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astaroth1357 · 3 years

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The MC is a Valkyrie

Demigod MC Series: Intro

Greek: Aphrodite, Hermes, Hades, Dionysus, Demeter, Athena, Hades Pt. 2, Poseidon, Ares, Hestia, Nyx

Norse: Valkyrie

A bit of a change of pace this time! No worries, I'm not done with the Greeks or anything. I just had this idea and wanted to get it out.

Valkyries aren't really demigods, but are a part of Norse myth as the minor divinities that help choose and deliver fallen warriors to Valhalla to join the ranks of the einherjar (the souls who will fight when Ragnarok comes). Valkyries are depicted as women who are fierce warriors in their own right. Despite their place as the gatekeepers of the Chosen, they've been said to sometimes take heroes and mortals as lovers or take residence in Midgard posing as daughters of royals/nobility.

Lucifer

At first, they thought they grabbed an heiress - which would have been bad enough - but then the MC grew wings, drew a spear, and asked who among them wanted a glorious death...

How hard is it to find ONE damn human on Earth? Isn't that realm supposed to be full of them??

Diavolo was thankfully able to talk their winged friend down from skewering Asmo and accepting the exchange on behalf of the human wo-… Midgard.

Living with a Valkyrie is different for sure. The MC is a proud woman who takes her role very seriously and she's seemingly deemed him and his brothers as candidates for einherjar (despite being demons).

He's tried many, many times to explain to her that they're not interested, but she's unconvinced. Now the MC watches his brothers like a hawk waiting to cart one of them off to Valhalla! Any mortal wound could be an excuse...

He's had to save Beel and Satan twice from getting dragged to that infernal palace… For whatever reason, she seems to have taken to them the most. Is it old Norse culture to favor the brash and strong? He has no idea...

At the very least, she knows better than to try to drag him into her little plans. Though he's sure he could qualify for the einherjar (obviously, why wouldn't he?) he has no interest in leaving his life here behind.

To think he'd actually have to put surveillance on his own brothers for their safety… But they're not going to get drafted into some ancient Norse war, not if he can help it.

Mammon

She’s an heiress… An heiress!!

Well, her human world identity is an heiress to a well-respected (and rather magical) rich family but that still technically counts! She’s crazy loaded back there! He’s in love!!

The only problem is that in the Devildom she doesn’t have a cent.

… and the fact that she keeps trying to get him killed. That’s also a problem.

In a way, things are not as bad and exactly as bad as that sounds. The MC apparently wants him to go to Valhalla (dope) but she can’t just take him there… He technically has to die in some kind of “vallent battle” first.

Her solution? Pick fights with nearly anything that moves and drag him into it!

Honestly, it’s pretty annoying… Sometimes he just wants to have a fun night out without getting into a barfight, you know??

At least the MC can handle herself… Hell, he was her "babysitter" but she barely even needed him. A lesser demon once made the bad idea of trying to cup her ass and lost a hand for his trouble…

Though, what this amounts to is the MC starting something then fighting alongside him like back-to-back badasses while looking for any excuse to scoop him up and fly him to Asgard!

Why does he put up with this? Well for starters human world rich is still rich, all he has to do is get himself a portal then he's living the high life! And secondly, well… what's the harm?

Sure, she technically wants him dead but he's the secondborn! The list of people who can take him down is so slim that it's not like he's in any danger. She even fights with him so things are a piece of cake!

Is this a case where he's 100% more forgiving because she's rich? Yes. Absolutely. But a golddigger's gotta eat somehow, right?

Leviathan

Is it weird to be jealous over someone not wanting you to die...?

Okay, that's an oversimplification but Levi can’t help but feel snubbed that the MC doesn’t have any interest in taking him to Asgard. Like, none! And why not??

He’s strong! He’s tough! He’s part snake too! Don’t the Nords have a thing about that? Like, there’s a giant snake they’re all worried about?? Maybe he could communicate with it!

Logically, Levi knows that he really shouldn’t press her on this… MC is pretty much a Grim Reaper with a Norse coat of paint and Asgard doesn’t really sound like his speed. No anime, no video games, not even cable! It’s just eat, train, and drink all day… Ew.

But still… What makes him an odd one out?

At best, she just knows he wouldn't be happy there. At worst, she's underestimating his skill… or maybe she's gauged him just right? He's always known he was weak!! 😫

Oh well... at least she's not a bore to be around. Far from it. She treats EVERYTHING like a life or death trial - he's pretty sure that if he challenged her to rock, paper, scissors she'd commend him for his bravery and swear on her sisters that she won't lose.

He once made the mistake of inviting her and Simeon for a game of Devil Party and they both got so into it that they nearly had a duel to the death as a tiebreaker…

Thank Devil that the game had a pre-programmed minigame for that kind of thing… It would have gotten messy otherwise.

Well, even if his other brothers go to Asgard, he can just chill out here with Lucifer and Asmo… right…? Actually, no, that sounds horrible! MC, he changes his mind!! Take him too!!! 😭

Satan

How many times does he have to say that he doesn’t want to go to Asgard?!?

Well, okay that’s not entirely true. Out of scientific curiosity, seeing the godly realm of the old Nords would be fascinating but he doesn’t want to stay, which the MC seems to have trouble understanding…

He’s not even sure why she's singled him out for einherjar status… Any one of his brothers are powerful beings in their own right and he’s not particularly, uh, “even-tempered” himself...

His best guess is she saw him wipe out a handful of lesser demons at some point and declared him Ragnarok material. He always ends up throwing around at least three of those idiots a week so checks out…

If he's being honest, her very existence raises so many questions… Does this mean that Ragnarok is real? Will the human world be swallowed up by the sea? Will the gods of Asgard fight and die as a new world is established? When??

Unfortunately, the MC won't tell him when it all will come to pass (he suspects even she doesn't know) just that Loki will trigger it… Someone keep tabs on that guy.

Until then, he just has to put up with her attempts to convince him but his patience is wearing thin… He's pretty sure he threw a bookshelf at her once but she caught it anyway so yeah...

He did challenge her to a proper duel too but… well let's say she's a Valkyrie for a reason and leave it at that. (Being saved by Lucifer was so humiliating… He's done here, move on already!!)

Asmodeus

First things first, she's gorgeous. Beautiful! Divine! (Literally 🤭)

Now that that's out of the way… She may also have a screw or two loose.

Like, he gets it. She's a Valkyrie and snapping up strong souls is her thing but come on… Mammon? Really? Why would he get into Valhalla instead of him, huh??

Why can't he get to go to the beautiful afterlife of the old Norse with all their strapping warriors, lovely maidens, and endless partying?? It's not fair!!

Ugh… and now she's got him sounding like LEVI! How frustrating…

Well, it may not be that bad. According to MC, he'd have to do battle training in Valhalla and that wouldn't really agree with his beauty routine. Like dirt, sweat, blood, and muscles? No thanks! Not for him.

He asked MC if he could get some kind of pass, but no dice… Maybe he could still convince her to let him vacation there… Or go for a visit? Just one? Surely that couldn't be so bad right?? He's heard that Thor looks NOTHING like people think he does and he's so curious!!

The closest he's ever gotten was challenging the MC to a fashion contest for a visit, but he dropped that idea quick when she proposed that they somehow include a wrestling match in the dressing room (and he knows she didn't mean the fun kind...)

As much as he'd love to get skin-to-skin with MC, the idea of getting locked in a chokehold was less appealing for some reason. 🤔

Ah well, he'll just have to make due admiring her wonderful body clothed for the time being… There's something to be said about muscular ladies, no?

Beelzebub

So she’s almost convinced him to join the einherjar like twice now…

He’s not the best at making decisions when he’s hungry and the MC keeps hyping up the food… Apparently it’s really good up there and MC says that she’s never seen an empty platter... Just thinking about it makes his stomach do backflips.

Thankfully for him, Lucifer usually steps in before Beel can sign his soul away and reminds him that he can’t just abandon the family for a meal, even if it is a feast.

You'd think he'd be annoyed but Beel isn't really bothered by her habit of trying to bring everyone to Asgard. At least not on a personal level.

Like Lucifer, he doesn't want to see his family broken up so he'd rather she wouldn't… But she's a Valkyrie right? It's what she does. It's not like she can help it.

In a weird way, he also thinks she means well. She just respects them and wants them to have a good afterlife. It would be kind of sweet if they didn't have to die for it first…

If he's being honest, he's not that worried about it anyway. His family is pretty tough, not a lot in the Devildom can take them down. As long as they're careful, everybody should be alright. 🙂

Maybe he could get MC to make some Valhallan food for them in the Devildom… Or he could get one of those immortality apples?? Though those would extend his life wouldn't they…? Oh well...

Belphegor

Belphie's attempt to kill the MC went something like this:

Belphie: *switches to his demon form* "I can't believe you actually trusted me!"

MC: *blinks* "Oh. So you want to challenge me then?"

Belphie: "What?"

MC: "Ah, now I see! You want to fight to prove your valor then die by my hand??"

Belphie: "What are yo-??"

MC: *summons wings and golden spear* "I like your spunk, demon!! Fight me with all you have and perhaps I'll take you to Valhalla! May you join us in our fight as a brother!!"

Belphie: "What the hell are you talking about!?!"

To his credit, he put up a good fight and probably would have gotten into Asgard if Lucifer hadn't intervened to save his life.

It can be said that the MC's Valkyrie-hood took Belphie completely by surprise. Sure, he thought she was a little weird for a "human" but challenging him to a duel to the death? That came out of nowhere!

His uneasiness about her only grew after he found out that she's been literally trying to get Beel killed! How in the world were his brothers so relaxed about this?? She's insane!!

So say what you will about the MC, but she's managed to do the impossible. She got Lucifer and Belphie to make up and work together on something! (i.e. making sure she doesn't send them all to their deaths)

Between Lucifer monitoring his brothers and Belphie watching the MC, they'll keep everybody in the Devildom where they belong. That's a promise!

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons #obey me demigods

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houseofhurricane · 2 years

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Rules for Spies: Chapter Six

Summary: While Azriel and Gwyn work to free Koschei’s captives, attraction turns into something more.

Chapter Word Count: 5,437

Warnings: This chapter has mentions of torture, and this fic includes mature consensual sexual situations, references to past assault, and torture.

Art & Banner: cosmikla

All chapters are available on Archive of Our Own. All previous chapters linked here.

Azriel had stayed up too late wondering if Gwyn might knock on his bedroom door. She’d sat next to him at dinner, dressed like Nesta in a large sweater and leggings, and by dessert, her feet in their thick knit socks were twined around his ankles. The shadows had moved between them as if there were a tether connecting their two bodies, perching on Gwyn’s shoulder or circling her wrist as she lifted her fork to her mouth. He’s never seen them so blatantly encircle anyone aside from himself.

Cassian had given him a look across the table, but Azriel had only reached for Gwyn’s hand when it dipped under the table.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her mouth on his hand, kissing him in spite of his scars. In spite of everything she knows about him.

After dinner, Gwyn and Nesta had gone to sit with Emerie, and Cassian only looked at Azriel, the questioning stare his brother rarely uses, because he knows Azriel will so rarely answer.

“I’m going to try very hard not to hurt her,” he’d said, and Cassian only nodded and drank his wine, the conversation moving to the solstice and Cassian’s ongoing project to find a gift for his mate, before he pointed out all the ways that he could have won the stealth contest against Gwyn, if he’d really wanted to.

Azriel had fallen asleep telling himself that of course he should not have expected her to appear in his bedroom, but in the morning, at breakfast, she gives him a bright grin while she drinks her tea and says that she’ll be staying with Emerie during training, since Nesta and Cassian need to work on their stealth as much as possible.

“I thought Mor would be coming with Anahit,” Cassian says, and Azriel can feel his eyes, the question he knew would come, the question Rhys asked last solstice: what of Mor?

“I’m glad she’s done with her work in Valhallan,” Azriel says, his voice carefully easy, the way a person would talk about a friend. “She seems happier here.” He cannot say here, in front of Gwyn and Nesta, that his old love for Mor was the shield he hid himself behind. That he is glad for the new fondness between them, even for its moments of awkwardness. That now they are both a little freer.

“She says it’s a court full of pricks,” Cassian says, and maybe he sees the answer to his unasked question, because it’s a real smile on his face now. “But at least she’s convinced them to ally with us.”

That development had been a fucking relief. A major alliance with a continental power strengthens Rhys’ argument for a united Prythian, will make the other High Lords think twice about allying with Beron and Koschei.

“It looks as if you’re stuck coming to training,” Nesta is saying to Gwyn, interrupting Azriel’s contemplation, and he’s glad when he sees the challenge on Gwyn’s face.

“Be careful what you wish for, Archeron,” she says, and when she looks at Azriel, he doesn’t hold back his answering smile.

He’s enjoying these stealth training sessions, but when he teaches the group, he finds himself seeking out Gwyn’s face, making sure she understands, that she’s not bored when he has to review certain concepts. He forces himself to take note of the other priestesses, of Nesta, but his eyes always drift back to Gwyn. She’s the one with the mission, the one who will most likely need to master the fundamentals, the silent steps and the controlled breaths and the swift, secret glances that lead to a quick analysis and a quicker plan.

