#oathbreaker felt so right for this energy

[selunight]

@malurged said: ❛ It's amazing how far you can get on denial. You know why so many people use denial to get by? Because it really fucking works ... for a while. ❜

"sounds like you speak from a wealth of experience," she muttered her response, boot toeing at the dirty on the ground directly in front of her to avoid looking up and meeting his gaze. the words aren't accusatory so much as simply being factual — she had gotten good at burying any amount of emotion in the last several days, as her rage and anger had made her the least fun member of camp since their face off with balthazar in shar's realm.

even thinking of it now, she feels that negative swell simmering just below the surface, and she actively reminds herself that seeking out shadowheart would be detrimental to their overall cause... no matter how good it might feel.

her oath may have been left shattered by the events that occurred, but her logic was still somewhat in tact.

"i'm not in denial," she states coolly, finally sparing a glance his way. "i'm all too clear on what's happened and what will happen next." and let him make of those words whatever he will. it hardly mattered to celeste now. ( not much did. )

#malurged #☽ ⋆ ⁎ * ﹒ ❝ 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬. ❞ — oathbreaker verse. #☽ ⋆ ⁎ * ﹒ ❝ 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭… ❞ — answered. #oathbreaker felt so right for this energy

[little-tyrant-gortash]

Oathbreaker

Pairing: fem!Tav x Enver Gortash, fem!Tav/Astarion

Tags: Emotional Manipulation, Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Paladin Tav (Baldur's Gate), Vaginal Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Drunk Sex, Unrequited Love, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Scars, Blood and Injury, Injury, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, Miscarriage, Torture, Psychological Torture, Implied/Referenced Torture

Desc.: I'm playing a Paladin who let Gortash become the Archduke and immediately after my Paladin's Oath was broken.

My Paladin did not take that well. I just... had to write it. And a manipulative Gortash, too.

Not sure if I should continue or just leave it like this. 🤔

Word count: 2,190

Ao3 here.

Chapter 2.

Chapter 1.: Portal sherry

She didn't understand why did she accept the invitation. After she let Gortash persuade her to work together and he became the Archduke, Tav broke her Oath of Vengeance, and it put a weight unbearable upon her shoulders.

The others at the camp knew this. Tav was inconsolable for everything she lost that day, and they didn't even attempt to talk about it. They thought it'd be best if they pretended everything was alright.

But this wasn't the same with Gortash. He couldn't help but notice the way she behaved – very differently from when he first met her –, and he didn't miss how bloodshot her eyes were, either. Something must've happened. And if something happened, he was concerned about it, because it was her job to get rid of Orin for both of their sakes. She must be in her best shape for that fight, because as much as he hated to admit it, he needed her. Their alliance wouldn't work unless Orin was dead, and he couldn't make a move directly because his Steel Watch was robust and Orin was a little slippery fish. Tav, though… she showed real promise with her group of vagabonds. She could succeed where he couldn't. She must.

He didn't mention it while they had dinner. He invited her over, purely for business, to treat her to a lavish feast. She must've been living on scraps anyway, and since he offered her he'd share his kingdom with her, he thought it'd be a gesture which would bring them closer to each other.

How annoying to see that she wasn't in the right mindset to talk. But at least she accepted the invitation and she was present, dressed modest, quiet.

After dinner, she excused herself for a few minutes, which he used to relocate himself over his lavish couch. It was positioned right in front of the doors of the balcony, which he kept open. The late summer was warm, and he brought an opened bottle of portal sherry with himself as he watched the dusk fall over his city.

Tav silently walked over to the couch and sat beside him. Their bodies weren't close; their thighs did not touch, and yet, Tav could feel his energy. He had a certain darkness about him, one that strangely pulled her in. Funny… she felt the same about… about…

Her shoulders lowered in utter defeat as her eyes scanned the city. He was out there. Somewhere. Alone.

"You're awfully quiet tonight", Gortash remarked. He couldn't help himself, he didn't invite her over to spend the entire night in silence. She didn't answer; her face morphed into some sort of sad, sombre, grief-like expression. "Is everything alright?"

As he raised his bottle to drink from it – he never really liked portal sherry, he enjoyed wines instead, but tonight, he wanted something different –, Tav looked him straight in the eyes. She looked… utterly lost.

"On the day when I agreed to be your ally", she said, her voice hoarse from not using it much in the past few days, and, from crying day and night, "I broke my Oath of Vengeance."

Gortash raised a brow. That was it? An oath? Was that so important to her that she looked like a beaten puppy because of it? Poor little pet. Perhaps all she needed was a firm hand to guide her. The very hand of Bane's Chosen, perhaps.

"Is that so?" He asked, then offered the bottle for her to take. She stared at it, then at his face, and he half smiled. "Trust me."

She scoffed, but took the bottle, and drank from it. Her mind was immediately snapped out of her misery when the taste hit her tongue.

"Portal sherry?"

Gortash heard the hint of a surprise and glee in her voice as she looked back at him again, offering the bottle back. Nevermind they've shared an indirect kiss; her lips touching the same spot his did. For a brief moment, he toyed with the idea…

"I'm sure we all felt like we've ended up in places we hadn't dreamed of", he half smiled, taking the bottle, then taking another swig.

"Yeah."

Tav agreed, glancing out at the city again, but her eyes quickly wandered back on him. By the gods, how did he grow on her? Everything about him – the power he radiated, the intenseness of his gaze, his confidence, his sly smirk –, everything made her want to stay close to him. She never thought of herself as a good leader. Especially not after what happened to Astarion at Cazador's place. Why, why did she let him Ascend? Why didn't she agree to him to make her his spawn – he still would be on her side, and she wouldn't need to wallow in her self pity over her broken oath. She wouldn't feel so alone. She'd have someone who at least cared.

Her lips curved down again as her gaze unfocused, signalling that she was, once again, far away. And Gortash didn't like that. He wanted her to be present. Perhaps he could guide her… twist her fate in a way it'd suit them both. He realised he had to be her anchor; he needed her to take care of Orin, but she needed him to feel whole again. Odd. But, at the moment, he had little choice than to proceed. He had to give some power back in her hands, or everything they've planned would fall to ruin. If Orin killed her… he couldn't even imagine the prospect. If Orin had two stones and him, only one, the balance would shift in Bhaal's favour. Tav's presence and personality was much more… pleasant. For him, it was desirable to have her survive this. She couldn't die on him. Not when he finally found her – someone who was strong enough, clever enough, cunning enough to get rid of the biggest thorn in his side.

"Who knows where will it take us next", he offered her the bottle again.

She looked back in his eyes and he could've sworn he felt a stir within which was not the sherry's work in his system. She was a battle-hardened warrior; a Paladin, at that. Once proud and sure, now visibly beaten down. But she still accepted the bottle when he offered it to her.

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Archduke Gortash?" She arched a brow, and despite her question, she drank.

"Perhaps", Gortash smiled slightly.

"And what's your purpose with that?"

His purpose was clear, it should've been clear to her as well. But she wasn't asking about his plans for their shared future; she was talking about the now. And now… he wasn't entirely sure. Perhaps he wanted to make her relax, to ease her mind, to give her a break from all that happened to her in the brief time since she'd entered Baldur's Gate. Or was there something else…? The moment her lips touched the bottle again, he had a fleeting thought of claiming those lips for himself…

"We can do whatever you want to do", Gortash replied quietly.

He was purposefully giving the illusion of the decision in her hands. Frankly, he could see how she was looking at him, and he knew whatever he proposed would be reciprocated within a short time. Perhaps that'd be best. It'd strengthen their bond, it'd give her a purpose to survive her quest against Orin, it'd solidify her wish not to turn against him. To weaponize her desire… for that to work, he'd need to play along. Pretend, for the sake of his purpose. On his way to his current position… he'd sacrificed so much more than that. It wouldn't cause a problem to him.

But there was more to this. This wasn't just about manipulating her so he'd get what he wanted. He had only felt this drawn to someone else once in his entire life; and he wasn't sure it'd be the best course of action to go down that path again now. He wouldn't tolerate it well if he opened up to someone else again, only to inevitably lose them in such a short time.

Tav won't wound up dead as the Dark Urge did. She can't fall to the same fate. She mustn't. If he played this dangerous game… he'd play it on his own terms. She'd come out of it alive. He won't bury another lover. Never again.

"If I didn't know better", she offered the bottle back to him, "I'd think you're flirting with me, Gortash."

He still had that easy, calm smile on his face as he reached out for the bottle. Before, he was careful not to touch her hand when he took it back from her. Now, he purposefully placed his fingers and palm over hers. A familiar feeling danced up and down his spine from the touch, signalling that he had to watch his own heart, very closely, not to fall for her. It mustn't. He had to remain focused.

"I'll be honest with you", his tone was calm, slower and deeper than usual, "the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew I wanted you to be my partner. Whether you want it to be based entirely on business or something more – it's completely up to you." He paused as he drank again, nearly emptying the bottle. "And please. Call me Enver."

Something shifted in her expression again.

"I am an Oathbreaker", Tav whispered. The sherry, combined with her turbulent emotions were not a good mix; her eyes filled with tears. "You surely wouldn't want an Oathbreaker on your side. I am… unreliable."

"Because you made the right choice?" Gortash raised a brow, his tone serious. "Because you knew the moment you met me that we need each other? I assure you, you've done nothing wrong."

"I swore I'd wipe out evil", her tears ran down her cheeks, and she looked away, ashamed. "I've disgraced my people."

 Gortash put the bottle down on the table beside the couch, then turned to her and ever so gently cupped her cheeks. His hands were warm against her face as he stroked her tears away with his thumbs.

"I am not evil", he whispered to her, "and neither are you. Both you and I want the best for the people who turn to us for help. I've told you I wanted to lead Baldur's Gate to glory, and we will do just that."

"But at what price?" Tav didn't pull away, just brought her hands up to touch his arms, still covered with his golden gauntlets.

"If there were any other way, I'd do it." Gortash paused, attempting a lie. "I'd do it – for you. But we're neck deep in my original plan, and we must make the best of it for both of our sakes. I want to rule with you. I want you to survive this, I want you to stay focused." Heart beating in his throat, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. "I need you. I need you more than anyone else in my life, Tav. Please, don't have regrets about the past, not now. Look forward and take one step at a time, with me, alright?"

