Alkor

You are not the root cause of my problems.

He wasn't. He knew that. And if she'd said he was, he would've called her a liar. 

You’re just a drop. A single ripple.

Insignificant though he may have been, he was a problem. And that was enough for him. He was always a burden to someone, intentionally or otherwise. Mari knew Alkor, had respect and cared for Alkor, but she couldn't have known the man behind the mask. And because of that, she couldn't possibly have known why that was so important to him. That was why he felt no anger or animosity toward her. It wasn't intentionally malicious. Hell- her intentions were among the best. 

Thom was just done being a burden.

So it wasn’t you. I was…I’ve been through a lot.

"But I didn't make it any easier," he stated flatly, sparing himself another pull of the harsh herb. "I'm not here to take responsibility for every problem you've ever had, and I lack the hubris to imagine I've been playing a pivotal role in your life since I left it."

He swiftly corrected that misconception. That was a skill he'd picked up along the way. Not addressing the gaps in conversation, leaving the unspoken words to rot- that had caused the rift between himself and Lessa the first time. 

There are wounds, but for me…they’re not too many that they won’t heal. We shared a lot…you and I. Regardless of the lies, there were moments of truth and sincerity between them. At least - I’d like to think so.

"Sure," he allowed. "We shared a lot. Some of it may have even come close to something real. But I'm not going to sit here and pretend that means we know the first thing about each other. I know your name. You know about my grandmother. The little things that connect us to the painful things just out of reach, that for all we know, are just a fraction of an inch away from our flesh and blood bodies. That we can't feel, or hear, because we decided to put on the NerveGear."

At one point…I’d say you don’t get to decide what role you play in my life. That I’d consider you a friend, regardless - but. I feel that would be selfish and tone deaf of me. I may be more selfish lately, but I’m not going to force that on you. ‘Sides, that’s not real friendship.

He wore a much colder expression now as she spoke, carefully choosing his own words.

"Sure," Alkor repeated. "We might even know "enough-" he exhaled smoke this time through his nostrils as he faced her at last. 

I don’t think we were good for each other. Right now? We don’t know each other enough to make that conclusion. At least…I don’t think so.

"No," he agreed with her, surprisingly. "We do not."

You don’t want to be friends? Sucks. Is fine though. If you needed it, I’d still come if you called for aid.

"I don't. But not for the reasons you think," he said. "I'm not ready to be a friend. Not just to you. To anyone. I've never been good enough for myself, Amari. If I can't find that? A semblance of self-acceptance? If I'm constantly chasing some ideal version of myself, constantly trying to be everything I'm not..."

He exhaled sharply, staring at the ground again. He'd come clean to Lessa, told the blonde who he admired the whole truth about his struggles, his pain, and only scratched the surface of the true self-loathing that burned inside him. He couldn't just open that door and admit it to Mari. Their relationship already had enough problems. And he was here, flat out denying her offer of friendship.

For what it's worth - you were a good hero - but I think it's time you become a good Alkor, a good Thom. For yourself.

For the first time, he looked up, and he smiled.  

It was a sad smile, small, and soft. 

But it was enough.

"That's all I've ever wanted."

He watched her pull out a cigarette at some point, and his brain fixated on that. Comfort, however small, however seemingly pointless- that didn't seem like the worst idea. He could hear what she was saying, but the words tunneled around him. He felt like he was underwater for a long moment, drowning not only in sentiment, but in things far too heavy for him to hold alone. He resigned himself to follow suit, fumbling for several seconds around his inventory to produce his pipe. 

Striking the match, he inhaled bittersweet poison and the burning sensation trumped his anxiety. Holding the breath in, he felt his lungs screaming, fighting against the unnatural sensation for reprieve, and he focused on the moment of release that brought his mind back down to the ground. When his amber eyes flickered open once more, he was looking directly at Mari.

You’ve given me the truth today. Consider your debt repaid.

He could have said that it felt too easy, but he knew that would have been a lie. Honesty... brutal Honesty in this situation, had taken every ounce of courage in him to manage. Still, he didn't think himself deserving to be let off the hook so easily. In the end, that was Mari's decision to make, not his. A lesson learned from Lessa. It was the victim- not the offender- who decided the terms of what made things even.

I can’t stay this close to the town, it makes people nervous.

He lifted the pipe to take another hit, albeit less impact full than the last. Diminishing returns were a notorious symptom of addiction. The more you relied on a substance, the less an effect it had on your body. Especially over time. "Lead the way," Alkor replied breathlessly. It was better than standing there dawdling, and the time it took them to relocate would give him a bit of reprieve to collect his thoughts in a more meaningful way.

Besides, I have a lot to apologize for too. I was lonely, I was broken - and I latched on to you. 

It had taken her no time to put her thoughts into words once they arrived where she wanted them to sit, away from where people might come across them. Words that Alkor heard, and rather than speaking, listened. He had always been better at that. Not at forming his thoughts into grand and meaningful discourse, but at absorbing information, understanding it- and in many such cases, leaving it adrift in the aether.

For Alkor, it had never been about that. He knew from the beginning, watching Mari struggle, learning about her situation, watching the abuse and harassment firsthand, witnessing the death of her daughter- Alkor was fully aware that this woman had never been operating with a full deck of cards. Forced to mulligan again and again, she was playing against a dealer who kept aces in his sleeve the entire time they had known each other. He knew that, and foolishly, he'd thrown himself into the role of hero. Her hero. 

And she was apologizing to him for taking advantage of him. 

His expression softened a bit as he sank to his haunches, leaning against the tree for support and turning his gaze to the sky. He did recall the wisdom of his grandmother, about reconciliation and how "sometimes, people feel differently than you do." This was just one of those things. He had to let Mari say what was on her mind. This was for her, not for him.

I could have treated you as Thom and not as Alkor - a man I had idealized.

"We all did." Alkor interjected suddenly. "That was the point of the lie I told myself. The lie that spread farther than I intended, and that inevitably fooled everyone."

He didn't look down, instead taking a long drag before chuckling a plume of smoke. "He was supposed to be the ideal. I was supposed to be ideal. I was supposed to be anything but myself. That's why you couldn't have treated me any differently than you did. You can't be held accountable for that."

You were simply someone who wanted strength to escape and return to his grandma.

When she put it that way, it felt like whiplash. In a single sentence, he was reduced to the small, coddled child he really was. Even if it hadn't been Mari's intention, she'd plucked the rawest nerve in Alkor's body and pulled it tight. It stung. He didn't react, at least, not visibly.

The hardest part of Mari saying that was Alkor facing the hard reality that time was not on his side. They were in the game now for several years- years longer than the months that Doctors had given his grandmother to live. She could have lasted longer, defied all the odds, and been waiting for him to come out of the game-induced coma.

Alkor wasn't a liar anymore, though. He wasn't going to lie to himself and say that was probable, let alone possible. He clenched the pipe tightly in his palm, eyebrows knitting together.

I was a shitty person to you Alkor.   You deserved better.

Even if she believed that, he never would. That was the difference in their perspectives. Even if she held herself to a different standard now, even if that was her new prerogative, Alkor wasn't interested in an apology he was fully convinced wasn't needed. So he didn't acknowledge it verbally. Just a quick grunt, a displaced gaze, and a nod of affirmation that everything she needed to say had been said.

Maybe we weren’t friends, maybe we may never be friends - but - it’d be nice to at least try. Start off as acquaintances perhaps.

He let his arm hang over a knee, one bent and pulled to his chest while the other stretched out flat on the ground. Absently, he tapped the pipe against his shin, eyes glazed over as he gave thought to the words.  "You and I," he said, "I'm not sure if we can ever be friends. There's too much there, too many wounds to heal. For you, but also for me. And that's not anyone's fault."