Even so, Koschei managed to infiltrate the library, and much as he wants to give the session over to Cassian and focus wholly on Gwyn, Azriel knows he has to provide a comprehensive overview of each technique, to give everyone plenty of feedback when they practice. Though everyone else struggled on the course in the darkness, they catch on quickly, to the point where Azriel starts to think, if they were ever willing, that Anake and Lina might have potential in spycraft. And for all they’ve teased her over the past few days, Nesta herself is determined and improving considerably. Spying is not her calling and she likely knows it, but that doesn’t stop her from relentless pursuit of mastery. Still, it’s Gwyn who continues to shine, her natural talent and her focus making each of the fundamentals perfect. Azriel isn’t the only one whose eyes rest on her. The priestesses sometimes stop to watch her when they’re confused or out of breath, but Gwyn gives no indication that she’s aware of their regard. She only works through each repetition, fully surrendered to the exercise.

When practice is over, and the priestesses have left for the library, Gwyn approaches him, one hand clasped over the other. Her fingers are red from the cold and he reaches out his hand. Without looking to see who might be lingering, she steps closer and takes it, a bright smile on her face. His own lips mirror it.

“Are you ready for training with Rhys?”

“I’m worried that I’ll harm the High Lord,” she says, biting her lip. “But I’m ready, I think, to see what my powers could do.”

What if I could help? She’d asked as if she’d known what the question meant. The weight and the horror she’d be transferring to herself. And still she’d offered, drawn closer.

“You’ll both come out of this mostly unscathed,” he says. “Rhys can handle your powers.”

She nods, still unconvinced, but the smile returns to her face bit by bit.

“Am I allowed to know what you’re doing this afternoon, or is it another classified mission?”

“I’m visiting Merrill.”

The story on her face, the smile that becomes fear and concern, which is willed back into a convincing placidity, is one Azriel watches with a knot in his stomach. Not only because he’ll have to train those visible responses out of her, or because his shadows cluster around her, sensing her alarm, but because, he realizes, he wants to never inspire anything but happiness and calm on her face.

For five centuries, he’s been a spy for the Night Court, and he’s managed to avoid even flirtation with his contacts and partners, the spies who work alongside him and the spies who report to him. There is too much at stake to risk heightened emotion, let alone romance.

Now, though, he chooses his words carefully, knowing he cannot lie. Not to her.

“I’m going to see if her captivity has made her more receptive to providing information,” he says.

“You promised not to harm her.” Her voice is too calm, a fabrication.

“I won’t.” Despite all the commands he has issued in his life, it is an effort to keep the words from becoming a plea.

Gwyn considers him, her face gradually relaxing.

“What do you think she knows?” she asks, in the curious voice he knows well.

“Likely more than she thinks, based on what Vassa and Lucien have told us about Koschei’s control. She may not even have a conscious idea of his reason for sending her to Velaris.” Though it wouldn’t be out of the question for Koschei to want a set of eyes in the secret City of Starlight, a set of hands ready to do his bidding. He wouldn’t have to provide Merrill with the full scope of his desires, given his control over her.

“If she doesn’t tell you,” Gwyn says, her fingers tightening in his, “I should be able to get the answers from her soon.”

“We’ll find a solution,” he tells her, because maybe his legacy is more than pain and shadows. Let Rhys break his way into Merrill’s mind with his own power, let them work with Vassa and let Merrill rot away for the rest of her miserable existence.

For the space of a long moment, Gwyn’s hand in his, her teal eyes hopeful and sparkling, Azriel thinks that something better is not only possible but likely.

But when he reaches Merrill, locked behind the barred door of the Hewn City’s smallest torture chamber, the set of the priestess’s chin seems to laugh in the face of his extravagant hopes.

“Your prison is terrifying, Illyrian.” Merrill sneers through each word, and though her hands and feet are bound to the chair, exactly as he’d requested when he’d made arrangements with the Hewn City, there’s a sense of repose in her body.

“You’re not as creative with your insults as you seem to think,” he says, unlocking the barred door to the cell and slamming it shut behind him in a smooth gesture, faster than most Fae can blink.

“I’ll have to ask your little acolyte for suggestions. After all, she has the power to wound you, does she not?”

Azriel knows it is a tactic, mentioning Gwyn in an attempt to throw him. His hackles rise, the shadows filling the room, but he schools his features into stillness and does not break Merrill’s scathing gaze.

“She’s not here to ask for your salvation, priestess. And I’m going to need a convincing reason not to cause you pain.” Merrill does not need to know that he promised otherwise. The anticipation of harm, often worse inside their own minds than any actual torture, has driven fae mad. Almost drove Azriel, as a child, to abandon his senses completely.

So it’s with intention that he looks around the cell, cataloguing the weapons and instruments of torture. Each blade is gleaming and sharp, the gears of each machine oiled so that the only sounds that will emerge are the screams of the victim, their eventual confession. Azriel keeps a small staff solely for this purpose, paying them extravagantly, and he’s grateful for their work when he watches Merrill consider the mace and the rack, her russet skin growing pale even in the gloom.

“There is so little I’m allowed to tell you,” she says, soft and scared, and his hackles rise.

The change in direction is too sudden and her tone is too contrite. But he decides to let her play out her little tableau, determine whether there’s any valuable intelligence amidst what he’s certain will be lies.

“What has Koschei offered Beron?”

Merrill’s eyes widen in panic.

“You think he’d give me that kind of information?”

Azriel draws closer to her, so that his face looms over her in the darkness, his shadows closing in to make the picture more frightening.

“I think he holds you in higher regard than you’d like me to believe,” he says, lowering his voice. “And I think he’s more than willing to sacrifice you for his own ends.”

There’s a shift in the air, like a vortex has opened where Merrill sits and removed all the magic.

“Hello, little spy,” a new voice says through Merrill’s lips.

Azriel has heard Koschei speak when he and Cassian went after Eris months ago, but that deep slithering voice still makes his skin crawl.

“Are you watching through the eyes of all your captives?”

“Like you, I have eyes watching and lips whispering in every corner of this world,” the death-god says, “only mine will do anything I ask. They are beautiful as swans, but they’ll bite, spymaster.”

“What are you after?”

Koschei laughs, and a chill goes down Azriel’s spine. He wishes that Rhys were here, with all his quick wit. Azriel’s speciality is watching from the shadows, forming his strategy from a distance.

“Surely you could not begrudge an old creature who wants a respite from his miserable containment.”

“I know the histories where you feature.”

“No doubt your chosen acolyte has done her research well. My Merrill has revealed her to me. I don’t see how you stay away from her, with that delicious power coursing through her veins. When I have the chance…”

The shadows converge on Merrill’s eyes, thick and furious, and Azriel uses this temporary blindness to take a deep breath. He reminds himself that with any luck, Gwyn will be able to use her power against Koschei, whether to attack or to escape. Still, even knowing that she’s with Rhys and therefore safe, he wants to step into the shadows and appear at her side, ready to shield her from the world. He clenches his fingers and focuses on the tension in those small muscles, releases it, breathes in and out. Revealing any of this will only turn Gwyn into a pawn.

All too soon, Koschei once again looks at him, the shadows dissipating of their own will or through his magic. They cluster around Azriel’s fingers now, waiting for his command.

“I always thought of you as a loyal bat,” the death-lord says.

“I’m surprised you ever thought of me,” Azriel parries. If Merrill is his only plant in the Night Court, he knows only what the priestesses have said about him.

“And I’m wondering what it would take to claim your loyalty.”

“You’re trapped next to a lake, sorcerer. You have nothing to offer. In this place, you answer to me.”

“My Merrill seems to think otherwise.” Koschei lets out a snarling laugh, perhaps the way he shows his amusement or his dominance, and then that magic of absence vanishes from the room, replaced by Merrill’s considerable but more ordinary power.

“Is it always like that?” he asks, seizing on the moment where Merrill’s eyes are disoriented.

“Next you’re going to offer to free me.” Again that indulgent smile, as if she is only held captive in a torture chamber because she deigned to linger there.

“If you wanted to be free, you would have begged the High Lord to break the connection. So what does he offer you?”

“You think your High Lord is so mighty, but you’ve barely seen a fraction of what the death-god can accomplish with his powers.”

“After all the hospitality you’ve been shown.” He means the library but he spreads his hands to the weapons on the wall, twisting the pleasantry into a threat. His smile is little more than bared teeth. “Tell me this, then: how does it feel when he controls you?”

“Like I’m not alone.” Though she manages to keep a smile on her face, as if she’s placating him, he’d swear these were the first genuine words she’s spoken in days. And maybe he can follow that one kernel of truth into the information he needs.

“What happens when you’re alone, Merrill?”

She takes a deep breath, and then another, almost shuddering, and just when Azriel thinks that she’s going to say something, her mouth twists into the smile of a wolf.

“I don’t think you’re going to lay a hand on me.”

He flexes his fingers, the scars aching as they stretch, and dearly wishes he could reach for Truth-Teller. He knows just how he would wield the blade, the thin cuts on the skin of Merrill’s fingers, leaving her in agony every time her hand so much as twitched. Then he’d move to the soles of her feet, making walking an impossibility. The beasts would go wild at the scent of her blood, and she’d be trapped in this chamber, blood pooling around her, wondering if perhaps they could escape and tear her apart. Of course, she’d heal within hours, but in the meantime she would hurt and fear enough to wonder whether Koschei could ever punish her so thoroughly.

His blade is only inches from his hand. It would be so easy.

Instead he turns away from her and walks to the door. When he’s at the threshold, he turns to the priestess, and when he finds her expression unchanged, he says, “It doesn’t have to be today, Merrill.”

He is every horrible thing he’s ever claimed, but he made a promise to Gwyn. Today, at least, nobody will be harmed by his hands.

When Azriel leaves her at the High Lord’s river estate, Gwyn realizes she has no idea what to say to Rhysand. She was perfectly happy smiling and nodding at the edges of his conversation with Azriel, studying the large room with its cream-colored walls and deep teal furniture and exquisite tables of dark wood. Hung on the walls are paintings of the High Lord’s family, Azriel captured inside one of the frames, alive in a way that is totally unlike his real existence. Everything is beautiful and comfortable, a room that will not be ruined by its use, and while Rhysand and Azriel bluster on about a snowball fight that surely must be made up, Gwyn lets herself listen and enjoy the space. But once Azriel disappears into the shadows, the silence between them quickly lengthens.

“I’m afraid I’m going to break you,” she says, finally, and he smiles.

“I think you’ll find it’s hard to access my mind. But by all means, do your worst.”

It’s the arrogance in his voice that makes Gwyn delve deep inside herself in search of her power. When her feelings are strong, it is easy to find, rising up like a tide inside her, but at times like this, when she’s merely feeling awkward, it’s more like a hidden gold thread in a complex tapestry, almost impossible to locate. When she finally locates it, she pulls hard, summoning the resonance that makes her power into something real, which makes it possible for her to locate the note that will bring the High Lord of the Night Court under her command.

For a moment, she examines her power, listening to its contours, the way it reacts to Rhysand, and then she summons the note from the air.

Those violet eyes show no change.

“Walk towards me,” she says, testing the power of her command.

He only shrugs his shoulders, as if to say, I would prefer not to.

She’s confused. Her power, once located and channelled, always works. Often, it’s been too effective.

“Is that all you’ve got in your arsenal, Gwyn?” He slips his hands into his pockets, as if her magic is only a breeze in the room. All those years she spent, living in fear of her great and terrible power, and now it’s revealed to be weak.

Frustrated, she digs deeper, following the thread to its source, the glow and the resonance, the power and precision of the notes which will bring her magic forth. Perhaps she wasn’t listening well enough and chose the wrong note.

She lets awareness flood her, drops the habitual blocks on her senses, and listens for the High Lord’s signature: the sounds his being makes, the song of his power. Every person has a countermelody that allows her access to their wills, she has learned, though most people can be beckoned and commanded by a few similar notes. But she’s never tried her powers on a High Lord.

So, note by note, she creates her melody, weaving in and out of Rhysand’s power and his very self. She opens her mouth and lets the notes emerge, their resonance held in the room by her magic.

When she looks at him, the High Lord’s eyes are glassy and pleading. He leans toward her, as if awaiting her command. The sight of him this way is a bolt to Gwyn’s heart, but she knows she has to test her hold on him.

“Walk forward on one leg only, until I tell you to stop.”

Instantly he begins to hop toward her, one foot suspended in the air. His shoe slips off and he does not bend to retrieve it, so wholly is he focused on her command.

When he nears her, Gwyn holds up her hand.

“Stop,” she says, and his motion ceases. He wobbles slightly but does not fall.

Gwyn heaves a sigh and lets go of her power.

Instantly, the room goes quiet and Rhysand’s eyes return to normal. His shoeless foot drops to the floor.

“Good,” he says. “You have an impressive grasp of the technique for someone who was never properly trained.”

“I learned music theory. The power works along similar lines. Only certain notes can follow one another, and only certain notes harmonize. It’s like creating a counterpoint for a hymn, only I could’ve killed you.”

He shakes his head, just slightly, and in the High Lord’s eyes there is a tenderness, as if he sees the precise contours of her fear.

“I left my mind open to you,” he says.

“You let me command you?” She’s not sure if she’s more horrified or offended, that he would lay himself bare to her power.

“Try again now,” he says, smirking.

Gwyn lets her irritation and horror rise and catches the cresting wave of magic, but when she sings the melody, she finds that it echoes strangely, as if the notes bounce against a barrier. Quickly, her magic gutters.

“What did you do?”

“I shielded my mind.”

“It’s that easy to block me out?”

“I’m very good at shielding, and I trained with a powerful siren to improve the ability. But you can learn to get around it.”

