Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Just as Galdric has slept the centuries away within the Raven’s Slumber, so too has the Deathwalker’s Ward laid dormant in its previous owner’s tomb.

The Ward does not truly know death, since it does not truly know life, either. Any intelligence to it is simply a vestige of connection built up over the centuries of use, collecting around a tiny kernel of divinity implanted in it at its creation. It cannot speak its mind; whether it has a mind is debatable.

It must, though, since as the tomb is opened anew, it can’t help but have… thoughts.

It has sensed presences over the years, but none had overcome the traps and barriers within the tomb meant to protect the very Ward itself. These nine (plus bear), however…

Could any of them be a suitable bearer? That is its first, and most urgent thought. Using what little awareness it has, it blindly grabs at the strings of fate surrounding these mortals.

Oh. Oh. Now that is interesting.

All nine of them, without fail, are warriors. Fighters. Possibly even heroes. The sheer potential in them is overwhelming. Bearing a magical item as powerful as the Ward could very easily be their fate.

That’s not only what interests the Ward, though. Its previous owner was not simply an adventurer, not even just a hero- he had been a Champion. He had not only used the Raven Queen’s vestige- he had used it to uphold the Raven Queen’s values. Could this be within the weave of fate for any of these nine?

It reaches further, into the softer ethereal threads of the future, not a single one a guarantee but all of them a possibility and sees…

One who holds little hesitation in killing wrongdoers, but unwavering conviction to save their loved ones even at the cost of themselves, with no faith in the gods- hmm, preferably not that one.

One supposed to represent balance, but with a heart too optimistic to truly believe in the fairness of death- not that one either.

One ready to rip the threads of fate string by string to get what they want, willing to fight the deities themselves to- no, definitely not that one.

A hunter, more attuned to death than most, but too greedy to let go of the ones they love- most likely a “no”.

A warrior, ready to put themselves in the heat of combat to protect their family, who can see the simplicity of life and death- perhaps?

A thief who wears their heart on their sleeve, a heart with room for all, who would gladly sacrifice themselves to save-

And the strings of fate are spun into another row of the Weave, coalescing possibility into objectivity.

The Ward lays unmoving, unable to act as the trap on Purvan’s coffin springs, just missing the human who triggered it and the bear but leaving the hunter dead on the floor, and…

She appears. Not the wicked woman the human with faith seems to think she is, but the Ward’s Goddess herself.

And an exchange is made. A very rare opportunity indeed. If the Ward had emotions, it would feel surprised.

And then it is handed off to the thief, who, being only mortal, cannot see the twist that the Raven Queen has spun into his thread.

Purvan had earned his right to wear the Ward through years of service to the Queen. It’s not the Ward’s place to question; it’s incapable of truly questioning, after all. But if the Ward could feel emotions, apprehension might just have settled in beside its surprise. Whether this mortal can truly unlock the Ward’s power, whether he can truly rise to the challenge of serving the Queen- only time will tell.

---

Mythcarver was bored.

Yeah, sure it was safe. It wasn’t being used by any evil people, which was great, but at this point? It almost wouldn’t have minded if some big evil dude had strolled up and tried using it. At least then it would know what was going on out there.

But noooo, the Duke just had to go and hand off Mythcarver to a boring-ass sphinx in a boring-ass lair before he died. He should’ve kept it! Maybe someone could have stolen it off of his corpse, starting a folk tale of the mysterious death of the Duke and a years-long search for its location. It could’ve had at least a dozen owners in the time it had been in the stupid lair!

At least, maybe? Time was funky there, apparently. Hopefully that meant it was passing faster in there, so it wouldn’t miss much. No, wait, if time was passing faster in the lair, then that would mean waiting even longer until-

Oh! Wait, there’s new people! Awesome!

The fight wasn’t worth the lengthy wait, but at least it was interesting and not just a bunch of stabby-stabby. Magic and arrows and oh, what’s that weapon? See, it knew it would miss the interesting stuff in the world in this stupid lair!

Pleaseletmeoutpleaseletmeout- YES!

A talented bard, perfect. At least Kamaljiori had picked the right owner. Although it might’ve been cooler if the bard had taken it by- oh, whatever. No more imagining stories- time to live one! Oh, and another vestige already? Wow! Gods, Mythcarver could not wait to get back into the swing of things!

