Onlooker come forth
There is a pub in New York city. Quite discreet, hidden between two streets.
The name is Valhöll but it’s not just warriors drinking in this hall.
There are many, many survivors.
Survivors of Their hands that twisted reality, that shaped them to something beautiful and twisted.
Survivors who were shifted and changed, flesh and soul.
It’s made of wood, it smells of forests and humid earth. The city doesn’t follow into this place, It stops at it’s doors: the noises, the people passing by, they don’t follow, they can’t be seen or heard. Beyond the walls of Valhöll the world doesn’t stop turning, but within, alas time can’t follow.
You shouldn’t stop in Valhöll. You don’t belong there. Lucky you.
But if you do, by accident or fate, then don’t blame us. And don’t stay too long. The world keeps turning, it will turn without you. Like it did without us.
In Valhöll, there is a group that’s always there. Always gathered together, always chatting with no one but themselves, in the deepest corner of the pub. Sometimes they are happy, sometimes they are sad. Never estranged from one another, they have been here for a long, long time.
In this group there is a Beast. A man who’s hair twist and turns to feather all the way down to his back. His eyes sharp, unblinking are always looking. If you’re staring he’ll know. Some say, as a child he danced for a circus. Sharp eyes, shooting daggers and arrows from above, like a bird.
Don’t stare I said. You really think the Hawke’s eye won’t notice ?
In this group there is a Shadow. A woman dressed in black, a dark veil over her face. The only color is the red hair, like a waterfall of blood falling at her hips and her lips tainted in that same shade of red. Don’t stare, even if her face from aboth her mouth is smooth, don't stare. Don’t look at the half where her eyes should be. They took away her eyes, her nose. When they shaped her again, They didn’t think it was necessary.
A widow made out of shadows. Don’t stare, for a widow is a bride of death.
In this group there is an Ogre. Massif, skin as green as moss, eyes as dark as the void. He doesn’t uses a chair, he would break it.. He breaks everything he touches at every flicker of anger that crosses his face. His large frame would then slump in guilt. He doesn’t like to hurt things you see, he doesn’t mean too. No one even tries to meet his gaze, too scared to be seen by him. As if he was a shark, you freeze and turn away, run away. He knows it. It must be lonely to be constantly feared.
Ha. I don’t even need to warn you, you’re already looking away.
In this group there is an Elemental. His voice booming and piercing through the room like thunder. Even if it’s crowded you can’t miss him. Larger than life, bursting out laughs and strange tales of when he was a child. Yet if you look into his eyes there are so many tears and grief waiting to spill out. A thunderstorm of emotion swirls inside him but he can’t allow himself to let it go. Thunderstorms are dangerous, he might hurt someone.
You can stare. He doesn’t care. He said so himself once. Loud to his group, his voice resonating everywhere. He. Doesn’t. care.
In this group there is a Fairest. Ah, that he is, the fairest of them all. If you could only touch him you notice his skin is marble. Smooth and cold, with artpieces engraved in some place. He hides it but he has a galaxy carved upon his chest. Waves that slide from his ribs to his thighs. They crafted him to be so beautifu you seel. From his hands to the tip of his hair. From the lenght of his back to the curve of his heels. They only left his eyes. One thing They left untouched. Behind these iris there is a fire burning. Burning with determination, glaring down at anyone who disturbs him. Hadn’t he had them, They wouldn’t have noticed him. What a poor fellow, cursed by his own will.
You can stare. Everyone does. Even his own. You can’t help anyway it can you ?
In this group there is a Wizened. Yes I know. He looks human. He has no feathers stiking out of his skin. He has his eyes, his nose, he’s made of flesh. He can touch you without hurting you. When he talks it’s pure charisma and not wyrd that enchants you. When he laughs, it doesn’t pierce your ears or ring like bells. And yet, he belongs here. He’s the strangest of them all. Dressed to nines like he’s at a party, dressed to impress. Impresses you, bewilds us.
So you stare but not like we do. We narrow our eyes as he passes. Look into his eyes, brush his skin and try to distinguish something, anything under his armor of suits and ties. Do I know where to stare ? I do. Look at his chest. Don’t blink you’ll miss it. Here, within his chest, there is a light that pulse like a heartbeat. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. It pulses and even under his many layers it is there. Not matter how hard he tries to hide it. After all, you can’t escape Them without being changed. Even just a little. What did They took from him then ?
How changed he is under the flesh and blood. Why that blueish light that nether dims out completely. Why does he lay a hand on it and press on it? As if it could suddenly fly out of his body? Even we, can not stop staring.
There is this pub in New York city. It’s name is Valhöl. We are all survivors here. Some of us are warriors too. But we are first and forever survivors. Surviving means we changed and we broke free and yet the world continues beyond the walls of Valhöll, it didn’t wait for us. No one has noticed and no one will notices...
There is a group in Valhöll. They are always there. They can’t protect you from Them. If you are dragged away, in Arcadia, if They found you, God help you, they can not protect you. You'll be lost and forgotten. But they’ll avenge you. They’ll avenge all of us one day, in the endgame.
Until then, we stay in Valhöll, drink away our memories, drink away the pain. We try to forget: we were all humans once and then we changed.
You don’t belong here. Lucky you. I hope you’ll never come to end up like us here, drinking, waiting.
Wainting for the day where the Avengers will rise from their seat, where they leave this place. Never to be seen again. I wait for the day the Avengers will avenge us, Changelings. Make Them pay. One day...
In the endgame, Arcadia will go down in flames.