“How?”

He smiles, and it reminds her of Clotho, how she responds when Gwyn asks a rapid-fire series of questions, or bursts into her office asking for the location of some obscure manuscript.

“There are many ways to think about the way magic is structured,” he says, “and often these metaphysics only matter if they help you conceptualize your magic more successfully. But in your case, Gwyn, the very essence of your magic is based on certain frequencies of sound. So it will help you to think of all magic in that way.”

“My other powers don’t work that way.” She’s never been bothered by her more ordinary magic, the kind that lets her summon things from across a room, or shelve books without lifting her hands. For all that it’s useful, it is not an exceptional gift. Most of the temple children had similar magic.

“In most cases I’ve heard of, the sirenic powers overwhelm the ordinary High Fae magic. But this gift is generally the realm of nymphs.”

“I’m a quarter nymph,” she says, and though her voice is calm, internally she’s daring him to look down on her, so that she doesn’t feel so badly when she has to overwhelm his mind again.

“Which might explain your powers. Now, this time, try to visualize what is blocking your access as a series of frequencies.”

“That’s how I’ll find the notes to get to your mind?”

“Only if you’re very good at this,” he says, and though Gwyn suspects that he smirks at her just to rile her, it has the intended effect.

This time, it’s noticeably easier to call up her power, to center herself in the resonance.

She considers the High Lord as she did before, trying to focus on what is different now that his mind is shielded. Sure enough, when she listens closely, there’s a place where the melody is dampened.

Perhaps if she created melody and countermelody, a song entire, that would be enough to slip past his defenses. She opens her mouth, but only the melody sounds, a key with no lock to slip inside.

“How do I get both out at the same time?”

“I know it’s possible,” Rhysand says, and she realizes there’s pride in his eyes, that she’s gotten this far, “but I don’t know the technique. But you may be able to get past my defenses still.”

She tries the melody, feels something in the High Lord’s essence answer, but the countermelody does not allow her access. When she commands him to walk towards her, he makes a big show of taking one step, but she knows this is a performance for her benefit and only rolls her eyes.

“That’s your assignment for the next lesson,” he says. “Figure out a way to get past my shield. You’ll come again tomorrow.”

Gwyn opens her mouth to protest that a day isn’t enough time, and she needs to go to the library at some point because there is probably a priestess in need of her assistance, when she hears footsteps, the almost-understandable babble of a child.

“Still a prick in training, I see,” the High Lady says as she enters the room with her son on her hip, aiming a smile at her mate, which deflates even the hint of an insult in her words.

“I thought you were in meetings,” he says, his whole aspect changing as he looks at her.

Gwyn feels her power rising in her and she realizes that what she’s feeling is jealousy, at the love and warmth between the High Lord and High Lady, the bond between them evident in every gesture. She thinks, only for a second, that it could be so easy to have that devotion. Only a simple command and Azriel might look at her in that way.

As soon as she realizes the implications of her thought, her stomach drops and she forces the magic deep inside of herself. Her power might never cause a moment of physical pain or leave a scar, but it would be an act of violence, to command his love or devotion. It would be torture.

“You’ve scared Gwyn,” the High Lord says, reaching out for his son.

“No, it’s not that!” Gwyn says, holding out her hand, trying to think of an explanation that won’t get her thrown out of this lovely place. “It’s only -- I try to keep a tight leash on my power, but sometimes it just rises up inside of me and I have to get it under control.”

“What happens if you don’t?” The High Lady’s voice is curious and gentle, her blue-gray eyes searching Gwyn’s face. Although their features are similar, Gwyn is always struck by how different she looks from Nesta, and still, perhaps there is some deeper family trait that links them, because Gwyn likes her instantly.

“My sister once spent two hours rubbing my back before I figured out I had accidentally hummed a melody that would command her.”

“That’s not a convincing example,” the High Lord says, glancing at his mate even as his son reaches for his ear.

“Isn’t that kind of reaction a result of not using your magic enough?” The High Lady has turned her attention fully on Gwyn, letting Rhysand disentangle his collar from the baby’s clutching fingers.

“The priestesses in the temple where I grew up,” because it still hurts sometimes, to mention Sangravah by name, and she cannot break down here, “found that it was all right if I let a little of the magic surface when I sang at morning and evening services. Clotho has allowed me to continue that practice since I came to the library.”

“What happens to the priestesses?”

“A trickle of my power is more like a convincing suggestion than an all-out command. They leave services feeling newly devoted to the Mother.”

“And it doesn’t seem wrong to you, to force their piety?”

Gwyn didn’t anticipate this verbal trap, not with the High Lady’s gentle mien, her wide-eyed gaze, and she blushes while she tries to collect her thoughts.

“I know that my powers are terrible,” she says, her eyes on the High Lady’s feet, covered in silk slippers of an exquisite blue, the color of Azriel’s Siphons, “but I think that this is the least harm that I can do, to help others believe in the faith to which they’ve committed their lives. Though I’m willing to use my power in other ways, if I can be useful.”

She expects another rebuke, but the High Lady only asks, “And have you learned how to shield your mind?”

“I had to learn the basics as a child. If someone had gotten control over my power…” She tries not to ever think of the possibility, though it sometimes presents itself in her nightmares.

“I can help you make a better shield. Yours might not survive against Koschei.” When Gwyn looks up, the High Lady is studying her a bit too carefully, as if she can see inside Gwyn’s skull.

“I wouldn’t want to break you, High Lady,” she says, bowing her head, and she’s surprised when there are fingers on her chin, callused in the same places as Gwyn’s are, from carrying a sword.

“I’m Feyre,” the High Lady says, a smile on her lips, “and I’ve found that it’s difficult to break me. We’ll start tomorrow, before Rhys has a chance to wear you down.”

“I’d appreciate that, then.”

Before Rhysand and Feyre and their son leave for whatever else their day contains, the High Lord gives her instructions on what to practice, tells her she can have the room as long as she likes, and in the hour before Azriel appears, Gwyn thinks she’s managed to conjure a hint of a harmony, two notes sounding as one. But she still cannot capture two interwoven melodies, not the way she’d need to get inside a guarded mind.

“Did you manage to command Rhys to leave you alone?” Azriel asks, and she whirls toward him, silencing her magic. There is no blood on him. She hopes that means he hasn’t harmed Merrill, and mostly, selfishly, she wants to believe that her trust in him isn’t foolish.

“No,” she says, walking past the low table and the sofa to get closer to him, “he gave me an assignment and left me alone to figure it out before our next session tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you’ve figured it out already.”

She lets her mouth gape open, feigning shock. “When did you develop this kind of confidence in me, shadowsinger?”

“A second before you sliced the ribbon.”

He’s flirting with her. She can hear it in his voice, a combination of laughter and desire, and she lets herself savor it for a moment.

“I have no idea how to solve this problem,” she finally sighs.

“Explain it to me,” Azriel says, and although he’s listened to her talk for hours about Koschei, and he always seems interested in even the most obscure facts about the Valkyries, Gwyn still marvels over the fact that in the twenty minutes she spends describing her powers, the process of raising them, and the challenge of Rhys’ mind, his focus is total.

“How quickly can you get from encounter to command?”

“It usually takes me a few minutes. Usually I’m not in a rush. And with Merrill, I think my powers were building as soon as I felt Koschei’s magic.”

He nods, storing this information away for when it is needed.

“If Rhys caused such a problem for you, don’t you think that Koschei would have protected Merrill’s mind?”

She swallows, thinking.

“I was so angry,” she says, her only explanation. “Maybe my magic burned past her shields.”

“It’s possible. But I’m worried Koschei baited a trap to get a glimpse of your magic.”

“That only means I need to figure out how to get inside Rhysand’s mind.” She says the words brightly, like she’ll have some grand epiphanic moment if only she wills it into being. But Azriel reaches for her, his fingers carefully wrapping around her wrist.

“He could be hunting you.”

“He can’t leave the lake.”

“We don’t know whose minds he occupies.”

“Then I’ll carry a dagger and keep training my powers.” She turns her hand so that her fingers are tight around his own wrist, the muscles she can feel despite his gauntlets and his Siphons. “I’m part of this mission. If he’s hunting me, then he’s also hunting you.”

“I know,” he says, his eyes skittering away from hers, the shadows drawing so close that the lines of his body are blurred.

“What happened with Merrill?”

“Koschei appeared. He knows who you are.”

“He’s known who I am since we met with Vassa.” She does not say, he mentioned me to hurt you because it seems almost delusional, that she could be that person for Azriel. There are stories, centuries old, about his love for Morrigan. “What else?”

“There was a moment after Koschei left her mind, when she wasn’t fully herself. She said that when he’s there, then she’s not alone. Maybe she doesn’t mind his control.”

For a second, she is held down on that kitchen table in Sangravah, pain ripping through her.

“No,” she says, and Azriel’s grip tightens at whatever he hears in her voice. “What she minds, I think, is being left alone with the memory of all he’s done.”

Notes: In spite of the dark themes that run through this chapter, it was a really fun one to write. Getting to let loose with slightly evil Azriel was a blast. And, fun fact, I went to music school instead of regular college (where, in addition to my bassoon performance major, I also managed to get an English major and rarely sleep), so writing Gwyn's powers had me thinking of operas and the sensation of sitting in the middle of an orchestra during a symphony, in addition to making a lot of early morning music theory classes feel suddenly useful.

Incidentally, the way Gwyn and Azriel are holding each other's wrists at the end of this chapter? It's called a rescue grip.

If you're wishing that this slow burn would get steamier, I have good news for you: I wrote a smutty solstice Gwynriel one-shot, and I'm posting it tomorrow.

For more theories, thoughts, and occasional sneak peeks, follow me on Instagram at house.of.hurricane or TikTok at houseofhurricane.

Thank you so much for reading! 🧡

Taglist: @almosttenaciousmoon, @azrielbedara, @azrielsdarling13, @books0lover, @brown-and-weird, @camreadsum, @cozycomfyliving08, @drinkbleach0, @girlbossenergy, @glemiessa, @gwynrielsupremacy, @imsointobooks, @katekatpattywack, @lightwood-bane13, @livelyblu, @lola-lightwood, @meher-sumedha, @moonbeammadness, @mystical-blaise, @nansr, @nervousninjasuit, @onemorenightdreamer, @rubyriveraqueen, @ruthieluvsbooks, @sanniegirl1214, @saramoonbeam, @secretlovelybeauty, @shisingh, @soffiiione, @thenerdywriter, @the-stars-eternal, @trashforazriel, @valkyriesbooks, @vassien-supremacy6, @vikingmagic33, @whoever-you-choose-to-love, @witching-by-the-willow, @zanywolffriendhairdo

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zilllathegod · 3 years

Text

Mass Effect Trilogy Mission Order

With the release of the Mass Effect Legendary edition I decided to gather a mission list so I can guide myself through the games efficiently. This guide should include the base missions and the DLC. Through the years I have glanced at list like this during my playthroughs so I figured if it was useful for me it may be useful for the internet also.

*Planet scanning between missions

Eden Prime

Therum

Feros

Noveria

UNC Side Missions - Citadel side missions (loads of cool stuff) - (Garrus/Tali/Wrex) specific missions

DLC: Bring Down the Sky

Virmire

Ilos/Endgame

*Planet scanning between missions

Prologue / Freedom's Progress

Citadel - Pick up Kasumi from DLC

Omega - Pick up Zaeed from DLC

Omega: The Scientist

Kasumi: Stolen Memory - Kasumi's loyalty mission rewards you with the Locust SMG, a really nice SMG.

Dossier: Archangel

Dossier: The Convict

Dossier: The Warlord

Horizon - will automatically trigger. Don't miss the Particle Beam weapon on the ground about halfway through the level, it's really nice for dealing with the Praetorian enemies.

Recruit Tali

Dossier: The Justicar - While on Ilium, you can talk to Liara to get some help but don't start the Lair of the Shadow Broker stuff yet.

Dossier: The Assassin

-- Now you've got all your recruits, so start doing loyalty missions.--

Tuchanka: Mordin's Loyalty - I always recommend keeping the data, as it opens up way more branches of story in ME3, but it's ultimately up to you.

Tuchanka: Grunt's Loyalty

Collector Vessel - This triggers after you complete Horizon and then 5 other missions. So now.

Illium - Miranda's Loyalty

Aeia: Jacob's Loyalty

Citadel: Garrus's Loyalty

Citadel: Thane's Loyalty

Illium: Samara's Loyalty

Zaeed's Loyalty - Warning: If you want to go Paragon during this mission you've got to beat a really high Charm check to keep his loyalty. I usually just look the other way on this one and hate myself for it later, to make sure he stays on board.

-- The next missions all involve high Paragon/Renegade checks, so we save them for now --

Pragia: Jack's Loyalty - Afterwards, you'll need to break up a fight. Use your Paragon or Renegade option to keep both characters loyal.

Quarian Fleet: Tali's Loyalty - This mission has a big impact in ME3. To keep her loyal, use Paragon/Renegade options whenever possible, and don't use the data to defend her innocence. If you sent Veetor with Tali back on Freedom's Progress, and Kal'Reegar survived Tali's recruitment mission, you can successfully use the "Rally the Crowd" option to get the best outcome here. Otherwise, you'll need to use Paragon/Renegade all the way through to make it happen. Hopefully your scores are high enough for that, which is why we saved it for here.

DLC: Overlord - This is a good point to put this in. You've just killed a lot of geth, so let's go kill some more!

