In FLEX 8, a woman named Delacroix of House Poleaethrin strode toward Pole Kingdom, two war hammers were strapped across her back, the massive heads rising over her shoulders.
She had on fully articulated plate armor; it was silver-white and fitted close to the body, long-sleeved with metal extending into armored gloves that sheathed her hands.The armor was built for full coverage without sacrificing control. Interlocking scale shaped segments covered the armor, each one carved from silver-white metal, and inlaid with faintly glowing frost blue veins.
A fur hood with rounded bear ears spills into a thick mantle around her shoulders and collar, while a separate strip of fur drapes from the back of her hips, down to her ankles. Her boots are bestial, she has on clawed toes that bite into any surface, grounding her stance.
Her face is covered with a silver mask carved with delicate silver filigree, it connects at the bridge of her nose, but leaves three exposed holes, the nose and mouth shared one, and each eye had their own. Beneath it, her skin is porcelain smooth, with eyes clouded to an icy white and no visible pupil. Under the helmet her hair falls straight in white strands, long enough to be seen on her shoulders.
Following her were Bramblepot Feignfoot, O'Thorn Winkwell, Kettlewick SkitterFall, and Merrimint Pipkip-Crosspocket III, each about three feet tall with dim-grey skin. Their pinpoint tags listed the same details for each of them. The continent of origin was marked D.O.W. Beneath it, the genus was H. sylvaticus, and the species was Peppagrew.
The three males Bramblepot, O'Thorn, and Kettlewick, had ears pointed straight out to the sides. They all wore red, knee length frock coats. Beneath the coats sat textured brown vests, brown shin length trousers ending above striped brown and white socks, and polished leather shoes. Unlike the male peppagrew, or most fae fellows in general, Merrimint has two sets of ears, distinct in size and placement.
The large outer ears are wide at the base and flare outward, before tapering into long points angled slightly backward. The smaller inner ears sit where normal ears would. They were as sharp as the male peppagrew, but they angled upward with the bigger ears. Her inner ears were a lot less delicate and more attuned to sound.
Large, round eyes dominate her features, they were hot pink, with lashes that gave her gaze a gentle quality. Her hair is a mix of bright blue and pink, tightly curled and full of texture.
She wears a loose, earth toned dress in muted moss and ash brown. The bodice gathers naturally at the chest, and the neckline is edged with a pale, fur-like lining meant for warmth. She had two layers of sleeves. The outer sleeves are long and flared around the elbow, blending into a hip length, cape-like garment that drapes from her shoulders.
While underneath, the second sleeve was a glove sleeve, striped and fingerless. Dark leggings complete the look, textured and organic, like a second skin. A delicate chaplet wraps gently around her head, and small colorful flowers were woven into it. They hustled to keep up, feet pattering, voices talking over one another.
"You don't have to do this alone," Bramblepot said, his shaggy, unkempt hair sticking out in soft, uneven clumps around his head. His face was gentle and expressive, large brown eyes drawing immediate attention. His mouth pulled a little crooked as he spoke. "You were kind to us, you didn't ask for anything, and you didn't turn us into tools."
O'Thorn nodded. His large, round head sat heavy over his smaller frame, thick curly sideburns flaring along his cheeks. He had a button nose set beneath wide green eyes, forming a rosy face that carried a playful cheer as his smile lingered. "You really helped us," he said, "We just want to return the favor."
Kettlewick folded his hands around his slender scepter, he had on a hat that looked like a leather rugby helmet with a hole for his ears, and the feather on the helmet bobbed as he moved. His face stayed lively and amused, a wide grin carving creases into his cheeks. His eyes were bright with a permanent, mischievous sparkle. "The more people the better," he said and smiled. "Just let us help you."
Delacroix shook her head. "You were in trouble," she said quietly. "I helped, I won't endanger you for that."
Merrimint stepped forward when the others fell quiet. She was the only one barefoot, but her feet were toughened from use, and you could see faint veins and tendons visible beneath the skin.
Delacroix's eyes were already on her, and Merrimint held her gaze without flinching. "I like you," she said, before smiling. "So I won't soften this." Her voice stayed steady. "You're not ready to do this alone and that isn't an insult, It's just the truth."
