The Chronicles of a Fallen Star

There was a fear, Selene admitted to herself as she stared down at the arm. When Poca had told her to think of it as a puppy, her reaction was immediate, her mind conjuring images of the violent beasts Udanara's puppies could grow into under the right circumstances. Even a simple guard dog here could level into something terrifying if neglected or mistreated, turning on its own owner. Selene had a dangerous side she hadn’t needed to show the person who had saved her life, but after the reveal that this arm had its own life, she began to second guess everything.

Poca kept trying to talk to her, to be friendly, but none of it was getting through Selene’s new wall. Poca’s voice, once soothing, now felt like a distant echo as Selene’s mind raced with fear and anger. Eventually, Poca's patience seemed to wane. She approached Selene cautiously, her mismatched eyes full of concern. “Did I do something wrong, ma chère?” she asked softly, her accent thickening with emotion.

Selene's head snapped up, her eyes blazing with a cold fury. "What have you done to me?" she demanded, her voice sharp as steel. Poca’s eyes widened in confusion, her lips parting to speak, but Selene cut her off. "I am thankful for you saving my life, but you are playing a dangerous game."

Poca tilted her head, her brows knitting together. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Selene took a step forward, her anger bubbling to the surface. "This arm," she hissed, holding up the mithralite limb. "You said it has its own life. Do you have any idea what that means? Do you understand the kind of monster you might have attached to me?"

Poca shriveled back, her hands rising defensively. "Selene, I—"

"You don’t understand!" Selene shouted, her fear and rage mixing into a volatile cocktail. "You’ve attached something to me that could turn on me, that could become a threat. I don’t know your intentions, and frankly, I don’t trust you!"

Tears welled up in Poca’s eyes as she shook her head. "Non, non, you misunderstand! Ze arm is a gift, a tool to help you, not to harm—"

Selene’s vision narrowed, her world shrinking down to the face of the woman she now saw as a potential threat. "A gift? Or a way to control me? What kind of monster have you turned me into? Isn’t being a demon enough of a curse already?"

Poca’s eyes flooded with unshed tears, her voice breaking. "Please, Selene, you must listen. Ze arm is not a monster. It is a part of you now, to aid you, to grow with you. I swear I have no hidden agenda. I want to help you—"

"Help me?" Selene spat, her voice dripping with venom. "Like your madman father helped his creations? How can you be any different when you use me as your experiment?"

Poca’s face crumpled, her voice desperate. "I am not my father! I do zis to honor him, not to repeat his mistakes. You are not an experiment, Selene. You are someone I want to help, to save—"

But Selene wasn’t hearing it. Her fear and mistrust blinded her, turning every word Poca said into a perceived lie. She took another step towards Poca, her vision blurring with rage. "What have you done to me? What kind of sick game are you playing?"

Before she could take another step, Selene’s vision spun. She reached out, grabbing a desk to steady herself, but the dizziness was overwhelming. Her broken horn throbbed painfully, a harsh reminder of her recent trauma. She felt her legs buckle, the strength draining from her body. The desk wasn't enough to hold her up, and she collapsed to the floor.

Poca remained where she was, her usual instinct to rush to Selene’s side restrained by fear. Selene’s vision began to fade, the room spinning around her. The last thing she saw before passing out was Poca’s face, frozen in fear and heartbreak.

What felt like moments later, Selene woke up in the bed, alone. Her head ached, but she noticed that the rest had been needed. Her mind, previously a jumbled mess, now felt clearer. Poca truly seemed to want to help her, with no alternative motives apparent. Yet, Selene had always found it hard to trust. Still, there was something about Poca...

Selene got up, feeling the limberness in her body. The sun was still shining through the slats. She wondered if she had slept a whole day or not at all. Slowly, she moved to the doorway back into the puppeteer's house, but Poca was nowhere to be found. She wandered outside to the front yard, where a large garden lay. Fruits, vegetables, roots, and herbs were grown in abundance.

There, in the garden, Selene saw Poca's naked light blue body, kneeling and digging into the sandy soil. She appeared to be in the process of planting something. Selene, now able to walk and move on her own, took tentative steps towards Poca. She got a lot closer than she thought she would before Poca finally noticed her.

An awkward silence hung in the air before Poca quietly asked, "Would you like to help me plant some roots?" Her tone was uncertain.