He'd grown up enough to know that he needed to say it plain. "It's not fair to force ourselves to push past those memories and try to be something we're not. It's okay to forgive each other and be civil and not try to patchwork ourselves back into each other's lives. Especially not when we've managed to mend the fabric of our lives without the parts that were lost."

He pointed the back end of the pipe toward her.

"Doesn't mean I don't value you as a person, doesn't mean I hate you," he said without looking her way, "Just, I don't think we're good for each other. Or maybe I'm just not good for you. I don't know," he told her honestly. "Rest assured, today was the last time I'll play hero for you," Alkor said. 

"Because now both of us know, you never needed one."

That’s not fair.

To say he froze at those words would be inaccurate. Rather, the sigh that left his lips felt like the exhaustion of ten thousand sleepless nights as one. What in life was fair, would have been a more than fair question to posit in response; but she didn't want quirky, useless sentiments. Mari had dispensed with pleasantness and demanded satisfaction.  You can’t step back into my life like that. Assume inconvenience - then saunter away again. She'd been quick to take that stance, ready for it even. The defensive switch inside him had flipped, fight or flight triggered.

And flight had been denied.

Alkor's gaze found hers finally, harder and colder. 

I’m the one who gets to decide what is and isn’t convenient.

He started to open his mouth, but she continued.

You-of all people at least owe me that.

That was perhaps the fastest turnaround that Alkor had ever played party to. From before she saw his face to mere moments after the revelation, she had gone from no one owing her a thing to calling on a debt he owed. Some wounds did not heal, and he knew that better than anyone. But the rage Alkor felt was not at Mari, especially not for righteous anger at him for wrongdoing. It was at himself, largely for allowing it to escalate to this point. Frustration with the situation for spiraling out of control. Damning all the world's luck for thrusting him back into her life, against his will if not hers. It was those embers that rekindled the flame inside him and burned away uncertainty and hesitation.

She demanded satisfaction now in the form of...

I wanted to talk to you. There were so many things I never got to tell you. Never got to ask you.

Silence had always ruled in the vacant spaces of Alkor's life, where he had no words to fill them. It were as much answer as any lie he might conjure, if not better. Because silence was the truth. Silence hid nothing when it came to the Dark Knight. Ever had he been an open book, if one only took the time to glance his way. A broken man, never taught how to be a man at all. Nothing that she'd thought was real could be forged from the lack of foundation that was Alkor. He was brick and mortar uncombined, raw, and only now had he learned to place clay or ore into flame to cultivate something. Only now, in the wake of everything, did he have a semblance of self.

But that wouldn't satisfy the curiosity, would never slake the insatiable need for closure.

We were friends once, right? It surprised him more that he didn't even flinch at that question. It was a fair one, and one he didn't have an easy answer for. But silence wasn't going to suffice this time, either. The forge burned as he cast away his comfort, his silence, and smelted it into something that might give Mari what she wanted. "Friends..." he repeated the word, tasting it. It was foul in his mouth, sulfuric like brimstone as it burned him. He knew its meaning, but what they had shared wasn't that. There was hatred in the beginning, distrust, misunderstanding. Thrown together by the twisted strings of an ill-conceived plot, they had learned to coexist in something of a peaceful way, but it rapidly descended into chaos. Allies, was a closer word to the truth. But even more accurate than that...

Thom had friends in the world outside. "Friends." People who understood that he was different, that he wasn't ever going to be quite like the rest of them. People who accepted those differences, and who made sacrifices to still keep him in their lives. People he was sure deserved better, but who decided that they didn't want better. That was what friendship was. It was something that transcended flimsy notions of what it should be and simply was something that they kept coming back to, that was no different, no matter how long they had been apart. 

He felt something toward Mari, certainly. Pity? No- it hadn't been that. He was sure that she was strong, could have made it out herself even without him. No- it was something born of the same idiocy that had driven him mad going into the battle with the Hydra. The façade of a Hero, the desire to save someone. He wanted to save Mari. So he had fashioned a mask, and he wore it in order to protect her from that darkness, to be the light she needed, even though he had no idea how. But the reality of it was hideous.

"We were victims, Mari." 

Perhaps the hardest thing he had ever said, an admission of his own weakness. "Victims of this world," he began. "Victims of each other, of misunderstanding, of circumstance, of a misguided need to help, or to be loved. Trauma bonded." Alkor didn't back down. It was too late now, far too late to go back. "I'd fashioned myself an anchor to keep you from washing away, but in doing it, I became a burden. I wasn't a friend to you Mari, I was a boy with delusions of grandeur, playing at confidant and trying to save a woman from a darkness I didn't fully comprehend."

Like a slap to his own face. Cold, metallic, surgical. 

There was a reason you had approached me today, right? 

His fingers curled into a black iron fist.

As you said. I didn’t need the help. But you came and helped anyway. Why?

"Guilt." He answered, unwavering. "A debt I'm not sure I can ever repay. I meddled where I should never have, instead of trying to be a friend. I didn't know how to be one."

Maybe he still didn't.

Maybe it wouldn't be what she wanted to hear.

But it was the truth.

"Because when you wanted peace, when you deserved peace, I couldn't give it to you, except with a lie." Alkor straightened his back, steeled at last, no longer afraid of breaking his silence on this. "But in the moment where I saw them harassing you, in the moment where I was torn between whether to let it lie or to stand up for you, I realized that for once, however small, I had something real to offer. It might not be peace in the proper sense, and I may have spoiled it now by saying it plain- but I saw an opportunity to actually do something good."

He exhaled, throat dry from the heat building inside. 

"Because you deserved better."

The weight was immense, even without anything tangible to hold him down. Invisible hands gripped his throat, stifling him, choking him, threatening to pull him under as he drowned from every thought and emotion that roiled up inside him. His hands were clammy, too cold and paralyzed by indecision and anxiety to tremble. His hollowed gaze couldn't move toward her, the raw shame and boundless failure he felt had taken ownership of his wits.

Passionate kisses that he'd fumbled through, without any idea whether or not he seemed to know what he was doing, played back in his mind. The guilt like snake bites, venom lancing through his fingertips- the same fingertips that once touched her skin, had held her like a lover. 

Liar.

His father had drilled the importance of honesty and integrity into him, but the Creature he'd fashioned himself into was an incarnation not of honor, but his twisted interpretative dance that he'd called "Heroism." Alkor had learned many things inside the Castle, not the least of which was that men don't want to be heroes. Its just something that happens.

Anyone who wants to be a hero is a fool.

And he'd played the part of fool to perfection.

Alkor?

At the sound of his character name, Thom winced. There was a time they had gone beyond that, removed their masks, and played at knowing each other. Or Mari had.

The mask was all Alkor knew. To be accurate, masks- plural- because he wore so many and changed them all tailored to whatever the situation required. Even this strange sequence of events, where he'd stepped in on her behalf- was another mask.

He wasn't sure he could give her something real.

Mari was used to that, though.

It’s good to see you again.

He fumbled over every word he considered, anything he might have wanted to say, and found only silence. Yet again, he had gone non-verbal. Alkor was biting his lower lip now, eyes narrowed, a thin trickle of blood running down his chin as he fought back against his mind as it sabotaged him.

She's learned to let it go. Good for her. You should be happy for her. 

Jealousy, perhaps?

The demon in his brain whispered what he knew he wanted to feel, but couldn't. It jeered his every attempt to be free, mocking him with the thoughts a normal person should have. Rationally, logically, Alkor should have just been proud of her. 

Even just to say "it's good to see you" felt like whip scouring away flesh from his cheek. She should have been upset, even angry. She should have hated him, or questioned why. Those things would have made sense, they would have fit the melancholic narrative his poisonous mind wove for him.

He wanted to tell her that it was good, that he was happy for her, that the distance had been positive. That at the end of the day, healing was what both of them needed.

Mari had healed.

Alkor had learned to live without healing. Every interaction picked at the scabs. This one was no different. Now, the blood poured free again, and the cracks came no closer to repair.

