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viralvava · 6 months

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Something about Greylancer and Vlijmen. Maybe Meier too :зс

okay so this turned out WAY longer than expected and is basically just relationship setup teehee... that is to say its 4,030 words so ill put it under a read more lmfao

All told, it was only a short time after Greylancer had resumed his title as Overseer of the Northern Frontier, feared and revered in equal measures throughout all the sectors of the country and the Capital both, that he had once again been made to face an invincible threat to his rule. And at that time, in a manner unlike anything before, such a threat proved too much for even the Noble Greylancer to overcome. That Noble, who had felled armies, battled insurgents by both day and night, who had mercilessly dispatched his equals and had stormed the dreadful moon base of the OSB with hardly a single helping hand… that Noble, Lord Greylancer, had been bested in battle.

There had been a close battle between two men of undeniable similarity. Both peerless fighters of incredible skill, who had once served the will of the Sacred Ancestor and laid nothing less than complete and utter waste to their enemies, most especially the OSB. As blood had smeared both warriors, spilling so long and so heavily that it had even begun to dry and coagulate underneath their boots as they fought, the silver lance had crossed with the obsidian sword. It was the latter that had reigned superior, as had its wielder, that damnable madman who desired to extend his rule over the entire Frontier. Bathed in the red mists of gore and that scarlet stench, Valcua had been akin to a huntsman, and Greylancer had become the wolf in the rifle’s sights. Never prey, but still rendered helpless in the face of something incomprehensibly beyond him.

Of course, there was only so much anyone could have done against the Ultimate Noble. Even a man so powerful as Greylancer would have been incapable of eking out a victory against him. Clad in armour that seemed to be crafted of divine and unknowable materials, his cape and hair dancing in the bloodied air like golden threads, Lawrence Valcua had proved to be an indomitable foe, to what would become Greylancer’s eternal humiliation. Anyone else would have accepted in stride being defeated by such a being as he, once a general of the Sacred Ancestor’s own army, having uncountable casualties beneath his heels.

However, left in such a sorry state that he could barely keep his broken mask affixed to his brow, Greylancer couldn’t help but to seethe. His men and vassals were all slaughtered, down to the last retainer and warrior both. Even the horses had been slain, so intense and unyielding was his opponent’s thirst for blood and killing lust that it had set some of the creatures with heart attacks, while others had been cleaved in twain. The humans under his supervision had too become faceless victims of warfare. Met with the might of Valcua’s enchanted blade, even his own trusted lance had been cut apart like so much paper and tissue. It was like this, unarmed, undefended, and bleeding from unhealed wounds, that Greylancer crawled away from the battlefield, reduced to a struggling bug. Resistance had proven futile, and forever now would his pride and dignity be tarnished – that was how Greylancer felt.

It was this devastating loss that had decided the continuing dominion of the Northern Frontier, and as both a fugitive and a complete and utter failure of an Overseer, Greylancer had been forced to flee, lest his life become one among the millions already taken by Valcua. Not only was this enough of a blow to Greylancer’s character in and of itself, but it was made all the worse by another distinct factor: Greylancer’s Northern Frontier sector had been the first so far to be targeted by Valcua, and then the first to succumb to him. The Capital was built of cowards, most of all being those who made up the privy council, who hadn’t the mettle to interfere with Valcua’s intentions. Furthermore, for reasons unclear, even the army Valcua had once led seemed not to be slighted or at all caring of his sudden betrayal, no matter how many monuments of the Sacred Ancestor the ex-commander turned to ruins.

No matter what the cause of this inaction was, it had left Greylancer and his subordinates to fend for themselves, and while they could be as bitter as they liked towards the weak-willed Nobles in the Capital, it was only expected for the neighbouring Frontier territories to stay out of things. Greylancer had poor relations with every other Overseer, somehow even more strained than he had with their predecessors, and regardless each sector operated with the understanding that they had no dealings in each other's business unless brought directly to the table. Humans were useless in a battle between Nobles, and Valcua’s soldiers seemed to replenish ad infinitum no matter how many of them Greylancer and his allies ran through. Magic, or the sheer charisma of their superior, Greylancer knew not. In the end the results were the same.

