Chapter Text
Rider is dangling off the edge of a cliff. Above, an army approaches; below, death is waiting. She can feel it breathing down her neck.
Her lifeline is straining, threatening to snap. Pebbles sprinkle down over her head and she looks up at her horse, her best friend and only family in this world, whose hooves are scrambling in desperate search for purchase against the rocky ground, whose teeth are clenched around the thick leather cord which - only a few hours ago - Rider carefully strung through the artefact for safe passage back to the General. A delivery she’d never make.
Was it worth it? the artefact taunts. Was it worth your life?
Tears prick her eyes. Through watery vision she sees a wave on the horizon, an army of minotaurs about to crash down on Horse. Her Horse.
Will she remember you? She’s only a horse, after all. Will she forget? Or will she die before she has a chance?
The cord snaps. Her left hand slips. Rider swings, and screams, and thinks for a moment that this is it. Soon she’ll be meat, nicely tenderised for the vultures by a thousand-foot drop. Worst of all, she’s taking Horse with her. She stops falling. One end of the cord is still firmly between Horse’s teeth, buying Rider precious seconds. Her left hand acts with a mind of its own, grabbing uselessly at the cliffside for a handhold that doesn’t exist, the artefact is glowing between them, but her gaze stays fixed on Horse. Her Horse. Her only friend, her family. She could still survive if she let go, but when Rider opens her mouth to say this, what tumbles out is a choked, “Don’t leave me,” almost certainly drowned out by the roaring wave.
Then she falls. Really falls. Wind whistles around her. The cliff flies away, taking Horse with it. Taking everything with it. Even the sky is swallowed up by the blinding light of the artefact. That stupid, useless hunk of metal chasing Rider to the ground. But why is it glowing? Is this the light people talk about? The one she’s meant to go towards?
Rider closes her eyes. This is it.
– – – – –
Rider’s eyes snap open.
The first thing she sees is the sky. Relief washes over her. It’s still there, but… does it somehow look different? The second thing she notices is the cliff. It’s gone. She’s lying in a canyon, but its sides slope gently instead of harshly, coated in a layer of oddly grey, fluffy grass she’s sure wasn’t there a moment ago, nor were all these dead trees.
Rider rolls to her side and, planting both hands on the ground, pushes herself up. It’s a wonder she can move at all after how far she fell, but here she is, effortlessly holding herself up and looking down at the smooth, tinted path that caught her fall; and there, just a little further along, is that lousy artefact. She’s struck with the urge to hurl it as far as she can, doesn’t matter which direction. Instead, she gets to her feet.
“This is all your fault,” she tells the artefact as she scoops it up, but her words lack the vitriol she was going for. After tucking it away inside her tunic, Rider closes her eyes and exhales slowly, taking just a moment to steady herself. Then, she turns to face her surroundings. She’s met with an uncanny landscape whose air hangs heavy with the weight of war, carrying the stench of death on the wind which is picking up around her, whistling gently through the canyon. Softly rolling hills peppered with jagged tree stumps, long dead and rotten, stretch into the distance, and through it all cuts the multicoloured path. When she lifts her hand to her brow and squints to the horizon, Rider can just barely make out where this decimated landscape turns to a healthy forest. There, stumps grow into flourishing trees and even the path appears more vibrant. Odd. So puzzled over this, Rider nearly misses the sound of someone approaching.
At the last second, she whirls around and draws her sword in one smooth motion, landing with it pointed towards the chest of a woman who’s slid from the side of the canyon to an abrupt stop, and now is slowly raising her hands in surrender.
Despite standing unarmed in the face of mortal peril, her tone is harsh and unaffected when she asks, “How did you get here?”
The woman is old. She might just be the oldest person Rider’s ever seen, with wrinkles under her eyes, around her lips, atop her brow, and yet there’s not a lick of grey in her hair; in fact, it’s purple. A dark, dull purple, long and horribly matted except for a single thick braid over her left shoulder. She bears no sword, no armour, just tattered brown robes with cloth shoes and a cloak flapping in the wind, beneath which her body appears bony and sallow.
Rider is proud her tone is just as firm in reply, “I don’t think you’re in a position to be asking questions.”
Again, “How did you get here?” This time it’s said through gritted teeth.
“I said,” Rider begins, taking a half-step forward while adjusting her arms to keep her sword in place, but it’s ripped from her hands before she can finish the sentence. Red lightning snaps through the air, appearing from nowhere and disappearing into nothing after sending her sword flying, spinning several times before lodging itself in one of the several rotting stumps shouldering the path. Rider stares after it in wonder, then quickly back to the woman as she yanks Rider forward by the collar of her shirt. The wind is really picking up now.