She didn't need you. Still doesn't need you. You don't deserve forgiveness. Even with your pathetic act of kindness, you don't feel like this is right.

His hand suddenly took hold of Witchfang, tightly gripped the hilt, and returned the blade to its sheath. It should have been a thoughtless interaction, a quick exchange of niceties. Instead, he dismantled himself again, and the bitterness and anger won. A harsh, ragged sigh escaped Alkor as he finally managed to turn his gaze in Mari's direction. 

Progress.

Even if he was looking straight past her.

"I apologize for any inconvenience," he told her. "I know you didn't need the help."

He didn't know what else to say. Hell, he was convinced she'd literally have anyone else in front of her. He was just hellbent on not letting the voice win.

He watched implacable as the two men licked their wounds and collected their compatriot ,all too eager to retreat. It did not strike him as at all unexpected that Mari did not trust him. She had learned distrust from circumstance, learned to be hated, and to hate in turn. That she was not bombarding him with a scathing review told Alkor all he needed to know. Their time apart, the distance he had all but forced on her, had been good.

Though the whole truth of that matter was open-ended, and he couldn't know how much she had suffered in order to climb out of the pit she had fallen into. Only now was he able to look at her situation with open eyes- something he could never have done before. He found his compassion only after he'd hurt her.

And it was too late to heal the wounds. Obviously too late, because they had clearly already healed. She was not filled with hate for no reason, seeking to take life without cause. She was not trying to run him off simply because he was there. Measured trust was what she afforded him, even though she did not even know who he was.

To have grown so much, healed so much... Alkor found himself staring at the ground again, even as she addressed him. 

Thanks.

"Mmm." He could have easily dismissed it, said it was nothing, or simply accepted the gratitude, but none of that sat right with him. She hadn't asked for his help, and for a brief moment in time, he'd been almost unwilling to give it. No- more than that, she never needed it in the first place.

"I was just repaying a debt," he told her. "You've got nothing to thank me for."

They’ll die.

She was so certain of those words he felt the ice fill his veins again. Mari had haunted the Player Killer circles for long enough that there was no question she still knew people, and that some of them would even have her back. Alkor knew she meant it.

When she gave her name, he was silent for a long moment. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, threatening to heighten into a veritable drumbeat inside the helmet. The cold sweat on his neck, shoulders, and back prompted him to peel the hood back, and to pry the helmet free. Messy blonde hair fell around his ears and his gilded eyes, like the sunset, remained vigilant as they sank into the horizon. He didn't look her in the eyes, he didn't really want to have that conversation.

But so often in life, Man does not get what he wants.

"I'm no one of consequence, really."

The glade where He'd been felled had all but mended.

Toxic ichor bleeding through from above had dried up, but the gnarled and withered corpses of trees stood silent testament to the poison's more lasting effects. Slaying the infected beast had been one of the few kindnesses that the Players had truly done for the world. There was no hidden circumstance that ruined lives, nothing more than a fleeting memory of something abhorrent, something that if they had failed to put an end to, would have ran rampant. The silence that permeated this space was an unfillable void, a mirror of the stifling, choking questions that Alkor sought answers for. In the same way it brought peace, it ravaged the mind. He placed his fingers absently on one of the knotted, blackened trees, but felt no warmth. The ashes had grown cold, devoid of life or meaning. 

He let out a quiet breath, unintelligible words, and turned to leave the grove unmolested. These memories belonged to him, but they were not his alone. He would not sully them by moving them, breaking them, or trying to fix something that had been broken. Sometimes, the most beautiful way a thing could exist... was just as it was.

Alkor had learned that lesson trying to conform to a hundred shapes. To stretch and mold himself to fit various roles, relationships, jobs- and none of them, in the end, were the answer to the riddle that plagued him. 

As he stalked from the boss room back toward Glyndebourne, he caught the scent of three interesting men as they gave chase to someone- overheard in the mad dash were "murderer," "justice," and "not this time." Enough for Alkor to surmise that they intended unsavory business, and that perhaps, his own attention might be worthwhile in watching how their dubious business played out. They were disinterested in him wholly, and so, tailing them from afar was no difficult task even for someone armored.

It took some time for them to ascertain the location of their target, but when they did, Alkor could feel the blood run cold and turgid in his veins. He knew Mari long before what she eventually became, what she had become known as. He had shared in her First Sin, the Adam to her Eve. The poison apple had run deeper into her blood, contaminating the kindness and selfless heart at her core, twisting her mind and shattering it, reshaping her into...

We know your tricks killer.”

Alkor watched the battle unfold for far longer than he should have. Even three against one, Mari had honed her blade and become one of the more capable Players trapped inside the world of Aincrad. More, she had cultivated a laundry list of names and made certain that the Monument never lacked for content. What had been her truth, that she was no monster, had shifted. The lines blurred. Human more than ever, the woman had succumbed to despair- and Alkor, the man who sought the very heights of strength, was far too weak to catch her. Too weak even to stretch out a hand.  He'd been paralyzed then, by the afterimage of a self that never truly existed. A love he'd cobbled together to appease her idyllic image of who he could be.

Who he wasn't.

But now, in the face of possibility, that no longer mattered.

“I'm warning you. This is your last chance. Leave me alone. All of you. I would never kill you. I think this encounter should prove that. But I can’t say the same for others if you keep doing this.”

Her conviction swayed his heart, frozen over as it was. Something warm, something small, spasmed inside it, and blossomed into the smallest coal. It was enough to stoke the forge. His legs moved. His feet carried him forward. It didn't matter who she was, or that their checkered past might be awkward, or even that she might have come to hate him. It didn't matter that he couldn't be who she needed when she had begged for him to be. It mattered, right now, that he was Here, that this was Now.

"If I had a nickle for every would-be hero," the gilded eyed Dark Knight intoned as he strode from the shadows and his hood, his helmet obscured everything but the faint, eerie glow of his eyes.

Alkor strode past Ben, jump-scared by his own name, and again by the arrival of an unknown entity. "You know her tricks, you said, and yet you thought three of you would be enough."

"We--!.”

"Use your eyes," Alkor cut Andrew short. "You've lost this battle. You never had a chance. And she's given you a way out." His eyes remained on the ground ahead of him, did not move to regard Mari, nor any of the other men. "Justice doesn't matter if you're dead." His words came abrupt, stern- and nothing like the man who he had been, those years ago. "Where is the justice in you dying here, like this? On the ground, reduced to a pitiful mess of man? Just because you're not afraid to die doesn't mean that you have to."

"What do you know about it!” Andrew shouted. "She's killed people! They'll never see their families, their loved ones again because of her! Where's the justice in that?"

"And so you should die in vain, hopeful that you might be remembered for the valiant effort?" Alkor turned his gaze on the man at last, no longer gold, but a fierce and malicious haze of molten metal that burned with fury. "This world has taken enough already. If there's justice for her to face, it won't be by any of you."

Andrew flinched, visibly recoiling from a wave of unseen force that had exploded from the man and hit him like a brick wall. He faltered, unable to find words. 

Alkor could never be a force for justice. He wasn't a great man, or even a good one. He was just a man. 

He drew Witchfang suddenly, the wicked aura of the weapon screaming with delight as he freed it from its prison. Alkor plunged the blade into the dirt, virulence sloughing off it in droves. There were a handful of meters between them, but he had made sure that these two would realize the true distance between them. It wasn't the same as Mari's kindness, the willingness to let it go she had shown was both admirable and spoke volumes of her personal growth. It was a journey Alkor couldn't imagine that she had walked, a destiny overturned, and a fate reforged by her own hands.

He couldn't give her what she'd asked for back then.

But now, he could grant her an inkling of succor.

"Now go."

Thematic Music

I've spent all this time destroying things
Could I have saved anything?

