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0alix0 · 1 year

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Aivela's curse (1/?)

link to AO3

parings: Arcann/Outlander (Female Jedi Consular)

warnings: Hanahaki AU (and every gruesome detalization that comes with it), enemies to friends to lovers (?)

It all started when she had escaped.

When the murderer of their former "immortal" emperor, the so-called outlander, is brazenly dragged out of the carbonite cell hidden in the bowels of the Spire. And then again right under his nose.

Chasing the stricken ship, he, together with Vaylin, ends up in the eternal swamps. Exactly where the Outlander fled off Zakuul. Even before completely landing on the surface, he is engulfed with uneasy feeling of déjà vu, and a terrifyingly familiar echo of the Force that beats in his head. It feels like a stain in the middle of the universe, like a black hole, pulling all living things into itself, and twisting them. An all too familiar feeling. And it is as if it's still here, just reach out.

The shuttle doors open and Arcann finally sees the ruined battlefield for himself. If it can still be called one. Crushed ground, with trees broken as if from a hurricane, and dozens of his skytroopers and knights trampled under layers of debris. Wrinkles appeared on his forehead, he clenched his metal hand till a creak came out of it. All, all because one single wave of jedi's hand.

It couldn't have been her power.

He touched his forehead as he reminisced about that day in the throne room. About the strange data from the crashed Sith ship, about the dispute between that jedi Outlander and his father, as if they knew each other, and about how the energy, torn from Valkorion after the fatal blow, rushed to the unconscious jedi like to a beacon enveloping her with it. He almost pitied her. Almost.

He did not waste the time of father's absence in vain. A crowd of outraged citizens, knights, even some scions, all wanted justice for the murder of their beloved emperor. Some wanted revenge. And Arcann wanted an explanations.

And already in a few days, the knights were already storming some of the distant bases of the Sith Empire. Cut their communicators, destroyed any holorecords of their presence, so that no one even knew who attacked them... they also collected data. About imperial hierarchicy, ancient Sith worlds, Dromund Cass, the destruction of Ziost. And about their missing sith emperor.

One of today's intruders can be almost certainly identified as a Sith, and it couldn't be just another coincidence. If this was truly someone who had come back here to set free the "reborn Emperor", if Valkorion had planned it... and Arcann knew he did, his father had always planned something he never spoke of to anyone... that Jedi is nothing but a meat puppet now, she's not a random soldier brought here by circumstance, it became obvious as soon as father suggested her place at his side, she's not a victim. She is a threat, just like Valkorion. To Zakuul. To him, to the only remnant of his family.

For your own damn good jedi, just sit in your fucking fridge.

"Your Highness," the senior lieutenant distracted him. "Permission to begin search..."

"Immediately!"

The squad of knights who arrived with him immediately began to clean off the debris, search for any remains or clues that could help them to define the intruders. Meanwhile the medical team resuscitates found knights who were injured by that force wave.

All around was gray and cold, completely opposite to how Arcann remembered. A zap of pain passes through the left arm, forcing him to grab onto the elbow, as if there was something to grab onto. Whether because of a sudden change in atmospheric pressure or a flash of memory, he could not tell. The rain drenches them all from head to toe, but, what is more important, the traces will soon be completely washed off the ground

"Izax damn them all." he grumbled to himself, clearing his throat. He wanted to leave... for practicality of course. He's hardly useful sick, and yet... something prevented him from leaving. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, the only thought that literally haunted him to leave spire, uncertainty or denial, something ghostly, maybe even sentimental... He didn't know how exactly he would know that Senya was truly there. Whether he simply overthought her presence on Gravestone then, in the throne room or... Not. Perhaps he hoped these feelings and her presence would waver away from his mind as soon as he'd arrived here. It didn't happen. Thoughts were fighting with one another and bright him no relief. It wasn't her. Yet someone had to tell the sith about the prison. It couldn't be her, she knew better than following the old bastard... But could it be that she follows the jedi?

Something in his chest feels squeezed and for some reason it becomes difficult for him to take a breath. He feels a stinging bitterness on tongue. If it was her. And if she really is here... There! Side by side with some... outlander she never even met?

A dry and almost silent cough escaped his throat. No, that's enough of this nonsense.

He turned to Vaylin, she was standing a dozen steps away from him. Motionless, like a statue, she looked somewhere far away. He slightly touched her shoulder.

"There is no point in standing here for hours. You will only catch cold. Even if they left something here, it will most likely not..."

She. Was. Here. She helped that jedi escape. She helped him escape. Arcann tries to make a deep breath to calm himself but gets interrupted by another bout of quiet coughing.

Vaylin turns to him, eyes down, lips pressed, and reaches up her hand. A tiny block of wood rests on a thin palm. It's shaped like little Mawvorr's head... and looks exactly like the one some of them actually made for Senya decades ago.

He takes a carved figurine. Metal fingers brush over age-damaged surface, and anger starts to flare in his chest.

"She lost it when we were little. Let's go home." his voice seems even more mechanical, hoarse, even considering the mask. Arcann returned her the figurine, pulled the cloak from his shoulders and silently threw it over Vaylin. She stood without movement, looking into small carved dots-eyes. Mawvorr slowly levitated from her palms and hanged in the air for a brief moment. A quick spark. Lightning discharges from both of her hands. The figurine burns within a few seconds, but it feels as if the deformation of small pointy face and the sizzle of the cracking wood and vaporized rain drops lasted just long enough to stuck in his head for next few days. Perhaps it's easier for her this was. Perhaps for him as well. Arcann claps her on the shoulder "Come on."

He takes his sister away from the swamps, from the thoughts that maybe their father is still alive, and even more so, that he is capable to return, that their mother didn't even thought twice before helping him... her.

In the recesses of his mind, he hopes that even if Valkorion's favorite was just unfortunately got caught in a crossfire of their mutual despise, it would be better if she just died without ever coming back.

When they return to the shuttle, his clothes are already sticking to his skin with the disgusting cold, and something begins to painfully itch somewhere in the depths of his throat. He mindlessly brushes it off as a hypothermia.

And only before bed he notices a tiny red stain in a corner of his lips and a metallic taste in mouth.

Petunia. Resentment and anger.

#arcann #Outlander #firiv #swtor #fanfic #ok the more i write the farther go from canon #sorry for trying to give characters actual motivation and not the MUAHAHA I WANT TO RULE THE WORLD nonsense #no 5 planets attack and other shit #don't wanna write two victims of abuse as psychopaths sorry must be something wrong with me #also arcann and outlander will probably have more interactions because i want and you can't do anything about it mate #english isn't my first language please don't kill me #probably will re edit it AGAIN tomorrow

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megamindsupremacy · 1 year

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Star Wars Fic Recs (Part 6)

And we’ll be together by punsbulletsandpointythings

Kix never wanted to be a part of the Resistance -

An echo in the force (a whisper in a cave) by muerarashaye

Jedi Knight Feemor is on Toprawa, having just finished a mission with the Antarian Rangers before heading back to Coruscant for the first time in years. He has a busted arm from his mission, but only fractures and some strained tendons, nothing crazy, and spends the next day on paperwork and a healing trance. Nothing unusual, in the life of a Watchman.

The next morning, his arm is worse than when he went to bed. His mission reports are entirely unsubmitted. No drafts exist. The fruit he ate yesterday is still in the bowl. What. The. Fuck.

Lightbearer by esama

After his Master's death Obi-Wan Falls. Anakin picks up the pieces. -

Composing hallelujah by mirandatam

Shmi Skywalker from eight different perspectives in the days leading up to A New Hope. Some things change, and others do not.

“You do have a habit of getting into trouble, don’t you,” the woman says after K-2 takes out the last of the stormtroopers.

“Who are you?” Jyn finally demands.

The woman raises an eyebrow. “That’s a rather rude way of putting it,” she says. “But then, I’ve been rather rude myself, haven’t I?” She nods to Jyn, something that may have been half a bow and may have just been a nod. “My name is Shmi.”

(Prior knowledge of the AU not really necessary.)

Twin suns by SWModdy

Desperate and alone, Obi-Wan Kenobi pours his ability into a ancient and forbidden technique that borders the Dark. He unsticks himself from the timeline and is reborn as Ben Skywalker, younger twin of Anakin Skywalker. With only faint memories of the future and an uncanny ability that even the Jedi do not understand to see the future, Ben navigates his brother, peace, love and war while trying to make a life again. -

Veiled in Light by esama In which Obi-Wan Kenobi dies at the age of thirteen to save Master Qui-Gon Jinn's life and Ben Kenobi still manages to find a way to cause problems on purpose.

I don’t want you to be at peace (I want you to fight) by sealure

He doesn't get to do this. He doesn't get to come back just to leave again. Because Ahsoka Tano has been alone for seventeen years and he does not get to do this. She will not let him. After almost two decades of running, hiding, grieving, fighting, she's finally found her Master again. He's back in the Light, and there is very little she will not do to keep him there. -

Frame thy fearful symmetry by asparagus_writes

Anakin, Ahsoka, Rex, Fives, and Echo get captured, but the enemy has plans to make this a different kind of imprisonment. Unfortunately for them, and also Anakin, their plan goes awry.

Or, the Separatists learn that injecting the Chosen One with a Force-suppressing drug has unpleasant and dangerous side effects.

Fire to ash, present to past (who knows for tomorrow?) by blueberrywizard

"For the longest time nobody really knew what happened to Obi-Wan Kenobi. One day, shortly before his fifteenth birthday, there was an anomaly in the Force. Not a grand one, no. It was more of a deep, mournful sigh, heard only by few."

Obi-Wan Kenobi is a survivor. And the Force loves him, even if he doesn't know why.

[or: Obi-Wan is fifteen again, things are different, people are confused, but maybe there's something good at the end of the path]

Order by autonomaisa09

Fox saves Luke from what he thinks is an assassination attempt by someone with a very familiar face.

#mads posts #fic recs #fic rec list #star wars fic recs #star wars fic rec list

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anatthema-art · 2 years

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finally i have completed the full party art for my dnd game based off of psychonauts! we all collectively realized it would be REALLY FUN to go into our ocs minds like in psychonauts and so we decided to chuck in all our personal projects as one big ol multiverse and make some characters from our homebrew worlds to muck around with!

separates under the cut!

Penny Synch, Psitaneum Dragonborn Chronurgy wizard! i couldnt resist making my character just the MOST blatant psychonauts oc i could. they’re an intern at this multidimensional station of the psychonauts, and are both eager to learn and also VERY tired

Ilvana! Aasimar oath of the watchers paladin! absolute fashion disaster and dumb lil fangirl, she enjoys the blorbo from her shows

Trinity! Halfling bard, and the unfortunate background character to a world of a bunch of heroes. it’s okay, she gets to be her protagonist in THIS multiverse, and also be a feral little gremlin who will stab your ankles

Here’s Ashryn, half-elf half-dwarf reborn echo knight fighter! she’s from a grim horror universe with low technology and terrifying monsters. she’s a store thumb in our mess of colourful disasters and is experiencing a LOT of culture shock

and here’s Junebug! they’re a 12 year old lil baby firefly fairy from essentially the multiverse’s equivalent of florida with all the magical chaos that implies. they were flung through the boundaries of their universe and came out the other end as a storm sorcerer, and also coincidentally are a ticking pipebomb waiting to explode at any moment. but mostly they just wanna play the games on your phone

and last but certainly not least we have Russel! he’s seemingly just a very pleasant normal human from a very low magic world :) pay no attention to the fact he’s a blood hunter :) who definitely has been dealing with eldritch horrors :) i’m sure it’s FINE

god i absolutely LOVE this mess of a party. we probably won’t be able to start for quite a while considering that we’re waiting on seeing if DnD releases a book for the planescape setting, but hey, in the meantime i WILL brainrot over our gang of disasters and the psychic adventures theyll get up to!

