Chapter Text
Heat. A furiously hot wind whipped across the plains, sweeping northwards from distant scrublands. Two imposing, well-dressed figures stood by the river. One wore an elegant, dark coat with golden epaulettes. The other wore a fine military uniform with a red fur boa. Behind them, a terrifying blood-red horse placidly trotted.
“Sancho, It had slipped my mind to mention: I have concei-”
“Yes. Yes, I know.” Sancho replied. “Father, are you sure this was a wise decision?” She tapped her feet impatiently against the earth, fine black boots rubbing against the grass. It was a costly bit of frivolity, wasting blood on clothing while they all weaned themselves off of their prey. Thankfully her father hadn’t noticed.
“Hah. Certainly! This Don Quixote would never shy away from a challenge!” Don Quixote exclaimed, shoulder-length silver hair glistening in the sun. Sancho truly had no clue how he did that. She could guess it had something to do with blood… But wouldn’t that mean her father was actually ba-
“Reproach upon thee! To cast such aspersions upon your sire!” He clasped a lock of his hair with one hand, stroking it protectively.
“... Right. I apologize.” Sancho said. She wished her father were not so uncannily good at reading her expressions. “What did Bari tell you?”
“That human…” He demurred. “That human surprised me most fiercely! A knight ought to be equanimous and resolved. Yet, she set upon me with unseemly intensity that night. You recall it, right, Sancho?”
“Unseemly…? Khm… She was very curt with me after I let her in. She looked worried. What did she say?”
“Hmm, I, Don Quixote, could not truly decipher the reason for her mania. I had feared you had set her off-balance with your naysaying- which I solemnly hope you shall work upon!- for she insisted I put off my quest for the relic helm.” Don Quixote rambled, “But this was not so! She asked me to seek out another relic first. She would not leave me well alone until I relented. Hmm. I suppose she might be at ill-ease regarding La Manchaland, but this must not be true.”
“That’s true. I wonder why Bari never spoke for or against your… fascination with the helm.” Sancho said. “I wish she’d be less taciturn sometimes. What’s this new relic?” She saw her father sparkle again and averted her gaze towards the sun. She sighed.
“Hmm, hmm! She hath convinced me verily!” Don Quixote butchered, “T’was not a decision made lightly, dear Sancho, yet the prestige and pedigree of this relic shine eminently to all! A sword most storied, forged by a smith who quenched her treasures in foreign rivers!”
“Mhm?” Sancho encouraged.
“Tis none other, than the storied Blade of Catlon! A blade most ancient, wielded by its dread lord namesake! Which cries out for justice, for a worthy wielder!”
Don Quixote exclaimed the relic’s name to the heavens, and for a moment Sancho feared it would echo back from the hills that flanked them in the east and west. But thankfully nothing like that happened. Sancho suppressed a cringing shudder.
“That’s… Okay. Where are we then?”
“Ah… I do not… Well, Bari herself was quite evasive on the matter! And I, Don Quixote, always cut through to the heart of the matter and pay heed to nothing else!”
“So you didn’t listen? Well, we can at least look around.”
“Of course. A fixer’s finest feature is their… foresightedness.” Don Quixote said, no ounce of shame whatsoever. “And if aught might be gleaned from observation, it will not remain outside our grasp for long, dear Sancho.”
“Mhm.” Sancho absentmindedly replied, focused on doing actual work. “Well, we’re in a valley. It’s pretty nice, all things considered. I see hills to our east and west, and, agh, there’s dust blowing from the south.”
“Fine work, Sancho! Your perceptive eyes shall be pivotal to our adventure. Such lush green hills! What else?”
“Ah, well. There’s this river just next to us. It flows from the north-east past the horizon. And it flows south, skewing south-east past the bend. I see…” Sancho focused, letting the barest hint of bloodfiend power leak into her vision. “I see a small village, farmers. They’re- They’re being attacked?”
“Hmm! How gripping, Sancho! Our adventure begins with an introduction most fine! What, dear Sancho, besets those farmers?”
“... I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it. Some squat, hunched… lizard? It has ugly barnacles on its back.”
“A dragon’s spawn, perhaps? Let us not delay even a moment more. Rocinante, onwards!” Don Quixote shouted at his horse, before charging ahead. Rocinante, surprised at their sudden mention, awkwardly shuffled in place. They looked confused why their rider was running ahead. Sancho paid them no heed, reluctantly jogging after her father.
Ahead, Don Quixote slowed down slightly as they approached the battle. Sancho looked past him, towards the farmers.
Before them stood a rather run-down village. She had seen homes prosperous and poor in the City, but the houses ahead might better be called dwellings. They were large, sure, but cracked and pitted with holes and ramshackle repairs. And the monsters attacking them? Well, they actually seemed content eating a vast field of crops.