Tav remained as she was; only her hands moved to touch his face. Her slender fingers were so gentle that they made a shiver run down his spine. She explored his cheeks, his jawline with her touch; her thumb ever so gently ghosting over his scar on his chin.

"Gods smite you, Enver", she murmured softly, "you got me drunk", making him chuckle quietly.

The tadpole squirmed in her skull and she did her best to ignore it.

What are you doing?

The Emperor's voice rang in her head, as always, when he was concerned about her thoughts and actions. Frankly, she'd done a few stupid things during her journeys, but sharing a private moment with someone who just told her that he needed her, despite the fact what she became – interrupting that was rude.

Stay out of this, she thought.

You do remember he is our enemy, right?

For the last time! Shut up!

Funnily enough, the Emperor's meddling in her affair with the most powerful man of Baldur's Gate gave her the final push. She tilted her head and kissed Gortash, who reciprocated immediately. As if he had been waiting for it. Once he claimed her lips, he quickly dominated the situation; sliding his tongue over hers, making her go weak in his hold with a moan of pleasure.

And as he was kissing her like there were no tomorrow… he realised he was just as doomed as he suspected. Every nerve in his body sung with desire for her. Any plan he had, any scheming, plot, idea was out the window when her fingers ran in his raven locks, pulling him even closer. His hands slid away – down her form to her hips, guiding her in his lap, never stopping his kisses as he stood with her kept close to himself, with his hands on her ass.

His bedroom – thankfully – wasn't far away.

#little tyrant [enver gortash] #bg3 #enver gortash #baldur's gate 3 #archduke enver gortash #bg 3 #lord enver gortash #Oathbreaker

[phoenixablaze666]

The Voices as DnD classes (feel free to offer your own opinions n shit, im also going off dnd5e.wikidot.com for subclasses):

Hero: Fighter (Cavalier): Gives off the most typical knight energy

Smitten: Bard (College of Eloquence): C'mon, of course loverboy is gonna be the bard, Eloquence also seems to focus on persuasion which felt right with how he expresses himself

Hunted: Ranger (Hunter): I was gonna choose Beast Master at first but saw Hunter and it felt too perfect, I also feel like he'd have the Blind Fighting style given the Beast route. I could also see an argument for something Druidic, maybe the guy multiclasses

Paranoid: Cleric (Life Domain): Heart. Liver. Lungs. Nerves. Man's a healer. He literally keeps the player alive in the Nightmare route

Contrarian: Rogue (Arcane Trickster): He's a silly lil guy and something with trickster in the name just feels right

Stubborn: Barbarian (Path of the Beast): I would have chosen Battlerager but that one is apparently Dwarves only. Barbarian just feels right with how much this boi loves the fight

Cheated: Paladin (Oath of Vengeance): Was originally gonna pick rogue but then I saw paladin's oath of vengeance route, also considered oathbreaker. Ngl I forget Cheated exists sometimes (sorry Cheated fans)

Opportunist: Warlock (Great Old One): He's always trying to suck up to whoever has the upper hand, feels like Warlock energy

Cold: Rogue (Assassin): First repeat! Sorry I'm not making sure everyone has a different class lol. Our boi is "cutthroat" and "unfeeling", ready to just kill the princess without prompting. Assassin feels right

Broken: Druid (Circle of Stars): He just feels like a star guy, that's it

Skeptic: Wizard (School of Divination): Skepticism is about being wary of the world and wanting to know the truth/be knowledgeable about the truth so a Divination Wizard felt appropriate

Bonus:

Voice of the Sacrifice (my oc): Paladin (Oath of Redemption): My baby boi just felt like a Paladin but wasn't quite sure on a subclass so I chose Redemption, it's lowkey the pacifist route for Paladins so it felt kinda right

#this took me like 45 minutes #lmk what you think #slay the princess #the voices #voice of the paranoid #voice of the contrarian #voice of the cold #voice of the smitten #voice of the broken #voice of the skeptic #voice of the hero #voice of the sacrifice #idk what else to tag #dnd #dnd class stuff #youre welcome

[grayintogreen]

LOST CHARACTERS AND D&D CLASSES

Welcome to posts that cater specifically to my brainrot, I'm your host, a girl who thinks too much about D&D classes and characters from her other fandoms because what is brainrot but something that infects every other possible interest.

Some notes before I begin:

I did not do every character. There are like 40 characters in this show of narrative significance. Some people have to be fucking commoners okay. If you're offended by who I left out, I don't know what to tell you. For the most part, the characters I left out were either not around enough or didn't have an arc significant enough for me to imagine their forward progression as a D&D character or who served such mad NPC energy that the speculation was pointless. Or the answer was really boring (most of the antagonists fall under this heading).

Jacob and Smokey are deities and therefore were not included for that reason.

I didn't include Walt because the only thing I could think of for Michael was Oathbreaker Paladin and while accurate, it requires a significant amount of DEEPER thought I didn't want to go into for something that's just for shits and farts. And including Walt but not Michael felt mean. That said, Walt is basically a conjuration wizard in canon, which means it's kinda boring because there's no fun speculation. it's right there.

There aren't a lot of arcane magic-users, not because I wanted to be boring and stupid, but because this is just not a bunch of people who lend themselves to fucking magic.

I'm putting this under a cut because it got long. SO LET'S GO.

Jack Shepherd, Cleric

Jack is a cleric in the same way Kingston Brown is (or the same way Zerxus is a paladin). There's no god here, just commitment to the practice. Tragically, there's no "science" domain, so I think the closest would be the Order Domain, which fits his control freak tendencies and leadership vibes. I mean Voice of Authority? That's his entire thing.

Kate Austen, Ranger

Kate is a weird one because I think what she is and what she values about herself kinda run at opposition sometimes. And "commiter of arson that one time that led to subsequent crimes" doesn't actually define you as a class. Ultimately, what Kate loves is running off into the jungle, so I went with Ranger (with the possibility of multiclassing into rogue for evasion/disengage). Subclass is a little iffy, especially because Kate isn't as much a murder machine as some of the other characters (ironic given she is the one billed as the murderer), but I think Fey Wanderer works best given a lot of the spells and bonuses it grants involve GETTING AWAY and that's her whole thing.

James "Sawyer" Ford, Fighter

Sawyer was hard because, like Kate, 'con man' is not a class, it's an occupation, but I also didn't want him to be a Mastermind rogue for reasons I'll get to later and also compared to the ACTUAL Mastermind rogue in the (massive, massive) party, he's penny-ante at best. Sawyer is, aside from that time he missed the marshal's heart at point blank range (anyone can crit fail), a gun guy. I feel like Gunslinger is the most appropriate option for him. High charisma and boosted proficiencies in deception and persuasion make up the con man stuff.

John Locke, Ranger/Paladin

John is such a fucking ranger, the island desires him carnally. I think I'd be remiss to suggest he be anything but a Hunter, but UNFORTUNATELY, Hunter is not good for John, like, at all. John's a Gloom Stalker, because John is hardcore.

That said, I think Locke multiclassed into Paladin of the Island pretty damn quickly to the point where his Ranger stuff is background to that. Oath of the Ancients, specifically.

Hugo "Hurley" Reyes, Bard

Hurley is the most goddamn bardic character on this show besides Charlie. I, an audience member, get Bardic Inspiration every time he talks, he's just that fucking lovable. You cannot talk to Hurley and not feel empowered. He is a GOOD BOY.

I think ultimately his role as Island Guru and his propensity to talk to and see dead people makes him well-suited for College of Spirits.

Charlie Pace, Bard

Charlie almost didn't make it on this list because the answer would be so boring and he's a way more generic, traditional bard than Hurley, but then I had to think about what his college would be. I think given everything, he's hilariously suited to Tragedy Bard, and I don't think you can find a single reason to tell me I'm fucking wrong, especially given his ultimate ending.

Jin-Soo Kwon, Ranger/Rogue

Jin almost didn't make it on this list because like "ranger with an ocean favored terrain" is as far as I got. Also jesus there's so many rangers on this island already. But THEN I got to thinking about Jin's life as a thug for Sun's dad and was like could he have taken levels in assassin rogue that overwhelmed his humble fish ranger beginnings? Absolutely.

Sun Paik-Kwon, Rogue

Sun is a unique one in that I don't think she found her class until after she got off the island and then immediately went "I'm a Mastermind Rogue now" and we love that for her.

Sayid Jarrah, Artificer/Fighter

Sayid was a goddamn hard nut to crack, because his chief skills are "technology" and "torture." Initially, I thought he should be an assassin rogue, but Sayid's heavily tactical and plays too well with others to sell rogue, so I went with Battle Master. Also there is no goddamn Artificer class that suits "communications officer," so that's just gonna be up in the air.

Desmond Hume, Barbarian

Desmond is the only barbarian. No I will not be taking criticism. Subclass is funky because my first thought is Path of the Zealot with the electromagnetism oracle superpowers just being flavor worked in, but honestly what would be funnier if he was a Chaos Barbarian like Ashton and the mechanics are broken, since it fits his weird time travel bullshit.

Mr. Eko, Paladin

Eko is such a paladin, like oh my god. What I can't decide is if he's an Oathbreaker paladin working to reform himself or just an Oath of Devotion Paladin who speedran the whole process, but still feels he has much more to do.

Ben Linus, Rogue

Ben is a Mastermind Rogue. Ben is THE Mastermind Rogue. Ben is so good at being a Mastermind Rogue that he forgot his subclass doesn't have a great fight build and kills you anyway. With a nightstick.

Also I think he spends a lot of his time in later seasons with levels in Twilight Cleric since he was effectively Smokey's Richard. He didn't do anything with the power it was just "my evil god who looks like my dead ex-husband whom I murdered gave me these spells I guess."

Juliet Burke, Cleric

Like Jack, I think Juliet's faith goes into either people or abstract concepts, like idk Cleric of Women's Reproductive Rights. Personally, given everything, I think Life Cleric suits her best, which means she has the potential to make some of the funniest jokes ever during her villain era.