#dnd #art #my art #artists on tumblr #dnd art #dnd ocs #ocs #my ocs #original characters #dnd party #character art #psychonauts #character design #oc

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industria-adastra · 9 months

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[Vampire Knight] If I'm to be reborn, I'll find you (again, again, again) - CHAPTER ONE: my clematis (hope died in the abyss) - [2/4]

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Summary: And in his hands, his flower wilts, and fades away.

There is not even a body left.

Note: Does anyone actually write VK fic in 2023. Is the VK fandom alive lmao

Would Kaname be like this if Yuuki died? Perhaps. He's a character deeply shaped by loss and hinges a lot of his desire to live or die on Yuuki. He also probably considered her 95% minimum as his own emotional support system. Kaname is very messed up lmao. Honestly, I feel like this was a better potential ending for Yuuki dying before his original plans were complete. (Sorry Kaname I'm sad about killing off my personal best girl too) At least I didn't make him go apeshit. (That would be more in line with my WIP Shizuka Hiou character study fic).

Like last time, I recommend playing Miyashita Yuu's cover of "Condolences, and Then Life Goes On". Ah, and the ao3 link.

Pairings featured: Yuuki/Kaname, Yuuki/Zero (mentioned)

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Yuuki (beautiful, wondrous, dying) is like ice in his arms, as if crystallising within the seconds before she shatters in his arms. The words she’d said (I love you), echo in his mind alongside the ringing in his ears.

Kaname stares down at his palms and finds them empty. Empty, empty, empty.

Yuuki is dead.

(And there was not even a body left)

There is a building scream in his head, and he’s all too sure his expression is more akin to a monster than a man. The ground quakes beneath his feet, rumbling a warning to nearby unfortunate fellows. And then, for a scant few seconds, it stops.

Kaname could practically taste the relief from the ants close by, thanking their lucky stars for the Kuran heir’s iron-clad control. But all iron rusts, and Kuran Kaname has been dealt a terrible, irrevocably horrible blow. It is only the calm before the storm. He crushes the maelstrom of fury building in his chest into a ball but doesn’t swallow it whole.

Silence… And then, unceremoniously, suddenly—cracks appear in the earth, a storm builds, and the trees groan. Kaname allows the hatred and rage to explode forth whilst still, he stares, blankly, at the space where Yuuki’s small body had once been. Stares, no longer feeling the lingering residue of her warmth. His legs feel numb.

(He is sure that the filthy rats who surrounded them the moment blood hit the water will not come out alive today. Kaname will most surely make it so it will become a reality.)

Suddenly, there is no more light at the end of the road. Suddenly, Kaname is nothing but a blinded man stumbling in the cold unforgiving darkness, grasping for a warm light that will never come. The sun is gone, and already he can feel the frost settling in. Feels it deep in his bones, feels it in his heart as if it might turn to ice at any moment.

With Yuuki gone, what was there to live for? His power builds, destroying everything around him with a frightening ease as he ponders this question. All his plans, all his work—ultimately, it had all begun for Yuuki’s sake. To create a world where she would be forever safe, forever happy (within the sunlight she had so adored, that he had taken away in a moment of selfishness). He had loved her to the point where he would’ve died for her (and he had planned to).

Yet now… She was no more. She was gone, gone, gone. And now he feels directionless, a boat lost at sea without a lighthouse to guide his way home.

(And with her had gone the warmth within his heart)

A storm rages violently around him.

Kaname stares at his empty hands, and makes a decision.

Everything comes to a standstill.

Kuran Kaname has always been a creature of patience, of control. But at this point in time, even he struggles to bite down and continue living—if only for a now nebulous goal that he brings to the altar of worship to someone beyond the land of the living.

He’ll create the world he had so desired for her. He’ll do so in her name, for the sake of preserving that world of light she had loved. Now, there was no need to temper his cruelty with gentility. Not when there was no one else to be gentle for. No one to shed the skin of a monster for.

(And perhaps if he does so, he’ll have an afterlife in her arms)

As always, the blood is bitter, nearly flavourless on his tongue, already flaking away into dust alongside the other bodies. As always, he has brought about a swift, violent end to his obstacles. The days continue to pass, and the skeletons continue to pile. He builds a kingdom of peace, brick by brick with offerings of flesh, bone and blood.

As always, he is alone, alone, alone.

(Goals were good. Goals stopped him from thinking too deeply, from remembering. From losing his way and sinking into the comforting dirt.

Soon, he’ll be done.

Soon, he’ll see her again.

Even if it’s only the never-ending dream of the dead.)

They say the king of monsters resides in a house of the dead, a house of memories.

As strong as he is, even Kaname can fall prey to sudden weaknesses.

Sometimes, when the desire swells to an unbearable degree, he crawls into the sheets of her bed—content to bask in her fading presence. For a moment or three, he can delude himself, can pretend that all is right in the world, as right as it always is in his dreams. Yet he dares not stay for too long, too afraid that one day her scent will only be covered by his own. That one day he will have nothing to remember her by but the gaping hole in his heart and soul. If he could, he would tie down those precious memories of her with chains; lock them down and throw away the key.

He hoards her items like a greedy dragon does with treasure, unwilling to part with a single one of them. Kaname has always been only so kind to a certain extent, and has only been the most kind to his most precious person. Years upon years passing by will slowly destroy gentility within anyone.

Again, he inhales the smell of her, feeling the exhaustion heavy in his bones.

His throat always seizes when it does so; it is always dry and he is forevermore wanting, forevermore hungry for the blood of someone no longer in this world.

(He wonders if this was how Rido felt after Juri's death. Never satisfied, always craving. Wanting, wanting, wanting.)

The bed is always cold when he lies on it.

They say the king lives in a house that’s withering away with time, still never changing in accordance with a rapidly developing world.

Every decade or so, he journeys out around the world. Seeing the sights, taking photos, and buying souvenirs for someone who never got the chance to see the full beauty of the world. One by one, these hollow memories fill his own bedroom, a reminder of what could have been.

In the world of beasts, society is ruled by power and fear.

On a throne above the rest, he is an ever-vigilant, watching eye—daring anyone to step a toe out of line. No one ever does but the most foolish, most beastly of them all. Even then, the punishment is enough for obedience to take root.

Kaname has always been good at being alone.

(He knows that they still follow him, but it is a loyalty and trust stained by fear, chipped away by the ever-growing walls around his heart. Grief makes monsters of men.)

The world of men is not quite so different from that of beasts.

It is in the boundary between the two worlds that he meets Kiryuu Zero again.

As creatures of the night, physically, they look the same as that fateful year in the academy—young, everlasting. But like recognises like, and Kaname spies similarity in the pallor of their skin, the cold steel of his half-mad eyes, and the apathy deep within every action. His clothes, if it were even possible, look messier than Kaname remembers.

Looking at him now is like looking at a mirror. He gazes into dull lavender eyes and cannot muster up to feel anything at all. What point is there, after all?

(They have both loved and lost)

“How have you been, Kiryuu-kun?” At this point, there is no use for false airs and pleasantries, but Kaname does so anyway, going through the motions of a long-remembered script. Kiryuu is the leader of the Hunter’s Association now, and it does no good to try and shatter the newfound peace between all on a petty whim.

The coldness of his gaze does not change, and neither does his stoic face. “Fine,” is all Kiryuu offers in response. A beat of silence, and then he states, “You’ve been busy.”

“No more than you have been.”

Paper slowly shuffles in Kiryuu’s hands, being sorted out one by one. Their stilted conversation is bland, no better than the time they had pretended to be friendly to each other in Cross Kaien’s school office. “There are always many things to attend to, even as there’s less vermin to exterminate.” Even the acid Kiryuu tries to fling does nothing more but fizzle and pop.

“Speaking of vermin. I am quite sure that you will soon find time for a vacation.” At that, Kaname turns to gaze out of the window, eyes fixed on a brown-haired pair down below.

The papers stop shuffling. “I see. Then I should start preparing for that time.” And with that, there is only silence between the two of them.

There is no lost love between the both of them, but at the very least, they can share a moment of understanding. (Of finality)

Perhaps Kaname feels kind today, revisiting the past. Or perhaps he is simply tired. Maybe that is why he leaves behind Artemis, lying on a faded prefect’s armband.

(She had loved him too, even at the very end)

And one day, when it is all said and done—the foundations laid, the kingdom strong—Kuran Kaname allows himself to unravel, wither, and fade away.

He wonders if she’ll meet him with a smile from her heart.

#my writing #angst #fanfiction #vampire knight #yuuki kuran #yuuki cross #cross yuuki #kuran yuuki #kuran kaname #kaname kuran #kiryuu zero #zero kiryuu #tw grief #tw depression #it's at least implied/referenced so I'll be safe about this kinda stuff via tagging #I hope I did do well portraying Kaname's grief and terrible coping mechanisms aka wholesale slaughter and reintroducing a monarchy #amongst other things #I liked writing the part about Kaname on Yuuki's bed and him meeting Zero again the most #but maybe the 1 reader who sees this might like another part better #also anon who told me my post was too long which one are you talking about please do tell me idk which one it is #anyways just like the last post #yume makes me go feral #eternal yume #this one did feature mentioned zeki but i didn't think it was enough so I'll use that tag for zero's chapter #which will be chapter 3 and is in the works #will zero be less depressed than kaname? probably #but it's not like he'll be any happier per se?#hate it or love it you have to admit yuuki is a very integral person to both of these men

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brightblessed · 2 years

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Alright. So I was talking with some people in discord and I decided to make a post about some of Roi’s worst injuries which do put him at a bit of a canon divergent area at times.

A Realm Reborn:

Roi has almost no injuries from this time. He was a mage and fought at long range. He fared very well.

Heavensward

Aside from mental trauma from the end of ARR, Roi suffered from several wounds while learning how to be a Dark Knight. Though his most serious injury came from his own failure.

Shortly after ARR, before really entering Ishgard proper, Roi was helping with some odd jobs around Camp Dragonhead to keep his mind occupied. During this time, his focus and emotions were so out of whack that he ended up basically setting himself on fire. He set his hands on fire which led to intense scarring in both. He didn’t quite burn the nerves but they were very serious. Likely 3rd degree burns on his hands from his wrists to the ends of his fingers. He ALWAYS keeps his hands covered at least mostly from this point on. He hid this injury from everyone and didn’t have it healed as punishment. It made wielding a sword miserable as he was still healing when he picked up Dark Knight. He was in pain almost constantly but tried to convince himself it was deserved or made him more in tune with his darkside. It is highly likely that very few people have ever seen these scars.

Stormblood

When Zenos defeated Roi in the start of Stormblood, he cut a gash in him from the middle of his stomach to the center of his chest. It almost killed him and it took quite some time before he could go to Doma. Him and Y’shtola were hurt pretty badly, though he was less so thanks to his abilities to defend himself with his dark side. Roi still has a very noticeable scar that will probably never fully go away there.

When Zenos defeated Roi in Doma, he didn’t mess him up as bad but he did hurt him. Alisaie healed him pretty quickly so it wasn’t AS severe.

When Elidibus defeated Roi, he was spared the pain for long thanks to the Exarch trying to summon him. He did take some time to recover between this and Shadowbringers. It was certainly another near death. Which has him having 3 of those in Stormblood, all relating to Zenos in some way.

Shadowbringers

This one is special. Roi’s aether is still affected by the Light. When he first recovered, he still had “flare ups” where he would ache. He felt genuinely weaker all over his body and had chronic headaches. He would get worst headaches when near light aether. He still has headaches andfeels like he’s getting a fever around a lot of light aether. Sometimes he still gets small episodes, like echoes of the pain. But he can’t tell if it’s actually physical or in his head. This was the single most painful thing Roi had ever felt. Not only was his essence being overtaken, his SOUL was cracking apart. He still has nightmares that he lost himself. And sometimes he worries that he actually did and everything since is a dream or delusion. This leads to him having to ground himself, though he tries to be subtle about it. His skin is paler than before, even now.

Endwalker

The first thing I have to mention is that in from the cold solo duty. While it wasn’t Roi’s body, he did experience extreme physical trauma. Burns, broken bones, the entire deal. It was incredibly traumatic and he felt every bit of it. He basically was dying. He crawled to save his friends.