“Let evil-doers know the name, Quixote!” He yelled, before drawing an enormous silver double-helical lance from… Okay, they needed to work on that. Sancho had reluctantly painted it silver at his insistence, to disguise both their nature and their true power. But it was useless if he kept drawing it from thin air, or his pockets in this case.
The farmers were more surprised than the monsters, flinching away from her father. His lance struck true, impaling and then lifting two monsters from the ground. Their eyes bulged in shock, jaws clamped in a final moment of terror as they flew. They took their food with them, ripping crops from the ground. Hot blood cut through the air.
“Sancho! You spoke true! These fiends threaten the livelihoods of all the commons! And how devilishly they leer!”
He was at least right about the last part. The monsters were truly ugly. They had fat chins, stubby arms, and a maw full of surprisingly sharp razor teeth. They were a sickly shade of darkish green, amber eyes glimmering with instinctual greed.
Should she try their blood? Probably not. Not worth disappointing her father for such… unappetizing blood.
Sancho drew a lance of her own, a golden double helix. She encased an elegant pillar inside the helix, a strong core. Her father had done the same with his own, much rougher yet doubtlessly stronger.
“Hah.” She pretended to exert herself, stabbing one monster through the eye. The rest were torn between gorging themselves and organizing a response. Sancho left them no time to decide, sweeping her lance in a vicious arc.
The first one split into gore, eyes bursting and bones shattering. The one next to it merely crumpled, and the others were mangled into a confusing mess of limbs and limp bodies. They all flew backwards.
“Let no fiend go unaccounted, Sancho!” Don Quixote yelled. He whirled his lance in a circle, advancing towards the monsters like a hellish blender blade. “These fine peasants deserve to tend the land in only the utmost peace!”
It wasn’t very climactic. Not even pretending to be tired made Sancho feel very invested. The monsters stood no chance, dying in droves before they eventually cut their losses and fled. They waddled awkwardly back into the river. Some took greedy bites off the corpses of their packmates.
“Sancho, you performed most admirably! Not even a drop of blood sullies your accoutrements!” Don Quixote exclaimed.
“Oh, uhm. Yes. A proper fixer ensures their safety at all times. Yes.” Sancho said, averting her eyes. She saw her father let a splash of blood hit him on purpose. She really didn’t want to dirty her clothes for a pointless fight and had discreetly used her abilities to deflect any blood splatters.
“Thank you, oh thank you!” A peasant cried. It was an older man, trailed by what must have been his young daughter. He bowed, knees bent as if he’d considered kneeling. His eyes were closed.
There was an undercurrent of worry.
“Haha, your effusive praise humbles me!” Don Quixote replied. “Verily, I merely did the duty expected of any righteous fixer!”
The man opened his eyes, confused. But he understood enough and relaxed accordingly.
“Hohh, that was close!” The man began. “We might have lost the harvest, in spite of our best efforts, your worship! We praise the Lord for his providence in sending his holy agent!” His words were stilted, but his gratitude was genuine.
“Hmm, if you insist! I, Don Quixote, gladly accept your thanks!” He grinned. And glanced at Sancho. “Ah, meet my loyal squire! Sancho, one of my dear Kindred!”
“Good afternoon.” Sancho nonchalantly greeted.
“Ah.. Your… daughter?” The man asked. His eyes betrayed inner turmoil, torn between relief and further fear. Eventually though, he sagged in relief. “You are not a… paladin, are you?”
“Hmm? Paladin? Ah, like those fine men and women of the Zwei? No, good man.”
“And women, eh?” The old man pondered, before dropping his entire servile persona. “Well, thanks for the help. I wasn’t kidding. We’d be in a whole heap of trouble if you hadn’t showed up.”
“Well, I am sure another righteous fixer would have availed you.” Don Quixote continued. He either didn’t notice the old man’s thought process or didn’t care. “Is there aught else which troubles you?
“No, your wors- sir. And thanks for offering. It’s thanks to Okran that our only trouble is these damned river raptors.” The old man said, a little frustrated and off balance. Sancho could guess what was happening. And now he’d offer- “It wouldn’t be right to let you go without thanks. Maybe… A feast?” The old man glanced around. A few farmers were lightly wounded. Thankfully nothing worse.
“Most certainly not, good man! A just fixer works for no reward except justice itself! To see wrongs righted, the broken mended-”
“So, may we know your name?” Sancho interjected, speaking a little like her father to placate him. The man was only getting more confused listening to him.