Charles Widmore, Warlock

Charles Widmore is 100% a Warlock of the Island, which makes Ben ousting him as President of Everything so much funnier, like bitch the island gave ME magic. I actually have no idea what subclass. I didn't get that far because I'm too busy imagining Alan Dale throwing eldritch blasts at Michael Emerson and still losing.

Daniel Faraday, Artificer

Can Dan be an artillerist simply because of his "i'm gonna detonate a hydrogen bomb line?" No? TOO BAD. i actually don't know about Dan, like artificer fits, but ya boy's a physicist and D&D doesn't care about physics. I don't know why I put him here. I think Dan should get to make magic bombs I guess.

Miles Straume, Cleric

Miles is a grave cleric who has never healed anyone in his life and will not start now, he just uses his Grave Powers to talk to dead people and find where the bodies are.

Richard Alpert, Cleric

It was a tough decision between cleric or paladin for Richard, but let's be real, since he gives off way more long-suffering energy, he might as well be the cleric. Paladins only suffer like that if their name is Zerxus. My suggestion is Light Cleric since Jacob is the being of light on the island. It's poignant.

#i am sure i will look this over in the morning and be like aw shit #i forgot someone i didn't mean to forget #also yes i realize this is a lot of repeating classes and i could have gone on a bigger deep dive #but consider what i was basing this shit on #it's a joke fam #it killed two hours #LOST

[whimsicallyreading]

Dark Roast, No Sugar

Part Two

Aelin leaned her head against a solid chest and counted the beats. These stolen moments were what she and Sam lived for. His breaths were even, and the gentle rumble of thunder outside assured their temporary safety.

 Arobynn's plain was delayed due to the torrential downpour flooding Rifthold. They'd received the text at the same time, and Sam immediately came to find her. Sneaking into the manor was risky, but Tern, Harding, and Mulligan were all occupied, and no one would dare enter Arobynn's office while he was away.

Well, everyone besides them. The danger was definitely worth it, Aelin mused as she stretched like a cat and sprawled into a more comfortable position over the muscled torso. A hand reached up and dragged calloused fingers through her hair, making her preen with satisfaction.

 Sam chuckled from below her, spread out like a starfish on Arobynn's poached polar bear rug. She felt sad for the untimely death of the creature, but she couldn't deny it made the perfect spot for their rendezvous.

 "We can't stay like this forever," Sam reminds her gently. He works his fingers down her long blond hair to the nape of her neck, where he works at the knotted muscles.

 "Not now, but soon," she reminds him as if he wasn't the one to concoct their crazy escape plan.

 A kiss pressed against her forehead marks the seal of his promise. "Soon," he agrees. "This hell will be over for you and me." The conviction of his voice lets that little tealight of hope in her chest flicker dangerously.

 "We will be free. The only dreams we will be having is what our home together will look like," she nuzzles into his chest and urges him to keep going. He knows she likes it when he talks long term to her.

"In the mornings, I will wake up to you in my bed. Your hair all over the place, and your arms constricting me like a hungry python."

 She cracks her eyes open at that and gives him a sleepy glare.

 "I wouldn't change a single thing about it," he continues. "Knowing you are safe with me is all I will ever need to be happy. Waking up to you in my arms is enough beauty to sate me wherever we end up. I'll be the happiest man alive."

 Tears burned the corners of her eyes, and a lump ached in her throat. For so long, she'd been deprived of affection and relationships of any kind. Aelin couldn't help the feeling of free-falling every time Sam declared his love. It was a treasure she thought she'd never had again. "I love you, Sam," Aelin whispers against his chest and presses a messy kiss to the muscle there.

 "Then why didn't you look for me?" His voice cracks in pain.

 Startled, Aelin's head shoots up. Ice chills her blood, and the screams that pour from Aelin's mouth are unearthly when she's faced with the gaping holes where his eyes should be.

 His eyes. She feels that familiar pain beneath her ribs. Those eyes that had been so kind. Made her feel so safe and radiated warmth. Aelin mourned their loss. Mourned him.

 "You didn't look for me," those damning words left his lips again.

 Aelin wakes up with a sob. "I'm sorry," she yells to the empty room.

 "I'm sorry," she keens. There are no hands in her hair. No beating heart beneath her cheek. She curls into a ball and grabs locks of her hair, pulling at them until strands fall loosely into her hand. The agony builds until it pinches her gut so hard and wrenches her heart so profoundly that she barely makes it to the toilet before hot, acidic bile burns a path up her throat.

 It burns through her over and over until she's leaned against the toilet seat sobbing. Her arms wrapped around her midsection protectively.    

 Morning sickness should have passed by now, but she still spent a great deal of time in this position. It never got less painful, and Aelin's seemed more aggressive than what other mothers recounted experiencing online. Her constant sickness and nightmares were leaving her feeling weak.

 Maybe it was a punishment for bringing a little life into a world that had savaged its father? That thought crossed Aelin's mind often. Perhaps it was penance for her selfishness. Her wanting to keep this small piece of Sam despite knowing the kind of life it would be subjected to endure.

 There was no forgiveness for the things she's done. Why would the universe let her have this? She should just be grateful it hadn't been taken from her entirely.

 Spineless, coward.

 Aelin laid curled up on the bathroom floor for hours. Existing in a constant cycle of sickness followed by mental torment. Chills wracked her frame, and she trembled on the cold tile. She barely had the energy to lift herself up when the urge to vomit struck her. Words floated in her head, furthering her misery.

 Coward. Liar. Oathbreaker. Life taker.

 That's where Lysandra found her, at a much more reasonable hour of the morning. Aelin was so tired she could only sob when the door cracked open. Her head fell forward and rested against the porcelain seat, too weak to hold it up any longer.

 Lysandra had cringed and very gently guided her head from the toilet rim to her shoulder, nestling Aelin's forehead into the crook of her neck despite the cold-sweat there.

 She crooned sweet nothings and soothed Aelin until she had the strength to stand up and collect herself. Lysandra helped her dress and brush her teeth. She left Aelin to sit on the couch and came back with lightly buttered toast, a glass of water, and a cup of ginger tea.

 Her attempt to decline it was futile. Lysandra left no room for argument. Slowly, Aelin bit the toast and sipped the tea. Bite by bite and drink by drink, she finished the breakfast.

 Lysandra didn't relent her hovering for the rest of the morning. As she was forced through her morning routine under her friend's watchful eye, she began to feel more human, and that awful pain slowly faded to the background of her mind. Nausea still rolled in her belly, but the food and drink helped settle it enough for her to function.

 Now here Aelin was, only a couple of hours later, filling muffin cups to have ready for the early morning regulars.

Her attitude was dismal.

 She felt sick. Her body ached from hours of lying on the cold tile. Sweat soaked her clothes and chilled her forehead. Just looking at her cup of tea made her angry that it wasn't coffee, but her stomach burned so furiously that not even coffee sounded good. It was a horrible paradox and was only just that much more upsetting.

 Aelin felt her eyes begin to burn with tears, and she slammed the bowl of batter down so hard that it splattered up her apron. She pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes and tried to will the tears back down.

 Maybe she would cave to Lysandra's demands that she go upstairs and rest. It went grated against her desire to be self-sufficient and independent, but taking a hot bath and curling up in her bed sounded like pure bliss. The baby would likely benefit from her decompressing, too. That thought sold her on the idea.

 The bell at the counter rang.

 Aelin took a deep breath and washed her hands quickly. She would take this customer and then let Lysandra know she was taking the day off.

 Thinking of the jasmine soap and the warm blanket waiting for her upstairs was just enough for her to plaster on a smile.

 "Goodmorning, how can I- you," The last word came out in a hiss. Aelin's smile melted as quickly as it came.

 The asshole was back, and he brought a friend.

 Whoop-dee-freaking-doo.

 To his credit, the friend was equally as beautiful as the Asshole himself. He had dark skin, the color of polished pennies, and long blonde hair that coiled just above the arches of his cheekbones. If his choice of companionship didn't perturb Aelin so much, she might've found him attractive.

 Hell, she found him attractive anyway.

 "Is that how you greet all your customers, sweetheart?" The friend smiled at her, and his perfect teeth were bright enough to signal plains.

 "Do you call every girl sweetheart or only the ones you want to spit in your coffee?" Her tone is sharp enough to cut glass, and the man's eyes widen at the challenge.

 "I don't drink coffee, but I supposed the hot chocolate I was going to order is just as easy to violate," he laughs warmly, and her eyes follow the motion of his adam's apple. "How about I lay off the pet names in exchange for a warm cup of sugar without saliva?" His face was sincere enough that she felt less inclined to spite him for his choice of friends.

 "Your name?" she asks.

 "Fenrys," he offers without a joke, and Aelin writes it on a cup.

"I want a dark roast, black." The asshole reiterated his order from the day before. He had his arms crossed, and his face was set in a grimace. His comment the other day still rang in her ears, and she was certainly not feeling generous. Aelin scowled at him and left them both at the counter without a word.

 It only took a few minutes to make the cocoa. She made every cup from scratch with a recipe she'd been perfecting since childhood. As she prepped the drink, the store bells rang again.

 Turning around with the drink, she spotted her cousin Aedion at the door and smiled.

 She and Aedion had been separated by the system shortly after her parent's death. He was five years older, and their caseworker though Aelin stood a better chance of being adopted by herself. It was a traumatic memory for both of them. They'd found each other about a year ago, and it took little time for them to rekindle their relationship.

 She set the cup on the counter in front of them. "That will be three-fifty." The Asshole raised a pale eyebrow. "My coffee?"

"I have the right to refuse services to anyone I wish. That will be three-fifty." Aelin felt great satisfaction as The Asshole's lips pinched together and his scowl deepened.

 Aedion raised his eyebrow from across the room.

Lysandra chose that moment to walk back in, and when she caught sight of Aelin's expression and saw the seething man in front of her, she hastily made her way over.

"Can I help you?" She asks, looking towards the men. Aelin knew the question was directed at her, though.