“I said, how did you get here?” The woman’s eyes flash red, and Rider answers without thinking.
“I don’t know!” Her eyes flicker down to the woman’s hand. “How- how did you do that?”
Again, the woman ignores her question. “There has to be more to it than that,” she demands.
“I don’t know! A second ago I was with my horse, and we were running from a bunch of minotaurs and got cornered on a cliff, and then I started falling, and then...” Rider trails off, noticing that the woman is no longer paying attention to her. She’s staring, momentarily stunned, at something behind Rider, and as Rider turns she sees it too. A storm is rapidly forming in the sky, which was clear only seconds ago. Dark clouds swirl together, twisting inward. Then, they descend. Huge clouds of dust kick up where they crash down. An extra layer of dirt spins through the air. The wind whips so violently it tears the pauldron clean off Rider’s shoulder, finally snapping both humans out of their stupor.
“We have to go!” the woman yells over the bellowing wind. Her hand relinquishes Rider’s collar, instead tightly gripping her upper arm, from which Rider instinctively pulls away.
She pushes against the woman with her free hand. “Let go of me!” Her boot joins the effort, slamming against the woman’s thigh and finally staggering her. Rider wrenches herself free and tumbles backwards, landing pathside in the dirt. The stump holding her sword can’t be more than thirty feet away. She runs for it.
Behind her, the woman is yelling, “I’m not trying to hurt you!” and “You’re going to get us both killed!” but Rider pays her no mind. She’s twenty feet away. Ten. She reaches her sword, yanks it free, and only then looks up at the tornado. It’s marching towards her, literally marching, on legs that must have formed when she was wrestling herself away from the woman. The storm has an equine body. Somehow even more disconcerting is the newest thing being carried along the wind: not the stench of death, nor flying pauldrons, but a chorus of voices in perfect synchronicity. They’re beautiful. They’re calling to her, offering a place where she’ll truly belong. Forever. Rider’s sword slumps as her arms go lax, and she lifts her face to the wind. Her eyes slide shut. It feels like she's floating.
Then a palm hits her back and for a second time, the world disappears in a flash of light.
– – – – –
“So you can teleport?”
Rider is following the Woman - apparently that’s what she’s called - along the Rainbow Road - apparently that’s what it’s called - as it curves through a mesa that might remind her of home were it not for its impossibly vibrant shade of orange.
“Among other things,” the Woman flatly answers.
“Like the red lightning?”
“Yeah. Like that.” The Woman glances back over her shoulder. “I’ve answered a lot of your questions. I think it’s your turn to answer some of mine.”
Rider huffs, and says, “I already told you I don’t know how I got here.” They’ve been over it a few times actually, since the Woman teleported her out of the canyon. “I was with my horse. I fell off a cliff-”
“Flash of light. You woke up here,” the Woman cuts in. “I know, I know.” There’s a lengthy pause, and Rider is about to pick up where she left off with her own questions when the Woman finally asks, “What’s your life like?”
“Uh, what?” Rider says for lack of an answer.
The Woman looks back at her again. “I mean... Well, are you a soldier?” She almost seems afraid to ask even though to Rider the answer feels almost insultingly obvious.
“Yeah.”
“... How old are you?”
“Sixteen this winter.”
The Woman stops asking questions, so Rider starts again. She learns that they’re in a place called Centaurworld, named for its residents the centaurs - or taurs for short. Certain taurs have a trademark on the word “centaur”. She isn’t sure what a trademark is. The Woman tells her she’ll get used to that feeling. She also learns that the thing they ran from was a Taurnado and not a tornado, and that it’s made of thousands of souls reaped by generations of war, and that things like that don’t exist in what the Woman calls the “human world” because of its lack of magic. Magic is what lets her do “spells” but it’s also what makes up Centaurworld and everything in it. The Woman says it’ll probably be a part of Rider soon too.
When Rider shudders and frantically brushes herself off, the Woman laughs and says, “It’s not going to hurt you,” and the teenager reluctantly relaxes. “Besides,” the Woman says, “It doesn’t work like that.”
“What does it work like?”
“Look kid, I’m not a scientist.”
“What’s a scientist?”
“Y’know what?” the Woman says, abruptly clapping her hands together. “How about we stop talking for a little while?” Her tone makes it abundantly clear that this is not a question.
“... Okay,” says Rider.
“Okay,” says the Woman.