Garrod Arlette

Garrod Arlette

Fiend Bearer
Weaver
Character Profile
Profile
South Ilica, Dove's Range, Mhearan Mountains.

Hunting ground: North by northwest of Yellow Aster Den. Along a mountain pass betwixt the town of Irmolan and Javipindh.

Presa: Reports from survivors are mixed. What is hearsay and what is first hand account, muddled. A shapeshifter. A ghost. A vengeful wraith. But all accounts share the one detail. It appears to them as a memory. Loved ones lost.

Those dead who have been recovered. All drowned. Something like peace on their pale faces.

Gana: Bounty has been upped. Denmaster wants it dead, on the count of two drowned Cazadores, and a lost Tracker.

Five Gold pieces.

One piece bonus if you find the Tracker.


Yellow Aster Den

"A ghost?"

"That's what the locals think, some of them anyway,"

"And you think otherwise?"

"Don't matter what I think, Cazadore, it can be a ghost. Or it can be something else. You'll be getting rid of it, one way or the other,"

On the trail

Crunch of boots over leaves and old pine needles. Rustled with the dig of armored weight. Peaceful was a word for it. All cool green shade and stray beams of gold come through the canopy.

Trail near overgrown.

There beneath trees older than kingdoms. Branches fat and sprawled as they reached for sky beyond the cover of their canopies. Blue and bright only seen through scattered specks.

Even smelled like peace.

Rotted with how sweet it was. Thick as syrup on the nose. Against the skin. On account of the wind dying.

You only noticed now, oh bearer mine? A titter of laughter like breaking glass. All crack and razored spread.

Eye looked about. Green as the still world around it. Widened at the site. Pale lips spread into a spider silk smile.

"Garrod,"

Oh how the fiend laughed.

Irmolan, The Rosewood

Dead wood. Old ale. Drowned dreams.

No wind here either. Muggy with the stink of old sweat and smoke, cloying. Not rot. Just thick. Heavy on each breath with the tang tinge of sour.

The Don looked down at the golden piece there on the counter. Eyes read thee words. Stared up at the man with one eye and a bone white hand. Slipped fingers over the caza coin, all silk and butter.

Eyes pointed to the stairs. Fingers showed the number. Two then six.

"I'll need a bucket."


Thump of kick. Burst opened the door. Splash of cold water sloshed over the pile on the bed.

"Get up."
 
Thump.

She half-dreamed the sound at first. A boot, heavy. Door slammed open. Then...

Cold.

The shock hit like a punch to the chest. Her breath jolted out of her like a dying animal. A bucket’s worth, straight over her. Wellwater, by the smell of it, earthy and musty. Tavern slop and chamber pot runoff mixed in for good measure. It soaked the linens, the mattress, the aching curve of her spine.

So. Not killed in her sleep today either. Pity.

She came up gasping, soaked and shivering, head pounding. The cold had settled into her joints, and the hangover was a bear trap behind her eyes. Her shirt clung to her breasts and ribs, the fabric worn thin in places, little left to modesty. Not that she gave a shit.

“Get up,” came the voice. Male. Flat. Not a request. She didn’t recognize it at first, which could mean the owner of this fine establishment had lost his patience with her. She squinted through the drizzle still clinging to her lashes. The door stood wide, hanging crooked on its hinges. Mud streaked the floor where bootprints tracked in from the street.

Daniyah swung her legs off the bed. Her bare feet hit the wet stone floor with a slap. Her sword propped against a stool the foot of the bed. The room stank of spilled wine and whatever cheap perfumed oils any stranger of the night would have worn. Her knives were still on the floor, one stuck in the wall where she'd thrown it at something that hadn’t been there.

"Give me one reason I shouldn’t bury a blade in your belly...” she muttered, voice raw from drink and yet vulnerable to the dawn..
 
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Garrod stared at the mess that worked itself out of the wet heap. Eye cold on her, steel sword and dagger at his hip. He was already angled for the draw, but his hands stayed easy and empty about his side.

"I'd like to see you try, wraithbinder," word laced with venom. Dare there in the curl of his lip and angle of his chin.
 
"I’d like to see you try, wraithbinder," It sounded like the title tasted like ash in his mouth. Like he wanted her to come at him. Like she was a joke. Dogmeat in a wet shirt and nothing else. And maybe she was.

She squinted up at him, water still dripping from her jaw, strands of hair clinging to her face. He even smiled a little. That smug, slappable curl of his upper lip. Gods, she hated his face. That face was the reason bar brawls happened. Her knuckles still ached from yesterday...or the day before... or the day before that. Time had stopped keeping track of her. She rubbed one thumb across her palm, slow and thoughtful.

