• Published 17th Nov 2011
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Fallout: Equestria- The Last Sentinel - Adder1

It's hard to kill memories when you remember everything.

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Intermission Two

Intermission Two

“I didn't need her pendant to remember her by,” I finished. “I already had something else.” I looked about the audience in Stalliongrad, breathing out a soft sigh. “I think it's time for a break. Eat. Stretch your legs and wings. I'll start again in an hour.”

Idle conversation and the shuffling of hooves, claws, and paws filled the air as everyone began to sift out. I watched as Sly gestured enthusiastically as he talked with Xamuros and Chief Thunderhooves, the latter of which cracked a smile. Meanwhile, Rig and Azrael moved forward, sitting close by. I noticed that Rig's synthetic coat had all but “healed” now.

“Hey, uh... you gonna be alright?” Rig asked as she neared.

I looked at her for a few seconds. “It's been almost two-hundred years since that day, Rig. I'm ov...” I paused, hesitated, sighed. I'd already lied to them before. They came here for the truth, and I was going to give them that. “I'm... still... I miss her. I can't deny that, especially remembering those days. I... I'll be alright, yes. That's what matters.”

"You... you sure?" she asked again worriedly.

“I'll be alright,” I answered quietly. “It's just that I'm dredging up memories here. I'll be fine afterward. I promise.”

“'Dredging' doesn't have good connotation,” the earth-colored mare winced.

“It's not meant to have a good connotation,” I huffed, causing me to rumble my throat from the irritation it brought. “But I owe this, and I need this.”

Rig nodded wordlessly, and we fell into silence. I just watched her as she squirmed uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. Then, of all people, Azrael broke the silence. “Perhaps we should eat?”

The cloud-maned unicorn nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah, that's a good idea.” She started teleporting out cans.

“I don't really feel hungry,” I said with a shake of my head, much to my own surprise. Rig looked at me. Ugh... you could tell a lot about ponies through their eyes. I saw worry in hers, even if they weren't real. That's the power behind emotion. It can transcend the natural and unnatural. “But...” I added, relenting, “I should eat.”

The look of worry disappeared and Rig offered a soft smile, using her shovel to wrench off the lid from a can and floating it to me. I fired up my horn and sprouted an arm to take it and peered at the contents.

“Yams,” I snorted softly, cracking a thin smile. “I shouldn't be surprised.”

Rig chuckled softly. Meanwhile, Azrael tore off a strip of meat. “I feel lucky, for once.”

“Every dog gets his day,” I murmured as we ate quietly, quickly- in Wasteland fashion.

“Heh... Hummingbird was right,” Rig chuckled softly. “You Northerners really do spout philosophy from time to time.”

“It's a saying, not philosophy,” I snorted.

“Same thing,” she snorted back, then softened and watched me. “Hey... I've, uh... never seen another Northerner like you described. You know, like the whole zebra-like eyes and muzzle like yours. You Northerners sound like you have an incredible history. Have you seen any others? Where are they?”

Azrael and I shared a glance. “We'll get there eventually, Rig,” I replied.

I could tell she was assuming the worst. “Uh, alright, then.” Quiet again. “Frost... it's... tough, isn't it? I mean, leaving all of that behind. I'm sure you miss those days. You know, all the... all the good people, all the music, all the... well, the... sky...”

“I didn't leave it behind,” I said in a colder voice than I anticipated. “It was taken from me.”

Rig winced. “Right...”

I let out a sigh. “... yeah, it's tough. More than you know- yet. Just a bit longer. And many of your questions- why I did what I did- will be answered by one single reason.”

In spite of herself, Rig chuckled, “You and your damn teasers and cliffhangers.”

I huffed softly, smiling a little as I redid the bandages around my muzzle. “I've been telling stories for a long time. I'll be damned if I didn't pick up how to do those.” I glanced at the dark griffiness beside us. “Azrael, I've been thinking.” That got her attention. She turned to face me with those soft, milky eyes. “You know about Rig. You even know all about me now. What's your story?”

Azrael raised her head a little, eyes widening momentarily. “Hm. That was the last question I was expecting. You already know about my family, Frost. We told you our tale when you demanded an explanation for the first Dead Boys attack on Stalliongrad.”

“Perhaps,” I huffed, “but not in much detail. Even I'm starting to open up to people.”

“Are you planning to convince me to divulge my backstory by using yourself as an example?” she asked.

