#but then Regeneration was cast on them and all their old scars were gone | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

purplesauris · 3 years

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A World In Monochrome

My brain is firing on like, almost all cylinders to pump out all of the sweet sweet ideas I obsess over. This one stemmed from playing the game and realizing that Cat causes total loss of color from Geralt’s sight until the potion wears off

Enjoy it on AO3 here!

Geralt hated fiends. Well, he can’t say that with any honesty- for as brutal and base as they appeared, there was an elegance to them. They left people alone for the most part, content to wander their forests, caves or swamps, and only attacked if necessary. They were huge yet moved with incredible speed, and if necessary, their third eye opened, stunning and allowing them a chance to escape. To be compared to a fiend among friends was almost a compliment.

What he hated most about them was how often they took him into caves; the dank, musty smell of old corpses and fiend dung clung to him for days after he’d finished the hunt, and he couldn’t carry a torch with him to light the cave. Not that he hadn’t tried when he was young and just set out on the Path. After too many times plunging into darkness without anything to light, Geralt prepared himself more carefully. Relict oil for his blade, Thunderbolt and Swallow on his belt, and Cat, choked down at the last minute to give himself all the time he needed.

He hasn’t fought anything cave dwelling in a while, and isn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary when he takes his latest contract. Jaskier had wanted to bargain for a higher price, since this was Skellige and the fare back to Velen was expensive, but Geralt couldn’t. Mutation’s took all Witcher’s feelings people claimed, but his heart had gone out to Ohden, worried over his son, and he gave Jaskier a glance to keep him quiet. Jaskier hadn’t pushed, just hummed thoughtfully and thanked the man for his account of where to start.

That was another thing that Geralt hadn’t expected. When Geralt told Jaskier he was headed to Skellige for the summer he fully expected Jaskier to disappear wherever he goes for the winter. Instead, he was met by Jaskier waiting on the docks, bag slung over his shoulder and lute clutched against his front. He’d only complained of seasickness in the first two days, and spent the rest of their trek across the sea singing bawdy sea shanties and learning new ones from the crew to delight whatever crowd he could find in Skellige. Geralt had spent his time making potions and sharpening his blade, sat atop a barrel to keep a sharp eye on the bard under his care. He tried to look casual, but half the crew gave him a wide berth and the others stared in open hostility. The only thing keeping them somewhat friendly was Jaskier and that magnetic charisma he seemed to exude.

“Stay here.” Jaskier perked up at the sound of Geralt’s voice, then rolled his eyes.

“Geralt, how am I supposed to tell of your exploits if I never get to go?”

“How are you going to if you follow me and die?” Geralt’s throat tightens at the thought, and his voice sounds particularly grating when he talks through it. “You’re staying here.”

“At least let me see you track. I’ve never seen that even!”

“No.” Jaskier gave him a look, blue eyes glancing up just so through his lashes, and Geralt’s heart gives a wild leap at that. He sighs wearily, rolling out his shoulders. “Fine.”

“Yes!”

“But-” Geralt silences him, eyes narrowing a bit. He hears Jaskier breathe in sharply, but finds him staring with that same eager intensity. “If I let you come, you have to promise you’ll run if I tell you.”

Jaskier grins, eyes sparkling, and bows low at the waist. “As you command, White Wolf.”

Geralt finds someone to care for Roach while they’re away, and only has to narrow his eyes to ensure she’ll be taken care of and their stuff won’t be plundered. Skelligers are hardy, but even they know not to mess with a witcher, let alone Geralt. Geralt heads southeast, toward where Ohden had gestured to, and it isn’t long until he finds footprints. They’re from a male, that much he can tell, and that puts him on the right track.

They hike in relative silence for a while, Geralt occasionally pointing out a footprint that Jaskier would be able to see and explaining when Jaskier seems lost on how Geralt is leading them. The dirt road becomes pebbly a couple of miles later, and it’s then that Geralt spots the crumbling castle ahead of them and smells blood.

“Quiet.” Geralt hisses, Jaskier trying his best to stay as quiet as he can. Geralt’s silver sword slides free from his sheathe with nary a whisper, and he rolls his wrist, careful not to hit the bard behind him. He can hear breathing, heavy and bovine, and he creeps forward, Jaskier at his back. Geralt slips through a gap in a broken wall, nostrils flaring as the scent of decay and musk hits him. He holds out a hand, telling Jaskier to stop, and moves a bit further into the clearing of what used to be a courtyard. The ground near the south wall is saturated in blood, and flies buzz around it, grating to his ears.

He straightens up a bit, casting a glance around; whatever caused the gore doesn’t seem to be here, and this is the best lead he’s gotten so far. Gravel crunches behind him and he whips around, Jaskier freezing as the sight of Geralt, pupils mere slits and nostrils flared. “Nothing then?”

“I told you to wait.”

“Right, except I couldn’t see anything and I-” Jaskier’s eyes are pinned on the background behind him, and the hairs on the back of Geralt’s neck raise. His medallion hums angrily against his chest, and the sharp, eye watering scent of a fiend hits him hard.

“GO!” Is all he can say before throwing up Quen, grunting as the barrier around him crystallizes and shatters, having effectively warded off the fiend’s first charge. He won’t have time for a second, and all he can hope is that Jaskier heeded his command as he dives out of the way of a second charge. It’s a narrow window at best, and Geralt rolls to his knees, throwing a plume of fire in front of him. He almost chokes on the scent of burnt fur, the fiend roaring and hopping back a couple of steps. Geralt downs a dose of thunderbolt while he has a chance, throwing the glass away. He can come back and hope it isn’t broken later.

He falls into the fighting as easily as breathing, spinning on his toes and grunting at the twinge that goes through his knee and up his thigh. So it’s going to be like that. He can ignore it for now, and a dose of Blizzard has his blood singing and muscles working double time as he whirls and dodges the blows that the fiend throws. The fiend seems slow as Geralt hacks at the black and white patterned hide, tiring with the effort of trying to hit a target that won’t stop moving. This fiend is old, Geralt can tell just by the scarred hide and brutal efficiency in which he goes after his target.

Geralt can tell that the fiend is almost done for, blood oozing out of multiple cuts that regenerate before his eyes. He finds his opening when a well placed shot of Igni has the monster stumbling back, Geralt lunging to drive his sword through the beast’s skull. A flash of red catches Geralt’s attention, and he watches with a helpless kind of fury as the fiends third eye flares open, stopping his blow in its tracks. The fiend swings a meaty paw and sends him flying back into the wall of the abandoned keep, Geralt wheezing as the air is knocked out of him. His scabbards dig roughly into his back, sure to leave bruises later, but they might have just saved his spine.

In the time it takes Geralt to stumble to his feet, gasping for air, the fiend has fled the field, out of the ruins. He’s off like a shot, following the scent of blood and decay and singed fur through the rest of the ruins and down the bank of the river. It’s there he finds a cave, reeking of gore and pitch black.

“Fuck.” Of course he’s going to have to use Cat. He downs the potion as quickly as he can, not wanting to give the fiend more time to recover than is necessary. He skids down the rocky entrance as color leeches from his sight, every inch of the cave lit up in a murky haze. The fiend is crouched in the corner, tearing away at the entrails of some poor soul. This time the fiend won’t surprise him, and Geralt leaps onto the offensive, slashing a gaping wound through the beast’s left flank. It should slow the beast down enough, and Geralt is already leaping away when the beast roars and swings wildly behind itself.

Geralt dispatches it with another quick blow to the throat, silver blade digging in so deep that he lodges against bone for a moment. Geralt isn’t a fan of denting his blades, but the fiend has fought long enough, and Geralt just wants a quick end to the fight. He pants as the fiend twitches, crashing to the ground and eyes rolling sightlessly. One last blow ends the fiends suffering and severs the rest of the head- he’ll need it if he’s going to prove he killed the beast. A quick glance around the cave shows that this was definitely what was killing all of the travelers on the road, and though he can’t see it, he highly suspects that the lighter tone of the tunic he spies has to be yellow. He cuts a swatch to bring back with him, and drags the beast’s head up and out of the cave.

-*-

Jaskier had scrambled to climb the ladder when Geralt had yelled for him to run. He’d noticed it earlier when they first came in, and figured height would be a good advantage against whatever had charged at Geralt. Watching the fight was better than anything Geralt could have described, and Jaskier takes it in with reckless abandon. The way that Geralt’s hair had flown about him as he spun, the sun glinting off his blade. The way that his shield, brilliant orange in the light had shattered after the first charge.

He’s going to have the best ballad to write when they get back to town, and already a melody builds in his throat. He hums it while he watches, nervous to see Geralt go up against such an impossibly large foe. He trusts that the witcher knows what he’s doing, and he winces, gripping the craggy wall as Geralt crashes into it just below his hiding place. A normal man would have snapped his spine from the impact alone, but Geralt struggles to his feet and runs off, following the fiend wherever it fled to.

Well, he can’t miss this, can he? Jaskier creeps down the ladder, stooping to pick up the vial Geralt had tossed aside earlier before plodding after where the two disappeared. He isn’t able to leap off ledges like Geralt can, so he has to pick his way down the side of the ruin and hope he doesn’t trip and fall. By the time he makes it down to the bank and follows Geralt’s footprints he can hear the dying bray and gurgle of a large animal. It comes from a cave in the hillside, and Jaskier is loath to go inside. Especially if it smells as bad as he thinks it will.

“Right, uh, I guess I should get a bit closer…” The bard says, not moving an inch from where he’s standing, staring down into the pitch black of the cave.

“No, you shouldn’t.” The voice has no owner for a moment, ragged and deep, and it takes Jaskier longer than he’d like to admit to recognize it.

“Geralt? Are you alright? I’m coming in, let me just-”

“No.” Geralt’s voice is sharp enough to stop Jaskier in his tracks, and he wrings his hands together in a nervous habit. “Go back to town.”

“I can’t just leave you here, what if a-a bandit or something were to come?” There’s a rough chuckle, and Jaskier thinks he spies a lock of white hair, dyed pink at the ends by blood. “Geralt, come out? Please?”

-*-

Of course the bard had followed. Geralt had asked one thing, one thing of him, and wasn’t even granted that. He had hidden at least, because Geralt had no clue where he’d gone in the rush of the fight. He doesn’t want to step out into the sun, not while everything is too much, too bright, but the longer he stays down here the worse it’ll be to adjust. And the more likely it will be that Jaskier comes in anyway, despite the stench he knows keeps the man away for now.

“Move.” Is all the warning the bard gets before Geralt tosses the head out of the cave, listening to the dull thud of its landing and the sharp yelp Jaskier lets out at the sight. He limps from the cave as his knee gives another sharp twinge of discomfort, hissing at the brightness of the sun filling his eyes. It blinds him- leaves everything in washed out shades of white and grey and he hates it. The wildflowers bunched around the rocky ground sway in the wind, but Geralt can’t see their true colors. He knows the stems should be green, the flowers a pale blue or white, given the local flora, but all he sees is three different shades of black and white.

He hears a sharp intake of breath near where he tossed the head, and his body goes taut, attention snapping to the source of the noise. Jaskier stares at him, eyes wide and pupils blown wide within what Geralt knows should be blue irises. But they aren’t. They’re so pale they almost blend with the whites of his eyes, and Geralt’s heart drops into his stomach. Jaskier’s heart pounds a frantic, steady rhythm in Geralt’s ears, and his scent, usually so dominated by lavender, has taken on an edge of what Geralt can only describe as cloying spice. He isn’t sure what it means, at least for Jaskier, and he draws in another breath, trying to sniff discreetly, or as discreetly as a witcher hopped up on potions can.

Jaskier reaches out for him then, to lend him a hand or- he doesn't know what- and Geralt flinches. He can see the hurt in Jaskier’s eyes, can smell the scent of dying roses on him, and he struggles to push words from a throat more ready to strangle him than talk.

“Potions.” He looks at Jaskier again, eyes searching every inch of him for any sign of blood or injury, and grinds his teeth in frustration when he can’t differentiate the difference between what’s the stitching of his doublet and what’s the silky chemise underneath. They’re all the same color.

“Oh.” Jaskier sighs out, breathy and soft, and that confuses Geralt more than his lack of color or his racing heart. “Do you need anything right now? Water, stitches?”

“Stitches?” He manages to mumble, taking a step back into the cave where it isn’t so damn bright.

Jaskier’s lips quirk in a soft smile, and he shrugs. “I can’t see if you’re hurt. So, stitches?”

“No. White honey?” Jaskier winces, shooting Geralt a sympathetic look.

“Back in the packs, I think. Should I go fetch it?”

