#Felan Pierce | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dhampiravidi · 2 months

Text

SWTOR OC - Cathan Morningstar

template inspired by this:

BASIC DESCRIPTION

Full Name: Cathan [Kuh-Hahn] Morningstar

Nickname(s): Pretty Boy

Alias(es): Cipher Ten (also an elite ranking equal to a Sith)

Age: 30 (born in the year 3670 BBY on Dromund Kaas)

Era: The Old Republic

Species: half-Human (descent unknown), half-Zeltron

Gender: currently Unsure; he's considering identifying as "Genderfluid" rather than "Cisgender Male"

Sexuality: Pansexual (Polyromantic)

Alignment: The Empire, mostly himself (True Neutral)

Class: Imperial Agent - Markmanship Sniper

Languages: Galactic Basic (Imperial Accent), Twi'lek, Huttese

APPEARANCE (FC is Cody Fern)

Cathan is a tall (5'10") man in good shape for his age and height. He is toned due to frequent exercise. His skin looks pale, but he blushes darker than the average Human (if that even happens). His eyes are light green. His reddish-brown, wavy hair is typically level with his chin. He occasionally wears ear piercings, despite Imperial regulations. In his free time, Cathan loves to wear open or sheer shirts with flowing sleeves, low-waisted pants & things with ribbons…basically the exact opposite of his Imperial uniform.

PERSONALITY

Cathan has learned to present himself as a deadly, obedient soldier, even though that's hardly who he is. Thanks to his inherited Zeltron beauty & empathetic ability (which lets him manipulate & read emotions), he knows how to navigate conversations with amazing tact. He is also not above flirting to get what he wants or giving secrets to the enemy to survive another day. He's learned to hide his reluctance for violence enough to get through missions, though he'll choose diplomacy over fighting any day. After a while, he gets exasperated by the whole act of being "evil" and retreats to his hideaway to paint and relax with his lovers (he’s polyamorous, but he only has feelings for & trusts a select few). With them, he’s himself: compassionate, silly, delicate, submissive, and free. Because he was raised by non-Humans, he doesn't look down on them like most in the Sith Empire do.

BACKGROUND

He was born to the Human Sith Lord Acerbus & the Zeltran agent Jethra Felan. Lord Acerbus had bought Jethra's freedom when she was a slave on Hutta, thinking he could use her Zeltran beauty & empathetic power as assets in his pursuit of power. She served him well & the two secretly fell in love. However, when she became pregnant, it was made clear to him by his peers that he would lose his chance at being promoted to Darth if he continued his relationship with a non-Human & tried to raise her child. So, he had his doctor tell her the newborn died overnight & had another one of his agents take the child away. Baby Cathan was given to a Twi'lek couple on Corellia, who were told that they would receive a steady sum each year in exchange for raising the boy, giving him his father's old last name & sending him to Korriban when he came of age. Cathan's foster parents, combined with the fast-paced, perilous environment of the planet, taught Cathan how to lie, seduce, dance & run fairly early on in life. Then, mistaking his empathetic abilities as solely inherited from his Zeltron mother, they sent him to train in Imperial Intelligence rather than at the Sith Academy. Imperial training wasn't exciting for him until he realized how much power & praise were given to those who came out on top. Then he dived into his training, though he never completely got used to the idea of cruelty--he'd make his peers look stupid, for example, but he didn't ever want to torture spies or kill innocent people. He also didn't realize that he was Force-sensitive until he was on a mission & he telekinetically disarmed someone before he could raise his hand. Now, he's trying to figure out what he wants from life while following orders as usual.

SKILLS

(strengths)

Zeltron Abilities - his mother's species produces pheromones which make them appear attractive & likable to others; they also can read & manipulate emotions. Their metabolism helps them process alcohol, poison & food quickly

Investigation - Cathan has a knack for knowing where to look & who to talk to when he needs answers

Partial Telepathy - he's naturally adept at using the Force to detect, persuade & even scare others whenever he pleases

(weaknesses)

Physical Force Abilities - without training, he can hardly (if at all) use any telekinetic, illusion or healing-based abilities

History - he knows the current stuff, but he doesn't give a shit about Sith Lords from a century ago

Slicing - he was the slowest in his class

FIGHTING STYLE

Cathan has been extensively trained in marksmanship, specifically with the blaster rifle. Because of this, he is most comfortable attacking from far away, usually with the element of surprise on his side. Even then, he has sharp reflexes, which aid him in sniping fast targets. In close quarters, he uses a vibroknife, a weapon that he prizes for its versatility. He is equally skilled with both backhand and normal techniques.

