Origami Narwhal
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The Drake of Craumont - 1.4
🕑 Added 2025-03-24 18:04:00 +0000 UTCFeathers, fangs, claws, and horns. Not a single Drake in sight, and certainly not a scaled person of any other variety to be found among the Magebloods here. Maybe I shouldn’t be spending so much time looking as I pick my way through progressively grimier alleys and scraggly little parks. The one blessing is I don’t see too many people living on the streets; maybe they live in that Wildflower District, maybe the local churches are helping, and hopefully my cousin is doing his part.
Whatever the case, I may be the only Drake Mageblood in Craumont. Gods, I might be the most changed Mageblood of any sort in Craumont; closest I’ve seen is a burly man with feline ears, slit pupils, and a long black tail.
Not a very magic-heavy city, clearly, though I’m sure having a Phoenix for a baker balances out that strange equation somehow.
I know Drakes aren’t common, but I guess the bigger cities have inflated the numbers in my head. So when I’m walking through the streets with my scales showing, I know I’m sticking out. Just a few stares from people that cross my path, a few curious glances at my tail as it flicks against the stone. None of them think I’m that Dame with the bad reputation, though. Small mercies.
I run a hand through my long, white hair, using a pulse of Wind to sort out any small tangles. It's a poor substitute for a comb, but my travel one had broken a few days ago. The only reason I don't look like a tangled mess is the brushes back at the Manor, because tricks with Wind could only go so far.
Having so much hair is a bit of a handful, honestly.
Heh.
Handful. Hands. Wind magic for combing.
I snort. Glad I kept that one inside, it’s just terrible.
The smell of flowers and a touch of genuine Wind drags me to a stop in a park. It's not a big one, and it's in one of the grimier parts of the city.
Most of these have a scraggly tree or two, a bush, maybe some spotty moss cover under the shade to help hold water. They helped prevent flooding, apparently, though I’d never really put much thought to how. Something about... infiltrated soil? That’s a term I haven’t thought about since my university days.
This one, though, has flowers. Wildflowers, all stunning messes of white, yellow, and red, scattered about in the spotty shade of a youthful Maple tree. There's even some of that black-purple berry on the bushes, the sort the Restorers use to dye their robes. And, by Adamantine, with that Wind swirling around the place like an old friend, the smell is glorious. There's a genuine care put into it, the bushes are too nice and the soil too fresh for it to be an odd coincidence.
Here, amidst a field of flowers, caught between the rises of stone and brick, I can't help but smile. So I do, and I pour a bit of my own Wind into the place.
"Hello," I whisper, placing a palm against the bark of a small tree. The tree, of course, has no answer.
I blink, think about what I just did, and laugh.
Taking a long draw of the pleasant floral air, I wander onward to my destination.
***
I feel the pull on my magic before I see the Delve portal. It’s like standing at the top of a cliff, preparing to climb down: half anticipation, half the subtle pull of gravity as I peer over. Magecraft has a term for it, something I faintly remembered from Classical Magecraft, but I’m more of an applied magic kind of girl. A question for Helena, I decide, with only a twinge of regret.
I honestly might be able to find the portal with my eyes closed, at this point. To continue the cliff analogy, all I need to do is move with the pull—
Well, there's a fair few buildings in the way of a straight line, and people aren't so keen on me breaking their exteriors by clambering up them. Bit too destructive, if I use claws, and bit too illegal. I'm supposed to be working with the City here, not against it.
I snort, dragging the tip of my tail along the ground. It's all absurd, being back here, and it gets stranger the longer I think about it. So, I stop thinking about it and get going.
And, after weaving through a busy street, dodging a vicious band of children playing pretend, and slipping down a grimy alley, I'm at my destination.
It's a chapel, of some sort, one I don't remember from a life of snooping around the city. Peaked roof, colorful windows, an inviting yet somber atmosphere... the usual stuff, in short. It's made of brick and wood, too, so it's definitely not an old Imperial building. The mossy lawn and orderly bushes really make the place pop out of the surroundings, as much as one can in Craumont without painting the place painful colors.
"Ah, madam?"
My attention snaps to the front of the building, and to the two armored guards standing outside of it. Looks like they’re not taking any chances— steel breastplates and alchemical cloth, held together with what looks to be alchemical brass. A little out of date, sure, but it’ll do for most things that can creep out of a new portal.
The guard on the left was the one that spoke, and he holds my gaze unwaveringly.
"Yeah?"
"I apologize, but this is a dangerous place to be. If you'd like to pray to the Hero, you'll have to go to the one downtown, or in the Wildflower District." He sounds genuinely apologetic, which takes me a bit off guard.
My tail lashes behind me, and I see both guards flick their eyes to follow the movement.
When they look back up, they see my full, toothy smile. The one on the right flinches, just a bit.
"I'll be fine."
I pause.
"Also, I'm here for the Delve portal. The city hired me for it."
That gets them both to stiffen, and I slap my tail against the ground in satisfaction. A toothy grin wouldn't go well here, I think.
