”
Ignoring him, Jenevelle turned to her companions, “This is entirely unproductive, I see. Shall we be on our way?”
“I wouldn’t try that if I were you three,” Victor warned.
Just like his feral leader, his threatening words went ignored.
“If only there was something — anything — actually interesting about these boresome capes,” Belladonna sighed dramatically with light lament.
“B-Boresome…?” The young woman opposite them spoke for the first time, her voice soft and almost pitifully hurt.
“If they were mere beasts, we might be able to actually talk with them, speak the language of the Moon,” Dharla sniffed slightly. “Yet even that is beyond these… creatures.”
“I’ll show you a fucking beast, woman,” Hookwolf growled.
The tension on the street rose and rose. Jenevelle didn’t think she was overstating it to say such tension was one-sided. She had already dismissed their interruptors, as had Dharla and Belladonna.
The other side certainly hadn’t dismissed them in turn.
More interesting than the ‘boresome capes’ — and Jenevelle had to give credit to the slattern for such an apt insult, unfortunately — was a slight commotion coming from the watching crowd.
Still looking on, even with soon-to-be-realized violence in the air, the crowd parted. A new figure emerged from it, flying into the air. Immediately, she proved to be more interesting than the other boresome capes.
“Well now, isn’t that fascinating~?” Belladonna hummed.
She had glanced away from the threatening capes, ignoring them utterly in favor of the new one that emerged from the crowd. A small spell circle appeared around her eyes with a small twist of the spellcasting rapier sheathed on her belt. Belladonna took in the new cape with a scholarly gaze.
“Anti-gravity? Propulsion? But from where…? A mundane human body wouldn’t produce nearly enough energy for such sustained flight… Channeled through… Oh my, the mind? How odd, how potentially dangerous… Yet the evidence is right there,” Belladonna muttered to herself, curiosity only inflamed by whatever mysteries she saw.
Jenevelle, much more pragmatically, turned her focus to the new cape herself.
She fit perfectly with the other clubgoers of the night, not a costume in sight. Strangely, contrary to what Jenevelle thought she knew about the rules of this Age’s cape games, that didn’t seem to deter the young woman from displaying her powers.
She hovered above the street, putting herself between the hostile capes and the crowd. Crimson energy crackled into existence around her hands. With a wave, it was directed downward, and a shield sprang up to protect the innocents.
Potential collateral averted, she returned her attention to the hostile capes, glaring at them with true hatred in her eyes.
That carefully controlled fury made her beauty come alive.
She was young, but clearly of age by any Age’s measure. By adventuring standards, she looked ready to set out upon her first, ready to leave the nest and see the world.
She was blonde, with long hair down her back and bangs that swept over to cover one eye. Her figure was fit and well-proportioned. She looked like any other girl her age… except for the obvious powers she was demonstrating.
“Oh, great, one of these bitches,” Hookwolf scoffed. “The fuck are you doing here, Laserdream?”
Laserdream scowled back at him, “Living my life. Trying to enjoy my night. Unfortunately, nazis are standing in the way of that enjoyment.”
“This is hardly New Wave’s fight,” Victor tried for something vaguely resembling diplomacy.
“It’s not ours, either,” Jenevelle deadpanned.
“You freaks knew what you were getting into in Empire territory,” Hookwolf snapped.
“I resent that,” Another new voice joined the scene. “I resent every single word you speak, Hookwolf. The Palanquin has never been Empire territory, and it never will be. Furthermore, I’m certain I don’t like you picking on ‘freaks’ right outside my front door.”
Like Laserdream, this one came from the club. Unlike Laserdream, the source of the voice didn’t fly above and make her entrance known so blatantly.
Instead, this new voice, this new party, made its entrance amidst a parting crowd. A gray-metal masked woman strode forth as if she owned the street. Two men of inhuman appearance followed her out.
One of the men was smaller, younger, with orange skin and a tail. He almost looked like a Tiefling, just missing the horns and infernal nature. The other man was larger — a tank of a man — with off-puttingly translucent skin that put his very bones on display.
The inhuman appearances contrasted with what Jenevelle thought she knew of this Age. But through her cleric connection to her Lord’s Moonlit domain, she could sense that these were no monsters of the night.
They were human, like everyone else on the street, just clad in inhuman skins.
Of course, that fact and their contrasting appearance succeeded in piquing Belladonna’s interest even more than Laserdream’s demonstrated powers did.