HOBBIES

Listening to Music - he likes what we'd call progressive rock & pop

Collecting Art - a lot of his spending money goes toward buying paintings & sculptures that he later sells to make money

Painting - it relaxes him

#jkw: headcanon

1 note · View note

poetica-miscellanea · 6 years

Text

Dragon Age OC/Inquisitor Profile

BASICS

Full Name: Felan (fey-LAUN, but FEY-lihn is also acceptable pronunciation to him) Fen’an Lavellan

Nickname(s): “Snow” - Varric, at first (because of his hair and eye colour - he later stops at Dorian’s behest) and then “Spitfire” on occasion after that; “Ickle” - Sera (she thinks it’s hilariously ironic given Felan’s tall height for an elf); “Fae” - Dorian (at Haven, Dorian tells Felan it’s not just because it’s an alternative spelling to the way the first syllable of his name is said, but also because Felan’s “glowy hand” and humming after battle makes him think of the stories of Firesprites in the Korcari Wilds)

Age: 24 at the Conclave, 27-28 during Trespasser

Gender: Male

Pronouns: He/him

Sexuality: Gay

OTHERS

Family: Felan’s mother, Una, was a city elf born in the alienage of Starkhaven. She met Felan’s father, Fen’an, while he was doing trade off and on in the city for his clan. They became smitten with each other soon after. Tired of the treatment of elves in the alienage, and the pretentious luxury and grandeur of the rest of the city, Una eventually ran away with Fen’an, as she had no more living relatives in Starkhaven to keep her there, either. Fen’an was the clan’s long-standing Master until he, along with a few other clan members, were killed when Felan was 22 during a treacherous ambush in a trade with humans gone awry. Unfortunately later on, Una and Vienne do not survive the attack on the Lavellan clan in Wycome.

Birthplace: Somewhere outside Tantervale, near the Minanter River where the Lavellan clan stayed for a time

Occupation: Prior to Inquisitor and assassin specialisation: Master of clan Lavellan after his father’s death; he then relinquishes his “title” and duties to Aridhel Lavellan a couple months later. Felan takes on the job of one of the clan’s best hunters and weapons crafters until he leaves approx. four months following that. He periodically checks in with the clan to see his mother and Vienne, so he stays relatively close, even when it isn’t to their knowledge at times (which he prefers). Prior to the events of the Conclave, he briefly comes back as the result of Aridhel and Vie’s combined pleadings. Keeper Deshanna and the clan’s hahren then request of Felan to be a spy on the talks at the temple as retribution for his “slights” against the clan, and a way to be welcomed back with open arms. Felan very, very reluctantly accepts.

Fears: Losing those he cares about and failure. Though he also suffers PTSD after his father's death, and the fall of Haven worsens it. Occasionally heavy snowfalls trigger panic attacks.

Guilty Pleasures: Learning about magic, expensive wine, having Dorian read to him, seeing if he can make Cassandra blush or smile, and visiting with his favourite terrifying undead steed, Dearg (JAIR-ahg) in the stables! :D

Hobbies: Once Felan eventually learns how to read fully, he enjoys that a great deal; learning to fight with a sword & shield, drinking with Sera and Varric, blade crafting and weapons modification

APPEARANCE

Eye colour: Very pale, icy blue

Hair colour: White

Height: approximately 5’9 / 178cm

Scars: He has quite a lot, especially on his arms, but his most prominent are the ones on his right brow and the right side of his nose which he got during the attack on his clan before he joined the Inquisition. And he later gets a pretty bad scar beneath his left pectoral muscle from an injury involving an arrow.

Burns: Of course! He’s fought enough enemy mages, fire-breathing dragons, and has both heroically, and idiotically run into burning buildings aplenty. Technically, the scar from the arrow injury also involves scarring from cauterisation, too.

Overweight: Nope.

Underweight: Though some humans would say otherwise, no. He’s actually got a decent amount of muscle for an elf, but is still lithe.

HAVE THEY

Had sex: Yess

Had sex in public: Technically speaking? Uh.. yeahh... shh...

Kissed a man: Yep!

Kissed a woman: Romantically? No.