Shrugging was painful, so I merely tilted my head momentarily. “Possibly.”

She merely snorted.

“Well, he's kinda got a point, Azrael.” Rig chipped in. “We've been traveling and fighting together for almost a month now, and we hardly know much about you. I'd really like to know more about you, at least.”

“Frost already knows the story,” she said. “Ask him instead.”

“Well you only gave him a summary, from what I heard,” Rig said, crossing her forelegs. She then frowned and waved her right foreleg around a bit with a grunt. “Okay, that's it. I'm fixing this damn leg.” She took out her toolbox and floated out a set of tools. “But really, I'm really interesting in knowing more than just an outline.”

The dark giant remained silent.

“Azrael,” I called. Still silence. A different approach, then. “Soraya.” That got her attention, even if it was just a twitch. Even if she couldn't see me, I maintained eye contact as she faced me. “Discord is in the details.”

She closed her eyes and sighed softly through her nostrils. “How right you are...” She opened her eyes only most of the way, adopting a somber expression. “As you wish. I'll tell you all that I know. Or at least all that is relevant.” She frowned. “Rig, must you work on that right now?”

I looked over at her. The unicorn mare had pulled away the synthetic coat around her leg, revealing only the cybernetic skeleton underneath. That's the word, I think, that's most fitting. Her leg was actually quite simple in overall design, resembling just that- the skeletal leg bones of a pony just with hinges where the joints were and pistons where the tendons would have been. She appeared to be tightening her elbow joint with a wrench, tongue sticking out from between her lips and eyes squinted in concentration. It struck me as something so odd, that clash of a very equine expression with her very mechanical body. It gave me this odd sensation along my spine, working its way up to the back of my head...

Rig looked up at Azrael and set the wrench back into her toolkit. “Huh? Oh, sorry. I can wrap this up after. Go on. I honestly didn't, uh, expect you to actually listen.”

Azrael cracked a thin smile. “Hmph. Sorry to disappoint.” She inhaled softly, facing neither of us as she began her tale. “My story begins in Seaddle with my father, Garador. Back then, Seaddle was very much a dystopia, a true Wasteland city in ruin. People of all shapes, all sizes, all walks of life tried to eke out a living there. Crime ran rampant, and resources were controlled by gangs that formed out of desperation- and the need for stability.” She paused, thinking for a moment. “It was very much like a Manehattan gone wrong. I think that would be an apt comparison.

“Father grew up as a member of a griffin gang known as the Razorwings. Yes, that was how our last name originated. It is an adopted one coming from the unique wingblades its members used, often salvaged from scrap metal.” She spread her wings just enough to reveal her own. “Mine are... a little better than salvaged, you can imagine. Back to the matter of names, lineage and descent are treasures long lost to the Wasteland dust. Alda only knows what my family's truly were. Father was never able to find out. His parents were killed in gang violence. Meaningless violence, he later told me.

“The details from then until his adulthood are trivial. You know already of what people must do to survive in this day and age. What is important, however, was that he got into drugs. He told me that it was a textbook case. He started drinking with fellow gang members. That served as the gateway into more dangerous substance abuse, namely a combination of lysergic acid diethylamide, psilocybin, and THC. The product was a powerful methamphetamine. You know it colloquially as 'Dash'. It was his way to trade for a happier place than the world he knew for thirty minutes a pop, he admitted to me once. Eat, drink, sleep. Kill, steal, survive. Fight, flight, heal. No parents. No safety. No sanctuary. No easy day. It was his way to escape from that mundane routine. Not even dreams would give him peace.”

Azrael looked straight at me. “I'm sure you can relate, Frost.”

I said nothing. But I'm sure my eyes told a lot about me.

“His escapes were... expensive. He would... what is that expression ponies have? Stick his hoof- rather his hand- into the cookie jar? He would just take a few caps here and there. Just enough to keep his belly full, his thirst quenched, and his escapes satisfied. Then he asked himself- why steal and then pay the supplier when you can just steal supply itself?

“The rest, he told me, was a textbook outcome. He was caught. He was removed from the gang. He was left to fend for himself. Now he had to struggle to find enough food and clean water- a rarity in the Wasteland- in addition to the Dash he had become wholly addicted to. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't do it. One thing led to another like dominoes tipping dangerously toward the edge of abyss. He grew sick from too much dirty water. When he grew sick, he had to choose between food and Dash. When he chose food over Dash, he suffered from withdrawal. When he suffered from withdrawal and radiation sickness together, he couldn't scavenge for food. He was dying and dying young, just like countless others in this harsh, cruel world we've been left with.

