“One of the fundamental differences between Natives and Awakened is the collective history, culture, and therefore tradition that Natives have. Take the Native goblin’s infamous ‘blood price’ for example. Their traditions have such a deep connection to this concept of evening the karmic scales through the spilling of blood that it actually influences the System. Through their collective desires and beliefs, they change the very nature of the Classes and Skills that they, as a culture, receive.”

-

The hobgoblin [Guardian], a Champion of his people, raised his hands and settled into an unusual fighting stance. It was reminiscent of a bent-knee, hinged-waist wrestling stance, but with one key difference. He spread his fingers wide and flexed his claws at Snowflake, making it clear that he intended to rip and shred, not grapple and throw. With each motion, the rippling muscles just beneath his skin causing the swirling paint on his body to dance as if alive. With slow, deliberate steps he circled toward Snowflake.

As the seconds stretched far beyond what he knew them to be, Snowflake contemplated the hob’s motivations. He wondered if the way the hob was delaying the inevitable was an act of mercy, or one of cruelty. Before, the hob had an air of a cat playing with its food. Now, it felt different in a way he couldn’t quite place.

Time crept forward inch by inch, forcing Snowflake to face his emotions in what felt like a world moving through molasses. For once, he didn’t feed the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him to the flame in his mind. No. He let them wash over him and remind him what it felt like to be alive.

Everything felt so raw here. This world had shown him that the depths of emotions he had lived before were just a pale shadow compared to what he was experiencing now.

He just wished that he could have felt joy and triumph with the same extremes.

With a trembling hand he reached across his chest to touch his opposite shoulder, where his cloak once hung. The mere pressure of the soft touch sent sharp pain shooting through his hand and up his arm. He sought comfort where there was none to be found and received agony instead. But that was okay. Instead of dwelling on what was lost, he limped forward, broken hands raised in the best stance he could manage.

He made it a point to not look at his mangled hand. The blood flowing from his wounds when he grabbed the hob’s axe paired with the shooting pains were enough to tell him the damage was far worse than he thought it would be when he committed to that desperate attempt. But that too was okay. In this world survival took sacrifices. He wasn’t ready to die. Not to Robert, not to the hob, and not to anyone else who came for him.

But… some things were out of his control. Without Magic at his side, he was nothing. Maybe if he had just a bit more time…

Pain consumed his every movement as he strode forward in a strange, timeless haze. Even as chemical energy aided by [Rapid Recovery] fought to knit him back together again, he knew he wouldn’t heal fast enough. Death was one quick movement and a ripped out throat away.

Broken bones took far longer to heal than a few gifted moments from an honorable enemy and as far as he knew, fingers didn’t grow back.

Words from a lifetime ago tickled the back of his mind; a long forgotten determination. They slipped through his exhausted mind, finding no purchase. However, they left a feeling; deep melancholy and loss. Grief over what was and what could have been.

If he could reclaim what he had lost, would he be a different person now than he had been before? Would Magic rest easy knowing she had sacrificed herself for the person he had become in his short time here? When she made her choice, did she feel what he was feeling now, as he died alone in an unfamiliar place?

The hob circled closer, his manic grin long faded away. Snowflake was no expert in goblin facial expressions, but if the hob was a human, Snowflake would think that he had sad eyes.

Snowflake squared his shoulders and set his jaw. He wasn’t ready, but he would face his fate on his feet. Conflicting emotions raged in his chest like a hurricane at sea, but resolve was far from the least of them. It flickered inside him like the flame of an eternal candle, refusing to be extinguished no matter the circumstance.

That said, perhaps it was best that he was facing his end alone. There was no one here to see the tears he felt streaming down his face. He wiped his eyes, and felt his face cheeks become wetter. His blood mingled with the tears.

Even in this strange state, he would never have enough time to think and feel everything he wanted to. It was better to-

A screeching cry split through the air, followed close by a flood of worry and unrestrained anguish that mirrored Snowflake’s own. It came rushing through the bond he shared with Nevasca. She charged the hob with futile desperation, biting and clawing at his iron-like skin. In all her fury, she only managed to create thin, skin deep wounds that Snowflake could see knit back together before his very eyes. Except for a few drops of blood, it was like they had never existed.

She mewled in pain as the hob kicked her away.

Snowflake rushed forward with all his strength. He moved faster and further with each step than he had ever moved before, his every motion imbued with [Explosive Movement]. His world was pain, but for that moment, it had become a part of him. The hob turned to greet his head-long rush with his claws poised for battle, but Snowflake brushed past him and continued on.

