Collision

He dreamed of Them.

Not dreams, memories.

Laying on his back among a campfire, his eyes closed, listening to Tali play her violin, knowing that Delirium, her air elemental was dancing as she played. Their lives were difficult, full of battles and terrible choices, and the peace she gave him in those moments was precious in an undefinable way.

His head on Sariel’s breast, her gentle hand against his head, listening to her read to him. One of the blacksmith books, of course. Gently, she’d stroke his scales. Often times she’d pause her words, to kiss him. Sometimes they lingered, and the book was forgotten, Tali’s name whispered to join them.

His dreams reminded him of his pure joy watching the two of them work together, each with their own mischievous looks. How he adored the way they loved each other. The way they glanced at one another, usually when they thought the other wasn’t looking. The gentle way they’d touch one another. The softer words on hard days, passionate coaxing on hotter nights.

His dreams used to be filled with other things. War. Demons. Stress dreams of the future. His own trauma and the weight of the past. Those dreams became less and less the more he was around his pack, and faded away altogether the night they’d accepted his... proposition.

And every time he woke, he knew with unbreakable conviction he was getting closer to them. He could feel it.

7 Days Ago…

Zildath turned around, walking back to Vorseth’s body. He knelt down, letting go of his busted shield and searched his brother. He found a strange square card with the words S.V.T.D.C. on the front. Nothing else of value.

He hefted up the shield in his good arm and continued walking. He’d never been able to heal himself, that was his pack’s job. He considered packing his wounds with dirt but remember that once he and his pack had gone to a chaos plane, and the dirt had made the wound worse. It was possible that dirt on this Earth, as Vorseth had called it, was similar to that chaos plane. He wouldn’t risk it. Which meant he would need to find some sort of bandaging. At the monastery where he grew up and was trained to fight Demons they taught each other how to stitch a wound. He knew what he would need, he would just have to find it.

Cautiously he moved down war ravaged streets. There were ghosts of the dead in this place, and the energy felt heavy. Zildath knew it was the kind of place demons, wraiths, hags, and other foul creatures were born, and despite the pain he was in, he kept his guard up. He could read common well enough, and saw a sign that said Healing Center. He went in, and was not surprised to find it mostly empty. Strange looking metal shelves knocked over, debris everywhere. But he did manage to find some cloth, and several bottles that said alcohol. It would do. In a corner with his back against a wall, giving him a good vantage point of the rest of the room he tended to his shield arm as best he was able. He gritted his teeth, grunted, and hissed at the sting as he dosed it with the alcohol. The cuts thankfully were not that wide, but they were deep, robbing him of muscle strength. He wrapped the bandages around the wounds as tightly as he could, hoping to stem the bleeding. He splashed his face with the alcohol as well, and held a cloth against his cheek, searching through the rest of the debris. There was a box on the floor labeled band-aid. He thought that curious and picked it up, shaking out the contents. There were instructions, and something about healing nanites inside each strip. He didn’t know what nanties were, but he knew what healing meant. They were small though, but he found one big enough that fit over the wound on his cheek and it stuck there, like a workman’s glue. The moment he put it on his face, the pain in his cheek eased. He liked these band-aids.

Moving further through the store, he found what looked to be a bag, and spent several moments completely stupfied as to how it closed. It took him ten minutes to realize the small metal latch when moved, sealed the top shut. Fascinating. There was a strap on the strange satchel he realized he could adjust, and slung it over his shoulder as he walked.

He took another bottle of alcohol, some of the band-aids, and other cloth that he found and put it in the strange pack. Gauze it was apparently called. It also contained nanites, according to the instruction book on the floor. And he noticed, as he made his way back out of the store, the pain in his arm began to subsided to a throbbing ache. He liked the gauze too.

The magic in this place bemused him. Sariel would want to do many experiments. He half smiled, wary of the wound on his face and continued searching buildings. He found little else he understood. The clothing here was odd, and not at all protection worthy. He’d stick with what was left of his armor for now. He did find what looked like a belt and used it to secure his broken shield to his back where it would normally reside.

In the fifth building he found a metal shelf full of booklets. He leafed through them until he found one that looked like a map. Zildath spread the map out on the floor. It was not like any map he’d ever seen before. There was so much information but he understood none of it.

“Right. Where in the nine hells am I,” he muttered.

“You are here.”

Zildath jumped up, sword immediately in hand, looking around for who spoke. But he was alone. When he looked back at the map, there was a red dot, and the words, you are here next to it. Blinking several times, Zildath sheathed his sword, and knelt back down.