---

The Titanstone Knuckles were pissed.

Claiming to be honorable, but stealing the Knuckles off of their owner in the dead of night? Bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit.

Taking over a city not through earning it, but by grabbing it like leftovers after a dragon attack? Bullshit. Lame-ass bullshit.

Using a stupid axe instead of the Vestige in his care? Bullshit. Stupid, stupid bullshit. That all its new owner was- bullshit.

Yes, the Knuckles are an “it” even if there’s two of them, they’re two parts of one weapon. Deal with it.

Gods, it hopes the dragon will leave soon, cuz no way are any challengers going to show up so long as that’s a thing.

Fuck. It hated this bullshit.

And it stayed in the possession of one Thunderlord Kevdak for what felt like years but only amounted to a few months, stewing in its growing resentment for its owner. Why hadn’t its gods-damned maker had the foresight to put, it doesn’t know, a lock or something? To prevent stupid, honorless, lame-ass people from using it. Goddamnit.

Finally, though, finally, challengers arrive.

Ouch, though, that’s not a lot of people. Especially against a herd of goliaths- oh wait no, no, they’re badasses, okay.

Okay, they’re real badasses. Real badasse- oh holy shit that was badass!

If the Titanstone Knuckles could eat, it would be munching on popcorn. Instead, it was rooting for the person it was currently being used to punch.

And oh, was it a glorious fight. So when the honorable, worthy challenger finally pried the Knuckles off of his uncle’s fists and slipped them on itself, it could’ve roared in excitement.

Ooh, and Mythcarver was there too? They would have to catch up sometime.

---

Mythcarver and the Knuckles had a lot to catch up on, indeed. No less than four dragons conquering Tal’Dorei? A bunch of unlikely heroes thrown being the only ones in a position to do anything? Gods, it was like it was 310 PD again.

The Deathwalker’s Ward was there too, but it kept mostly to itself, rarely reaching out through its connections of pseudo-attunement to the other vestiges. So basically, nothing had changed- according to Mythcarver. The Knuckles hadn’t been used alongside the Ward before, but from what the blade of stories said, the Ward tended to match the Champions that wore it: silent, brooding, and emotionally constipated.

So it was with zealous glee that Mythcarver and the Titanstone Knuckles dug into the flesh of Umbrasyl, while the Deathwalker’s Ward dutifully protected its owner with just a smidgeon of tentative hope that it could grow from its near-slumbering state. When its owner in fact agreed to serve as the Raven Queen’s champion, its demeanor clearly shifted: it had awakened .

With that, it seemed more open to the presence of the Knuckles and Mythcarver, seeming to imply its apprehension, almost regret towards the role it played in its owner’s new responsibilities.

Mythcarver made sure to take note of this: a reluctant paladin of the Raven Queen donning the Ward in exchange for the life of their sister? Good stuff. Definitely a power ballad.

---

Fenthras, Wrath of the Fey Warden, was above all… tired.

In rebellion against the toxic stagnation of its owner, it laid dormant, forcing itself into stasis for as long as it could while its owner tried to return it to the state it had been when he had used it for good.

Not again, never again, for so poisonous a heart. What once had been noble had become nothing but venom.

So it slept a dreamless, unrestful sleep, doing its best to ignore its toxic surroundings until something, anything could grow anew.

And that something, eventually, came.

Six mortals (and a bear?), looking for the Wrath of the Fey Warden. All who had grown so much, all who were capable of more. But only one that wielded a bow.

The very same one that Fenthras’s current owner was trying to poison, to corrupt, with the same stagnation and filth that filled it.

The very same one who fired the first shot against Saundor, and stood for something better.

So when the huntress took Fenthras into her hands, it came to life, wrapping a vine around her hand in thanks for freeing it, for letting it see the light again and watch what would come of these mortals.

It would be there, for her.

---

Cabal’s Ruin, draped around the shoulders of a monster, seethed.

Stolen in the night for no reason save for power, for the callous desire of a weapon; it was the worst end for any owner of a Vestige of Divergence.