“Ahem. Sancho…” Her father lightly chided. But, pivotally, that was all he did. The old man watched their byplay, raising an eyebrow. But maybe something clicked in his mind. They were not what he was used to seeing.
“I’m the… headsman of the village.” He began. His daughter gasped behind him. “And don’t repeat it! We’re not supposed to organize, but how else are we supposed to bring in the damned harvest? Call me Stoat. And this is my daughter, Marisa.” Sancho hummed. How odd.
“Well met, Stoat! And the fair maiden, Marisa!” Don Quixote steamrolled over their subtext. “And as I said, we truly wish for nothing except the pursuit of justice and the dream. But… Hmm, if your heart remains set on a token of gratitude, and this fine village needs no more help… might you give us directions to the nearest market? This crushing victory ought to be commemorated. And we need plenty of souvenirs besides.”
“Ah, thank you, sir.” Marisa stuttered. Stout gave her a nod. She bowed once more, then left.
“Market? Well, I guess you’re looking for something more than what we can offer. Bad Teeth is south of here. You might get there tomorrow evening. It’s pretty big. But if you’re looking for something better, Blister Hill is to the north. Maybe three days.”
“Blister hill? A wounded hill, which surely bleeds and lives? Sancho, does this not remind you of the war, where we faced-”
“I do remember. But I don’t think it applies here.” Sancho sighed. “The name probably isn’t literal.”
“As your daughter said, sir. It’s just a name.”
Don Quixote looked more annoyed than anything. He must have really hoped everyone would play along.
“Then we set off at once! Sancho, to me! And Roci- Rocinante?” Don Quixote asked. He glanced at the horizon, before spotting Rocinante back where they first appeared. Rocinante was still standing there, a little confused. Rocinante was always more willful than either of them expected.
Sancho pondered their next move. She… Really didn’t want to go right now. Yet she didn’t want to stay here. But a few days of travel, with no warning? It was no danger, not to higher Kindred like her and her father. But it would be annoying. But was it as annoying as being an unwanted guest?
Hmm. How to kill two birds with one stone? Sancho cleared her throat, confident in her abilities. This was the prowess that wove through the politics of her elder Kindred!
“You seemed unhappy to see us. Speak truly. Does aught ail you?” Sancho insisted.
“Sancho! A wise fixer must not behave so uncouthly! Rather, bear love and scorn alike with an undiminished smile!” So, her father actually did notice how nervous the headsman was? He just ignored it…?
“Ah. It’s not that we’re unhappy to see you. It’s just…”
“Worried?” Sancho guessed.
“... Yes. No offense, but we do these sorts of things often. Usually we get help. Then we give them gifts and praise, and get to go back to our lives.”
“Get to go back?” Sancho asked.
“How perfidious! Good Stoat, speak truly to us. How might we aid you? What band of villains torments you so, that you would see a hand outstretched as a clenched fist?”
“It’s not like that… We’re glad to have the paladins protecting us,” Stoat defended. “But, they’re overzealous sometimes. Hot-blooded youth stuck on farm watching duty. We need to give them a show.”
“... I think he means you, father.” Sancho concluded. Stoat grimaced, but stood firm. “Well, my father means well. Don’t worry about that.”
“Hm. I see, I apologize for my presumption. But I shall not retract my offer. Should you require any further aid, we shall gladly grant it!” Don Quixote… compromised? Sancho could tell he felt a little bad. And he clearly wanted to press on about these paladins. But he held his tongue for now.
“Again, no. You’ve done plenty for us. Tha-”
“Dad, the harvest!” A voice cried. It was Marisa, who had been listening in from a distance. Stoat instantly turned, ready to chide her.
“Sancho, great work!” Don Quixote smugly exclaimed. Really smugly. Stoat literally turned back around to full-on glare at him.
“Dad, it’s fine! They said they’re not paladins. And… Sancho, right?” Marisa asked. “She fights too.”
“It’s not just that!” Stoat scolded. “We don’t need any outside help!”
Sancho coughed, looking around. It was true that no one was injured too badly. But if they had some urgent task like Marisa implied, it wouldn’t be pleasant.
“We’re supposed to start the harvest in a couple days. The inquisitor will be here to watch us. And we’re short a whole field now.” Marisa pointed at the ruined field. Most had hefty bites taken into them, or were splattered with river raptor blood.
“We can handle it.” Stoat stubbornly insisted to his daughter. His mistake. He was convincing the wrong person.
“Sancho, I have conceived an idea most ingenious!” Don Quixote said. “Consider that this young maiden believes we can help with their harvest.