Gotten tattoos: His June vallaslin when he was 17, and then at some point when he is 25 and travelling in Val Royeaux, he gets the alchemical symbol for fire (triangle) connected to the ends of the vallaslin going down his biceps for Dorian :)

Gotten piercings: No

Had a broken heart: Yes, twice (in the romantic sense)

Been in love: Twice, Dorian being the last<3

Stayed up for more than 24 hours: Felan has insomnia, so it’s more than likely.

ARE THEY

A virgin: Ohhh no haha

A cuddler: Yep, he loves physical affections

A kisser: Very much so, and isn’t afraid of PDA unless it makes his partner uncomfortable

A smoker: He’ll smoke elfroot on occasion if he really wants to sleep, especially because it prevents nightmares

Scared easily: Besides his PTSD triggers, no.

Jealous easily: He’s only jealous of those who haven’t experienced prejudices or have lived relatively “normal” lives.

Trustworthy: Yes, it’s something he prides himself on being

Dominant: Yes

Submissive: Definitely not, though he would be to Dorian in bed. But Dorian veryyy rarely allows it.

Single: Quite the opposite!

MORALS

Morality Alignment: Felan stumbles in between Chaotic Good & Chaotic Neutral at different points in his life

Sins: Desire / Despair / Envy / Fear / Hunger / Pride / Rage / Sloth

Virtues: Charity / Diligence / Humility / Justice / Kindness / Patience / Restraint

THIS - OR - THAT

introvert/extrovert: introvert mostly

organized/disorganized: organised

close minded/open-minded: very open-minded

calm/anxious: calm when it counts (especially in battle), but is prone to panic/anxiety attacks

disagreeable/agreeable: Most on his good side would say agreeable

cautious/reckless: Ugh, reckless!

patient/impatient: He leans more towards being impatient, because of his recklessness lol. Fae also has no patience for bullshit.

outspoken/reserved: A good bit of both

leader/follower: Reluctant leader - he fails to see he’s good at it, and also refuses to follow

empathetic/unempathetic: empathetic

optimistic/pessimistic: Cynical optimist

traditional/modern: A bit more modern than most Dalish, he breaks away from quite a lot of tradition

hard-working/lazy: very hard-working

RELATIONSHIPS

OTP: FaeDor! haha Dorian & Felan ♥

Acceptable Ships: Felan & Cullen as they were together for a little over 3 months sometime after they met. And Felan & Aridhel, who were together from the time Fae was 17 until he left the clan at 22.

OT3: None - Fae is very monogamous once he’s in a relationship

BROTP: Felan/Cullen when things smooth over with them, Felan/Sera, Felan/Varric, Felan/Cass, Felan/Leliana, at times Felan/Harritt, and Felan/the Bog Unicorn lmao

NOTP: Since he’s gay, no women, obviously lol. And nothing against Bull personally, but Felan doesn’t trust him, so he wouldn’t bed or end up with him.

RANDOM

Recruited the mages or Templars?: Mages because magic interests Felan greatly and he was hoping the Anchor was magic-related enough to be removed after closing the Breach. He also wasn’t sure how trustworthy the Templars would’ve been, despite Cullen’s insistence on the matter.

Who did they leave in the Fade during Hear Lies the Abyss?: Stroud :( Purely for my selfish reasons because the thought of a romanced Fenris finding out Hawke was left in the Fade guts me. I can’t think about that. Not to mention how crushed Varric would’ve been.

I “tag” anyone who’d like to do this themselves or even tweak it to fit their non-DA OCs!! :) And my asks are always open, so feel free to pop in there if you’d like to know anything more about Felan!

#character meme #oc meme #oc profile #dragon age inquisition #dragon age #character profile #felan lavellan #m!lavellan #pavellan #inquisitor lavellan #my oc #lavellan #elf #rogue #da:i

5 notes · View notes

warlordfelwinter · 7 years

Text

Winter’s Guile

[read on ao3]

He had never been bothered by the sight of blood. He had made a lot of it with his own hands, whether pulling the trigger to send a scattering of bullets through a Warlord’s chest, or smashing open the ribs of someone who got in his way. Risen, civilian, Fallen. It all looked the same in the end. He was well used to blood. It was simply a side effect of his lifestyle.

He had never been upset by the sight of death, either. It came with the territory as much as blood did. He liked to think of himself as above visceral responses. He was a war machine. Irrational, emotional responses to everyday occurrences such as death were a human thing. Nothing he had ever experienced. Nothing he ever intended to.