Selene nodded, a lump forming in her throat. She knelt into the sandy soil next to Poca, who explained, "Zis is an Animation Root, an expensive base for healing potions and craftwork." Poca tried to ignore the tension from earlier.

There was another long stretch of silence. Selene struggled to explain herself, her trust issues. "I... I'm not good at trusting people," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "It's hard for me to... open up."

Poca nodded, understanding. "It is okay, ma chère. We all have our scars." She smiled softly, adding, "You will need to tell me some stories of your past to get my forgiveness." She winked and gave a small smile.

Selene nodded again, though Poca clarified, "It was a joke, but I would like that."

Poca's stitchwork smile and lithe frame looked beautiful under the sun. There was something about her that made it easy to relax one's guard. Selene tried to apologize once more, but Poca didn't allow it, her cheery and straightforward demeanor returning.

"Let's focus on planting," Poca said, her voice light. She began to explain the process of planting the Animation Root, detailing the critical parts. "Have you ever done any gardening?" she asked.

Selene shook her head. "Never."

Poca clapped in excitement, her eagerness to teach evident. "Gardening like zis can strengthen ze bond in your arm, creating better and more involved fine motor skills attunement."

Poca realized she needed to explain the arm in more detail. "It does have life, yes, but not life like you and me. It has a life force zat can bond with you and grow alongside you. It takes permanent Life Points, drawing directly from your own HP, but only if you feed it. I have fed it over my life, making it as strong as it is now."

Selene sat back on her legs, digging into the sandy soil. The deepness of how wrong she had been struck her. This arm was more similar to a Soulbound Weapon than a familiar. Her ash grey cheeks blushed a deep crimson in embarrassment.

Poca smiled reassuringly. "Do not worry about it. I made ze mistake of not telling you in full depth about ze arm." She casually told Selene to focus on the garden, and Selene couldn't help but to give in.

Selene closed her eyes, letting the sun fall on her as she wore the odd nature tunic of leaves and vines. The feeling of the sandy grain beneath her bare legs was grounding. This... this wasn't something she ever dreamed of. This... was this... peace?

She opened her eyes and looked at Poca, who was carefully planting the roots. There was a serenity to her movements, a dedication to the task at hand. Selene felt a sense of calm wash over her, a rare and precious feeling. She realized that, for the first time in a long time, she felt at peace.

***

The dilapidated farm was a picture of neglect: overgrown fields, a decaying barn, and the cawing of crows somewhere in the distance. Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello, and Michelangelo approached cautiously, their senses heightened and weapons at the ready. The air was thick with tension and the promise of violence.

Leonardo signaled to his brothers, and they moved swiftly, silently, through the farm. As they reached the barn, a group of Ovochos's henchmen emerged from the shadows, their expressions hostile. Without hesitation, the River Lurkers engaged.

Raphael was the first to strike, his twin Kama flashing in the dim light as he lunged at the nearest henchman. The man barely had time to react before Raphael's weapons plunged into his side, the henchman crumpling to the ground with a gurgled scream. Raphael's red scales gleamed with fury as he pulled his scythe free and turned to face the next opponent.

Donatello, wielding his spear, moved with calculated precision. He swung the spear in a wide arc, knocking two henchmen off their feet. One of them scrambled to rise, but Donatello's staff end came down hard on his head, rendering him unconscious. The purple-scaled Lurker spun gracefully, the spear a blur of motion as he took down another attacker with a sharp jab to the ribs.

Michelangelo, always the agile one, flipped over a charging henchman, his three-section staff spinning in his hands like nunchaku. He landed behind his opponent and delivered a swift, bone-crunching strike to the back of the man's neck. Michelangelo's orange scales shimmered as he moved fluidly, dispatching another henchman with a well-placed kick to the chest that sent the man sprawling.

Leonardo, his blue scales reflecting the dim light, wielded his katanas with lethal efficiency. He parried a clumsy attack from one henchman and countered with a swift slash that left the man clutching his bleeding arm. Leonardo's movements were precise and deadly, his blades cutting through the air with a hiss. He dispatched another henchman with a swift thrust, the blade piercing the man's heart.

The fight was swift and brutal. The henchmen, despite their numbers, were no match for the trained River Lurkers. The ground was soon littered with the groaning, unconscious forms of Ovochos's guards.