The streets were acrid, riddled with plumes of sulfuric smog and rubble from myriad blasts. Careful steps over large repositories of debris eventually gave way to the Ladonian's best efforts at restoration. Wherever one stepped, the future was bright, but shadows of the past loomed. Fear had ruled in the Empire for so long, the very thought of peace was fragile and beggared belief. An offered hand more often earned a distrusting look, as though Razwell had put the bearer up to the perceived kindness. As though it were a feint, a test of their integrity, and failure could spell death- or worse.

Their tyrant was dead, but the horrors of his reign waged war eternal in their hearts and minds. Those at the lowest echelons of society had known little kindness during the times that came before. Sleepless nights fell over Ladonia in the days to follow. Man and woman alike were unified by many causes- some in the advent of a new, beautiful, freer and happier homeland. Their efforts though noble often were stunted by those who hate had spread through like wildfire. Contempt for the man who had robbed them of contentment for so long. They still remembered the terror they felt when the Ifrit took flight, and the relief that felt nothing like relief when it was unmade.

Razwell was gone, but his imprints had buckled society at the knees. 

Alkor watched quietly as he passed by at the seeds of dissonance long sown as they bore fruit. Peace was a lie in Ladonia, even between those who had no real cause for quarrel. The youth slapped at the armored woman's palm, like a dog snapping at a friendly hand. With a scowl on his face, the boy shouted, spat at her feet, and the fear in his eyes spoke to Alkor. Surprise overtook the female knight, who reached for the blade at her hip on instinct. The boy threw up his hands defensively, winced as he braced for an impact that never came. The First Sword had the woman by the wrist, calm writ on his face.

"Is his fear so unexpected?"

"Merely reflex," the woman relaxed her grip, setting a wary gaze on Alkor- his actions could have been interpreted as violent, from a certain point of view. "Unhand me, ser."

The blonde let her free with no struggle or argument. "Go on then," he spoke to the boy, eyes still on the female Knight. 

"He had taken a fall," she said, "and I meant to help him to his feet again."

"I saw." The boy had taken off running the moment he had been offered a chance. His dark clad savior watched impassive, silent.

"Then why-?"

"Like so many others, that boy has been falling down for years and getting back up on his own." Alkor watched as the boy disappeared from view down one of the city's many alleyways, a veritable labyrinth that had only become more complex and dangerous after the downfall of the Grand Imperator. The Knights that patrolled the broken streets were disjointed, demoralized, confused. Control had shifted hands, but trust had to be built over time. Gabrandr would not command his men as one for some time to come. And in the gaps between Razwell's fall and Gabrandr's consolidation of power, cracks broke out across the city's foundations. "If you want to help them, you first have to learn to understand them."

"I was born Ladonian, outlander," she scoffed. "What would you know of their struggle?"

Alkor's jaw set in a frown. 

Will my sins eventually meet their end?
Only the things I've broken are reflected here, overflowing

It was unfortunate, but understandable. Defensiveness, getting offended- the culture of Ladonia, their shared struggles, even from the lowest boy to a decorated knight- all of them had shared the experience of a terrible leader. The trauma varied, but it was a link forged in the chains that bound each and every citizen. "Of our struggle," the woman quietly corrected herself after a moment, her softened voice and look of hurt not lost on Alkor. "You're telling me to understand someone, but who better to understand a Ladonian than a Ladonian? Your kind rid us of one Tyrant, but left the power vacuum that followed for us to sort out alone."

He was reminded of American history, of how the Founding Fathers struggled, grasping at anything they could to form a unified front, to build an infrastructure that would unify the former Colonies in the days that followed Revolution. It had not always been bloodless. Men died to bring them to the precipice of freedom; yet more died once they found their footing. It was said that the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of Patriots and Tyrants. The Players had watered the tree, but left the people of Ladonia to cultivate it. She was right to begrudge them that.

It hadn't been an oversight, though.

The Players were hardly a government unto themselves. They found ways to keep some semblance of civility, but they were divided by their own devices. They couldn't give Ladonia what it needed. In reality, things might have gone better for everyone if the outsiders had never been involved. But Aincrad was a fickle castle, and its denizens were at the whims of both Cardinal and the anomalies with free will who trespassed on their floors. "I'd be remiss to call the state of affairs you've been thrust into a gift," Alkor admitted, "But complaining about it and holding grudges won't make it any better."

"Obviously," the woman snorted. "Grudges and complaints have ever been the status quo. Ladonian, Galtean- the division has ever been at the core of this land's every problem. And even if you made things harder for us, you gave us the opportunity to make things better. It's an opportunity we never had before, and probably wouldn't have without you. I won't thank you for it, but..."

"We didn't do it for thanks anyway," he murmured. The woman stared vacantly at him for a moment, then shrugged. There were always things that the outsiders said that didn't make sense. This would just be another one.

"I will never understand your kind," she stated flatly. 

"You're better off for it," he assured her. "Most of us don't understand ourselves, either."

All these torn seams were a fate that I had chosen
Even if I'll be captured unaware by pursuing it endlessly

He raised a hand in parting as he turned from the Knight, continuing his aimless trek through the broken streets. 

He'd zoned out.

But that happens, sometimes when you spend the majority of your time alone. People came to the NPCs to do quests and interacted right next to one another all the time, and sometimes never interacted at all. Closest in that they were all trapped in the world together, and yet farthest away because some people were always looking back over their shoulders. Trust was forged in battle, but many people had not gone out into the world immediately to become stronger and risk their lives. Some people had only just started their journeys, and unfortunately, they found difficulty in forging connections with people like Alkor, who didn't often make their way back to the first floor to help newbies. Not anymore, at least. There were plenty of people who did that, to the point where he no longer felt any need. 

So when he realized that this girl was talking to him and not to the NPC, he blinked. "Wait. were you talking to me?" he asked, looking toward the woman awkwardly. It made sense. She hadn't said anything for several beats longer than he would have expected when interacting with a quest giver. "Uhm, sorry, what was that?" His eyes shifted to one side and then the other, not making eye contact for a moment before he finally had to look at her nose like someone at some point had taught him was a good way of giving people the illusion that he was looking directly at them. 

It's completely normal for people to ignore other people when they don't know them, right...? 

It was not a very colorful conversation, granted. The last time that Alkor and Baldur spoke, it was with weapons more than words. They were fundamentally different people. Baldur was the type of man who could see the struggles of others and held out a hand to help guide them through. Warmth, of personality and of passion, he was a flame in his own right. Alkor was cold by contrast, the way he interacted was aloof and distant, filled with intrinsic value and seeking meaning within himself. Both men wanted to help others, and in their own ways, shined a beacon- it was that Baldur was a lantern, kept close and comfortable to a group, while Alkor was a lighthouse. You could see him, his light kept you safe; but one was never meant to come too close. His firelight was warm inside and unto himself, and not meant for anyone else. 

"I can't say that I blame her for the doubt." If she had little interaction with Baldur prior to this, it was impossible for her to know what kind of person he was. And since she was there at the scene when he seemingly died, to hear him say that 'Alkor is alive' was even more dubious.

And when Kiru added her own perspective, the pieces clicked and fit together perfectly. "I can't imagine," he said, completely honest. There wasn't any time Alkor could remember that someone might have a reason to want him dead. In the times where Player Killers ran rampant, he was a frontline player who tirelessly sought to clear boss fights and trained endlessly toward that end. There was little interaction with others, except things that were forced on him or completely chance. The people who did know him were allies, bound by their shared fate inside of Aincrad. So the fallout from the earlier raid group, the infection of Player Killers, and now this... that was how things had transpired during his absence. There was something somber about that harsh truth.

Then, she seemed to show something she wanted to keep hidden. "Everyone thought I was," he said. "And there was a long time where I thought so, too."

