A commission for @silent-kosmos-mod of his dashing unicorn, Cracked Obsidian! His personal shields might look small, but they are neigh unbreakable. As demonstrated in this friendly exhibition of skills on the Canterlot Guard training grounds.
The rain hadn’t been anything other than a constant downpour since they’d passed beneath the canopies of Elwynn Forest, bound for the city. Dinner went mostly as planned; there was talk of Tayela’s impending marriage, discussion of the Blackfyre curse, and something else not-so-unexpected. “She’s pregnant,” Warlund said, eventually breaking the silence. Old Tom looked up from his leather-bound book. He smiled, “Tayela? Good for her, then.” Warlund kept a stoic expression resting upon his features, “I congratulated her, despite her not telling me. I had to guess it.” Tom looked briefly to the wagonman, “Daughters often fear their father’s wrath.” Warlund raised an obsidian-stained brow, “Especially when they’ve tried murdering them in the past?” The question was entirely rhetorical, but Old Tom answered anyway, with a chuckle, “Exactly.“
“Only half an hour’s journey now, gentlemen,” the wagonman called out, “We’ll be before Old Beautiful’s gates before you—” The sudden shortening of the man’s voice was cause for alarm. “Wagonman?” Warlund asked, “Is something wrong?” The wagon’s rear flaps were raised suddenly, a masked man appearing. “Depends on you you’re asking,“ he said, aiming a crossbow directly at Warlund’s centre mass. Old Tom went quietly for a shortsword next to him, but the masked man, unfooled by the lumbering oaf’s movements, aimed and fired. The bolt lodged in Old Tom’s throat, a spray of blood covering Warlund’s features. He took this opportunity to strike, plunging towards the man and going with him to the highway.
They rolled, getting in hits when and where they could. The wouldbe assassin ended up against the path, Warlund’s gloved hands wrapping around his throat. The fallen nobleman tightened and tightened until he was sure he was digging into the man’s flesh. The flailing of legs and feet beneath him deterred Warlund none; he felt and saw the life fleet from the assassin’s eyes, having turned red and vein-like during the struggle. Then, there were voices—and shouting. More were coming, Warlund thought, staggering to his feet. He fled through the woods, knowing only Stormwind’s general direction. He ran as far as could be imagined, the rain continuing to beat steadily against his brown curated leather armor, soon coming upon a familiar sight. High stone walls, a massive wooden gate, and Stormwind City standing proudly just beyond.
It was an odd sight, seeing it that up close again. Warlund ducked behind a nearby tree, toying with a ring inside one of his many pockets. He took it out, gave it a final look, and slipped it on. Looking down, Warlund could see his appearance had entirely changed. He wasn’t adorned in some horseman’s leather, instead wearing expensive fabrics of deep red and yellow; a nobleman’s attire. The fallen lord’s feature had changed as well—becoming youthful, with tresses of chestnut brown falling down around them. Hazel eyes glanced about before taking him around the tree and towards Stormwind’s entrance.
Stormwind hadn’t changed at all, not that Warlund expected anything less from this bastion of Man. The Trade District was crowded with people looking to buy up whatever they needed; foodstuffs, outfits, weapons and armor, even the ocassional flight somewhere else—away from all of this chaos. The fallen nobleman’s gaze wandered about, paying little attention to what laid ahead of him. He felt free underneath Tayela’s bought illusion, able to come and go as he pleased. Perhaps this was his alternative. “No, no,” Warlund uttered, “There’s no other way.”
Wandering the streets brought Warlund before the Cathedral’s steps—his ultimate destination within Stormwind’s high walls. Once he made that climb, there was no going back; there wasn’t anything left for it. The fallen nobleman’s chest raised and lowered, a heavy sigh taken as he took the the first step. Each one felt harder than the last, as if he was walking toward his own doom, which he might’ve been. It turned his hands clammy, and a hint of sweat rested upon Warlund’s forehead. At the top, it felt as if all eyes were suddenly on him, as he was nakedly before all of Stormwind. But as Warlund turned, relief washed over him as not a soul had noticed, or cared, that some youth-bound man had climbed the Cathedral’s stairs.
Forest-green eyes fell the glamour ring, fingers slowly turning it until it popped off. Warlund’s true self was revealed, and at first, no one seemingly noticed. Then, a lone guard crept forth, narrowing his eyes to get a better look from afar. “You!” The guard unsheathed his longsword, which caught another guard’s attention—and another and another. They all came running, the first now starting to climb the steps. Warlund looked to the cloudy grey skies directly overhead, and it reminded him of his dreams, of the precipice he often found himself upon. He fell to both knees, features held high as the fallen nobleman spoke the words:
“I, Warlund of the House Blackfyre, hereby seek Sanctuary within the confines of the Church of Holy Light.”
He looked at the high ceilings, a large room to take in, and there were windows, but they were shut over with metal, which made the entirety of the walls silver metal. The parts that weren’t windows were black stone, obsidian, and there were silver chandeliers holding large white candles which lit the room brightly. There were large comfortable chairs everywhere, and there were many beings around, some he’d seen from afar, some he’d never seen, and they were all talking, some quietly, some loudly, and some sat alone, watching. There were many fireplaces, and they were lit, filling the room with warmth, and then Sun nudged Loki, and he blinked, looking at the Monkey King.
“I know it’s a lot to take in…but you’re a visitor, and I have to take you to see the master and the mistress.” He said, and Loki nodded, and he followed Sundown corridors lined with the shiny black stone, deeper and deeper into the place, and then Sun knocked on a large ornamental black and silver and violet door. There was no knob, but it swung open silently.
“Are you coming with me?” Loki asked, for on the other side of the door was black. Sun shook his head.
I grew up in small towns but I live in a big city now and have been avoiding getting my drivers license because I've got really bad anxiety about driving here... any advice?
I completely understand! Driving literally terrifies me. I would suggest mugwort and obsidian! I make my boyfriend keep mugwort in his car to protect him from wrecks, and I keep obsidian in my car to do the same. Just having those there, in my car, makes me feel so much better <3
Dated: late Pre-Classic to Terminal Classic Period (250 BCE - 900 AD)
Provenance: Central America
Measurements: 35.5 cm x 4.7 cm
This obsidian sword is made on a very large and narrow struck flake that has a rounded edge. The integral handle that might have been wrapped in leather for a better grip. This weapon would have been employed in a stabbing attack rather than slicing.