Beyond the hob, Nevasca was struggling to her feet, murder in her eyes as she braced herself for another futile attempt. Snowflake knelt down and scooped her into his arms, catching her by surprise. She struggled weakly, fighting to attack the hob. To protect him. Maybe it was something all beasts understood on a certain level, but she too knew that survival required sacrifice.

Snowflake didn’t let her go, even as her Source sharpened feathers lacerated his skin. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. That dark and bitter thing inside him roared to life, as he swore to himself that he would never let anyone sacrifice themselves for him again.

Here he was, wallowing in self-pity and existential dread while his little mutant was fighting to buy him more time. Guilt, shame, and a deep unrelenting appreciation, all in equal measures, washed over him as he remembered how he felt when he had ‘lost’ to that little mechanical asshole and received Nevasca as his Soulbound Companion. He didn’t deserve her. She was too good for him.

The hob watched them, silent and unmoving.

Snowflake sent feelings of peace through their bond as he stroked her fur and feathers. His blood left great red streaks in her coat. In that moment, he felt like a fog had lifted from his mind.

He looked up, locking eyes with the hob. With a broken voice and a shattered heart, Snowflake gestured to Nevasca and begged.

“Let her live.”

The hob frowned, the sorrow in his eyes deepening. With a slow, resigned shake of his head he replied.

“No. Soulbound. Soul break.”

“She will heal.”

“Mercy. Kill.”

Snowflake hung his head, nodding in slow acceptance. He squeezed Nevasca tight, her feathers digging into his skin. Pulling back to look into her eyes, he loosened his embrace to squish her furry little cheeks. Her face scrunched in confusion, concern leaking to him through their bond. He continued to send feelings of peace, acceptance, and resolve to her in return. The very world seemed to darken as they shared this precious moment together.

Snowflake pressed his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. She let out a pitiful meow, but didn’t move away.

In a soft voice, he spoke to her.

“I love you,” he said, struggling to force the words out as the emotions rose in his throat. He drew back with a sad smile and ruffled the feathers on her head. They cut his hand, but it was a drop of rain in an ocean. When he spoke again, his voice cracked through his faltering smile. “You feathery little mutant.”

Nevasca glanced to the waiting hob and back to Snowflake. Her confusion deepened. She leaned forward to butt her head against him, the way a housecat might. Snowflake embraced her one more time, clutching her close as tight as he dare.

Then, with a quick motion, Snowflake stood up from his kneeling position with Nevasca still in his arms. His injured leg buckled under his weight and hers, but he forced it to hold. Thankfully, his little mutant was lighter than she looked. Before the hob could guess his intentions, Snowflake rushed toward the edge of the [Arena]. Something seemed to be happening with the goblins outside, but he paid them no mind.

He poured every drop of Source in his body toward one task and one task only, enhancing what little strength he had left. Everything blurred. He didn’t move or transform the energy inside him in a conscious way. No, he just moved and trusted that everything would work out. Just this once, in this cruel and beautiful world, things would go in his favor.

With that, he heaved Nevasca up and over the side of the [Arena]. A formless weight lifted from his shoulders as she cleared the invisible edge of the walls. Something in his chest loosened. Maybe a god somewhere had heard his silent cry, but it looked like things would go his way. Just this once.

It would be a long fall down, but he was sure Nevasca would be fine. She would heal from that, just like her soul would heal when he was gone. Someday, when she became a big, strong fully grown feathered-cat, he hoped she would remember him. That and prove that little fairy asshole wrong.

With a smile on his face, Snowflake turned to face the hob, for the last time.

“Thank you,” Snowflake said.

He didn’t say for what. They both knew.

During Snowflake’s brief reprieve with Nevasca, the hob had straightened up and lowered his hands. He left them resting at his sides. Now, he caught Snowflake’s eye and raised a single fist to his heart. In a deliberate motion, he angled his head down and to the right. All without breaking eye contact.

Snowflake did not have the background to divine the full depths of significance that this small gesture held, but he could recognize an acknowledgement of respect between warriors. Using his less injured hand, Snowflake returned the gesture as best he could. There was a simple satisfaction to being seen and recognized as an equal by a great warrior such as the Champion before him.

Without breaking eye contact, the hob released his salute and once more shifted into his open-claw fighting stance. Snowflake followed his lead, moving his feet and hands into the stance Honey had taught him. A deep itch in his mind caused him to shift his balance ever so slightly, [Unarmed Combat: Basic] at work no doubt. But the shift was slight indeed. Honey had been a good teacher.

