#Homelander/Dreamweaver

[bastardfucker]

Chapter 5: Critical Darling

Ship: Homelander/Dreamweaver(OC)

Special Thanks to @xu-ren for letting me bounce ideas off of her; as well as everyone who’s shown interest in Critical Darling.

~*~*~

Darcy rolls over in her bed, letting out a defeated groan as her eyes flutter open. Still groggy, she pats around for her phone, accidentally tugging it off the charger.

Now Trending: SuperSoldiers...DreamLander...NewCrimeWave

She rubs her eye, bringing the phone closer to her face to see better.

“What the fuck?”

She’s aware of the fans shipping them, but to suddenly be #2 Trending? No. Something had to have happened. She taps the link, and she’s bombarded with gifs and clips of a video of her storming out of that janitorial closet...Homelander following not too far behind her.

“Oh fuck.”

A live video pops up on her feed, Featuring Homelander on some morning talk show. She hesitantly taps it, hoping the Host will by some miracle avoid the topic.

No such luck.

~*~*~

“So,” the host’s too peppy voice rings out. “Why don’t you tell us a little bit more about that DreamLander video?”

Homelander laughs, a carefully curated TV Ready sound. “Seems like that’s on everybody’s mind today.”

“Of course it is!” The host leans across her desk, over-acting her casual persona. “The Most Powerful Man in the World and his new partner are seen exiting a closet together, and people take notice!”

He drums his fingers against the polished leather armchair, a clear sign of irritation in spite of his poster boy smile. In truth, he was furious that some insignificant little Vought employee had the audacity to breach what little privacy he had and leak that video. If he had been clear-headed enough to remember their names, they’d be so fucking fired...if they were lucky.

“Some fans are wondering, Homelander; Why did the two of you look so angry?”

“It was a very tense day all around, you have to remember. In the aftermath of the plane crash, we couldn’t help but blame each other,” he frowns, looking thoroughly ashamed with himself. “The important thing is, those children are alive now because we were there.”

The host puts a hand to her heart, an exaggerated expression of solemnity looking like a caricature on her face. “So true Homelander, America is lucky to have you.”

He pretends a bashful smile, false modesty to cover his growing desire to demand that the damn interviewer pick up the fucking pace and close out the show already.

“It sounds like the two of you have made up since then,” she drones on, like nails on the Supe’s sensitive eardrums. “I’m sure we’re all wondering…” A cameraman hovers in dangerously close to Homelander, and it takes nearly all of his restraint to keep his eyes from glowing red as the Host continues. “…is there more to the DreamLander Saga going on behind closed doors?”

His tongue goes into his cheek when he laughs, trying to force the tension from his body language. “Well Arlene, I believe in being a Gentleman, and a Gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.” Mind your own fucking business.

~*~*~

Darcy spikes her phone into the bed as the crowd Oohs and Ahhs at Homelander’s round-a-bout confirmation of their relationship. She feels betrayed after last night’s encounter; like she’d given him an inch and he’d taken a mile. Knees tucked into her chest, she heaves with anxiety bordering outright fear. She wants to be there for him; she knows better than anyone how desperately he needs a friend, but she’s not about to allow him to drag her into some fake camera relationship just to stay Trending. She can’t. If she lets this slide now, he’ll walk all over her until she can’t stand it anymore. She’d been through bad enough in her past relationships, and those had been normal men. Failing to set boundaries with The Homelander couldn’t be anything less than catastrophic.

Dressed and out the door, she hunts down the big man, her resolve laced with steel. It isn’t hard to find him, the swarm of Vought interns and camera men around the landing deck is a sure enough sign that he’s making his return. Darcy hangs back a bit, not wanting to draw attention to herself, but knowing his super senses will alert him to her presence.

Once he pushes his way through the standard throng of Voughties, Stillwell demands his attention, much to his annoyance.

“Well that was a spectacle.” Her annoyance is evident in the shrillness of her voice. “You may have kept the cameras happy, but you weren’t fooling anyone here with that thinly veiled mood. I don’t know what happened with Dreamweaver yesterday, but-”

The laugh that leaves Homelander is cruel and sharp and it makes Darcy shudder from where she hides around the corner. “Oh, I’m sure you’d like to fucking know. You and your people don’t know how to stay the fuck out of my business.”

“Your business is my business, I’m looking out for you,” she huffs, standing professionally straight.

He tuts at her, wagging his finger. “Oh no no, you see, Madelyn; I’ve recently learned what it feels like when someone cares about me, and it sure as hell isn’t this.” She opens her mouth to speak, and he leans in threateningly. “No, shut up,” he snarls. “Don’t you say another word to me unless it’s strictly professional.”

Stillwell’s heels clack as she takes an uncertain step back, and Homelander stalks away, shoulders easing a bit as he rounds the corner to see Darcy.

“Hey you,” he smiles genuinely, pleased to find her waiting for him.