“Oh, how wonderful!” She called out to the two men. “Yoo-ho, beautiful boys~! How do you do, how do you do? My name is Belladonna; it’s a pleasure to meet you!”
The orange-skinned boy was brought up short, almost tripping over his own tail as he saw some kind of kinship with Belladonna, “Whoa… Oh, whoa! Hi-uh, hey, pretty sister! Come to join the crew?! We’re always up for more 53s!”
“Newter,” The gray-masked woman in front of him chided him with a single word — a name.
“Right,” Newter winced. “Sorry, Faultline. It’s just-…”
“I know.”
“… I like her,” The other inhuman-looking man said, his voice deep and rumbling and shockingly peaceful for his size and appearance.
Faultline’s repeated reply came as one of agreement, “I know.”
Even in that short interaction, Jenevelle could see the affection these three newcomers had for each other. This Faultline might’ve been all business with potential enemies in front of her, but she still clearly cared about the two men behind her.
“It’s a proper freakshow now,” Hookwolf growled. “All we’re missing is the Asians and the Heroes to make this a proper fucking fuck-off.”
“Oh? Thanks for the invitation, Hooky!” Yet another new voice intruded upon the scene.
Jenevelle outright rolled her eyes.
She was learning something firsthand tonight: cape games lived on drama, theatrics, and ego.
From what she’d seen so far, she was almost certain that the posturing was just as important as any victory or defeat.
The Hoard trio, minding their own business, had been interrupted by an obviously hostile trio of capes. Then, another cape happened to emerge from the bystanding crowd, interrupting the initial standoff. Then, yet another trio of capes interrupted to defend their territory. And now, one last trio of capes came to interrupt upon the scene…
All while not a single proverbial or literal shot had been actually fired.
It was all so… unproductive. If Jenevelle hadn’t been taking detailed mental notes of every cape and interaction she saw, she might’ve become rather frustrated.
As it was, all this pointless shenaniganry served something of a purpose, at least; it helped her build the working map of Brockton Bay that she would present to her Lord at the end of the night.
That was all that stopped Jenevelle from just… walking away to continue her scouting in less frustrating ways.
Still, her map was filling out with characters and features. Some Empire and their claimed territory. New Wave. Faultline and her Palanquin. And now…
“Have no fear, the Protectorate is here!” The same interrupting voice from before called.
It belonged to a red-suited man, complete with body armor and a visor over his eyes. He sported a seemingly constant fool’s grin, one that showed he was of quick wit and easy demeanor.
He clung to the side of an armored truck that came rolling onto the scene with flashing siren lights of green and white. Another cape held onto the truck’s other side. She was, in a way, the red fool’s opposite.
“Assault, working voice, please,” The woman requested.
“On it, Battery. I’m serious as a missed anniversary.”
“… Did you forget our anniversary? Did… Did I?”
“Figure of speech, puppy. You’ve still got a month to plan to wow and woo me. Do not. Disappoint me…”
“Why… was that so ominous?”
“Anniversaries are serious business. I wouldn’t joke about that. The gasp! I would never joke about us, puppy!”
A couple, clearly, Jenevelle thought, muffling a laugh. Assault and Battery. Cute, if strange. Certainly, a much more loving and likable pairing than the Empire’s cape couple.
She wore blue, where he wore red, and her expression beneath a similar visor was seemingly constantly one of fond exasperation. Her costume was formed of digital-esque lines of blue upon a black base, armored just like her counterpart’s.
Both boasted figures that were more toned than overly muscular, and Jenevelle couldn’t help but notice that the clinging bodysuits did objectively wonderful things to their rears.
Immediately upon having that thought, she sent a sudden glare Belladonna’s way. The slattern couldn’t have known her thoughts, couldn’t have known that her terribly loose influence was successfully infectious.
She replied to the glare with a smirk, regardless, somehow able to tell that they’d had the same thoughts at the sight of respectably toned and tight cape butts.
The third Protectorate cape didn’t ride in on the armored truck; she rode in on a metal steed all her own.
Her motorcycle snarled softly in the night, and Jenevelle briefly matched it with the team of figures — two trucks, two motorcycles — they’d seen crossing the shining bridge into the city from afar to start the night. That still left another truck and another motorcycle unaccounted for. She had a feeling the rest of the Hoard would run into them soon enough, if they hadn’t already.
