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Not one week back Wrench was traipsing a volcanic landscape and watching his fellow Summoned work together in an effort to heal draconic hatchlings. He ought to know by now that this place is nothing like the world he came from. For some reason, though, he still expects it to operate by the same rules. Wrench still believes that if anyone were to discover the things he did before coming to this place, he'd be the next corpse burned to ash in the middle of the commune. Despite the kinds of lives others have managed to create for themselves here in Solvunn, his own feels finite and limited. He can scarcely begin to imagine what else he could do for himself when there are no options available to him back home. Just subsist. Stay on the run and avoid capture. Never let yourself need to come up for air.

Don't ever let anyone tell you you're not every bit as smart as you look.

He stalls his next step, just in case Sandor decides to take a swing at him for that. It puts Wrench an extra pace behind the taller man, but he's quick to catch back up when he's sure any retribution for the joke won't be overly-painful.

Maybe I'm just curious. They say magic in this place comes from the Gods, but it seems like everyone except me arrived already magical.

Shocking though it may be, he does not actually make to swing at Wrench. He's a soldier, he's spent the better part of his life surrounded by other soldiers. The company he keeps is crass and full of assholes. If he couldn't take a joke about himself made by people he's decided are more or less worth tolerating, he'd have been fucked a long time ago.

All he does is shoot Wrench a flat, unimpressed look that quite clearly reads: shut the fuck up, you cunt.

In a way, it's almost a shame that he was brought here before he had the chance to get to know Thoros better. Wrench might remind him of the bald cocksucker a little. If he's going to give the man shit for anything, it would be for being a bloody coward and falling back a step in the first place. Take your licks like a man, you bloody girl.

I THOUGHT THE MAGIC CAME FROM THAT BIG FUCKING ROCK EVERYONE'S ALWAYS GOING ON ABOUT?

Pain -- real, actual pain -- has never been much of a deterrent for Wrench. He might jerk and flinch away like he's trying to incite Sandor into some kind of slap-fight, but he's never been one to cower or run in the opposite direction from the real thing. Like the towering man, his body bears plenty of signs of the violence that's plagued the better part of his existence. But unlike Sandor, Wrench has the ability to keep most of that hidden. It's likely that anyone who's spent any amount of time looking at the man has probably already reached the conclusion there's something rough and dangerous about him, but maybe Wrench isn't as far from passing for normal as he's always thought himself to be.

Rock?

Or maybe he's a complete fool.

It's probably no surprise that he's missed some of the finer details of the history that surrounds this place. For anyone else, that might be hard to do. The Summoned have held plenty of meetings and spent countless hours debating it. Various townspeople proclaim it at every opportunity. But what information Wrench has gathered has been particularly limited.

We were brought here to fight over a rock?

He kind of missed his welcome speech.

At this, Sandor does actually stop in his tracks to stare at the guy for one long, absurd moment. By his count, Wrench has been here near two months longer than Sandor has at least. For him not to have picked up on this yet is just bloody absurd.

Eventually, he lets out one sharp bark of a laugh — and with every bit of sass his soul can possibly manage:

OH, DON'T LET ANYONE TELL YOU YOU'RE NOT EVERY BIT AS SMART AS YOU LOOK EITHER, YOU GINGER FUCK. HOW FUCKING LONG HAVE YOU BEEN HERE?

What an absolutely delightful turn-about. Thank you for giving him this opportunity to return fire less than two sentences later.

AYE, WE'RE WARRING OVER A BIG BLOODY ROCK IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CONTINENT. I DON'T SUPPOSE YOUR NEW GOD HAS ANY INPUT ON THAT?

Well, maybe turnabout's fair play after all. Wrench doesn't roll his eyes at that. He doesn't give Sandor the satisfaction of proving that he realizes his own words have been used against him. Instead, Wrench pretends to preen. He ruffles a hand through his overgrown, unwashed curls and stands a little prouder. Puckers his lips as though the man has really paid him some kind of a compliment.

Not long enough to have taught everyone sign language just yet.

It's evident he thinks his misunderstanding is justified, but Wrench doesn't seem bitter. On the whole, he appears disinterested in this new revelation. If better understanding the source of the magic changes his life in some discernible way, he doesn't know how. Unless the rock is unlocking some magic portal back home, Wrench doesn't know how much attention it deserves to be paid. Even if it were he's not yet convinced he'd have reason to step back through the door.