“That's when he met my mother.

“You see those kinds of people now and again. People who try to make a difference, people who try to make things better. They called themselves the Saviors- a lofty title to be sure. They were almost entirely made up of unicorns, the few among the equine species that can use memory orbs. Through them, they saw, they heard, they smelled, they touched, they tasted... just a glimpse of better days. They wanted to bring those days back, those days of love and tolerance, of friendship and magic. They tried to clean up the streets, bring back law and order. They were a small operation, dwarfed even by the smallest Seaddle gang, but they were generally left alone and formed trading agreements for the rare services they provided- medical aid, for one. They ran the only clinic in Seaddle, even if a sizable one. It was the most important building in the city ruins.

“Her name was Duskfall. Her parents named her that for her all-black coloration, the coloration which I inherited. She worked at their clinic. One of the Saviors who combed the city streets found him dying in the alleyway and brought him back to her. As with all drug addicts the Saviors took in, he was treated and brought back from the brink of death. Father had never been treated so kind for so little asked. For mother, it was just another day on the job. His treatment took months, slowly weaning him off of Dash. She didn't get too attached to him. All too often, those they treated would end up right back where they started, unable to escape the vicious cycle- except through drugs and alcohol. The Saviors tried to break that cycle by putting those they treated into 'debt', pinning them to favors that they never followed up on. Mother just expected father to be the same.

“Except when father was released, he didn't leave.

“What else did he have in his life? He was expelled from the Razorwings, and trying to go back to that lifestyle with another gang would put him right back where he started. He knew better than that. Fending for himself would leave him no better off. So he made what he believed was the smartest choice. He joined the Saviors.

“Mother and father worked together. You could call him an unpaid intern, I suppose. He learned basic medical practices under her tutelage, and she in turn shared stories with him about those better days. Father came to respect mother, and mother came to respect father. As the years passed and their partnership grew deeper... well, I was the product. It was a pleasant surprise when mother got pregnant. It wasn't common for griffins and ponies to have relationships with one another, and so it wasn't known that they could produce a child.

“I was a telepath the moment I was conscious, you know. Even before I left the womb. It hurt. I remember that much. It hurt. I didn't have the reach I do now, but the clinic alone... all the drug-addled thoughts, the wounds and injuries from gang violence... even the worry and stress of my parents were enough for me to just try to shut everything out. It hurt. So much. Most overwhelming were the deaths around me. It is an unfathomable experience that I cannot and dare not put down in words. Mother said I was moving around more and more as my birth grew closer. I must have been restless. So much there was concern I would cause damage to myself. And I did. Combined with my size, I was born a cripple. My wings and one of my legs were bent the wrong way, and my face was incredibly disfigured. I must have been clutching at my head with my claws. I was lucky that both of my parents were so gifted in medical skills. The only thing they weren't able to save were my eyes. I still have the scars beneath the fur and feathers.”

I couldn't help but shudder. Scars. To this day, that word unsettles me.

“I was quiet and still, remarkably quiet and still even for a newborn,” Azrael continued. “It was just so overwhelming, all those thoughts and sensations hitting me at once. Mother and father were incredibly worried for me. I was like that until I was a year old, and even then, I did everything so sluggishly and clumsily that my parents were worried I was mentally disabled.

“My first sentence proved them wrong.

“Not 'first word'. First sentence. 'Dad... ibuprofen... please?' That first thing I asked for- painkillers for the headaches I was getting.” She cracked a thin smile. “I still remember his expression. More memorable was what he thought in his head right after I said that. 'What the ever-loving fuck?'” The griffiness giggled in that strange way of hers. “They knew I was different then. Mother understood the implications first. She deduced I was a telepath, and though neither she nor her fellow Saviors knew how to treat me, she had enough intuition to keep me sequestered from the patients as best she could. It was no to avail, but I still appreciated her gesture.

“My telepathy gave me an advantage over others. I knew how to communicate with other people at an early age. I learned the true nature of the world before any child ever has in recent times- or ever should. I knew how to deal with pain before them. Especially pain. Pain is everywhere in the Wasteland. And I knew how to best help my parents.” She huffed and smirked just a little. “You could say I was born a Savior. A presumptuous claim but... a true one nonetheless.