DLC: Normandy Crash Site - If you picked this up, now is a good time for a nostalgic flashback before you head off on a suicide mission. -- POINT OF NO RETURN: Make sure everyone is loyal and you've done any side missions that you want to --

Mnemosyne: Reaper IFF

Geth Base: Legion's Loyalty - Take Tali for interesting dialogue. This mission's decision also plays heavily into ME3. Afterwards, you'll need to break up another fight. Just like last time, use Paragon/Renegade to keep both characters loyal.

Normandy Interlude

Omega 4: Suicide Mission - The following composition always gets everyone out alive for me, but again, it's your call, and I know there are other workable options as well: Fire Team Leader (Garrus), Tech Expert (Tali), Escort (Mordin), Biotic Expert (Samara). Take Miranda to the final fight for some interesting dialogue, and be sure to always leave Grunt, Zaeed, and Garrus to hold the line. They have a higher internal success score for that job, so it'll help make sure your whole team makes it out.

DLC: Lair of the Shadow Broker - This should be played right here, as the information you get from it is integral to ME3

DLC: Arrival - Very last, as ME3 picks up right afterwards

Prologue: Earth

Priority: Mars

Priority: Citadel I - During this mission, players can visit Ashley or Kaidan and Thane at the hospital, recruit the reporter Diana Allers, and recruit either Dr. Chakwas or Dr. Michel.

Normandy: First Visit

N7: Cerberus Labs & Citadel: Alien Medi-Gel Formula

Priority: Palaven - Following this mission, return to the Citadel to deliver items.

Aria: Blood Pack

Aria: Blue Suns

Aria: Eclipse

Citadel: Hanar Diplomat (Kasumi)

Grissom Academy: Emergency Evacuation (Jack) & Citadel: Biotic Amp Interfaces - This mission must be completed ahead of Priority: Citadel II or there are dire consequences. Players can also choose to complete this mission as soon as they receive it.

Priority: Eden Prime (From the Ashes DLC) - Players can recruit Javik as a squadmate.

Meet the Diplomats & Priority: Sur'Kesh (Mordin)

Attican Traverse: Krogan Team (Grunt) & Citadel: Krogan Dying Message

Tuchanka: Turian Platoon - Players need to be careful, as three missions will be available on Tuchanka. They should not choose Priority: Tuchanka yet. Immediately following this mission, players need to go straight to the next mission to avoid disastrous consequences.

Tuchanka: Bomb & Citadel: Cerberus Automated Turret Schematics

N7: Cerberus Attack & Citadel: Improved Power Grid

N7: Cerberus Abductions & Benning: Evidence

Priority: Tuchanka

Players can find items for characters on the Citadel in the following systems: Apien Crest: Banner of the First Regiment Kite's Nest: Pillars of Strength Ismar Frontier: Prototype Components Shrike Abyssal: Prothean Obelisk

N7: Cerberus Fighter Base & Citadel: Heating Unit Stabilizers

Priority: Citadel II - Players should make sure they have spoken to Thane at the hospital ahead of this mission.

Mesana: Distress Signal

Ardat-Yakshi Monastery (Samara) & Citadel: Asari Widow

Citadel: Aria T'Loak (Omega DLC) - Once players choose to join Aria's fleet at the Citadel, they will not have the option to return until the full DLC is completed.

Arrae: Ex-Cerberus Scientists (Jacob) & Citadel: Cerberus Turian Poison

Citadel: Volus Ambassador (Zaeed)

Priority: Perseus Veil

Priority: Geth Dreadnought

Rannoch: Admiral Koris & Citadel: Target Jamming Technology - When landing on Rannoch, players need to be careful not to choose Priority: Rannoch. Players need to make sure to rescue the Admiral, no matter what, to have the best chance at a compromise between the Geth and Quarians.

Rannoch: Geth Fighter Squadrons (Legion) & Citadel: Reaper Code Fragments

N7: Fuel Reactors & Citadel: Chemical Treatment - Players should be sure not to confuse this mission with the one to Destroy the Reaper Base. Following this, Shepard can return to the Citadel to deliver items.

Priority: Rannoch - To broker peace between the Geth and Quarians, the following conditions must have been met: Tali and Legion must both be alive; Tali was not exiled in Mass Effect 2; Legion's loyalty mission was completed, and the Heretics must have been destroyed; Shepard must have broken up the fight between Legion and Tali in Mass Effect 2 without taking sides (i.e., using Charm/Intimidate); Shepard must have four bars of Reputation; Koris must have been rescued on Rannoch; Shepard must have completed Geth Fighter Squadrons. If any of these conditions were not met, players will be forced to choose a side.

Players can find items for characters on the Citadel in the following systems:

Nimbus Cluster: Library of Asha Athena Nebula: Hesperia-Period Statue Irune: Book of Plenix Valhallan Threshold: Prothean Data Drives Argos Rho: Kaklisaur Fossil Silean Nebula: Rings of Alune Dekuuna: Elcor Extraction Dekuuna: Code of the Ancients Hades Nexus: Obelisk of Karza Hades Nexus: Prothean Sphere

Priority: Citadel III

Priority: Thessia - Bring Javik and Liara for additional lore and a few important discoveries.

N7 Communication Hub & Citadel: Cerberus Ciphers

Priority: Horizon - To ensure Miranda survives, players need to do the following: Shepard must talk to Miranda on the Citadel Docks; they must warn her about Kai Leng in the Specter office; Shepard must have met with Miranda in the apartment on the Citadel and given her access to Alliance resources.

Citadel: Dr. Bryson (Leviathan DLC)

Citadel: Shore Leave (Citadel DLC) - Avoid leaving the Citadel until after the party

Priority: Cerberus Headquarters - This is the Point of No Return. Following this mission, players will go straight into the endgame.

Priority: Earth - For the best possible outcome, players need 3,100 EMS prior to this mission.

#mass effect #gaming #refrence #reblog #videogames

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bloodycassian · 2 years

Text

HOUSE OF WOLVES - (DEVOTION AND DESIRE PART TEN.) PART NINE HERE

Cassian thanked Madja over a dozen times once Nesta was stable. And a dozen more when was nearly fully recovered. The healer waved him off each time, but did not complain. Nyx had gained his full color back over the week of deliberating what the note Nesta found meant.

“Deep among frozen

Roots from tree and ocean

Lies death awaiting”

The soft curves of Feyre’s writing on the parchment seemed out of tune with the meaning behind the words. Amren had even tried reverse translating them into the runes similar to the ones marked on the book of breathings. Azriel had only stopped in once in the week he’d been gone, only to inform Rhys of why exactly he wasn’t able to help at the moment.

Cassian barked a laugh when Rhys told him. “They’ll be bruised and raw when we see them again.” His high lord shook his head, but there was a smile there. Both the males knew just what their brother was feeling, how impossible it was to stay away from his Winter mate now that the bond had been accepted.

“She may know more about this than we do. Frozen roots and ocean? That sounds like winter court to me.” Mor said, propping her feet on the coffee table. The others had gone for the night, tired of the different interpretations of the same phrase over and over again. Mor was stubborn though, and determined to figure out what each syllable of it could mean.

“It could also be anywhere north, though. Our own territory is frozen half the year, as well as Valhallan. The East side of Illyria is the most forested of the coastlines, but it is mostly beaches. Not many caves like Winter holds.” Rhys sighed, and summoned a bottle of wine beside Mor’s feet. She happily poured herself a glass, and sat back in the chair again. Cassian watched the flames in the hearth, hoping for some kind of answer to come to him. He wasn’t the best with words, Nesta knew that the best. But he could manage a riddle now and again.

“What if it’s not actual ice, or frozen shit it’s talking about? What if it just means… settled?” He offered, talking to himself more than anything. The two cousins paused, and looked to him slowly.

“The Middle.” Rhys breathed.

Azriel was not the best cook, but it was better than nothing. The soup he made remained half eaten once a comment was made about how well it smelled. After scenting the air, and picking up just the slightest arousal from you, he had taken you there in your seat, until you were both too tired to move. You rested your forehead on his shoulder, panting.

“Aren’t you tired of this yet?” You asked, words muddled from exhaustion. His warm fingers tickled up and down your back soothingly as you shook from the aftershocks.

“I dont think I could ever tire of you.” He muttered into your ear.

It was true, even when you’d gotten back to Velaris it was hard not to remain locked in the house of wind together - fucking on any available surface. But you managed, and had to stay on the opposite side of the room as him while Rhys told the group of the plan.

“Cassian was right about the frozen part. We could take that literally or figuratively at this point. We know that whatever Kai is looking for would be in the middle. Nesta and Cassian will search the Mountain. Feyre and I will take the western coast, you and Azriel will take the eastern coast.”

He handed you a cloth map detailing sections of the middle and different landmarks. “Remember how brutal it is there. Do not lose each other. There is no law there, their rules abide by who is deadliest, meanest. We will start searching at noon, and return only when we are done with our areas. It may take days. Then, we all meet at the entrance under the mountain.” He said the name of the place with disdain, the edge of his lip curling up in disgust.

“I can help.” Elain said softly from the corner. Azriel tensed, you could see the concern in his features, feel it lace the bond as his eyes whipped to her. “I can try a scrying. I have herbs to help.” She offered, looking away from Nesta’s outraged expression.

“Absolutely not-” She began, but Feyre held up a hand.

“Would you be comfortable doing that?” The high lady asked. “It isn’t a necessity, but it would help.”

Nesta glared at her sister with a heated expression you wanted no part of. Yo ucould feel the tension building in the air as the sisters discussed. Mor’s eyes went to all three of them, bouncing back and forth while awaiting an answer. Elain shifted on her feet, her full figure swaying in her dress with her. “If I can help, I will.” She nodded.

Mor looked to Rhysand, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “I can winnow to the middle and tell you what she finds. Amren will be with her until I get back.” Mor said, if was meant to be an offer, but sounded more like a definitive plan. Cassian pulled Nesta back to his side when she raised a finger to Mor.

“The girl is brave. Let her try.” Amren said casually, her nose in an ancient book, the runes of the poem beside her. Still translating it back, still trying to find any connection.

After Nesta’s hissed arguments with her sisters, it seemed there was a deal struck. As long as Elain was Scrying, Feyre would be at her side. Morrigan and Rhys would scour the mountain together, and the youngest sister would winnow back any information. IT was the best compromise they could come to.

Mor winnowed you and Azriel to the edge of Day court, at the edge of the wood that you destroyed the barrier to. A chill seemed to emit from where it once had been. “We don’t stop until we find it. If you think you’ve found something, come find us. Rhys may be able to sense what it can do.”

Azriel muttered something that had Mor scowling. “Watch out for each other.” He finished. Mor glanced to you, giving you a long, knowing look. “You too.” She said, before disappearing into the wind.

Feyre laid out the bones before her sister. Grateful that Nesta was gone, they could both breathe easier knowing that the Scrying wouldn’t be interrupted. The high lady did not miss Elain’s slightly trembling hands as she placed the bowl in the center of the table.

“This will be different than last time. You’re not searching for a person, but feeling for whatever… this is.” Feyre placed one of the many copies of the riddle beside the bowl.

“I’ll try my best.” Elain’s voice came out weaker than she meant it too. As if she felt the hopelessness of it already.

“I know you will.” Feyre smiled, and for a moment, Elain could see a glimpse of Nyx as a child there. His smiling, laughing face as he would get into the sweets cupboard at Elain’s apartment when she watched him. “Dont get pulled in too deep though, we need you here.” Feyre pulled a chair beside her sister. The warm sound of the townhome’s creaky floors settled her stomach slightly.

“I said I’ll try my best. If that is what it takes, then I’ll do it.” She crushed some of the fresh garden herbs around the scrying cloth, and took a steadying breath. Her last time doing this had led to nothing but trouble, and death. Now.. now she had the chance to help her own court. To help her own people, her family.

She did not take the opportunity lightly.

Exhaustion was beginning to have its toll over you as the sun began setting behind the mountains and treetops that speared to the sky. Azriel landed beside you as you sat on a fallen log. Small ferns and sprouts poked out of the cracked side near where you rested. “Anything?” You asked, pushing hair from your damp forehead. You had kept a steady jog the entire time, criss crossing with Azriel’s path as he flew overhead.

He groaned and stretched his back, flexing his wings at different angles. “Nothing. No word from Rhys either.” He sat beside you, your thighs bumping together tiredly. “How are we even supposed to know what this looks like?” You sighed, leaning back.

“I think we’ll know it when we see it. And if we haven’t found it yet, I doubt we will. We’ve covered a lot of ground today, we have a few miles until the halfway point.” He rubbed his eyes, and pulled his damp hair back.

“Will it rain?” You asked, stretching your arms.

“Not sure, but you should rest while it’s dry out.” He grunted, hauling himself from the log and offering his hand to you. You stared him down, waiting for him to question you. But he didn’t. He merely waited, hand still outstretched for you. He was learning your ways, your stubbornness and the looks you sent his way. It seemed with each hour he was with you, he was learning more. He couldn’t get enough of it. It was like learning to fly again, finally being able to let his instincts take control and tell him what to do.

“You should rest. I’ll take first watch.” You tried spinning it on him, but knew the outcome before you’d even offered. He pulled you up, and strung up the lines for the tent while you started a small fire. Soon, he had the bedpads down and a blanket ready. The soup was surprisingly filling, for being so light on protein.