Yet. As much of an embarrassment as it was, for him to have fallen first out of all the Frontier and to now be hauling himself through the darkness like a dog, there was one benefit Greylancer could find. He had been the first target, and so far the only one. If he could only make the journey, the near sectors would not yet be under siege, leaving South, East and West to their own devices. Dangerous as they would be for him, practically stripped of all rank and honours, compared to the lands which Valcua now roamed, those otherwise concerning sectors would now become safe havens. It was with this in mind that even now, bereft of everything he’d ever earned, lost, and fought to keep, Greylancer continued on. For any other, all this may have been cause enough to simply accept imminent death.

But it was not only his accolades that made up The Noble Greylancer.

Pure strength of will pushed him forward, even as the numerous injuries afflicted by Valcua’s swordsmanship failed to close or even stop seeping with blood. Under the moonlight, grass was teased by the thin breeze that carried the immutable blackness of hundreds, thousands of deaths tainting the air. Onto the glades dripped blood that ran even darker, blooming like flowers from beneath Greylancer’s flesh. Even though Greylancer was barely clinging to life as he moved achingly slow across the countryside, no monsters dared to accost him, and Valcua’s men didn’t follow. Surely, they assumed his death was inevitable, and had no desire to waste time. Or rather, that was their master’s thoughts.

“Overconfidence will be the bane of him,” Greylancer promised himself in low, lethargic tones, and continued on, clawing himself closer to his destination inch by agonising inch. He would take his territories back from Valcua, the so-called Ultimate Noble, no matter how long it took him. Even if his injuries took decades to heal, even if he had nothing left, even if House Greylancer itself had been truly destroyed and he was nothing but a wraith; his pride as a Noble demanded it. His willpower lent strength to his battered body, in the way only a true warrior could, and so did his intent. Perhaps that, as the certain goal he had in mind was what informed his will to accomplish it, it was the thing driving him on more than any other.

No matter the case, days passed by repeatedly, and sunlight at once shone over him in useless fashion, danger repelled by the incense he had managed to miraculously preserve, and then melted away again, like a transient painting that blotted over with purple night hues. Nothing interfered with his advance, as pathetic and slow as it was, diminishing in vigour every moment when Greylancer’s weakening limbs couldn’t keep up with his racing mind. His pace was unsteady and faltering, not to mention he moved at speeds even a snail might find sluggish. As the beating from Valcua didn’t get better, nor did it get worse, but the strain was disturbingly constant.

The sun glittered over the horizon once more, colouring the sky with warmth and a golden haze, as it announced Greylancer’s arrival in the Western Frontier. As Greylancer had first thought, though now his head was also being burdened by the increasing daze of near unconsciousness, the west was still untouched by Valcua’s ambition. For how long that would be the case was impossible to tell. As Greylancer pulled himself across flat ground in an almost snake-like fashion, if not for how laboured it was, he couldn’t help but to marvel; for someone who had spent untold amounts of time caught in a life-or-death struggle that ended with everything surrounding him in various states of complete annihilation, the formerly unremarkable peace of the Western Frontier seemed as if it could be of another world. Wind coursed painfully through the cuts that pierced his body, but it was wind that had the vibrancy of life still clinging to it, and wasn’t rank with rot. Though Greylancer could hardly stop moving, lest he not start again, it served to reinvigorate him somewhat. But would it be enough to get him where he needed to go?

Since the complete upheaval of not only the Privy Council, but the Overseers, caused almost solely by Greylancer himself, there had been new blood appointed to tame the temporarily lawless sectors. These new Overseers included choices that could only be deemed inexplicable, such as General Gaskell overlooking the south, but more relevant was Count Braujou in the territory Greylancer now attempted to cross. Despite questionable relationships with every new addition, as Greylancer had never been one to uphold political relations anyway, Braujou was known to be unusually reasonable for the sorts of personality the Frontier tended to breed. It was unlikely for him to take advantage of this moment of weakness, very unlike Gaskell, and so it made sense to use the west as an escape. Strangely, though, it didn’t seem like the castle Braujou resided in was where the gutted Noble was heading. Instead, the route he inexorably followed looked to be the direction of someone who’d finally lost his mind, with no articles of any importance existing along the way.