The woman atop the motorcycle was clad in the modern equivalent of Jenevelle’s armor. Not light, not heavy, just protective enough to get the job done without costing mobility.
An armored chest rig, tough armored pants, and sturdy boots made for a strange costume by the native standards (or what Jenevelle had seen of them so far). A bandana mask of stars and stripes covered the lower half of her face, revealing olive skin and green-glass eyes with smile lines above.
“Tonight doesn’t have to end in violence,” She called out, her voice calm but commanding. “There are a lot of capes here; there are more civilians. Why don’t we all just go our separate ways in peace?”
“Fuck that! I came for a fight, and you all set the stage for one! Violence is the only way this can end!” Hookwolf shouted back.
“You tried, Miss Militia. Seems Hooky here has a different idea of a party from the rest of us,” Assault said.
“And what else is new?” Faultline drawled.
“Talk, talk, talk; I’m just looking to put the freaks in their place,” Hookwolf growled.
“Discretion might be the better part of valor tonight, Hookwolf,” Victor said.
Hookwolf didn’t limit his hostility just to his enemies, “Shut. The fuck. Up, Victor. Everyone here is gonna learn this is Empire turf, and they’re gonna learn it well.”
The tension in the air had taken something of a back seat to the show of so many capes in one place. Hookwolf brought it back with a vengeance.
Laserdream began to glow brighter with her power. Faultline shifted her stance to a ready one, with her inhuman allies backing her up.
Hookwolf was almost literally bristling, and his Empire allies looked ready to back him up, even with Victor’s cautious warning.
The Protectorate capes tensed, but showed it in a variety of ways. Battery tensed the most traditionally, readying herself to lunge into action at any moment.
Assault bounced on the balls of his feet, loosening himself up for a fight.
Miss Militia arranged her motorcycle as makeshift cover, and as she stood behind it, her power shifted modern weapons in her hands: a pistol, a rifle, a heavy machine gun.
Still, Miss Militia was willing to try for a peaceful solution, or at least, commiseration and compassion. She addressed the Hoard, “I’m sorry your debuts turned out like this.”
“It’s an interesting outcome, at least,” Belladonna shrugged.
“Your condolences are welcome, Miss Militia,” Dharla said. “This truly is too nice a night, too nice a walk under the Moonlight, to ruin like this.”
“Yet, here we are,” Jenevelle added flatly.
“The Protectorate will defend you, so long as all you do is defend yourselves and mind the civilians present,” Miss Militia told them.
“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Belladonna chuckled. “We can handle ourselves rather well all on our own. Isn’t that right, Jenevelle?”
“It’s not wrong,” Jenevelle agreed. “Our Lord has the utmost faith in our abilities. I would hate to make him feel as if that faith was misplaced.”
“Lord, huh? Sounds fancy,” Assault commented.
“And concerning…” Battery muttered.
“Now, now, puppy. Let’s not jump to conclusions. They seem to have a theme going. I’d say this ‘Lord’ is just an extension of that.”
“If not?”
“If not, we’ll still try to reach out to them with kind words and open hands first. They’ve done absolutely nothing wrong here. Let’s not treat them like enemies for that.”
“I can speak to their innocence,” Laserdream said. “They were just passing by and wishing everyone a good night before the nazis ruined that.”
“How about introductions, then?” Miss Militia offered, still trying to defuse the situation at hand.
Even Hookwolf agreed to that, in a strange showing of this Age’s cape game dramatics, “I’d know the names of the freaks I’m about to slaughter, at least.”
“You don’t deserve them,” Jenevelle cut with sharp words. “But everyone else here has been friendly enough, I suppose. Very well.
“I am Jenevelle, cleric of a Dragon Lord. The red-skinned slattern is Belladonna, our Lord’s witch. And the Elf of the Night is Dharla, our Lord’s bard and herald.”
“Dragon Lord? You freaks are with Lung?” Hookwolf’s voice seemed to grin with that incorrect assumption.
“Lung? Who?” Jenevelle blinked. “No, the only Dragon I recognize in this Age is my Lord. Ancalagon the White, of the Turning Age, of the Moon. We are of his Hoard.”
“Whatever,” Hookwolf grunted. “Dragon’s a dragon, and I’ve been looking to claim the title of dragonslayer for a long fucking time now. I’ll send your corpses back to him as an invitation to a proper fight.”
Such a blatant threat made the tension in the air flare once more. It grew thick enough to cut. And it was cut, just not in the way anyone else expected.