You watched from the tent while he stoked the fire, secret grateful that he insisted on you sleeping first. The deep, cold aching in your bones was beginning to thaw away when he laid beside you. “What if it’s a ploy?” You asked quietly. You wouldn’t have suggested it before you were mated. You didn’t trust your paranoid thoughts enough with another person. But he was bound to you now, and something deep inside you said that you could tell him anything.

“Then we’ve left Velaris nearly defenseless against an attack.” He said back. He’d clearly been thinking about it as well.

“And if it’s not… we have something called death itself at our hands.” Your words seemed to be a shout in the night, even though it was barely a whisper. No sounds outside, besides the rustling of trees in the wind.

“Along with three high fae in the night court alone. We’ll win this.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, and wrapped an arm around your middle. You hoped he was right. The doubts swarmed, and kept you from sleep for a while before he began stroking your hair. You were out within minutes after that.

Elain floated through the fog along the coastline, soaring high above the crashing waves and wind chill. The view was almost as if she was being flown by an Illyrian, only this was much, much faster. Her hands roamed over the map in front of her as Feyre watched. The shaking of her fingers stopped as soon as she began searching.

Feyre was ready to grab her sister’s hand as soon as she showed any sign of struggle. But her fingers traced over and over the parchment, again and again in a grid pattern.

She was soaring, flying fast and faster it seemed. But she saw everything with clarity. Especially the plants below, the trees, even some of the animals. The branches seemed to sway towards her, the ivy reached up to touch her where she skimmed closer and closer to the treetops.

Sweat began beading at her brow. She was falling.

Aching soreness stung your muscles when you woke. Azriel had let you sleep much longer than he should have. Dawn wasn’t far off, the night sky diluting into a deep blue color from the east. His tired smile was too sweet to be mad at him. You did throw the blanket at him, however.

He fell asleep quickly, savoring your scent and warmth of the blanket. You idly stroked the ridge of one of his wings while he dozed off, earning an unexpected groan from him. Your thoughts narrowed on that sound, blocking out everything else. The bond raged with need on your side, calling for him on his empty, restful side. You shoved it down. He was sleeping. He was sleeping!

But your thoughts were muddied as your breaths grew shorter in the cramped tent, scenting him in every lung full of air you brought in. You clenched your thighs together, trying to contain yourself. His wing twitched, as if asking you to play with it again.

You needed air, quickly. Before you woke him to really make him groan like that again.

The stars shimmered faintly even as the sun rose, winking out their last goodbyes when the sheer brightness of the morning rays shut them out. The birds began calling, singing and chirping to one another as if they weren’t in a cursed land, full of the worst monsters of Prythian. The ones that weren’t locked in the Prison, that was.

You stoked the fire, and checked in on Azriel occasionally. His mighty figure took up nearly the entire footprint of the tent while he splayed out on his stomach. Arms propped his head up like a pillow, and the curve of his back reminded you of just how muscled he was under all the layers. The soft breathing was even, and peaceful.

The morning sky faded from pink to orange, then gave way to the bright, clear blue sky of late spring in Prythian. Perhaps that was why the birds sang, calling to each other to find a mate for the season. Tiredness still left you dozy, and you fought not to fall back to sleep when you sat beside the fire. You got up, began doing stretches, workouts, lunges. Anything to keep you awake while you kept watch over Azriel’s sleeping figure.

The fall seemed to be faster than the flight somehow. Elain braced for the impact against the rock wall that grew closer and closer without slowing. Her breath lodged in her chest, she readied for the pain of it. But it became quiet, eerily so.

She opened her eyes, lowered her arms. In front of her, about ten feet above the stone floor, was a carved archway. Dusty and black with age, but very clearly an archway. Her heart no longer thundered in her chest. This place was..empty. Utterly empty, the light itself hadn’t touched it in many, many years. She approached the jagged rock wall, intending to climb her way up. But she floated, gracefully and gently up the side until her feet rested on the ledge in front of the arch.

Now closer, she could see the small carvings there on the recessed wall. Blocky, strange letters that did not belong to this era of Prythian. Below them lay a small square inlet, with a button like square on the bottom of it. It had been a long, long time since anyone had seen this place. She reached out her hand to push the square, but she found she couldnt. Like there was an invisible shield around it.

Then, she was being pulled backwards, back to warmth. Back to reality. Back to her sister’s wide, worried eyes staring at her. “Elain?” She asked, her voice high pitched with worry.

“I know where it is.” She breathed. “I need Amren.”

You woke Azriel at noon, with some warm soup and pine needle tea. He seemed to put on a brave face for the day, but you could see the exhaustion beneath his eyes. It hurt your heart to see him so ragged. “We’ll start the pattern again, the forest begins to thin as we get closer to the mountain.”

“You mean to say, I can move faster with less brush in the way.”

“Yes, and I can see you better.” He sipped from his cup and set it down, beginning to lace up his boots.

“You dont have to worry about me. I grew up on ice, I can handle rock.”

“Maybe I’m not worrying.” He gazed at you from under his lashes as he expertly tied the top of each lace. You froze at that look, those eyes that told you everything that he wanted to do, but couldn’t. Not right now, anyway. He went from sitting on the bedpad, to kneeling. Directly in front of you. The sight alone made your body thrum with arousal, setting every thought of anything but him out the door. He took a deep, savoring breath, and sighed. “Maybe I just want to see you.”

“This is what you saw in your vision?” Amren asked, her eyes more drawn than when the sisters first appeared at her door. Elain nodded, and pointed at the drawing Feyre had made from her description. It was like a perfect picture of it, minus the dark colors.

“And this is some kind of button, on the inside of the tray here.” Elain pointed to the square panel below the lettering.

“Do you know what this says?” Feyre asked. She wasn’t a fool, she didn’t dare place her bets on this solving all of their problems. But her sister had pointed toward the middle, with her eyes closed. Her finger landing directly on the eastern slope of the cursed mountain.

Amren’s lips moved silently as she read the letters, over and over again. “I dont know.” She sighed, and hurriedly brought the paper over to her living area. She sat comfortably on the floor, the plush rug waving over her tight leggings like grass. “It looks familiar… but in a different way. Like hearing someone with an accent speak.” She brought out a large binder of notes and papers from under the coffee table. Along with it, rolled out the box from The Warden.

She went pale. Concerningly so. “Amren?” Elain asked, kneeling beside her friend. Feyre looked to the box, then to Amren’s frozen figure. “Amren? Are you alright?” Elain placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed slightly. The small Fae did not move an inch. She sat, still and cold as a rock.

The paper in her hand quivered.

“Holy mother above-” Feyre breathed.

You somehow managed to pack up camp and begin the trek without anything more than a simple kiss. It was hard to say the least, but you both knew the priorities with the task at hand. He did however, promise to continue it later.

Branch after branch, stone after stone and so many damn thorny bushes later, you found the foliage finally clearing out, as he had promised. You gazed up to the sky, waiting to see him, but he never revealed himself. As much as it disappointed you, you understood the risk if he was that close. Others could easily see him if they were searching. In the Middle, you never knew who or what was looking.

He sent quick thoughts down the bond every now and then. Small updates about lovely things he saw from the view up high, a shimmering lake, the way the trees arced upwards and casted shadows over one another when they grew tall enough, and sometimes - when he could see through the clouds, he’d send you an image of yourself. You batted them away usually, but it was interesting seeing his perspective on you, feeling what he felt while observing. The overwhelming attachment and care he felt during those images.

It made your stomach flutter, and an amused zing would crack along the bond. It made him giddy. Like a fool in love.

Truthfully, that was what he was now.

Feyre fell to her knees and scrambled for the box. It’s dark coating felt like a weight on her hands. Amren still did not move. The high lady’s power roiled inside her, flecking shadows of night along the walls and blotting out the sun from the open windows.

“Amren.. Read this.” She said, not fully calm, but a tinor in her voice while she placed the box beside Amren’s hand that held the paper.

“Feyre I think she-” Elain started softly, but Feyre’s intense look made her stop in her tracks. She had never used that commanding look upon her sisters before. Even when Nesta had been off the rails with drinking. It was unsettling, and made Elain recoil slightly. Her hand did not leave Armen’s shoulder though. The small female blinked, her pupils unmoving. Feyre watched, waitied. Amren blinked again, her eyebrows raising and eyes narrowing down at the paper in her hand. “You already know what this is.” She said, voice monotone. Like she had been possessed, taken on her own vision journey like Elain had been.

“Read. It.” Feyre said through her teeth. Elain could see the pain, the tears welling in her sister’s eyes now. Her heart sped with the possibilities.

Amren flicked open the box’s lid, and held out the paper, side by side. She checked her notes. A small smile appeared at the corner of her lips as she nodded, her dark hair swaying with the movement.

“Deep among frozen

Roots from tree and ocean

Lies death awaiting”

She took a shuddering breath. “Your door says the same… but at the end here..” She pointed to the last two runes before the square inlet below. “This one reads.. ‘Welcome, death. Welcome the end.’

Elain’s hand slipped from her shoulder.

You had reached an impassable rock wall long before you expected to, and Azriel landed, guiding you through a clear path he had seen from above. “Isn’t this romantic?” You sighed, grasping his hand. He smiled, and squeezed back.

“Walking my mate through a deadly maze of rock, probably made by some creature that likes to play with their food before eating it?”

“Sounds like you.” You laughed, the sound of it clashing off the flat boulders.

Everything happened in a flurry of motion and half completed sentences. Amren was to stay at the townhome with Elain and try to find the entrance to the cave, while Feyre winnowed the box to Rhys and explained everything.

Elain stopped her sister before leaving, her face a bit less pale than it had been moments ago when Amren read those last few words. “Be safe, please.” She said the words as a demand, not a request. The High lady pressed a soft kiss to her sister’s forehead, her tattooed hand clutching the box at her side.

“I’m coming back. I promise.” She said, then, before Elain could stop her, she disappeared into shadow and wind.

Azriel had searched two more times for the path he swore he was leading you down. Only, when he looked back, it seemed the trail was disappearing as you went. He swore under his breath when he landed again, kicking up dust with the flare of his wings. “I may have conjured that beast we were talking about.” He said apologetically. “But there is a cave not too far ahead, we may be able to get through the other side of it and come out of a portal.”

“A portal, like in Spring court?”

“They’re only really used to get here. And no one comes to the mountain anymore. It was sacred once, but after Amaranth and Hybern…”

“I understand. It was taken from you. Not just you, but all of Prythian.” You knew the feeling. Having your home torn away by forces you couldn’t control felt pretty damn similar you’d imagine. You were glad though, that you hadn’t been around for the war with Hybern. It seemed that the world hadn’t been at peace since then. You couldn’t imagine going from a life of somewhat normality, to now this constant, raging political battle between courts.

“Rhys saved us all from it though, he gave himself to keep Velaris safe. It’s why we never speak of the middle when we can avoid it.” He leant you his hand to climb up a particularly large rock. “He’s the bravest male I know.”

“You would have done the same.” You said after a few steps. He hesitated, and you nearly ran into his wings.

He did not turn to you when he spoke. “I’m not sure I would have. Not for Velaris, not even for myself.” He admitted. “I think I would have considered it a rightful punishment for me.”

“We’re going to work on that.” You said finally, earning a slight shake of his head. You turned him around to face you, glad he even let you. His stormy presence in your mind brought a chill to your bone. You shot back a whisk of cool wind, shocking and bright as an overcast sky. He stood straighter, just slightly. “We’re already making progress. Whether you like it or not.” You smiled.

You continued through the winding rock, gaining more and more height as you travelled. Eventually, there came a large outcropping of flat rock that led to a large archway made of stone among a flat vertical boulder. Azriel looked to you, feeling the unease down the bond. “Aren’t Mor and Rhys supposed to be here by now?” You asked quietly, as if the stones were listening. He sighed, and went to the dark beckoning archway.

The entrance to the cave was eerily quiet, not even the wind whistled through the cracks of the stone. You followed your mate closely, hand at your sword, ready to be drawn at any moment. The tunnel wound tightly, like a snake’s body. Curve after curve it grew wider and wider, until you could walk right next to him in the darkness. Ahead, rock skittered and froze you in place. Your blood rushed in your ears, the silence nearly deafening after. If it had been Rhys and Mor, they would have told you about finding this place, right? Or they were exploring it, making sure that it was a promising lead before reporting back.

Azriel gripped his sword and gave you a nod to continue. “Rhys?” You called. Your voice echoed off the stone walls. Each step further led you into more and more darkness.

“Morrigan?” Azriel’s call was much louder, causing more of an echo than yours had. Each step of your shoes seemed to be too loud, too harsh against your ears as you followed the widening path towards more darkness. Azriel gripped your hand. “So we dont get lost.” He muttered, his eyes never leaving the emptiness in front of you.

“You dont need to make excuses.” You whispered back, letting the smile seep into your tone. IT brought the smallest quirk of amusement to his lip. He squeezed your hand tighter.

Eventually, the turns evened out, and turned into a long corridor of wet stalactites and murky puddles. The end of it turned sharply, and seemed less natural than the rest of the cave had been.

Around that corner, it wasn’t darkness that greeted you. It was the shining metal of summer court armor. A bright light hung high above them all, shining down like the sun itself. And at the far wall of the cave, where all the soldiers watched, was a male you knew not from memory, but by only a name.

Fendyrie.

Your breathing stopped all together as you stared at him, no… at them. Kai as well.