Just as the last henchman was subdued, a door slammed open, and Ovochos himself stepped out. His grotesque appearance was unsettling, his sea-blue skin marred by patches of grafted flesh. His bloodshot eyes and the stolen horn on his head added to his macabre presence. He wore a formal suit, maintaining an air of twisted decorum.

"What is the meaning of this?" Ovochos demanded, his voice a mixture of anger and curiosity. The remaining henchmen stopped their futile struggle and waited for their master's instructions.

Leonardo stepped forward, his katanas still at the ready. "We are the River Lurkers. We seek the one responsible for the death of our master, Splinter."

Ovochos's eyes narrowed, a sinister grin spreading across his face. "You seek answers, do you? And what makes you think you'll find them here?"

Raphael growled, his fists clenched. "We've been tracking those responsible. We're not leaving until we get answers."

Ovochos raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. "Very well. What happened to your master?"

Leonardo's voice was heavy with sorrow and anger. "Our master was cut down without a care. We are hunting those responsible to right the wrong."

Ovochos's eyes gleamed with interest. "And who, pray tell, are you looking for?"

Donatello stepped forward, his voice steady. "The day it happened, we spoke with our master's closest ones. They told us he wasn't alone. Another Lurker stayed in the river, witnessing the presence of two armed females. She tried to bring Master Splinter back to the river, but he had gone mad from overtraining."

Michelangelo added, "We seek the Swordmaiden of Obsidian Tier with blonde hair, and her partner with odd pink fluffy footwear."

Ovochos's sinister grin grew wider. "Ah, I see. It seems you have found your quarry. Those very individuals attacked my farm several days ago."

Leonardo's eyes widened. "You know them?"

Ovochos nodded slowly. "Indeed, I do. And coincidentally, I know who has been driving them around on their return to the city. His name is Thrix Yas'tavot."

The name hung in the air like a curse, the River Lurkers exchanging grim looks. Ovochos watched them with a twisted satisfaction, his grotesque features lit by a sinister glow.

Leonardo took a step forward, his eyes locked on Ovochos. “Where can we find this Thrix Yas'tavot?”

Ovochos’s grin widened further, his bloodshot eyes gleaming. “He frequents the lower districts of the city, always looking for new business opportunities. But be warned, he is not an easy man to track.”

Raphael’s fists tightened, his red scales glinting with rage. “We will find him,” he growled. “And we will make him pay for what he did to Master Splinter.”

Ovochos nodded, his expression one of dark amusement. “I wish you luck, then. But remember, vengeance is a dangerous path.” He casually winked.

Leonardo turned to his brothers, his voice filled with determination. “We move now. We will find Thrix Yas'tavot and make him answer for his crimes.”

The River Lurkers moved with purpose, leaving Ovochos and his defeated henchmen behind. The grotesque Fleshcrafter watched them go, a wicked grin still etched on his face. Ovochos looked around at the fallen men, his bloodshot eyes narrowing.

"Well," he said, his voice dripping with disgust, "Seems I'll have to hire new men."

He looked around the farm, the place now marred by violence. "At least the place looks better," he mused.

His gaze landed on a broken window, and he scowled. He would have to fix that, as well as everything else. He'd make use of the fallen men's bodies and put them to good use. The Fleshcrafter chuckled darkly as he set to work, his thoughts filled with schemes and plots. His gaze glanced at the backs of the River Lurkers and a cruel frown stretched across his lips, his eyes narrowing with sadistic glee.

With a heavy sigh, "Why do I keep letting them leave alive?" He turned to walk back into his farmhouse, muttering to himself. "Next time, I'll have them for dinner."

Ovochos shut the door behind him, the sound of the lock echoing in the empty yard.

***

Leif sat in the dim, dank cell, sweat building on his forehead. The rough wooden peg where his leg had been itched horribly, the seam where flesh and wood melded together with crude magic a constant reminder of his failure. He wiped his brow, the memories of that fateful night still vivid. That bitch had taken his leg, and he knew his team was dead. He had heard their screams, piercing the silence of the night as he fled. Their ambush on the sleeping naked lady had been the deadliest mistake they ever made. How were they to know Ayla Guinenne would be protecting her?