She gestured back toward the others, then to herself. "Helping you is our decision, this isn't you using us." Merrimint took a small breath. "We don't want to see you end up hurt, or dead, and you won't free anyone if you die trying."
Merrimint's eyes didn't waver. "You want to end the oppression of your people that matters, but wanting it isn't enough. You'll need help, and you'll need to grow stronger." Her tone left no room for argument. "So we'll help, and while we do we'll make you stronger, until standing on your own is a choice not a risk."
Delacroix nodded grudgingly, and the Peppagrews fell into stride behind her, four small shadows refusing to be left behind. The path carried them forward until the horizon split in the distance.
There was a canyon so vast it didn't look like a canyon anymore, it was one thousand miles down and eight hundred miles across. Inside there were two kingdoms anchored to the opposing walls. Mile after mile buildings that should have been vertical and roads that should have been horizontal were flipped.
The roads were vertical and buildings were horizontal, both set completely on the vertical wall. From far off, it looked impossible, the streets were climbing straight up. Once you reached the split and chose a path, left or right, the canyon would begin to correct itself. Gravity shifted with your step, keeping you vertical as though it had always been that way.
Inside either kingdom, the other no longer appeared to its side. It was directly above you, when you looked up, you could see a massive kingdom resting upside down.
At the point where both capital cities faced each other, gravity was unique. At certain hours, you could leap from the heart of one city, float through open air, and after a turn of gravity, descend straight down into the other's main square.
"The people call this stretch Polar Night," Delacroix said, her gaze lifting toward the kingdoms and the canyon. "When you walk it gravity shifts, the sun that should be overhead appears sideways, and what looks bright from a distance goes dark as you get closer to the kingdom."
She pulled out a warhammer from her back. "If you insist on helping," Delacroix said, "then listen." She lifted one hammer slightly and angled it toward the left path. "That way is Pole Kingdom, two regions, both of them guarded by my brothers." Her jaw tightened. "I'm not here to rule, I'm here to help the people, and fight my own blood if that's what it takes."
Then she shifted the hammer to the right path. "That's Thryss Kingdom, house of Ashmere, they're allies. If they hear Pole Kingdom is breaking, they'll move fast." She looked back at the Peppagrews. "So we can't go in recklessly," she said, "It has to be quiet."
Merrimint snapped into a crisp salute, "Yes, ma'am."
"I'm ending the suffering of my people, apparently, I'm the only one in my bloodline who gives a damn," Delacroix said.
Bramblepot ran up, "And we're here to help."
The five of them took the left path, angling toward Pole Kingdom. Behind the group, Merrimint couldn't hold still. She darted in quick zigzags grinning to herself, every new rock and colorful plant became a discovery worth sprinting for.
Merrimint has a thing for rocks, not the big obvious ones, the small weird ones. The more unique it looks, the faster she claims it. When she finds one she likes, she immediately hands it off to Kettlewick, her self appointed rock protector. Merrimint refuses to risk losing a treasure to a pocket hole or a bad fall. She came trotting up with a new little rock pinched between her fingers, eyes bright.
"Kettlewick," she said, holding the new one up for him to see. "Show me the rocks, please." Kettlewick dug into the pocket he'd been forced to dedicate to her collection, and laid the rocks out one by one on his other hand. Merrimint hovered over his palm, studying each rock like it had a personality. She picked one up, turned it, frowned, then set it back, then another. "Okay," she murmured. "One of you has to go." She pointed at one of the older rocks. "That one."
Kettlewick smiled. "You're replacing it?"
Merrimint nodded, completely satisfied with the logic. "I'm at eight, and rules are rules." She pressed the new rock into his palm. "Protect this one." Then she took the rejected rock, held it for a second with a soft, almost apologetic look, and smiled. "Bye," she whispered. "What a wonderful journey we've been on together." She set it gently off the path, like she was letting it go home instead of leaving it behind.
Merrimint sprinted up beside Delacroix, then on impulse hopped up on one of her legs and wrapped both arms around it. Delacroix just kept walking, each step lifting Merrimint a few inches and setting her back down again.
"Tell me," Merrimint said, eyes wide. "Is your family strong?" Merrimint wanted to know what they were about to walk into. Delacroix glanced down at Merrimint, then forward again, thinking through the safest way to tell the truth without dressing it up.