 There were a lot of eyes on her. Aedion. Asshole. Handsome Fenrys. Lysandra. Aelin thrived on attention, but there was a difference between attention and being a spectacle. The room suddenly felt a lot smaller and crowded.

 Fenrys placed a hand on the Asshole's shoulder, concerned. "Hey. It's fine. We can get your cup of dirt water somewhere else. It's not a big deal, Rowan."

 Rowan.

 "I am a paying customer," the man, Rowan, gritted through his teeth.

 "You are paying for my coffee and pastries," Aelin snarled. "Your money does not purchase you the right to verbally abuse me.

 Aedion was over in an instant, chest puffed and oozing with male bravado. "Well met, gentleman. I believe my cousin said three-fifty." He edged close enough to bother their personal space. "If it's too difficult for you to figure out, I can help you count your coins and show you the door?"

 At six-two, Aedion was an intimidating figure. He was physically massive—layers of dense muscle from underground fighting and patrolling the streets with his gang, The Bane. An impressive tapestry of ink sprawled across his chest, curling out of his sleeves and collar just enough to let others know it's there. Most people would see him and think twice about approaching him.

 Rowan was taller than Aedion even, and perhaps more muscular as well. They squared up, neither breaking eye contact.

 Fenrys seemed displeased with the turn of events, but when Aedion turned to glare at him, there was a flash of recognition in his eyes. He was next to Rowan in an instant, pushing on his chest. "That's enough of your shit. I'll pay, and we are leaving."

 He fished out five dollars from the pocket of his trousers and tossed it on the counter. "Keep the change. Sorry for disturbing your day, ladies."

 When the shop bells jingled, and the door slammed shut behind them, Aelin sighed and felt herself wilt against the counter. Her breathing was labored, and her heart still thrummed with the excess of adrenalin. She was prepared for a fight. Muscle memory had her tense and ready for the situation to escalate, which of course, it didn't. Old habits died hard, though.

 A steadying hand was gripping her elbow and helping her lean into a solid body. "Hey, Ace. Relax, it's fine."

 Lysandra shook her head, "That was the bastard from yesterday, I am guessing? You should have let me take care of that." She points up the stairs. "Go. You need to take a day off. Upstairs. Make sure she sits down, Aedion."

 "I had it handled," Aelin grumbled, allowing Aedion to tug her towards the stairs in the back of the little kitchen.

 Her cousin snorted, "Oh, I know you can handle yourself. The stress isn't good for Little A, though."

 "You just want to throw your street cred around."

 Aedion laughed, "That too."

 Aelin slumped onto the thread worn couch and tugged at her tennis shoes. She sighed when they finally slipped off, and she could rest her swollen feet on the old coffee table. Their apartment wasn't the luxury she and Lysandra were accustomed to, but it was more of a home than the Mannor had been.

 "You look exhausted," Aedion stated bluntly.

 Aelin closed her eyes and hummed. "Is that the language you use when you talk people into your bed?"

 "Not a lot of talking is required for that," Aedion says with a straight face. "Even if it was, I would be practicing on Lysandra, not you."

 Few words passed between them after that. They weren't necessary. Aelin and Aedion talked and texted all the time, but there were times when they just needed to soak in each other's presence. Years apart starved them of that unspoken bond they'd had as children.

 Being close to Aedion was one of the few things that staved the fear and allowed her to relax. He was like the familiar taste of hot tea and the warmth of a childhood blanket wrapped into one. She had no doubt that Lysandra had called and ordered him to come to see her at some point this morning.

 The Bane typically showed up on Friday nights to play poker at her tables and hang out. Aedion would stay through the weekend, and they would catch up then. An early morning visit on a weekday was out of the ordinary. Occasionally Kyllian or Jerome would pop by and make sure nothing was amiss.

 When Aelin and Lysandra liberated themselves and opened the shop, Aedion had insisted they find a location in The Bane's stomping ground. Arobynn was less likely to stumble across them outside of his territory. She'd seen Tern and Mulligan prowling the streets.

 Arobynn wouldn't let them go so quickly.

 Aelin hadn't wanted Aedion to get involved, but there was no way he would leave them defenseless.

 They compromised.

 Once a month Aelin would donate a small share of The Stag's tips for their protection. It was a pitiful amount. So she also offered her spare bedroom as a hideaway for Aedion's friends who needed a place to lay low. So far, only Ren had utilized it, but it was always ready to go.

 Aelin was by no means someone to screw with. Her other name was just as well known on the streets as The Bane were. It was a good arrangement.

 It's why Rowan had gotten under her skin so badly. She needed those tips to keep The Bane well equipped and for other resources to keep Arobynn out of her hair.

 He didn't know about the baby. Didn't realize the depth of how much Aelin had actually betrayed him. There would be hell to pay if he ever found out.

 Plus, baby shit was expensive.

 "So," Aedion finally broke the silence. "How did you piss off the cops?"

 Wait. "What?" Aelin sat up and leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

 "That was Detective Fenrys. He booked me the last time one of our fights got broken up. Nice guy. Let me out on a technicality." Aedion smiled. "Maybe he just thought I was good looking. He's not wrong. I am assuming the other guy is his partner."

 "They are detectives?" Aelin spat.

 "The best and brightest Orynth has to offer," Aedion ruffled her hair as he stood. "You sure know how to pick your fights, cousin."

 Well shit.

#samisactuallydeadoops #rowanisaworkinprogress #aelinandrowan #coffeeshopau #throne of glass #angst #fanfic

[mystery-salad]

I'm half asleep and can't think of any characters off the top of my head so you can choose but #17 blease. "Nothing is wrong with you."

Oh man I know exactly what I wana do here let’s see if I can get my first piece for Kai out. It’ll be a bit of a time lapse through Icebrood Saga.

“Nothing is wrong with you.”

Arms crossed and arched upright, Kai stared down at her teammate locked in the cell. “Figured my warning to stay alert was taken seriously, turns out I was wrong.”

Braham’s gaze wavers, but to his credit he doesn’t look away. More determination than Kai had expected from him for a while. “I’ve bailed you out, but if this happens again Eirsson you’re on your own and the team moves out regardless.” It earns her an elbow from Caithe at her side and a mumble of being too hard on the guy, but she elects to ignore that for now. He needed to learn the gravity of the situation and she’s been on edge enough without setting foot in a jail she would’ve likely ended up in herself if she had any other job.

“Just grab your shit and lets go.” She unlocks the cell before tossing the keys back onto the warden’s desk, stepping back enough for Braham to pass her and grab his belongings. Burn her, she hopes he didn’t have that bow on him-

“Uh...where’s my bow?” He sounded as on edge as she felt now, asking the warden about it.

“Fuck...”

—————————

She was already uneasy following the commands of another charr again, even if Almorra herself hadn’t touched the legions since leaving to start the Vigil. The call just...rubbed her fur the wrong way.

Turns out, standing in the middle of a keep strewn with dead bodies, her hunch was unfortunately correct.

“Alva. She was...she was one of my guild mates.”

Kai felt a twinge at that, one she elected steadfastly to buckle down on. The past isn’t a place to dwell when the present holds danger. “Keep steady Eirsson. They’re just bodies now, and we’ve got a job to do. Enemy could still be close.”

“...I did...I failed them.” She turned to look at Braham when it was clear he wasn’t hearing her, spotting him kneeled over the crumpled body of, presumably, Alva. Poor girl looked around his age...young.

Shaking her head, Kai strode quickly over to him and put a paw on his shoulder. “We have to keep focused Eirsson. Stay on task. You can mourn after the threat is neutralized.”

He met her gaze again, wavering less but far more unsure, before he gave a nod and stood to continue on. A motion that was interrupted by the sudden sound of a door slamming open in the silence.

“Look. It...it opened.”

—————————

“They...how is this...they betrayed Almorra and Jhavi...killed all those people...”

She let out a frustrated huff as she turned to Braham. “Who are you talking about, the sons of svanir? We already knew that mu-”

“My guildmates...” she could hear the strain in his voice as he said it, and felt that twinge again. And pushed it down again.

“...come on, we need to keep moving.”

—————————

“Wait... Braham Vowbreaker? Raven led you here?”

“Vowbreaker?”

Kai hadn’t met Jhavi before now, had no idea what to make of the apparent legendary daughter. But she wasn’t a fan of how familiar this conversation felt. The twinge was back and getting harder to ignore.

“Oh didn't you know?” Olar, she presumed, stepped closer to the team. To Braham. “That's what they call you in the Shiverpeaks now.”

Burn me...

“I...I own my mistakes, Olar. Now it's your turn.” To his credit, the kid wasn’t shaking. He stood his ground better than she expected given what he’d just been told. But this wasn’t the time for it.

Putting a hand on his shoulder again, she gave Braham a firm pull. “Stand down and step back Eirsson.”

She could see a familiar fire in his eyes as he opened his mouth to defy her. The twinge snapped, and her claws dug into his shoulder hard enough to draw blood as she growled. “I said stand the fuck down Braham!”

That seemed to work, for the moment at least. She’d startled him enough to break the building tension between him and his old guild, for long enough to get through. “You don’t want this on your hands kid. It’s not the same as fighting Icebrood. Take my offer, stand back before it gets worse or I will make you.” There would be a solid silence, save for his old guild still trying to jeer him on. But she kept a firm hold and kept his eyes on her while he thought it over and finally, thankfully gave a tired nod. “Good choice.”

It didn’t take much to nudge him behind the group now that he’d go willingly, and she threw a warning glance at Jhavi before aiming her pistol at what was left of Braham’s old guild.

—————————

She’s always kept to herself, even out here in the cold. She guesses some habits break harder than others even as she put effort in. But small steps still add up to progress. Caithe sat flush against her side by the second fire, clearly determined to steal as much insulation from her fur as possible.

“...you really should talk to him”

She glanced down at the sylvari, a bit surprised by the break in the silent evening. “Talk to who?”

“You know exactly who.” Caithe met her gaze with a small frown, something Kai had come to understand meant disappointment. “We both needed someone when we hit our lowest. The team is sweet but they aren’t going to understand what happened like you do. I know you get it. You stopped him from making the same mistake, now help him figure out how to stop himself.”