Darcy’s heart feels like it’s caught in her chest, stuck into by treacherous ribs. She could feel the relief radiating off of him, and her chest aches at the thought of hurting him.

It’s better this way, she thinks. Hurt him a little now to spare them both a lot of pain in the long run. Her resolve however, wavers a bit as his soft blue eyes crinkle with worry.

“Your heart’s racing,” his worry threatens to become rage. “Did they threaten you? Hurt you? I swear, I’ll-”

She swallows her nervousness, cutting his protective rant off with a deep sigh. Truthfully, his immediate instinct to protect her made it all the more difficult; she had spent her entire life protecting people, it felt strange to have someone look out for her for once. Say it now or you never will. “Why did you let that talk show host believe that we’re a couple?” Her voice shakes, the anger from that morning bubbling up.

He looks at her like he’s been slapped, and she awaits his response, intense gaze fixed on his. “What are you talking about?” He chokes out, at a rare loss for words.

“A Gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” she throws his words back at him, lip quivering with frustration.

“Darcy…I thought,” the words die in his throat, and the broken look he gives her threatens to break her heart. “I thought you wanted to be with me; what you said last night…”

She had thought he’d jumped the gun, just decided that they were together now without her permission…but this is a genuine misunderstanding. She hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings, but what choice did she have?

“Homelander, I care about you, as a friend,” she pleads, eyes softening.

His eyes dart around nervously, hands on his hips. He takes a deep breath before trusting himself to speak. “Why not more? I mean, I’m the fucking Homelander, and you, God Darcy, I’ve never felt this much chemistry.” Love Me. He’s desperate to keep her with him, and even more desperate not to show it.

She winces as her hand cups his cheek, his pain flooding into her as he relaxes into her touch, his eyes shut tight to keep in tears he worries will make him look weak. “Just touching you is like sticking my hand in a frying pan,” she struggles with the words, voice laden with the pain they’re now sharing. “I can’t be more than your friend, Homelander.” Please let that be enough.

He rests a hand posessively over hers, and she knows she can’t pull away if she’d wanted to. He lets out a long sigh before boring into her soul with pools of bright blue. “I’ll learn to control it.”

“Homelander…”

“Darcy,” he urges. “I’ll stop hurting you one day, I swear it.” He shudders, studying the pain in her eyes with determination. “Then we can be together.” Forever.

Tears begin to roll down Darcy’s cheeks as she gazes back at him, his intensity bleeding into the pain that’s already growing overwhelming. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and nods; only then does he release her.

She makes her way back to her apartment before she allows her own hurt to surface. As if the day hadn’t been hard enough, on the elegant glass coffee table sits the most gorgeous and expensive looking bouquet of flowers she had ever seen. She doesn’t need to look at the red wrapped note nestled in the plush roses to know who’d had these sent to her, but she owed it to him to read it anyway.

“From H. With Love.”

In truth, she wanted to give him a chance. But how could she? When there are so many reasons not to...She knew the dangers of moving too fast; and with him? She can’t even touch him without drowning in his agony.

She was not inclined toward kind men with kind pasts, or perhaps, they were not inclined toward her. She still isn’t sure which it is. No, her lovers have all been damaged in some significant way...but Homelander...she’s never felt pain like his. Pain so all encompassing it leaves her breathless with a single touch. It’s cruel, she thinks, to find yourself falling for a man who’s gentlest touch can bring you tearfully to your knees; crueler still to be that man. To finally have someone look at you with genuine compassion, only to have her crumble in your grasp. But then...when has life ever been fair?

~*~*~

If she wants to make him wait, he’ll play the game. Friends, after all, is better than losing her all together. Losing her is not an option. He can’t go back to pretending now that he knows what a caring touch truly feels like; and he does savor every touch. She still keeps contact to a minimum in public, after all, they have appearances to keep up, and having her crumble under the weight of his pain for all to see would damage the brand. In private though, when Darcy lays her hands on him, he savors every moment; loving that she’s willing to suffer just to show him that someone cares, that she cares.

It’s all he can think about on their patrol tonight, her and him, and the future he’s determined to make for them. It’s an easy night; routine house fire in a big apartment building. His mind has plenty of room to wander; he thinks of Darcy with the swell of new life in her abdomen, a child looking on with excitement as she pulls a fresh batch of cookies from the oven. He thinks of himself, kissing her on his way into their home before flying outside with the kid to toss around the ol’ baseball.

His mind is so thoroughly elsewhere that he’s running on autopilot until the shrill cry of a terrified child snaps him back to reality. Effortlessly, he flies into the room, only to have his heart drop into his stomach. Curled up on the bed is a little blonde boy, wrapped tightly in the comfort of his blue blankie. Homelander sweeps up the child into his arms and bursts through what’s left of the wall, quick to reunite the little one with his mother, who Dreamweaver had just pulled from the building.

Hyperventilating, he grabs Darcy by the arm and pulls her into the alleyway for some semblance of privacy.