The offer is tempting; Geralt’s heart is still racing and every nerve in him screams that Jaskier is an enemy and he can’t fucking see color, but he doesn’t want Jaskier to leave. Not with his humanity still crumbling within him as he tries desperately to hold himself together enough to talk. He closes his eyes, hoping that taking away one sense will help with the noise in his head, but he’s not sure anything will help right now.

“No. Gotta meditate.”

“Well, come out of the cave then, I’m sure you’d rather not smell whatever it is that’s in there.”

“Bright.” He hears Jaskier chuckle, and the soft shuffle of fabric and leather creaking as Jaskier moves toward him. The thought makes him want to run deeper into the cave, where he can’t do anything that might scare the bard off, but something warm and reeking of lavender is being draped over his head. The light burning through his eyelids lessens immediately, and he gasps as Jaskier gently takes his hands. His grip is iron on Jaskier’s poor hands, but the bard doesn’t protest or pull away, just talks soft and low.

“Do you trust me?”

Does he? He tries to think of all the reasons he shouldn’t trust the bard, but fails to come up with anything meaningful. “Yes.”

“How long till this wears off?”

“Couple hours, maybe more.”

“Okay. Let’s head back for the keep, it’s a bit safer I think. Can you carry the uh, head?”

Geralt nods, and Jaskier leads him over. Geralt can navigate by the scent alone, but he doesn’t want to let go of Jaskier if he can help it, and uses one hand to lug the head along by the horns. Jaskier leads him up the path he must have taken to get down, and settles him in the shade underneath a small ledge. He only lets go of Jaskier’s hand once he knows they aren’t going to move again for a while.

“Okay, go ahead and meditate, I’ll keep watch and let you know if I see or hear something.” Jaskier goes to move a few steps away, but Geralt’s hand shoots out, gripping his wrist.

“Stay here.” Jaskier’s heart gives a little stutter, but he laughs softly and settles down next to Geralt. It’s nice, Geralt decides, and though he doesn’t actually feel it much, he figures he has a right to complain. Blizzard has an apt name, both for making everything seem to go in slow motion, and for shooting ice through his veins. “S’cold.”

“Fire?”

“Too noisy.” Jaskier hums for a second more before suddenly leaning against Geralt’s side. It’s near impossible to notice through the leather armor he wears, and must be wildly uncomfortable, but he can feel the heat seeping into him and his heart beats just a bit faster at their closeness. Jaskier being so close also drowns out any other scents around him, and slipping into his meditation is easier when he has one thing to focus on. It's also the closest that Jaskier has gotten to him in days, and he finds he misses the contact. He tries to shut out the noises around him, bouncing through his skull, but where Jaskier has settled them has created some kind of echo around him, and he grits his teeth. It might not be so easy after all.

Jaskier reaches for something, dragging it across the ground before the distinct sound of two metal clasps pops close by. A note is hummed, a string strummed, before Jaskier begins picking away in earnest. The song is new, one he's never heard before- or maybe he has? The melody picks at the edges of his brain, and he finds himself slipping into that trancelike state he was looking for.

When he comes to a couple of hours later, dusk has fallen behind his lids, and he cracks an eye open experimentally. His heart and brain have calmed, and he doesn't feel nearly as cold as he did before. The potions have mostly worn off, except for the Cat, which should be gone in another half hour or so. He hopes.

For now, he'll just have to be content with the watery color bleeding slowly across his vision. Jaskier has stopped playing, lute tucked away, and has his jacket back on to ward himself from the cold. Now he scribbles in his notebook, tongue peeking out from between his lips as he concentrates on whatever he's writing.

"A new one?" His voice is rusty, and he clears his throat while Jaskier jumps, sitting up and clutching his book, cheeks red.

"You should warn a man you know, I could have done something drastic."

"Like what?" Geralt's lips quirk in a small smile, and he's glad he can somewhat recognize the teal of Jaskier's doublet again. Jaskier doesn't seem as amused, and pins him with a withering glance. "New song?"

He tries it again, hoping that showing interest will soften Jaskier's apparent anger. Jaskier regards him with suspicion for a moment more before sighing, nodding while also shrugging.

"I have a lovely new ballad coming, yes, but I was… drawing." Geralt hums low in his throat, nudging his companion and dipping his head toward the journal still clutched to Jaskier's chest. A silent question of can I see it? Jaskier hesitates, holding on a bit tighter before he sighs, holding it out for Geralt to take. "Don't laugh. Poetry was more my strong suit."

Geralt says nothing as he pulls off his gauntlets- they're covered in dried blood, and he doesn't want to ruin the page. Upon taking the journal and seeing what Jaskier has drawn, he almost wishes he had. It's a sketch of him, he can tell by the line of his jaw and the straightness of his nose, but he hates what else he sees. His eyes have been filled in with black, a spiderweb of inky veins creeping over his face and down his neck. His hands shake as he stares at himself immortalized in a state he never wanted Jaskier to see. He was too hopped up on potions to care at the time, but looking now, he feels his heart constrict. How could Jaskier touch him, sit beside him while he looked like this?

"Do you like it?"

"No." Shit, that's not what he meant to say. He glances up, can smell and see the hurt on Jaskier's face, and his throat tightens, strangling his words.

"Give it then, so you don't have to see it." Jaskier takes the book back quickly, closing it with a snap and standing up. He grabs his lute case, slinging it across his back and pacing a few steps away. Ready to go back to town. Geralt struggles to his feet, his damn knee cracking painfully as he rises from his kneeling position. He has to take a second for it to settle before he can bear any weight.

"Jaskier-"

"Let's go, Geralt. I'm tired of being outside." He finds that hard to believe, seeing as they've only been out half the day, but Geralt doesn't know what to say and Jaskier doesn't want to hear it. Geralt follows him in stony silence, hoisting the fiends head away from the ground and wincing at the congealed blood that saturates the ground under it. It reeks. He's not sure how Jaskier could tolerate the smell, let alone sit by it for hours.

Geralt collects his reward from the grieving father and hands over the scrap of what he can now see is mostly yellow fabric. The man laments his son's fate, and Geralt can't do more than stand there and promise he was avenged. The man waves them off, wanting to be alone, and Jaskier heads off with a brisk comment about finding an inn for the night. Geralt goes to check on Roach and gather their things, wanting to give the bard time to cool off. He's brushing Roach down, sneaking her a couple sugar cubes when Jaskier comes to fetch him, leaning with his arms crossed against the doorframe. Geralt follows without complaint, refusing to let Jaskier carry his own pack despite the hand held out for it.

The room in the inn is sparsely decorated, and there's only one bed, but a steaming tub of water waits for him, and his heart gives a strange leap. Jaskier’s doublet is off, tossed carelessly on a chair with his boots sitting nearby, and Geralt has to force himself not to stare at the dip of Jaskier’s chemise. "Bathe."

The command is rough, but Geralt complies easily, stripping himself out of his armor and the soggy clothes beneath before sinking into the water. Heat prickles uncomfortably at his skin, but he lets out a small groan and sinks a bit deeper. Jaskier perches wordlessly behind him, tugging the tie from his hair and working any blood out with whatever soap he'd managed to get from the innkeeper. It smells a bit stronger than Geralt would like, but he doesn't say anything. Maybe now he can try again, while he's relatively safe.

"It was nice." Well, that's a start at least. Jaskier's hands pause in his hair, nails digging in a bit too hard, but Geralt groans and leans up into the touch. Jaskier scratches along his scalp, nails digging in, and Geralt relishes the sensation. His vision is almost back to full color, and he stares at Jaskier's doublet, discarded on the chair. "The drawing."

Jaskier scoffs. "You don't have to lie."

"M'not. Just don't like seeing it. The monster." Geralt adds on the end, not wanting to fuck things up twice. Just saying what he feels makes his skin crawl, but Jaskier gives a soft oh, continuing to scratch at Geralt's scalp.

"So you weren't insulting me then?" Geralt shakes his head, going still when Jaskier clicks his tongue. He begins scrubbing at the blood under his nails while Jaskier talks, needing something to pay attention to. "I thought you looked… Gorgeous, ethereal, effervescent- I could wax poetry about it endlessly.”

Geralt snorts, shaking his head, causing Jaskier to press his fingers in harder to keep him from moving. “Don’t. Don’t pretend.”

Jaskier scoffs this time, fingers tightening in Geralt’s hair and pulling until Geralt is straining to look back at him or risk his scalp. A hot wave of arousal washes over Geralt at the sensation, but all he does is grunt, looking back at the bard with a mixture of annoyance and hopefully- suppressed lust. Geralt notices, faintly, that his color is back completely as the two of them lock eyes, glaring at one another.

“I’m tired of you telling me what to do and how to feel, Witcher.”

“What am I telling you to feel?” Heat creeps along Geralt’s spine, and oh he’s playing a dangerous game. Maybe those potions aren’t as worn off as he might have thought.

Jaskier looks at him, brow furrowed, and Geralt feels Jaskier’s grip in his hair loosen. He misses the sensation for an instant before Jaskier leans forward, pressing his lips to Geralt’s in an awkward, upside down kiss. It’s almost painful- Jaskier’s chin and nose dig into him at an odd angle, but his hands come up and out of the water instinctively to grip Jaskier’s hair, keeping him from moving away. Jaskier takes that as a good sign it seems, because he nips at Geralt’s lower lip before pulling back. Geralt doesn’t want to hurt him, ever, and he lets Jaskier go, breathing hard and pupils contracting to mere slits. He tracks Jaskier’s every moment, listens to the way his heart is hammering, that same cloying lavender scent oozing through the room.

Geralt leans forward as Jaskier moves around the side of the tub, a pale hand smoothing over his shoulder. He wants to know what’s going on, wants to ask Jaskier what he thinks he’s doing, but nothing escapes him other than a low growl. Jaskier laughs softly, almost mockingly, and leans forward to kiss the corner of Geralt’s mouth. The witcher moves faster than might be necessary, but just barely catches Jaskier before he leans back again.

“Bard.” Geralt warns, voice vibrating with the steady growl that’s built up. Jaskier glances at him, eyes darting down to Geralt’s lips for an instant as a smug, self satisfied smile lights up his face.

“Witcher.”

“Say you want this.” Geralt’s mind moves slow, so slow that for a moment he fears he’s drunk off of the scent of Jaskier, so incredibly close yet just out of reach. He can’t think with Jaskier so close, grinning at him like he’s a cat who’s just gotten a delightfully fat mouse, and his fingers twitch on the edge of the tub.

“I’ve never wanted anything more.” That’s all that Geralt needs, and he reaches out, snagging Jaskier by the hips and bodily hoisting him forward. Jaskier laughs as he slips against the edge of the tub, a hand splaying against Geralt’s chest.

“You’ll ruin my clothes and the floor.” Geralt grunts, not caring, but Jaskier is undeterred. “Out.”

Oh, this is dangerous indeed. He groans, impatient, but Jaskier is already stepping away and tugging at the ties on his chemise. A moment of hesitation slices through the haze in Geralt’s mind, and he pauses in the water. Jaskier has seen him naked more times than he can count, but it’s different this time. This time, he’s allowed to look, and Geralt isn’t sure what to do with that thought. He’s waking up slowly from the raging of his heart, but Jaskier reaches out, fingers brushing under his chin and tipping his head up. He kisses Geralt slowly, luxuriating in the action and nipping gently at his lower lip. The small bit of pressure from Jaskier's teeth has Geralt gasping, and he stands up blindly, stumbling out of the tub as Jaskier continues kissing him.

That one point of contact, their lips sliding against each other, is the anchor that Geralt clings to. His hands come up, fingers shaking before finding purchase on Jaskier’s shirt and gripping it tight enough that he can hear the fibers straining not to rip. Jaskier hums against his lips, hands sliding over Geralt’s chest and pushing him back and away from the tub. Geralt walks blindly, and every time he breathes, opens his eyes, the world is skewed with vibrant contrasts of color. Geralt’s calves hit the edge of the bed, and he tips back, dragging Jaskier with him and wheezing out a laugh as the bard lands on top of him. It feels good to have Jaskier’s weight on top of him, and he hardly lets him get far. He can feel Jaskier’s cock pressing against his hip, and he groans, glad it isn’t just him affected. Jaskier kisses him harder for that, and Geralt whines against his lips.

“The potions.” Geralt hums, glancing up at Jaskier with half lidded eyes. His hair is a mess, lips red and cheeks redder, and the sight steals his breath. He props himself up on his arms, sighing when Jaskier settles astride his hips. “Are they still affecting you?”

“I don’t know.” He admits softly, humming when Jaskier leans to lay kisses along his jaw. He arches his neck, giving the man atop him more room to work and huffing when Jaskier drags his teeth lightly down his neck. “Why?”

“I don’t want to do anything if you aren’t in full control of yourself. Not unless we’d agreed upon it before, of course.”

“It’s not like being drugged.”