“There is little to speak of for a long time afterward. Things were good for us. Mother and father had a second child, Silas. My brother was thankfully spared the horrible birth I went though, although he lacks my telepathy... to an extent.”

“To an extent?” I inquired.

Azrael nodded. “Unicorn magic flows in our veins. Silas just inherited it differently. He could predict the impulses of others, such as whether and when someone would pull a gun on him. Such impulses have saved his life more than once, but he cannot always respond quickly enough to them. I'm sure you're well aware of that.”

I merely huffed softly, recalling the exchange just under a month ago.

“Things were good for a time. We had a secure lifestyle free from worry of directed violence against us. Nobody wanted to go against the Saviors. The services we rendered were so important, that nobody wanted to give us a reason to deny them. It's interesting. We were the most powerful faction in Seaddle in that sense. We were untouchables. Soon, the Saviors began to extend their influence. They established ceasefires between the gangs. Seaddle gradually grew safer, cleaner, happier. Mother and father continued to work at the clinic. Silas and I helped them. Things were falling into an easy routine. Things were... good. But as you know, Frost, good times rarely last in the Wasteland.”

“What happened?” Rig asked.

“Word got out that we kept our own stash of chems in order to rehabilitate addicts by weaning them off until we could rid them of their respective substance for good,” Azrael replied. “Or, at least, as long as their willpower held out. When that word got out, someone tried to rob us. I was the first to react to the noise, and I roused my family. It was just a lone pony trying to get her fix, but one look at all of us cornering her at once caused her to panic even as I tried to get her to calm down. She fired a shot that went wide as Silas pushed us out of the way. That gunshot started a chemical fire that razed the clinic. We were able to get everyone out safely, but we found our entire livelihood destroyed. That clinic was central to the recovery effort and the focus of the Saviors' reconstruction effort- an effort decades in the making. And it was all undone in less than an hour.

“With it died that dream of better days. The ceasefires gave away. Violence, drugs, and death returned en masse to the streets of Seaddle. Anarchy pervaded through city, and we found ourselves having to adapt to survive. We ended up turning to father for guidance. He knew how to live in such an unforgiving world, and so we adapted to fit its demands. Mother and father took it the hardest. To be reduced back to stealing, scavenging, and salvaging after living such a wholesome life... but that was the inconvenient truth of those days. Strength and cunning rules the Wasteland, and in Seaddle, things were no different.

“Then the Dead Boys made landfall.

“It didn't start with a massacre, as you might have imagined, Frost. The Dead Boys knew something was off the moment they noticed there were both ponies and griffins living... well, living and fighting amongst one another without a pegasus in sight. But they saw the chaos of the city and sought to bring order. Their order. Their law was harsh and unforgiving as the Wasteland itself, but from it came the stability we nevertheless wanted. Crime rates plunged, and people felt that they could for once walk the city streets without getting caught in a gang war crossfire. As the Dead Boys recruited griffins to their cause, it wasn't long before our family was taken under their wing.

“And it wasn't long until they discovered me. I find it surprising that I never saw nor gleaned any of their leaders aside from Lazare. Even then, I couldn't read her completely. She had lost her hindlegs during the guerrilla fighting back in Aldorna. The leaders of the Dead Boys must all be cybernetic or ghouls. Or I was just never lucky enough to get close to the ones that weren't. But in any case, they took me in and made me one of their leaders. My appearance and abilities made me a perfect fit, so they said.

“So I became Azrael, the Angel of Death and the darker half of Ezraal, the Icon of Existence.

“Do you know why I use my weapons?” she asked us, lifting her cloak to reveal her Kord machine gun, the collapsed ghostfire scythe, and her deadly array of wingblades. “They weren't forced upon me. I chose them.” She drew a claw along the edge of one of those blades with a soft whine hovering just under a screech. “These wingblades are the focal point of the Razorwing fighting style. They provide extra protection and an extra means of offense, and they also provide added stability for standing and moving in a bipedal fashion, acting as a third set of legs while leaving my forelegs free.” She drew her wing open, causing one of them to slip free from its position and dangle along her primary. “They can also be thrown in a pinch, should the need arise.”