She rolled her eyes up to the cloudy sky, acting a lot more exasperated than necessary as she hid her discomfort. “You’re joining the other fire and telling him for me. If I go over there they’ll all think they’re in trouble again.”

Caithe stood in response, expression softening as she leaned up to kiss Kai’s muzzle. “Try to relax so you don’t start a fight, you both need this.” The charr let out an indignant huff in response, watching Caithe join the team and shortly after watching a much bigger silhouette walk warily over to her more private location.

“...Eirsson.” A gesture to a seatacross from her brought Braham to eye level over the fire. He was clearly uneasy and she knew the team was still adjusting to her efforts to be less...harsh. “Relax a bit, I’m not going to bite your head off and you’re gonna waste your energy like that.”

The words seemed to help.

...a little.

“Look, I just wanted to say...you did good out there. Given the situation. You’ve followed orders from the start even if you don’t seem to hear em half the time here.”

He seemed surprised by the words, compliments were never Kai’s strongsuit on the best of days and, to her own chagrin now, she realized this was probably the first time she really praised someone on the team. But that was a concern for when there weren’t more pressing topics.

“...Jhavi called you Oathbreaker. Said all the norn call you that now.”

She could see his wince lit up by the fire, showing well how he felt about it. Yet he was still trying to put on a brave face. “I left my team, we’d...failed to take down Jormag, and I ran. I broke my oath.”

She gave a small nod in response, “You did break an oath. But it wasn’t one you could’ve capably kept with a small team anyways. Jormag was coming whether you fought or not. As were betrayals.”

“No! It was my destiny, I followed the legend! I cracked the tooth, and then I failed. I broke my oath and now everyone’s paying for it because I couldn’t do what I was supposed to.” His voice wavered and his gaze broke from hers at last to look down at the flames dancing between the two.

“...I failed too, you know.” Her posture was tense as she spoke, a tale she’d never truly be prepared to share herself, and never had since it was infamous enough. But now it was needed. “Got all the way to the flame legion camp only to find out my right hand already betrayed me. The only blood on my fur that day was from my own legion.”

Braham was silent. Whether from a lack of listening or surprise that she was sharing, Kai had no idea. But she pressed on. “Found out only after I got back from another job that my running for tribune had been rejected, and I was no longer welcome. I killed a lot of legionaries that day. To away from a life sentence.” She took a deep breath, shakier than she’d like to admit and thankful for the wavering flames creating too much motion for Braham to notice if he looked back up. “You fucked up kid. But that doesn’t mean everything halts until you make it right. Some things are too fucked to fix, and you’ve just gotta move forward to the next option.”

She let the silence hang as she gathered her own thoughts again after saying all that. To her surprise, Braham spoke up in her place. “...I was supposed to live up to my mom. She’s supposed to be proud of m-“

“No. Fuck legacy. I don’t care who your mom was, you’re the person on my team. All I want you to live up to is your own potential here. Nothing is wrong with you Braham.”

“My mother was a great warrior!” He seemed to bristle at the idea of throwing that away.

“She was, yeah. So were my sires. And you know what? That legacy did jack shit for my own life once I didn’t perfectly meet the bloodline standard. You can hold her up on whatever pedestal you want, but it better not be over your fucking own.” Her fur stood on her end, on the verge of snarling as she spat out more information she hadn’t intended to share but realized she needed to. “The team wants you here, not Eir. At the very least, respect that fact and do what you’re here to do instead of what the norn want you to do.”

All the energy left Braham at once, the momentary aggression, the wariness of being lectured, everything. He slumped in his seat low enough that Kai actually had to tilt her head down a little. “...you really think we can do this?”

She couldn’t help an indignant snort at that. “Think? We’ve dealt with worse. Whatever’s going on here won’t last. We will.”

#nyokkai #long post #WOW that got long whoops #rookfern #got carried away #icebrood saga #icebrood saga spoilers

[the-dragons-knight]

Prompt #27: The Chorus Rises

Entry number twenty seven for the FFXIV Write Challenge by @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast.

Prompt: “Palaver”

Rating: PG

Relations: None shown

Warnings: Post ARR Main story, Patch 2.5: Before the Fall - Part 1, building blocks of Heavensward story content

Katsum comes to parley with the Father of Dragons, yet the story he tells is not the one she expected to hear after all the stories she has ever heard as a child. So which is truth, and which is lies?

- - - - - - - - - -

“Who treadeth now upon my bones and waketh me from slumber sweet?”

Katsum halts in her steps, her eyes drawn up to the face of the dragon’s corpse. She watched its eyes flash to life, burning red and sparkling with promise of power. An essence of aether fell from his jaws to the air before her. The aether molded to the visage of a dragons head, roaring with such rage, she flinched.

“Thou hast forgotten the face of the lord of Silvertear. Remember now, mortal, and fear me.” The aetherial face of Midgardsomr reared back and roared even more ferociously this time, and Katsum moved to draw her sword. Before she could pull it free from its scabbard though, she felt a burning sensation around her neck and she gasped. Her hands flew up to the necklace hiding under her armor, feeling her aether being drawn into it as a ghostly form of another dragon appeared beside her. This shimmering, foggy dragon hissed and answered Midgardsormr’s roar with his own, a warning that was clear to all who heard it.

“What is this? Hmmm... How curious...” The elder dragon drew back his jaws, and quieted. The dragon that circled Katsum quieted too and vanished, the burning and draining of aether fading and Katsum dropped to her knee, her breathing heavy as she tried to catch her breath.

After all this time, she gets to see him again, yet he leaves without any explanation or reason. No words to be spoken between them or any companionship at all. Just an appearance that drains her energy that could kill her if it stayed long enough and then he was gone. Katsum didn’t understand this. Why wouldn’t he talk to her? It was like every story she had ever been told about the dragons was wrong...and she didn’t understand why.

The glowing face of Midgardsormr disappeared in a flurry of sparks, returning to the jaws of the dragon’s corpse, “By Her gifts - and his presence, hast thou earned a moments reprieve. Silent though he may be, I recognize his soul as one of mine own.” Midgardsormr hummed thoughtfully, and Katsum felt his gaze upon her as she struggled to stand back on her feet, “Speak, mortal, and I shall listen.”

Katsum took a deep breath and her stoic expression returned, her tongue moving to speak in the Dragon’s tongue rather than the common language, “(Hail Midgardsormr, Father of Dragons, Guardian of Silvertear Lake, and Bane of the XIVth Legion, I am Katsum Almor, Defender of Eorzea and Warrior of Light. I was sent here to confirm a prophecy that watcher of the stars spoke of as the waning of the Dragon’s Star foretold your resurrection.)”

“Thou speaketh my people’s tongue so easily. How strange. Speak as normal, mortal, as I do not care to hear mine own language spoken by a mortal’s voice,” He seemed to ponder for a moment, “And Guided by a star…? Heh heh heh. Indeed, thou canst see thy prophecy spoke true.” Midgardsomr hissed lowly, “My people have heard the song. Ishgard shall burn.”

Katsum narrowed her gaze thoughtfully, “I...I don’t understand...” She shook her head, “All I have ever heard is so different then what I hear now. All those stories I’ve ever been told...are any of them true?” She looked up into the dragon’s gaze, “Please, tell me what has happened. Where I hail from, dragons are revered as guardians. As friends...yet all I have heard recently has made those stories seem untrue. But why? Why is this war still being fought after...after all this time?”

Midgardsomr did not answer right away, and she felt him watching her.

“Strange mortal,” He mused, “Sons must answer for their father’s misdeeds.” He growled lowly, “Though a thousand years may pass, and a thousand more after, we do not forget. We do not forgive.”

“Then...then why does he stay with me? Why did he save us? Why was he there to build the kingdom I grew up in? Why did he rise against the chorus rather than join it?” She raised a hand to her neck again, and spoke with earnest, “I know nothing about him, not even his name, and yet all I have ever heard was that he saved us and protected us from the wyrm’s wrath...was all of that wrong…?”

“Foolish child. If thou dost not even remember thy savior's name, then thy people did not truly care for my kind, no reverence for mine son.”

Katsum’s eyes widened in shock, then she grimaced and narrowed her gaze, “So you would have this bloodshed continue? Let this war that kills thousands on both the side of man and dragon alike?”

“Just as thou art loyal to thy loved ones, I am loyal to my children, mortal. We are not different in that regard,” He hissed in reply, “Seven children did I sire. One now singers of retribution, and I rise to join in the chorus.” Katsum opened her mouth to speak, but the dragon snarled, “If thou does not know of the truth behind the war, then thou hast no right to speak of what should be, foolish mortal child!”

Katsum bit her tongue, her retaliation dying on her lips. He was right. She had no right to speak her thoughts on a matter of which she did not know the truth of. And she had never thought of it as such but...why else would the dragon’s name have been lost to history unless...unless her people had come to not care to remember the past as it was.

“Thou art powerless to silence us, mortal. Yet thou shalt not live to labor in vain. Thy reprieve is at an end.” Midgardsormr growled as if he was poised to strike, drawing Katsum’s attention as she reached again for her sword.

Suddenly, a shield of light enveloped her, and she felt her body freeze at the feeling.

Midgardsormr hissed, “Hmph. Trickery is thy shield. This frail creature is not gifted, but chosen...not by one, but two.” The Father of Dragons growled quietly, “Harken to me, Hydaelyn! I remember...and I consent.”

The shield of light fell and Katsum stood up straight again, shaking herself a little.

“Fear not, mortal...I shall not harm thee...such is my promise,” Katsum blinked, curiosity filling her mind. A ball of light appeared again in the jaws of the dragon before it shot like an arrow down at her. She had no time to flinch or defend herself as it struck through her chest. She grimaced and squeezed her eyes closed, waiting for the pain, but she felt none. Instead, she felt something disappear, like a weight being lifted, or a cloth being removed from her soul. It was a strange sensation, yet there was no pain like she had expected, just that loss of something that she could not put her finger on.

“Heh heh heh,” Midgardsormr chuckled lowly, “Mayhaps you think me an oathbreaker?”

Katsum found herself kneeling on the ground again, trying to catch her breath. She looked up at the dragon and gasped, “Why...I know not what you did but...it did not hurt me...so why would I think as such.”