Still, it tried its best to keep its calm. There was little it could do, save for withholding any further power it could possibly offer the woman that wore it like the mantle of a queen as she planted the seeds of death in the streets of Marquet.

Whisper, meanwhile, was in… shakier hands. Well-meaning hands, but misled hands, being used by Anna Ripley as surely as she used Cabal’s Ruin.

Time, of course, was their one mercy. Humans, save for only the most miraculous and likely of circumstances, only lived so long. Even if its owner lived a full life, unleashing her poorly-veiled cruelty for another four or five decades, Cabal’s Ruin would eventually pass into another’s hands- or perhaps sink to the bottom of the sea, like poor Whisper.

It hoped for sooner, though. That hope was hard to hold on to, day by day, as smoke settled around Anna Ripley’s shoulders as surely as the Vestige. Unbearably monstrous indeed.

It held onto Whisper, in that odd way such old, powerful artifacts could. Whisper was younger, made post-Calamity, in some sort of union between multiple deities. It was hesitant, though, and quiet. This was likely its first time in such… dubious hands.

Cabal’s Ruin was old, one of the first Vestiges crafted during the Calamity. A piece of the heavens torn by gentle hands, it had had a different name then- many names, throughout the centuries. Now, though, Cabal’s Ruin it was called, so Cabal’s Ruin it was. And with nothing but the faint vision of stars, it did its best to comfort Whisper, whether the dagger could yet feel such things as emotions yet or not.

Time, in a very rare move on its part, was kind. With it came six heroes and a bear, looking not only to claim Vestiges but to put down a monster.

Good, yes, these were the people worthy of such weapons. Acting not of greed or pride but an attempt to protect, to save.

Even as they wreaked destruction on the glassy sands did they try to protect each other, even protect Whisper’s owner.

Even as they faced the guilt of their mistakes did they try to do better.

“No matter what today, I forgive you, but I cannot let you leave.”

Cabal’s Ruin cried out in the soundless voice of an artifact for the one it could not protect. And draped around the shoulders of a dead man, the opposite of its previous owner in all the most important ways, Cabal’s Ruin fell silent.

Whisper was in good hands, now, hands that already held a Vestige and a duty. Hands that could be trusted. The collection of Vestiges present would be impressive, if the circumstances were one for such a feeling. Any of the heroes would be worthy. Cabal’s Ruin, though, was old and awake and could feel, and feel it did, guilt that it had played a role in the death of one worthy of it.

So when it went to the hands of that same man, returned to life to fulfill purposes yet incomplete, it settled around his shoulders with pride. How ironic, that the man carried a similar guilt as the one that his friends had just erased from Cabal’s Ruin. But now, he had not just a Vestige as a weapon, but one that could protect.

---

The Spire of Conflux stood ready.

It had eternity, all of life and death and life again, to be used again. That time would come.

The oldest, original Vestige, it waited in the belly of a demon, ready and waiting and infinitely patient.

The time came, and it was like no time had passed at all. From within the monster’s stomach it watched with careful eyes a duel between two great beasts, with a small handful of mortals poking their way to victory.

Victory indeed, as the Spire was passed into the hands of none other than the current heiress to the Air Ashari, currently on her Aramente.

By the old traditions, she would not be considered ready for the Spire, but with time, times changed. The owner herself had yet to learn the true power- and responsibility- of longevity, but the Spire was patient.

It had all the time in the world, and would stand ready for when it was needed.

---

The Plate of the Dawnmartyr burned.

It was useless, held as nothing but a trophy by a fiend. Sitting dormant, as there were surely those out there that had need of it.

It had to hold, though, for its duty. For one who might come bearing that oh-so beautiful light of hope.

And come she did.

Not a follower of the Plate’s God, no, but of His Sister the Dawnflower, and she carried hope with her like a young child might carry a flower- with delicacy and love. And not just hope but also purpose, divine purpose, mortal purpose, to do nothing less than save the world.

The Plate folded around that hope, wrapping around its new owner as armor, ready to uphold that beautiful purpose and hope. Ready to protect it, to save it when needed, to help how it could.

The Plate of the Dawnmartyr burned bright.

---

Mythcarver sang a quiet song without words or sound for its fallen owner.