“Shut it before you wish you had.”

Her pants were still hanging from the bed frame. She moved slowly as she reached for them. She bent, slow and stiff, grabbing her trousers off the bedpost. One leg, then the other. She gave a slow blink, then bent down and dragged them up without grace, tying the cords tight, fingers fumbling once. Head still pounding. Every movement was worse than it needed to be.

Bare feet slapping on the floor, muscles screaming as she crossed the space between them in a blur of instinct and old violence. One hand went for one dagger on the floor. Her vision blurred, her balance was a mess of cold and nausea. Her hand was too off to reach any blade, so she changed course mid-step and went for him instead. Better to move before the headache would catch up.
 
He didn't flinch at the cold blue that had met him. Bit of lightning in it. Good. He could use that. Would use that.

"Shut it, before you wish you had."

Raise of brow and tilt of head said all he needed saying. Come on and make me.

Clumsy. Slow. Loud and ugly. Every move she made. Burned away the moment she sprang forward. Legs pressed toes against squished flat against the floor boards, slid weight back like a beast coiling before a pounce.

The wobble and waver of her limbs came up short. Swipe for the dagger. Swipe for the punch. Missed.

A step to her outside, the snatch of hungover swing, fingers wrenched against bone and twist the arm behind her back. The threat of breaking or dislocating enough to wrangle her against the wall with a slam. His leg and shoulder pinned her weight there.

"Your breath stinks," he cut close to her ear. "Paid a fucking gold piece for this," he laughed, bitter as smoke. "Daniyah," he torqued the arm up her spine. To prove a point. "Can't land a fucking punch, but I'm supposed to believe you can still go out and find a Weeping Widow?" disgust.

He eased the bind.

"One gold piece for you, " he let her go. "Count me generous for cutting you in for that much," stepped to the dagger she had almost snatched up. Picked it up. Pulled it free of its sheath. Clicked his teeth at the sight of it. Sheathed it shut.
 
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Boards slammed her ribs. Dust flurried. Her temple cracked against the plaster. Her teeth bit blood from the inside of her cheek. Something sharp jabbed into her hip, a nail, maybe. Or a splinter. Her arm bent back like a chicken wing. Pain flared, immediately. She sucked a breath in through her teeth.

And he was right there. Breathing like a dog who’d found a bone. Heat of him crawling up her spine. Shoulder wedged to pin her, leg braced just so to keep her caught and helpless.

"Your breath stinks."
“Didn’t know you were planning to kiss me.”

His laugh wasn’t real. Just pressure, like a pipe about to burst. He said her name like it was something that needed scrubbing. Daniyah. Said it while grinding her bones into the boards.

“Better deal than your mother got... What’d she pay to get rid of you, two coppers and her arse in a salad?"

A white-hot bolt shot through her shoulder, as he yanked her arm up higher behind her back.

A choked snarl burst from her throat. “Ghh..fuck!” Jaw clenched against the sound but not fast enough to bite it back. Her bare feet scraped against the floorboards. One gold piece for you. Generous, was he?

"Can't land a fucking punch, but I'm supposed to believe you can still go out and find a Weeping Widow?"

“Still better odds than sending you, Garrod One-Eye"

She peeled herself off the wall slow, jaw tight, spine stiff. Arm throbbed like a rotten tooth. Fine. She flexed her fingers to make sure nothing was broken. The blade, not just steel, not just sharp, glinted the wrong kind of glint as he picked it up. Black, dull. Ghost-etched, shadow-bound, seven sigils along the tang burned in with a hanged monk’s ash.

He clicked his teeth at it. Like a farmer judging a sow.

Idiot.

“So,” she muttered, tugging her shirt straight. “Tell me about that thing you think is a Weeping Widow.” she rumbled, stepping closer and lifting the dagger carefully from his hand.
 
A rumble at the you. Cut short by the snatch of weapon from his fingertips. Didn't like that she stalked towards his blind side. Kept an angle on her. Left hand on his own knife's handle.

"I happened upon the damn thing," he grunt. "Saw," shook his head. "What it wanted me to see," right hand squeezed tight about its own sharp fingertips. Felt them dig in to the leather of the gauntlet's palm. Hungry little teeth pricks.

And I was there to pull you out, Oh Bearer Mine. A laughter like flame's hiss. Don't forget to tell her.