“No, but how do I know this is because of sober thought?” Jaskier grinds down suddenly, and the friction of cloth against his bare skin has him hissing, hips snapping up of their own accord. Geralt chokes on a breath before glaring at the very smug bard atop him.

“Don’t-” Jaskier laughs, kissing him in apology and lifting himself up a bit. Geralt is both grateful and infuriated, hands clenching into fists. He’s definitely more affected than he thought. “What did you mean, agreed upon?”

Jaskier looks at him, humming softly and shifting to sit back on Geralt’s thighs. It sends a shimmer of pain through his knee, but the sensation grounds him further, and he sits up fully. “Geralt, if I can be frank-”

“When aren’t you?” the bard pins him with a look and Geralt raises his hands, gesturing for him to continue.

“I find you in all your witchery, black eyed glory incredibly attractive. I’m surprised you haven’t smelled it on me by now.”

“I don’t like to pry.” He can’t help himself now though, leaning a bit closer and taking a deep breath. He smells sweat, the lavender oil Jaskier uses, and most powerful, the sickly sweet, almost spicy scent of Jaskier’s arousal. “Really?”

“Really.” Jaskier shifts off his lap now, padding over to their packs and digging out clothes for Geralt. “So, get dressed before I decide to ravage you fully.”

Geralt catches the clothes as they’re tossed at him, flexing his thighs and steadying his breathing to calm himself down. He dresses slowly, skin hypersensitive and every sense trained on where Jaskier tidies up across the room. Now that the other man isn’t kissing him senseless Geralt takes a moment to think, and to admire him in full color. Jaskier catches him looking, but merely smiles and nods toward the bed. Geralt crawls under the covers at the silent request, and lays back, watching as Jaskier strips down to his small clothes and blows out the candles, leaving just the hearth for faint light and warmth. He crawls into bed and into the waiting arms of his witcher, pressing their legs together and grinning when Geralt loops an arm over his hips.

“Have I told you why I hate fiends?” Jaskier shakes his head before tucking under Geralt’s chin, cheek pressed to Geralt’s collarbone to feel the vibrations.

“Does it have to do with caves?” Geralt grunts, squeezing a bit tighter and reveling in the pleasant squeeze Jaskier gives back.

“Yes.”

#geraskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #minor sluttiness #high toxicity geralt

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danceworshipper · 4 years

Text

Kestra Fernera - HPMA Profile

(same universe as Lori)

Identity

Name: Kestra Alessa Fernera

Gender: Female (cis)

Age: Roughly 2000 years in total

Birthday (originally): August 23rd (leo)

Last Regeneration Date: June 18th

Species: Human, Phoenix Blood

Blood Status: Halfblood (originally)

Sexuality: Panromantic Demisexual

Alignment: Neutral Good

Ethnicity: Roman

Nationality: British

Residence: A modest townhome in a busy city

Personality Type: ENFJ - T (the protagonist)

Phoenix Blood Explanation

In her very first life, Kes was a ten year old girl walking the streets of Ancient Rome. She came across a strange, brightly colored bird that appeared to be made from fire itself. The bird had a deep gash in its stomach, and was dying (it was actually dying, not going to regenerate, as it has been stabbed). Kes thought this bird was some sort of godly creature, and tried everything she could to save it. On a last attempt, Kes forced all the magic she could muster into this bird's wound, nearly killing herself in the process. The bird was healed, and in turn, healed her. Kes was suddenly filled with the knowledge that the bird was a phoenix. It flew away for a short while and returned with a small, beautiful dagger that looked as though it was still molten. The knowledge of her immortality entered Kes' mind, as well as her immunity to fire. The dagger was the one thing that could kill her for real. As she took it, she burst up into flames, and when they died away, the phoenix was gone, leaving only a single feather behind. From that point on she had the mark of the phoenix on her chest, and could control fire as though it was part of her. This event occurred on her birthday, which just so happened to be the Vuncanalia. Many people took notice of this and declared her blessed by Vulcan himself, and brought her to live in his temple. She was protected and praised as the chosen one, and each regeneration after was treated similarly until Rome fell. The only two items she was able to save when her city fell were the dagger and the feather.

When Kes regenerates, her memories are lost and the mark disappears. On August 23rd of the year she is/will be ten years old for that regeneration, she enters a "memory fever" where her hands light up with fire, her eyes turned molten, and she goes back for a moment to her first life when she saved that phoenix as the marks burns back into her skin. She remembers key elements from some of her previous regenerations, but the only clear memory is the day she was blessed. The power that runs through her knocks her out for days, and in that time, the fire powers given to her redevelop. Her chosen goal is to learn the one answer that seems impossible: what truly is the purpose of life? Besides for this, she just wants to remember everything. The loss of her memory is the one thing that consistently haunts her through regenerations.

The Mage

Wand: Pine, phoenix, 13 3/4 inches, pliant. The feather is the one from the phoenix she saved in her first life, formed into a wand after the use of them became more wide spread. The wand itself is very light colored, smooth and strangely sharp at the end. It's the only wand she has ever owned, though she's not always sure how it gets back to her. After she wakes up from her memory fever this time around, she is able to unlock the chest her past self locked both it and the dagger in

Animagus: none yet, will eventually be a (you guessed it) phoenix

Misc. Magical Abilities: Strong fire magic. She does not need spells when dealing with flames, and fire will not hurt her

Boggart Form: A pile of ashes. Her worst fear is dying before she's ready

Riddikulus Form: Confetti

Amortentia (what they smell like): a campfire, herbs, and cinnamon

Amortentia (what they smell): currently parchment, old books, and metal. This will change as she gets older, as these are simply nostalgic smells

Patronus: Phoenix (duh)

Patronus Memory: One of the only memories from her first life she clearly remembers every regeneration: the day the phoenix blessed her. She could feel her own soul separate from her body, which felt absolutely euphoric - the most intense sort of pleasure she had ever felt

Mirror of Erised: Herself, looking tired and happy, holding the dagger in her hand. She's remembered everything, learned everything, and she's finally ready to pass on

Specialized/Favorite Spells:

- Aguamenti: not a favorite, but she had to perfect it because she's a hazard

- Expecto Patronum: she knows her patronus is that specific phoenix, long moved on from the earth. She misses her sometimes, and casts the spell just to see her and feel reassured

- Fiendfyre: it can't hurt her, so once she finds the Room of Requirement that's the first spell she's going to practice. Eventually, it will be as easy as snapping her fingers

- Reparo: for accidents

Appearance

(art by @kathrynalicemc , who originally created Kestra and then gave her to me)

Height: When done growing, 5'11"

Weight: When done growing, 146 lbs

Physique: Thin with visible muscles, long legs

Eye Color: After her memory fever, bright golden/orange like fire. Kinda scary to look at for most people. Originally hazel, and when she goes out she sometimes glamors them back so as not to draw attention

Hair Color: Black, thick and wavy

Skin Tone: Tan and absolutely covered in freckles

Body Modifications: the mark from the phoenix just below her left collarbone, multiple ear piercings

Scarring: Faded slashes across her back from her first life. They were given to her by her muggle father, who raged and whipped her when he discovered her mother's lies. After Kes became "chosen" he was burned to death as a sacrifice to Vulcan, and her mother was protected for the rest of her life at Kes' request. These scars will never go away, but they're only barely noticeable. They remind her who she was, and the magic seems to know how important they are to her

Inventory:

- her dagger, in its sheath and wrapped in silk

- her wand

- pomegranate lip balm

- loose change

- raw crystals to fidget with

- a snack of some sort

Fashion: When not in uniform, Kes likes to look good. She wears mostly autumnal colors and prefers fitted clothes to loose ones. As she gets older she starts to toe the line between school appropriate and not school appropriate as much as possible. She much prefers pants to skirts, and she loves high heels. She likes to have a subtle elegant tone to her makeup, in contrast to whatever the hell is going on with her hair, which is usually kept in either a low ponytail or a messy bun. Kes also wears flashy jewelry constantly, and likes to have her nails short, neat, and painted

Allegiances

Hogwarts House: Hufflepuff

Allegiances/Organizations:

- Fernera Family

- High Priestesses of Vulcan (the group is all gone now, of course, but Kes keeps up a few traditions as a tribute to her past self)

Professions:

- Student (currently)

- Rescuer (future)

- Musician (future)

Hogwarts Information

Class Proficiencies:

- Astronomy: O

- Charms: E

- Defense Against the Dark Arts: E

- Herbology: A

- History of Magic: O

- Potions: E

- Transfiguration: E

Electives: none yet

Quidditch: she plays in her free time, but never joins a team

Extra Curricular:

- Music Club

- Yoga Club

Favorite Professor: TBD because idk who's in the game yet

Least Favorite Professor: TBD

Relationships

"Mother": Sarina Penelope Fernera

- is actually the youngest of Kestra's great grandchildren. When Kes regenerates it's the duty of the youngest (adult) living member of her family to raise her again

- Sarina was only just an adult when Kes regenerated, but family tradition demanded she take over

- She's one of the few people to have watched Kes die and come back, as Kes normally likes to be alone

- It scared the crap out of her

- She got help from her older brothers raising Kes so that she could pursue a career in Healing

- A year before Kes would remember who she was, Sarina fell in love with a muggle named Derrick Credian

- She had some explaining to do when her "daughter's" hands caught on fire and she started screeching about a dying phoenix in the middle of breakfast

- He's a nice guy though, and he's open to learning more about the wizarding world

"Uncle": Harold Atticus Fernera

- Five years older than Sarina

- Historian

- Has been researching to see if there are any other known Phoenix Bloods, but there seem to be no record of them

- Took on most of the extra babysitting for Sarina

- Married with a young son

"Uncle": Sebastian Noah Fernera

- Eight years older than Sarina

- Cursebreaker

- A bit less of a decent dude, jealous of Kes' power, you know how it is

- Even if he did find a dying phoenix to bless him it probably wouldn't. He's not pure of heart enough

- Divorced, no kids

Love Interest: possibly Lori, but subject to change

Best Friend: TBD

Rival: TBD

Enemy: TBD

Dormmates: TBD

Pets: a fire salamander named Spark. He's not technically allowed but who's going to stop her? She's the most qualified person to handle a creature like that

Closest Canon Friends: TBD

Closest Noncanon Friend: Oleander Loris

- They really don't get along at first

- Lori is TERRIFIED of fire, so that's inconvenient

- Kes actually wants to be friend with this girl, but Lori isn't having it

- Lori attacks Kes outside once and gets three months detention

- She's just afraid

- They don't become friends until the summer after third year, when Lori gets trapped in a burning building that Kes just so happens to be passing by

- Kes hears screaming and runs directly into the building past the muggle firefighters (she's glamored, so they all try to stop her)

- She finds Lori, and she uses her fire powers to keep the flames away while they get out

- The glamor fades away, the muggles freak out and need to be Obliviated

- Now, instead of someone to be scared of, Lori sees Kestra as a safe place, the one person that instead of Lori protecting them, it's Kes protecting Lori

- The professors are very confused by this development

- It's this incident that makes Kes want to be a rescuer

Closest MC Friends: None yet, but they're welcome!