When she said that she felt like she'd failed him, he paused. What would Lessa have done in this situation? That was all he could think as she began on a dark spiral that would have had no end. Alkor took a step forward, placed an arm around her shoulders and gave her a very awkward side hug. It wasn't quite what the blonde woman would have done, and he didn't squeeze tightly or hold her against her will. "Nah," he said, releasing her almost as quickly as he'd embraced her. "You did what you could. Everyone in a boss fight knows what they signed up for. No one can blame you if things go poorly. We prepare all we can, and then its a coin toss. We just have to hope for the best and be ready for the worst."

Twilight came on like Winter's breath. White smoke billowed from his lips as Alkor watched the horizon for the pair he had agreed to meet, periodically glancing toward the eastern sky where pastel oranges and yellows were consumed by deeper reds, violets, and the expansive darkness beyond. Stars began to flicker into existence, several more each time that he did. He was able to count several before Kiru and Baldur came into view, silently welcoming the night as well as the newcomers. The High Fields of Crossing were uniquely lit in several areas, and this one was no exception. It was one of the meeting spots that was often utilized by Players. 

Kiru was a ghost of the past in many ways, a relic of the Azure Brigade, of the old Frontlines, of a time when people were more vigilant and perhaps even hardcore about clearing. She also represented the shade of a harsh reality, one he'd learned about too late because of how his own "death" had transpired. The infighting between frontliners, the enmity that led to Zelrius' fate, and even the rise of a PK reign of terror that ultimately culminated in a Pax Aincrad- the faux peace that had set in, the lull in which they had managed to clear floors without incident. If she was back, how many of the others would inevitably come out of self-imposed exile? Would they want a return to form, a call to power, an initiative to spark new life in the frontlines?

Or perhaps she was alone and terrified, much the same as he had been when his eyes opened once more. There were always answers, but Alkor had learned that impulse often did not earn the best of them. If she contacted him, it was because she had questions of her own- almost certainly not simply about Baldur, because the two of them had not seen each other in a long time. In fact, as he seemed to recall, she was part of the floor nine boss fight. The Hydra still haunted him, even years after its fiery gullet almost spelled the end of his story. He could feel the heat in his blood as she greeted him, the molten liquid crawling across his skin...

"It has been," he agreed, offering a respectful nod of his head to the woman in greeting, then his eyes moved to the Samurai. "Baldur," he greeted the man with a nod, slightly deeper.

Little more than a whisper, Alkor stepped from the shadows of the teleporter and onto the second floor. It marked the beginning of many adventures, a place beyond the first real challenge that Aincrad placed before its prisoners. Dauntless, in a word. To say that he was unshaken by the memories of his first few steps off of the first floor was an understatement. Alkor had become increasingly numb to his earliest memories of this accursed world and the system that controlled it. Every battle, every victory, every conquest hollowed him out a bit more, leaving only the husk. In order to become part of the salvation of others, he had to break himself of those old habits. Impulse, anger, direct aggression. With every breath, he forgave another of the horrors that were inflicted on him. The misunderstandings and grievances that were a part of the human condition meant nothing before the cursed crawl of time. There could be no conflict between them if he was expected to save them.

He had to grow; and many parts of him had to die.

Baldur. If what Kiru said was to be believed, the so-called "Gaijin Samurai" would likely be at the meeting place as well. The still somewhat smoldering memories of their last exchange played in his head. He'd given an earnest reply to the man's questions. How he had lived. Why things with Mari and Lessa had spiraled out of hand. How he had no desire to be part of any of it. And true to form, the elder man imparted Alkor with brutally honest wisdom, that sometimes, men aren't granted the freedom to choose. Rather, perhaps it was more apt to say that the things he could choose and the things that would be chosen for him were two separate things. Alkor was free to choose to keep distance from the women, but how they felt or chose to respond were outside the realm of his control. 

It was a lesson that haunted him, in the shadow of every step. Alkor put down the blade of a DPS and took on the armor of a Tank to give himself thicker skin literally, but it would do nothing for him in the figurative sense. Personal growth took more than simply Experience Points to achieve. Every fight, every interaction- every time he was called on to be a part of something greater, that part of him that resented the rest of society became quieter; and with it, he became a bit more somber. 

The same concept had been explained to him by his grandmother once, he remembered, though he hadn't fully comprehended what she meant back then. Sometimes in life, we have to do things we don't want to do. Things we don't like, or that we're not comfortable with. As you go through life, you'll learn to stretch the limits of your comfort zone, and at times, even live uncomfortably outside of it. Comfort is something that we're only afforded an unlimited amount of as children. Adulthood is understanding and embracing that you don't always get to live in the box that your parents made for you. And sometimes, I hate to say it, but I feel horrible for having tried my best to keep that box intact around you and safe from harm. A bird doesn't learn to fly if it never leaves the nest, Thom. I'm always afraid that I inadvertently clipped your wings, and I'm so so sorry. You may not hate more for it right now, but there may come a day when you do.

And I hope it doesn't, but I want you to know, just in case it does. Take the steps you need to take, or you're never going to get your feet off the ground and fly.

Then, one day, he'd told Baldur without thinking, I have to learn to walk before I can fly.

Damn, it came full circle.

The High Fields of Crossing were somewhat of a hike from Urbus. The second safe zone and major meeting hub of Floor 2 was expansive, unguarded, but also free from monsters. It had been a perfect place for meetings, and in a different time, a killing field for the myriad PKers. The world had become less tumultuous since then, but many people could still feel the lingering resentment and sadness from those who were no longer alive. There were those who remembered, and those who tried to forget, as well as those who were fortunate enough to never have known. Now, they had become one unit- those who sought freedom. Times had changed, perhaps for the better, but certainly trending in a positive direction. They had to change with the times, or become relics of a time lost.

The Alkor that stood now near the entrance to the fields was not the Alkor who stood there many times before.

He was a furnace. Empty, save for when it was lit. And the darkness in his eyes reflected that, contrasted by the sullen smile he wore whenever someone was watching.

The notification flashed before his eyes as he hefted the blade from the still free-flowing stream of red pixels. Fragments of data coded to look like flesh, blood, bone, and sinew had decomposed rapidly in the final moments after he carved the behemoth creature in twain; but Alkor did not seem to sweat from the effort. There was a slight frown on his lips.

Guess that's the limit of how far I can get with these enemies...

Frustration was coming to the apex only to find that the summit was, in reality, higher than he had originally thought. The difference was that instead of facing his own reflection, he'd started to gaze out into the world around him. Bonds forged with others, and the struggles and trials they'd faced together had shown Alkor much greater enemies to conquer on his tireless, endless quest to improve. Rather than cutting down these foes and feeling empty, he glut himself on them until they no longer satisfied him.

Then, as he had done now countless times, he had been forced to search for new prey. But that suited him fine. At least his enemies were clear now. At least there was victory to be found. 

When he'd been fighting against himself, every day had felt like a failure. Compared to that, even this small frustration felt like nothing. He let out a sigh of contentment as he tapped the notification and opened the message, equal parts confused and interested when he learned the name of the sender.

Now, that was a name he'd not heard in... many, many moons.

His brow furrowed as he read the short, albeit direct message and saw the name Baldur. Unexpected. Those were two people he wasn't expecting to see occupying the same space. But in this world, nothing was completely unrealistic.

If she's asking for a favor from me, I can't rightly refuse, he thought, sheathing Witchfang across his back. The Stygian armor that he wore swallowed even the moonlight rather than reflecting it, leaving only the specter of his blonde hair as he made his way back toward the floor hub. 

I owe it to Zel.

Unlike Alkor, the Blood Bucaneer hadn't been granted a second chance at life. Zelrius hadn't had many friends. In another reality, Alkor would have probably been convinced to join the Azure Brigade. They had been friends, if a bit rough with each other. Zel had pushed Alkor to get stronger, even if he never saw him as a rival. Zelrius didn't look at the people he saw as beneath him.

But he did encourage and foster their growth. That was how- and why- Alkor had finally decided to join the Frontlines. Because...