It happened too quickly.

One moment, they were patrolling an old village, following reports of a Warlord trying to expand their territory. They couldn’t find any evidence. There was no immediate threat. They were being careless, helmets off, talking and laughing. A patrol turned into an outing.

Timur was ahead of him, walking backwards. Coyote nearby, taking recordings and pictures at his Lord’s request. It was something he did a lot. Documenting nothing important. He always said it was important to him. They were going to make history, he said. People would want to know who they were.

Timur was laughing and then, suddenly, he wasn’t.

One bullet.

It clipped Coyote, sending the Ghost to the ground, light flickering and going out. Perhaps it had been aimed at Timur’s temple and hitting the Ghost had altered its trajectory. In the end, it didn’t matter.

Blood sprayed the ground right before Timur hit it. Silimar dropped a shield around them, as more bullets came from the surrounding buildings. Gheleon started shooting back, the muzzle of his rifle piercing Silimar’s shield. Felwinter didn’t notice most of this.

He was frozen in place, watching Timur struggling to grab his Ghost. The sniper bullet had torn through his throat. He was choking on his own blood, eyes wide, some sort of strangled, desperate noise trying to escape him. For what seemed like an eternity, Felwinter couldn’t make himself move through the shock.

Something clicked in Felwinter’s mind and he dropped to Timur’s side, grabbing Coyote and pushing him into Timur’s hands. His hands went to Timur’s throat and started trying to put pressure on the bleeding, but logic told him it was pointless. The bullet had severed major arteries and his trachea. He convulsed, lungs trying to force out the blood that was filling them.

“Felan…” Felwinter managed, his voice coming out with a burst of static. He knew it was in vain. His Ghost was aligned to his own Light, she wouldn’t be able to help Timur, that wasn’t how it worked.

Timur stared at him desperately, eyes wide and terrified. He had never seen him look so scared. Blood bubbled up between his lips and out his nose. Too much in his throat, it was filling his sinuses now, yet still pumping from the ragged tear in his neck. He was drowning. And Felwinter couldn’t do anything. He dropped his hands from Timur’s neck and pulled him up into a sitting position and hugged him tightly, immediately feeling warmth soak into his robes, just trying to comfort him as his shaking got weaker.

Timur slumped against him, his Ghost falling from his hands into the reddening snow. Felwinter’s mind went blank. He tucked his head against Timur’s neck, listening, feeling. A pulse, a heartbeat, a breath. Anything.

“Felwinter?” Silimar’s voice sounded far away. “Felwinter!”

Felwinter didn’t react. He couldn’t. There was too much else going on. Felan said something, too, but her voice was lost in the static. Silimar touched his shoulder, but Gheleon snapped at him.

“Don’t.”

Felwinter’s head tipped back slightly against his will, jaw opening slightly to let in the cold winter air. He was overheating, struggling to keep up with everything that was happening in his head. Something was telling him, over and over, he’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. Part of him was arguing, trying to find a logical solution to this. He couldn’t be dead. That’s not how this was supposed to work. And the rest of him was just… screaming.

Fel… “Fel!” Felan appeared in front of him. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay. You need to slow down. You’re processing too fast for your systems to keep up with.”

Felwinter stared at her blankly. There wasn’t room for him to comprehend what she was saying. He could feel her in his mind, gently trying to calm him. He began to wonder why he was so troubled in the first place. Who was Timur to break him like this?

“Ship’s close,” Gheleon said. “We should go before more of them show up.”

Felwinter shook his head, not in disagreement but in pain. It was physical now. He was… shaking. Trembling. Internal systems overworking to try to cool his mind. If he had lungs, he would be panting.

“Fel, look at me,” Felan said. She sounded worried. “You’re looping. I have to shut you down for a bit, okay? If I don’t you’re going to overheat and hurt yourself.”

Static. He couldn’t hear a word she was saying.

Things began to shut off and he felt something else he didn’t think he would ever feel. Panic. He tried to force Felan out of his head. He didn't want to hurt her, but he needed to be here. He needed to be awake. Didn’t she understand? He couldn’t leave Timur. Not now.

Felwinter. Felan’s voice cut through. Stern.

No. No. No.

His grip tightened on Timur’s coat.

He was dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. The word meant nothing to a Risen. Death was something that happened to Warlords, when Felwinter destroyed their Ghosts. Not Iron Lords. Not Timur.