“Hmmm...Strange child, hast thou people’s stories taught you such reverence for mine kind that thou trust in mine own words so easily?”

She frowned, “It was your word...and it was true...so yes. I trust it...”

He hummed in wonder and in thought, “Thou art a curious one...Yet still know that if thou comest to harm, it shall be by another’s hand, not mine.”

“What was it...that you did then?”

“I did but strip thee of thy mistress’s feeble blessing.”

Katsum’s eyes widened, rising to her feet shakingly, “But-...but how?! Why?!”

“Thou didn’t profit much by Her grace, but no more. If thou only survived this long because of Her blessing, then thou doth not deserve such titles as ‘Warrior of Light’, nor the soul of my lost son as thy companion.”

Her fist tightened; as if she needed something else to question herself about. She already questioned her right to the crown when it had been given to her, questioned her right to wear the necklace after she fled the kingdom, and questioned why Hydaelyn had chosen her to grant her strength and watch over her. She believed that all was the will of the Savior, but she still questioned it...even when she knew she shouldn’t…

“Listen well, mortal,” His aether sparkled again, and from the blue sparks came the small form of a little green and pale pink scaled dragon. It floated down to hover before her, and it spoke with the voice of the elder dragon, “The covenant binds me to thee, and so I shall follow. I shall watch...listen...and wait. Fight and struggle, if it be thy will. Man hath ever coveted that which lie beyond his grasp. The history of thy people shows as such by the way thy former rulers fell.” Katsum again blinked in surprise. Perhaps there indeed was much she had to learn about her people and their past…

Midgardsomr growled, and the red light of the corpse’s eyes died away, the light disappearing with it. Yet his voice still rang in her ears, “I drink of Her body, and thence doth my own find new life. When it hath grown whole, the loyal and the penitent shall rejoice.”

She turned to the little dragon form of the Father of Dragons as he floated beside her, “Until then, I shall follow thee on thy journey, for thou hath captured my interest. The Dragonsong herald etch a beginning...and an end. How will thou see it end, o Warrior?”

Katsum looked away, down at her own hands, “Can you tell me...as that I do not know...so I shall not be ignorant to it anymore...”

Midgardsormr watched her, and answered, “If thou earns it.”

The little dragon sparkled and vanished in the aetheric essence and was gone from view, and Katsum was left to wonder was was true...and just how much of what she knew was lies, and what had been lost to time.

And if it as he says...than how much of who I am is built on lies…?

Her fist tightened again, a determined glare on her brow and her lips pressed into a thin line, “With or without Her blessing, I will know the truth. I will earn it from you. And if I must fight with my last breath, I will do it...for I have nothing else left to fight for but memory and the truth within it...you may hold me to that promise.”

She heard Midgardsormr whisper on the wind, “So I shall.”

#FFxivWrite2019 #ffxiv writing #ffxiv writing challenge #katsum almor #Midgardsormr #ffxiv #warrior of light #father of dragons #dragonsong war #a realm reborn #pre-heavensward

[powerdynamicwhump]

Because sometimes a gal has to give in and write what she wants to see in the written world. 1700 words, original emotional whump fiction

Summary: The king is killed, the guard feels responsible and goes to see the queen to deal with the aftermath

Includes: emotional whump, power dynamics, prior character death, hurt/comfort (so much), begging, emotional catharsis, complete lack of correct grammar regarding sentence structure, medieval aesthetic, class hierarchy, kneeling, forgiveness, mentions of polyamory, 

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He walks down the hall, but feels more like he’s pulling himself through a bog, his legs moving only with conscious decision and the physical acknowledgement that if he doesn’t keep moving he’ll sink down to his knees and never rise. The other occupants of the castle hasten around him, and he finds himself considering that time may only have slowed for him, and the rest of the world will keep turning. It will, he tells himself, because if the world could have stopped it would have the moment he saw a blade grow out from between his King’s shoulder blades. And his King, his King, his responsibility to protect crumble to the ground with only the slightest gasp of breath , his Queen reaching out to catch her husband, blood seeping out and staining cloth and skin and him, too late, far too late, turning to find the assassin slipping out from the crowd with a whisper so nearly missed for the roar in his ears. And he threw his own knife, though he has no memory of drawing it, and it never should have come to that, and his King is dead, and it’s his fault-

And then the door is in front of him, flanked by members of the guard in unpolished armor and rumpled sleeves, weariness in their eyes. They look at him and one silently shakes his head, pleading, although Julian doesn’t know for what. He takes a steadying breath and stands up straighter. This was his doing, and he deserves nothing less than what he has coming. His fault his King is dead, and he forces his legs to continue moving through the doorway, won’t let them fail him now, he has to answer for his failure, knows that, and he walks into the room and there she is, dried blood flaking off of her hands, her blue satin dress creased and stained and torn. She sits on their bed, and when she looks up her eyes are blown wide, entire face taut with rage, and his legs finally give in and he falls to his knees. Distantly, he hears the guard shut the door behind him.

“There’s no reason for you to be here.”   A rustle of satin as she shifts, though he can’t bring himself to look up. “He’s dead, so even you can’t fail him a second time.”

Though he didn’t think it possible, the cold, vacant scorn in her voice clenched the knot in his stomach tighter, and it was all he could do to summon his own voice to speak to her, though he had no right to so much as address her after this failure. “I-” He swallowed to wet his throat. “I’ve come to offer my recompense.” The rug he’s kneeling on is soft, he’s been here before, so many times, fingers running over the fibers, listening to their soft laughter as they invite him to stand, tell him time and time again that there was no need to stand on such formality after so long, but he’d always insisted. And now he was here again, but he finds the warmth of the rug gone, the comfort it always offered as stiff as the boards of his guard room floor.

There is no laughter this time. “Recompense?” He forces himself to look up past her knees to her face, twisted in disbelief. “For his life?” She stands, cocking her head, eyebrows furrowed, eyes still locked over his shoulder. “What do you have that’s worth his life? What do you have that’s worth a fraction,” her voice cracks, “of his life?” The emptiness in the room threatens to swallow him, and he invites it to do so, to save him from having to see her anguish. His breaths stutter.

His Queen grips the post of the bed, white knuckled, other hand trembling at her side. “What can you offer me that’s worth all that I’ve lost?” And her voice loudens to a thunder crack at the last word, a wave crashing down upon him and leaving him beaten on the shore, and he finds his voice answering back:

“Nothing.” Quiet, broken, left only with the truth. His King, seated on the throne to rule from one end of their blessed land to the other, sovereign and just and right. Man of wisdom and patience and mercy, and he was dead, and there was nothing in this world to fill the hole of his loss. “Nothing.” He sees the bleakness of his own expression reflected on the Queen’s face.

His muscles react slowly as he pushes his back straight, still kneeling. “I have nothing, so please.” His own voice breaks. “Please, take the only thing I can offer.” He pulls out a dagger from his belt, of simple design but incredible make, a gift from his King and Queen on the anniversary of their coronation. The leather wrapped hilt was worn, but the blade was as sharp as the moment he’d received it, and his fingers tighten unconsciously as he turns the hilt to his Queen and holds it out to her. “I was his oath guard, his life was my responsibility and I failed him.” His breath comes in gasps now. “I have nothing worth his life but this is all I can offer, so please.” He doesn’t look up as he reaches out to wrap her hand around the hilt of the dagger, as he pulls her near to place the edge of the blade against his neck. The steel is cool, and the certainty of it is grounding. “I beg you, I know it’s not enough but it’s all I have, so please. Take it.”

Moments are hours, and it has probably only been a matter of half a minute before he lifts his head to see her face. Where he expects loathing, there is only grief written into the depths of her eyes and the lines of her mouth. When she speaks, there is none of the blame and wrath he deserves, only a deep sadness. Her words are spoken softly, belying the weight of them. “I’ve already lost my husband, would you have me lose you as well?” She tries to pull away the knife, but he grips her hand around the hilt tighter, pressing the edge deeper into his neck until he can feel the sting.

“I failed him, I failed you, please. I cannot live an oathbreaker and I cannot live knowing you-” He cuts himself off, knowing the truth but unable to say it. To speak it into existence, to make it real would be too much, and-

“Knowing I what?” She spoke quietly, but the edge that came so naturally to those in power was there, and he bites his tongue, but then she speaks again, “Tell me. Knowing I what?” And it was an order, and he had always been powerless to her orders, even before he’d-

And so he whispers, softly enough he hopes the heavy air will stifle the words before they reach her, “knowing you can no longer bear to look at me.” There is a beat of absolute stillness, and then there is a hand on his chin, forcing his head up and her gaze meets his, and he cannot look away. Her eyes rake over him, and he finds his hold on her hand loosening, until she slowly pulls the dagger away from his neck and places it gently on the bed. “I broke the only vow I ever made.” The words start, and he can’t stop them. “I vowed to protect him, and I failed, and I’ve no other purpose now-”

“That wasn’t the oath you made.” The Queen spoke with such vehemence, her entire expression changed with the force of the words. “You vowed to protect the both of us, and I am still alive. Would you forsake that vow to me?”  

“Never,” he breathes. He felt heat rising from his chest, though from his own humiliation or from some other source he doesn’t know. His fingers trace the floral motif in the rug, as he finds his voice again. “Never, but how could you still want me. Serving you was an honor, an honor I never deserved but… ” his voice trails off. How do you convey that your entire value was lost in one moment? Guarding them was his life, loving them was his joy, though he never understood how they could love him. And now he’s lost that, and he wants to again beg the Queen to kill him, to allow him that mercy instead of the cruelty of continuing to serve her when he knows he doesn’t deserve to. “Please. Just…please.” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for.

“I won’t take your life. No matter how much you want me too.” She kneels down in front of him, at equal height, and places a hand gently on his cheek. “You’re the only man we ever loved, the only one we shared this bed with.” He takes a steadying breath, and finds that her hand is too much and not enough, and he doesn’t know whether to pull away or lean in, so he just remains still.

“I don’t deserve your mercy.” He refuses to acknowledge the second statement, knows processing it would bring down anything he was still holding together.