I don't know. We mostly just walk hand-in-hand by the water. I guess I could ask her the next time I see her.

This time he pitches his eyes so far backward his irises practically disappear.

Has anyone ever told you you're an annoying fucker, Wrench? If not, maybe they ought to start. He shakes his head, fatigue on his features, and peels his eyes away to settle them off into the distance again. Down the path, the taverns and shops begin to creep into view. It's the former he means to lead them to, because he's been sober all day and if he's going to keep putting up with this cunt he's going to need a drink. Walk hand-in-hand by the water, he says.

FUCK OFF.

He doesn't believe for a second any god would deign to set foot down here on solid earth and take a stroll with any mortal peasants. They surely never did anything of the sort back where he's from — not even for those bloody lunatics that follow the Lord of Light, for all the hands-on miracles he seems to perform for them.

At any rate, he seems content enough to let Wrench carry on without answering the question proper. If he wants to keep his reasons to himself, if he wants to be cagey about his new worship habits, so be it. Maybe he just picked one at random. Not like it's any of Sandor's fucking business anyway. He can't be arsed to push any harder for a reason that rings genuine.

It may seem by his non-answers that Wrench is trying to craft every excuse to shut down Sandor's present line of questioning, but this is exactly what he doesn't want. When the man offers that tired expression of finality, it feels in part like a loss. From a half-step behind the tall swordsman, Wrench's shoulders sag. He sucks in a breath and holds it in his lungs, waiting in anticipation of something more. A change in the direction of the conversation, or even a more specific insult about the kind of man Sandor considers him to be. It doesn't come. Instead, the scene around them remains still and silent as they continue to trudge back toward civilization.

Well, not entirely silent. Eventually -- though longer than one might expect -- Wrench blows out that lungful of air in an unhappy-sounding sigh. He steps over the fallen brush with less concern for the twigs he snaps underfoot. His presence gets louder. It's a conversation that he's wanted to incite, and he would have taken it in any form. Maybe he's better-practiced at the abrasive, challenging kind. Maybe he's found it an easier tool for keeping people talking. But whether intentionally or not, Sandor's stumbled on the best defense he possibly could have: silence.

What were you doing in the grove? He finally needles. You pay this much attention to everyone?

Wrench is in for a rather miserable time of it if he gets disheartened by answers that seem to shut him down. That's a good fifty percent of any given interaction with Sandor, who'd shut down any sentient being from a talking mouse to a talking god if he had so much as the slightest inclination. If he notices the other man's shoulders sag, or his posture slump, he doesn't remotely acknowledge it.

They trudge along, with Wrench stomping his way through the underbrush with a herd of cattle, earning an absent but pointed look from his walking companion when his foot snaps down on a broken branch. It reads really, must you? Not that it hardly matters, they're not stalking anything, it's just a reflex to take any possible opportunity to express his annoyance at literally anything.

NO, JUST YOU. YOU'RE SPECIAL.

The sarcasm here is so profound, it's practically tangible. Just in case it still somehow flies over Wrench's head, though, he adds on:

YOU OWN THE FUCKING GROVE NOW OR SOMETHING? SEEMS PUBLIC ENOUGH TO ME.

The truth of it is less interesting than it might seem. He'd stumbled across Wanda the other day at a deeper shrine, making her own offerings. She's made a few valid points about understanding the locals, about understanding their habits. Knowing the culture, and the gods they worship. He's got nary a scrap of fucking faith himself, but it pays to know the world around him. This lot, these villagers, seem obsessed with the fuckers — more so than the typical pious folk where he's from. Seeing Summoned, who aren't native to this world, falling into similar worship habits? It's... curious.

Didn’t I tell you I was elected king of the grove? It happened just before you got here. Unanimous vote and everything.

At least Sandor doesn’t have the corner market on sarcasm. Wrench grins at him when he earns a backwards glance from the other man, exaggerating his smile to reveal the slight gap between his two front teeth. It manages to make him look a whole lot more boyish than he’d generally abide, but Wrench has to suspect that Sandor makes everyone look like an overgrown child by comparison. Sure, there’s something about his face that his build can’t quite conceal. Something sad and almost puppylike. But he imagines Sandor would be loath to hear as much.

The man’s asked enough questions now that maybe at least one of them deserves an honest answer, though. Wrench walks a few more paces in silence, until they break through the swirling treeline and start to push away from the little sanctuary for the gods.