More systems left him and he couldn’t fight Felan anymore. He tipped his head, pressing it against Timur’s shoulder, giving up and letting her pull him into unconsciousness.

#this is short cause idk how to write death #that's probably clear #anyway its going to end up being softe i promise #i just needed to break felwinter a little first #a lot of blood #if that's an issue #destiny #fic #iron lords #the warlock and the warlord #winter's guile

32 notes · View notes

ekebolou · 6 years

Text

New Book: Chapter Fourteen

Sorry for the long delay; I would offer my excuses, but it’s a long and boring story. Hopefully more than one chapter coming today.

Enjoy!

Prelude

Chapter One

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fifteen

Anik didn’t appear until the afternoon; Rev almost thought it had to be on purpose, as somehow in the sweat and dust, in the glaring light he and Aster looked all the more untarnished. He and the horse were of one piece, as if Anik were the heartwood, and the horse, sapwood. He looked so magnificent riding up to them and clucking the horse to a prancing stop that Rev, so coated in sweat and sand he looked more like half dry driftwood, scowled at him.

“What were those cannon shots about?” Rev asked.

“Blanks,” Anik replied. “Signals. Dulal is outside Niwat-Ra, and spotted the fleet, so she signaled her position.”

Rev was glad Thespasian said nothing about how he’d jumped at hearing the report. He felt as if on the edge, though of what, at this moment, he couldn’t say.

“We shall move out immediately,” Anik said, oddly unfocused on either of them, “rendezvous with Dulal, and take Niwat-Ra before they are ready for defense. Three columns: Bohdan and Manas, myself and either Chitt or Ojas – whoever is most assembled at the moment. Most of us will remain unmounted – prioritize mounting messengers, then officers by rank. I need my division assembled as rapidly as possible. Let the quartermasters know that baggage should arrive at the walls of Niwat-Ra by sunset tomorrow.”

When Thes nodded, Rev was somewhat relieved, unsure how to do any of those things. Thes turned and put two fingers in his mouth to let out a piercing series of whistles. These were acknowledged and returned at scattered intervals among those setting up camp – and the horses, most of which picked up their hooves as if trying to leap the corral and form up themselves.

When Rev turned away from looking stupidly impressed with this simple signaling system, he saw Anik grinning down at him, holding out his hand.

“What,” Rev said, frowning.

“Come now,” Anik said, taking back his hand and using his knees to bring Aster around so the horse stuck its great pink nose in Rev’s face. “She likes you.”

She seemed to either like him or want to eat him, pushing her nose into his neck, his armpit, his hips, until he pushed her away.

“Been bathing in carrots?” Anik asked, and put his hand back down.

“I smell like you.” Rev scowled, strangely embarrassed, as Aster stepped past him and turned her head back to poke his nose into the small of his back. “I can’t ride.”

“It’ll be more sitting than riding. Just stay on. I promise she’ll take good care of you – you’re her friend.”

Feeling foolish, Rev took Anik’s hand, hauling himself up with the help of Anik’s strength and Aster’s patience. Once up, there was little choice but to seize Anik’s waist, pull close as he wheeled the horse around.

He felt like an urchin in a mansion. The unease which had threatened at his first view of the assembling armies of Baath, then touched him at the cannonfire now settled in like a stomachache. He could borrow Anik’s grace to ride, as Aster picked her way over the sand and stones as if she were dodging puddles in a familiar street – like he could borrow Anik’s clothes, borrow his smell to charm the horse – but it was only borrowed.

He would feel better when he was on the ground. Better still when he was in a line, following orders. Battle was chaos, in a lot of ways, but he knew it, and only now that he was glimpsing it, very literally, on the horizon under the walls of Niwat-Ra was he realizing how much he yearned for it.

That was probably a sign of some deep sickness, but it seemed a good damn deal healthier than anything else he had experienced in the last few years.

Anik rode them to where hastily assembled wagons were gathering under the strained commands of already-hoarse supply officers.

“Wait for me here,” he said, letting Rev slide off, then dismounting himself. He put Aster’s reins in Rev’s hand. “If she needs anything, these soldiers will know how to help you, and they’ll recognize Aster. I’ll be back.”

It was probably that he tried to smile before he walked away; if he hadn’t, Rev wouldn’t have noticed how hard it was for him.