Next would be the final Endsinger and Zenos fights. He got through Endsinger pretty well, but the fight with Zenos after... I am like 99% sure that he was so close to death when he went back to the ship that only dynamis saved him. His body was cut up horribly and he lost a lot of blood. His lung was collapsing. He had three broken ribs. He broke like 3 fingers punching Zenos. He had intense internal injuries and if it wasn’t for dynamis, he would be dead.

He still has some linger issues here. It’s likely that some won’t make themselves known until he’s older, even. But overall, Roi was honestly probably so close to death that nothing could be done when he appeared there. And for me, it took months for him to recover.

#⌈ ♞ ⌉ about. || ˟ –––– there is no weight that can bury us beneath the ghosts of all my guilt #/// injury #/// burns #/// broken bones #/// serious injury #/// death mention

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dalmascan-requiem · 2 years

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OC Introduction: Kris

Basic Info

Name: Kris (he doesn't use a surname; if pressed he'll make something up on the spot) Aliases: Eir (forest name), Gale Age: 125 at the start of A Realm Reborn Pronouns: he/him (cisgender) Sexual Orientation: Demisexual/Panromantic (masculine leaning) Birthday: 23rd Sun of the 3rd Astral Moon (May 23rd) Current Occupation: Warrior of Light Affiliations: Scions of the Seventh Dawn, Lente's Tears

No one knows too much about Kris before he joined the Scions and (begrudgingly) became the Warrior of Light, and when asked, he'll say he was an adventurer before coming to Eorzea and quickly changes the subject. However, if you manage to find the right people and ask the right questions, you may learn about a former member of Lethe's Tears named Gale that matches his description.

Gale was originally from a small village in the Golmore Jungle, where he became a Wood Warder, as is the duty of all male Viera. However, he eventually left the jungle after an incident resulted in his closest friend being banished from the village.

After leaving the jungle, Gale made a new life for himself in Dalmasca. The Viera finds his friend, and the two of them work together, gathering information and resolving "problems" in the royal city's underbelly.

Eventually, when Gale and Laurent's mentor passes, they decide to try and turn over a new leaf and run her tavern. However, they did not know that she was an agent for the Saraab, and they are unwittingly roped into continuing her work--gathering information and taking care of any threats to the royal family that arise.

When the Garleans attacked and occupied Dalmasca, Gale joined the Resistance efforts, becoming a battle medic and taking care of those injured on the front lines. However, shortly after the Calamity, he begins having strange dreams--dreams of a crystal and the need to travel to Eorzea.

With the strange dreams came the strange power of the Echo, giving the Rava increased physical and aetherical abilities, as well as visions. As time passed, the visions became more frequent and debilitating, forcing him to leave the Resistance suddenly and heed the crystal's call, heading to Ul'Dah to follow his destiny...

Battle Proficiencies

Canonical Classes: Archer (Pre ARR-HW), Dark Knight (HW-SB), Red Mage (ShB-EW), Bard (EW) Weapon Proficiencies: Bow, Daggers, Greatsword Other Skills: Stealth, First Aid, Basic White and Black Magic

Anyone that pays attention to how Kris fights will notice the results of his long years of Wood Warder training. Be silent, strike quickly, and keep moving--all important for survival in the harsh Golmore Jungle. Even as a Dark Knight, he'll only wear light armor and stay mobile, choosing to surprise his enemies with his agility while holding their attention.

What people may not notice at first is that Kris also is very proficient with magic, thanks in part to the Echo. His training as a battle medic and basic conjury also comes in handy from time to time--although Kris prefers no one gets hurt in the first place, so he'll often take the vanguard.

Other Abilities and Hobbies

Music - Kris is able to play the harp particularly well. He also has a nice singing voice, though he's not one to sing in front of most people (even as a Bard).

Cooking - Kris really enjoys cooking, and learning how to make new food. During his time as an adventurer, he's learned a lot about different types of cuisine and is remarkably skilled at making a variety. If Kris lived in a more peaceful world, perhaps he would have been a Culinarian instead.

Botany - Considering Kris's love of cooking and his knowledge of first aid, it's not surprising that the Rava knows a lot about flora and fauna–what plants are suitable for remedies, which can be used to spice up a meal, and so on. He also knows a lot about flowers, more than one might expect.

Misc.

While Kris is very good at adapting to any social situation, he's not book-smart in the least. If a conversation turns to more scholarly matters, there's no chance he understood anything that was said. This also makes him very bad at anything technology-related

Kris has a skewed moral compass (think chaotic good)–but has the social awareness and aptitude to know not to act on that as the Warrior of Light. His views align pretty closely with the values of Dark Knights (which is probably not shocking, since he eventually becomes one).

Kris is a cisgender male, but he doesn't place any weight in gender roles or any preconceived notions of what a 'man' or 'woman' should do or look like. He'll present more feminine when the mood strikes him.

#ffxiv oc #oc intro #character intro #ffxiv wol #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #ff14 #ffxiv

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rush-wing · 2 years

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ahem hem, soooo any OCs you have been ✨hyperfixating✨ on lately? or in general??

where do i start

It’s all d&d characters, all the way down btw. I’m a forever DM so I tend to make characters whenever the whim strikes but these guys never get played much, I just rotate them in my head sadly, waiting for the day…

I might throw you some art for visualisation but I’m still.. eh.. learning so enjoy little extremely stylised doodles

Everyone here you can find me reblogging things for over on @hearthkeep too!

First!

Is Jaisarie AKA Jaise – she was primed to be in a Saltmarsh campaign but that’s not going ahead now so she’s just sitting on the pier in my head, kicking her feet above the water idly. She’s my undead pirate : ) Jaise started unlife because I got my mitts on the Wildemount campaign guide and thought an Echo Knight’s echoes could make a fun reflavouring as something ghosty. Originally she was a Hollow One, but I’ve since altered her to the Reborn "race", but it’s all dead things at any rate~ She doesn’t know how she died, and isn’t sure she wants to know! Last thing she truly remembers is being dragged out of the ocean as bloated corpse, but the open gash on her neck and her abdomen seems to point to the idea that she was murdered by someone good at their job. Well, aside from glimpses of memories of an old crew she’s fond of, but she couldn’t pick them from a crowd if they stood right in front of her at the moment. I have some ideas for what she was involved in, but the great thing about this is I am pretty happy for any and all of that to go out the window for whatever a good game requires.

Second! Is a constant returner:

My boy Keats. He was my first PC I have made, so yess it’s trueee… he’s a bit special for me. I’ve played him the most out of anyone (which I can count on the one hand), and every time he’s just such a hoot to play. God I love him. And he’s “just” a half-elf battle master Fighter! (I will throw hands on anyone saying he’s boring for that though--) He’s an acrobat-turned-gladiator and a complete dumbass so he is big on stupid stunts, and most of the time, bounces right back up when he eats the pavement face-first. Honestly I think I just wish I had his confidence and bravado.

Third:

This is the gentlemen who I’ve been playing Thousand Year Old Vampire as - Madieren. He started out as a half-elven scholar from an isolated monastery dedicated to the study of magic, but he decided he liked blood magic and went off on a tangent. So you can call him a “vampire” of some description, but I refer to him officially as an immortal blood mage. I’ve had a lot of fun with him over the past few months, watching him evolve, go through the shit (his only student got murdered, has been kicked out of his home at least three times, oh, and had his arm accidentally cut off, just to name a few things), and eat his own hubris whole. He actually started life known as Alezaren, but due to certain shenanigans he’s shed his original name. Madieren ended his run making up with his rival who’s been chasing him down across the continent (who also ended up immortal due to the influence of one of the other player’s characters) and like there was only so much those two could stab each other before the tension went elsewhere.

And lastly:

This is Eon! He’s had a nostalgia resurgence after watching something last night and like I want to do something with him now but what??? I have an Eon-sized itch and I cannot scratch it!!!! Anyway, Eon is my sad wizard tiefling. Well, “wizard” in quotation marks because he’s technically an Eldritch Knight. Eon’s a blacksmith by trade, but dabbles in magic because there’s a quiet passion there for it that was nurtured by an eccentric mentor he hasn’t seen in a long time. So, yes, he has the tragic backstory, to the point I somewhat recently realised I gave an 8-year-old PTSD to get him so. Um. Sorry, Eon. He’s got a very stand-offish, stoic exterior, but he really is such a soft creature at heart. Eon’s my nerd. The oxymoronic buff wizard. I have a set of dice someone in my group made from scratch specifically for him so one day I need to play him so I get to actually roll them for him.

#asks #my ocs #my d&d characters #one day i'll play them....#don't @ me that these are all pretty much subclasses of fighter #i like hitting things ok #fun fact: madieren was originally originally going to be me making a blood cleric #but i slapped my hand from the impulse because i have 8 PCs that don't get played I don't need more

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four-4-dream-land · 2 years

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Meta Knight, how did you come across your sword, Galaxia? And do you still have your old one?

Meta Knight took a long pause, hesitating to answer. This wasn’t a story he was willing to share with just anyone. However, after disappearing for a few minutes, he returned with what looked like a very old sword - nicked, bronze-like metal protruding from a hilt that lacked any form of decoration. It was a miracle that such a weapon could last for so long, perhaps only due to the care given to it by its owner.

“From a glance, this blade may seem highly unimpressive, but it has served me well for longer than you can imagine. Thus, I will never truly part from it, even if it only serves as a spare weapon nowadays...”

Darkness. Cold. Pain.

A lone soldier awoke in completely alien territory, his armor destroyed. At first, his mind couldn’t comprehend it. He had fallen, been struck down by a titan of a monster into a deep chasm. Echoes of his brothers and sisters-in-arms struggling to hold the enemy back replayed in his head as though it were still happening around him.

Raya’s screams.

But none of this was here now. Now, he was met with the cruel indifference of the cavern that was his cradle, the dripping of minerals from the ceiling. He hadn’t a clue of how he could still be considered alive, but one thing was certain – he needed to escape.

His hand tightening around the handle of his trusty blade, the puffball began wandering aimlessly in the unending shadows. He searched for any sign of a way out, any crack of sunlight or glimmer of bioluminescence. He scrounged for roots, mushrooms, and insects for sustenance. Time failed to show meaning here. Perhaps he could’ve kept existing like this forever, but eventually, he did find his light.

It led him to a cave filled with treasure, and amongst it, a golden sword lodged in a stone - the light’s source. The weapon was beautiful…but it wasn’t what he was looking for. None of it was. He turned to leave, but something began moving within the piles of precious metals. It was a mighty dragon, pale as snow, its crimson eyes darting wildly as it sniffed out the intruder. The path the soldier took to make it there was quickly blocked off by dislodged rocks, and so he had no choice but to fight the beast for his life.

After a long, grueling battle, the weary and bloodied soldier seized victory over his captor. Not once did he attempt to grab the golden sword, even when his own weapon was knocked away. The dragon, still barely alive, asked why this was, to which the soldier explained that he just wanted out, that there was a war he abandoned by being there, and that treasure had no value to him. What’s more, the weapon was not his to take, and trying to pull it out of the stone would’ve been detrimental had he failed.

The dragon was impressed by the soldier’s resolve and fighting spirit. It revealed that its sole purpose was to guard Galaxia, the sword of light, from anyone unworthy of wielding it. For proving his worth, it allowed the puffball to claim Galaxia as his own and become its new guardian, noting that it had the power he would need to finally make his escape. Upon doing so, wings sprouted from his back, and the soldier who was almost lost to time and obscurity was reborn as Sir Meta Knight.

It wasn’t until some time later that Meta Knight learned of where he emerged. Pop Star, a planet far away from the side of the universe he came from, had a vast subterranean mine known only as The Great Cave Offensive. He happened to awaken in one of the deepest tunnels, one that was no longer accessible after the knight left it behind. How he ended up there remains a mystery to this day, and despite all the hardships he faced while down there, he was forever thankful to have been given a second chance.

