Here’s the second strip. There might be another one, I’ll decide tomorrow. Until then, another bit of “C” Team fic. I’ll get the art from Ryan later, it’s fucking Christmas.)

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There were many tales of them, so many that it seemed impossible they all referenced the same pair. In the manner of stories that wobble as they are told, though, every turn in the telling only seemed to gird the legend.

They had a knack for being where they were needed most. Whether it was towns with an overabundance of bandits, or, occasionally, bandits with an overabundance of morals, they had a way of changing the path of the river wherever they went.

A stubborn tale, one that seemed to hold its shape with greater vigor, is known as The True Knife. The name of the town could change, but the events never did, which led the gatherer of tales down two paths: first, that many towns longed to be the source of it, and second, that it was possible (however improbable it might seem) that the events it described had taken place more than once.

The Pair - called most often by the names The Circlet and the Stone - had taken rest in a simple room whose cost they paid with the work of their hands. Other tales implied some royal lineage for the two, how the eldest held her cup, or the strange oaths she swore, but “The Knife” was always careful to retain this air of common virtue.

While bandits massed outside the village, a rough Envoy was sent within to demand release of the Circlet and the stone she wore into their keeping, that they might derive payment for some slight they had suffered at her hand. The old woman who owned the washing-house where the Pair dwelt held them in fondness, and would not reveal them, which drove the bandit into a frenzy of cursing and wildness. When he drew steel, a dagger above his station, the Circlet and the Stone emerged from their place of hiding. Over the old woman’s objections, and her plaintive gestures, The Pair accompanied the Envoy, who demanded that she leave the Stone behind, as they were not murderers of children. As though she had not heard him, The Circlet left the gates with her jewel affixed, along with the greatest of her weapons.

The people of the town crept to the top of the low wall that surrounded the gate, and when this was full they boiled out the gate and around the edge, each with a tale of how they would enter the fray at the first sign of treachery. All said it, but none believed it; not from themselves, or from the others.

The leader of this rugged band was called Harvest Frost, for it was said that he could glean even in the dead of winter. He said that this band was his Sickle, and that they were Farmers of Farmers; that is to say, they harvested from those who harvest and this was the world as it was. As he held forth about the natural state of things, she asked in reply if any who could claim his head, then, would rule the band, and it was at this time a light snow began to fall.

Harvest Frost suggested that, yes, this was in keeping with the untamed world, though when the arrow pierced his throat his surprise was apparent. As the sender of this arrow raised his bow in triumph, asserting his rightful place, the bow was cut in two by an axe, along with all of his clever parts. It went on like this for some time, each tyrant seizing the throne for a few doomed moments, until the next one took his place. When she was satisfied that her blow would end them, The Circlet and her Stone returned to their labors in the washing-house, where her sword still lay.