Or, no important articles that were supposed to be existing. For when finally Greylancer’s body could no longer move, shutting down in the face of both its abnormally still-fresh injuries and the incredible strain it had been put under for so long, it was in front of an odd little outpost that he collapsed. Large and imposing, glinting black in the light, it was one of many resting houses the Nobility had constructed in their forced deference to the glowing sun – what humans would call a ‘dark abode’. Usually invisible to human eyes and protected by holograms and illusions, Greylancer’s presence had revealed it in all its glory, in spite of his deathly state. However, a resting house was no form of permanent housing, and any Noble with another option would never stay in one for extended periods of time. Was it simply that Greylancer had hoped to enter before his strength at last waned, and had been hit by a stroke of bad luck? No, that couldn’t be it, for he had moved with an undeniable purpose that couldn’t be from that alone.

And surely enough, when the day inevitably began to fall away, and instead a beautiful hue of pitch-black cast itself over the sky, the stars glittering brightly as if trying to express an omen to anyone who might read them, a figure shrouded in darkness stepped out into the moonlight to receive their guest.

It was three days later that Greylancer awoke. His eyes snapping open, his first action was to cast his gaze over the room; around him, he could see medical equipment littering every wall, in a manner that could almost be called messy. There was the scent of chemicals in the air, the kind a Noble wouldn’t ever need if not for the overwhelming severity of Greylancer’s wounds, and it made the back of his throat itch unpleasantly, tongue knocking heavily against his teeth. His next order of business was an attempt to push himself up, off of what he soon realised was a medical bed, but his body protested so shockingly that he immediately fell back down.

“Curses,” Greylancer muttered, for it was clear that though his gouges and lacerations had been cleaned and dressed, and perhaps doused with antiseptics, they were not at all healed. How phenomenal must the power of the Ultimate Noble be, to leave Greylancer in the same dire straits as a human who had dodged death by only the skin of their teeth? He found himself disturbed to think of it, that his fight may have truly, honestly been unwinnable. A hopeless battle for him… was something he had previously thought impossible.

A polite cough sounded to his left, and Greylancer turned. Having before slipped his notice – and how addled his mind must be to have let that happen – the Noble was now face to face with a most unexpected companion. That was to say, unexpected for anyone else. Greylancer had kept his suspicions close to his chest, but he had carried them from the very beginning, and it was on those suspicions that he had practically bet his life. For the man that sat next to Greylancer’s bedside, doing little but reading a book and flipping the antiquated paper pages with long, white fingers, was none other than the former Overseer of the Western Frontier. The same Overseer, in fact, that Greylancer himself had supposedly impaled with his lance. Though he had his claws sheathed, the Noble that looked at him with bemusement in his gaze was none other than Lord Vlijmen Mayerling.

“The blood?” Greylancer asked, but when Mayerling provided him the answer, he’d already realised it. After all, it was Mayerling who was famed for his mass production of synthetic blood, almost identical to the real thing, and Greylancer hadn’t lingered long enough for the difference to be clear. He had only seen the blood pour from the coffin and then made his own assumptions.

Mayerling’s cherry-red lips curved upwards into a smile. “You look as disgruntled as ever,” he said smoothly, and carefully closed his book, not bothering to mark the page he was on. It was likely that he’d already committed the page number to memory. “Good day, Greylancer.”

“I thought you might be alive,” Greylancer said, not one to return pleasantries, and analysed the other Noble with stormy eyes. When he lifted his hand to his face, he felt his mask still in place, and he could find no cracks or blemishes when he searched for them. It had been perfectly repaired, the metal cool against his fingers. “Was my lance not strong enough for you?”