“Hello?”

The map didn’t respond.

“Where are Talithey and Sariel?”

“Searching….”

Zildath blinked again at the odd voice that came from the map. Strange magic in this world indeed.

“I’m sorry, there is no such city called Talithey and Sariel.”

Understanding dawned. This magic map could only tell him where he was, not where his companions were.

“Hmm.”

He reached up, touching the locket around his neck. There was a locator spell on this locket. All he had to do was think of them and it would take him to them. He knew it would work, despite how weird this place was. He just needed to figure out how he could-

-a drop of blood hit the map. Zildath felt a tickle on his upper lip and realized his nose was suddenly bleeding. He reached up, wiping the blood away, but his gaze was on the area the blood had landed.

“Map, how far away is Northguard?”

“Northguard is 140 miles away. Shall I show you the fastest route?”

Zildath brought the locket to his mouth and kissed it. “Yes, please.”

________

He did not mind the walking. Hunting proved difficult, but he found suitable wildlife that was absent of grotesque metal parts to feed himself with once he left the strange buildings behind and stuck to more wooded areas. The map even had information on some of the plant life in the areas he was in, which was helpful as the bushes were very different than what he was used too.

For six long days there was no trouble. He walked at a brisk pace, sometimes jogging. He found he could work his shield arm a little more each day, though it wasn’t ready to carry the weight of it yet. When he removed the band-aid from his cheek on the second day, he felt that the wound had closed, replaced by a healing scab. He preferred Talithey’s healing but he did like those band-aids. He found another of the metal wagons on the road, this one appeared to be fortified, an odd device on it’s top. It vaguely reminded him of something an artificer might make, possibly a very large, perhaps advanced version of a boom stick. When Zildath searched inside he found a bottle with a strap that resembled the canteens he used on his world. It was empty, and he cleaned it in a nearby creek and used it to carry water.

As he walked the map told him the history of the areas he passed through. Population numbers. Odd things about culture, and something called baseball. He even traveled through the nights, and found he could use some of the alcohol to make a torch. On his homeworld Zildath hunted in the darkness, and found that his vision was still exceptional here, so it was no bother for him to travel through most of the night as well. He slept only when he needed, only for as long as was needed.

When he did sleep, he dreamed of Them.

It was on the morning of the seventh day, a cold rain beating down around him that was welcome since the days were hot, his instincts told him he was being hunted. Zildath slowed his pace, pulling loose his sword.

In the distance he could see Northguard. This city was similar to the one he’d left behind, with more of it’s strange roads and tall buildings that reached to the sun. He was crossing a bridge, wide, and tall. There were many of the metal wagons on this bridge, which gave him cover but also gave whatever was hunting him a place to hide.

Multiple things. He heard thump, thumps, but these were different. He canted his head. Heard the sound again. Four legged creatures of some sort. Hard to tell how many they were moving -

- right at him. Zildath rolled to one side, letting his sack slide off his shoulder as what looked like a tiger jumped from the roof of the car behind him to the spot he had been, hissing and growling.

He came to his feet, taking up a defensive position and saw they were like the things he had fought before, with metal fused to their skin in a way that looked painful and infected. One of their eyes was red, one the color an animal's eye was supposed to be.

“Aren’t they beautiful?”

Zildath’s whole body went still. He slowly turned his head and saw Vorseth. Shock briefly made him immobile. Vorseth looked wrong, like these creatures did, half his jaw now made of metal, his clothes torn and dirty. Where Zildath had run him through, that part of him was metal now too.

Briefly, Zildath wondered if he was hallucinating. That perhaps something was in the river where he’d refilled his canteen this morning.

“How?” Zildath finally found his voice.

“She controls his place now. She remade me. Because she knows anger. Because she knows pain,” Vorseth’s voice sounded wrong, in a strange way, but still Zildath could hear the hatred color his tone, and see it on the parts of his face that were still flesh.

“Do not make me kill you again, brother,” Zildath warned.

Vorseth sneered at him. “Do you think you’ll save her in time?”

For the first time since he’d been here, a sliver of fear went down his spine. “Who?”

Vorseth’s smile was cold. “Talithey.”

Zildath roared, distantly thought it less impressive than it use to be, but he was human at the moment. “Where is she?! I swear Vorseth if you’ve harmed her-.”

“I hope you survive today brother. I want you to watch them both die, before she kills you.”