#a treasure chest! || ask #long post #secret lore #my art #sorry this took so long #as a reminder I don't implement events that solely exist in the anime

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pigsriot-blog · 1 year

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Day 3: Cursed

Canny Beclha did make that old castle her seat, as she said she would, and ruled mightily, as she said she would again. And how were them war fires, eh? Them what the knight swore she’d stop? And of dark roads and suspicious neighbors? D’ya think these illnesses found themselves cured under the tender medicine of the Army of the House of Brass? Grave makers and blood letters and garden tramplers, all. Just what did God’s sun witness under its divinely gaze?

The tragic thing about people what try to make the world orderly is that they won’t never be satisfied. Disorder is in the heart of nature, y’see. Ain’t no branch grown straight what weren’t tortured that way by man’s hand, and by and by it ain’t hardly worth the effort. Easier to cut the bastard down if’n you want a board. And our Canny Beclha? Why, the things she built demanded more’n her share of boards.

Time passed like a spit cranked o’er a hungry fire.

‘Twas the third anniversary of the taking of Joy. The bodies were long buried and the roses, thrice reborn. A right fine many of them there were, too, aye, and perhaps more than the old Lord ever enjoyed. They spilled over the grounds, hanging from windows and laced through trellises, lining the battlements and fallen to the walkways in gentle petal showers. Like a flight of one winged butterflies. Like a red rain.

And like any rain, it did little to improve the mood of Prudent Vfeld, knight of the House of Rivers.

“Nobody sees the Lord,” he had been told by the guards at the gate, sternly and with menace.

“Nobody sees the Lord,” he had been told by the steward of the house, demurely and with regret.

“Nobody sees the Lord,” he had been told by the servant in the kitchens, alarmed and suspicious.

A bit of gold for one, a promise of more for another, and Prudent Vfeld had found himself deeply in the beauteous corridors of the Castle of Joy, even if he weren’t specifically supposed to be there. And, aye, 'twas joy he sought, this wayward knight so far from home, a particular joy the likes of which he thought he was finely entitled, seeing as how his house was so old and himself, so young. ‘Twas the joy of prestige and the joy of companionship he were after. Of union and grace. Of the joining of lands by marriage. It was the joy of love that Prudent Vfeld wanted, the hand of the most famous and most powerful woman in the land. And if’n his star rose a bit when it were hitched to hers, high as it was, well, then, it just made matters all the more desiresome, didn’t it?

Problem was, as it turned out, nobody sees the Lord. He had to have bribed half the damn Castle at that point and not a soul what took his gold had any notion of where Canny Beclha was. Her throne room, where she passed down her hard laws, was all echoes and guttered torches. Her study, where she read the stars and learned the names of nameless things, was dust and cobwebs. Even her bed chambers were dark, empty, and unused, which was as tragic a notion as ever occurred to Prudent Vfeld.

“It’s her own damn Castle,” he had said, with some exasperation. “Surely she’s somewhere!”

The chambermaid he spoke to had only replied, with weary sympathy, “Nobody sees the Lord.”

So he found himself sat in the Garden of Joy, seated at a bench under a tree and pulling the petals off a plucked rose like some lovelorn schoolboy, and, aye, perhaps that weren’t such an inaccurate metaphor in itself. His frustrations stewed about him and he had grown to be passingly petulant, which was as far from knightly as one could imagine, though a common enough mood to those who have and want and are yet told no.

No surprise, then, that when a shadow all a sudden loomed over him in that fine garden, his sneer turned ever more sour and the rose crushed firmly in his hand. “Not now,” he said to the shadow. “I’m ruminating.”

“You are not the first to come seeking Lord Beclha’s hand.”

Prudent Vfeld looked up at that, shielding the sun from his eyes, but still could hardly get a look at the person who spoke so out of turn. Day’s light glared harsh around their silhouette. “What’s it to you what I seek or not, servant? Begone, before I call the guards.”

“They do not obey you.”

“Then begone before I behead you myself!” And he patted his sword, a pitifully infrequent tool of the young knight.

“At the highest window,” the servant said, “on the highest tower, Lord Beclha watches her lands behind black iron. Go after dark, where no eyes will see. If they catch you, they will kill you.”

Aghast, insulted, and more than a bit confused, Prudent Vfeld shot to his feet to mete justice upon this impudent whelp. “Just who in the fuck do you think–”

His voice trailed off, for he was alone. Not a servant in sight, nor steward, nor guard. Just the falling of red petals. And as he cast his gaze about him, reeling from left to right, mouth working at the shape of bewilderment, his eye caught on the highest window of the highest tower, just across the way, and he felt something odd settle on his shoulders. He thought it knightly determination, and maybe it was, or some laughable mood of it, anyway. In truth it was closer to pig stubborn pride, though by my estimation there ain’t much difference between the two. Both roads end at the same inn.

He waited until the sun set, as the figure told him. All the while he watched the guards on the walls, timing the rhythm of their patrol, getting a sense for where their eyes would be, and when. Prideful though he was, aye, and young, and inexperienced, and maybe a bit stupid, too, but Prudent Vfeld was at least true to his name. When he figured the timing was right and the wind in his favor, he took to the wall like a shadow himself, dashing through the garden, over the roses, and up to the foot of the stone as quick as a heartbeat.

‘Twas a cloudsome night, and the tower was a monolith above him, but Prudent Vfeld refused to be cowed by no steep challenge such as he saw afore him. Roses climbed the brickwork, floor by floor, a patchwork of red and green dyed black by night, and with a firm test of his own bare hands, he found that it would hold. And so he climbed.

It hurt, aye, the thorns, but the young knight told himself that all things worthy in this miserable life was owed a little hurt. The thorns only worried at his hands, as he gave it a nervesome touch at first, but as the climb grew higher and higher and as his grip grew more and more firm, the thorns did more than worry. They gnawed at his flesh like the dead come back, ripping his palms from line to line, in the creases of his fingers and the pad of the heel. Blood streamed from stem to stem, staining the stone behind, smearing on his tunic and cloak, but still the lad climbed, higher and higher, up past the wall, up past the first window and second and third, up into that empty night while the Castle of Joy wheeled under him, none the wiser. Climbed, he did, that Prudent Vfeld, against pain and fear and gravity herself, and all the while thinking that when he was Lord of this place, married to Canny Beclha herself and given providence o’er her lands by right of their union, he would make sure to get rid of all these damn fucking flowers.

At long last he came upon the highest window, cast in iron, as the figure in the Garden promised. Took but a gentle touch for it to open, which struck Prudent Vfeld as odd since prisons are usually locked. He fell gracelessly inside, for his limbs were mightisome tired and his hands couldn’t hold on to them roses but a moment longer, and he found himself groaning with the pain of it, the climb caught up to him all at once now that the deed was done. It was dark here, black as pitch, and with no moon nor star to shine light from on high it was all the lad could do to even stand up straight without tripping over his own feet.

A figure shifted in the room with him. He felt it more than saw it, a subtle change of the air, the sound of the friction of fabric on fabric. He felt in him a shock of fear, at first, for it were only natural to a man in a place so dark as this to be startled by the company of a sudden and unknown thing. But he were a knight, this Prudent Vfeld of ours, and he reminded himself why he was there. ‘Twere enough, almost.

“Dearest Beclha,” he said, and his voice only wavered but a little, “fear not, for I am your savior. No longer will you be forced in captivity by your ungrateful servants. No longer will you be locked away in this tower, away from the world you’ve built! Your people! I, Prudent Vfeld, have come to rescue you.” A speech he composed during his climb. Came out nobly, in his estimation.

“Rescue… me…” A voice came from that subtle shifting. A woman’s voice.

Prudent Vfeld’s heart danced in his ribs, a smile slashed his handsome face. “Yes!” he cried, reaching into his pack for his lantern. “Yes! Wait just a moment, my love. All will be well, and soon. Allow me to gaze upon your beautiful face but once, and we can be away from this place.”

“No…”

But Prudent Vfeld didn’t hear her, because that weren’t a word men like him oft heard. He produced his lantern, and with a spark of flint it lit, the room came to life all around him.

“Don’t…”

Regal, the room was, as richly furnished as any he had stayed in, and Prudent Vfeld had stayed in many a richly furnished room. A veritable mirror of the bed chamber he saw but hours before, that what was so dark and empty and unused. What kind of a prison, he thought, accommodates its prisoner so?

“Blood…”

And then he saw her, curled up on the floor at the foot of the bed. ‘Twere a woman alright, but she weren’t no Lord. Rags cloaked her meager frame, lumpen and twisted like the most pitiful beggar who he ever ignored on the streets of his home. She recoiled from the light as he held it forth, shielding her eyes, and with the gesture she did expose her bare arm, the skin of it wreathed in some odd marking.

“What is on your skin?” Prudent Vfeld asked, aghast. “What have they done to you?!”

“You’re covered…”

The arm lowered. A face glared out from under ragged hood. And the knight understood, with a falling of his stomach, that it weren’t no marking he was looking at.

Canny Beclha’s wide, reddened eyes scanned the man standing before her. One had an iris as brown as fresh clay. The other had a thorn sticking out from the white. More of them crawled down her face, tenting the skin or even punctured through from within. Down her cheek. Across her throat. Over her chest and arms and legs and sticking from the side of her head like an elk’s crown. The ragged cloak couldn’t hide none of it, now that Prudent Vfeld had a good look at her, and against his own sense of prudence and against his knightly training and against his own romantical ambitions, the young man screamed in bloody horror at the sight of the woman he came to marry.

“You’re covered,” Canny Beclha hissed with a tongue studded by thorns, “in fucking BLOOD!”

#knight's boon june #writing #writing prompt #knight

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lucanforfonte · 2 years

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❦ BOOK ONE - A Realm Reborn ❦

❧ CHAPTER ONE - - - - - The Simple Life PART TWO: reminiscing

The ghosts of his past linger ever over his shoulder as he spends a quiet time gazing out at the view of Limsa Lominsa.

Seven years. Seven years since he’d left Ishgard a failure and a disappointment. His titles, his disciplines, stripped away by his own hand. Penances he’d wrought on himself for the price of his failure. The Temple Knights were a brotherhood he knew he’d never find again, nor harbored any desire to. The bonds of that kinship were strong while they lasted, but agony when broken.

The ghosts of his past linger ever over his shoulder as he spends a quiet time gazing out at the view of Limsa Lominsa. The pirate kingdom, to some, but to Lucan, a good place to leave the past where it belongs.

Morning clouds hung thick in the skies as he caught his bearings, wondering again of the nightmare that continued to plague him. The voice unknown, but wrapping him in a familiar comfort he couldn’t quite place, echoes timidly in the back of his mind. The dream lingers with him, as it always does, finding himself wondering at it’s meaning. What was he supposed to hear? Who was the dark figure? Why, every morning when he woke, did he do so in a panic?

#ffxiv #ffxiv rp #ffxiv roleplay #ffxiv story #lucan forfonte #lucanarr #lucanarrc1

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autumnslance · 3 years

Text

FFXIV Write 2021 #2: Aberrant

Coerthas, 1551 (About 26 years before the events of “A Realm Reborn”)

“You know once you do this, there’s no going back,” Father Comfraire said in his soft, quiet voice.

Corran nodded, walking alongside the slender old priest. The day was warm and the wind blew through the long grasses, the constant hush muffling their footsteps as they made their way to the old watchtower. Corran looked to the sky, watching to see if the wings cutting the air were birds or dragons.

“There have been some who questioned your commitment to the cause,” Comfraire continued. “You’ve been less...active, since marrying that foreign woman and fathering a son.”

Corran stiffened, but before he could argue, Comfraire shook his head. “If anything, the scandal of your marriage made for a decent smokescreen. You play the part of a good Halonic well; one passionate rebellion is to be expected now and then--and she is lovely.”

“My marriage is neither convenience nor a fit of thoughtless passion,” Corran said in a low, cold voice. “I’ll thank you not to speak of my wife so again.”