"You’re not the Mage, she’s shorter. Dame Crawford, then? Gods, you’re nothing like the prints," The guard on the right gawps, snapping her jaw shut a little too late.
"Dame Crawford," I agree, gesturing to myself. "In the flesh. And the scales."
They eye me dubiously, though the one the right seems to be eyeing me with something else, too. I eye her back, drawing my tail up to brush off the dirt and moss.
“Riverson, Parks, I spoke to our apprentice Mage on the way over. It seems she'll be delayed, but I'll be sending the carriage back to wait for her. Can you—"
A familiar voice cuts through the awkward tension, sharp and loud. Familiar, yes, but who...?
The question answers itself when a man hurries his way around the side of the chapel, brown eyes peering at me over a pair of rectangular, brass-wired glasses. Half-curled horns of a ram jut from a head of reddish-brown hair, and it works pretty damn well with that buttoned-down brown and black suit. I love those brass buttons— next time I commission an outfit, I'll have to get those.
"Amelia Crawford, as I live and wonder! Gods preserve, you’ve grown in so many ways." He grins, closing the distance between us in quick, elegant strides. "At ease, guards. It appears l gave you an outdated description."
"Winston Craumont," I reply stiffly, feeling an odd urge to stand up straighter, tilting my head down to get a good look at him. Weird to see the top of his head like this, horns and all. "Did you get shorter? I didn't know that could happen to Horned Magebloods."
Winston snorts, sticking his arm out for a greeting. "Not to me, at least, though you’re walking evidence the opposite is possible. I simply aged out of those ridiculous platform shoes Mother made me wear."
Oh, that takes me back, and not in a terrible way for once. I clasp Winston’s arm, he clasps back, and we make eye contact long enough to nod. “I remember calling them clogs. They’re popular somewhere, I’m sure.”
Winston’s lips twitch downward before proper noble propriety asserts itself, whatever dregs of it he has left. “I cannot believe Olivia managed to get you in on that, too.”
My heart twinges, and I look away. She always did manage to rope me in on her crazy ideas.
"She rubbed off on me,” I say instead, shrugging. “Haven’t started a fistfight once, you know? She wouldn't have believed it.”
“No scuffles at all? Amelia.”
“Ivy,” I say absently. “I go by Ivy, now.”
“Don’t dodge the question, Ivy.” Winston tilts his head, eyes gleaming oddly.
I do my best theatrical sigh. Gods, here I am warming up. I blame nostalgia. “I... may have gotten mugged. Well. They tried.”
“That’s the spirit! We've been having trouble with that, lately.” Winston sighs, turning back to the guards. “In case there was any doubt— and I must applaud you both for doing your jobs— I can confirm this is Dame Amelia Ivy Crawford. She is a Drake Mageblood now, it seems.”
“It seems?” I huff, gesturing to my hair with one hand and pulling up my tail with the other. “I don’t even have the family hair color anymore. Come on, Winston. The Delve portal’s inside the chapel, right? Let’s get a move on.”
"Ah." Winston clears his throat. "There may be a monster in there. Should you take the point position?"
"Of course there is." I say absently. I inspect the guards critically, as if I didn't already know the answer to the question.
I turn towards the main door and go up to it, examining it carefully. Wood and alchemical brass, from the looks of things; about half again my height and pretty well reinforced. A gentle push has them swinging inwards, though, so nobody could actually bar the door effectively from the inside.
"Winston..." I say slowly.
He sighs, pulling out a loosely bound sheaf of parchment. "Gods. I'll have to get those replaced. No, reversed. I knew I'd missed something when the Aldermen appointed the new building regulator. Do they at least only swing inward?"
I lean forward and pull. The door, fortunately, stops a few degrees past flush with the stone around it. "Half bad, then, not terrible. Probably just need to reverse the hinges."
"Perhaps I should hire you instead? I'm sure the Aldermen would throw a fit." Winston chuckles. "The pay is rather good, you know."
Matching Winston's laugh with my own, I take that moment to step inside.
My first observation is that it's a very traditionally laid out chapel, and it probably looks quite nice when all the prayer benches aren't piles of scrap wood. There's a tiny little front 'room', where I am, with doors to my left and right that lead into small side rooms. Three steps ahead is the main area, a large, rectangular space lit by high-set windows. A colorful circular window in back probably casts some amazing colors over the place, at the right time of day. There's a few shadowed eaves I can't quite peer into, unfortunately, and they're plenty big enough for a monster.
I'm kind of hoping Winston is right, though. I could use a good brawl.
Oh, and then there's the gaping, bleeding wound in the World.
It's like looking through a cracked pane of glass, peering through the punched-out center but seeing nothing beyond it. Nothing but a shimmering golden fog, oozing through ever so slowly widening seams.
"Well, there's the portal. I'll take a quick look." I say loudly, swinging the door closed behind me. The guards were good for keeping people out, sure, but they'd just get in the way if there was actually a danger lurking in here.