Zildath watched in shock as his brother disappeared in a strange blue light. Anger, fear for those he loved made his blood run hot, and he turned his gaze back to the tigers. There were four of them, their backs low as they stalked towards him with vile intent.

He raised his sword, readying himself, hearing only the rain, feeling the steel in his palm. “My blood, my steel, be my weapon and ally,” he whispered.

They lunged.

First, it was the tigers. He was nearly off the bridge when people came. Except they were not people, and they were not made of metal either. They were possessed by something, their eyes strange like a demon’s eyes, but all gray instead of black. They carried pipes, bats with nails, and axes, and they were strong.

He used the terrain, and his skill. They were not warriors, but mindless killers, and it was their weakness. They had no metal parts to protect them from the cut of his sword, and he cut them down, one, another one, but their number was many, and the tigers had made him bleed. A bat hit his shield arm, opening up the wounds that nearly healed. His jaw took a fist, another, more that made him spit blood. The metal pipe against his side, against his back, sent terrible pain through him. They began to swarm him, and for a moment he feared he might lose. Furry welled up inside of him the thought. He couldn’t. He would not. He would find them, the ones he loved.

My blood, my steel, be my weapon and ally. His blood was a weapon. He did not care if this world was different. His blood was a weapon. He did not notice that his eyes glowed red as he sliced open his palm on the blade of his own sword, coating it in his blood. In his world he could move faster in the shadow, and this day was overcast, giving him plenty. In his world sometimes he could move through enemies entirely, with a quick, misty, step. He knew he could do this, here. He felt the surge, the strain in his muscles. He lowered his shoulder and barreled forward with inhuman speed, taking the gray eyed demon that tried to grapple him to the ground. He kept moving, giving himself distance from the swarm that began to surround him. He pivoted around, his sword stained not only in their blood, but his own.

They charged him again. He hugged the shadows, moving faster now, ducking weaving and severed a head. An arm. He noticed before that if he did not run them through, or kill them with a blow to the heart or head, they kept coming. But when he severed the arm of the gray eyed demon, a flame engulfed it’s arm, and then the rest of the creature. He killed them all this way, with steel and fire, born from the blood of a hunter. A blood hunter.

Zildath sunk against a metal wagon when the last fell. The rain put out the fires. The surge of adrenaline left him feeling weaker than he should have, and he wondered if using magic in this world had a price. He looked around for his satchel with the strange latch but it had been lost in between the fights. Damn.

He would have to find more band-aids. And soon, before he bled too much. He hugged his shield arm against his chest, over the claw marks. His armor was gone now, but it saved his life minutes before. The tigers enhanced claws would have ripped him open from belly to sternum if not for his armor. Instead he was only cut and bleeding, but his insides were where they were supposed to be.

He spit blood onto the ground and pushed himself up, forcing himself to move forward. They were here. Somewhere. He could feel them. He did not know how, he didn’t need to. He could feel them and he would let that feeling carry him to them.

He walked for hours around the city, much bigger than the one he’d come from. Fearing if he stopped and closed his eyes before he found the band-aids it would put him in a vulnerable position. The rain stopped, but the day remained overcast and he was thankful there was no heat. He was going in the right direction, he knew it. Something just told him he was and he’d learned to trust those instincts. He also knew he was being tracked. He could feel the eyes on him from afar, and was unsure if they were friend or foe, but knew they would reveal themselves in time.

He was a touch light headed when she stepped into the street. The sight of her made his chest and throat tight, because out of all them he was certain he was the softie as Take often said. He didn’t care.

“That doesn’t belong to you, thief.” Her voice was quiet but the threat was clear. “Tell me where he is, Speak quickly for I am not known for my patience.”

He couldn’t help his soft laugh, despite a slight wince because the motion hurt his face.

“Sariel.” So much in that single word. For a moment he said nothing, simply drinking in the sight of her. If she was here, Tali was not far behind. And then he realized she was pointing her bow at him. That she called him a thief. He didn’t understand at first. Oh. Oh. He didn’t look right at all.

But what to say to make her believe he was who he was? Could she not see it, there in his eyes? Perhaps not. He wondered if she knew. If Tali knew. He wondered why he’d never said it. He spoke quietly, his voice mostly the same. “I told you and Tali once that my blood was yours. I meant it to be romantic. I don’t think it was. What I should have said, is that my heart is yours, and Tali’s. And we must find her Sariel, because she’s in trouble I can feel i-” He swayed. Shit. Maybe he was bleeding more than he realized. “Fuck. Perhaps I should have rubbed dirt in it-.” He hit the ground.