“No one deserves mercy, Julian. No one deserves love. Doesn’t mean we can’t have it.”

No one deserves love, Julian; that’s the whole point of it, the king had said, smile soft as he ran his fingers lightly down Julian’s back. A good thing, the queen had replied, stretched out on the bed, or no one would have it.

He felt the numbness go as his eyes began to prickle, and then the tears came, flowing down his face, and he had no energy to wipe them away. Feeling came back in tremors, and he collapsed to the floor, forehead catching the Queen’s knee. His Queen envelops him, tears pouring from her eyes as well, and together they just lay there, letting go of their loss with the only other person who lost the same.

#powerdynamicwhump fiction #my original fiction #power dynamics #whump #kneeling #hurt/comfort #begging #emotional catharsis

[dangerousdnd]

So, the DM has made a playlist for the campaign so far (mostly the important NPCs and such). It can be listened to here, and there’s a low-to-non spoiler-y explanation for the song choices (and who they correspond to) under the cut.

Son of the Morning (Oh, Sleeper) - Asmodeus

If you could see like me you’d see / you haven’t won anything / if you could see like me you’d see / your precious light is fading

This song is about, and from the POV of, Lucifer/Satan as perceived by Christian religions. Seeing how I basically used that concept for my portrayal of Asmodeus, it seemed like a fitting choice.

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Lullaby (Jason Webley) - Primus

Wind-up song for a wind-up boy. Music boxes and music box lullabies also make sense for someone who is among the youngest of the gods, and the only one to have a “father” in Oghma.

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On the Brightside (Never Shout Never) - Bear

I’m only as tall as my heart will let me be / and I’m only as small as the world will make me seem / and when the going gets rough and I feel like I may fall / I’ll look on the bright side / I’m roughly six feet all

Bear is actually taller than that, but as someone who’d felt the need to prove himself one way or another for most of his life (before finding and becoming comfortable in his true calling as a cleric), a song like this seemed appropriate.

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The Bard’s Song [In the Forest] (Blind Guardian) - Matthias

Tomorrow will take us away / far from home / no one will ever know our names / but the bard’s songs will remain

Seems an obvious pick for a bard and adventurer who has mostly flown under the radar when it comes to his own heroics. Matthias prefers it that way, though.

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Death May Die (An Even Scarier Solstice) - Tal

Alhazred said that is not dead which can eternal lie / The Arab said that is not dead for even death may die

Yes, Tal’s patron is divine and not a Great Old One, but a song about the writing of an old tome that drives those who read it to madness makes sense for a guy who gave up an eye and hung himself for the ability to read old tomes that drive those who read them to madness.

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Fall Away (twenty one pilots) - Oathbreaker

I can feel the pull begin / feel my conscience wearing thin / and my skin it will start / to break up and fall apart

No spoilers, but he’s called Oathbreaker and looks so depressed all the time for a good reason.

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GO!!! (Flow) - Quartz

Right here Right now (Burn!) / ぶった斬ってくぜ Get the fire!

Listen to me. It’s very important that you all know Quartz is a Genji main and that’s why his siblings beat him up.

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Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked (Cage the Elephant) - Finnan Thorngage

Ain’t no rest for the wicked / money don’t grow on trees / I’ve got bills to pay, I’ve got mouths to feed / and ain’t nothing in this world for free

A bit self-explanatory for the biggest shithead thief in Faerun.

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The Journey [Nervosa] - Garrett Valokinen

Breaking down the walls that you leave up to keep me from eating the tree of knowledge / suck that fruit and spit the seed / leave behind the sad and spineless

Garrett is probably on the outside the nicest cultist to a death demigod you’ll meet, and on some levels that niceness isn’t just a mask. But you don’t start worshipping Vecna out of nowhere, and for Garrett the motivations are very personal, and definitely worrying.

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Taking Off (clipping.) - Lou

No demons for the damned meaning / If they live in hell / They can't bring it to you, you see? / What's a goon to a goblin?

Some criminals worship various gods and demigods in the same way the drug cartels of our world will invoke La Meurta--everyone from the Raven Queen to Graz’zt to any trickster deity and yes, Vecna. That was how Lou fell into full-blown worship, and as far as she’s concerned it’s worked out for her great.

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Apres Moi (Regina Spektor) - Trista

Be afraid of the lame, you’ll inherit their legs / be afraid of the old, you’ll inherit their soul / be afraid of the cold, you’ll inherit their blood / apres moi de deluge, after me comes the flood

Again: you don’t start worshipping Myrkul out of nowhere. Trista’s motivations are in some ways aligned with those of other characters in this campaign; however, she decided to direct her energies in a considerably not positive or healthy way.

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Our Lady of Sorrows (My Chemical Romance) - Shelby MacLachlan

Stand up fucking tall / don’t let them see your back and take / my fucking hand and never be afraid again

tl;dr Shelby’s Fucking Pissed but unlike other people on this list he’s definitely trying to go about it in a slightly more productive and good-aligned way. But he also does blood magic, so it’s a grey area.

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Long Way Away (clipping.) - Oh Shieldbreaker

But look to the stars / When the sun is long gone (Long way away) / And pray that your children / Do not sing this song

Oh might look stoic, even in his rages, but he’s been hiding a deep pain for a long time. Between him and Shelby, he’s been enslaved longer, been taken further away from his family, and has no idea if he’ll ever find them again. There’s a lot going on there.

#reference: asmodeus rising #music

[ncfan-1]

Breaks in Routine

Her hair was black. That was... new. [Set during ‘The Antilles Extraction’; serves as a companion to ‘Diplomacy Is a Process’.]

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His predecessor had warned him of the things he would need to keep in mind if he ever found himself on the wrong side of a cell door. At the time, Fenn Rau had been a young man, very young, it felt like now, and with all the brashness of youth, he had assumed that such a thing would never happen to him. But his predecessor was not a man to be ignored lightly, and besides, the man had spent the better part of a year in a holding cell around the close of the last of the civil wars, so he had listened.

Do not despair, even if it seems that you might die. So long as you breathe still, there is a chance you will still escape. You need only keep your eyes sharp for an opening.

Don’t go on a hunger strike, for any reason. It will make it more difficult for you to escape, if the opportunity does present itself.

Do not antagonize your captors needlessly, be they cowards or oathbreakers or kinslayers. There is no point, and you should conduct yourself honorably, even if they do not, and have not. At the same time, always keep in mind that your captors are not your friends. Tell them nothing of any value.

If you are given nothing with which to occupy yourself in your cell, you must not sit idle. Lying in your cot, doing nothing but staring up at the ceiling, that will drive you mad after long enough. Find something to do. Exercise, recite poetry, sing if you must, but don’t just wither away in your cell.

Do not long for the sky. Do not forget the sky, but push it to the back of your mind. Do not long for the sky, do not dream of it, do not let it invade your thoughts when your mind is quiet. Just don’t. You’ll regret it, if you do.

And do not let worry for those you have left behind consume you. Your worry alone will not help them; it will eat you alive, and benefit them not at all. If you truly worry over the well-being of those you left behind, then you should devote your energy to getting back to them more quickly.

That was long ago, well over twenty years ago. Fenn had only been a few years out of exile on Concordia, and had thought imprisonment to have nothing on exile, on being cut off from the homeworld and being lumped in with traitorous terrorists in the process. Surely imprisonment had nothing on having few options but to trade one exile for another, Concordia for Concord Dawn, and no way back to Mandalore but by abandoning all honor. He might have listened, but he hadn’t really taken the words to heart. He suspected there might be some things he’d forgotten. Certainly, some of the points were proving difficult to keep putting into practice, and even if the end result was frustration and incredible boredom instead of all-consuming worry, it was still starting to wear.

The boredom was probably the reason he’d stopped viewing the arrival of his most frequent “guest” with extreme irritation, and instead with something more closely resembling minor annoyance.

Sabine Wren was not Fenn’s only “guest,” not exactly. The Jedi, Jarrus, had shown up at his door once, confirming with his scarred face and sightless eyes what rumors Fenn had heard and Wren had managed to sidestep confirming directly. They had spoken little, and to no good end, for the words flew out of memory now like dust in a summer wind. A clone captain, Rex, had stopped by twice, and they reminisced about old battles and training mishaps in empty space around Kamino. (Seeing one of his old trainees had been a surprise, though rather less unpleasant than Fenn would have liked. He’d spent years training the first few generations of the Republic’s clone army. It was nice to see that his training still served some of them even now, though some might have deserted those to whom they owed rightful allegiance.)

But it was Wren who came most often, creeping so quietly up the corridor that sometimes he didn’t even realize she was there until he heard her talking to one of the guards. She seemed to be especially fond of cubikahd, though she might be a lousy player, for she had the astromech who trailed after her—‘Chopper,’ Fenn had heard her call it once—set up a board every time she came. Wren didn’t talk much when she showed up. At times, she would make a stab or two at conversation, but they tended to fall flat under the combined weight of Fenn’s refusal to cooperate and her own reluctance to tell him anything about what went on outside the cell block.

(Fenn would have liked some word from his men. A status update, an assurance that the Empire hadn’t yet discovered his absence, a weather report, anything would have been nice. He was willing to admit that going this long without contact… unsettled him, even if it was only standard procedure in every reasonable army not to let prisoners have unlimited communication with the outside. But trying to get back in contact with the other Protectors would likely have meant relying on Wren as a go-between. He’d just have to live with radio silence until the opportunity for escape presented itself.)

Why exactly Wren kept coming down here, Fenn really couldn’t determine. He somehow doubted it was for the pleasure of his company, and if the kid really wanted someone to play cubikahd against, surely she could have strong-armed one of her companions into learning how to play the game. There was something else, the intermittent gleam in her eyes, brighter than the reflected light from the game board, or the way her brow knit when she tried to talk about something other than the game, almost as if in trepidation. He was beginning to wonder if Wren would ever come out with it on her own, or if he would just have to force the issue. Maybe once she finally came out with it, was honest with what she really wanted, she’d bother him no more.

For now, when Wren appeared outside the force field that served as his cell door, Fenn Rau was reintroduced to something that tended to be rather lacking from the world when she wasn’t around: color. Bright, loud color.