“It would have been,” Mayerling confessed, “had I actually been inside the coffin. You’ll have to forgive the slight.” He was apologetic, but his words held a certain confidence. That was always the case with him.

“Smart.” Greylancer muttered the word with a begrudging respect, and Mayerling’s smile widened, teeth peeking out between his lips.

The bedridden Noble watched as Mayerling stood up from his chair, brushing himself off and leaving his book on the cushion. Like most everything owned by the Nobility, the chair seemed rather lavish, though Mayerling himself was all but dressed down, wearing only a loose ruffled shirt and high-waisted trousers. There was no reason for him to be wearing anything too formal, Greylancer registered belatedly. He wouldn’t have been expecting a guest.

Obviously, it wasn’t actually the roof he was thinking about. What plagued his mind as he waited on Mayerling’s return was instead a wide consideration of his circumstances. As it stood, Greylancer had been ‘evicted’ from his territories, having lost in battle to the Grand Duke Lawrence Valcua. With a passionate certainty of one thing – Vlijmen Mayerlings continued survival – the Noble had forced himself forward through the pains of his injuries to make it out of the now-hostile Northern Frontier alive. What was it that had made him so sure of what he would find? A genuine confidence that Mayerling had faked his own death, or an intense desperation causing him to delude himself, and then happening to get lucky?

“I’ll get you a drink,” Mayerling offered generously, eschewing direct mention of Greylancer’s inability to get one himself. “You wouldn’t mind…?”

He referred to the synthetics. Greylancer shook his head, both too parched to care and not in any position to argue, and Mayerling slipped out of the room. Greylancer watched him leave, staring for a while at the empty doorway before he remembered himself and instead moved his eyes to the roof above his head.

Even to Greylancer himself, who had thought of all this in the first place, the truth proved to be elusive. Once again, wrath filled his countenance, directing a glare at nothing in particular that seemed so hot and vicious it could burn through even the impenetrable construction of the Nobility. His pride had been an unfortunate casualty of the miniature war waged over his land, and unlike the physical wounds, there was no chance of it healing. Not until Greylancer saw the life bleed out of Valcua’s eyes and reclaimed his position as Overseer, as well as his – as Zeus Macula would have called it – absolute managerial rights.

It was at that point Mayerling returned with two glasses in hand. He held one out to Greylancer, who first sat up before taking it, more careful than he had been earlier. He gulped back the contents of the glass without a word of thanks, more grateful for the sustenance than he was disgusted by the just-off taste. Mayerling was unruffled by Greylancer’s gruffness, and took measured sips of his own beverage, leaving ruby traces where his lips had met the rim of his glass. “If I may, then,” he started without sitting back down, looking Greylancer in the eye, “I’d like to inquire as to your… health.”

Greylancer couldn’t hold back a wry smirk, setting the glass down over his legs. “I was bested in battle,” he said, voice low, “by the Grand Duke Lawrence Valcua.”

Mayerling’s eyes widened.

“Count Braujou?” Greylancer asked, lowering his gaze as he took Mayerling’s forgotten glass instead of asking for his own back. “I didn’t check,” he said flatly, gesturing to himself, and Mayerling couldn’t help a surprised laugh from escaping him. Greylancer didn’t often crack jokes like that.

It was in that position they spoke, Greylancer relating the context of the situation. As he spoke, voice somewhat roughened from disuse, Mayerling’s attention was rapt; at some point, as Greylancer began to touch upon how Valcua had first insurged upon his land and demanded his immediate surrender of the sector, the younger Noble took both their glasses and refilled them with a carafe he’d secreted in with him, and somehow, below Greylancer’s notice, the energy in the room had become comfortable between the two of them. “I question,” Greylancer said, after he’d wrapped up his report of what exactly had happened before Mayerling found him, “that you hadn’t heard of Valcua’s plans.”

“News is slow to reach me,” Mayerling told him, taking a drink from his glass. Greylancer’s glass, actually – Mayerling had picked up the wrong one. Greylancer failed to mention it, though he paid great attention to how Mayerling sipped near where his own lips had been. “As I’m evidently in hiding,” and he was perhaps a bit sarcastic, “I lack the kind of informants I had when I was Overseer. However– has the new Overseer been notified, either?”

