Chapter Text
Martyn is in the woods on the north side of spawn when he notices the new tower looming up on a hill. He takes a moment to get his bearings, and realizes he’s pretty close to the Shadow Lady’s circle; this must be one of her allies’ builds.
He dithers for a moment, then shrugs. He’s got nothing better to do, and a little reconnaissance never hurt anyone, so he might as well go see what’s what.
It’s a longer walk than he was expecting, and by the end of it he’s a little annoyed at the tower-builder for making it so tall and thus deceptive— though he has to admit, it’s going to be a great lookout point. They’ll probably be able to see halfway across the whole arena when it’s done. Now that he’s got up closer, he can see the beginnings of walls at the base; though they don’t look completely finished, they’re still pretty secure-looking, and an iron-bound gate guards the entrance, looking very impenetrable indeed.
…Martyn is pretty sure he could probably find a way to break in and get out without being noticed, if he gave it a couple days. A tower this well-defended would almost have to have some things worth stealing.
But he’s not here for a stakeout, and the worst that’ll happen right now is he’ll get chased away, since he’s pretty sure this isn’t Smallishbeans’ grand tower looming over the Shadow Lady’s circle. The Boogeyman killed early this week, so he’s not too worried about that, either.
“Ahoy the tower! How goes the world?” he shouts, stepping out from the trees into the open area in front of the walls. He catches sight of movement from inside the tower; probably someone scrambling to peer out one of the arrow slits.
“Ahoy the road!” comes the cheerful answering cry, a bit muffled but still clearly recognizable as Ren. Martyn grins, and waits in front of the gate. The Southlands are currently… on neutral standing with the Shadow Lady and her allies, but Martyn met Ren early on in the game, before any official factions had formed, and they both got on well— of anyone, Martyn’s glad it’s him.
“Martyn, what’s happenin’, baby? Come on in, dude, I’ll get the door,” calls Ren, a bit louder— it sounds like he’s made it down to ground level.
“Take your time,” Martyn calls back, as the sound of various bolts being slid back comes from the gate.
The gate opens ponderously but quietly— Martyn takes a moment to admire how well-balanced it must be.
“So, what news brings you all the way from the Southlands, man?” Ren asks, but Martyn can’t speak— he’s been flooded with the strangest sense of deja vu. Ren stands before him, a friendly smile on his face and a golden crown inlaid with gems on his head, resting there as naturally as if it were part of it. It looks— right, for some reason. Like it belongs with him.
Martyn remembers that Ren’s still waiting for an answer and pulls himself together. “No, I just saw this great big tower from af-aha-r and thought I’d come check it out— no urgent news, my lord,” he replies, sketching a perfunctory bow. Then he straightens up and meets Ren’s perplexed gaze and realizes what it is he’s just— done. The words falling from his lips felt as natural as the crown on Ren’s head, but they’ve landed— wrong, somehow, and now Martyn has to scramble to save face. “I mean, aren’t you going for royalty or something now?” He gestures toward Ren’s crown (which, upon closer inspection, is made of cleverly woven flowers, not metal like he’d first thought— for some reason). “Have you struck out on your own? Started a, uh— a flower kingdom?”
Ren raises his hand to his head when Martyn points out his crown, like he’s forgotten he’s wearing it. When Martyn suggests that he’s created his own faction, however, he starts laughing good-naturedly, as though the idea of him breaking away from the Shadow Lady’s alliance (or her court, rather— Martyn knows what she is, and Grian had warned all the Southlands to beware any deals with her and Tango) is simply a very funny joke that Martyn has told. Although, to be honest, if Martyn’s right about the kind of deal Ren’s made with his Queen, maybe that is a ridiculous thing to ask.
“Oh, this?” Ren says, still smiling. “Tis simply a token of my Queen’s favor.” His voice takes on a rather dramatic intonation, and there’s just a hint of a— Scottish? Is that Scottish?— burr. Ren strikes a pose. “She made it for me, for I am her loyal Hound.”
Martyn rolls his eyes inwardly, but there’s something familiar about this, too— it throws him off-balance. The feeling persists through whatever suitably polite answer he provides to Ren’s grandstanding, and Ren’s cheerful goodbye as Martyn takes his leave again.
Martyn wanders back in the general direction of home base, lost in his thoughts. The Southlands won’t last forever. They’ve already got two yellow names, and the odds get worse with every day that passes— especially when one of those yellow names is Timmy.
Maybe he should start making some backup plans, he muses, as the sun starts sinking below the horizon. He forces himself to pay more attention, now— he doesn’t want to get taken out by a stray arrow or one too many zombies— be a really stupid way to lose a life, honestly. He’s better than that.
Martyn has always thought of himself as a survivor. His backup plans have backup plans. He’s going to make it to the end, and he’s going to be the last one standing. Which— that is the point of the death game, of course, but. He’s actually going to do it.
He cares about the Southlands and all the lads, of course he does. He’d hardly be human if he didn’t. But Martyn is a pragmatist at heart, and he knows any alliance in this game is temporary.
And that includes— hopefully— pacts with faeries.
Martyn wants Ren on his side. More accurately, he wants access to that nice defensible tower when things inevitably go (ha) south and starting alliances begin to crumble. He’ll take the rest of the Shadow Lady’s court if he has to, but he’s still wary of the Lady herself, to be perfectly honest. He doesn’t deny that she could make a powerful ally, but Grian’s low, serious voice as he warned them about her on the very first day left a strong impression.
Ren’s friendly enough; Martyn’s pretty sure he can talk him ‘round, given enough time. Maybe he’ll do some scouting around, find out if the Shadow Lady has any enemies, and come back with intel to share. Make himself useful enough for Ren to think about bringing into the fold, maybe.
Sure, that’ll be Plan A. Plan B… Well, he’s got time. He’ll think of something.
He tries not to think about why he wants Ren on his side so badly, though, because if he cuts away the logic, all that’s left is the feeling, deep down inside, that it’s meant to be that way, set in place the first time he saw Ren with that stupid (familiar, oh so familiar, but why) flower crown.