Comfraire remained maddeningly calm, gaze fixed forward. “I care not if you love her or simply enjoy what’s between her fine legs--the facts speak for themselves and even after all this time, none suspect where your sympathies truly lie.” They stopped outside the old tower, its shadow shifting with the sun’s movement to fall over them. Comfraire did turn to look at Corran now. “My only concern is if you love our cause as much--or more--as you proclaim to love your Thavnairian beauty.”

Corran ground his teeth and willed his fists to unclench; this was how the old priest simply was, and he knew that. So he nodded. “If I wish my family to be safe and free, then the truth must be known, and this war ended. By any means necessary. I’ve waited long enough, and my boy’s no infant anymore.”

“Very well.” Comfraire tilted his head slightly, toward the swollen old door half-hidden behind ivy. Corran hurried forward and pulled it open, allowing the priest to enter first.

Others waited within, men and women who dared not return to the homes they once knew, branded traitors and heretics by the lying Church. They looked up as the pair entered, some nodding in respect for Comfraire, others watching Corran closely. They wordlessly followed into the center of the tower.

The top had long since fallen in, allowing the sun’s slanting rays to shine upon the creature in the center, she who made her roost here and encouraged those who would seek the truth in this long war. Her crimson scales shimmered in the golden afternoon light, scars marking her many victories.

Avengret, a daughter of Ratatoskr, a general of Nidhogg's Horde.

Her burning orange eyes took in the men who entered her domain, head lifting. “Comfraire. What have you brought me today?” She demanded, voice deep enough to vibrate bones.

“One of our own, my lady,” Comfraire said with a deep, sweeping bow. “One who is ready finally to take the next step in our long and winding path.”

“This you so judge?” She demanded, turning her fiery gaze on Corran. He met her glower with one of his own, struggling not to fidget.

“I have known this man his whole life,” Comfraire said. “He is dedicated, and worthy.”

“Dedicated to his Eastern whore, mayhap,” a rough voice said from the right. Another hyur, pale-haired and ruddy-skinned, glaring at Corran. “Where was you when we—”

Corran’s fist connected with the man’s jaw before most in the room realized he had crossed the four yalms between them. The other hyur flailed into an old table, the half-rotten wood crumbling under the sudden weight.

“Keeping my head down and keeping useful connections,” Corran said coldly. “That’s where I was, instead of flashing my arse to the Inquisition and giving every damned Temple Knight a target, Breckt.” He leaned forward over the fallen man, still holding his jaw and wincing as he tried to sit up among the ruined wood. “And I did it while earning the affections of a proper and respectable woman. If you call her aught else again, I’ll feed you your own balls.”

Avengret’s laugh rumbled through them, the very stones vibrating. “Disparage another’s mate and reap the consequences,” she said. “I like this one, Comfraire. There is a fire here I would see stoked against mine enemies.”

“I thought you would, my lady,” the old priest’s soft voice was nearly inaudible next to the dragon’s simple breathing, yet he was clearly heard even through the angry rushing in Corran’s head.

Corran turned his back to Breckt to look up at Avengret. “What would you have me do?”

She appraised him for a long time. Finally her great mouth curled into what could only be a smile. “I would make of you a true warrior, though it will take time. Assuming you wish to fight so valiantly for me as you do for your mate.”

Corran’s mouth felt dry as the others whispered behind him, someone helping Breckt to his feet, the wood clattering against the hushed noises. Avengret’s eyes burned into Corran’s soul and he nodded. “Anything, my lady.”

She raised her large forearm, and as they watched, bit her own clawed digit. More of a nip from smaller side teeth, but enough for blood to well, ruby against crimson. Avengret held her wound to Corran; he could barely cover it with his hand. “Drink,” she ordered, a threatening growl to it.

He glanced at Comfraire, who nodded slowly, a spark in his eye the only show of emotion from the old priest, always so controlled. Corran took a breath, bracing his hands on Avengret’s scales; she was hot to the touch, but not unbearably so, her hide pebbly. He leaned in.

Later, Corran couldn’t consciously recall drinking from Avengret, though he knew he had; her blood was unbearable, the flames coursing through his body, spreading until he was going to burst from the fullness of heat. Others held him upright, soothed him with ice and calming words.

Somewhere above them all, the dragon laughed darkly. “What was ripped from my mother, I freely give that you, my son, might become my weapon--my vengeance. Serve well, and someday your reward will be to fly alongside your true family to destroy those thieves and murderers who would deny your stolen birthright.”

—-

Dark had fallen fully by the time Corran saw Comfraire back to the chapel where he pretended to serve the Halonic church. Corran was sure he said goodnight, but it was hard to hear or feel anything past the buzzing in his skull, the sensation of his skin rippling from flames still racing beneath the surface. He felt as if he had to be smoking like a smithy, his hair damp with sweat and the echo of a dragon’s song in his ears. Everything felt unbearably slow and fragile; he had to move, but could not go swiftly enough, could not go high enough.

The door of his home slammed, and even that seemed too distant. “Corran!” a sweet, familiar voice cut through the haze, hushed but scolding. “Are you drunk? You’ll wake Zaine!”

He looked, and sucked in a breath. His Emelia crossed to the kitchen, throwing him a disgruntled look at his antics. He didn’t care; he could drown in those dark blue eyes and thank her for the privilege. Her golden-brown skin fairly glowed in the lamps as he followed her, the light catching on her fine black locks, shimmering in his gaze. Even now, cleaning up after the evening meal, she moved with the grace of a dancer, slim form swaying to music only she could hear, music ever outside his own hearing but he would follow her lead forever if she let him. Even scolding, her voice, with its Thavnairian lilt, was a song he could never tire of, weaving over the dragon’s verse still in his head.

“I knew you meant to escort the Father on his walk but did you then stop by the tavern? I expected you home bells ago! Zaine was disappointed you weren’t here to give him a story, it took me forever to put him to bed.”

“I’ll make it up to him tomorrow,” Corran growled as he crossed the room. Emelia squeaked as he spun her around and pressed her back against the counter, kissing her fiercely. Her stiff surprise quickly melted into pliant response, her cool hands sliding up his chest and around his neck, a balm for the fire still raging through him.

His hands ran over her body, needing more, needing her, naught else could quench Avengret’s heat, as he nipped at Emelia’s jaw, her neck. “I need you,” he snarled.

She yelped, and he stiffened. “I--did I hurt you?” He asked, some of the haze clearing.

Emelia shook her head. “No--not in a bad way, I mean.” She blushed brightly, and he couldn’t help a relieved laugh. Then she cupped his face in her hands and he thought perhaps he could ascend to the Heavens after all. “This isn’t like you; are you all right? Just what did you drink tonight?”

He pulled her close once more. “Something new. Think I’ll try it again--if you’ve no objections.” He rocked against her.

Emelia gasped and shivered, then bade him pause, swallowing hard. “Just the one,” she managed to say.

Corran blinked, confusion warring with the fiery instincts raging within him.

Emelia giggled, still blushing. “The kitchen hasn’t a door, let alone a lock, to keep little boys at bay should they wake.”

Corran laughed now, perhaps too loudly as she tried to hush him. He scooped his wife into his arms, to carry her to their bed where he could ravish her until the fire in his veins abated, the song quieted in his head. To love and worship her as she deserved--before leaving her arms in the morning to do his part for the neverending war.

---

((Immediately followed up by “Passion”, the spicy continuation of Corran & Emelia’s evening.

So in one of last year’s prompts I suddenly learned Aeryn’s dad was a heretic, and apparently this year we’re exploring that more.))

#FFXIVWrite2021 #Final Fantasy XIV #Lyn Writing #Dragonsong War #Backstory #Corran Striker #Emelia Striker #Avengret

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malaismere · 3 years

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Campaign 3 Predictions - Compiled

So, as a fan of compiling statistics, I've been keeping track of race/class predictions for campaign 3 for the past...at least a year, from tumblr, reddit, and twitter. with EXU over, and my spreadsheet hitting 400 (?!), I figured I'd share the fandom's current predictions

Travis

Human (30), Dwarf (29), Elf, Shifter (11), Half-Elf (10)

Cleric (103), Bloodhunter (63), Wizard (50), Fighter (49), Druid (46)

Lycan bloodhunter (41), Forge cleric (26), War cleric (16), Eldritch Knight fighter, Bladesinger wizard (14)

Marisha

Elf (16), Genasi, Tiefling (14), Dwarf (13), Dragonborn (11)

Paladin (112), Rogue (53), Fighter (43), Cleric (40), Warlock (37)

Eldritch Knight fighter, Glory paladin (14), Artillerist and Armorer artificer, Battlemaster Fighter (8)

Liam

Dwarf (25), Halfling (18), Tiefling (13), Elf (12), Warforged (11)

Druid (77), Cleric (72), Bard (71), Fighter (59)

Stars druid (16), Dreams druid (10), Eloquence bard (8), Alchemist artificer, Whispers bard, Twilight cleric (7)

Sam

Dwarf (34), Kobold (24), Goliath (17), Warforged (15), Kenku (13)

Sorcerer (106), Cleric (98), Druid (63), Wizard (47)

Wild Magic sorcerer (61), Wild Soul barbarian (14), Twilight cleric (8), Life and Forge cleric, Wildfire druid, Divination wizard (7)

Laura

Elf (21), Human, Tabaxi (19), Genasi (15), Gnome, Aasimar (10)

Barbarian (75), Sorcerer (74), Bard (64), Warlock (60)

Wild Soul barbarian (14), Wild Magic sorcerer (12), Glamour bard (10), Shadow monk (9)

Taliesin

Warforged (16), Elf, Changeling (14), Gnome, Genasi, Tabaxi (8)

Sorcerer (68), Rogue (65), Warlock (55), Bard (45), Wizard (43)

Aberrant Mind sorcerer (18), Whispers bard, Phantom rogue, Soulknife rogue (11), Mastermind rogue, Clockwork sorcerer (9)

Ashley

Elf (26), Human (18), Tiefling (17), Half-Elf (12), Dwarf (11)

Rogue (95), Bard (91), Monk (43), Ranger (41), Warlock (38)

Swashbuckler rogue (21), Glamour bard (13), Mercy monk (9), Drunken monk, Wild Magic sorcerer (8)

I also (although less consistently) collected continent/setting predictions. Marquet was the top (49), then Issylra (29) and the Shattered Teeth (22). For non-continent settings, some form of Spelljammer was the top (19), followed by the Age of Arcanum (17), and Planescape/Planehopping (15). Underdark, Ravenloft, Blightshore, and a return to Tal'Dorei were also suggested multiple times.

Much longer and rambly discussion (and my own predictions) under the break.

Top predicted races were Dwarf, Elf, and Human (~100). Dwarf and Elf haven't been played before, so that tracks, and I don't think it's out there to assume we'll get at least one human again. Also, post the whole thing with Essek and long rests, people really started jumping on Elves (which, fair). Warforged, Dragonborn, Tabaxi, Genasi, Tieflings, and Changelings all are pretty prominent (~50).

Of the races not yet established as existing in Exandria, Warforged and Changeling were the most popular (Warforged now dubiously canon post-Aeor, and Changelings dubiously canon with the LoVM bartender), followed by Shifters, Leonin, Kalashtar, Fairies, Grung, Ravnica races (Loxodon, Simic Hybrid, Vedalken), Van Richten's Races (Dhampir, Reborn, Hexblood). Locathah and the other Feywild/Strixhaven races are the only officially published races at 0 suggestions. The lowest previously seen race is Gobins at 2, one of which was for Sam again, and the lowest PHB race was Half-Orc at 17.

Class wise, Sorcerer was actually the most predicted class (which kind of tracks, as it's the one that hasn't shown up even as multiclass), followed by Cleric (generally assumed as compulsory), Paladin (only as a multiclass), and Rogue (also assumed as compulsory, but way less so. Not surprisingly, Bloodhunter, Ranger, and Artificer were the lowest.