“Mhm.” Sancho grunted. She… really didn’t want to do what he was suggesting. She predicted they might pitch in on rebuilding, use their superior strength to handle it quickly, and have a roof over their heads tonight for only a little work. Not this. So it goes…
“It must follow, then, that we might be of use. And the only method which I can envision is to hunt through the valley for wild fruits?”
“Y-yes, sir.” Marisa confirmed.
“Sancho, we ride! Fear not, young maiden, for any pure-hearted fixer would gladly lend their aid.”
“Wait. We should ask where to find them. And all our samples here are squished or eaten.”
“Of course. Greenfruits like sun and water. They grow along the river, looking like fat blue gourds.” Marisa said, facing Sancho. “And… What’s a fixer?” Wrong question. Don Quixote’s face lit up, sparkles and all.
“Father, we should go. If they have the harvest coming soon they’ll need the help.” Sancho interjected. She mourned her lost night internally. They’d probably be on the hunt for hours…
“Hmm, very well! But once we return I, Don Quixote, pledge to enlighten all to the valiant glory of fixers!”
“... Thanks.” Stoat said. “And before you go, take care. The greenfruit are just starting to ripen, so the river raptors are swarming. Don’t try eating the raptors. Their meat is foul.”
“Cheer up, Sancho! We shall have our fair share of excitement on this quest.” Don Quixote said, before sprinting off. Marisa and Stoat watched him, bewildered. Sancho didn’t feel like making excuses for him, so she jogged off as well.
Hours later, the sun had long set and they were still searching.
“Don’t we have enough?” Sancho asked. She had sheepishly sprinted back to the village for a sack to hold their fruit. So she felt extra annoyed now.
“Nay, Sancho. A fixer must never employ half-measures. We only have another bend to go!” Don Quixote insisted. As if he hadn’t been skewering half the fruit they found by accident. He showed much more enthusiasm in killing river raptors than actually doing his job. “Speaking of, thank you for your fine work earlier. It was an excellent effort cutting to the heart of the matter.”
“What do you mean?” Sancho asked. She blushed slightly, glad for the praise.
“The man, Stoat, and his daughter had closed their hearts to me. Yet you cut through their fear. I wonder why they paid such attention to your gender.”
“They did, didn’t they?” Sancho muttered. They drifted back to silence, skipping past watches of half-eaten fruit. But Don Quixote guessed well, spotting a patch of pristine fruit just past the river’s bend. Hefty Blue-purple gourd-like fruits rested in a bed of leaves. Only a lone raptor stalked close to the patch. Don quixote killed it mercifully, lance impaling its skull. Beady eyes went dark forever.
“What are these things anyway?” Sancho wondered.
“The raptors or the fruit? That was seventy-nine, for the record.” Don Quixote replied. He flicked his lance, flinging the now-dead raptor back into the river. Sancho shuddered, imagining people drinking from it.
“The fruit. How strange. I don’t think I ever saw anything like it elsewhere in the City.”
“Sancho, we are no longer in the City.” Don Quixote said. He washed his lance in the river, fearless of water as ever.
“Father, what are you talking about? Is- is it the fixer thing?” Sancho guessed at the source of his… Hopefully his delusion.
“Of course it was the ‘fixer thing!’ Well, it began with the fixer thing. I had an inkling. That is why I did not ask you to advertise our La Manchaland.”
“Thank you for that.” Sancho replied. She felt a little grateful. Perhaps his delusions were useful sometimes. “Still, you must be mistaken. I don’t think Bari could do that. We must be somewhere really far. Maybe the southwest? As much as I hate to admit it, I agree paladins are a West Zwei invention.”
“Sancho, have you truly not noticed?”
“What? Noticed what?”
“Look up, Sancho. The night.”
“Hmm?” Sancho raised a brow. But her father just gestured for her to look up. She raised her head and-
“WH- WHAT THE HELL WHAT IS THAT?” She shouted.
There was a moon, perhaps not quite as she expected. She thought it was a full moon, since it was quite a bright night.
But no. There was an enormous sphere, with blue seas and wispy white clouds. What Sancho assumed was their moon hugged it closely. The stars, too, were different from what she remembered. Where the hell were they?
“Sancho.”
“N-no! How could we… Where are we?!”
“Sancho.”
“C-can we even go back? What was Bari thinking?”
“Sancho.”
“What a mess! Are we on the moon? Did Bari send us to her home or something?”
“Sancho!” Don Quixote shouted.
“A-ah. Sorry. I… We need to plan our way home.” Sancho slowly composed herself.
“Sancho, you asked where we are, did you not?”
“Right, right. Do… Do you… know?”
Don Quixote shot her a luminous smile, hair sparkling in the moonlight.
“I know exactly where we are! We are in the middle of an adventure the likes of which shall be told across worlds!”