He shivered, recalling the terror that had driven him to flee. He knew exactly who Ayla was, which was why he ran when she severed his leg. His team fought, but after his leg was gone, he knew she would end him if he stayed. Yet, it wasn't his cowardice that landed him in a cell in the Broken Compass. He had information, and he had opened his mouth when he shouldn't have.

The rumors spread quickly. He had heard about who Ayla was with—the rumored fallen star. It could only be Lady Marcelline's Sword Maiden who found her. His story, told in snippets of fear and pain, filled in gaps that others eagerly devoured. He pieced together the information about the encounter, realizing Ayla was with the Fallen Star. The last conversation with his gang echoed in his mind, their mention of luck, and he felt a pang of sadness, pushing it away quickly.

His return to Valarian was swift, his team leaving him the scroll of return. He made it to the river, went downstream away from the two after losing his leg, and performed the summoning. The healer told him he was fine, but getting a better leg than the crude wooden peg cost more than he had. He scratched at the seam again, cursing his misfortune.

The cell door creaked open, and Leif looked up, his breath catching in his throat. Nathor stepped in, moving slowly as if weighed down by an invisible burden. His wings, a shimmering black, were tucked neatly against his back. The ethereal quality of his wings was like a mirage of dark glass, barely discernible yet unmistakably present.

Nathor's eyes were half-closed, the deep red irises swirling with black like a stirring abyss. His black hair was disheveled, streaked with strands of white, and his full beard did little to soften the ruggedness of his features. Scars marred his neck and the visible bit of his chest beneath his red coat, each one telling a silent story of battles fought and survived. His chest hair peeked out from the open collar of his coat, adding to his rugged appearance. He wore elegant pants cut just past the knees, his bare feet stepping lightly on the ground despite his tired demeanor.

Nathor approached the cell with an unbothered, gruff tone. "You're the one who survived," he said slowly, his voice like gravel. "Tell me about the naked one."

Leif swallowed hard, his eyes darting to Nathor's deep red ones. "I... I didn't mean to cause any trouble," he stammered, the fear evident in his voice. "We thought she was just some vagrant. We didn't know..."

Nathor's gaze hardened, and he stepped closer, his wings shifting slightly. "I didn't ask for your excuses," he said, his tone growing more menacing. "Tell me about the naked one."

Leif's breath quickened, and he licked his dry lips. "She was... she was with Ayla Guinenne. We tried to ambush her while she was sleeping, but Ayla... she came out of nowhere. She took my leg," he said, pointing to his wooden peg, "and killed the rest of my team."

Nathor's eyes narrowed, the swirling black within them growing darker. "And this naked one," he prompted. "What did you learn about her?"

Leif hesitated, his mind racing. "I heard rumors after I got back to Valarian. They say she's the Fallen Star. That Ayla found her and is protecting her. Lady Marcelline's Sword Maiden, with the Fallen Star."

Nathor's expression remained unreadable, his wings twitching slightly. "The Fallen Star," he repeated, his voice soft but dangerous. "And what else do you know?"

Leif's heart pounded in his chest, and he tried to steady his voice. "Not much else. Just that they were heading back to Valarian. I saw them heading downstream before I used the scroll."

Nathor regarded him for a long moment, his eyes boring into Leif's. Finally, he nodded slowly. "You will stay here," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Until I decide what to do with you."

Leif's shoulders slumped in defeat, and he nodded. "Yes, sir."

Nathor turned and began to leave the cell, his movements slow and deliberate. "There's nothing else?" he asked, his back still to Leif.

Leif shook his head, a sense of hopelessness settling over him. "No, sir. I'm sorry, but that's all I know."

Nathor paused at the door, his wings rippling. Nathor knew there was a critical detail he needed to hear to confirm his suspicions, and Leif had neglected to mention it. As if Leif could read his mind, he called out just before Nathor closed the door.

"Wait!" Leif stammered, his voice trembling. "There's... there's something else. The naked one... she wore an odd pair pink slippers with bunny ears or something. She slipped away, put them on, and stabbed Garrick in the back when he was beginning to beat Ayla. That was the last sight I saw before I fell into the water. Being an archer gave me the Far Sight ability, so... I saw it all."

Nathor paused, turning slowly to face Leif. A flicker of recognition crossed his features. "Pink fluffy bunny slippers," he repeated, a sinister smile curling his lips. "Interesting detail."

Leif swallowed hard, nodding. "Yes, sir. I... I thought it might be important."