“I’m flattered that I was your first choice, then,” Mayerling said mildly, and didn’t realise that Greylancer’s responding blink was an expression of surprise when reminded of his own actions. He hardly knew Mayerling, and had admitted to finding his company disagreeable on more than one occasion. Both men knew that they were only just acquainted, and it was probable that both now found their apparent easy companionship strange. However, aside from the shared thought flickering between their eyes, neither of them brought it up directly. Was it that they didn’t want to break it, this odd but pleasant synergy they had? Greylancer decided it wasn’t important now.

There was no way to tell how much time had passed outside as they talked, as because the two of them were Greater Nobles, the light of day had no real sway over them when not actually exposed to the sun’s rays. Greylancer assumed they must have been locked in discussion for at least some hours now, yet the minutes seemed to have flown by with surpassing speeds.

“Ah,” Mayerling spoke suddenly, sounding concerned, and his brow creased. Reaching out, he took Greylancer’s glass – or his own glass – from him, and balanced both glasses as he picked up the now emptied carafe. “You must be fatigued,” he said, nodding towards Greylancer’s injuries. From what they had both concluded, it was likely the wounds would be healing at a human rate, and no sooner. The handicap chafed, but there was nothing Greylancer could do, and in the very least he was all but guaranteed Mayerling’s gracious hospitality until, and likely even after, he recovered. Much like Mayerling, there was nowhere for him to go that wasn’t this solitary resting house, unless he desired to brave the questioning he would undoubtedly get from Count Braujou as soon as the Noble heard of Greylancer’s presence in his territory.

Especially if information had already reached his ears regarding Valcua’s conquest over the Northern Frontier. If Greylancer had gotten any sort of impression from the man while fending against his blade, it was that he would be the kind of person who loved more than anything to gloat.

Mayerling blinked, but was quick to cover up his surprise. “If that’s what you desire, I would be glad to provide it,” he replied evenly, but his eyes were bright as Greylancer caught his gaze. “For now, though, you should rest. I will come to redress your wounds at another time.”

Not desiring to incur any ill will from Mayerling while relying entirely on his mercies, Greylancer agreed, lying back down on the bed. “I’ll leave you the book,” Mayerling said, almost as an afterthought. “If boredom strikes, feel free to read of it; I’ve finished it many a time already.”

“And your company?” Greylancer blurted, unexpected even to himself.

Still caught off guard by his own slip of the tongue, Greylancer nodded once, then turned his head to stare intensely at the wall to his right. He heard Mayerling shut the door behind him. A minute passed, then two; but Greylancer found himself struggling to parse what had happened, in all its facets. Of course, it was quite simple – he had given Mayerling all the information he could regarding the plans of Lawrence Valcua, as well as an explanation of his disgrace and the subsequent loss of his sector. What vexed Greylancer was the atmosphere that had grown between them so easily, how he had found Mayerling’s company shockingly tolerable despite all their earlier arguments and tenseness around the other. Was it Mayerling's nature as a near-kindred spirit during the incident with the Privy Council that now made Greylancer so open to his presence? Though multiple hypotheticals entered his mind, he failed to find one that he agreed with. They all seemed ever so slightly incorrect, or otherwise not enough to encompass things properly. After a time of continued flummoxing, Greylancer set the matter aside. If he were to stay here for as long as he expected, surely it would come up again, and by then he might have a better answer.

For now, Greylancer grunted, trying not to reopen his stitches – applied by Mayerling’s delicate hand? – or rip his bandages as he moved around the bed and flipped to face Mayerling’s chair. Careful not to bend too much, he reached over and took Mayerling’s book in his hands, skimming over the front cover. Then he cracked it open and began to read.

#vampire hunter d #vhd #the noble greylancer #greylancer #vlijmen mayerling #noble v greylancer #errr teehee :3 #also ignore that i fumbled the lore a bit braujou just moved houses after valcua took the west okay

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