If you're strong, you have an obligation to use that strength. If you don't, you're wasting your potential. You might as well be dead.

That was just the kind of guy he was. Not always nice, but always honest. Even if it was brutal. Alkor had respected that.

And he'd internalized it, to some degree.

"Floor 2," he intoned quietly as he stepped onto the teleporter, and within moments, he was spirited away.

Quote

To: Kiru

"High Fields of Crossing. Twenty minutes. I'll be waiting.

The bear had thrown him aside, hard enough to slam into a nearby tree and splinter it. Aching in the muck, Alkor had spent the last minute from his spinning head. Koga had seized the moment, jumping in heroically to take Callisto's attention for himself- for better or for worse. That wasn't ideal, even if he had come prepared to do just that. Koga was equipped to hold on to the hate, but not to keep it for long. This was the contingency. Give Alkor enough time to collect himself so that he could do the job he was supposed to be doing. Now, it was his turn to return the favor. Keep Koga alive, just as he'd done for the rest of the group.

Alkor slowly fought his way back to his feet, reeking of death and rot, hand gripping his wicked blade tightly, driving it deeper into the mud. With his eyes narrowed, he grit his teeth, seething. the burning of his flesh, the smoky darkness that permeated his body deepened in accordance with his venom. The hatred, the vitriol that sloughed off him like decayed flesh. His gaze drove daggers into the beast, his trembling body forcing each slow step toward it as he burned himself alive. He placed a metal palm on Koga's shoulder as the man stood firmly in the face of the creature, not taking his eyes off his victim.

"This burden is mine," he intoned. "You should never have  had to bear it at all."

He took a deep breath, and his voice plummeted into the abyss with him. The grave sound scratched at the tattered psyche of the beast, filling its disjointed thoughts with nothing but the Dark Knight.

"Never again."

Placeholder

Undaunted as the creature pounced with a savage grace that seemed unreal given its form, Alkor stood fast. The creature assailed him with putrid breath, roaring in his face as it bared ichorous fangs, flesh sloughing off bone and sinew. He had just enough time to make notice of a chip in its half-gone face, a place where the ursine skull faltered. When it practically unhinged its jaw and brought its wicked fangs to bear, one hand plunged fingers into the hole, securing an iron grip. It was going to get hold of him, but that worked in everyone's favor.

Alkor, after all, had always intended to be its target.

His left hand- blade poised defensively, was caught inside the beast's massive maw. As it bounded to create distance, the man thrust his blade upward. It tore through the meat at the roof of the creature's mouth, but did not manage to prompt it to drop him. Instead, Callisto seemed not to care at all.

Alkor kicked his free leg to the ground and dug one heel into the dirt, stealing a glance back over his shoulder. The situation was not as under control as he wanted it to be- but if one of the others could get there, to him...

The wicked edge of Witchfang had made its way through the boss' cranium, standing tall like a Midnight Black Standard. It waved over the rest of the group, seeking to inspire confidence that Alkor was indeed fighting back, even if it looked very much to not be the case.

"You can't even suffer anymore..." Alkor whispered, less empathetic toward the bear than filled with pity. "...so you lash out at everything, looking to ease the pain by spreading it to others."

He pulled the creature tight, as much intent on not letting it take its eyes off him as it refused to let him go free.

"Wildfire is indiscriminate." Alkor clenched his fist, a death deathgrip on Callisto's skull. "It only knows how to destroy. This pain we share... it will never heal us."

His eyes shut, Alkor smirked.

"But that's fine with me."

They had only just broken into their groups, but it seemed that the enemy would not give them time to regroup. A guttural sound permeated the pit of death, the unholy marriage between a beastial roar and a charnel house. The others threw themselves full tilt toward the creature, fully eschewing greater caution in favor of destructive output. Rather, in doing so, they placed full faith in the supporting cast to carry out the more grim labors.

Keeping the troupe alive. Preventing them from taking lethal damage. Standing between them and certain death. There had been a time when Alkor failed to appreciate the danger, considered the sacrifice of damage to be a hindrance more than a boon. He had learned the hard way just how much it took to stand in the way of a deathblow undaunted.

Oscar, it seemed, was not off to a strong start. The man plowed forward with every intention of giving the creature hell, only to find himself emptying the contents of his stomach into the moor. Alkor's expression remained unchanged despite this, quickly refocusing onto the rest of the group. He had to monitor their output, to see who was in the greatest danger. He had to know where each of them were, and make quick decisions about where he needed to be in turn.

Morningstar first, then Katoka struck true. They were well on their way, placing nicks and gouging out flesh from the creature's hide. Uncanny how the system showed just how unphased the beast was at losing any amount of its mass. It taunted them all, leering, snarling, snapping at them the throes of mindless hatred. Alkor could feel the enmity. Perhaps even more intimately now than ever before, he could truly empathize with that particular emotion.

Where the others raced forward full tilt, his own stride was slow, purposeful. Alkor reached to the haft of his weapon and gripped the hilt tightly, releasing Witchfang from its resting place. Each step he took displaced turgid water, and the swamp gas bubbled and popped, which in turn sent a rancid odor wafting over him.

If it bothered him, he made no indication.

I need a minute.

"Take what time you need," Alkor spoke quietly to the man as he passed by.

Next!

Alkor brought his wicked blade into guard, taking a deep breath. The Calm was past them now. The Storm had arrived.

As he exhaled, the gentle, almost nonexistent presence that surrounded him burned away, melted by red-black flames summoned forth by his passive Hatred Generation. He poured willpower consciously into that font of ruin, tapping deep into his subconscious, striking a vein in his psyche and bleeding malice out into the world.

There were all kinds of Players in Aincrad. Many tanks, some of whom prided themselves on protecting, the gallant motif of a white knight, even a berserker who stood strong and relentless in the face of adversity.

Alkor's greatest enemy had always been himself, and in waging that war, he had found his own method. 

He lifted his hand, beckoning, taunting, daring the beast to gaze upon him. To see him, and him alone. The others would carve the life from Callisto, but Alkor would become the creeping death that finally released the creature from its suffering.

He opened his mouth, and uttered a singular, powerful phrase. All of his cruelty and his malice culminated there, impregnating the simple sounds with immense pressure.

"Burn with me."

A wraith shambled into the room, at home with its surroundings. 

The hood that fell over his eyes cast a shadow over most of his face, beyond the pale jawline and thin line that formed his lips. He blew through the stench of death like a black wind, carrying it with him like an old, haggard friend. Perhaps it was- twice now he had faced the strongest creatures of Aincrad, once to sleep for what seemed like an eternity. He did not fear it the way he once did; yet in not fearing it, the Phoenix had learned the importance of staving it off. Like a creature denied oblivion, he crawled the surface of the flying castle's floors, a wretched blemish on the system, a pock mark denoting failure.

For so long, Alkor sought to burn through the candle of his life for the sake of others, melting away enemies, burning, mowing them down- but the flames of rebirth slowly burned at him as well. Charred black, he had learned the emotions of others, heard their pleas, harkened to their cries. The bonds he forged were meaningful, if not to him, then to those around him. Where once he had been selfish as a child, seeking to cast aside relationships, taking zero accountability for who or what he hurt on the path, the Dark Knight had grown. His eyes no longer held the glimmer or light of youth. As he joined those who had gathered for battle, he pulled away the cowl that obscured his eyes, revealing the fatigued, black bags that lay beneath amber. 

The feelings that hung in this place were like low lying fog, stagnant and thick.

Reticence. Fear. Uncertainty.

Resolve. Bravery. Devotion.

He took in the myriad flow of feelings, carving their meaningfulness into his very soul. Those who lived, and those who died- he would remember them. He would take their pain, their suffering, their anxiety- and he would turn them into fuel for the furnace. Alkor would burn so that others need not. Such was the meaning of this unlife, the second chance afforded to a wanderer who came empty and had been filled to overflowing. 