Wild Magic Sorcerer was far and away the most suggested subclass, the only one to break 50, although it hasn't hit 100 quite yet (I think it will by the time the final characters are announced though). EK Fighter, Lycan Blooodhunter, Forge Cleric, Swashbuckler Rogue, Wild Soul Barbarian, Stars Druid, Glamour Bard, Bladesinger Wizard, Eloquence Bard, and Echo Knight Fighter are the other top subclasses.

Every official subclass has been suggested except for Berserker Barbarian, Grave Cleric, and Transmutation Wizard (previously played), Battlerager Barbarian and Banneret/Purple Dragon Knight (SCAG subclasses, which are widely unpopular), and the dubiously-official Planeshift subclasses. Open Seas Paladin is the only Matt homebrew to not be suggested at least once. For dead UA, Satire Bard, Brute Fighter, Giant Soul and Stone Sorcerer, and Raven Queen Warlock have all been suggested, usually only once, although many of the suggestions were collected while classes were in UA for Tasha's, Van Richten's, and Fizban's which is technically still UA but announced so...

With Travis, the predictions bounce between two main ideas - a melee spellcaster (Forge/War/Tempest cleric, Bladesinger/War wizard), or going back to a melee class (Bloodhunter, Fighter) but with a bit more mechanical interest (Lycan, EK/Echo/Rune/Battlemaster). I think those are both solid predictions, and while I really, really doubt we'll see a Lycan bloodhunter or a Forge cleric, I think the general vibe is probably spot on.

My own prediction is one of the more out there, but still in line with the general thinking - Artillerist Artificer. Travis is definitely a very tactical player, and it would be cool to see him get a turret for the battlefield, plus all the general utility/versatility of the artificer. Alternatively, I really could see a rogue, although more like what Mastermind or Inquisitive is trying for as opposed to how they actually turned out, if that makes sense.

Race wise, the top guesses are fairly plain, outside of shifter (which is mostly tied into the "werewolf" vibe). None of them would shock me, but I don't have any predictions.

I think that everyone's right on the money with Marisha as a paladin. Her next character being high charisma seems spot on, and I think moving to a half-caster also tracks. EK/Echo/Rune/Psi fighters would also fit, although they don't lean towards high charisma, or a warlock, maybe a more melee one.

Rogue seems unlikely purely due to the fact she's played one before, kind of. Matt and Marisha have both talked some, but her first game wasn't Vox Machina, but a previous game Matt had run where she'd played an assassin. You can do non-assassiny rogues, but still.

(Other fun facts about this game because it's wild: apparently the session she sat in on before playing involved half the party getting eaten by ghouls. the party joined up with another half-tpk'd party (marisha and the replacement characters) to get the raven queen to bring their dead friends back, and a fate-touched rogue swore service to the Raven Queen in order to bring the last party member back.)

My prediction for Marisha is also paladin, although I don't have any thoughts on the subclass, with genie warlock as a second because they are fun. No real thoughts on race other than I too would love to see tiefling Marisha.

Most people are going with a support caster for Liam, which I totally buy. Caleb definitely leaned towards support caster, even if he usually did end up played as DPS. Druid has taken the top given the polymorph->wildshape vibe, although it's still very yclose with Bard and Cleric. Suggestions for fighter dropped after EXU, and while Liam does play a lot of fighters, I doubt we'll see it for C3.

Honestly, Liam is the one I have no predictions for outside of 'support caster'. I'd lean away from Cleric and towards Druid or Bard, but it's hard to say. I also think Artificer deserves to be in the running, as it seems like something Liam would really enjoy, but also...might not want to go Int-caster to Int-caster. My only real thought on race is that I want to see whether Marisha and Liam choose the same again.

Top guesses for Sam is, far and away, Wild Magic Sorcerer. This was also the top guess for C2. I do not think Sam will play a Wild Magic Sorcerer. In general, though, the vibe is going back to fullcaster - Sorcerer, Cleric, Druid, Wizard. I think full caster is probably right.

Sam is so hard to predict because it isn't what he'd choose, but what Liam chose for him. I think it's either something really standard or something really out there, and since I can't guess the really out there, I'll go for the standard - Elf Wizard or Dwarf Cleric, leaning towards Dwarf Cleric, due to the support class and the fact that Sam's mentioned never playing a religious character.

The main vibe for Laura is definitely "DPS" which is understandable. I don't know if I agree with it, but I understand it. Aside from Barbarian, the rest of the vibe is spellcaster - and I don't think we'll see a completely no magic character from her either.

Prediction wise...I understand barbarian, but I'd actually go with Ancestor or Beast over Wild Soul. I could actually see a Bloodhunter from her too, although leaning away from Vex vibes. I think I'd want to go with Wizard, though I'm not certain on that. I would bet Tabaxi but idk, I could see her avoiding that for Travis' sake.

Everyone always names Taliesin as the hardest to predict (he had the lowest count at 354, under even Ashley at 365, to everyone else's ~380/400) but I don't think he's harder to predict than Sam. The thing that makes him hard to predict is that he likes to build characters to fit the party, which he (probably) won't be doing, same as with Molly. The other main thing he tends towards is mechanical complexity in a way that suits his characters.

The main driving influence in the top suggestions is Eldritch Weirdness. Aberrant Sorc, Whispers Bard, Phantom Rogue, Warlock in general. I don't disagree with any of the subclasses, but I really don't think he'd go eldritch for eldritch sake, if for at the very least being...he has always been this weird and it's yet to be a driving force behind any of his characters before. Like the Taliesin-is-an-elder-god thing, I think this is mostly people who don't hang out around occultists. Look, I've had multiple people sell me their actual souls, and you don't see all my characters being warlocks.

That being said, I don't think I disagree with the top classes, just the subclasses. I definitely agree with Sorcerer as a good choice for him, although I'd actually go Clockwork, as I think it has a fuck-with-the-DM vibe. Taliesin is the most heavily suggested for dunamancy subclasses, which wouldn't surprise me, but I think he might avoid on the sole point of not wanting something too tied with the last campaign. A lot of people also name the psionic subclasses, which I'd be more likely to second if they had kept the weird mechanic from the UA, but don't disagree with, excepting my issue with Aberrant Mind.

My out there guess is that he's going to choose a multiclass build. He definitely enjoys playing around with weird builds (Owlbear, he did a non-CR oneshot as a monk/stars druid). On the one hand, a lot of these builds work best for oneshots or starting at higher levels, as they can take a bit of time to come online, but with such a large party, I think it will still function.

(my actual prediction for Taliesin is that his character is weirdly reminiscent of either the aasimar echo knight or the elf blood cleric from the exandria game I'm running.)

Ashley is being predicted as a Dex/Cha build, and I'm totally here for it. Pre-Fearne, I was leaning Ranger, especially Fey Wanderer for a fey build, but post-Fearne, I'm going Rogue, especially Swashbuckler. I agree that seeing a high Cha Ashley would be great, especially to let her be more center-focused than Yasha had been, and swashbucklers are just...really fun. Also, the whole Aeor arc really left me wanting to see Ashley as the go-ahead-and-scout character, just to watch her push buttons.

For continents...I understand why people are guessing Marquet, since it's currently the most explored. I think that if they're going to do Marquet, then Matt will sit down with a cultural consultant. I say will over should, because I won't make any value judgements, but I think it's in line with what Matt and CR would do in that situation.

I can't really tell whether this is a prediction or what I'd like to see (the two are distinct but often difficult to untangle) but I'd actually go with Issylra, and specifically playing up the (at least initial) set up of explorers and adventurers heading out into the wilds. I will also place my bets on them having some sort of more steady home base, and my hopes on that they get an airship. My wildest out there guess is that the plot will move towards either planescape/spelljammer in the upper levels, tying into some of the seeds from the end of C2.

I have seen a handful of people predicting table seating order, which is both very minor and also the thing that I may be most interested in. A while back, someone made a post pointing out that the main romantic relationships were all cross-table, while the strongest platonic relationships were same-table or side by side. Because I am the sort of person that I am, I did statistical analysis on ao3 fics....and it's statistically significant. So I am trying to see whether or not, based purely on C3E1, I'll be able to predict what the top ships for the campaign will be.

This rambling has mostly gotten out of hand because I don't have much opportunity to talk about this, but, you know. If you send me predictions I will give you the current odds gambling style, so that you'd know how much you'd win if you'd place a bet, because I did the tables up as a joke for something else and now I kind of want them to be used for something.

#critical role #critical role campaign 3 #cr campaign 3 #critical role predictions #critcal role meta #cr meta #cr stats

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jimlingss · 4 years

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Moirai [1]

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2

➜ Words: 5.8k

➜ Genres: 60% Fluff, 40% Angst, Isekai!AU

➜ Summary: Death is supposed to be the end. Or at least that's what you assumed when you're hit by a TRUCK. But the moment you open your eyes again, instead of being sent to the afterlife, you've become a baby. And not just any baby. You're the female villain of a video game.

➜ Notes: Isekai is a popular manga and light novel genre in which characters from Earth are transported into a new world.

This is the end. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” The Prince stands tall, the very furrow of his brows jarring against the cold, cordial expression he maintains — the one she had always tried to shatter. All she desired was something other than courtesy. If not affection then frustration or misery. But she supposes that anger suffices. Anger. The first time he’s ever looked at her with an ounce of any true feeling. His shadow looms over her, his status powerful as the countless eyes are narrowed in around her — he is as powerful as the people who stand behind him. Every word he speaks booms through the ballroom, a grand timbre that has long replaced the mellifluous violins. The Prince is as noble as he is righteous. He is the hero of this story. “You choose to answer your crimes with silence?!” The corner of her lips curl and cackles rasp from her throat. The noise is discordant and shrill, a mocking irony when it causes him to pull the woman in his arms closer. Even when she’s in this position, downcast head, knees burnt on the carpet, all she does is drive them closer together. “The only sins I have ever committed was loving you until my last breath.” “Guards!” Murmurs spark across the room and the knights armour clank as they approach in heavy steps. She knows these are the last moments. “The only crime I have is looking out for the empire! But you chose her.” She looks upon the girl he holds, the one who has the same contempt on her visage. And as the knights rip her away from her place, she spits venom-laced words, “A lowly baron’s adopted daughter to make your wife. I am the duke’s daughter. I am educated. I am your fiancée—” “No longer.” He condemns, “You have committed treason. Conspiracy against the crown. Attempted murder. Forgery. Harassment. Using your status to oppress the vulnerable—” “Let go of me!” she shrieks as the guards drag her down the room. It’s undignified. Degrading. “—Daring to entangle yourself with the dark arts. And you will answer to these crimes whether you choose to confess or not.” “Let go of me!” she struggles, yet no one chooses to hear. Their eyes have pierced into her, those who aren’t scandalized are snickering behind their feathered fans. But in the last seconds, status has no place. She looks to the person who matters most, the one she had spent her childhood idolizing. Her beliefs hold true. He will make a great ruler. But she will never be the one to stand beside him. She knows now. That position has long been stolen away from her. “Everything I did,” she cries, “I did for yo—” The grand doors slam shut with her pitched screams resounding. Moments later, the lively music continues, violins and trumpets crescendoing to life once more. As if her life had just not been taken away from her. As if the denunciation was merely an intermission of tonight’s festivities. Her heinous exterior is shattered by tears that no one would have sympathy for. She is limp when she is thrown into the stone jail cell within the depths of the castle. The knights twist on their heel and she is surrounded in pitch darkness with the sound of a scurrying rat echoing beside her. The only time there is light is by the dim flame of the torch, a guard accompanying a frightened servant who carries a bowl of spoiled oats. It’s not enough to satisfy the grumble of her stomach, but enough to keep her alive for the execution day. Without a silver fork or spoon in hand, a handkerchief placed in her lap, seated by a candlelit table, she resorts to using her fingers to scoop the food into her mouth. Sometimes, she thinks they forget about her. Or perhaps time is simply drawn in darkness. A second made into a minute. A minute is an hour. She is merely left leaning against the molded stone, wasted away and drunk on memories of better places. Punishment does not come in the form of her stripped title or even her head rolling away from her neck. Punishment arrives in the darkened loneliness. That loss of sanity that whisper she has failed to capture the attention of the only person she ever loved. That she failed to make him love her. Everything she did, it drove him away. Every act of love placed distance between them. Everything. Liberation comes back with the music of trumpets muffled by the stone walls. “What’s going on?” her voice is hoarse through her parched throat. The servant screams when her arm reaches past the bars to tug on the girl’s dress. Her eyes are bleary as she looks up at the girl. “Why is it so noisy?” “T-The civil war’s over.” The girl backs away and the celebrations become more distinct with the realization. “The villain is dead.” The girl withdraws into the cell and cackles rip through her lungs, resounding across the empty chambers. The servant scurries away as the knight huffs out through his nose and shakes his head. But it’s the best news she’s received since she’s been stowed away. And a smile still graces her features when she is dragged out and jostled by the knights, taken up to where the sun blinds her vision. “On the eve of the Solar Festival, we rid our empire of yet another villain and free it from treachery!” There are cacophonous cheers in the crowd. Her eyes are hurt by the sunlight and she shuts them tight. Her legs are kicked and she’s knocked onto her knees, head being shoved against wood. She wishes she didn’t have to face the sun rays. There’s no decency to give her shade. But the discomfort is over by the blade slicing through the air. She lives and both dies as the villainess — an inevitable legacy. ❇ End of Royal Romances Chapter 7 -Prince Route- ❇

