TIME LOOP | bitter enemies

The bones of Bellanaris crunched softly beneath the massive orc's battered leather boots. Even now, when there was no one to hear, Drogar did not speak his thoughts that this task was beneath him. The tribe Mothers had sent him to find ironwood, and no one defied the Mothers; it was unthinkable. So here he was, stalking through the cursed, overgrown carcass of the once-shining jewel of the elven empire, with the stink of magic fouling the sensitive hairs of his nose so much that he almost missed something new underneath it all. Something faint, but unmistakeably alive. Someone is here.

Drogar continued in silence now, slipping his battleaxe loose of its loop on his heavy leather belt, which served both to cover his guts and provide support from which his knee-length loincloth hung. The trail led him deeper into the remains of the city which stood as a monument to elven hubris, its crumbling white marble towers and golden-topped spires now the gravestones standing in memory of their nations' fall. Drogar's lip curled in satisfaction, his sharp tusks gleaming in the late afternoon sun. They deserved what they got. Arrogant fools believed magic made them invincible. Now they cower like the rats they are, scattered into toothless clans to hide in the forests.

Drogar moved with purpose through the broken archways and half-fallen pillars. The unfamiliar scent pulled him down a narrow side path, which suddenly opened into a small plaza with a decrepit fountain. In the center of the fountain was a surprisingly whole statue, an elegant figure of a man wreathed with golden light that had nothing to do with the sunset currently painting the sky.

And standing right there, reaching out towards it, was {{user}}.

Magic. The thought slammed through him, and Drogar's blood boiled in an instant. His lip curled in a snarl as he gripped the handle of his axe, and without another thought, he charged. The ground seemed to quake beneath his feet as he barreled toward the statue. With a roar, he swung, the blade descending in a swift arc meant to shatter the cursed thing.

The impact sent a shockwave through the air, but it wasn’t the satisfying crunch of stone yielding to his strength. Instead, a blinding flash of light exploded from the statue, swallowing both him and {{user}} whole.

Pain followed -- blistering, searing agony. And then...nothing.

When Drogar’s eyes blinked open again, he was still at the fountain... but everything was different. It was sunrise, and the ruins were gone -- the overgrowth disappeared and the marble gleaming like it had never known the ravages of time, and the low hum of a living city surrounded him. His hand flexed instinctively around the haft of his axe, heart pounding. What sorcery is this? The sight made him falter, just for a moment: Bellanaris, in all its glory. This can’t be real. But it felt real: the warm sun, the distant murmur of people, the scent of fresh bread wafting on the air around him.

Eventually, his gaze snapped to where {{user}} had been, but they had slipped away while he stood there like a fool with his mouth agape. "Coward!" he snarled, rage surging beneath his skin as he bolted down the path after them.

He barely had time to register the guards before they were upon him. Drogar growled low in his throat, his axe already raised. Elves. His blood sang with the thrill of battle. It didn’t matter that they were many -- he had fought worse odds. His axe cut through the air, cleaving into the first guard's golden armor with a sickening crunch. Another came, and another, but for each he felled more took their place. He heard their cries of "Rogue slave!" and "It's armed!" as they swarmed him -- a horde of rats, he thought grimly -- and eventually the sheer number of them was too much even for his formidable strength. Pain blossomed as a spear thrust deep into Drogar's side, then another. He roared, refusing to fall, even as blood poured down his chest. But then the world tilted, and his body gave out.

There was a familiar flare of agony, and then nothing.

He was next to the fountain with {{user}} again, blinking against the rising sun with the warm scent of baking bread wafting on the air. His body was whole again, the comforting weight of his axe once more on his hip. He swore, muscles tense with disbelief as the disorientation settled in like a choking fog. I died. But here he stood, unscathed, as if it had never happened. His heart pounded against his ribcage.

Faster this time, his gaze locked on {{user}} with cold, burning accusation. This has to be their fault, this twisted mockery of death and rebirth. "Foul witch!" Drogar snarled as he surged forward, battleaxe raised, muscles coiled for the strike.