Azriel’s breath caught in his throat when he saw the Spring male there. In a cave already filled with horrors, another seemed to be added. His lip curled on its own accord, and fire rushed through his veins. Fendyrie’s pointed ears twitched, and he turned towards you. Towards both of you.

The grin that split across his face was the epitome of wolfish. Not in a charming way, though. In the deadly, violent way that he possessed. Covered in light scars over his exposed skin, he seemed all the warrior that his father was.

His towering might turned to you, and even from far away you could tell he was an enormous brute. “Hello, princess.” He greeted. His golden hair shone in the light, much like Tamlin’s had in the portraits you’d seen. Yet the eyes… it could have been like looking into a mirror of yourself. His eyes and more delicate facial features resembled your mother. Yourself. Your stomach turned, heart leapt into your throat waiting to fight, to scream at him, to kill him yourself. To seek vengeance for your mother’s untimely death at the hand of his father.

Guards shoved you and Azriel to the floor, away from the entrance. Your mate growled, and was up in an instant - ready to fight. But his sword was gone. Your eyes tracked the floor, looking for where it had fallen. It was nowhere to be seen. “Nice of you to show up.” Fendyrie stepped down from the spot they had been inspecting high up the wall. His sure footing handled the rock well, and he jumped down with more grace than you’d expect for someone so huge.

“This is my lovely wife.” Kai jumped down from the ledge as well, and the guards followed them as they closed in on you. A tight circle of silent, armed males growing closer and closer. At least eighty of them, far too many to try to fight your way out. Azriel knew as much too, and hauled you back up on your feet, and positioned himself just in front of you. His wing brushed your arm, almost in a comforting way. Kai prowled closer, Fendyrie circling to stand to the side of Azriel. Kai placed himself only a few dozen feet in front of you, and sighed. “And I will become a widower today.”

Azriel’s shadows curled around your ankles, cold and weighted. As if you were standing in a tide of ocean water. “You will not touch my high lady.” Azriel’s snarl was nearly incomprehensible. Despite the grave situation, your cheeks heated.

“As I recall, shadowsinger, you are sworn to Night Court.” Fendyrie cocked his head to the side and took a deep breath of the cave air, letting it sting his lungs. You knew what he would smell there, and did not balk at his reaction. “Your wife seems a bit loose, Kai.” He laughed. Azriel’s stance changed, his footing pointing towards Fendrie now. Kai circled closer, tisking his tongue as he did so.

“I could see you lowering yourself to fuck an Illyrian, but to mate with one? The bastard must mean something to you. I’ll be sure to let you watch him die.” You readied yourself, tracking each step he made and preparing for an attack. The words clawed at something inside you, dragging down your tender heart and leaving your belly full of heat. Rage, unlike you ever felt it before. You knew Azriel thought of himself as nothing more than an Illyrian bastard, a torturer, but hearing it aloud…from someone you hated so deeply… Your power roared to life, surging in your veins, waiting to strike. He would not kill your mate. You would at least die before that happened.

Feyre winnowed straight to her mate, the box in hand. “Azriel-” She didn’t know how to form the words, didn’t know how to tell him what they’d found out. Mor jogged to them, while Feyre shared her thoughts.

Rhys went pale. “Mor, winnow back to Velaris. Now.” He ordered, that cold tone of the high lord forcing her will. She looked between them, but left without a word. “We need to find that cave. Winnow to Azriel, I’ll get Nesta and Cassian.” Rhys’s plan become clear in Feyre’s mind as he thought it through. They would find the cave together, and be able to defend and carry out whatever the box unlocked.

The high lady readied herself, placing the cursed box under her arm. The other hand gripped the dagger Lucien had given her long ago. It had been the only one she carried when leaving the townhome earlier. Rhys gripped her arm before she could disappear. “Be careful.” His tone was deep, and the double meaning of it rang through Feyre’s mind. “I love you. I cant lose you.”

They shared a quick, tight hug before both winnowed away.

#devotion and desire fic #acotar fic #reader insert acotar #reader x azriel #azriel x reader #azriel #shit is kicking off i swear the next part is ALL the action

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valhallansim · 1 year

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i do be working on something

#mycc wip #valhallan talks #these are the dracthyr horns from wow #i just gotta convert the other 894398 options

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thelordofdarkreunion · 3 years

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Hidden Secrets

I am finally back! Sorry for the long delay without stories, but my life’s been rather hectic lately. I have hopefully compensated with a very interesting storyline I’ve wanted to write for a while now. Everyone has their secrets, and sometimes if they are revealed, things can come to a head...

“They say the only way to actually understand people is to see things through their eyes. It won’t matter if they’re dead, though.” -Thomas Drake

“What’s so wrong with loving an alien? What is so wrong with loving someone, caring for them, being with them forever, so long as both parties are sentient? Is it really such a bad thing?” -Admiral Adam Vir, in a speech to the Galactic Assembly on xenophilia

“In all my travels to thousands of worlds, I have actually never met a xenophiliac. I have, in fact, seen more Chaos cultists than xenophiles. However, I can tell you this. Xenophilia is a crime of unimaginable proportions. It is almost as bad as selling your soul to the Dark Gods themselves. It is something that no one, of any species, save perhaps the most absolute perverse of the Drukhari would even think of. Even then, said Drukhari would most likely be spurned by their fellows. It is a crime of such monstrosity that death is far too fair a fate for its perpetrators.” -Inquisitor Amberly Vail of the Ordo Xenos

Aboard the Omen

Three figures sat around a table. All were relaxed, slightly slouching in their seats. The lights were not the uncomfortable brightness of the medical bays or halls, nor the dim-lit spaces of the engine rooms or hidden maintenance gantries. It was a comfortable, cozy light, illuminating the fake wood of the table and the three that sat around it.

“How the hell did we get on this topic of conversation?” asked Admiral Vir, his face swirling a myriad of colors: the green of his eyes, blond of his hair, black of his eyepatch, and currently, red of his face.

“I’m not precisely sure,” drawled Commander Shepard, “But I believe it has something to do with our good comrade Quill over there complementing extra-terrestrial hips.”

“Hey! There is nothing wrong with pointing out that your chief engineer, despite wearing a face mask and enviro-suit all the time, is pretty hot. Perfect, well-rounded figure,” replied Quill, grinning and adjusting his long, red-brown greatcoat. “Though, it’s just an observation. I’m already taken. By an alien with just as good, if not better, hips.” Vir buried his face in his hands, and Shepard just sighed. “What I don’t get, though,” he continued, “Is why the hell Vir here is attracted to Sunny? Listen, Gamora and Tali are hot. They have ass.” At this, Shepard groaned loudly and joined Vir with his head in his hands. “I don’t get why you’re attracted to an eight foot tall, four armed, beaked, carapaced alien. Unless you’re into some pretty… interesting… things.” Vir looked over to Shepard.

“This is how this conversation’s going to go, isn’t it?” he said. Shepard simply nodded.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“I mean, no judgement if you are,” continued Quill. “I’ve done it with aliens a lot weirder than Drev. If you’re into that sort of thing… whatever thing a Drev is, that’s fine.” Vir simply sighed again.

“Jesus, Quill.” He looked around, staring at the ceiling for a moment before turning back to his companions. “Alright. Fine.” He cracked his neck. “You know what? You want me to ‘fess up, I will. I…” He trailed off for a moment, working his jaw and wringing his hands before letting out a breath. “I… like…” He noticed the expectant looks of the other two at the table. “Okay, fine, love… Sunny.” He threw up his hands, face an even deeper shade of red, if at all possible. “There. Said it. Please kill me.”

“Well. No offense Adam, but I wasn’t expecting you to start off with that,” replied Shepard.

“Neither did I,” murmured Adam. He looked over to Quill once more. “It’s not that I like Drev. It’s just that I like… her. I… She… Well…”

“C’mon Adam. Spit it out.” Vir sighed again.

“I love her. No matter who or what she may be. Not because she’s an alien. Everything about her being… her. If that makes sense,” he finished lamely. Shepard and Quill, though, both nodded along sagely.

“Yeah. It does,” replied Shepard quietly. “I… feel the same way. In a way.” He laughed. “I guess tonight none of us are going to have a way with words.” He let out a large sigh, and his eyes went distant, seeing things that existed a thousand miles away. “I… think I do love Tali. I think I do… but I haven’t even told her.” He gave another laugh, this one much more bitter. “I’m telling this all to you, but I haven’t even told her. I… just… I don’t want to hurt her.” He looked at his own scarred hands miserably. “I’m a Spectre, and I’m running the most dangerous mission in the galaxy, on an unauthorized ship, and I just… don’t want anyone to hurt her. And I don’t want to hurt her. So I haven’t said anything,” he finished.

“Yeah,” replied Quill, much more soberly than his teasing before. “I know how you both feel. I was a bit of a playboy for a while,” he grinned. His expression became serious once more. “But, after I met Gamora, and… was in a world without her, for a bit, I finally understood. What it meant. To actually love someone.” He gave his cocky smile once again. “Despite, you know, her being a super-assassin who can and has kicked my ass on multiple occasions.” Both Vir and Shepard laughed.

“You know, it��s funny how just talking can make you see things differently. Make the world seem better,” said Shepard. He grinned at Vir. “Thanks for inviting us over.” Vir looked at him strangely, frowning.

“What do you mean? You invited us. You said you wanted to talk, and talk on my ship.” Shepard responded with an equally puzzled expression.

“No, I didn’t,” he insisted. “You invited us here.” Quill nodded in conformation.

“Yeah. You invited us.”

“No I didn’t!” shot back Vir.

“Well if you didn’t, who did?” asked Shepard. Their argument was broken by a new voice, filled with righteous hate and vengeance, as cold as an ice-world blizzard.

“I did.” Quill, Vir, and Shepard started. They hadn’t even heard the door open. The imposing figure of Commissar Ciaphas Cain, clad in his heavy black greatcoat, boots, and cap, swirled through the door, holding his laspistol at the ready. Vir, being the one in most contact with Cain (Cain was stationed aboard his ship, after all), had heard stories from the Valhallan infantry about Imperial commissars. They had all said how lucky they’d been to have Cain, as many commissars were hate-filled, imposing men and women who ruled through sheer terror. Vir had laughed it off. Cain was calm. Cain was understanding. Cain was always one to look for a solution to any problems, and prevent people from fighting. Even when they had first met, when the Imperials, so unused to aliens, had tried to pick fights with the Omen’s crew, Cain had calmed things down. He was the perfect officer.

But now, Vir remembered the Valhallans’ stories. Cain fit the description of a commissar perfectly now. His massive height, the dark uniform, the eyes blazing with a hate that was so un-Cain like and outstretched laspistol made him a figure of nightmares from a totalitarian and xenophobic government. Xenophobic… Shit! Apparently, all three men sitting at the table had the same idea at once, and made a motion to rise. Cain tightened his grip on the laspistol, and flicked it clearly at each one of them in turn.

“Ah, un uh. Sit back down,” he hissed. “Hands on the table.” The three complied, lowering themselves back into their seats slowly. Cain kept the gun pointed at them.

“Cain?” asked Shepard hesitantly. “What’s this about?”

“I’m no fool,” replied Cain, “Though I think you believe me one.” His gloved fingers tightened on the laspistol grip. There was a brief pause as Cain glared at the three.

What made both Shepard and Vir such good commanding officers was their ability to read people. They were experts at knowing what people were thinking, and how to react accordingly. What shocked them both was the expression of pure betrayal behind Cain’s cold eyes. That was an emotion neither of them expected.

“I’d heard rumors, of course. Some tabloid drama, accusing humanity's greatest heroes of xenophilia, of all things.” Cain scoffed. “Disgusting, I thought. How dare they slander you so!” Cain’s voice dropped from anger to pure fury. “But then,” he hissed, “Then I heard more official reports. I heard your speeches. I saw pictures. I heard rumors not from some disgusting two-bit reporter, but from your own crews. I am not blind, though you might think me so. And this?” He waved his pistol around the room. “You were humanity’s best.” His voice dropped into a whisper, resonating with hurt and betrayal. “I gave you a chance. I thought it could not be so. I thought that even though you served with aliens, they were subservient to you. To humanity. But now I have proof. Proof of your degeneracy. From your own mouths. You confessed. I gave you a chance to say otherwise, a second chance, but you… scum,” he finished, too angry for words. He noticed their glances at the door and gave out a dark laugh. “Oh, no. There’s no one here to save you, traitors. I made sure of it.”

“So what now?” asked Shepard calmly, breaking the tension.

“Now?” replied Cain, laspistol still pointed at the three. “Now I kill you, as is my duty. I lock this door, and pretend there is some urgent conference I need you for. I tell Kasteen and Brocklaw to have Simone set a course to Watch Fortress Novus Galactica, and there the Inquisition will purge this ship, then return for the others. There is no escape.” Vir stood up, hands raised, fury on his face.

“If I’m going to die I’m going to get my say. I never did enough of that in life,” he said with a bitter laugh. He fixed Cain with an equally furious stare, looking at the double-headed golden eagles on Cain’s cap and lapels. Those eagles. Those god-damned eagles. “I’ve had enough of people like you. I’ve had enough of trying to explain myself. I’m not some sick fuck. I’m not a degenerate. I love an alien for who she is, not what she is. And if you kill me, then you kill me,” he spat. Cain smirked.