Now, Anik may have been in many ways a fool, but that was because he was honorable. He could, if he wanted to, cheat at cards, and lie about his intentions, and disguise his actions. It was the moments when he chose to do so were what marked him as different from a regular soldier like Rev, who would do any of those things for no good reason at any time. What he couldn’t do was cheat, lie, or dissemble when he felt by doing so he was doing wrong.

Battle loomed, and he had dumped Rev with the baggage.

Rev held Aster’s reign, and watched Anik’s back melt into the mass of the Baathian army. He only became aware of the horrible scowl on his face when Aster snuffed horse snot all over it out of concern. He wiped his face on his filthy sleeve, and glanced at the soldiers around him.

“Vy,” he said, walking over to a young Baathian with an old bandage on his forearm, nervously polishing the buckle on his ammunition bag. He looked first at Aster, in alarm, then admiration, and only after an awkwardly long time looked for the human who addressed him.

“Speak Sivery?” Rev asked. Might as well keep up the game until he was told otherwise.

“Little,” the soldier said, staring at him both uncertain and awed. Perhaps he was just awed at the horse, and uncertain at Rev. Rev reflected that it was indeed hard not to know this was Anik’s horse, what with her glossy, all-white grandeur.

“Give me your kit,” Rev said. At the soldier’s blank look, he supplemented with gestures. “Give. Me. Your. Kit.”

He wasn’t quick – or maybe he was just young. He certainly didn’t look the veteran. Honestly, he probably looked more like Rev had when he started, fresh off the field – a fact which only annoyed Rev.

“Are you very excited to die?”

“Die?” The young man’s face broke into a panic. “No.”

“Then let’s trade.”

It was one morning of marching in the desert, with the sea providing a cool breeze now and then, yet still, Rev knew that the Baathians were not prepared for this land. Fresh off the boats, with full bellies and canteens, the soldiers in their heavy uniform jackets managed to joke and smile as they marched. Still, it was well before reaching the city that they fell silent and drew labored breath.

Such a short march was nothing to experienced soldiers. It wasn’t the distance. It was the desert.

Rev, without a uniform, in a floofy borrowed shirt, and not giving a damn what anyone thought of him, was able to strip down and shade himself under his shirt as he walked, laden with a beggar’s bundle of the stuff the soldier now happily crooning to Aster beside him had traded him. Some of the soldiers looked at him, filled with jealousy, or more worryingly, with hostile curiosity (he was relying a bit heavily on.the power of Anik’s horse to deter curiosity, but it was working) That was only half of it, though – uneven ground, shifting sand, meant each step cost what two did in a level field. They would meet expectations of neither time nor distance in this campaign, or meet one or the other at greater expense.

Hills, rocks, trees – these were obvious logistical troubles to any officer on the continent – sand and heat, not so much.

Niwat-Ra, when it stood before them, starkly shadowed by the afternoon sun, shone where the light hit it like a jewel. High, white-washed walls picked up the colors of the sea, grass, and sand, while torches and lanterns strewn over the city glittered wherever shadows allowed. She was formidable – she was old. She was a city that had resisted more than invaders, but also the stretch of a thousand years.

The second sight that met them was the swath of Dulal’s camp in a little valley made by a stream meandering off the great river at the heart of Felan. Rev was able to find a short peak of stone that let him view the whole camp before the army and its dust descended on it and closed the view. It was a shockingly well-ordered set of tents, staked in lines, set beside dense, dark blue squares of soldiers.

Thousand years or not, were he in Niwat-Ra, he would be nervous.

“Right,” he said to no one. Maybe to the horse. Aster stood serenely, ears pricking forward and back, aware of the approach of battle but also aware she was nowhere near it. That was a smart horse.

“If anything happens to that horse, I’ll kill you, and after killing me General Anik will dig you up and kill you again.”

The young Baathian, whether or not he got the exactly convolutions of Rev’s Sivery, got the gist. Rev knew he had picked well when he turned moon-eyed and patted Aster’s neck, as if apologizing to the horse for their having spoken of her being harmed. She pricked her ears at Rev, and Rev tried not to feel guilty as he turned away.

“Right,” Rev said again, this time to himself as he put on the young Baathian’s jacket and started his quick-march towards Niwat-Ra. “No fucking rifles.”

He twisted up his long dreds and tried to stuff them under the stupid little Baathian infantry cap. Out of his bag he took the young Baathian’s pistol, frowning at it with lordly disdain. It was as if it had never been used, which was good in some ways, and terrifying in others.