As the two warriors approached each other, the fog of exhaustion returned to Snowflake’s mind. The pain plaguing his battered body was once more brought to the forefront of his mind. Source, refined at a far greater rate by his improved Core, practically evaporated as it entered his possession. It was consumed by [Rapid Recovery] with extreme prejudice.

The hob lashed out in a series of blows, using his claws to swipe. Snowflake felt the blows more than saw them. In this fugue state, Snowflake did what most people did in times of crisis. He fell back on the motions ingrained into his muscle memory. His feet shifted and moved like they had countless times before, just like when Honey had assaulted him over and over again for hours on end.

With almost unconscious grace, Snowflake ducked and weaved away from the [Guardian’s] attacks. Claws ripped and tore at his skin, but it was nothing new. Each blow that left him alive was a victory. Snowflake faded deep into his mind, time once again playing tricks on him. However, instead of seconds stretching for eternity, time seemed to blur away, only becoming clear in short bursts.

As Snowflake accepted a spear-like thrust of the hob’s hand—better the shoulder than the heart— he felt a glimmer of pride. Here he was, almost as weak as he had been the day he arrived in this world, exchanging blows with an enemy far beyond his capability. This was a level of skill and competency he had earned for himself. It felt good.

An unseen blow caught him on the side of the head, sending him crashing to the ground. The hob stood above him, claws poised to rip him apart. When the he didn’t rush to finish the job, Snowflake released a breath he hadn’t released he was holding.

With a cough, and silent thanks to his opponent, Snowflake spat a mouthful of blood and dirt and tried to claw his way to his feet. He got halfway and collapsed. Again he tried, but again he failed. Even the dark, bitter thing inside him could provide nothing more.

Snowflake stared into the sky and for just a second, he felt like he was back in the city, sparring with Honey. Towering formations of clouds floated by. The way they caught the light made them seem like unearthly cathedrals. He thought he saw the shadow of a giant bird pass by, and the dream-like instant ended.

Snowflake dug deep into himself again. He found nothing. No sudden burst of energy or resolve came to him. Part of him wanted to just give in and let the hob slay him where he lay. But that just wouldn’t do. If he had to die, it would be on his feet. He tried again, with shaking arms and legs like jelly. In the end it was a choice. No divine inspiration or hidden powers came to his aid. He choose to stand up, so he would.

It was hard. One of the hardest things he had ever done, but he made it to his knees. Then, he pushed himself to his feet, only just catching himself from falling flat on his face. It hurt. It hurt so bad.

Half remembered words from a lifetime ago echoed through his mind.

Even if the gods, or reality itself, stand in my way.

Once he was standing, he noted that the hob’s attention was no longer on him. Snowflake followed the hob’s gaze to see a lone swordsman wearing dark leathers, standing at the edge of the [Arena]. The man had a long, curved sword with a single edge held in both hands. There was a second, identical blade sheathed next to a matching, but empty sheathe, on the man’s left side.

The swordsman raised and lowered his blade in a swirling arc, bringing it down at an angle so fast that Snowflake could only tell what happened by the man’s ending stance. Long, white lines seemed to grow out of thin air. The swordsman moved again and the section of the [Arena] he had attacked shattered.

A wave of noise washed over Snowflake like it was a physical thing. At some point, a pitched battle had broken out. Snowflake didn’t dwell on the details. No matter the chaos out there, it was better than the certain death in here. He made to move toward the cleared section of the [Arena], marked by the lack of distortion in the air, but a steady hand held him back.

The hob pulled Snowflake back from the swordsman and placed himself between them. He gave Snowflake a look, deep with meaning. Snowflake was light on the details, but he got the gist. The sadness in the hob’s eyes gave way to something that seemed like… hope? So Snowflake stood back.

“Bait. Blood price,” the hob said, in way that made it clear it was all he meant to say as an explanation. Then, he turned his back to Snowflake and turned to meet the swordsman.

It felt… strange, like so many things had in such a short period of time. It was both wrong and comforting. Snowflake felt a certain level of attachment to this stoic goblin, even though mere seconds ago he thought he would die at his hands. Maybe it was as simple as sharing a life and death situation with him, or perhaps it was the mutual respect of two fighters. Whatever it was, there was a strange sense of surreal-ness as the hob [Guardian] took up position in a way that made it seem like he was protecting Snowflake from the intruding swordsman.

The swordsman did not stand still during this exchange. By the time Snowflake realized that he had moved he was halfway to the hob, his sword poised to strike. As Snowflake watched the two, heading toward each other with death in their eyes, he couldn’t help but examine the feelings well up inside himself. It wasn’t that he was rooting for the hob who still might choose to end his life at any moment, but he at least wished he was still holding his axe and shield.