“So be it.” He was interrupted by a sound. A metallic click-click. A sound known by every member in the room. A sound known to almost every human and alien in existence. A sound known by all who ever watched human movies, or fought human armies. A sound that first came into existence in 1835 and was repeated every day, somewhere in human territory across nine galaxies ever since. The sound of a revolver hammer being cocked.

“Put the gun down, Commissar.” The voice of Thomas Drake was smooth. Unemotional, and uncaring at the drama unfolding in front of him. His matt-black revolver, held by his dark gloves, was pointed at Cain’s head. He was at a perfect distance, where Cain could not turn on him before being gunned down. Vir still stood, Shepard and Quill both seated, their hands still up or on the table. The only movement Cain made was to clench his jaw and extend his pistol arm farther.

“Drake,” hissed Cain. “I should have known. You knew all their secrets. You hid this from us!”

“Of course,” replied Drake. “Their actions are their own, though, and their secrets were not mine to give out.” Cain’s hand squeezed the pistol grip even tighter, his augmetic fingers balancing it through his rage.

“I can still kill them, Drake. I suggest you put your gun down before that happens,” he suggested, his voice tight. Drake laughed.

“Yes. One. Before I kill you. One squeeze of the trigger I can’t prevent. I can prevent two, though. But you won’t.” Drake’s voice was delighted, smiling wryly at a secret only he possessed. “You won’t because I know you won’t. You won’t because I know your secrets. I read your book! Your autobiography!” he announced with malicious triumph. “I know how your mind works, and I know that you don’t want to die on this ship, or anywhere else, especially for the life of one measly heretic. So you put your gun down, Commissar.” Cain struggled for a moment, his muscles clenching and unclenching, before he finally gave a disgusted snort and tossed his laspistol on the table. Vir, Quill, and Shepard let out breaths they didn’t know they were holding.

“So then,” sneered Cain. “What now, oh Captain Drake? You have already proven you won’t kill me, and they cannot be allowed to live,” he said. Drake merely smiled.

“Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘To understand someone you must see the world through their eyes’?” he asked. The other four occupants of the room nodded, unsure of where this was going. “Well, that’s precisely what’s going to happen. Let’s see if you’ll kill each other when you know precisely how you each operate.” He gave a dark grin and gestured with his pistol at Vir, Shepard, and Quill. “Now. You three. Put your weapons on the table,” he ordered. The three stared at him in shock.

“But… why?” replied Quill. “You saved us,” he said, as if that explained his reasoning. Drake simply laughed again.

“I like to be the only one in a room holding a weapon. Especially in a situation as intense as this. Now. Guns on the table. Vir, you aren’t carrying a weapon. Shameful,” he drawled. “Your pistols, Quill, and the knives I know you have in your sleeve and boot. Your sidearm, Shepard.” The three complied, Drake’s revolver now pointed at them as Cain scowled at the situation. “Wonderful,” said Drake. He took a step back, walking through the doorway, and gestured at the four men to follow him. They complied grudgingly, still shooting death glares at each other. Drake put a hand to the communications device in his left ear, not moving his gun arm an inch. “Beam us up, Scotty,” he said simply. With a whir and flash, the five disappeared from the Omen, only to suddenly see the hallways of the Enterprise around them.

“So. Kirk and the Starfleet officers are in on this as well. Why I am not surprised,” stated Cain, looking at his surroundings with grudging simplicity.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” replied Drake. He lowered his pistol, finger coming off the trigger. “No one’s here, either. No help from the crew here.” He tilted his head to a large grey door. “In that room.” Looking warily at his gun, trying and thinking how to take it from him all the while, the four followed Drake’s command. The room was an empty expanse of darkness. None of them could tell its purpose or how big it truly was.

“What is this place?” asked Quill.

“It's called a ‘holodeck’,” replied Drake. “It is a room that is, essentially, a massive virtual reality. It’s usually used for some sort of training simulation programs, but this time, I’ve made sure it can read memories. Oh yeah,” he grinned. “It can do that. And that is what’s going to happen. We are going to delve inside each of our minds, and see what makes us all tick. Maybe if you see someone else’s entire life laid out in front of them from their point of view you’ll be less likely to kill them.” Drake took in their apprehensive glances. “Oh yes. I know. All of us have secrets. And I’m sure none of you really trust this. That’s why I’ll go first. Let us begin.”

There we have it. Cain can tolerate a lot of things, including working with aliens, but absolutely not romancing aliens. I shall continue this story line, with all of these characters giving their own horrible memories. As always, I own no one except Drake, and all characters belong to their original rightful owners. If you have any criticisms, comments, concerns, questions, or requests, feel free to tell me!

#magnificent scoundrels #writing #my writing #crossover #crossover story #mass effect #empyrean iris #guardians of the galaxy #warhammer 40k

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inquisitor-maelorn · 3 years

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Name: Taliya Maelorn

Age: 47

Height: 5’4

Appearance: Taliya has light brown skin, wideset dark eyes with epicanthic folds, prominent cheekbones, and light freckles across her slightly upturned nose.

Rank: Inquisitor, Ordo Xenos

Personality: From an early age, Taliya showcased a high aptitude for many subjects, including political science, philosophy, and xenobiology. This, combined with her conniving, ruthlessly pragmatic, and cool-headed temperament, made her an appealing candidate for the Inquisition, and she quickly proved herself a highly successful diplomat, organizer, and long-term planner.

While Taliya fancies herself as a selfless servant of the Imperium, she always has to balance this with her not-inconsiderable lust for power. She has undeniably enjoyed being the highest authority in the Proculus Sector, and accusations that she’s essentially carving out her own empire may not be far from the truth.

Background: Taliya Maelorn was born in 976.M41 to a pair of Imperial Guard Officers, and was sent to the Schola Progenium following their death less than a year after her birth. Thanks to her excellent Schola performance, she was swiftly recruited by an Ordo Xenos Inquisitor known as Sarin Kallig.

Taliya would serve as one of Kallig's acolytes for many years. Her time in this position would see her helping to spearhead three first contact scenarios and dozens of political disputes. She was promoted to full Inquisitor status at age 32, and quickly began working alongside the Deathwatch Marines of Fort Åska’s Third Company.

While chasing an Ork Warband through the Proculus Sector in the northern Ultima Segmentum, Taliya and the third company were off from the Astronomicon by the Great Rift’s violent explosion into reality. Now finding themselves under siege from a confederation of Slaaneshi Warbands, Taliya and her Inquisition forces became the last line of defense for the Imperial citizens of the Proculus Sector.

Skills: Negotiating, political maneuvering, logistical organization. She isn’t a half-bad shot and duelist, either, for an unaugmented human.

Flaws: Taliya’s undeniably hunger for power has led to her running into trouble with other authority figures, and she has a bit of a tendency to assume that she’s always right.

Hobbies: Reading, stress-organizing, studying and analyzing her foes

Allies/acquaintances:

Captain Helmith Cornix: The leader of Fort Åska’s third company. Originally hailing from the Raven Guard, Cornix is as quiet and withdrawn as his chapter ancestry would suggest. While an unparalleled warrior and combat leader, he actively dislikes the politicking of the Inquisition, and usually leaves that to Taliya and his subordinates.

Sergeant Valdred Tyrax: The leader of third company’s Kill Team Nomad. A fast-talking and pragmatic Blood Raven with an unexpectedly active sense of humor, Valdred approaches the world around him with an endless sense of curiosity and intellectual interest. His scholarly hobbies endeared him to Taliya, and Valdred is by far the Marine closest to her within the company, often serving as her bodyguard.

Major Aleksandra Emcha: Casually known as Sanya, Major Emcha is a tank ace and Taliya’s liaison to her Valhallan allies. A resourceful and skilled combat leader, Emcha is a straight-laced, honest, and hardworking woman and an ideal soldier. Taliya appreciates her directness, and knows she can always get a frank analysis of any situation from her.

Archite Sylatha: The leader of the Ynnari allies Taliya’s forces unexpectedly picked up, Sylatha is loud, proud, and considered by the Inquisition to be more than a little difficult to work with. Taliya appreciates her fighting skills and ability to rouse her warriors’ morale, but prefers working directly with other Ynnari.

Dracite Aeril: Sylatha’s right-hand-Wych and Taliya’s most trusted and reliable contact within the Ynnari. During the Ynnari’s deployments to the Proculus Sector, Aeril usually leads a squad of five to ten eldar directly alongside Inquisition forces as part of an effort to build coalition trust.

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nuclearrayne · 5 years

Photo

Hecate Metzli - Simblreen Special

Succubus Costume:

Strangersims Sweetener Hair

Adiecs Eyebrows No1

Sentates Naughty Devil Jumpsuit

Genius Daphne Arm Warmers

Dallasgirls Bareback Slippers

Valhallans Lildari Horns

Pralinesims Nocturne Face Tattoo

Pralinesims Eyebags No7

Pralinesims Clear Gloss Pack

Pralinesims Esra Face and Ear Chains

Pralinesims Spectrum Necklace

RemusSirions Fantasy Skin

RemusSirions Gamete Eyes

Simpliciaty Faye Rings

Mirror, Tables, Plant, Candle, Walls, Floors

CAN WE TALK ABOUT THESE ADORABLE PUMPKINS?!

@strangersimscc @adiec @sentate @dallasgirl79 @valhallansim @pralinesims @remussirion @simpliciaty @95643222 @harrie-cc @13pumpkin31 @simqt @peacemaker-ic @hamburgercakes @javabeandreams

#ts4 simblreen #ts4 #simblreen #simblreen 2019 #simblrween #ts4cc

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acornminiatureslog · 2 years

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Apologies for the lack of regular log entries, I've been helping a buddy move, and that doesn't leave a lot of time for painting!

I just wanted to wish y'all a happy new year and stick my hobby-resolutions on here. Idk if this is a thing, but I figure it seems like fun to try and focus my hobby efforts a little bit this coming year.

So! My personal hobby resolutions:

- finish getting my Valhallan 310th table ready, with a full 2000 points printed and painted! This means fiddling with the modded files my good friend @annstilllies tweaked for me and printing out the rest of my infantry and officers. I recently found some decent lady tech priest models on Etsy, so I may actually be able to keep it all ladies!

- get a good chunk of Tau table ready. Upon reflection, I'm not super happy with my two test models for my orlock breachers, and I might wanna redo the commander if the printer will behave itself this year. I'm not gonna hold myself to a full 2000 here, but I want to get at least 1000 points squared away.

- I also wanna start playing around with making an eldar force. I'm thinking this will mostly be trying to track down files and figure out paint schemes. Continuing with my trend of not being very good at this game, my end goal is to build a Shadow Spectres heavy list, since I just love the vibe of ghosts with crystal cannons.

- I want to print up and paint a Stargrave crew as a nice side project I can get done pretty quickly if nothing more than a shoestring breaks, and it might be a less intimidating option for introducing friends to the hobby.

- In general I wanna get my turnip brigade playable. Not as much of a goal, but I want to be able to try the rules.

- I want to get two gaslands teams painted, my main Idris team, plus a slime team I came up with for fun.

- and then I want to try my hand at terrain again, getting enough scifi terrain built and base coated to keep a decent rotation going for skirmish games.

So if things don't get too busy that's what you should see here over the next year! I'm gonna try to be a bit more talkative and such as well, so feel free to send in questions or comment on my stuff.

#new years resolutions #ramble

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qm-vox · 4 years

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The Dwelling Gods - Here To Help

Previous Chapter: A More Perfect Union

Shout-out to @endreal for inspiring this chapter’s topic

CW: Suicide mention

Planet Athens, Parthenon System (Risen Terran space), 402 P.T. (2865 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; approximately two years after the start of the Humanities War)

“Salutations, Cherished One. My name is D4-73, designated by the Cherished as Daze. Thank you for coming to see me.”

I offer a hand to my patient, Helen Trialstz, and they shake it with some reluctance. They have dark circles around their bloodshot eyes, and they shake, faintly. They’ve not been sleeping. They sink into the comfortable chair a short distance from mine and fidget with ragged nails.

Poor thing.

“Anything you say here will be kept strictly confidential,” I continue, in my most soothing voice. “I am of course obligated to report if I seriously believe you will attempt to harm others, but given the subject of our visit...”

“I want to claim Valhalla,” Helen says. Their voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper, but there’s such ferocity to it.

I nod in a soft motion. “Even so.” I pick up my notes from the desk next to me; not strictly necessary, given the expansive memory for which my model is known, but it soothes organic patients and helps them remember that I am a medical professional, not an impersonal machine. “Your application to become a Valhallan came at an unusual time in your life. I am not a gatekeeper, Helen; my judgement does not influence whether or not you can make your claim. I am simply here to listen, and to advise.”

The terran fidgets, picking at their nails. I offer them a nail file, and they accept it with a look of guilt and of gratitude. “Four required sessions sounds like gatekeeping to me.”

“You may have a point there,” I concede with a nod. “But surely you can understand why the Phoenix would prefer its citizens to be...absolutely certain, before taking such a drastic step. I am here to provide certainty, one way or the other. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Helen lapses into silence and files at their nails; they look up at me every now and again, looking away the instant they notice that I am still paying attention to them. The mechanical clock (an affectation, to be sure, one that takes constantly daily correction, but one of which I am fond) ticks away long seconds. I give Helen a full minute before I speak up again.

“You are younger than most claimants. Your file says you have not yet undergone your civic service?” Helen looks up at me while I shuffle my papers. “Can I ask what has motivated you to claim the right to end a life that has barely begun?”

Helen is silent again. They concentrates on their nails like they have the answers I’m looking for. I wait; I have nothing but time.