I take a careful step forward past the entrance area, loosening my stance and keeping my head on a swivel. It pays to be a bit paranoid, in this profession.
A second examination of the room tells me the nature of the chapel: it's a Chapel of the Hero. One of the guards mentioned that in passing, I think, but I hadn't thought much of it at the time.
There’s even a beautiful mural, high up on the back wall: the Hero in her tarnished armor, stabbing the Emperor while getting impaled in return. Guess this artist decided that Gods bleed gold, and also wasn’t too worried about scaring little kids.
Of course, that bleeding wound in the world would probably spook them off first. Or not, now that I think about it; I distinctly remember poking a stick through one when I was, what, ten?
Stupid idea, of course. Monsters aren’t common, but they really can slip out of Delve portals at any time— at least this one was in a room that was convenient to lock up. I scratch my chin, scanning the room and squinting at darkened corners. Hopefully...
Something moves in the corner of my vision. One of the piles of scrap wood shifts, sloughing parts, and I take a moment to brace myself. Let’s see what this Delve has to offer.
A mass of wood and rivets bursts from the scrap pile, ramming into my gut and forcing the air from my lungs. A heartbeat later I’m against the door, fingers— no, claws— scrabbling for purchase on the jagged, bark-coated hide of a monster. It pushes, and strains, and gnashes against me, a wolfish maw of rusted iron held back by my claws on its haunches.
Something cracks behind me. We fall to the ground in a pile of splinters and twisted brass reinforcement, the monster slides and stumbles as I slip away—
It blurs again, pouncing as I rise from the ground. I meet it halfway in a ramming punch to the snout, sending bark flying and dropping the monster to the mossy soil.
Winston’s saying something. I ignore it. I’d bought myself time with that move, time enough to breathe and collect myself, but only barely. I really should have...
The monster howls, a throaty, aching sound broken branches and tearing metal.
An eager snarl rips its way out of me, answering the monster's fury with my own. I pace to the side, tail swishing eagerly, and it matches me— circling, waiting.
One step. Two. Wind curls through my claws, shimmering across my body. The monster tenses, legs bent, metal teeth bared, bark creeping back across its snout.
Now.
I lunge forward with a toothy grin, moving into the monster’s next step and meeting it with an angled forearm. It snaps its jaw shut, clamping and straining against my scales, its body tilted upward to score at my chest with its forepaws. The cold burn of metal blooms across my arm, and I can feel the barest hints of blood trickling beneath my clothes.
I'll need to end this quickly. I don’t have the time to look for weak spots on this thing, though. They’re not animals, not built like them on the inside—
Brute force it is, then.
So, yanking up, grimacing as the fangs dig deeper, I ram a Wind-infused punch directly into its lower jaw. And then another, and another, opening and widening a crack where the neck meets the head.
Its jaw loosens, wiggling and pulling back for another bite. It won’t have a chance to finish that.
I shove my arm further forward into its jaw, wrapping my hand around the side of its head. The other digs into the crack I’d opened in its neck, and I—
Pull.
It strains. It creaks, yowling and scratching against my chest, and breaks. The monster’s head twists one way, and half of its neck goes the other.
And then, beautiful quiet, as the thrill and joy of a good fight fades away. Just the song of my heart and breath to mark the passage of time, slowly fading as I calm myself down.
Shoulders back. Chin up. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I run a hand through my messy hair, using a touch of Wind to bring it to a semblance of order.
"Right!" I say as brightly as possible, tossing the wooden monster to the ground. I keep my teeth hidden, push my voice up a note, and do my best to be nonthreatening. "Portal."
Winston steps forward, picking his way through the splinters. "Are you quite alright, Am— Ivy? That was..."
I look down at myself, at the torn blouse and the tiny cuts beneath. My arm is, on close inspection, fine, but that's definitely going to bruise later. It's not a great look, but I did dress for breakfast rather than fighting. My mistake.
If only...
Oh, Gods damn it all. Benny was right about the day pack. Looks like I tossed it to the side at some point, not that I remember.
"I'm fine." I say, striding over to the pack and decidedly not looking at anyone. Oh, excellent, there's a blouse. I'll just turn around and switch those out. "Just a bit surprised. I'm going to need support from your guards if it happens again while I'm sealing the portal."
Someone behind me is muttering, but I can't quite pick up what they're saying. Probably just something about impropriety, or whatever.
I flick my tail in irritation, buttoning up my collar and turning around to face a mildly surprised looking Winston.
"Winston, I know you're a Mageblood of some sort, and I can’t imagine you being a novice. I'll want you supporting from afar, if you can. You've got, what. Wind, Water...”
"Just the two for archetypes, and I am proficient with both." Winston confirms, giving a nod to Guard One and Guard Two. "Riverson, Park, you heard Dame Crawford. It is time to get to work, I believe."
I grin as the guards flinch, and spread my hands. "Don't worry. You're in good hands."