Headbeams. Fuck. You never thought it would be like all those cheesy movies — the third Batman film, Grey’s Anatomy, the Simpsons, hell even Attack on Titan. But nope. They’re right. Time really does slow and your life really does flash by your eyes when you’re in the moment of your death. But instead of feeling grief for yourself, all you can think about is what an absolute idiot you are. You really shouldn’t have jaywalked at night. That cheesecake in the fridge was supposed to be yours! And holy shit, your parents are going to be really fucking mad that you died at only twenty— The truck slams into you before you can finish your thought. …………... ……….. ……. ….. ... .. . Strangely, it doesn’t hurt. Maybe because it happened so fast. Maybe the initial impact was already enough to end your life. But you’re left feeling an empty void inside of yourself. An overwhelming agony that this is the end. That you never got the chance to fulfill your dreams, enjoy the fruits of your labour, that you never got to reach the happiness you wanted. You have regrets. Not for the things that you did. But for the things that you didn’t do. But well….you suppose there’s no use in lingering in it. Death is the end. This is the end. ……. ….. ... .. . “—ook...t ...er...!” “..hush!” What? Why are you hearing noises? Why does your face feel warm? Are you in...heaven? Some sort of afterlife?! Oh man, you knew you deserved this! Fuck yes! You might have kicked that kid’s shin in the fourth grade and totally lied to your manager that one time that you cleaned the ice-cream machine when you didn’t, but your wrongdoings aren’t that bad. You open your eyes. Unusually, your vision is blurred. All you can make out is a fuzzy figure looming over you. Your mouth opens— “Waah!” What the fuck. You can’t speak. Each time your lips part, drool dripples onto your chin. In a panic, you try to move your body, but quickly find yourself heavy and practically stuck. You cry out and swing your arm, and that’s when your hand flashes before your eyes. Your pupils focus and you realize that your hand is tiny. That you can barely curl and uncurl your fingers together. Holy shit. Holy fuck— You’re a baby. Wailing sobs burst out of your tiny lungs. You don’t know where you are or how this happened. Your last memory is being hit by a truck! The figure looming above you comes closer. “What is wrong with her?!” The woman sounds annoyed, but it’s not like it's your fault. This is just a lot to take in. Your mouth is blocked by a pacifier being shoved in. Immediately, you spit it out and the woman sighs. “Why is she being so fussy?” That’s not the issue, lady! Christ, you wish you could communicate with her. You feel yourself being picked up and she angrily mutters, “If the Devereux household wasn’t paying me so much, I would’ve just thrown you out the window.” Wait. Say what now? Devereux? Why does that sound so familiar? You hear another woman’s voice, one that’s higher pitched and softer. “What’s wrong with little Anastasia?” “Have you finished hanging the laundry yet?” “Yes, I have.” You’re being passed on and your sobs subside in favour of a frown. Anastasia? Anastasia Devereux. You remember cursing that name out loud before, but where was— Oh my god. Oh my god! It’s impossible, but the truth is right in front of your eyes. You’re living through it right now. This isn’t a dream. No. It’s your game, Royal Romances. You’ve been reincarnated into the fictional country of Ashea. And of all people, you’ve been reborn as the villainess, Anastasia Devereux. You burst out crying again. // A man in a coat and frilly shirt enters the room. Your head adjusts to see through the wooden bars of your bassinet, vision becoming clearer by the day. You know who he is without an announcement. Your father. At least he’s supposed to be. “How is the child?” he asks the maid. “She is healthy, your grace. She may be a bit fussy at times, but she sleeps and eats well.” He hums and leaves shortly after, never once coming to personally see or even hug you. What an asshole. This entire world is fucked. You’re fucked. Royal Romances is a love story game between a heroine and several potential matches depending on the route you take. Yet in every route, the main protagonist's rival, the Marquess and the Crown Prince’s fiancée, ends up co-conspiring with the villain and dies because of his crimes. Or exiled. Two options. And you’ve taken her place. But now that you think about it, that’s so unfair! You didn’t care much about Anastasia while playing, other than wanting her to get the fuck out of the picture for your OTP ship to sail. But why should the villainess shoulder the villain’s crimes?! If anything, it was him who coerced her! All Anastasia wanted was to be with the Crown Prince! He was the only person who ever showed her an ounce of kindness! Oh god. All you know now is that you don’t want to die. You died too early in your past life. “Anastasia.” You’re shaken awake from your thick slumber by soft cooing. A quiet woman’s voice calls and when you open your eyes, you’re able to focus on a woman you’ve never seen before but is familiar at the same time. She smiles and picks you up. “Good afternoon.” Instead of fussing around like you usually would, a triumphant smile spreads into your face. Fucking finally. It’s the first time you’ve seen your ‘mother’. Maybe she’s just been recovering from the birth these past few months. After all, there’s no way the family would actually just abandon you to a bunch of maids— “Oh my goodness, Elanor!” A shrill voice has your senses tingling. There’s another woman sitting at the rounded table fanning herself with an orange, feathered fan. “What a lovely daughter!” “Yes, she really is. She hardly cries.” Now that’s a big fat lie. You’ve probably cried a thousand times since you got here. It’s not your fault the maids don’t know how to put you in anything other than scratchy dresses and forget to change your underwear after you’ve shit yourself. Another stranger approaches you and practically digs their nose into your face. Her floral perfume almost has you retching and spewing out an entire bottle of milk in her face. “She is simply too delightful! She has Herrick’s eyes and your nose.” “Really now? I think she’s growing up to look more and more like the Duke each day.” “Oh she’ll grow up to be a beauty. You are truly blessed, Elenor.” Cordial laughter fills the room. Motherfucker. She’s just using you as a decor! You’re a prop for her to show off at her tea party! She doesn’t care about you whatsoever. But fine. You can play along with her. It’s not like you have any choice. You muster an enormous gooey smile, channeling all the cuteness you know you must have and instantly, several of the ladies swoon. It’s an overwhelming victory! But one that requires a lot of energy when you were just awakened from your nap — and squeezing your butt cheeks results in the grumble of your stomach. Being a few months old, you have poor control of your digestive system. So it’s no surprise that smiling so hard makes you shit your pants. Oops. The lump falls into your cloth diaper and instantly, your mother’s brow twitches. The stench reaches her nose and the nostrils of the lady intruding into your space who immediately draws back in disgust. But what the hell are they expecting?! You’re a baby! All you do is eat, sleep and shit! “Edith!” Your mother’s shrill cry has the maid coming into the room. “Yes, your grace?” “Take Anastasia.” She passes you off without even looking and you’re swiftly taken away from the room, hearing the laughter and conversations resume the moment the doors close. So cruel! “Ugh. I’ve never seen a baby who cries so much,” Edith complains and plops you into the bassinet instead of comforting you. If you had limb strength and mobility, you’d slap her for being so rude. The younger maid with the higher-pitched voice looms over you. “Maybe it’s because she knows the Duke and Duchess never come to visit. She’s missing the comfort of a mother and father.” Thank god someone can sympathize with you! As incompetent as Joan is — to the point where she’s checking your pants for the tenth time when you’re really just crying because you’re starving — at least she’s not a Karen. Clearly, the bar is quite low. “Well, it’s expected.” Edith steps away to fold the basket of your dresses. “The Duke and Duchess tried having children for years and the only child they have is a daughter who can’t even carry the family name. If it was a son, it would be different.” “I don’t understand.” Joan rushes to the head maid’s side. “Usually daughters are treasured in noble families.” Edith looks around and lowers her volume. “Don’t you know?” “Know what?” “Keep your voice down! If you say this outside, even I won’t be able to help you.” There’s a pause. “The Duke and Duchess aren’t real nobles, they don’t have any noble blood. The Duke’s late father, Arnold, fought heroically in the war and that’s why the King granted his family the title.” “Oh…but...what does that have to do with anything?” “Noble society is different from how we know it, you naive girl. No matter what you do, hundreds of eyes are constantly on you. It’s full of scrutiny and someone in power today might be exiled tomorrow. Having a son would’ve made it easier for the Devereux household to maintain their title and prestige.” Joan sighs, finally realizing why things are the way they are. She comes to you and leans over the bassinet. “Poor thing. It’s not even her fault.” She gives you her finger and you happily wrap your entire hand around it. Hell yeah! Finally someone’s feeling bad for your shitty situation. But the older woman with wrinkles around her eyes scoffs. “There’s no use worrying about her. You should be more worried about yourself. If the House of Devereux fails to keep their power and wealth, we’ll be out of a job.” Joan hums and pries her finger away from your grasps. You frown and the next time the head maid feeds you, you puke all over her. But you know what she said is true. It’s the reason why the real Anastasia felt like she needed to become the crown princess, why she tried so hard to make everyone around her approve of her. Aside from loving the Prince, she was desperate for recognition, desperate to fulfill her family’s wishes, and to maintain her family’s lineage without slipping from the status quo. But you’re different. You don’t care about those things. You’ll prove yourself on your own and do whatever it takes to survive. Quickly. Quickly! You want to grow up and walk on your own two feet so you can protect yourself. After all, no one else in this house will. You stretch your arm in the air, curling your fingers together, staring up at the starry mobile. But it’s hard in the body of a mere infant and you fall asleep in the midst of your exercise session, succumbing to the temptation of slumber with heavy lids.