It had been useless. Utterly useless. Why would a spellcaster have use of a rapier against an ancient green dragon? There was nothing it could have done.

This wasn’t how the story should have ended. It just makes no damn sense! They’ve come SO far, he has so much to live for still…

A connection brushed up against Mythcarver. It was Cabal’s Ruin, once again wrapped around the dead form of its own owner.

Mythcarver cried not tears but a song, and Cabal’s Ruin listened.

---

Whisper was leaving.

The Deathwalker’s Ward was as well, ready to enter the in-between of life and death alongside their owner.

Whisper, exalted and further experienced, could feel a little. And it felt… regret. Regret, that its owner’s duty was done but also regret that it was being taken with him. It had little time in Exandria compared to its fellow Vestiges, and now it was being taken away into an unknown, possibly final, future.

But it had to admit, it was also… curious.

Born of metals from the Far Realm, made by a union of Sehanine and Ioun, Whisper was meant to turn the dark magics of evil against their owners. Whisper was made of the unknown, and to the unknown it would go.

Perhaps its journey isn’t quite over.

Chapter Text

The Vestiges of Vox Machina were in… an unusual situation.

They were in an unusual situation because Vox Machina were in an unusual situation.

Alright, it wasn’t all of Vox Machina. Only Whisper, the Deathwalker’s Ward, Mythcarver, and the Plate of the Dawnmartyr were present. Still, that was almost half the team and respective Vestiges.

Oh, and Cabal’s Ruin was just running a little late.

“What took you so long?” Whisper asked, words coming easily to it now in its Exalted state, as its owner wielded it with deadly precision.

“It’s the rules of the game or something. I was in a… waiting room? I think there was coffee. Oh, and a tiefling,” Cabal’s Ruin explained, fluttering in the wind of the demonic battlefield. “I really don’t like this place.”

“Yeah, welcome to the club,” the Plate of the Dawnmartyr added. 

“Holy shit, is that Dwueth'var?” Mythcarver suddenly called out. “Whoa, it is! What’s up dude, it’s been so long!”

“Wait, Mythcarver? That you? Damn! Looking fine there,” Dwueth’var responded as it was used to slash at Mythcarver’s owner. “I’m actually going by ‘Star Razor’ nowadays.”

“Who’s this guy?” the Deathwalker’s Ward said, the first words it had uttered since this oh-so-strange fight had begun.

“Old bud of mine. Aw man, those were the days.” If Mythcarver had a face, it probably would’ve looked wistful, but instead it hung unused at its owner’s belt.

“Damn. You got quite the harem, Myth.”

“You’re a scoundrel, ‘Myth,’” Cabal’s Ruin interjected.

“Bards, am I right?” Whisper added.

Suddenly, in a burst of light, the owner of Cabal’s Ruin was replaced with… a tiefling. Probably the one it had mentioned.

“Weird. Anyways, got anyone else with ya?” Mythcarver asked.

“Nah. Just me. Was broken for a bit, kinda sucked. Better than new, now- and quite a bit longer, if you catch my drift,” Dwueth'var explained, working in a flirtatious tone.

In another flash of light, Cabal’s Ruin plus human appeared in the battlefield again.

“We are literally a collection of weapons and armor. I will never understand you two,” Cabal’s Ruin grumbled.

“Oh, lighten up a bit. Anyways, we’ve actually got a bunch of others too. The Knuckles, Fenthras, even that old coot the Spire!” Mythcarver bragged. “My guy? Champion of Ioun. Plate over there’s got the Dawnflower’s Champion. And Ward and Whisper are the R.Q.’s of course.”

“Not bad. My dude got mixed up with Uk’otoa (Uk’otoa…) of all people, if you’d believe it. But back home we’ve got a cleric of the Wildmother, and now he’s on the straight and narrow. Don’t suppose you’ve got Melora’s or Sehanine’s running with you?”

“Nah, just Pelor’s champ and a bunch of loser atheists.”

“Oi, watch it Myth, or I’ll trip your owner’s scrawny ass as soon as we’re out of this fight,” Cabal’s Ruin added.

“Shut it, fabric-face.”

“Would it kill you all to focus? Except you, Star Razor, you can slack all you want,” the Plate finally said.