It was a shitty pistol. He’d only been able to convince the soldier to give it to him by agreeing to not carry any ammunition to reload, meaning Rev had a one-in-three chance of killing one person if he was forced to fire it – and that included himself, if the damn, untested thing just blew up rather than functioning. Even with that, he’d had to convince the soldier that there weren’t exactly a hundred places a Siveric slave could hide from the Baathians in Felan. Plus, Rev was owned by an officer, and would be recognized by his guard before he got close enough to assure an assassinating shot. Needless to say, it had been a long, frustrating conversation which strained the young Baathian’s understanding of Sivery to its limits, and in the end Rev was left with the disconcerting feeling that even a young fool like that knew how useless a pistol with a single shot was going into a battle like this.

Then again, a young fool like that, one couldn’t be certain he’d even loaded the one shot properly, but he wouldn’t let Rev do it, for whatever reason.

Had this been a more typical battle, he couldn't have gone unnoticed. He tracked after the lines as they marched to the city, half-choked and concealed by the dust they were raising, but staying close enough he was clearly not a soldier deserting yet far enough nobody wondered why he wasn't in position. Some of the officers were at the rear of their columns; both Bohdan and Anik were at the front, which made Rev’s infiltration a little easier.

As they drew to a halt, and took up formations, Rev noticed the city didn’t look as imposing from so near. Especially since they hadn’t fired a single cannon in defense, and no great force stood massed on the walls. He wasn’t even certain Niwat-Ra had cannons; the squat walls had no housings for them, no crenelations for them to peek through. Still – there must be a mortar, or something, if they hadn’t just surrendered outright.

The Baathian drums roared, the little, popping cannons they had – the only ones unloaded and ready in time for the assault – went off with a bang more thunderous for its solitude. The lines drew forward, the clarity of the air gained in the pause instantly obliterated by dust. He couldn’t see a damn thing, but it was clear when it started; he could hear the roar, the roll of the music, and, he thought, a hundred guns being loaded to sharp Baathian commands. An arrow waffled by him in the hazy air, and he was too shocked by its existence to be afraid.

He was tempted to grab it – an arrow! – but there were also bullets coming from the city, though he was so far back and the conditions so bad that any that reached him would probably leave more of a nasty bruise than fatal wound. Resisting the instinct that it was bad to be alone, he closed the distance to the back of the Baathian lines slowly, vainly trying to make out what was going on by ear. The guns were still going, almost merrily firing at a pace only achievable when not under any return fire, when he heard a deep, rumbling crash.

Hist stomach dropped, and he almost fell to the ground, expecting perhaps a sally or some catastrophe ahead, but instead he heard a straggling battle cry, slowly passed back, until it erupted into a full roar.

Officers worked half in vain against a great surge forward in the lines. The ranks didn’t break at the rear, but only just. Real screaming reached him now, rising underneath the continued cries of joy and ferocity, and it was as if the whole of the army received a jerk forward at the navel. A charge sounded, somewhere distant and strangled, and he realized the cannons had stopped. Normally, the soldiers at the back would be staunchly held to pushing forward to keep the front fighting rather than fleeing whatever slaughter they suffered in their approach. All too soon Rev felt a familiar give to the dense lines ahead, as if passed through the air. They were all running forward; there was an absence of reports echoing their direction, until the walls of the city turned the noise of their own guns against them. The Baathians did not use their battle cry again at the first charge, but mid-way through, Rev heard it passing back – encouraging, celebrating, drowning fear.

Then the back of the lines stopped, some yards short of the walls. Not stopped by force, but by orders – force would have worked quicker. They were to hold back.

But giving orders down a long line in chaotic conditions took time, and Rev burst through, sprinting towards the walls, hoping the dust would cover his back before any zealous sergeant thought to shoot him for the sake of order. He hadn’t realized how close they had gotten; hardly fifty yards ahead stood the walls, peeking through damnably thick clouds of smoke and dust. A disordered mass of Baathians, viciously harried by officers trying to regain control, rose before him – actually rose, as if on a hill. Throwing himself forward, narrowly avoiding a few carelessly held bayonets, Rev realized the rise was due to an enormous pile of rubble. They had broken the walls – their tiny guns had started the breach, and the soldiers worsened it by hand, tearing away hunks of dry hay and crumbling clay.