"We're strong," Delecroix said finally. "We've held power a long time, that doesn't happen by being soft." Merrimint nodded like she expected that much. Delacroix kept going. "But don't confuse hume strength with northern strength, here the land makes its own rules. My family is strong for Hume's," she admitted, "but we're not the strongest thing in the North, not even close."
That made Merrimint's eyebrows lift. "So who is?"
Delacroix started messing with her hair. "That's a good question… but I don't know, I'd say… probably one of the native species,"
Merrimint leaned in, excited again. "Native species? What other species are there?"
Delacroix kept walking, Merrimint still latched to her leg like a determined ornament. "The Northern Continent as a whole is defined by physical augmentation," she said, "A land where strength, speed, and bodily transformation are common. Only three species ever truly dominated, and all of them were built for strength."
Merrimint squeezed tighter. "Three?"
"Three," Delacroix confirmed. "First are the Brobdingnagian people. Their bodies grow larger than any other race on the continent, and strength follows naturally. What scares people isn't just their size, it's how fast they move despite it," Delecroix chuckled, "That weight should be slow but it isn't. They carry it with shocking speed and control. A Brobdingnagian doesn't need to assert dominance, their presence does it for them."
Merrimint's eyes widened, "Okay second?"
"Dunzodda," Delacroix said, and her tone tightened. "Reclusive and fiercely territorial, like they are so incredibly violent it's insane. Always angry and never seen, unless you're stupid enough to force conflict and drag them into the open."
She exhaled once, "The Brobdingnagians are size and speed, and the Dunzodda are an overwhelming force given form. Their power manifests explosively, capable of tearing through defenses and reshaping battlefields in moments. They're known for destruction, to face a Dunzodda in open conflict is to accept that something will be broken, whether land, structure, or body."
Merrimint made a small sound that was half awe, half delight. "And the last one?"
Delacroix glanced down at her, "The last group is called the Storbellys."
Merrimint raised an eyebrow, "Storbellys?"
Delacroix laughed, "Storbellys," she repeated. "Often underestimated by outsiders and remembered by survivors. They're the most resilient beings in the North, their bodies are built to endure punishment that would shatter others outright. Blows that cripple seasoned fighters barely slow them. Damage that should be fatal becomes survivable through sheer physical resilience."
Her voice stayed even, but there was respect in it. "They're living proof that strength isn't only about how hard one can strike, but about how much an individual can withstand and still keep moving."
Merrimint's face brightened like she was proud and fascinated at the same time, but she stayed quiet and listened. "Those three are the ceiling of northern power, the forms that push physicality to its extreme. Others train hard and hit a limit, these three are defined by how far past that limit they can go."
Merrimint tightened her hug. "So," she whispered, thrilled, "which one are we most likely to see?"
Delacroix didn't hesitate. "A Brobdingnagian," she said, "They move through the North all the time, all different sizes too. They don't have to hide, and the Dunzodda never leave their territory, like I said before."
Merrimint looked up at her, "What about Storbellys then?"
Delacroix's eyes narrowed, not at Merrimint, at the memory of how people talked. "Storbellys are different," she said, "They're all women, and the North decided that made them something to hate." Delacroix got tired of messing with the war hammer and put it on her back again. "They tried hunting them into extinction. People tried hard too, whole campaigns, rewards, lies made to draw them out. It didn't matter, they didn't catch a single one, that I know for a fact." Merrimint's jaw dropped.
"I know they were forced into hiding. Some people lied, saying they're extinct now," Delacroix rolled her eyes, "That it worked, and the North erased them." She looked ahead, the canyon still distant. "I don't believe it. They're still out there, waiting. One day they're going to come back."
Step after step they walked toward Pole Kingdom. Delacroix walked unaware of the truth moving in parallel.
In FLEX Zone three, the air is tense, a crew called Jello Shot is gearing up for a territory fight, and there's nothing random about who they are or why they're there. Jello Shot is made up entirely of women, all tied to the Borbelly race.
Across from them is a crew called Shockbaton. They're here because FLEX three doesn't hand out space for free. Shockbaton has been claiming, and testing territories, now they want a stretch of land with a road that goes right through a mountain. It also has an opening big enough to land an airship, and the trees are so high and dense nobody can see you from above. It saves time, money, and it's a perfect spot to rest for a little while before you move again.