"..."

There were many words spoken, some of them heavier, some light, but Alkor listened without speaking. This was their time, some of them for the very first time. It need not be sullied with something he would have to force. Luck, well-wishes- these were things that he no longer believed much in. To offer those tidings would have been false, frail, and unfair to those who deserved better. No- he would offer all that he had for their sake.

I know this: if life is illusion, then I am no less an illusion, and being thus, the illusion is real to me.

He reached into his inventory, drank deep of one of the draughts he held there, and exhaled quietly. With a motion, he applied the effects of his Gold Star Stickers.

Alkor partook of the feasts brought forth by Oscar, emboldening himself for the ordeal ahead.

I live, I burn with life, I love, I slay, and am content.

Oscar feasts:

Gungnir's Shard - A Literal Pile of Diamonds [T4 Mit Feast] used
1/6 Consumed
A Tub of Lard [Tierless Overhealth Feast] | 236032 used
2/6 Consumed

Alkor consumables:

Gold Star Stickers
Tier 1 Unique Consumable | Charges: 0/3 | Untradable. +1 DMG, +1 LD or +15MIT for one thread. Stacks on top of other food/alchemical consumable buffs, but does not stack with Scent of the Wild totems.
Cerberus Soul: Adds 12 Burn damage for two turns to a weapon on a Natural BD roll of 8-10 for the duration of the thread. Does not stack with the Burn Enhancement.
Memory of Battle: Double the bonus from Scents of the Wild totems for one thread

[167323] Liquor of Light [+3 DMG]

Bonuses from Housing:

Filling: Enhancing Mit Feast by a T1 slot.

Well Rested: -1 energy cost for the first three expenditures of each combat

Squeaky Clean: The first time you would suffer DoT damage in a thread, reduce damage taken from DoT each turn by 25% (rounded down)

When the message came, Alkor was sat in the lazy rays of late afternoon orange that bled down over the 24th floor. The endless crash of waves from far below flowed together like a symphony, singing mind-numbingly beautiful Oblivion to someone desperate for silence. This was one of the few places he could isolate himself, on the property that he owned and did not have to share with anyone else.

Sadly, the respite was to be short lived. After the boss meeting, there was a short window where they could do what they needed to prepare. For Alkor, that meant the rest and solitude he needed to calm his frayed nerves and refresh himself for the fight. That peace was ended when be saw the message from Morningstar.

...it's a fair request, at least.

He gave an inaudible sigh. Though he could have refused, the thought of going into the next massive battle without any sort of understanding of how his teammates functioned was... well, Koga had spoken for the both of them. It was a liability, and this was an opportunity to rid themselves of it.

He scrawled out a message that sent just as he donned his armor and set out toward the teleport gate that would take him to the destination. They'd be able to talk details once he arrived. 

Quote

A: Floor 21? I'll be right there. Meet you in Tomoika?

Sunlight spilled out over the falls like gilded ink, slowly spreading to engulf the Elven city. Dawn and Dusk were spectacles unmatched in Ellesmera, designed by the great smiths and other artisans to truly capture the beauty of nature as it was, not as they might wish for it to be. The beauty of life existed in fleeting moments, never able to be captured but for the precious memories that remained in the thereafter. This was a truth the Elves had learned that many other races, other civilizations had not.

Mankind attempted its greatest works with the presumption that their greatest minds could create something more perfect than already existed. Ellesmera was a solemn testament to their failure to truly comprehend beauty. That was what drew Alkor back from time to time. His grandmother had spent her life in love with art. The hopes and aspirations of human ingenuity evolved from one generation to the next, but only in a virtual world- it seemed- had they ever managed to get it right.

At least, that was his humble opinion.

The Japanese were the closest that it came to perfection on Earth, seeking it in every breath. Every movement executed without waste, and every act full of meaning and merit. That was how his father raised him, and how the developers of Sword Art Online had intended for this place to be.

It also separated fantasy and reality. This place grounded Alkor, because though he could appreciate its beauty, he understood that it could not be replicated by human works. He came here when he needed humility, to be reminded that this world was not real; and to rekindle the flames of duty in his chest.

But time had not been kind to Alkor. The last time he came here, it was chasing a rumor. He had not yet found understanding, or made peace with himself. And perhaps that was still true, though he no longer felt the need to admonish himself with every waking breath.

The war inside Alkor was far from over, though the heat had waned and the embers now soldered. A cold war, then. Instead of throwing himself headlong into the danger as a blade, he had cast himself back into the forge, reworking that metal into a new shape. Armor, black as pitch, that seemed to swallow the same beautiful sunlight that he paused to admire. A body that stood firm, resolute, unflinching and unmoving.

He reclined with a leg sprawled out across the railing, the other hanging limp over the edge. His back pressed against one of the columns, allowing him to rest as he idly traced the hilt of his malefic blade. Though his purpose had changed, the intensity of his swordplay never did. He was unconsciously drawn to the destructive tool, just as it was bound to him.

One of the Elves bowed his head to Alkor as he passed by, murmuring a quiet yet respectful greeting. His gaze moved to the weapon, dimly aware of how out of place the Dark Knight seemed. From his appearance to the unnerving presence that he seemed to exude, Alkor knew it would not be long before he drew unwanted attention.

"Welcome, traveler. I see you are indulging in the fairness of our city. You have exquisite tastes, it would seem."

Polite though it was, Alkor did not need to break free his gaze to see the Elf appraising him. He let his gaze linger on the sunlight as the star rose just high enough that the water that had been dyed golden returned to an unextrodinary blue hue. He let out a sigh.

It's beautiful because it's fleeting, he reminded himself. He hated the irritation, the vexation that being disturbed brought him. It proved that he had an excruciatingly long journey ahead of him to conquer not only his inadequacies, but his anxiety as well.

With a long, cleansing breath, he regarded the Elven man.

"A simple man who enjoys simple things," Alkor assured him. "Well met," he said, extending a greeting of his own. "And I thank you for the warm reception."

Both of them remained wary of the other, despite appearances.

"Have you come seeking work?" the Elf asked.

"If there's work to be done," Alkor gave a sight shrug as he pivoted and stepped down from the rail. "I'm willing to get my hands dirty."

He locked gazes with Koga for a moment, though neither of them had to say a word. It was understood implicitly between both parties. The planning portion of the raid was important, mind; but many of them had been there for a time already, and things on that front were already well in hand. The best that Koga or Alkor could do was place themselves, and Koga spoke so Alkor didn't have to. The two of them would be in the third party, acting as the bulwark between their teammates and certain death. It wasn't like his old role as DPS, and after his own brush with mortality, Alkor understood the need for someone to take on the position. In fact, his intimacy with the reaper, and how the sensation had traumatized him only served to better prepare him specifically for his new role. 

Koga made another important distinction. While it was important for the players to learn and familiarize themselves with how others played the game, the frontlines were not the right place for it. Granted, after much practice, implementing new strategies for the first time was a different story. What was being discussed wasn't that, though. Alkor for a moment felt inclined to chime in, if only to add that them placing their peers in unnecessary danger was basically assisting the boss, he deemed it unnecessary. An accusatory tone in this venue would only serve to sow dissension and tear a deep rift between people, especially the ones who did not know each other.

That would be even worse than the previous suggestion- and Koga had said enough already for the both of them.

There'd been some talk of reanimation... but with what they'd seen so far, that kind of thing had no precedent. It couldn't be ruled out, but the best they could do was adjust accordingly, not prepare outright for something with no consistency to back it up. Rather, the prospect of boss healing seemed much more realistic. They had seen that before on numerous occasions, from the many accounts he'd received from frontliners and info brokers. Worse yet, with the corruption that existed in certain parts of the floor, he didn't doubt that the affliction was slowly spreading. To that end- he mentally prepared for debuffs and myriad status effects. They needed trustworthy support- but that didn't seem to be readily available in this composition of players.