Then she moved one to her heavy machine gun. “I've known death all my life. It's who I am. It's who I became. Death is beyond words. It cannot be summed into something so simple as a slowly encroaching light or a sudden blackness, as if falling unconscious for eternity. Such comparisons are far too insufficient. But it can be drawn out. It can be slow. It can be painful. If death is to come, I would rather it be quick and merciful. That is the reason behind my choice of firearm. The twelve-point-seven NSVT is one of the most powerful cartridges ever created. A near-miss will cause anything short of an earth pony to die from shock- to say nothing of a direct hit from an electrified round. As I am a harbinger of death, so too is my primary weapon. And it will deal it quickly- and hopefully, painlessly.”

Now she removed her collapsed scythe, gripping the handle and extending the weapon. The ghostfire that formed the blade buzzed softly as it bathed us in green. “The Angel of Death is always depicted with a scythe. The imagery is clear- you reap what you sow. Make sure your death means something. I was expected to keep true to that representation with my scythe. I don't use it often. Only on the most putrid of souls or in emergencies only. Often, I just use it for intimidation. Either the appearance of the blade alone or watching someone die by it is enough to send a message. Again, I have to emphasize that I choose when to use it. Ghostfire will kill you. Only ghouls, apparently and unfortunately, are spared. That is why I name her Valkyrie. She is the 'chooser of the slain'.

Azrael collapsed the ghostfire scythe and stowed it away under her cloak once more. “The first few months were actually... peaceful. I spent most of it under Lazare's tutelage, learning the finer points of being a leader. I may have the telepathic insight to learn what it takes, but it is no substitute for practice and experience. My assignments mainly involved intimidating the few gangs that remained into submission. Often, my appearance and Valkyrie were enough to get them to cooperate. If not, then I would use force. I do not regret what I did. I had seen death often enough that making my first kills did nothing to faze me. And if it was for better rather than worse, I had no problem with it. Things were... good again for those first few months. I supported a good cause. We had an organization to provide for us. We had the means to protect ourselves.

“Then things got worse. The Dead Boys needed capital in order to expand their operations, maintain their technology, and draw more recruits. They turned to less... moral ways of acquiring it. If you wanted someone- anyone- captured and brought alive, if you wanted something stolen- no matter the object or owner in question- and if you wanted anyone regardless of position or power killed so long as it wasn't one of their own, you came to The Dead Boys.

“Guess who did the killing?

“Believe it or not, I wasn't against what we were doing. Make no mistake, I knew by comparison that what the Saviors did was 'good' and what the Dead Boys were doing was 'bad'. I just knew and saw and heard and felt so much. Even if I knew just who I was killing, I didn't care. They were just another tragedy of the Wasteland. Just another number. Just another statistic. I didn't care. How could I after I'd seen so much? They wouldn't be missed in the grand scheme of things. It was just me, providing for my family, and the means and manners to do it. That’s all that mattered.

“Father was the first to grow reluctant about the whole ordeal. He said it just didn't seem right to him. I remember we got into a fight over it. I was colder back then- if you think of me as cold even now.” She cast her eyes downward. “It pains me to... think back on that fight. Never had father used such harsh words on me. Everyone was shouting. I remained... impassive in it all, firm in my opinion. Griffins honor oaths and contracts. I was bound. Thinking back, I feel so... wrong for standing firm in my views even as my father tore down every argument. I just told myself it didn't matter so long as we were safe- and we were. How could I have claimed to be bound by contract when I owed everything to my family?” She looked right at me. “This all starting to sound familiar to you... isn't it?”

I kept a straight expression and nodded slowly.

Azrael exhaled softly. “He struck me, you know. It was the first time he hit me. I thought little of it during the fight, even as mother's and Silas' shouts joined in. But that memory stayed with me that next day. As I kept on killing and killing, the more I felt that part of my cheek itch and burn. Father was soon forced to take up assignments again. 'Show us your loyalty,' they said. 'If you're not with us, you're against us.' Chilling words. Aren't they, Frost?”

I swallowed. And nodded.

“When Silas became of age... that was... that was when I understood,” she continued. “I wasn't with him when he made his first kill. I didn't have to be. But I see, hear, feel, smell everything he did. And I knew what was going through his head when he shot his first mark.