I killed a couple of creatures in there a few months back. I guess some kind of a rift opened? Like what brought us here, maybe, except this time it was dragons and wolves and glowing skeletons.

Anyway, I protected the shrine. Wasn’t trying to, but it happened, and I guess the god liked it.

PEOPLE DON'T VOTE FOR KINGS, YOU BLOODY JACKANAPE

Comes the immediate answer, accompanied by another deep rolling of his eyes. If Kings were chosen by vote, they'd have gotten rid of that little shit Joffrey before he even finished his first week on the bloody throne. Beheading Ned Stark would've made sure of that.

Never, ever call him puppylike unless you want a fist to the throat, Wrench. Even if he does look a bit like a basset hound, as his nickname rather implies.

He does stop in his tracks to level Wrench with an incredulous look when that explanation follows.

"Dragons," he echoes, forgetting for a moment to send it in brain-text. "You're telling me you protected that rock from dragons? The fuck you did."

That’s what made it so incredible. It was the first ever democratic election of a monarch. They said I was just so inspiring.

Is it clear that Wrench never paid much attention in history class? Oh well. He’s certain his insistence will make Sandor roll his eyes, and from a half-step behind the man comes a quiet, unintended smirking. It’s as if Wrench can’t keep his amusement to himself.

But when the man speaks instead, all humor drops. He pushes a bit forward, trying to reposition him to catch those words as they’re spoken. It’s a feature of being taken off-guard that Wrench even tries. At any other time he’d probably roll his eyes and insist Sandor find another way to communicate whatever he’s saying, but he’s caught up in the moment and in trailing the man back for a drink. That earns an added effort.

What, you know about dragons? I didn’t see them myself. Not that time.

Opinion changed fast, I guess. Went from killing dragons and things like it to trying to protect their eggs.

Sandor's flat, dead stare through the line of horseshit Wrench tries to sell him is absolutely unmoved. Does he know exactly what democracy is? Not entirely, though he can more or less piece together the context clues. It doesn't matter, he knows shit talk when he hears it, and he is Fully Unimpressed, thank you kindly.

AYE, I KNOW ABOUT DRAGONS. THEY USED TO KEEP THE SKULLS OF DRAGONS IN THE RED KEEP. YOU'D BE LUCKY TO MAKE HALF A SNACK FOR ONE, LET ALONE DEFEND YOUR BLOODY SHRINE FROM IT.

All the same, he can't help but privately agree — from what he's heard, from the things that happened just before they pulled him through, it's a hypocritical turn-around. Slaughtering the monsters threatening innocent lives, to then trying to save them. He can't say he understands, but he also can't say he's too interested in trying.

He sets off at a walk again, recovering his steps, striding purposefully toward the tavern.

HOW'D YOU KNOW YOUR GOD LIKED IT, ANYWAY? THEY GIVE YOU A SIGN OR A WRITTEN FUCKING PROMISSORY NOTE OR SOMETHING?

It’s not like Wrench to pass judgment on the whims of others. Rather, it isn’t in his nature to try too hard to assert his own opinion on what other people do. He largely considers it none of his business. If there’s a need for him to interject, someone else will make that judgment call for him, and by that point it won’t matter what the person has to say for themselves anyway. But want of conversation makes him a little more earnest, and confusion over the political whims that govern this place leaves him wondering how others interpret the choices they’re given. He’s spoken to Wanda about it a bit, but he has to admit that the woman seems a world away from himself.

Honorable, that is. Deeply concerned with the wellbeing of others. Self-sacrificial. All things that Wrench doesn’t see in himself.

It wasn’t a dragon I killed. They were something called darkhounds. Overgrown wolves with acid in their spit.

An old lady told me.

Sandor sees some of the same things in Wanda. Maybe not so much with the self-sacrifice and the honor, but he can fully see the deep concern for the wellbeing of strangers. She takes initiative in caring for the Summoned, in bringing them together. She seems like she has a purpose, she seems sure of herself, she seems driven. She has the necessary qualities and breeding of a leader, and the right amount of kindness that Sandor feels fine enough falling into line behind her.

He wonders if she knows that if she chose to make a stand, chose to take something by force, she'd have at least two loyal, relatively strong henchmen to help her take it. Wonders whether or not she'd use them. Whether or not she'd need to, considering the raw power of magic she's got under her control.

They reach the tavern. He pauses with his hand on the door to shoot Wrench a sideways look.

AN OLD LADY TOLD YOU?

Open | November

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