A shake of the head. "There was no, malice in it," he let on. Voice colder. "Not open, anyhow, not naked. It was inviting, sad and wanting," smell of cheap wine and cheaper perfume thicker in the air. Mixed with the sounds of sweet sorrow that had wept from the thing. "Crying like a song, she wanted me to sing," sounded like he had wanted to sing it too. Let out a huff of breath instead. "Was boots deep in the water before I came to my senses," eye looked for her, brow quirked. "Where'd you get a ghost etched blade, anyhow?"
 
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“You want to know where I got it?"

Her feet found the worn leather of her boots.

“Maelgrim Vey made it, corpsewright and hexsmith down in Crorefell’s Bone Quarter. You bring him the right silver and the right corpse, he’ll make you anything."

The man was telling her that he was boots-deep and humming along, and the Weeping Widow just… let him go? The man was either lying or far luckier than he looked. Daniyah would bet her ass on that it was a lie. She blinked slow, water still running cold down her cheek, and gave him the kind of look reserved for greenhorns and drunks.

“Came to your senses, did you?”
That’s not how the Widow’s song works.

"Feed me shit again, and you can face her alone." She shrugged on her doublet, buckling the buttons as her eyes stayed on him. There wasn’t the same fire in her gaze as before, no heat, no spark, flat patience of someone done tolerating another’s crap. Lies get hunters killed; she’d buried enough to know better. Daniyah slung her belts into place. She wasn’t bluffing, if he tried that again, she’d walk away.
 
A mutter whispered between the scrape of teeth against bottom lip. A shake of the head. Raised his right hand, bound in the pale plate of some unknown's bones. The jewel at the base of his arm gleamed, alive with an impish glee.

"This got me out of it," tone flat as a knife.

Belephus hissed, throaty green smoke in the shadow of his missing eye.

"Its got its own curse," he grinned, fingers uncoiled from balled fist, "Didn't want to let me go, just yet," voice beckoned, sharp toothed and daring. "But that's not the job," Balled right back up, and fell to his side. A smirk. "Not today at least,"
 
Daniyah pressed her lips together into a thin line. Her gaze slid over that arm pirece and the jewel’s hungry glint, then back to his face.

“Lucky you.”

Daniyah’s gear was made for the work, dark leather and oiled mail layered for ease of movement and enough to turn a claw or blade. The cut was practical, close-fitted at the torso. Every strap and buckle was worn, darkened from years in the field, but where another hunter’s armor might be bare, hers bristled with charms. Thin silver rings were stitched into the seams, etched with warding runes no larger than a fingernail. Small bone fetishes, bleached smooth, dangled from her pauldrons and belt, each bound with red cord. Pouches and satchels lined her belt: salt, grave dust, nails, and more.

Around her neck hung a cluster of talismans and medallions. Daniyah’s smile was touched with a sadness. Her pale eyes, met his with quiet knowing. Maybe he still thinks there’s a choice, a way out? “You think that thing will let you go one day?”

The more time you spent with the dead, the more you began to look like them. Garrod's eyes held the bright green of a spring forest, full of life and strength. Hers, however, was a dull, cold blue, much like the gaze of a fresh corpse. Her ash-blonde hair hung lifelessly. Every color had been leeched from her, leaving her a walking shadow of faded hues.

"The way these things cling ... not just to your flesh, but to your soul. That thing will follow you to the grave."

She glanced cautiously around the dim room, eyes sharp and alert. With sluggish movements, she gathered the rest of her weapons, securing them on her body. Daggers, sword and crossbow. The last thing she reached for was the quiver of bolts, strapping it to her hip. Then, lowering herself onto one knee beside the bed, she reached beneath the bed to retrieve a curious chest. Its surface was charred black, bound tightly with chains and locks that whispered of long-forgotten secrets and dark magic. She tucked it under her arm.

“Since you’re feeling so generous,” she said grinning “how about you find me a horse to ride?"
 
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Armor dawned, she gave weight to the moniker. Wraithbinder. Bristled with all the story there in that haunting title.
Chain to ghosts.

A hook to drag them back to whatever tear in the shroud they had crawled out of. Wrapped in secrets older than the steel they were etched across. Every manner of charm and ward that would tie a lost soul down, just dangled off her.

Pray, oh bearer mine, the Fiend said, too amused. This one doesn't turn on you.

An ill humored huff from the cazadore.

"I'll be sure to find out," he muttered, his eye looked off of her cold stare. Hated the way it dug at at him.
Pity.

Or something too close to knowing. Empathy, too warm a word for either of them. Too marred in their own scars. Carved from different sides of the same coin. But what did she know. Of any of it.

What had cost him his eye.

That sweet moment that had brought us together, Oh bearer mine.