Jenevelle laughed. Belladonna tittered. Dharla chortled. All three of them almost fell over each other at the joke the puny powered-human told.
“Oh, that’s just adorable,” Belladonna said, recovering slightly to wipe humorous tears from her eyes.
“Indeed,” Dharla agreed. “The beast thinks it can do anything more than howl at the Moon.”
“You know not who or what you speak of, Hookwolf,” Jenevelle told him honestly, growing serious after her laughter. “But that doesn’t excuse the insult you’ve given.”
“Do you have this in hand, Jenevelle?” Dharla asked, still chuckling to herself.
“Quite.”
She stepped forward slightly, just enough to set her apart from her companions.
Hookwolf was fuming, seething. The other capes present looked about ready to interrupt and come to Jenevelle’s aid. She held up a calm hand to stop them.
“This beast has insulted my Lord. I shall face him alone.”
“Your fucking funeral, freak,” Hookwolf snarled.
He hung back for just a moment, barking a command to his allies, “Othala! Invulnerability, now!”
“A-Aye, Hookwolf,” The young Empire girl stuttered, but obeyed.
She laid a hand on Hookwolf’s shoulder, almost afraid to even do that much. There was no sign to show the buffing boon she must’ve laid upon him.
Jenevelle didn’t cease her calm steps forward. Hookwolf, buffed in support, began approach in turn. He picked up speed quickly. Between one step and the next, his whole form began to shift and change.
Blades and hooks and chains sprouted from his skin. He broke into a run, and they overtook his fleshy body. He dropped into a terrible, loping gait; his form became canine, a wolf’s shape formed of sharp, shifting metal.
Jenevelle… had seen better, seen worse, at Ancalagon’s side through their Ages together. Her enemy might’ve been a massive metal werewolf, but there was no cursed magic to his being.
She didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate at all, even as the steel tempest ran her down.
This beast thought himself bold and strong, untouchable. This beast had insulted her Lord. This beast had spoken of a Dragon he knew nothing about, of legends he couldn’t hope to comprehend.
In Ancalagon’s absence, Jenevelle would uphold his Draconic Pride and glory; she would put this beast down.
Metal fangs bared, Hookwolf lunged for her throat.
He crossed a dozen strides in an instant with that lunge. Jenevelle met him, mace in hand and Dragon at her back.
Her Lord’s Moon shone down upon her. Unflinching, Jenevelle countered the beast’s insulting brute force with righteous, blessed force of her own.
There was a tremendous crash, metal meeting metal.
The physical impact of her mace against Hookwolf’s transformed metal was only the beginning. It failed to find much actual purchase on the invulnerably buffed beast.
But the spell she infused into her strike certainly did, piercing buffed invulnerability as if it wasn’t even there.
Lunar Smite, doubly effective for the insults Hookwolf had given her Lord and the way his twisted transformation insulted the Moon’s domain.
A red-tinted Moonbeam shone down upon the moment her weapon struck the beast. It captured Hookwolf in its light. It smote him down with all the force of a Dragon.
In an instant, Jenevelle struck the beast down. She smashed the beast to the ground. She smote the beast with a Draconically-backed smack upside the head.
Hookwolf collapsed, a bestial puppet with its strings cut. His metal transformation was torn away from him by shining Moonlight. Only the man in the mask was left lying on the street, twitching halfway to death.
Then, there was silence on the street — shock gripping the scene.
Jenevelle sneered down at the smited almost-corpse, “You, beast, are no Dragonslayer.”
That simple statement of truth broke the shocked silence; suddenly, there was much in the way of ruckus from every side. Standing guard over her victory, Jenevelle let the chaos flow over her.
Of Hookwolf’s allies, Victor looked furious but wary; Othala looked horrified at having her power fail so spectacularly.
They wouldn’t contest her victory, Jenevelle knew. They were outnumbered and outmatched by all of the other capes present. Sure enough, they began beating a somewhat hasty retreat.
Meanwhile, Jenevelle saw that Laserdream was looking at her with awe, as if she’d suddenly hung the Moon. Faultline gave her a nod of recognition and approval, and the two men behind her gave Jenevelle synchronized thumbs-up gestures, one calm and one excited.
The Protectorate heroes were quick on the uptake, quick to adjust to how the situation had changed. Assault and Battery began looking toward the two remaining, retreating Empire capes, while Miss Militia began to calmly approach her.