...in fact, he hadn't heard any at all speak up yet.

"So... are we going to address the disturbing lack of support players, or were we planning on charging in and relying on items?"

To be frank, he wasn't interested in the social aspect of the meeting. 

That was always the case with Alkor, though. Whenever it came to the real meat and bones of Aincrad, the bloody stuff where people could get killed and never come back, he didn't even pretend. The mask that he donned mostly for everyone else's sake came off long before he entered the room, a grim expression and bags beneath his eyes evidence that he had spent far too long contemplating the coming trial. The last boss fight had spent him, sending him into a deep and dark depression that he still had yet to come to grips with entirely. His golden gaze was riddled with red, bloodshot and hazy. He looked both out of sorts and out of place, especially given the scene that had unfolded prior to his arrival. It was decorated for a fabulous, happy event- one that Alkor had not been invited to, frankly, and had no interest in attending. A boss meeting wasn't a happy event. The two things coinciding was more bittersweet than anything.

Beautiful as it was, he didn't spare the time to regale with tidings of joy or congratulations. He didn't have the energy, the desire, or the wherewithal to care that it might seem confrontational. Instead, he took his place near the entrance against the wall, watching, listening as others bantered and then finally started to talk strategy. His head dipped slightly, eyes closed as he exhaled. The tension that came with discomfort abated as the scene finally shifted in paradigm toward his element. His Stygian armor swallowed light from above, rather than reflecting it, in stark contrast to his blonde mop of hair. With arms crossed, he tried to glean as much information as he could before he tried to offer up any input.

In the end, it sounded that things were pretty well in hand without him chiming in.

There was talk of working together with new people... old people... to Alkor, it hardly mattered. They were all of them, in his eyes, people displaced from their homes in a dangerous place. They all deserved protection and safety, equally. At that point, he spoke up, finally resolved in his decision.

"Alkor," he said his name, for what it was worth, "Tank, Off-tank, either way."

He swayed as the others raced into action around him, holding a hand over his mouth to stifle any further vomiting. To say that his equilibrium had suddenly been thrown off would have been an understatement- Alkor felt like he had been afflicted with a sudden and terrible case of vertigo, seemingly induced by the boss' malefic aura coupled with some kind of stunning attack.

Two could play at that game. Still channeling his rage and determination, the virulent, hazy red aura surged around him as Alkor drew on his violent and wild tendencies to further enhance his next strike. The darkness of the blade rose up again, as though his very soul called out and willed it forth. Oathkeeper was a weapon of both light and dark, a tool meant to bring balance. That Alkor could only find midnight in its presence was telling for him.

"Guess I should really be thanking you," he muttered, less to the Dragon than for his own amusement, "thanks to you, I was able to learn something about myself. As a token of my appreciation, you'll be the first to taste retribution."

Not the last, though.

Alkor raised his blade, drinking in the darkness, and sent the weapon slamming into the boss' hide. Dark flames surged outward, exploding on impact.

218254 BD: 6 (Hit! Fallen activates!) 12+16= 28×16= 448-15= 433 damage

(8) Alkor | HP: 989/989 | EN: 85/118 | DMG: 12 | MITI: 193 | ACC: 4 | BH: 54 | TAUNT | HLY: 16 | FLN: 16 | LD: 3 

Wushen, Elemental Warlord | HP: ????/???? | DMG: 200 | MITI: 15 | ACC: 4 | EVA: 0 (433 damage accumulated)

Wushen centered its gaze on him as his defiance mounted. Alkor could feel the blood pumping in his veins, the adrenaline flowing like fire. Indignation coalesced with fury, together with determination to keep him on his feet. He faced down the primordial entity like a man who had come toe to toe with his own maker. It was too late to run, even if he wanted to.

But the glare intensified, and the creature balked at his existence. The very fear-turned-strength that brought him to this point twisted inside his gut, wrenching it. Alkor reached down suddenly and grabbed at his stomach, a wave of nausea rising suddenly like the tides.

He fought the urge to fall to a knee, stayed on both feet, but could not spur himself forward. Gritting his teeth, the bulwark of team NIGHT locked eyes with the boss.

And summarily voided the contents of his stomach, flipping the beast the bird, sword still in hand.

The most important thing now was that the boss kept its attention focused where it would do the least harm. With Alkor steadily healing off and taking considerably less damage on hit than his compatriots would, there were no doubts. Giant evil dragon beast had gone untargetable, and many heads were swooping in and harassing each group, all of them with different aspects. What those entailed mattered considerably less than staying alive.

Hell, they'd figure out what they did as they attacked.

Alkor glanced at the Cooldown timer as it refreshed on his taunt, and his body began to glow a dark, hazy red as he drew the emnity into himself, willing the boss to once more focus its energies in his direction.

This time, it was accompanied not by a scream, but by a chilling miasma born from the willpower he manifested from his own contempt and vengeance for the fallen.

Focused Howl activated +6 Hate 

(12) Alkor | HP: 949/989 | EN: 73/118 | DMG: 12 | MITI: 193 | ACC: 4 | BH: 54 | TAUNT | HLY: 16 | FLN: 16 | LD: 3

When she mentioned that it would be a misbegotten situation that saw her put into the line of fire, Alkor showed no small amount of appreciation for her acceptance of the role she had chosen. It was difficult to relegate oneself to something less glorious than adventure, he thought. In a world where the sky was the limit, binding oneself to the dirt and creating magical treasures and tools for others to use but never to truly enjoy for oneself seemed like a special kind of hell. He could imagine that fear might drive some Players to never want to travel or endanger themselves, but how long could a person really go without indulging their innate wanderlust?

Or maybe that was just the wanderer in him, romanticizing the adventure he had always dreamed of. The part of him still grounded in reality reminded him of danger, but danger existed in all walks of life. That was what separated him from people with a healthy sense of self-preservation. The acceptance that not all danger could be avoided. It was also what made him a candidate for the frontlines.

It made the armor more manageable.

now, i don't mean to beat around the bush, alkor, but – what do you think of your equipment thus far?

He paused. To say the work wasn't quality would be a blatant lie. It was finely crafted and would serve the purpose he needed for it to- tanking a floor boss wouldn't be possible with the light armor he once wore, without the proper stats or buffs, without the sturdy defense of something heavier. That said, it wasn't quite Alkor. 

It was impossible to give him a heavy armor that would allow him full free range of motion. Such an awesome and stunning blatant disregard for the laws of physics surely did not exist in Aincrad or any place else. It was possible to shave off some of the weight, some of the bulkier portions, and use plating and gaps to allow for greater maneuverability and quicker swordplay. He wasn't going to be using a shield- that was one thing that set him apart from many of the others. His inherent skills as a swordsman had to bridge the gap.

... has it been able to serve you well?

Truth be told, Alkor didn't have a good answer for her. He did however, have his reservations. And since Iris was a purveyor of goods in the vein of arms, armor, and other such things, she might be just the person to voice those reservations to. "It would be unfair of me to give you an answer, since I have yet to truly experience combat in this garb," he told her honestly, "but I can honestly say that it feels awkward to me, and unwieldy. My steps are heavier, more difficult to recover from if I move with any speed. I'm able to put more strength behind attacks, but the follow through leaves an opening that I'm not completely used to yet. I'd very much prefer something that offers the defensiveness of a heavier armor while also allotting me some freedom of movement."

He had placed one hand to his chin and cupped the elbow of that arm with the opposite. As he spoke, he noted her demeanor, the way she carried herself, how she looked around and examined the world around her. Despite being disallowed the freedom to journey beyond the walls of a safe zone, she never seemed to waste a moment where she could be learning something. Maybe that was a skill she gained that he couldn't lay a claim to, something in the same line as appraisal.

"But I don't want to talk your ear off about armor specifications," he added, "you know more about it than I do, after all."