Storyline

Pre Hogwarts:

- Kes can't remember how many lives she's had, but she knows it's been a lot

- Her childhood this time around was fairly quiet. Her and her mother were very close (it almost felt as if she'd already known her)

- She would have strange dreams at night, and she knew things she shouldn't be able to know

- Her mother would sometimes stare at her chest, and Kes didn't understand why

- Then on August 23rd when she was ten years old, she saw her mother fully panic

- Kes looked down at her chest, saw the phoenix mark, and it triggered her memory fever

- After she collapsed, she didn't wake up for a week

- Now that she knew, Sarina gave Kes the previous regeneration's old diary, thinking that Kes would be the best person to explain to Kes what was happening fully

- Even with her new memories, it took Kes a while to wrap her head around the concept

- Now she's ready to figure out as much as she can in order to use this life to the fullest

1st Year: TBD

2nd Year: TBD

3rd Year: TBD

4th Year: TBD

5th Year: TBD

6th Year: TBD

7th Year: TBD

Post Hogwarts:

- Directly out of Hogwarts Kes offers her services to the Ministry as a Rescuer. She's sent in whenever there's an issue related to fire, including important muggle rescues

- In her spare time she plays piano for random groups and performances. She never sticks to one place because of her Rescuer job, but she loves to perform whenever she can

- She gets married and adopts some kids. She's birthed many kids in previous regenerations, but this time around she doesn't want to be unavailable for a rescue while pregnant

Old Age and Death: Unfortunately, Kes hasn't done all that she's strived for, so her 'death' is only a regeneration. Once she considers this regeneration over, she locks her important things in her chest, makes arrangements for her new self to be raised, and slits her own throat to burn away. Someday she'll be able to use her dagger, but not this time. She doesn't have to kill herself to regenerate, but she's been feeling sick this time around and would rather choose when to burn instead of having it happen at a bad time

Personality

- extroverted

- optimistic

- confident

- compassionate

- can also kick ass

- goal oriented

- trusting

- it seems as though she daydreams a lot, but she's actually trying to remember as much as she can from her past lives in order to make this one the best it can be

- has a hard time apologizing

- surprisingly she has a bad temper, but she controls it well

Misc Information

- Kes discovered her attraction to girls way before her attraction to boys

- Like, regenerations earlier

- As one of the high priestesses, no man was allowed to touch her, so she spent most of her time surrounded by other women that were kept away from men... you can see where this is going

- It wasn't until Rome fell and they all had to scatter that she first fell in love with a man

- There wasn't really a good word for it back then, but she knew she loved men, women, and everyone in between

- Her favorite color is a dark red - in fact, she wears so much red that people often mistake her for a Gryffindor

- She's been in each of the Hogwarts Houses many times

- She can't remember it, but she was sorted into Hufflepuff her first time around

- Kes found her salamander, Spark, when she got lost in Knockturn Alley

- She stumbled upon a poacher selling rare and dangerous creatures

- She did not buy Spark. She melted the bars of his cage and stole him, and then reported the poacher to the authorities, selfishly keeping Spark to herself

- He loves her so much, and she loves him

- Sometimes she conjures fire without even realizing it, which is part of why she keeps crystals in her bag to fidget with

- Fire is kind of a hazard in a library after all, and she can't risk being seen playing with fire by a muggle when she's out in their world

- She still sometimes has nightmares of when her first father whipped her and her mother

#kestra fernera #hpma mc #harry potter magic awakened #hufflepuff

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lockekatirci · 3 years

Text

LOKMAN “LOCKE” KATIRCI

ROLE: Hell Hound CHARACTER’S NAME: Lokman “Locke” Katirci AGE: 28 GENDER & SEXUALITY: Cismale / Bisexual FACECLAIM: Alperen Duymaz

[trigger warning for: blood, mild gore description and continued implied abuse from skeleton]

HEADCANONS:

· A thumb drags away from serrated metal; a clean protrusion opens for crimson to ooze from the fleshy tear. Lokman’s hand rises to his lips, quick tongue laps up the spillage like he might miss a drop; wasteful. Iron against the roof of his mouth; harsh reminder of where he came from, what he once was compared to the man he is now. Taste of defeat; of weakness reminds him that hell was once his and where he once was a demon; a spawn, expendable. He’s instead the devil’s personal hound, risen through the ranks and where metallic honey sticks to the roof of his mouth, fuels him like an aphrodisiac. He will not forget; for that means he can forgive and Lokman will never lose sight of what the own blood on curved lips means. Not long apart from a blade, secured at the rear of cargo-like trousers and it’s shine dulled.

· As all that have a twisted mind; deluded over time where lies to oneself become so believable that there’s no longer a line to cross. Blurred to ash and burnt away is morality, no niggle in the mind for pity upon prey. Katirci blends through crowded circles in Butcher’s Street as though he isn’t privy what’s beneath; perhaps he isn’t, truly? That his knowledge that it houses a second place that accepts the youngest child who frequents Million’s Square like the monster he is; fast fingers, scabbed to gain bare necessities; hired by benefactors to enact a perverse kind of justice. He redirects simmering rage into creativity; and his favourite colour’s sangria.

· A mind that works overdrive requires amble distractions, previously negated, Lokman’s mind flourishes in collecting tendrils of knowledge; absorbs it like a sponge and drags somewhat desperate eyes across inky paper; reads every historical word on crinkled pages, throws them away when finished, never keeps them. Always remembers their contents and where trickery is his element; mastering the forever growing need for knowledge is as impossible to sate as his wits.

SAMPLE PARAGRAPH

Profligate fingers draw marks against delipidated brick, darkening mahogany stone stains murky streaks when thin layers of flesh peel off fingertips. Lokman’s skin absorbs a strange comfort in the shadows; embraces it like a friend who’s never able to part with him. Yet the familiarity tinged in brisk air remains so different in every bated breath exhaled; the prominent aroma of carcinogenic cigarettes lingers in the atmosphere; hooked in by constant regeneration of exposed tobacco. It’s haphazard in its method, following the scientific laws of diffusion and how it swarms to fill each empty crevasse; spreads white wings of mist to swallow bodies in its choking hold. The alleyway of shadows offers a home Locke’s never possessed; he couldn’t grasp it then, found resentment in mistreatment and on this intangible turnaround, the shades of night that light obscures remain as untouchable as ever.

But he doesn’t mind this time; tells himself that even though he wishes beneath the cold underbelly of his soul that he desires, it provides the skin trace that such physical needs require; that masochistic desire that sits in the hidden depths stays hungry, but only bloodied fingertips induce it to surface.

Accustomed to the cold of Ilbern, the paved streets beneath heavy boots are the only tell of Lokman’s presence when he treads through narrow alleyways. Natural to vanish in the darkness, assimilate in others, swift; presents a danger that brings notoriety to those that know of how it’s abused. Eyes of the monsters cannot look away, won’t blink – only then to miss the ghost in the darkness and along with that, other precious artefacts vanish. Appendages clean cut; a brutality that’s bubbled over and spills that alluring red on twisted streets, leave marks as permanent as inky tattoos on skin.

Like legacy – one that’s born of malicious and agonised hatred, it’s something to leave behind. The attention that Lokman craves for his work. Old scars smear rough skin, remind those wandering eyes of the world that jagged edges come with Katirci’s criminalistic ideologies. Necessity for fear; a survivor of more than just the outside world. The carvings that Lokman looks at; cares for that serve as stark reminders of how the inside world moulded him so far past the new one and that encourages those looking too deep about how such a man manages to forge a path of destruction in his wake.

Then they look at those scars, and they know.

Infamy comes in just as many forms as legacy; history and to him, the driving force of pursuit to the one thing not so easily bartered in even the underworld of Ilbern. Where such trivial hunts for yearning fulfilled comes an irrevocable knowing that it’s not bought like the falsified need some can front. There’s no buying being wanted and beneath the curved grins and silver-tongues jibes, he knows only a true tortured soul would pick up fragmented pieces of twisted morals. A rage that sits below the surface, constantly utilised to enact savage chaos and brutality where it had once been forbidden in a room of eight.

If he were in a new room now – another dozen sets of flesh and bone, he would exist to be the last man standing. Nobody had suspected him then, only scarred the silent ghost as it built walls of rebellion around its soul.

Still a ghost, only Katirci will not be cast aside and discarded. He will be known to all as the reaper; a name in the mouths of even the farthest and holiest of men. Lokman knows well the brittleness of existence and expects the look behind fearful hues when the criminal hands puncture bone and break ivory. He’ll whisper:

“To bleed is to feel,” in the ears of the unsuspecting, as though one would be like him and as virulent. From within shadows, insanity can be found; a mind so dangerously clever, Locke’s spent years learning how to quieten and watch through obscured visions. “Tell me what it’s like,” an order so lost in its meaning that it’s never answered before the light in eyes departs. Though, if it were to ever be countered, he’s not sure he’d recognise the words that leave trembling lips. Because with all those wits, the smarts and the learned information quickly acquired, he’s never been asking the right questions.

He traipses through narrow gaps in slick bodies; a definition of seen by many but not seen at all. Locke doesn’t see them either, lets only the slow trickle of the scratched fingertips be the tell amongst crowded places that there’s something more in the ghost that walks among them. Gone in one moment, appears elsewhere in the next; haunts and makes those ones adore him for such clever mastery of the persuasive arts.

Hidden in the depths of Millionaire’s, a rickety sign; neon and shameless is nailed into those mahogany bricks flags Locke’s destination, a place beyond petty theft; too aware of a residence to permit crimes like arson in its walls. All that dare venture, know what it is; and Lokman craves the looks they give him when he steps inside, wooden door slams against the rear wall when he heads inside; an entrance that isn’t shrouded. His heart is steady against ivory ribs and the thin layer of sweat that beads at his hairline is as slick at the smile he wears on wicked lips. Like a golden cape draped over his shoulders, he laps up every eye that turns his way, visualises how the place now is his in the new world; haunted to still compare to the one locked in a cage at the back of his mind.

But you’ll never forgive and forget, will you Locke? It’s the one side of his Cerberus head, coaxing the aide-mémoire into him.

Lokman orders a drink, figures well deserved when his opprobrium doubles as notoriety and the same dark eyes that shift around the room with a confidence unmatched is every telling tale of how everyone knows Katirci by name, understands what it represents. But none ask about the crimson that stain shredded fingers. The devil’s hound winks, like a bullet fired: “Have you ever thought of the consequences of a man who’s had to wait too long for his drink?”

#[ INTRO | APP ]#LOCKE #LOKMAN KATIRCI

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slurrmp · 4 years

Text

spoilers for the end of 12x02. because i saw this scene and just knew that she shouldn’t have to deal with this revelation on her own. absolutely dedicated to the wonderful @myghostmonument

-x-

“She’s finally asleep.” Ana spoke as she stared down at the baby monitor in her hands. It was difficult to juggle having a child and still travel with the Time Lord, but somehow Ana managed it.

Maybe it had been the last ten years of her life, alternating between being super mum and trying to save the planet with Torchwood. As well as tackling the father of her first daughter, or should she say mother? Ana didn’t really get how that worked out when Time Lord’s regenerated, but Grace knew that no matter what Oliver would always be dad. Or the one she can go to if she has something incredibly naughty planned.

Leah, the newest member of their strange family had been staying with one of Ana’s work friends (the job at the hospital, with Torchwood being disbanded, Ana didn’t feel comfortable forcing Gwen to look after a baby again.). To her friend, Ana had only been gone a day and a half, while in reality she had been gone almost four days. The thirteen month old didn’t think anything of it, she was just happy to see her mother again.

Her room was set up the way it was on Oliver’s TARDIS. Just something the Australian wondered was a telepathic thing between the sentient ships as well or if Sexy just really knew her by now. It wasn’t until she almost tripped up the step in the console room that Ana finally looked up. Stumbling to a sudden stop, Ana noticed that the mood lighting was no longer the bright orange that it’s supposed to be. “Doctor?” Ana called out, turning on the spot - trying to spot the Time Lord, but instead a rather deep blue.

That’s when she noticed her almost curled up on the step. Her frown deepened, placing the monitor on the console, Ana hurridley came to stand in front of her. But the Doctor hardly noticed her, her hands curled into a fist, staring straight at the TARDIS doors. Ana knelt down then, coming to rest on the step and letting her hands lightly touch the Doctor’s knee. “What happened?”

That’s when the Doctor’s eyes snapped up, fists tightening. Ana noticed that they were starting to turn white. “They’re gone.” her voice was soft, like she didn’t want to speak too loud. Ana leaned in closer, she didn’t know what her and the Master spoke about in Paris, the Doctor had told her to stay with Ada and Noor, make sure they managed to use the phone properly. Ana knew it was just the Doctor’s way of keeping her from the other Time Lord. Too much history between the pair of them, the Doctor knew she would have a hard time restraining Ana from not pushing him off the top of the Eiffel Tower. “All of them. Gallifrey ...falls”

“Oh...” Ana spoke a hand pressing against her mouth. “Doctor ...” for someone who had been around since the early days, Ana knew how important Gallifrey was to them. Even Oliver said that her memories of the planet may not have always been pleasant, but that was her home. Where she grew up, learnt to walk, write, talk. Learnt how to fly a TARDIS. “How? I don’t understand, I thought after ... I thought you saved them all.” The hand pressed over her mouth, came back and lightly gripped onto the Doctor’s pants. She didn’t answer then, not that Ana was expecting a response anyway.

But before either of them could break the tension, a soft jingle sounded from the Doctor’s coat pocket. The Time Lord pulled out a circular device and stared at it, Ana followed suit and just waited, she knew the Doctor - she’s known the Doctor for almost her entire life, Ana knew when silence was best. The device lit up and his voice sounded in the room.

“Geo-activated.” The Doctor looked behind her, towards the funky new set up that the TARDIS had suddenly decided was a cool feature to have. And fading into sight, standing on the steps was the Master’s hologram. Ana frowned, letting her hands fall away from the Doctor’s leg as she stood up and rushed over to the hologram. “If you’re seeing this you’ve been to Gallifrey.” Ana swallowed and turned her head to look at the doors.

They were black now, not the colour of a red sunset that she was expecting, which means they were already back in space and not on the planet. Standing up slowly, Ana kept her distance from the Time Lord, knowing that this ... this was going to a tough one.