A team of heavily armored soldiers suddenly poured from the back of the truck to join the latter.
And the civilian witnesses… they were almost certainly recording the scene to spread far and wide. Jenevelle had a feeling she’d be rather famous by the time the sun rose.
“That… was certainly something,” Miss Militia said, approaching Jenevelle and her fallen foe with caution and diplomacy clearly in mind. “Jenevelle, was it? Is that your cape name or…?”
“It is my name,” Jenevelle answered with a small shake of her head. “Ancalagon and his Hoard have little interest in playing the local cape games. We are from somewhat far afield, and thus, we forge our own adventures through this Age.”
“… I see,” Miss Militia obviously didn’t. “Would you be opposed to us taking Hookwolf off your hands?”
Jenevelle stepped back slightly: an invitation, “I have no interest in keeping this beast. You are free to him.”
Something in Miss Militia’s posture relaxed with that, “Good. Very good. The Protectorate and PRT thank you for your service tonight. We’ll handle the rest from here.”
The soldiers behind Miss Militia began to spray Hookwolf’s prone form with some kind of foam that expanded and hardened in moments. They were wisely restraining the beast and preparing him for transport. Jenevelle left them to it.
Turning back to Belladonna and Dharla to continue their night’s scouting efforts, however, Miss Militia stopped her, “Would you mind answering a few more questions?
“Nothing official, and certainly nothing hostile, but it would greatly help with the paperwork I’ll have to fill out for tonight. I don’t mean to keep you too long, but I hope you understand that I have to ask…”
… Unfortunately, Jenevelle did. Paperwork was a fact of creation. One that even a Dragon and his Hoard couldn’t escape.
In their last Age, she’d been honored to shoulder quite a bit of that bureaucratic duty for Ancalagon. So she had some sympathy for Miss Militia’s plight.
She sighed, “What do you need to know, Miss Militia?”
Miss Militia’s eyes over her mask crinkled in a smile, pretty and relieved. Jenevelle got the feeling that most capes didn’t stick around to help smooth the bureaucratic process.
The Protectorate capes quickly spun their interaction into a polite interrogation. Jenevelle cooperated, her answers coming freely and efficiently, for the Hoard had little to actually hide.
Inwardly, however, she slightly lamented the way her night had gone.
All she’d wanted was to make a map and fill it with details. Was that truly too much to ask from her first night in Brockton Bay?
From what she’d already seen of their starter town… yes, it just might.
Jenevelle could only hope that the rest of the Hoard were having similarly productive nights.
IIIII
[AN: I’m taking things kinda slow and foundational for this story so far, making sure I have its voice on lock. Definitely something I want to get right from the very start. Ancalagon and his Hoard are outsiders, and that’s important, but they’re not ignoring Worm’s setting and vibe, just playing it by their own rules. I hope that came across well through Jenevelle’s POV.
Jenevelle is fun. While she is based on Shadowheart, their character arcs diverged rather early in life. She was taken by the Shar cultists, but not actually broken into Shadowheart before Ancalagon swooped her up for himself. She was Ancalagon’s first living treasure, and I think that shows in a loyally devoted but not full-yandere way (I’ll save that for Belladonna, subtly, or Dharla, not-so-subtly lol).
Brockton Bay’s geography/layout is kinda… infamously fucky. It just doesn’t really make sense for a city of its size, purpose, and history. The lack of any major river is the biggest oversight to me (it’s a likely colonial east-coast port city without any means of mass transportation inland before the invention of trains?? Like, c’mon).
I will give Wildbow credit for making Brockton Bay a great thematic microcosm of the whole setting, though. Living on, but barely, stubbornly, desperately. Stagnating and backsliding so slowly that it’s almost (but never fully) unnoticeable to the natives. And that’s without mentioning the scavengers (capes) picking off meat that barely hangs on the bone.
What you see in this chapter is my interpretation/best guess to make Brockton Bay make a bit more sense ‘from above’. It probably still doesn’t… But at least this Brockton Bay has a river.
Anyway, I ended up splitting this first night out for the Hoard into two parts. Next chapter should have both Pyrite and Glory’s POVs of the night. They’ll both have nights that are just as eventful as Jenevelle’s.
After that will be a (probably massive) PHO chapter covering the Hoard’s separate debuts and Ancalagon’s AMA. I’m both looking forward to and kinda dreading that lol. Still, should be fun :]