Four years later. “Are you colouring, my lady?” “Nooo.” You’re writing. And it’s not just anything — it’s battle plans. To anyone, it’s merely incoherent scribbles, a result of poor motor skills you have yet to refine. But it’s actually your life or death. You don’t need status or power. Living in the countryside and living fruitfully is good enough. All you want is to live a long, peaceful life. In the original story, after Anastasia’s eighteenth birthday, she was condemned for countless crimes, thrown in prison and then executed within the matter of weeks. All because of three people: the heroine, the Crown Prince, and the villain. To avoid the effect, you should avoid the cause. Therefore, you need to do whatever you can to avoid these three! It’s genius! Truly, if anyone knew how your four year old brain operated, you would be hailed as the next prophe— “Get ready.” Edith interrupts your train of thought, coming into the room and swiftly shutting the door behind her. “Why?” “You’re having lunch with the Duke and Duchess.” “But I don’t wanna,” you whine, especially when Joan starts collecting the crayons. You stand up before Edith can drag you and you stomp your feet. Why would you want to go have lunch with them when the amount of times you’ve seen them in four years can be counted on both hands. “Don’t be spoiled. Come here.” You stick out your tongue instead and the moment Edith’s fingers come to snag you, you swiftly dart and run as giggles squeak out of your body. “My lady,” Joan sighs, at a loss as well. The two of them try to corner you, but you dive to the left when there’s a chance. The original villainess was always quite upright and strict, especially with herself. It’s reasonable considering the way she was raised and the massive burden placed upon her. But kids can get away with a lot more than adults and you’d prefer to take advantage of that while you still can. “Stop playing around!” Edith finally snags the back of your nightgown and you laugh, still thrashing against her hold until she plops you down on the vanity chair. “You’re such an unruly troublemaker,” she mutters as she grabs the frilly dress you’re about to be changed into. And just for that comment, you undo the pins she puts into your hair when she’s not looking. It drives her crazy. But your little antics are stopped the moment you’re sitting at the dinner table. The height of said table reaches your collarbone and the chair you’re sitting in overwhelms your form. The atmosphere is stiff and tense, your father sitting at the head of the table and slicing into his meat while your mom’s posture is upright and she chews gingerly. Unlike the maids, you won’t test your luck with the Duke and Duchess. God knows they might send you to some kid ranch for the next ten years to reform yourself. But you also know you can’t get any cuter than this. You’ve seen yourself in the mirror — soft skin, big eyes, a button nose and chubby cheeks. Who knows what puberty might do to you someday, but for now, you’re as cute as a four year old can get. And why not use that as a weapon in your arsenal? “Momma.” You interrupt the silence and your mother across from you looks up. You give a full smile with teeth, quirking your head to your shoulder and open your arms as wide as they can go. “I like you this much!” Oh. Hell. Yeah! You can feel it. You’re totally gonna win them over— Her head swivels over to the Duke. “Don’t you think it’s time to teach her manners?” Wow. That’s cold. Stone cold. “Edith.” Your father glances over his shoulder and the head maid steps forward. “How’s Anastasia’s development?” The older woman clears her throat. “She’s a bit wild, your grace.” You glare at her for exposing you like this. “However, she can write the alphabet and read through storybooks on her own. She seems to be a bright child.” Damn straight. Of course, you’d be able to pick up the language of Ashea quickly. You still have the memories of your past life. The Duke hums. “Then she can start training to be the crown princess.” You nearly choke on your broccoli. But you hastily compose yourself and look up at your father. “What’s that?” “Don’t ask questions,” your mother quips and the room simmers down to the uncomfortable silence again. It’s so ridiculous — the very definition of jumping the gun. You aren’t the Crown Prince’s fiancée, but they’re already considering you a candidate before you’ve even lost your baby teeth. Not to mention, it’s all useless anyway. The original Anastasia never became the princess and you have no plans of even meeting the Prince. “Do you know what happened in the year 921, my lady?” the tutor asks later on, pushing up his rounded spectacles up the slope of his nose. You’re slumped over the table, one arm rested with your cheek squished in your hand, focused on twirling the quill with two fingers. God forbid Edith or your mother witnesses your awful posture, but no one’s ever interested enough to sit in on these dumb tutor sessions. They’d fall asleep instantly. “The war of Winter,” you mumble and the tutor’s eyes light up and he enthusiastically nods. “Yes! The most momentous moment in the history of Ashea. A great dragon rose from the mountains and in the war of Winter, great King Baek, the light priestess and fierce knights of the royal palace came down the lazy brook from Stoughsby Peaks next to the then Canary district which sold fabrics and spices up until the year 914 when the famine of 914 came—” The tutor drones on and on. But one thing grabs your attention. You forgot there was magic in this world. “Ummm,” you interrupt him in the middle of his tangent. “Did King Baek kill the dragon by magic?” “Great question. King Baek in the summer of 896, seven years after he was born, started to learn the art of swordsmanship through rigorous training with the fierce knights of the royal place who was then under the rule of King Ennik—” You don’t know why you asked. “How do you start doing magic?” you interject again. “Well, magic is part of everyone and it’s everywhere. But some are more attuned to it than others. It requires vigorous training, the most talented magician was Ruffus Dolores who dedicated his life living in the Magician’s Tower and wrote most of the magical texts we have today.” You look at him, curiosity finally alight in your eyes. “Can I do magic?” There was never magic on Earth in the twenty-first century aside from Harry Potter or Twilight, if Edward’s sparkling constitutes as magic. But if it’s anything like those movies, then you’re psyched! You can wingardium leviosa yourself and yeet out of here. Unfortunately, your excitement is short lived. “The House of Devereux isn’t very magically inclined,” the tutor says and your eyes dim again. You’re not completely surprised considering Anastasia was never much of a fighter in the game. She just splashed water on the main character’s face a lot and made players like you curse her out. “However, while magic is an inborn talent and comes naturally, skills always have to be honed. There’s still a chance you may have magical abilities. We’ll just have to see as you get older.” You hum to yourself. // Edith pulls the curtains together haphazardly, the moonlight crisp where the gap is and sheds a silver sliver onto the carpet. Joan takes the tray with your finished glass of milk, nearly toppling it over and shattering the glass, but finding balance in the nick of time. “Goodnight, my lady.” “Night night.” Your hand peeks out from the covers and you wave. “Don’t get out of bed or else,” Edith warns in a low tone. “The Duke won’t be happy to hear if you’re found wandering in the halls or sneaking into the kitchen again.” You giggle. “Bye bye.” The door shuts, darkness engulfs your bedroom and you count to ten within your head. The moment the seconds are up, you throw the covers off of you and slide off the high mattress. You come to your desk, grasp the heavy duty textbook off of it and lug it over to the windows. The enormous book sits on your lap as you lean against your bedpost. The moonlight illuminates the cover and you flip to the magic section at the back, the noise of the pages soothing in the quiet space. Magic — not only is it interesting to you but it could be a great defense mechanism if worse comes to worse. Who knows. It might just add to your battle plans and help you survive. Your pointer finger underlines the sentences and traces the words as you read the introduction slowly. After reading, you learn that magic is more intuitive, rather than a particular procedure. You push the textbook aside and hold your hands out. Shutting your eyes, you try your best to envision light. You try to imagine light engulfing your figure and form, causing your skin to glow. Peeking with one eye open, there’s— Absolutely nothing. Well shit. Maybe the tutor was right. Maybe there is no real magical talent in your bloodline. But there’s no harm in trying to dabble in it a little more. You conceptualize fire in your brain. And when you look in your hand, you’re ecstatic to see a tiny flame actually flickering in mid-air. Oh shit! It worked! But it smothers out a blink later. You try to visualize water next to see if your magical expertise lays within the element. When you open your eyes, your breath hitches at the water droplets floating in your palm. And for once, it doesn’t completely vanish within a second. A grin spreads into your face. But as if Lady Luck wants to slap you, the moment you get hyped, the water splashes into your lap. It looks like you peed yourself. “Really?!” You sigh, ready to give up. Maybe you don’t have a knack for magic after all. You turn to grab the textbook, but the heftiness is awkward in your grasps and your thumb slips, accidentally flipping over the next page. The page’s heading makes you stop. Oh yeah. Dark magic exists. Might as well give it a shot while you’re at it. Like all the times before, you shut your eyes and hold your hands upwards. You try to imagine darkness — the similar kind that’s already filled your bedroom, or like the empty void that you were plunged in after being hit by that truck. That abyss of nothing, of pitch black. Suddenly, you feel a pressure on your shoulders. It’s heavy. Comforting. Eerie. All at the same time. Your lashes flutter open and your breath is plugged in your nose. Darkness has overwhelmed the room. It bleeds out of you, consuming your form like smoke, the hue of ink spilt on oil. It covers the silver moonlight, erasing the sliver casted on your carpet and what was translucent through the curtains. Exactly like the empty void, the abyss of nothing. It’s trying to consume you. There’s a shriek from outside your room. “All the candles just blew out!” Panic drains blood from your face and you drop your hands, flailing your arms as if you can dispel the black before it wraps its hands around your throat and submerges you completely. It fades, the moonlight traveling back onto you again and you shove the book underneath your bed. You’re still shaking as you climb back into bed. God knows you’re never going to try that again. // So you might not have an aptitude for magic after all. But the grief is short-lived after the realization that it’s not a toy or something that comes out of a magical wand for you to fight Dementors with. But there’s still a lot of ways you can protect yourself. You just have to get creative. “I wanna do that!” Your nose, forehead and palms are pushed against the glass window as you peer outside. Joan frowns and peeks out. “You want to go flower picking, my lady?” “No!” The useless maid finally looks to the two guards sparring with one another out by the field. “You want to sword fight?” “Uh-huh.” She bursts out laughing and you whirl around in irritation. “I wanna! Pretty please?” How else are you going to protect yourself? If you can’t use magic, then you need to go the melee route and pick up a sword or at least a bow and arrow. “You would have to ask permission from the Duke himself, my lady.” Joan turns away to make your bed, expecting you to give up. When it comes to asking your parents, it’s too much of a hassle to get involved with them. But this time, you don’t concede. She’s surprised when you tug on her dress. “Okay.” The Duke’s study doors are imposing on their own. Without needing to open them, the twisting ornate patterns on the wooden surface are enough to eerily remind you of exposed arteries. It feels like you’re approaching the principal’s office — a nervousness of the impending doom. You’ve always been careful to steer clear any place your mother or father might be. The study on the third floor, the gardens, their bedroom. And any time you passed, your steps would quiet. It’s not like you’re scared of them. Frankly, you’re just annoyed at how nit-picky they are. But you remind yourself you’ve been through worse — you once spent an entire summer in customer service serving food in the twenty first century for god’s sakes! With that in mind, you throw open the doors. Joan, behind you, practically flinches. Your father’s sitting behind his oak desk, quill and parchment in hand, and he looks above his rounded spectacles. You give your most charming smile. “Hi, papa!” He looks to the older girl and deadpans, “What’s the matter.” The maid clears her throat, clearly distressed that she’s been dragged into this. “Uh, well, your grace, my lady, uh, she…..well…” “I wanna do sword!” You tottle towards him and round the desk to come eye to eye with his knees. C’mon, as uncaring as they are, they gotta at least care a little for their daughter, right? You’re too cute to ignore all the time. You flutter your lashes for good measure. “Pretty please?” The Duke’s brow quirks. “You want to learn swordsmanship?” You enthusiastically nod. “Uh-huh!” He stares at you. You stare at him. The older man sits back in his chair. “It wouldn’t hurt to learn an interesting skill or two. It might make you stand out.” Those two lifelessly said statements alone are enough to make you happy. Even when he resumes his paperwork. “I heard from your tutor that you’re a fast learner.” You’re surprised the old fart said something good about you, but of course you are! You’re technically twenty four now. Mathematics is truly universal when you can recall the basics and the language is easy to pick up. You’re already dumbing down everything to not make it weird. “Maybe you’re not so useless after all,” he mutters from the corner of his mouth, no longer sparing you a glance. You hold back a scoff. Instead, you force a smile and a sweet giggle. “Thank you, papa! I like you too!” You wonder if this is why Anastasia tried so hard. The only time she gains recognition in her family is when she’s focusing her time and energy into studying and proving her worth. If so, it’s depressing. You wish you had more sympathy for her when you were playing from the heroine’s perspective. But you’re beginning to understand her better and better. Why she did what she did. How she became the female villain. “Fight me!” You point your wooden sword at the knight whose eyes are wide. You bet he didn’t expect to be sparing with a four year old when he was assigned to protect the Devereux house, but this is a matter of life and death for you. “Hurry!” “Y-Yes, my lady.” You smile, gripping the handle tighter. He comes up and weakly slashes you and you’re able to root your feet into the ground and keep yourself from stumbling back. He’s obviously not trying very hard, but it’s good enough for now. Slowly but surely, you’re finding a rhythm into things. In your spare time, you learn the history of Ashea, read books and plan the next steps in your battle plan of avoiding all main characters of the game at all costs. You’ll protect yourself no matter what it takes. And you’ll survive no matter what happens.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #bts series #bts reader insert #bts fanfiction #bts fanfics #man I wanna tag who the main member is bUT I DON'T WANNA SPOIL IT YET #anyway hope this is intriguing #this chapter gets the ball rolling #they'll be 8 chapters in total

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