It was pretty clear that the Rebellion, at least the branch that operated here on Atollon (the guards did like to talk with one another at shift change), had no sort of dress code for their operatives. If they had, there was absolutely no way the paint job on Wren’s armor would have been compliant with regulations, nor the dye job in her hair. A bit of personalization was one thing, but making oneself that distinctive would present enough problems in the field as to be another thing entirely. He wondered if Wren just prided herself on being able to move fast enough that the ‘Please shoot me’ paint job on her armor didn’t matter.

But perhaps that bright, variegated paint job was not entirely without use. Though he’d known her heritage in advance, Fenn had not noticed the clan markings on Wren’s helmet until after he’d been tossed in the back of her and Jarrus’s shuttle. It was effective—if unconventional—camouflage, Fenn would grudgingly admit. The eye was drawn to the vibrant designs and splotches of color on the body of her armor, enough so that even if you knew to look for it, you might not notice the clan markings on her helmet, the marks that so clearly identified who she was.

Sabine Wren seemed to be quite enamored of bright—at times, obnoxiously bright—colors, and did not seem at all shy about this love of hers. So when she showed up one evening with all the dye stripped out of her hair, Fenn did what he suspected anyone who knew her, even only in passing, would have done. He did a double-take. And stared.

Wren did not seem to have noticed this lapse, for her expression didn’t shift from careful neutrality as she sat down on the bench opposite from his. “I can’t stay long,” she said, so calmly that he could almost imagine he wasn’t seeing the line of her back tense until it was as straight as a ramrod. “I have to head out tomorrow morning. Early,” and said in the voice of someone who did not sound as though they particularly liked early mornings. She drew her shoulders up slightly as she gestured at Chopper, who had followed her inside markedly more quietly than it usually did. “Do you want to…” Uncertainty blunted the edges of her voice, making her sound younger than her—admittedly few—years.

“Fine.”

Apparently, her natural hair color was black. With the dye stripped out of her hair, Wren suddenly looked naggingly familiar, and Fenn frowned, trying to place it. She was the shade of someone he had met once, long ago, but memory was not exact enough to tell him when, or where, or who. After a long moment of raking at the back of his mind, Fenn decided it did not matter enough to dwell on. He’d had run-ins with members of Clan Wren in the past, both during his time with the Protectors, and before, on Concordia. Most likely, a cousin shared eye shape or jawline, and he’d just never looked for a resemblance before now.

Still, after vivid hues of blue and later lavender, plain black was jarring.

Eventually, Wren did notice the way Fenn’s eyes kept flicking from the game board to her head. She frowned lightly, edging backwards just a hair. “What?” There was the slightest edge of belligerence in her voice; not quite the herald of a fight, but a specter, definitely.

No answer was forthcoming. A change in hair color was not exactly high on the list of things Fenn would willingly admit to having been thrown by. Even if the wearer of said hair was fond enough of dyeing her hair colors unnatural to humans that a natural color was just bizarre to have to look at.

But even without an answer, Wren guessed what the issue was soon enough. “Oh.” She clutched at the end of a lock of stray black—plain, dull black!—hair. “I don’t know why everybody’s so shocked,” she muttered, her mouth forming the suggestion of a scowl. “Hair dye isn’t exactly Imperial regulation.” When this explanation got her a quirked eyebrow, she responded tersely, “Infiltration and extraction.”

An explanation spanning three words was a pretty clear message. You’ll get no more specifics out of me.

The line about the Empire’s dress code regulations hooked memory and drew it back to, of all places, Kamino. Fenn had not left Kamino for a while after the Clone Wars had erupted and the Jedi had sent a representative to oversee the clones’ training. He and Shaak Ti had not spent enough time in each other’s company during off-hours to move past the boundary wall of “colleagues”, nor even “acquaintances.” The Jedi spent most of her off-hours meditating, as it happened.

What Fenn Rau and Shaak Ti had spent a good amount of time doing was having conversations that balanced a knife’s edge between “discussion” and “fight,” mostly about Fenn’s training methods. Words like “inhumane” might have been bandied about, accompanied with phrases like “high risk for little reward” and “corpses can’t learn how to fly.” Sentences like “I don’t see you getting into a fighter pilot and teaching them how to fly” and “If they get dropped green and raw into a warzone, they’ll become corpses that way, too” might have been fired back. These conversations of theirs always managed to stay within the confines of Basic syllables, though they occasionally threatened to leave language behind altogether. In the intervening years, Fenn had come around to Ti’s way of thinking on some of the points she had made, during their conversations, though not all.

Something Fenn Rau and Shaak Ti had wholeheartedly agreed on, though, was greeting the clones’ expressions of individuality with approval. Names to take the place of strings of numbers and letters; dyed or bleached hair; tattoos; painted designs on helmets. Ti spoke of a day when the war would be over, the clones would be properly integrated into galactic society, and a sense of individual identity would benefit them all greatly. Fenn liked to say that he approved just because he could tell them apart more easily that way, but truth be told, the Kaminoans’ dismissive attitude to the personhood of the clones had been disquieting. More than twenty years after he’d first heard it, and it still was.

Shaak Ti was most likely dead now, as were most of the clones she and Fenn had trained—the former slain by the Empire, and the latter worked until they were too worn down to work anymore, or just dropped dead. The Empire treated all its peoples much the same way as the Kaminoans had treated the clones, except that instead of being indifferent to the way their little cogs attired themselves, they actively stamped out any attempt at assertion of uniqueness. But they were powerful enough to squash anyone who tried to assert said uniqueness, and powerful enough to silence anyone who tried to protest. The Empire was strong enough to crush anyone who said or did something that didn’t fit with their vision of how things should be. All the wisest could do was try to weather the storm, as the Jedi couldn’t, as the clones couldn’t.

“The Empire wants us to treat them like any clan chieftain who prevailed over us in war, but I think we both know this isn’t the same thing.”

Yes, Wren would have had ample experience watching people treat the Empire like a clan chieftain to be loyally served, wouldn’t she?

Wren would not willingly give over any mission specifics, and Fenn wasn’t terribly interested in that, anyways. But he still had a question, and he would have it answered.

“Why?” His voice rang out unnaturally loudly in the shadowy little cell, the cool metal walls amplifying volume until a word spoken at normal volume sounded more like a shout.

She looked up, her head snapping up so fast that Fenn was surprised he hadn’t heard a pop, and she practically shrank. Wren’s back and shoulders hunched as she folded in on herself like a collapsible chair. To someone who had made a career tracking down criminals, her body language fairly screamed ‘Fugitive!’ She did this often, sometimes sat that way the whole time she was in here. Fenn wondered if she even realized she was doing it. Certainly, her shrinking posture made an interesting contrast with the fact that, just as all the others times, she’d walked in with her blasters still holstered. Was that carelessness, bravado, or some misguided expression of trust? If Wren was one of his men, he would have corrected the misstep, and furthermore advised her not to sit like that when speaking with a prisoner; seeing as she was one of his captors instead, he merely reminded himself that he would have a hard time getting home even if he did take her weapons.

Despite the way she shrank, Wren never broke eye contact, her light brown eyes flashing with what looked almost like defiance. Her brow knit. “I didn’t have the easiest time getting out of Sundari after I left the Academy. I don’t want anyone who’s come to the same decision as I did to have the same problems getting out.”

Her words rang out clear and strong in the confines of the cell. There was no trace of shame in Wren’s face, every suggestion of sincerity in her voice, and Fenn didn’t know what to make of that at all, didn’t know if he should be angry, or maybe something else. She did seem to be genuinely devoted to the rebellion, though her cause was one that would surely fail once the Empire set about to crushing it. But…

But Sabine Wren had been born to a clan of traitors, grown up around people who respected only strength, and had precious little conception of honor or loyalty. The best anyone could say about the Wrens was that they were loyal to their own; otherwise, they were just the same as the other clans that followed House Vizsla. The Empire knew little of honor either, and it was the Empire that ruled Mandalore when Sabine Wren was a child; they were the ones who defined honor when Wren was a child, and they said, falsely, that ‘honor’ meant serving them. Sabine Wren had abandoned her duty to Mandalore when she joined the Empire, and had then not even kept her vows to the Empire, for she had deserted the Empire, and joined the rebels. Her loyalty to the rebellion might be sincere now, but Sabine Wren’s loyalty seemed a markedly fickle thing. Too unreliable to be trusted.

Asides from calling out the moves, the game went by in silence. Wren lost, but just about anyone could have predicted that. And it seemed like one game was all she had time for, because when it was done, the droid—Chopper—switched off the game board, and Wren got back to her feet.

“Wren,” Fenn commented as she began to leave, “when you’re on this ‘infiltration and extraction’ mission of yours, try to remember whose side you’re on. The ‘extraction’ part of it won’t end well if you forget where you’re extracting your defectors to.”

Fenn hadn’t known it was possible for someone to roll their eyes with their whole body, but Wren did a good job of it nonetheless. “Trust me, I won’t have any problem with that.”

At first, Fenn was content to leave it at that. Infiltration missions were by definition dangerous, and if there was a chance she might die, it seemed only fair to at least let her have the last word. Perhaps, he thought, it would be easier to escape while she was away. But just after Wren and her droid had crossed the threshold and the force field reformed behind them, Fenn found himself calling out, “And Wren?”

Wren stopped, though she did not turn back to face him, not at first. The droid didn’t stop at all, and grumbled a complaint before rolling off out of sight. When Wren turned back around, there was no trace of hostility in her face. Nothing there but narrow-eyed curiosity, though she was silent. Maybe she had imagined something in his voice, or perhaps he’d just had another lapse, and not realized.

“When you get where you’re going, try not to hold yourself like a fugitive,” Fenn advised her, more mildly than he would have liked. “You’ll just get shot.”

Through the golden static of the force field, Wren smiled at him, and even more unexpected than the smile itself was that it actually seemed… Genuine. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

#Star Wars: Rebels #Fanfic #Fenn Rau #Sabine Wren #When I realized that timeline was it was actually possible for Rau and Shaak Ti to have known each other #There may have been some cackling