“When I said someone did that obviously I meant ... I did.” A scoff and Ana didn’t care about giving the Doctor space anymore. Moving so that she was still standing on the floor, Ana reached out her hand then and let her fingers lightly brush over the Doctor’s. It was hesitant at first, the blonde not even looking away from the Master’s face, but she let her own fingers grasp onto Ana’s. “I had to make them pay for what I discovered. They lied to us.” Suddenly the Doctor tightened her grip, now properly holding Ana’s hand. Ana could do nothing but look up at the hologram and keep the Doctor grounded. Because she knew that if she let her drift and go through this alone, there would be no turning back. “The founding fathers of Gallifrey. Everything we were told was a lie.” And it was in that moment, that Ana noticed the Master didn’t look evil or like he wanted to destroy the world, to Ana he was suddenly just a scared and alone little boy who suddenly felt betrayed by his entire family.

“We are not who we think, you or I.” Ana’s heart stopped beating suddenly, when she noticed the Master casting his eyes downward and to the right, like he knew she would be there, in that exact position. “Or even my dear sister. The whole existence of our species built on the lie of the Timeless Child.”

“Oh no...” Ana breathed out letting her gaze flicker over to the Doctor, who was watching the Master with an almost strained look. She was trying to hold herself together, but the tears were pooling at the corners of her eyes. She wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t allow herself to break down, not yet anyway.

Suddenly, her hand was ripped from the Doctor’s and she keeled over, a gasp of pain escaped her, as the palm of her hand pressed to her forehead. Ana stepped up, now taller than the Time Lord, turning her back on the Master’s hologram, her face pulled into a look of worry. The Doctor pressed her hand lightly into Ana’s stomach, palm flat, like she was trying to hold herself up and Ana took in a deep breath, letting her fingers wrap around her wrist.

“Do you see it?” He continued on, but Ana wasn’t paying attention anymore. She was holding onto the Doctor like her life depended on it. “It’s buried deep in all our memories, in our identity.” He sighed and the Doctor dropped to the floor, Ana following after her, still holding onto her arm. “I’d tell you more ... but,” The Master straightened up then, his eyes turning cold once more. Ana looked up at him as well and her breath caught at the back of her throat. The scar above her brow twitching ever so slightly.

He had placed his facade up once more. No longer was he a child of Gallifrey, worried for his best friend. No ... he was the psychotic murderer that he had turned himself into. “Why would I make it easy for you? It wasn’t for me.” And then he was gone and suddenly the grip on her shirt tightened, it was tugged on. The Doctor looked away, her breathing doubling.

And with the remaining strength that she had, the Doctor yelled out and chucked the dial across the room. Heaving in a breath, Ana stayed silent, though when the Doctor turned back - she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around the Time Lord. “I’m sorry...” she mumbled into the blonde’s hair. “God, I’m so sorry.”

The Doctor didn’t move for a couple of seconds, still in shock, her face pulling into a mix of upset expressions and the slight curl of her lip as she seethed on the step. But, she finally pulled herself together - letting her arms move from between them, to wrap around Ana’s skinny frame. Her hand coming up to cradled the brunette’s head, her own nose burying deep into her hair. Lips pressed against her temple, but the Doctor never said a word. It wasn’t until the sudden cries of a baby broke the pair of them up.

Ana heaved out a broken huff - something crossed between a sob and a sigh, pulling away, the Australian quickly pressed a kiss against the Doctor’s lips. Eyes sliding shut, as the Doctor buried her nails into her skin. “I’m here if you need me.” Ana mumbled against her lips before pulling away once more, standing up and racing back to grab the monitor and then disappearing down one of the many corridors.

The Doctor stayed where she was, a hand pressed against her lips. Eyes closing she tried to bring her emotions back into check, they all needed a holiday. Maybe Risa, she hadn’t taken the fam there before and Ana always loves visiting - she even has a couple of friends there she could visit, show off that new baby of hers.

So that’s what the Doctor did. She planned their next adventure, trying to hold herself together. Her hearts feeling heavy in her chest the entire way there.

#13th doctor x reader #dw spoilers #13th doctor x oc #doctor who #the doctor x reader #the doctor x oc #thirteenth doctor x reader #ship ; ana & the doctor.#funny you're the broken one. but i'm the only one who needed saving.#* & SPYRO WRITES.#JDKFHLK DS #THIS IS BAD.#BUT I HAD TOO.

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talen77703 · 5 years

Link

By: Insect King

AKA The True Namers, the Baal Chem

In the Beginning was YHVH and He created all life.

The Holy Tetragrammaton has puzzled religious thinkers and mystical speculators about its simplicity, complexity, and its promise for climbing closer in our understanding of Him. Each letter was an engine of creation which pointed in different directions but was the whole. Although it was a sacred duty to meditate upon these things, there where hucksters who also worshiped the power of God but sought to manipulate it. Through rearranging the order of words so the combinations could unlock power, create magick.

These sorcerers were the Baal Shem; the thieves of knowledge and blasphemers with the ability to decode and remake all creation. They were true adepts of their time, recognizable in their attitude and execution of their magick.

As the years waned and cultures grew, interest in sorcery changed, new things were accepted and old ideas lost their flexibility. And so did the Baal Shem, with their ever ready YHVH words of power. Their rules went into the cold storage of old books written by magickally dry occultists. And so they were passed down, flittered about in discussions, and occasionally studied.

But old, powerful ideas do not die easy, they can spontaneously resurrect when the correct grail is found, the hollow idea which can be filled with the liquid of pure imagination and will. And so with one student of ancient occult, it happened, he saw the book and magazine lying side by side, open to the right pages.

On one page was YHVH, the other, AGCT. And then everything just fell into place like a puzzle assembling in reverse motion. Religious philosophy and genetic science were one and the same.

It wasn’t a complete cohesion, some puzzle pieces where in backwards, or the wrong way around. He would have to keep looking at the larger pattern, before finding the small inconsistencies. Of course changing one tiny piece altered the larger pattern, so it is hard work and the gains are few but one day it will be completed, and God’s face will be seen.

AGCT is the Tetragrammaton, the True Genome, the Unpronounceable Name of God. Our individual genomes are our True Names two-billion characters long, and by rewriting our True Names, we can cause a miraculous change, a new creation.

As above, so below is the running irony of the Baal Chem. It is the apotheosis of everything else that makes us human, but not actually us; deep in all the bone, blood, meat, gristle is where God sits, in the tiny arrangements of molecules, the delicate chains of deoxyribonucleic acid that exists innocuously in every living parcel. The most powerful information coherence in the world built of the most of fragile filigree. The most powerful being of the universe is the also one of the weakest.

Through our consensual landfill of waste religious orthodoxy and mythology we abandoned God, and through our embrace of science and experiment, we have found Him again. We have found him in all of us, the destiny in everything that lives.

And so the school of the Baal Chemistry was born, alchemically uniting old magick and modern science; uniting Baal Shem and Genetics, and making the magick of God’s Chemicals.

STATS

Baal Chemistry is in not in its infancy, but there are few practitioners, mostly in the Middle East, but migrating outwards. The basics are already down but the school is not going to progress unless the students learn Hebrew, or the science of molecular chemistry, or both. It doesn’t have to be to rigorous academic standards but the skills must be bought.

Although firmly rooted in Hebrew mysticism Baal Chemistry isn’t a Jewish school. Anyone with adept potential can learn the school.

Baal Chem relies on the sympathetic law of imitation. The law is quite simple, if anything appears like something else, it will act upon that something else. The Baal Chem use a symbolic version of the Law of Imitation, the Law of Names.

One side of the Baal Chemist’s genetic sorcery is that successful significant effects alter the DNA permanently which might throw off testing.

Blast Style: The Baal Chem can bobby trap scrolls to give blasts but it cause sickness or even cancer. Although the spells are slow they may be fatal over a long period of time.

Random Magick Domain: random magick is antithetical to Baal Chemistry. They might lack true diversity, but the Tetragrammatists can stack magicakal effects on top of each other unlike any other school.

Generate a minor charge: For four hours study the Bible, cabala, The Tetragrammaton, and other tracts of Jewish mysticism, or write an essay condensing your findings.

Generate a significant charge: There are no Significant charges only significant effects generated by actively manipulating the genetic code in yourself or others.

Generate a major charge: Discover a lost tract on the Tetragrammaton and be the first to study it. Discover a break though in genetics research, such as controlling the telomere cancer-cellular mitosis relationship. Work a change over ten years that works.

Taboo: Their work is sacred and may never be abandoned. If the Baal Chemist is ever interrupted from his significant works, they reset and have to be started over again.

The Baal Chem cannot touch any separated tissue or fluids of the target that are derived from injury. Touching blood and other tissues breaks taboo as the law of imitation is subverting by the law of contagion. If the Baal Chem gets splashed with a limited amount of tissue, he can scrub off to avoid taboo.

The temple of the Baal Chemist is generally as close to sterile as any scientific laboratory.

Unlike other adepts, The renamers can incorporate different spells into one, as long as they add up the time taken and roll their Magick: Baal Chemistry skill.

Minor Baal Chemistry Formula Spells

A (one minor charge) The Baal Chemist can diagnose any living body and give a pretty accurate idea of what is going on at that time.

T (one minor charge) The Baal Chemist can correct minor imperfections, purge the body of toxins, exhaustion, and turn back the body’s clock limitedly for about as many months as the sum of the Magick: Ball Chemistry skill. This doesn’t regenerate lost limbs or heal damage, but it removes and smoothes imperfections like scars, wrinkles, and acne, hangovers, reduces infections, cleans the system, and improves the person’s sense of well being. A person with this spell heals 1 wound point has a +10% on all his first stress check afterwards.

The Baal Chemist will use T as a cleansing preparation before performing a procedure.

C (two minor charges) The Genetic Tetragrammatist can improve healing and assist in recovery by rolling his Magick: Baal Chemistry skill as if he was a doctor.

G (three minor charges) This minor blast spell makes the target’s body react as if it were invaded by foreign germs. The target suffers from a debilitating fever. Unless the character gets bed rest for as many days as the sum of the Magick: Baal Chemistry skill, he cannot heal through convalescence. If the character is actively physically stressing his body, he takes one wound point per roll whether successful or not.

Significant Baal Chemistry formula effects

Targeted effects The significant effects do not have to be performed with the target present, but the Baal Chemist must at least have some knowledge of who the person is, to have some idea of the person’s True Name. Basically this: no name -10%, no picture -10%, no basic personality profile -10%, or no truthful history -10%. If the Baal Chemist can touch the victim, the penalty is reduced by 30%. The Baal Chem cannot increase his skill this way.

Rearranging Genomes The spells are basically formulations, long strings of the Tetragrammaton characters AG and CT written on paper scrolls. The paper can be worn as an amulet or scrunched up and swallowed as a pill. Placing the spell on unknowing or unwilling targets is a bit problematic but nothing that can be solving without some quick thinking, sneaky long-fingers or elbow-greasing thugs.

Once the spell is on the person’s body, it takes about an hour to ready or activate. Removing the scroll before then diffuses the magick but the scroll is still active.

For a safety measure the scrolls can actually described to target a specific person, who is listed Tetragrammatically in the formulation.

The Abundance of God’s Blessing (One days work) By spending one day working the Baal Chemist can regenerate one point of Body. This includes the slow re-growth of lost limbs and organs. This spell cannot replace damaged tissue just replace what is missing. Due to the complexity of tissue re-growth it might take many weeks or months before the area is restored.

The Passion of David (One days work) The target may re-roll one failed but non-magickal Soul-based skill and Speed-based skill roll.

A Visitation from the Angel of Betrayal (Two days work) The Baal Chemist can disrupt cellular activity by scribbling over the cell’s ability to control their own division, allowing them to multiply unstoppably into cancerous tissue.

After spell is cast, the opponent rolls his Body stat once per week. If it fails he takes the highest die in damage to his Body. This roll continues once per week until either the cancer kills the target or he successful convalesces, healing his Body back to full while not taking any damage. At which point the cancer has gone into permanent remission. Otherwise, if the cancer is detected within the first month, it can be safely removed.

The Legacy for Esau (Three days work) The next four Mind stat or skill checks are flip-flopped to their worst result. Obsession skills simply do not flip-flop.

The Sword of God (Three days work) The Sword of God is a strange blast spell. It invokes rage in anyone interacting with the target. No everyday things like buying from the market or speaking to people at your office, but when a roll is required. If the roll fails, it triggers their Rage Passion.

There isn’t much control over the situation, but at the wrong time with the right person, the results can be fatal. The person tagged with the Sword of God comes across as hiding crucial personal secrets, arrogant, and irritating. Triggering the anger doesn’t cause a stress check, only the results of it do.

The Sword of God works once.