The walls of Niwat-Ra were old, and apparently not very well maintined.

Choked with soldiers, half trying to obey and pull back while the rest pushed madly forward, the frothing mob at the breach was the sort of thing Rev usually avoided at all costs in battle. He weaseled his way through, viciously elbowing any that didn’t get out of his way, until he could mount the collapsed wall itself. (Those who saw him – who spotted his earrings, his hair, his only uniform being his jacket – were either too startled or too slow to try to kill him).

Rev put a leg up, hand on one of the unbroken bricks to haul himself up, and the damn thing crumbled under his weight. Shocked, he gave the wall a few kicks, and tried again. It was a race against the crumbling of the ancient bricks to pull himself through.

The city itself was made of the same stuff: soft, old brick covered with centuries-thick layers of whitewash. He got a chaotic picture of the stately, square homes, piling up and up until they wound up the roads around them, gaining in magnificent until they peaked in a gold-topped temple. That looked serene and distant.

The streets before Rev were rampant with Baathians, smoke, and blood. Rubble shot off buildings struck by the occasional bullet; collapsed walls sagged and shed bricks like tears. People – citizens of the city, by the looks of them – were running, fighting both fires and soldiers. There were screams – plentiful screams – that nestled in Rev’s ears like snakes. He kept going.

It was chaos, but not battle-chaos. In his Baathian uniform coat, Rev was relatively safe. Mostly the people who were fighting, were fighting for their homes rather than against the Baathian enemy. As he pushed deeper into the city he could see the traces of other soldiers. Bright, Felanese robes, shining weapons, peaked helmets, all scattered on the street. Bodies were the fewest of the signs of battle.

This was all wrong. Those clothes should be on bodies, those swords not shining but bloodied and dirty. He saw a Baathian leaning on a wall, eating pastries from an abandoned stall, dented helmet of pure gold on his head.

When he broke into the first clear space, a square surrounding a public fountain, he saw the clutch of Baathian officers. He didn’t recognize them, but for Anik – and the man in the big hat. By default, that had to be Bohdan.

Anik couldn’t help but be central – tall, dark, and magisterial, he stood a ferocious figure, drawn sharp and imposing by the lines of his uniform. Had it not been for Anik’s presence, Bohdan would have been equally striking. He was shorter, but commanding of presence, a stout rather than lithe strength lending him solidity backed by the striking lines of a face drawn into an expression of pitiless authority. Not as dark as Anik, the rosewood cast to his features marked him as not pure Baathian – from the colonies, or of an immigrant family – and Rev wasn’t entirely sure why that struck him as an unpleasant surprise.

Over at the mouth of the road pointed towards the great temple stood a group of Felanese. Many were stone-faced, some angry, some standing forlorn near a little cluster of camels. The man in front – the man with a fantastically elaborate white beard, and the finest clothes, folded intricately over his gut – seemed anxious after the Baathian’s conference.

That bearded fellow didn’t wear the same clothes as the other Felanese. Those holding the camels wore what Rev recognized as the average Felanese outfit; a long plain shirt, that billowed like a robe, tied with either a rope or sash, another draping cloth over their heads. This man wore an elaborate silk wrap, folded into something like billowy pants that reached just below his knees. His shirt was equally elaborate, but only because it had a more continental-style vest over it, similarly puffy sleeves with an open collar. He had a bulky, folded headdress wrapped tightly around his head. Most of those closest to him were dressed similarly, if not as grandly. The ones holding the camels were not.

Rev leaned on the corner of the building, trying to avoid being in Anik’s sight line, and waiting to see what happened.

Soon, the Baathian conference broke. An officer raised an arm, calling over a man with fewer pins and less elaborate buttons. He gave instructions. Bohdan walked to the man in the fancy wrap, extending a hand, offering what must have been a Felanese greeting. Rev dodged behind the corner as Anik surveyed the square, missing whatever happened next – but that didn’t matter, because he heard the less-fancy Baathian officer begin yelling for the soldiers to put down whatever they had and withdraw. He emphasized the order by seizing soldiers by the collar, throwing them to the ground, and kicking them.

Time to go. Curiosity tempted Rev to allow himself to get caught, to see what Baathian discipline was like, and where his place was in it, but then he thought the better of it. Anik would be angry with him. And it maybe made it seem a little like Thespasian was right about his dedication to staying alive.

He wove his way back through the walls.

#new book #things that I wrote #stories

0 notes