The pressure has finally hit the point where talking won't work anymore.Territory in a FLEX zone isn't just land, its access, leverage, and reputation. If you lose territory or a route once, you spend months proving you didn't lose your spine with it. A single loss becomes a story people tell about you, and stories travel faster than crews do.
The mountain route is a perfect way to move without the Department Of Public Order breathing down your neck, and the surrounding area is full of blind spots. If someone watches you going in, you can disappear on the way out. The real secret routes, the true shortcuts that skip Department of Public Order checkpoints entirely, those are already owned.
Claimed by crews with the power to keep them, the kind nobody challenges unless they're trying to start a war. These routes keep their crew from getting herded into someone else's traps. That's why strips like this matter. Partially hidden and still up for grabs, outsiders overlook it. Everyone else knows "unclaimed" in FLEX three is just a timer counting down.
Jello Shot glided in on their airship, as it descended their sovereign Sarah Swellin, better known as Softie, jumped out early. She had sun kissed caramel-brown skin with freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her dark hair was in a high bun with styled baby hairs.
She wore large gold hoop earrings, gold bracelets and rings. She had on a burnt-orange off-the-shoulder cropped sweater, matching high-waisted joggers with drawstrings, and sneakers. As she fell, her long black cape snapped in the wind, it had silver trim along the edges and decorative silver clasp at the neck.
She got the name for the simplest reason, she looks soft. She's overweight, fat enough that strangers assume slow, assume easy, and assume harmless. People see her shape before they see her stare, and that's the mistake she's built an entire reputation on.
In FLEX three, "Softie" started as a joke, something said with a grin. But the nickname stuck for a different reason. Once you underestimate her, you don't get a second chance to correct it. She doesn't move like someone trying to prove she belongs. She moves like someone who already knows she does. She's mentally grounded, and physically hard to budge.
She uses the way people read her body like a weapon, letting them come in careless, and commit to the wrong confidence. By the time they realize "soft" was never the truth, they're already in the part of the fight where regret doesn't help. That's why Shockbaton's Sovereign Kirk Umblim finds it funny. He's the same kind of fool everyone else becomes around her, convinced the shape tells the story.
Instead of sliding down the fast rope, softie jumped and grabbed the rope just before hitting the ground, swinging herself forward, and sliding as her feet hit. Kirk stood across from her, smirking like the whole scene was entertaining.
He respects strength in theory, but he doesn't believe it shows up in women, not in any way that matters. He didn't bother hiding it, he had a satisfied look like he already knew the outcome.
Earlier, when Softie suggested a Sovereign versus Sovereign fight to spare everyone else, his expression shifted just enough to show he was listening. It showed him something he couldn't label weak. So he honored it and they agreed on a location.
Both of them step out into the open and square up, Right foot forward, the inside edges pressed together, boot to boot. It's a Northern Continent kind of start, no distance to hide behind. Everyone around them goes still, both crews waiting for the signal that turns tension into motion. The start comes and they move at once.
Softie had her hands up, but was loose on purpose, inviting the mistake. Kirk steps in and unloads his nastiest shot right away, putting his whole weight into it, trying to erase her in one shot. His shoulder whips through, and his fist slam's in under the ribs, right on the liver, a punch meant to make a body betray itself.
The impact hits but the force doesn't explode outward, it sinks in, swallowed by her body like the shockwave got caught in sand. Softie doesn't move, for half a second, Kirk's arm is extended, and he's waiting for her to react the way he already pictured.
It starts as a snort from one of the women, then another, and then the whole Jello Shot crew cracks open into loud, ugly laughter, the kind you can't hold back. They're pointing, shaking their heads, and laughing. That's when Kirk realizes he threw his best shot and it did nothing, now he's too close, too committed, and standing in front of someone who just let him spend his deadliest move like pocket change.
The joke drops off his face, he's suddenly aware of his own breathing, the silence from his crew, the way Softie's eyes stay locked on him like she's been waiting for this exact moment.