Nathor nodded, a gleam in his dark eyes. "You've done well, Leif. You will be rewarded for your information. Don't see this as a punishment, but more of a... stepping stone." His tone carried a hint of amusement, a joke that made Leif wince.

Leif's shoulders slumped in relief, and he managed a weak smile. "Thank you, sir."

Nathor turned and walked out of the cell, the heavy door closing behind him with a resounding thud. He moved through the dimly lit corridors of the Broken Compass, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor. The air grew thicker with the sounds of laughter, chatter, and the clinking of glasses as he approached the main hall.

The Broken Compass was a sprawling establishment with the look and feel of an old-timey gambling den. It had a thick seafarer ambiance, its wooden walls adorned with nautical maps, ship wheels, and lanterns. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across the room, illuminating the faces of patrons engrossed in games of chance. The air was filled with the murmur of conversations, punctuated by the occasional cheer or groan of gamblers.

Nathor ascended the stairs to the main floor, his wings shifting slightly as he entered the bustling den. The place was crowded, filled with all sorts of characters—pirates, merchants, and thieves—all seeking fortune or escape. The air was thick with the scent of tobacco and the tang of alcohol. A large bar dominated one side of the room, its polished wooden surface gleaming under the lantern light.

Nathor made his way to the bar, his presence causing a few heads to turn. He was a figure both feared and respected in these parts, his reputation preceding him. He took a seat on a high stool, his wings folding neatly behind him, and signaled to the bartender.

"Tequila," he ordered in his gruff, unbothered tone.

The bartender, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, nodded and poured a glass of amber liquid. He slid it across the bar to Nathor, who caught it effortlessly. Nathor stared down at his drink, his hair falling into his face as he pondered his next move. He had to get his hands on that damned star before the royals did. Selene would be after it as well, that damned demon always getting her claws where she shouldn't.

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the light play off its surface before taking a long swig. The burn of the tequila was a familiar comfort, but it did little to ease the weight of his thoughts. His wings shifted restlessly, a sign of his growing impatience. He hated having to do the work himself. What was the point of making all these connections if everyone was so self-serving? They were only helping to help themselves.

There were two rumors circulating right now: one that the Sword Maiden herself had the Fallen Star, and the other that Thrix Yas'tavot had returned to the city with some rather telling stories after having gone after Selene. Nathor figured Yas'tavot knew some things. His palace was well protected and he had many connections in the slums. Nathor had his own connections as well and was sure he could arrange a... meeting between the two of them.

He took another swig of tequila, the gears in his mind turning. Thrix Yas'tavot was a powerful figure, well-guarded and well-connected. But Nathor had his ways. He needed to be cautious, calculating. A direct approach would be unwise. He needed to gather more information, find the right leverage.

The bartender, sensing Nathor's contemplative mood, kept his distance, tending to other patrons. Nathor appreciated the solitude, the moment of quiet amidst the chaos of the gambling den. He replayed the details Leif had given him in his mind: the pink fluffy bunny slippers, the ambush, Ayla's fierce defense. The image of the Fallen Star in such mundane footwear was almost laughable, yet it added a layer of complexity to the figure he sought.

Nathor leaned back, his eyes scanning the room. He spotted a few familiar faces—informants, spies, and low-level thugs. He would need to deploy them strategically, gather intelligence without drawing too much attention. The Broken Compass would always lead you to your most sinful desires, or connect you with people who would do anything for the right price.

Useless, Nathor thought to himself, draining his glass and slamming it down on the bar. All these connections were useless without the right leverage. He had to find it. And if Yas'tavot couldn't be persuaded, then there was always the more violent option.

Nathor pushed himself off the barstool, his wings stretching languidly. He felt the eyes of the room follow him as he made his way towards the door, the sound of his steps tapping on the stone floor.

He paused at the door, his gaze sweeping across the sea of faces once more. He had work to do, connections to make. He had to find that fucking star before the royals did, and he knew exactly where to start.

With a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air, his wings rippling in the breeze. The open red coat he wore billowed behind him, the tails fluttering like flags. There was no time to waste. He had a city to scour, and a Fallen Star to find.

As Nathor's steps faded into the distance, the air in the Broken Compass shifted. The crowd resumed their revelry, the laughter and chatter returning. But the weight of Nathor's presence lingered, a reminder of the danger lurking in the shadows.