"Fucking rich, coming from you," he cut in a low growl. "I'm not paying for spiritual advice, Dani,"Turned and minded the door he went on muttering. Left the rest unsaid as he walked to the far wall. Leaned up against it and minded the door. Arms crossed.

How many nights had he frozen up, staring at the jewel. When he had been able to tear it off. Would just feel the cold edge, run across his neck all over again. Felt the flames eat the wound shut. Light from one eye gone. Black hair bleached bone white.

Or just feel it there. Belephus. Behind the sealed wound. Smiling.

They way she looked at him. Like she knew he was already dead. A click of his teeth.

"Since you're feeling so generous, how about you find me a horse to ride?"

A cocked brow, and a tilt of the head. "How about it, huh?"

Come the bray of a mule. White as the pair of their heads. "Names, Casper," he said with a wry smile, and tossed the reigns to her. His armor dawned, greatsword strapped onto his back. He stepped onward, toward the trail. "Got a good deal on her,"

Casper brayed loud as a crier. Stared at Daniyah with her big brown eyes. Pale tail a swish.

"Be nice to her now, Casper,"
 
“I’m not paying for spiritual advice, Dani.”

She caught the change. From Wraithbinder to Daniyah, and now this. Dani. A name clipped short, like the brittle snap of a bone.

“Maybe you should.” she said with a cold, unblinking stare.


The scent of woodsmoke hung thick in the air with the distant clang of the blacksmith. Daniyah trudged back through the town’s narrow, crooked streets, the hangover pressing on her shoulders. Oscar, her steadfast brown mule, walked steadily behind her. His pack rattled faintly with vials of harsh-smelling emulsions, dried herbs, and other necessities scavenged from the market stalls or old hags. While Garrod had gone to see about finding a horse, she had slipped off on a quick supply run, returning with what they could need for what lay ahead.

Her eyes scanning for Garrod. She found him near the far stall, reins in hand, but the mount he led was no horse. Another mule. Her pace faltered when a pale shape stepped into view. Her jaw tightened beneath ash-blonde strands, cold eyes narrowing. Oscar snorted.

Daniyah caught the reins he tossed at her.

“That is not a horse.”
 
"Town's lousy with overpriced horses," he gave back as his boots crunched on. "None of them worth half of what they are asking for, save Casper," he grinned, too pleased with himself. "Worth her weight in gold, she is, just look at her,"

The pale haired creature seemed as sure as any good mule.

"Good to ride, too," a shrug there in the span of his shoulders.

Ever on to the trail. Townsfolk wide eyeing the pair of geared up Cazadores. And their two mules.
 
"Overpriced horses"
This was nothing but a damn insult.

Daniyah’s jaw tightened as she caught the smug grin. That smirk of his. He thinks this is funny, like she was some fool, a court jester parading on a half-donkey for his amusement. Not a partner, not an equal, just a sideshow. Well, fuck that. She reached into Oscar’s pack and yanked out a battered, grimy bottle. With a quick twist, the cork popped loose, and the first burning swallow hit her throat like a fist.

Good.
Needed.

"Good to ride, too,"

I don’t give a fuck.
Maybe you and your demonish-arm-piece should find that widow yourself.

Garrod was met with the silent treatment.

She swung herself up onto the mule, her hands steady but her mind boiling. The animal was steady enough, sure, better than most horses, even. But that wasn’t the point. She had asked for a horse. A proper horse. The mule shifted beneath her, sure-footed. Daniyah tied Oscar's reins around the pommel and heeled on the dusty mule. And she would drink until she would see two trails.
 
A quiet laugh as she heeled Casper on. A shake of the head as she swigged down the drink. Sallied off without so much as word.

So he just kept walking.

He came across what looked like camp not before the sun started setting. Deep into the trail, but some ways still off from where he remembered the wind dying.
"Please tell me you at least get yourself something good to drown in?" he asked, boots marching to the center of the arrangement.

Stopped and scanned the clearing.

Defensible. Only one good approach from the road, and plenty of shelter. Easy paths to slip off into. Whether on purpose, or a drunken happenstance, it wasn't a bad spot.

Found himself thinking on an other drunk he knew. Felt his right hand squeeze tight, beneath the gauntlet. Shook his head free of the old ghost.

Garrod made away from her horde of effigies and wyrd fetishes, the oddities already seeming to sprawl about in that way of roots and natural things. He just sneered at them. Laid down his pack. Swords. Belt. Got to work on his armor. Undid the straps. Bit by troublesome bit.

"You aren't passed out in the bushes, are you?" he called out as he got a strap loose. Worked his head out of the clamshell of his plate. Felt his hair snag on some bit made to fit tight together.
 
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