Kirk's pride panics; he jerks back, spitting the words out like they'll save him. "No way I'm losing to this fat bit—"
Before he can finish Softie moves, she doesn't load up. She just steps in and throws a simple cross, the same lazy kind of swat you do when a fly keeps circling your face, not even trying to kill it, just telling it to get away.
Her knuckles catch the tip of his chin, and it turns him. His head snaps sideways first, then his shoulders follow. His feet lift off the ground and get carried with the momentum. He hits the ground face first and skates a full hundred feet, legs pitched high behind him while his face dragged a brutal line through the hard ground. One long, ugly streak carved into the field.
When he finally stops sliding, he doesn't spring up or even twitch, just drops limp and stays there, completely still. Behind Softie, jello shot erupts, laughter spilling out in waves like it's knocking the air out of them. They're leaning on each other for balance, wheezing and wiping their eyes.
While Kirk lies out there in the field, the jello shot crew is already tossing Titans back and forth, coins flashing as they settle a bet.
"Told you Mitra" one of them wheezes, holding her hand out. "I told you he was gonna say it."
Mitra tosses the Titans, then groans like it physically hurts. "I just lost so many Titans," she pinches her nose. "Kellin, Marie-leoanettra just robbed me, I promise you I will never bet on a man to be respectful ever again."
Kellin snapped her head, "Don't generalize," she retorted, "That puts other people down who didn't do anything." She points toward where Kirk went down. "Next time be more observant, It was obvious. Did you not see the way he was looking at us, especially Softie. The man was itching to say it like her existing offended him."
Marie-leoanettra wipes at her eyes like she's crying. "Maybe if he was fat," she says, voice breaking with laughter, "he'd still be conscious right now."
The whole crew erupts again, louder, meaner, Titans clinking as they keep passing the money. Softie turns back toward her crew and starts belly dancing right there in the field, The beads on her waist jingling as she dances.
Jello Shot loses their minds. They were screaming, clapping, and stomping on the ground. Titans flashed in the air as people tossed the coins like it was a celebration instead of a turf dispute. They were chanting her name, and some started dancing with her. Others were laughing so hard they couldn't form words, pointing at Kirk and his crew.
On the other side, Shockbaton moved fast, two of Kirk's people grabbed him under the arms, another hooked his legs, and they hauled him up. The men don't look at anyone's eyes, they just start retreating with their Sovereign. Softie keeps dancing as they go, beads jingling, hips swaying, like she's waving them off without ever lifting a hand.
Back in FLEX five, Deuces Jack the Jester lay crumpled in an alley, he couldn't walk anymore. His legs had finally given up. The pain in his chest had settled into heavy pressure that made every breath agony.
The bleeding hadn't slowed, leaving his clothes dark where it had soaked through. He dragged himself against the brick wall inch by inch, teeth clenched, breath shaking. Around him, the alley offered what it always did old trash, torn cloth, crumpled packaging. He gathered it with shaking hands, sorting through filth until he found pieces clean enough.
He stopped the bleeding, and wrapped his ribs clumsily, tying knots that hurt but held. DJ had his back to the wall, hugging his cap, fingers digging into the worn fabric. He stared up at the narrow strip of sky above the alley, chest rising and falling, alive because he'd been allowed to be.
The tears came quietly at first, leaking out of him like everything else did, then harder, ugly and uncontrolled. He pressed his face into his cap and his voice broke against the fabric.
"I'm tired," he whispered. Then louder. "I'm so tired."
His chest hitched as the words finally spilled out. "I'm tired of everyone laughing at me, nobody takes me seriously."
His fingers clenched in the worn cloth. "Why am I always the joke?" DJ curled in on himself, breath stuttering, tears streaking down his face. He pulled himself together slowly, he wiped his tears with the palm of his hand, then dragged his sleeve across his face until the wetness was gone.
His breathing evened out, and the shaking stopped. When he looked up, his expression had changed, the softness was gone, the hurt folded inward and hardened, setting into something cold. His mouth flattened, his eyes went dead, carrying a simmering anger. It was the look of someone who had stopped asking to be understood and started keeping score. A quiet hatred settled over him, heavy but calm.
DJ stayed there in the alley long after, staring at nothing. His thoughts began to move with purpose, lining themselves up one by one. Mapping out how the world would look when it finally had to stop laughing.
"It's time for the jester to get the last laugh."