Blessings on the House (Four days work) With this spell the ability to conceive a child is made better. Not only is the act blessed to be fruitful (the Fertility chance is half of Body), one partner gets a flip-flopping and the other, a re-roll, but the sex of the child can be chosen by the one who rolled highest. This scroll works once per sexual encounter.

The Lions of Daniel (Four days work) While the target is protected by the Lions of Daniel, it triggers or creates the Noble Passion of the animals for the benefit of the target, regardless of how they are feeling or trained to act. The animal certainly won’t attack but it might not let the character pass an area it was set to guard. Animals might even get playful and unintentionally hurt the target.

Wild dogs will not attack her, but they will maul clothing and bags to get to food, rats will climb and nuzzle their way inside her clothing. Once the spell is in effect it lasts twenty-four hours.

Loss of the Innocence of Eden (Five days work) This spell rewrites history recorded onto genetic memory, the target’s twenty billion character True Name. The successful roll can rearrange three failed and hard notches from any three chosen meters. The notches can be placed on any other gauge, Hard or Failed.

Perfecting the Perfect (Five days work) This scroll permanently removes any inherited genetic disease from a person unless the disease has already manifested. The disease’s harmfulness is eradicated and will not pass it along the target’s germline from that point.

Once the genetic malfunction has manifested, there is nothing the Baal Chem can do about it.

The Flesh of Methuselah (Six days work) This spell rejuvenates the target’s body effectively removing the debilitating effects of tissue damage, decrepitude, injury, and internally halving the person’s age. Externally there is little actual change but the spry person may act and thus look younger. Cosmetic surgery and extensive spa treatments may help further at this point.

This spell heals Wound Points equal to the sum of the Magick: Ball Chemistry roll.

Void of the Nameless (Seven days work) The dead are generally beyond the purview of the Baal Chemist. If you do not have a body you have no True Name, their lives are over and thus Nameless. With Void of the Nameless, a possessed person can regain control over his or her body by imprisoning the demon within their mind, and like an oyster, form a psychic pearl around the irritant.

This spell forces the demon to roll possession to escape or be trapped in the victim’s mind as he regains control. It is crushed underneath the awakening mind, trapped. The victim may have dim dreams.

Unless the demon has some magickal means of escaping it is trapped in some disused and sound-proofed basement of the victim’s mind. Over time the entity just decays into oblivion.

The Void of the Nameless is also proof against possession attempts in the first place. The possessing entity just smacks into the target’s body like it was solid.

Once the demon is imprisoned, it is there permanently. The spell gives twenty-four hours protection once activated.

The Lamentations of Solomon (Eight days work) The spell allows the target to increase his Mind and Soul stat at a rate of one experience point per Stat point. The maximum number of purchases is equal to the sum of the Magick: Baal Chemistry roll. This spell only raises the stats, not the skills.

Major Baal Chemistry Effects Change one species into another, read God’s will in someone’s genome, eradicate aging, raise stats to superhuman levels, create the perfect killer immune system, grow a perfect clone body in a few hours, permanently remove all genetic imperfections and disease from a person.

#neat #rpg #unknown armies #adepts #magic #school of magic #system of magic #name of god #hebrew mysticism #genetics #archiving #homebrew #unknown armies homebrew

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akilice · 7 years

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Path Of lightning chapter 16: The fox

Okay so, Fictionpress won’t accept this chapter for some reason and I bet no one missed this, but I did promsie @cwjhunt to post this once she gets her chapter done, SO!

Chapter 16: The fox.

The fox and the author observed each other for what felt like eternity. No one was willing to land the first hit. Bob could tell that the infiltrator was dangerous. She had a strong presence and her golden eyes were like the eyes for an animal waiting for its prey. However, the hunter’s patience ran out eventually.

The masked woman ran towards him at high speed that would have been impossible to see for others. She raised her katana to cut him, but the author was quick to write on his note book, causing a narrow light that looked like the slice of a sword to block the blade. She used her other sword to hit him, and it almost touched his side if it weren’t for a second light blocking it.

A circle appeared in the space between them and the woman backed away as soon as she saw it. She raised both her swords in defense. The blades had purple energy surrounding them. With Bob’s pen brushing against the paper, a ray of light burst out and the intruder tried to block it with her weapons. Without losing his focus, the author kept writing and more circles surrounded the woman and fired magic at her. She cut all the lights with her swords, but it was all in vain. Cutting the magic only served to multiply it and the small lights hit to her all at once.

“You made your choice. The author has to write you off the story.” Bob stated and watched as the dust caused by his attack disappeared.

His eyes widened when his note book and pen were torn to pieces. He lifted his eyes and saw the assassin run towards him and before he could react, she cut him with her katana.

He fell to the floor lifeless, however, he couldn’t fool her.

The assassin’s eyes narrowed as she watched the author’s lifeless body turn into dust. Flames lit up around her, waiting to swallow her. She turned to see Bob standing on the other part of the room, fixing his tie.

“As a wizard, I learned many spells before owning my own weapon.” He said and raised his hand. A small light started to form in his grip and it became a new pen. He started writing in the air and his actions made the flames swallow her.

Unfortunately, she jumped high and focused her energy on her feet allowing her to run on the wall. She jumped towards him and he wrote a shield against her attack. Bob’s eyes widened as her blade started to crack his shield, so he wrote another spell creating winds that pulled her away.

She landed on the other side, with burnt arms caused by the previous attack. To the author’s shock, the wounds started to heal, and then disappeared as if they never existed.

“Regeneration?! Could it be that you’re a demon?” Bob asked as his eyes met the woman’s golden ones. He noticed her shoulders shaking, as if she was laughing silently. “You’re not.” He stated then raised his pen to write.

There was something about this woman that made him uneasy. She knew what she was doing, she hasn’t even spoken a word in order to hide her voice. This was all like a game to her, and he did not enjoy being her toy.

Meanwhile, the building started to slowly regain its old shape but most of the doors were still blocked. Liz was leaning against the wall, moving her injured shoulder, while Nosaru tried to contact her sister.

“Hello?” Aiko’s face appeared in the tablet’s screen. She took a book off her head and it looked like her office was a mess. She fixed her hair and took a look at her sister. “You look troubled.” She stated.

“The place was attacked and we’re stuck. I don’t how many are there but I heard what sounded like a fight nearby. You think you could send some help?” Nosaru asked, hoping to get some support.

“Oh please, I took care of that ages ago.” Aiko answered with a smug expression. The confusion on the younger sister’s face made her smile grow wider. “I had a feeling that things would go wrong, so I sent backup.” She explained. If anything, Aiko had some good intuition.

Nosaru sighed in relief and smiled. “I can’t decide if you’re amazing or scary.”

“Amazingly scary?” Liz suggested.

“Isn’t my pet impressive?” Aiko commented in amusement. “Nosaru, pet her for me, would you?” She said much to the blonde’s dismay and ended the call.

Nosaru smirked and put a hand on her partner’s head, making the blonde groan, clearly bemused.

“Liz! Nosaru!” They both turned to the person calling their names. Tara waved at them while Yuki stood next to her. The wall was opening up so they managed to reach them. “Are you okay?” She asked and kneeled beside Liz when she noticed her bloody clothes. The blonde nodded with a reassuring smile, while the other pair sighed in relief.

“We need to get into the room!” Yuki said and Nosaru nodded and followed him while Liz leaned against Tara for support.

They ran to the room and tried to open the door, but the moment Yuki tried to touch the handle, it shocked him making him pull his hand away. The door was protected by an energy, or should they say, magic field. Whatever the spell cast on him, there was no way they could access the room in a normal way.

Nosaru put a hand on his shoulder, making him move away. She summoned the knight’s phantom surprising the group except for Liz who caught a glimpse of it earlier. The phantom’s sword crashed with the wall but the impact had no effect.

“How did that not affect it?!” Yuki exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

“Perhaps we need to use magic? It is a building for wizards after all.” Tara suggested.

“Then how were the intruders able to get in and change its shape?” Nosaru asked, but as soon as she did, her eyes widened. “Are you suggesting that they might have magic knowledge?”

“It’s possible.” Tara said. It was the only possibility she could think of. A wizard must have betrayed the others.

“In that case, try this.” Liz took off her necklace and handed it to the knight, who looked back at her confused. “Bob gave it to me, so maybe if you have a magical object you can break it.”

Meanwhile, Bob blocked many of the masked woman’s attacks with his lights. She kept a small distance between them while attacking, which made the situation a bit difficult for the wizard. He was stuck in the same act, defending himself and unable to keep a distance between them.

The author managed to write a spell that created lightning attacks from above her. She managed to dodge them easily, then charged her katana with energy and used it to direct one of the lightning attacks towards the wizard.

Bob dodged it, but the moment he did, she was right before him. She moved her blade forward and he managed to avoid it and that was when he realized that she wasn’t trying to kill him. She did that to take the necklace away. It was now hanging at the tip of her sword. Seeing his distraction, she used her second sword to try to cut him, but he wrote a shield then wrote a circle underneath her feet. Lights came out from it and chained her.

Bob panted, and finally thought that he caught her. Those chains were powerful and they were supposed to keep her there. He assumed that it was over. However, a dark shadow appeared behind her, reached for the necklace, and the next second, it was gone.

“What?! Where did it go?” The author angrily asked.

The woman did not answer as the shadow released her from the light chains before disappearing.

Suddenly, a part of the wall collapsed, and the masked woman blocked a quick attack from a blue haired girl. Nosaru’s attacks were blocked with the two swords, so she pulled away and waved her sword, as if cutting into the air, but the pressure of the hit was so strong that it broke a part of the mask, revealing the woman’s golden eye.

The raven haired woman stared in disbelief as their eyes met. The hit even caused a cut right under her eye. She smiled underneath her mask then disappeared as shadows surrounded her before she could engage in any more fights. After all, she secured the necklace.

“I should have been more careful.” Bob said and loosened his tie, frustrated. He then noticed the other three standing outside, meaning they haven’t seen the mysterious woman.

“Aiko sent some help, so hopefully they might be able to track her.” Nosaru informed him then unequipped her weapon.

Bob sighed, thinking of the consequences this could have. The fact that a penergy user managed to get inside meant two things. That woman was either a witch, or she had a wizard help her. He leaned more towards the second one. Wizards and witches awakening penergy wasn’t impossible, but was a rare case and they mostly don’t use it because of their prides as wizards.

That meant that someone betrayed them. But who?

The masked woman stood on top of the building. She touched the cut and her eyes widened when she found out it didn’t heal.

“The first person to ever leave a scar on me…” She muttered to herself than laughed quietly. She wiped off the blood, and her smile widened. “That’s a face I’ll make sure to remember.” She said then started walking away. “I wonder how far Chameleon is.”

The Chameleon she was wondering about, ran as far as he could the moment he received the necklace. He had green hair and brown eyes. He wore a green and white hoodie, and black jeans. His running stopped when he jumped away, avoiding what looked like an energy bullet. He lifted his eyes and was met with the sight of a trio.

“I’m afraid this is where you stop.” The End pointed his gun at him, looking extremely serious considering what he was about to say. “I am the End.”

“I am Copy Cat!” Copy Cat introduced himself then pointed his finger at Malik. “And that is-“

“DON’T!”

“Sandy!” Copy Cat finished and Malik wished he could just drop dead.

“I hate my life.” Malik stated, with his arms crossed.

Chameleon watched the strange scene unfold with wide eyes, and all he could think was…

“Seriously?”

Next chapter: The Chameleon.

#Path of lightning: Origins #Path of lightning #P.O.L: Origins #my original writing

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after-the-fxll · 7 years

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Mortal Healing vs. Divine Healing: The Mechanics of Healing Magic in Aryx’s World

Mortal/Common Healing vs. Divine Healing: The Mechanics of Healing Magic in Aryx’s World

In Aryx’s world, not all healing magic is created equal. It varies by the source of the magical energy and the species of the caster. Mortal magic can only be wielded by humans, while divine magic can be wielded by humans or angels, depending on the situation. Hopefully this will give you some idea of how healing mechanics are managed in Aryx’s world, and where he falls as far as what he is able to cast and how.

Effect of Caster Species on Healing Magic

There are three major species on earth in Aryx’s world that have the ability to cast magic of various types depending on the situation: demons, humans, and angels. As far as healing magic, only humans and angels are capable of casting it, while demons are not. This is because, just purely by biological nature and not considering morality at all, demons are physically permeated with negative energy, humans can be a combination of positive and negative energy skewed accordingly by their actions, and angels are permeated with positive energy. All healing magic is positive, so if a demon were to try to cast healing magic (if such a thing was possible, which it is not) he would injure himself in the process. When casting healing magic, one needs to be capable of one of two things: producing the positive energy to do so oneself, or having the favor of one of the Light deities for them to permit you to channel Their energy to do so. Demons… don’t have either.