“I know death all too well. I've known it since before I left the womb. The concept of 'killing' as well. And nothing has ever simplified the process of killing, the process of death faster than the gun. Weapons have always held that... curious power. They say it's far easier to destroy than to create. It's all too true. You don't think about it in the heat of battle when you're fighting for your life- your life versus the life of your enemy. But every bullet you fire, every spark cell you discharge, every water-triggered explosive you set off, how long does that take? Less than a second. Less than a second to end something so many years to produce. In an instant, you could destroy all of that. I knew this. I'd become desensitized to it through the years. But when Silas staggered back from the corpse of the dissenter he killed, dropping his revolver in shock, all of those feelings came rushing back to remind me. It had been so easy, almost careless, almost child's play to take that earth pony’s life. He didn’t realize the repercussions until he felt the recoil.

“The seed of guilt germinated and grew as The Dead Boys expanded to surrounding communities. Those who resisted were cut down, and we were at the frontlines. I cut a swath of loud, flaming death through them. The 'enemy'. The people who eked out their own lives and only fought back when their livelihoods were threatened. The people who were only our 'enemies' because our ideas of whose land belonged to whom differed. I killed many. There was no control for collateral damage. Many shots found their mark, but many more hit someone I never intended- children cowering under furniture while their parents fought back, friends saving wounded friends, the old, the young, the weak, the dying.

“And I let myself open up to all of their thoughts. I knew everything that they were going through, even if I didn't have the time to delve into who they were. As I did, that rational voice in my head telling me, ‘It didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things’ and ‘That person was just another tragedy in the wastes’ and ‘I’m just doing my job’ grew weaker and weaker and weaker. I knew that I had done wrong.

“Enough was enough. I relented and stooped myself low to my father and asked for his forgiveness. He was right. I was wrong. We all had hurt feelings after that fight so long ago. But for once, we could reconcile and plan our next move together. We would leave under the cover of darkness while the takeover was still underway. We spent the next days acquiring maps to places where we could seek refuge and amnesty, should The Dead Boys' reputation precede us. Supplies, ammunition, belongings... we even arranged for someone to cover our escape.

“That was our downfall. You know it was. Birth to earth, womb to tomb. Once a Dead Boy, always a Dead Boy. We were rounded up before we could even finish preparations. Lazare was there waiting for us. With many angry Dead Boys with her.

“Lazare was not a combatant. That's what made it worse. Even since the Enclave-Aldorna Civil War, she only served as a healer and medic, fulling her role as the Angel of Life. She didn't need to die. But when we knew there was no other alternative but to fight through against our own kin and country, we did. And both her and my mother were caught in the crossfire.”

The dark griffiness let out a long, deep sigh. “... you know the rest.”

We were quiet for a while. Azrael looked at neither of us, merely sat and stared off into the wall past us like a statue. In the corner of my eye, I saw Rig look at me in askance. What could I have told her? All my thoughts were focused on the still giant before me, whose cowl had dipped low enough to obscure her eyes. My heart was racing because I knew, and she knew.

“We're very much alike, you and I,” she spoke, turning to me as she echoed my sentiments. I could see her eyes now. They were soft, somber. “I know it’s a bit cliche, but it’s true. We've made similar choices, taken similar falls. I know the worst in my story echoes the worst in yours. So believe me when I say, Frost, that I know exactly what you did, why you did it, and what motivates you today. I know the Way you've traveled, and I know just what old habits you've clung to. The rest have yet to hear your story, but know that I am not your enemy. I know what we're going to do after we secure the water talisman for Stable Three. And I will stand by your side. I only have one question.

“Which Way do you follow now?”

I looked away and thought long and hard on that, even as both of them looked to me, expecting an answer.

I had none.

“Frost?” Azrael's voice broke the silence. “Rig? I wish to ask something of both of you.”

I merely turned to her. Rig did the same and asked, “Yes?”

“Please. Call me Soraya.”

* * *

It's getting late, folks. I know there's a lot of questions on your mind, and rest assured they'll be answered.

Tomorrow? We'll be answering one of the big ones in just a few more segments.

Who is Nightingale?

* * *

Footnote: Frost- Maximum Level

Rig- DLC bonus XP acquired! Level Up! Level 17 reached!




Soraya- Maximum Level

Unlockables added: Commission/Gift Art- Rig by ArtieStroke

Soundtrack- Reflections (Soraya's Song Version)

Author's Note:

Again, sorry about the April Foals' Day joke. I really had to pull one. Anyway, my thanks to the usual suspects- Kkat, the FoE community, my pre-reader Lazer726, and you as well.

Oh, and if you wish, check out the Ask Frost Windchill tumblr (askfrostwindchill.tumblr.com). It's spoilerific, but you're all caught up now so you should be fine.

Until next time,

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