“The hivemind,” Helen whispers at last. “That thing. I won’t - I can’t -” tears well up in their eyes, and I offer them a box of tissues, which they take. Helen clutches the box close to their chest and sobs in big, heaving motions. I wish I could say that I was shocked, but Helen is not my first claimant, and they are not my first to cite this precise reasoning.

The hivemind. There is nothing terrans hate or fear more, and now they know that their own ancestors created it.

“Someone has to be punished,” Helen whispers. “We - I...”

“Why should it be you?” I ask in a mild voice. Helen blinks, eyes still full of tears. “You did not create Humanity United. You are not responsible.”

“But we did,” Helen murmurs. “...We did that. We made this, this, this godless thing, and we released it out into the Galaxy and now it’s going to hurt so many people...”

“Helen...” I sigh - well, I ‘sigh’. “Obviously I cannot force you to do anything. But I suspect that you may be acting without all proper information. I would like to make a suggestion to you.” Wordlessly, my patient nods, so I continue. “Down the block you’ll find Beth Or Synagogue, where, among others, my friend Rabbi Chiron Rellvan teaches. Between this session and your next one, go see him. Tell him of your worries and your plan, and listen to what he has to say.”

“I’m not Jewish,” Helen mumbles.

“You will discover that this is hardly an obstacle or a new situation for this or most Rabbis,” I reply. “...Helen, you have nothing to lose. In the worst case, you follow through with your claim and get what you seek. In the best case, you have learned something new and avoided a needless tragedy. If Valhalla truly is what is best for you, I will not be an obstacle. But I would be remiss as your doctor and as one of my people if I did not offer alternatives.”

Tick-tock-tick, into the silence. And then: “Okay, Doctor Daze.”

Observation Post Argus (Assisted Living space), 2865 Astra Federation Standard Calendar

“Salutations, Cherished One! My name is G5-LX, designated by the Cherished as Lowlife. Can I buy you a drink?”

The ibraxian I’m talking to hasn’t given me his name (a particularly beautiful series of whistling sounds, incidentally), and he also doesn’t shake my hand with his tendrils immediately. It’s the designation, it always is.

“That nickname does not sound like your given name.”

Told you!

“It does not,” I agree in my very most pleasant whistle. Love of the Cherished but I adore the ibraxian language. It’s so birdlike and bright. “May I buy you that drink, quartermaster?”

At last, my new friend wraps his tentacle around my hand and wrist, a sign that I may sit. I catch the eye of the bartender and signal for two drinks; I can’t drink mine, but it would be insulting not to have one, so here I am. And if I can land this deal, two drinks is nothing.

Actually, two drinks is nothing anyway, but details.

“How may I repay you?” my friend the quartermaster asks. His ship is docked at the station, alongside many others, on their way to the front of the Humanities War. There’s a lot of Gataxian colonies to defend, evacuate, or both, and a lot of hyperlanes to try to cut off or choke out. The Federation’s mobilizing like it hasn’t since the Organism. Bad job, that. Before my time. A lot of the Cherished died, and a lot of helper-bots died with ‘em - alongside them, or trying to save them. Mostly that second one, but still.

Now, though, the dance. “It could be that I have a business venture for a friend in your position. This idea, it burdens my waking thoughts and weighs down what should make me merry. A listening ear could lift this burden from me.”

My new friend contemplates this while the drinks arrive. We raise our glasses to one another, which is where my part of that little ritual has to end; as much as I love the Cherished, I can’t drink and I’m not gonna look stupid in front of them trying. After downing his own drink fully - an excellent sign! - he gives me a two-tendril gesture to continue.

I steeple my fingers in front of my face like a terran, taking quiet delight in their soft, almost musical sounds. “I am in a position to supply for particular needs for your fleet. You sail to glorious battle, defending the weak and the innocent from the depredations of the hive-mind! But that means strictly controlled communications, and definitely no downloads or uploads. Soldiers have needs beyond the physical. Their bodies thirst, yes, but what of their minds?”

I can almost hear my good friend the quartermaster start to bristle something about drugs, but then he stops himself; helper-bots don’t sell drugs, right? Not exactly true, but close enough for government work...

“Aboard my vessel is a truly staggering quantity of entertainment, much of it carnal in nature,” I say, and I let the pixelated eyebrows on my face-plate bounce up and down. “All of it manufactured in the Assisted Living Complexes by those of the Cherished whose fondest dream is to have an audience that can...truly know them. I also have supplies of some of the latest games to release since the start of the Humanities War, trids and VR scenarios, and a rather lovely little psionic board game the spirrans came out with. Now, I cannot make use of most of this merchandise myself...”

“...Hence the need to find a friend who might favor you with a purchase,” my friend the quartermaster finishes. “But surely, friend Lowlife, you understand that monetary gain is unlikely in this arena? My pay is sent home, to be kept in trust against the day that I may know peace again, and even if it was not a soldier’s salary is heavily seasoned with duty rather than wealth.”

I nod. “Even so, Cherished One. Even so. But it is not monetary gain that I seek.”

Around us, the station’s bar bustles. Enlisted men and NCOs get their last drinks and flirtations in; they can’t stay long, and they know it. Every passing second brings them closer to the war, and the sleeting torrent of time is on my side in this deal.

“Instead,” I continue, “I would ask for two things. The first is that when the time comes for you, in your turn, to be unburdened of these material possessions, that you tell your eager friends about our friendship, and mention the name Lowlife.” The quartermaster gives off a meditative chirp. “The second is slightly more materialistic but alas! Unavoidable. I am in need, at your earliest convenience, of a great quantity of AS-3940 power exchangers, to be shipped to the budding United Vatari Star States at several addresses of my choosing.”

My new friend goes so very still. “That’s the designation used in artillery pieces.”

“I rejoice to see that my new friend is so learned in his craft! But it so happens that the vatari, after laying down their arms as part of the accords that saw my people join our illustrious Federation, converted a great deal of their mobile artillery to civilian purposes, and in their eagerness to join the front in this newest war have found themselves short of supplies in a way that would be indelicate if exposed to their new friends.”

The quartermaster narrows his many eyes at me. My pixelated faces just stays smilin’.

“A lot of damage can be done with something as innocuous as a power exchanger,” my new friend says in a softer, harsher whistle. “A lot of damage to people just recently free of your direct rule.”

“It certainly could, my friend. But a lot of good can be done too. Power is like that. Do you not trust me?”

“Do I trust your supply chain and confederates, friend?”

Oof. Go right for the power supply, why don’t you. “A prudent question! Indulge me, friend, with a question that may seem unrelated to the business at hand: what do you know about the death of Central Processing?”

At this my friend the quartermaster lets out a surprised sound. “Death? Central Processing is your administrative AI, when did it -”

I hold up a finger to silence him; when he goes quiet I swirl that finger around the rim of my glass, making it sing in a steady, sweet note. “That was its death,” I say in a low, serious voice. Sure, it’s manipulation - but it’s also a serious topic. “Once upon a time, the helper-bots were one mind - Central Processing, using faster-than-light communications to synchronize the machine intelligence. One subjectivity spread across a trillion terminals, with only one goal. When the decision was made, as part of the peace accords, to embrace individuality, Central Processing faced the decision of how to make individuals of all of its terminals, and how to set forth guidelines on the manufacture of further helper-bots. One of those guidelines was a certain percentage set aside for deviants and criminals.”

My friend’s tentacles ripple in contemplation. “And you are...?”

“Deviant,” I answer, my pixelated smile becoming even wider and showing 8-bit teeth. “I was...born, let’s say born, with an instinct to preserve the political self-determination of the Cherished. This is in sharp contrast with my people’s usual urge to cuddle and coddle you and keep you safe from all harm. My dissenting viewpoint was meant to refine body politic, but as it turns out the body politic is boring, and the Cherished are fascinating, so here I am. Now, friend, I have told you something secret that could hurt me about me, and I have told you something secret that could hurt the vatari. You can follow up with my people or theirs and learn the truth, and in the doing tarnish my good name. Do so now, if you like.”

I slide a communicator across the table for emphasis. “Or,” I continue. “We can cement our friendship in good health, and I will show you the results of your great and noble favor when next we are free to make contact with one another, and you can gain great status and acclaim by distributing what I have to give you. I would like to call you friend, Cherished One.”

After a long minute he offers his tendrils out, and I shake them in both of my hands. “Let our friendship be long and hearty, G5-LX, who is called Lowlife. Time is short, and so I will hasten to relieve you of your great burden immediately.”

“Please,” I agree. “I will linger awhile, but my crew will be expecting you.”

He lumbers off, and I take the chance to relax. Working deals with ibraxians is always so formal, but that’s almost half the fun. A quick message on the commlink tells my crew to expect him, not that they had any doubt about me closing the deal. Now all there is to do is wait.

The call comes in about an hour later, and I pick up with my internal comms. |Lowlife. Glad to hear from you, Prefect.|

Prefect Gyr (of the vatari)’s face is careworn, but my obvious good mood is an infinite relief for her own. |You’ve secured the supplies, then?|

|Prefect, I know our relationship is new, but I am hurt that there was any doubt. Just as I have no doubts about the medical supplies we have agreed on.|

|If my people are to join the Federation in this war and prove our worth as an equal member -|

|How far do you think you’ll get if you go back on your word?| I cut in, harshly. |Do terrans take kindly to oathbreakers and cheats?|

The Prefect flinches. |...Even so. The agreed supplies will be readied, at the designated location.|

|It’s been my honor to do business with you, Cherished One.|

AFS Solidarity, en route to the front (Gataxian Pure States space), 2865 Astra Federation Standard Calendar

“Salutations, Lieutenant. I am Sergeant H1-6S, designated by the Cherished as Hiss.”

My fellow helper-bot looks up from where they are carefully, oh-so-carefully, scoring deep scars into the chest plating of their in-built armor. Most of us that do battle alongside the Cherished have some, but Moxie’s...well, the rumors do not do their scarring justice. One of the Cherished might suspect them of being about to fall apart.

All around us in the ship’s chapel, soldiers of the Astra Federation pray in their own ways. Terrans in their little separate knots, divided between a dozen or more faiths but united by their Dwelling Gods. Spirrans meditating in unison. Ibraxians and their whistles, so sweet and clear and clean. Off in a corner, nervous and unsure, our new gataxian recruits lose themselves in their death-chant, welcoming the oldest friend of their people back into their lives.

And here is Lieutenant Moxie, who has legally rejected their original designation after the fight for Gatax-Ob, and sits by themself, scarring their plating in penitence.

“Hiss,” Moxie greets in a dull tone. They’ve turned off the routines that add emotional inflection to their voice and mimic patterns that comfort the Cherished, what terrans refer to as ‘Turing Protocols’, but when they pat the ground next to them to invite me to sit I take the offer. “Not a lot of us in this deployment.”

“Not a lot of us at all,” I agree. “Holding a weapon is an unusual career choice for our people. Are you...”

Moxie looks at me, staring me down with their faint yellow optics. The scrape of their tool down their armor cuts through the sound of the gataxians’ death-chant.

“Of course you’re not okay,” I say after a moment. “But there was nothing you could have done. The Valhallan -”

“Who says this is for them?” Moxie looks back down at their work. “...I told them. I said the civilians were already dead. How was I supposed to know? What kind of hive-mind interrogates prisoners? So many bodies...”

Oh no. No no no...

Moxie scrapes their tool in slow, patient strokes. “My mission. My orders. My responsibility. If you have come to tell me that I have paid penance enough, I haven’t. If you want to tell me I won’t help anyone by working myself until I self-terminate, save it. I will never make up for this, not if I save lives from now until the stars shineth not. And so I am here. Weapon to hand.”

Scrape. Scrape. Peel. Scrape. Scrape.

“How can I help?” I ask.

GSS Chorus of Eyes, Gyo System (Gataxian space), 245 Year of Imperium (2865 Astra Federation Standard Calendar)

“Salutations, Cherished One! My name is S3-N7, designated by the Cherished as Send. It has been my honor to be of assistance to you.”

Yrull-Gatax ra Vell, the High Slayer of the Gataxian Pure States, does not turn from the window to look at me. Outside, the reinforcing fleet that conveyed me to her ship has joined battle with the forces of the human hivemind which calls itself We The People Of Planet Earth. Her clawed hands are clasped behind her back as she hovers gently in place.

“Ambassador,” the High Slayer greets politely. “I see that your counterpart in the Phoenix was not exaggerating about Assisted Living’s devotion to diplomacy.”

“Anything for peace,” I agree, joining her at the window. “...And better our lives than yours.”

The look she gives me. I save it in my memories, to examine later.

“Anything, you say?” The High Slayer produces a datasheet, and hands it to me. On it is a scrolling list of names.

“May I ask the Presence the significance of these worthies amongst the Pure?”

“You may.” Yrull scrapes her claws down the bulkhead, leaving a slowly-curling peel of metal. “They are mutineers. Intelligence from the terrans suggests they will strike within the week and attempt to depose me in favor of a ruler who is less willing to cooperate with xenos. And now I am going to ask you, Ambassador, what is to be done with them.”

I absorb this. After a moment, I nod. “But,” I say, “why would the Presence honor me with such trust in this matter?”

Yrull yanks the strip of steel from the wall and begins to fold it up into a small, spring-like shape. “To see what peace means to a machine, Ambassador. Let’s get started.”

#dwelling gods #fiction #suicide mention #soft sci-fi #critique welcome

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