The majority of humans do not cast magic in Aryx’s world. This is just because it is a complex, energy-draining, and specialized thing that most humans do not have the strength, education, need, desire, etc. to be able to do so. Only humans with natural talent (sorcerers, soul knights) or who are actually in the ranks of the church of either light god (priest, soul knight, etc.) usually cast magic. Among them, both types of healing are found: mortal healing (soul knights) and divine healing (priests). The types of magic will be covered with energy source and effect on the caster in the next section. All humans can do with their healing spells, regardless of their methods, is heal wounds and illnesses. They cannot regenerate limbs, reattach severed limbs, or bring back the dead. They can, however, remove scars and other deformities from injuries that have already healed.

Angels can only heal through divine means. (Except in really rare, weird cases, which I’ll cover in the next section). Whether created directly by the gods or born of other angels on earth, angels are physically designed to channel divine energy. All their magic, not just healing, is divine in nature. The species of angel, however, greatly affects the strength and nature of the healing spells they can cast. While there are only two power levels of humans (new souls and reincarnated souls), there are three ranks of demons and angels. There are common demons (imps, harpies, succubae, incubi, etc.), archdemons (fiends, devils, etc.), and infernal seraphim. Likewise, there are common angels (natural-borns on earth, common created angels; can exist on earth or in the heavens; one relatively small pair of wings), archangels (guardian angels, gate soldiers; only found in the heavens unless they fall; two medium- and equal-sized pairs of wings), and holy seraphim (three pairs of wings: one small, one medium, and one large sized; only found in the heavens except through intervention of The One). Rank determines power, and therefore the abilities of their healing spells:

Common Angels – Their healing magic is much like that of humans. All they can do is heal illnesses and wounds and correct scarring or deformity.

Archangels – Everything a common angel can do plus they can do it much faster. In addition, they can save severed limbs if the limb is available to reattach and a healing spell can be cast within minutes of it being severed. They are also capable of wound-transference spells, in which a protection spell is cast on a subject by the archangel, and then should that subject become wounded, the archangel would incur the wounds in the subject’s place. Wound-transference is especially performed by archangels in service to the Father of Protection, as they are defensive spells designed to protect innocents and/or those not able to defend themselves by letting the angel shoulder the damage and pain of the wounds instead.

Holy Seraphim – They can do everything archangels can do but no prayer is needed, the spells can be cast almost instantly. While not even holy seraphim can bring back the dead (only the greater gods and The One can do that), they can regenerate lost limbs and other body parts, even after wounds have healed and the limb or body part may be long gone. So for example if an angel loses a wing or a human loses an arm, years after the fact a holy seraph would be able to regrow the wing or arm from the site of the wound with a powerful spell. This spell is not instant, however, and can take up to an hour to complete, depending upon the size and complexity of the body part to be regenerated.

Effect of Energy Source on Healing Magic

Healing is not without its cost, and that cost must always be paid. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, it must always be balanced… unless you are The One, heh. She is the only being with the power to create or permanently destroy energy. Even the greater gods of Light and Darkness must expend or absorb energy to balance the actions of their followers. So when healing magic is cast, essentially what is happening is that outside energy is being infused into the wounded person (because it is positive energy, its basic forms are light and heat) to replace what he/she has lost. Illness is either a loss of positive energy or an infusion of negative energy, and a wound is the disruption of a person’s aura by damaging the body. In both cases, warmth, energy, and flesh can be lost or disrupted such that repairs and replacements are needed. What healing spells do is convert positive light and heat energy into life force or flesh as needed to repair and replace what the sick or injured person has lost. This energy needs to come from somewhere (other than the wounded person) to maintain the energy balance of the universe, heh. So, it must either come from the spell caster or an outside source.

Mortal and common healers use their own energy (so their own life force) to heal illnesses and wounds. What this means is that the person is either naturally skilled from birth (a soul knight for example) or has been trained how to (a priest) infuse someone else with a portion of their own life force. This is perfectly fine to do as far as the wounded or ill person is concerned, for their missing or damaged energy is replaced and repaired respectively by the life force of the caster. For the caster, however, this can have dire consequences.

First of all, because they are parting with a portion of their life force, they will be weakened by it. They may experience fatigue, confusion, or other side effects, depending upon their skill level, amount of practice, and how many other spells they’ve cast that day. It is possible for a spell caster to inadvertently kill themselves by casting too many mortal healing spells in too little time.

Secondly, because the energy is coming from them, their bodies will mirror the illnesses and wounds of the person they are healing. For example, if I use my own energy to heal your stab wound, what will be missing from me is whatever energy was used to fill in and repair your wound, so I will end up with the same wound on my body. This might seem kindof a dumb tradeoff at first glance, but you have to keep in mind that most healers serve the Stag, the Father of Protection. It is not only their job but their deep desire to protect others, even at great cost to themselves. An adult priest can survive a lot longer with a stab wound than a small child, and so they may transfer the wound to their own body and then wait for divine healing to arrive. At least the child is safe. That is the mentality of those who serve the Stag.

Divine healers certainly have the advantage over mortal healers in that they do not fatigue or suffer negative consequences from healing, nor must they use their own life force. Angels and human priests need only have enough favor with either the Dove or the Stag to cast such spells, and then they can basically do so until the god caps it for some reason, haha, usually if too many are cast in one day. With divine magic, the energy comes from the god whose favor the caster has, and not from the caster’s own life force. In this way, the balance is kept, and the god is weakened in a very minor way for each healing spell that is cast. Gods regenerate their auras fast, though, heh.

Aryx is a divine healer. He gets the energy for all his healing spells, wards, protections, wound-transference spells, etc. from the Stag. So he heals without sustaining damage to himself, except in cases of wound-transference, since that’s what those spells are designed to do.

Exceptions to the Rule

Now… all angels get all their magic, not just healing, from their respective deities, so all of it is divine magic. Humans can go either way depending upon their religion and skill set. However… there have been a couple of very rare cases that have been exceptions to this, namely the cases of Ison and Elestra, two human lovers who, nearly a thousand years after they died, were reborn as angels, Elandrian and Elleth. (Long story, they were very special and valuable souls to the Light gods and so were given special treatment, but I don’t wanna go into all that here.) So essentially, they were common angels with human souls. They were reborn and not new souls, and they were very old, all of which makes them more powerful than the average human or angel. Plus, Elestra was a sorceress who essentially founded the Dove’s church back in the day and was (still is) her highest priestess, and Ison was a soul knight (the most powerful ever seen to date) of the Stag. Both individuals, reborn into common angel bodies, were not only permitted divine magic, but they were permitted to keep whatever natural magic they had as human sorcerers and healers. So they… totally stomped all over all the rules for healing magic, haha. Well, the spells still work the same, it is only that Elandrian can actually choose to heal using his own energy or his god’s, which is a choice 99.9% of other healers in the world do not have.

#aryx #angels and demons #healing magic #world building #the vulture and the dove

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prudypru · 7 years

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The Apology

So I got this sad af idea while listening to my favorite song from Book of Life. It’s probably a bit out of character, but maybe not? Who knows? Anyway, have at it, hope you like it~ (I changed a few lyrics to fit the scene coughcough)

Thick fog engulfed the town square of Dorado, lights stringed up shined through like a faint dream. The air was quiet, the small town abandoned of life. A figure emerged through the darkness, ragged and worn. Reaper groaned as he made his way to the tall memorial in the middle of the square.

He knew the others weren't too far off, they would be here soon to finish him off for good; there was nowhere left to run. No backup, no one to call upon, No one.

This was the end.

Reaper stumbled his steps, his footing slipping as he went crashing to the ground. He let out a strangled cry, reaching down to clutch at his gut. Black, tar like substance seeped through his armor, staining his gauntlet and the ground below.

With a pained grunt, he reached for the lip of the fountain, pulling himself up to rest against the aged stone. His breaths went ragged and short, regenerating lungs struggling to keep up, but whatever they shot him with prevented him from fully healing. Reaper coughed until he felt liquid rise from his throat, yet he didn't bother removing his mask to wipe it away.

The wraith sat there, thinking about anything and everything. He thought about all of the lives he took, the innocent people that had to suffer under his hand. Time and time again, he told himself that it was the right thing to do, to put an end to all the lives that ended his and countless others; a twisted sense of justice, he thought. But looking back on it now, he realized just how wrong he was.

He thought about Ana, how she wanted to help him, and the way she looked at him that day the three crossed paths. The fear in her eyes, the concern and worry in her voice.

Then, he thought about Jack.

Reaper growled but winced when it became too much. Another cough, another round of tar. Another tired sigh.

Morrison. Soldier: 76. Jack. He wanted to believe he still hated him, that all of this was his fault. But he couldn't bring himself to believe that, not now.

Deep down, he missed them. He missed all of them. But most of all, he missed the man he once loved. His sunshine, his home from home.

He felt tired, worn down physically and mentally. He just wanted it all to end. No more fighting, no more death. God, no more souls, he couldn't handle another soul. The endless cries of sorrows every night almost driving him to the brink of madness.

Reaper clutched at his head with a clawed hand before letting his arm fall back to his side. He looked around the quiet town, long since evacuated due to Overwatch's surprise ambush. He watched as the fog drifted around him, blurry vision watching the lights bounce off from surface to surface. A glint of silver nagged at the corner of his eyes, head turning to see. He let out a deep chuckle. Leaning against the fountain beside him, was an old and worn guitar. The paint long since faded, yet its strings shined with life.

Reaper looked to the sky, wondering if someone up there was mocking him, reminding him of old memories from decades ago. How he made everyone smile and sing along, no matter what he played.

It was then, that the dying man finally thought: It was time.

With a deep breath, he gripped the edge of the fountain and pulled himself up to sit at the edge. He almost lost his vision and balance from the immense pain that shot through his decaying body, yet he swallowed the scream that dared to fill the night.

He panted, trying to regain composure, palms pressing down against the bleeding wound. Once his breathing finally calmed down, Reaper grasped at his gauntlets, unclasping the locks and letting them fall to the ground, the talons clinking against the street. He reached for the guitar, ignoring the smoke that wrapped around his decaying and regenerating fingers.

The air was filled with soft strums of strings, the guitar pre tuned to Reaper's amusement. He paused to settle his shaking hands, before playing a soft tune.

My friend, I am humble, for tonight I understand. Your royal blood was never meant to decorate this sand. You suffered great injustice, so have thousands before you.

Reaper sucked in a shuddered breath, his lungs on fire. But he didn't stop.

I offer an apology, and one long overdue.

He closed his eyes and took a deep ragged breath. Black fog mingled with white.

Quiet footsteps slowly made their way up the street, red visor glowing through the fog like a beacon. Soldier 76 raised his rifle and followed the sound circling through the streets. He spotted his target by the memorial, Reaper's back turned toward him, slumped forward. Jack was about to shout, aiming his weapon at the back of the wraith's head, until he heard a broken deep voice sing out.

I am sorry.

My friend, I am sorry. Hear my song, and know I sing the truth. Although we were bred to fight I reach for kindness in your heart tonight

Jack froze in place, listening to the man sing as the soft melody surrounded him. He lowered his weapon, yet still kept his guard up, eyes not leaving the man he once knew.

And if you can forgive, and if you can forgive Love can truly live. And if you can forgive, and if you can forgive Love can truly live.

He knew he was there. Reaper could feel it, sense his strong willed soul nearby.

Yet he didn't stop to turn around, didn't stop singing or playing. He was determined to see this through, even if it killed him then and there.

His lungs were on fire, everything was on fire. He must have plucked the wrong string once or twice when the pain became too much. His voice became hoarse and strained, yet he kept going, knowing the other was listening.

My friend, I am frightened, but I'll use my final breath To tell you that I'm sorry, let us end this dance of death. Three long decades of agony, that to your heart I sent Here and now with my amends, the senseless killing ends.

Jack felt his throat close up as his hands gripped his weapon tightly. Slowly, he made his way towards the shadow in the mist, the lights overhead casting an almost angelic glow against the monstrous creation. He lowered his weapon again, no longer worried of what was to come. He continued to listen quietly.

I am sorry. Mi Sol, I am sorry. Hear my song, and know I sing the truth. Although we were bred to fight I reach for kindness in your heart tonight.

Jack let out an unsteady breath at hearing that nickname. It's been so long since he's heard it, it made him falter. He finally moved his weapon away, letting it slide from his grip to the ground, not caring if the other heard him advancing closer.

And if you can forgive, and if you can forgive Love can truly live. And if you can forgive, and if you can forgive Love can truly live.

The soldier reached for his visor, sliding it off and letting it join his weapon on the ground. He was so close to him now he could feel the thick black fog in the air swim around his body, yet he didn't feel threatened.

