Between trees and grove, under sun and rain,
Steel drifts on the wind, embers dust of smoke.
Ancient gods, kings of men, faerie change,
Frain gifts of Völundr, toiling unbroke.
-=-
Lost.
How long she had been walking, Mary did not know. All she knows is the relative area she had crash landed in. That is to say, a forest. Somewhere.
Not the best indicator.
I’m lost.
The battle had occurred somewhere between along the border of the Federation and the Empire. Relatively close to the coast, and cold as a fucking ice box inside a glacier. Sunlight shone down bright, though fat rainclouds hovered warningly at intermittent points.
There was the momentary temptation, whilst flying in the area, to dip across the nearby ocean and land in her former homeland.
But that would be desertion. And they’d been attacked nearly as soon as the though had occurred, so it didn’t really matter.
None of these thoughts really mattered. Because she’s lost.
Fuck.
Her computation orb had not survived the fall, assuming it would have survived being half melted from her own overcharge of mana. There’s no radio on her person, and if she has any ammo besides the singular round left in her rifle, it is long gone.
She is lost in the wilderness, somewhere between Germanian and Rus territories, with no way to contact anyone else. And with no one probably expecting her to have survived. Not that they would care, probably.
It's really cold. It'a wet in places, as those sparse rain clouds from earlier weeped for her situation. She’s tired, low on mana, lost…
Fuck! Fuck!!!
So caught up in this spiral, Mary doesn’t notice the odd shimmer to the air. Nor the slight wave of something beyond ordinary human senses passing over her form.
I need to go- where was the camp? But we flew here, so it’s too far, and I don’t have the supplies for- dammit dammit dammit, what do I do?! If I go to the Empire’s forces, I’m done for, but if I try to make it back I’ll just die of-
“Huh?” Mary does, however, notice the smell. What had once been the tinge of natural air, dirt, and ozone, now changed. It is drier, for one. And… warmer?
And the smell, it’s a bit like… something is burning. Or, no, not burning. But there is smoke on the air, closer to a campfire than a forest fire.
Against her better sense, and ignoring the little voice in her head screaming strange, wrong, inhuman, Mary follows the trail.
That’s where it all began, really.
-=-
It is a smithy.
In the center of a large clearing, Mary stumbles upon the small stone building. It is stout, and sturdy, and something out of an earlier era. There is a wooden overhang extending out from one side, and from this distance she can see a few barrels, stone structures of some kind… and a person.
Mary drifts closer.
Toiling away uninterrupted, their arm raised and lowers thunderously. The sound of metal clashing rings clear, and sparks rise. Multicolored, they shine unnaturally, and fade like stars in dawn.
Magic. Not mana, but magic. For some reason, Mary is certain of this.
Then, she freezes. The oddity of the situation finally strikes her in full.
Along with every single superstition, myth, and family legend that had been hammered into her by her extended family from birth.
There is a specific… rhyme – or poem, or whatever her grandmother had called it – that comes to mind.
Why is this familiar? A magic blacksmith somewhere in the forest…
Living in the modern era of the 1920s, Mary hadn’t entirely abandoned her tradition. But it had fallen to the wayside quite a bit. Ever since her father’s death, since before then really… and then, afterwards. When she felt the calling-
Mary blinks.
Her mind, it’s… quiet. It’s empty? Not overflowing, maybe more accurately. Her thoughts are clear, and flow without intervention. It is as though an incredible weight has lifted from her shoulders.
Or from her soul.
She stumbles, then. The realization hits harder than any foe’s magic-enhanced bullet.
Her boot catches a rock, and she slips, falling to one knee, hands in the grass. The rock, however, does not fall a short distance, but instead skips across the remaining space. There is noise, she is making noise. She is going to be noticed by this- by whoever this person, this blacksmith is.
And she can’t even bring herself to care. She doesn’t even realized there are tears in her eyes, until a pair of blurry boots press indents in the grass in front of her.
“Oi.” The voice rough from disuse.
Mary turns her gaze upward, following up along boots, into worn pants, to a long-sleeved tunic tied around a waist, to a bandage wrapped chest and along sweaty skin, regal features, golden blonde hair done up in a ponytail, bright teal eyes that seemed to just-
Catch, her attention. Catch… she feels her breath catch.
Oh, I like women.
-=-
Tanya had known about her visitor from the moment they trespassed this realm.
Well, “realm” is a strong word. It is a pocket in space and time, certainly, but the foundation absolutely exists in the human realm. But it is her own space, created a great time ago as an escape. A rejection of outer influence.
There is trouble in becoming too popular. Just as there is trouble in bearing the wrath of a wannabe god.
Honestly, you'd think a couple hundred and more years would be enough for tempers to cool. But gods are rarely known for being rational.
Especially that bastard El.
So, here she exists. Separate from the natural fold.
Once upon a time, she's bartered for the pieces, traded craft for knowledge, and founded her own little fae retreat. Kind of like a mushroom circle, but much larger. And only accessible by humans and those on the Underside of the World.
Regardless of time or space. How long had it been since Merodach? Or those that had been inspired by it?
Anyone not of godly origin can visit, when the right conditions are met. As evidenced by this little straggler right here, just about anyone can stumble in.
“But, I thought the king cut your hamstrings?”
This annoying – though cute, in a waifish, rough around the edges sort of way – little straggler, who apparently descended from some line she had interacted with once upon a century. Interacted with enough to keep the tale alive for future generations.
“My step is without issue. Are your eyes open?”
“Okay but,” That is a fair point. “Then, you weren’t captured?”
“Working for that king was my decision. Willing.” Tanya looks up, pointing her hammer in Mary’s face. “That is, until his demands transcended outrage. To set up shop on a damn island, an absurd notion. Not a bad abode but my own was better, even then. Before this. And worse, fucking freezing it was, and then he claims the necessity of multiple projects per week. Fae quality, at that. Could hardly feel my fingers half the time, much less keep up with his idiotic whims. I told him as much, but buyers must be the same in every time period because they never listen.”
“Oh…” The legend before her is rapidly diminishing in luster. At the same time however, Mary’s own personal respect for the smith is going up. “How did you escape then? They say you killed King Niðhad’s sons and, uh- got the king’s daughter… pregnant… and then, flew away?”
“I’m not sure where the killing part came from, but I retreated to the mainland via one of those boys’ ships. Can’t remember which one. And the flying, well, I’d scaled the top of the mast and cursed the king out as it passed by the shore. The bay’s morning mist must have covered it.”
Well, that explains it.
No, wait.
Mary almost hadn’t caught it, but- “What about the princess?”
Tanya looks sheepish for a moment, the most open expression of emotion on her face so far.
“Let’s be clear here.” She clears her throat, focusing heavily on the hearth, “I did not get her pregnant. Nor did I seduce her.”
“…so, you were seduced by her.” It is a statement.
“…maybe.”
Mary’s expression flattens, then turns thoughtful.
Well, if it’s that easy…
In that moment, every single ancestor watching over the latest of the Sioux line collectively facepalms.