And if you can forgive, and if you can forgive Love can truly live. And if you can forgive, and if you can forgive Love, Love will truly live.

Jack was beside him then, looking down at the defeated man he's become. With a final strum of the strings, Gabriel stared down at the decorated tile, not wanting to look the other man in the eye. Jack rested a hand on Gabriel's shoulder firmly, yet tenderly.

“Gabriel.”

Gabriel bit at his bile covered lip at the sound of his name in Jack's somber voice. He set the guitar aside, tried to stand up, groaning in pain when it strained his injury and decided to just stay seated. He felt the hand on his shoulder tighten.

Jack's face softened “Gabriel. Did you mean it? What you said then. Do you truly believe it?” he questioned, his voice threatening to waver. But he kept up his strong facade a bit longer. He needed to know the truth, needed to know if there was still a small part of his best friend in there.

Gabriel stayed quiet, his gaze still kept toward the ground. It was like that for a while, both men in a quiet standoff. Jack sighed and moved to retreat, about to give up hope on ever reaching his long gone partner. He went to remove his hand from the other, but went stiff when a discolored, regenerating hand grasped his own.

“Yes.” came the quiet raspy reply.

Jack looked back down at the shadow, not making a move to pull away from the hold. So he waited, waited for what else Gabriel had to say. Gabriel took a moment to regain his thoughts, his hand tightening against Jack's gloved hold, his thumb rubbing against the worn leather on the knuckles.

When he felt like he was ready, he let go of Jack's hand. He reached up with trembling, clammy hands to his mask, finding the latches and unlocking both. He pulled the mask away, noting the black stains on the inside, before dropping it to his feet.

Jack's hand was still tightening against his shoulder as he continued. He grabbed his hood next and pulled it down; black smoke emitted from its enclosure, while patches of dark curls sprung free. Healed and open wounds scarred his face and scalp. Where there wasn't hair, there was skin trying desperately to regenerate.

Jack held his breath as soulless, milky eyes peered up at him, what was left of his brows were drawn close together.

“I meant every word, Jack. I know I'll never be forgiven for the things I've done, the souls I've taken, but I'm done running.” Jack searched Gabriel's eyes for anything that could give him away, any malicious intent or hidden agenda.

He saw nothing. Absolutely nothing. All he saw was regret. Remorse for all of the sins he's committed against the people he once trusted.

His family.

His home.

“I'm so. . . tired, Jack. So damn tired. I. . I miss. .” Gabriel stopped himself, feeling a fresh wave of black sludge building up inside, the pain coming back around. He growled and swallowed it all down “goddamn it, I miss everything.”

Jack was deathly silent, his hand grasping onto Gabriel as if it was a lifeline. He knew things would never go back to how they were, how could they? After everything that's happened, all the trouble they've gone through and caused each other, how could they just brush it all under the carpet and pretend it never happened?

No, Jack decided, it will never be the same.

But, somehow, he kept clinging on to hope.

Hope that they could finally bring justice to the monster that was the Reaper. And hope that they could still save their friend, his partner, Gabriel Reyes. If the other was willing to give himself up just like that, then there was still hope. There had to be.

“Gabe.” He hadn't heard that name in years. Gabriel looked up once more, the stern look Jack Morrison was known for, softening, breaking, until there was a tired fondness in his eyes, “I forgive you.”

Those words alone could have made Gabriel break then and there. And he did.

Gabriel bowed his head, a hand reached up to hold Jack's as he shut his eyes tight. Jack felt an entire weight lift off his shoulders, the air around him feeling more open, no longer constricting.

The fog cleared, along with the black mist. The lights above them shined through, enveloping them in a warm golden glow. Jack looked to Gabriel then, ignoring the wet droplets that continued to fall between the other's boots and splash against the macabre mask.

“Come on,” He leaned down and gently wrapped an arm around Gabriel's waist, making sure as to not agitate his wounds, and hoisting him up gently. Gabriel kept his head down, but kept a tight grip on the other, his figure shifting in and out as he tried to stay conscious. Jack made sure he was still with him before setting off toward the others, leaving only their shadows behind; Soldier 76, and the Reaper.

“Let's go home.”

#overwatch #reaper76 #prudy pru's storytime #reaper #soldier 76

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emalynde · 7 years

Text

Dwin’orrel and the Dinner Date 1

BACKGROUND:

So we’ve gone over the basic relationship between Emalynde and Thalandril--for the most part. (http://emalynde.tumblr.com/post/156271641901/new-elf-boyfriend-campaign-character-the-oc-of) This RP is following an encounter I ran for our usual DM--since he plays Thalandril. TL;DR some old dude disgruntled with the city’s progression and tolerance toward the drow who defected from Lolth to Eilistraee throws a tantrum. Basically, the Queen, with Jarlaxle’s help, relocated a whole drow house into Leuthilspar and not everyone is onboard with their assimilation. The old dude in question happens to be a senator with great influence within the governing body of Evermeet, since he’s the head of the Defense committee, essentially. Now, the drow are Evermeet’s biggest threat; making friends out of the nice ones is not in the best interest of this senator, Dwin’orrel. Doing so chips away at his preservation of power. So, in order to pivot the inclusion of drow to his benefit, the wizard strikes a deal with Lolth: she gives him the knowledge and her blessing to create Chitine and he punishes the renegade drow for disrespecting her. Chitine are the result of painful, horrific sacrifices of surface elves to Lolth, who infuses them with her ‘spark’ to create these humanoid spider things.

Occasionally, a purer, better version will result from the ritual, a pony-sized, sentient spider called a Choldrith. Dwin’orrel intended to amass an army of these creatures and loose them upon Evermeet, scapegoating the drow in the hopes it would have them relegated back to hated enemy status and kicked from the city. Emalynde got tangled up in this mess on accident, as Dwin’orrel was a client of hers whom she and Thalandril suspected of some wrongdoing, but nothing of such a scale as this. Thus, she likely stumbled upon too much or was unprepared for a confrontation of the situation and ended up as a sacrifice. She, of course, was discovered by Thalandril before the ritual was complete, as the intelligence agent had started looking for her after realizing just who the last client on her schedule was. The following linked RP explains their last interaction and therefore some of Thalandril’s misgivings, along with context. (http://emalynde.tumblr.com/post/156267244801/elf-boyfriends-dd-game-rp) Of course, the dashing rogue saves the day (although admittedly I almost killed him in combat on accident :X) and submits the traitorous mage to the senate to be tried for his crimes. This RP begins when Emalynde comes to. She knows nothing of what occurred. Enjoy <3. *** Given the magnitude of response to the discovery of Dwin'orrel's treason, the 4 surviving elves--including Emalynde--were rehabilitated by the end of the day. Regenerating that much blood was a task requiring just about the highest level clerics, but it was not impossible. The downtown temple of Corellon Larethian was bustling with its current occupants: intelligence agents, some of the Queen's personnel, and the resident clerics. Two of the women were older than the redhead, perhaps middle aged, hovered over by elves with notepads who were scribbling furiously away. The smallest elven girl was less than a hundred and was taking the longest time to recover; she looked like one of the younger priestesses of Hanali--little more than a child.

Emalynde, however, had color back in her cheeks. The marks upon her body had not yet been washed away, but the incisions along the length of her forearms were healed. There wasn't even a scar. Each victim had their own room, what appeared to be quarters for devoted pilgrims or other such guests. Stirring slightly, the redhead heaved a deep sigh, still attempting to discard the veil of unconsciousness. Her brows contract a moment, only to smooth again. With a slight groan, she lifts a hand, resting the extremity against her forehead and temple as fingers rubbed gently at freckled skin. Squinting, the courtier peeks through lidded eyes, seemingly somewhat sensitive to the even muted sunlight streaming in from the window over her bed. ***

Emalynde would notice a few things as she was looking around at the diminished light of the hospital room. The area she was in is bathed in a softened light, as though the sun were coming through a dense cloth, blocking some of the brighter ray, casting an odd, almost eerie, light across the faces moving about. The room she was in had walls made of some sort of plastic-looking lining with runes inscribed all over them, some of them glowing and spinning on the surface of the quarantine walls. People moved about in an ordered fashion taking notes of the other figures lying on beds in the room, monitoring their eyes, heartbeat, and analyzing the words written on all of the elven bodies.

Standing right next to her, speaking quietly, is a face colored in hues of deep indigo and black, stark, ivory hair pulled back under a hooded cloak. The drow priestess smiles reassuringly as she speaks, her accent thick as though she was struggling to put the right words in order. "Do not worry, madam, I am not here to startle you! Please just lay back, I am only making sure you are taken care of. My name is Priestess Elvan’shalee, here to watch over those infected by Lolth--and to bring you back to the world of the living." The drow priestess reached out for Emalynde with a wet cloth smelling of rubbing alcohol to remove the marks on her body. "I was told by a little birdy that you would be able to keep secret about my helping out, no?" The ebon-skinned elf tried to be as calm and reassuring as possible, all while still going about her duties purifying the courtesan before her. "You were the first to wake; the others have not stirred yet. They will not know I was here; but for now... Shhh" She placed a finger to her mouth with a wink in her eye. "I am training the other priests and priestess in how to deal with this before I must be off at the waking of the others… who might not take too kindly to me." Elvan’shalee would go about her duties cleaning up and monitoring Emalynde while explaining to the other healers how to treat the curse and magics at play.

Behind the drow, Emalynde would see Thalandril's second-in-command waiting in the back of the room, making sure everything was going smoothly and keeping his eagle-like eyes on every movement within the room--his ears open for anyone coming, as he was ordered. He makes eye contact with the redhead, and gives her a knowing look. She knew the agent well, having spent almost 50 years as his partner during her youth. He was a good man who had this position due to his loyalty to the crown and to Thalandril personally. The slight, blonde-headed elf approaches and asks her how she is feeling. Ethren almost awkwardly makes small talk before informing Emalynde that Thalandril had been immediately called into a Senate meeting by the Queen to make emergency preparations and decisions based on what had transpired.

***

Emalynde's vision adjusts in increments--blurring in and out for a few moments before the redhead really gets a bearing on her present location. Worry creases the delicate lines etched into the courtier's face as Ema comes to the realization that she knows not where she is. The ebon-skinned visage appears before the enchantress' eyes, causing her to start somewhat-- although the reaction manifests mostly as a sharp intake of breath. As the drow speaks, Emalynde does just as requested of her--lying back onto her pillow with only slight trepidation playing across her feminine features.

While the priestess applies the sodden cloth to her skin, Emalynde glances down slightly, noting that she was both naked and covered in odd markings--which the woman seemed to be cleaning away. At the mention of an informant, puzzlement furrows the enchantress’ brow momentarily, still not having quite enough information with which to place the individual. But she spies the familiar face of Ethrend. The puzzlement and worry eased from the contours of Emalynde's face, drawing in a deep breath of relief. It didn't matter that she had no idea what was happening. Thalandril's fingers were dug deep into whatever this was, given that Ethrend was here.

Her caretaker spoke of others, the information prompting Emalynde to glance over to the three women who were receiving similar treatment--although without drow aid. Curiosity piqued the redhead's interest, allowing her gaze to alight upon her darker-skinned counterpart. "You are quite lovely," the freckled elf states almost matter-of-factly. Her tones were sweet and complimentary, attempting to lift a hand to brush against the priestess' face--presumably--but couldn't quite manage the movement. It looks like she lifts a hand toward the woman but the gesture is weak and wavering. This fatigue was sobering. Never had Emalynde felt so thoroughly exhausted by such a small motion. The courtesan cracks a smile at her limited motion, instead offering, "Thank you."

As Ethrend journeyed to her side, the freckled elf made no show of covering herself or otherwise even taking note of her bare figure. She would appear much as Ethrend remembered her, almost 100 years ago. At the kind inquiry, the redhead favors her former lover with a beguiling smile dampened only be her weakened state, "Well, now that you have come to visit me." Her digits twitch slightly in his direction, seeking his touch. Emalynde would effortlessly engage in small talk, asking of his own life's events as well. She never made herself the topic of conversation unless pressed--which was sometimes what was required of her. Many of her clients--for whatever reason--reveled in simply listening to her speak, fascinated with her person.

At the news of Thalandril, both crimson brows loft in muted surprise. "Senate meeting? But he so abhors such formalities. And with the Queen, no less." Golden eyes flick toward Ethrend, slightly narrowed and appraising, "What has happened, Ethrend?"

#Dwin'orrel and the Dinner Date #rp #Ema writes stuff #Emalynde Ilayne Inara #Thalandril Van'drys #Ethrend Lath'aenir #dungeonsanddragons #dungeons and dragons #d&d #d&d 5e #d&d shenanigans #because I really only write about elves #writing #short story #headcanon

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