“I’m here, I’m here, what happened?” Her voice is laden with concern.

“The kid,” he hisses, gesturing as discreetly as he can toward the reunited family. “Look at him.”

It’s not hard for her to make the connection between the kid and his blankie, and the nightmare she had pulled him out of the day she knocked him unconscious. Homelander’s sensitive ears pick up the tires and boots of the paparazzi on the ground before they get close enough to see, but he knows if he flies away now it will look suspicious; especially after he was so quick to drag Dreamweaver away. It wasn’t like him not to stick around and soak up praise after a victory; the media would know something was wrong, and that terrifies him.

“Please,” he rasps, desperately clinging to Darcy. “Don’t let them see me this way, I can’t…I-I-”

The lights blaring off of the cameras threaten to overtake the poorly lit alley, and Homelander’s damn near ready to take off when to his utter shock, Darcy pulls him into a kiss, pressing her lips against his like her life depends on it. God help him. He leans into the kiss, pulling her body into his. He can feel her body trembling from the agony, and he knows why she’s doing this; give the vermin something else to feed on. She’d saved him from humiliation, and he loves her for it. He tries to shove down the pang of guilt in his heart when he sees the tears in her eyes as he pulls away. This is Right, he assures himself. She was made for me.

Confidence returning to him, he turns to the cameras, hiding Darcy’s tearing eyes by pulling her face into his shoulder. “Alright, show’s over,” he gleams with that Poster Boy Smile. “There’s kids watching.”

With that, Homelander takes off with Dreamweaver in his arms; giving the appearance of a happy couple celebrating their victory, instead of a terrified supe making a hasty retreat. Once he finds a suitably isolated rooftop, he lays her down gently, allowing her to come down from the steady surge of pain she’d been exposed to. She’s Beautiful. He watches her collect herself, pale skin all but glowing in the moonlight; and he can’t help but run his tongue along his bottom lip, savoring the memory of her kiss.

“That was quick thinking,” he praises her, earning a tired smile that makes his heart flutter. “Thank you…I know that was hard on you.”

Looking much more comfortable, she sits up, running a hand through her raven hair. “Well, the media already thinks we’re a couple.” She shoots a pointed glance his way and he chuckles fondly at the memory of their earlier argument. “I think that kiss will keep them occupied for at least a little while.”

“It certainly got my undivided attention.”

She laughs, a genuine smile, all for him. “What are friends for?”

Friends.

He knew the kiss was a distraction, but he had hoped she was putting her silly little reservations behind her. He’d be lying if he said it doesn’t hurt that it was all for show. Oh well, he thought. At least if the whole world thinks they’re a couple, no one will dare try to take her from him. He can behave for now; there will be plenty of opportunity to make up for lost time once he finds out how to purge himself of the sorrow inside of him.

~*~*~

“Dreamweaver,” Stillwell’s cold voice calls out with no small amount of annoyance as Darcy and Homelander land softly in the Vought building. “A word.”

Homelander opens his mouth to antagonize her, but Darcy braces a hand against his chest, smiling softly at him through the pain. “It’s alright, I’ll catch up with you.”

His chest tightens at the contact, and he nods. “Sure, alright.” The corners of his mouth twitch as he does his best to maintain that professional smile. “You ladies play nice.”

He takes his leave, hands clasped behind his back. In truth, the only reason Homelander had agreed to leave so passively is because he plans fully to eavesdrop on the conversation. They’ll no doubt be aware of it, he knows neither woman is stupid, after all, but maintaining the illusion of privacy makes him look like a better person than he is. That, and it prevents him from interrupting. He worries that Stillwell will dig her claws into Darcy, try to turn her against him…No, that could never happen. Darcy has seen him at his worst, loves him even so; he has to believe that nothing Stillwell could ever tell her will scare her away from him.

“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” Stillwell digs in right off the bat.

Peering through the walls, Homelander watches Darcy’s reactions, searching for any sign of weakness or deference to the older woman, though she stands solid as stone. That’s my girl. “I know him better than you ever cared to.” Darcy’s voice is flat, matter of fact, and Homelander relishes it. Few people dare speak to Madelyn Stillwell that way, and his chest swells with pride that his girl is one of them.

“You can’t control him, you know.” Stillwell paces, circling The Dreamweaver, who remains unimpressed. Homelander bristles at the word ‘control’; that’s all their relationship had been to Stillwell. He had thought, hoped, that she loved him; instead anger flares in his chest as he hears straight from the horse’s mouth that he’d been nothing more than a troublesome pet to her. “He’ll walk all over you; chew you up and spit you out. Give that man an inch, and he’ll take your life,” she spat. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

The stone cracks, and a mean grin splits across The Dreamweaver’s face, unnerving Homelander. They’d had their banter in the early days, of course, but never once did she look at him like that; like prey.

“Before I answer, I need you to tell me one thing,” Darcy waits, but Stillwell only glares in response. “Can you fire me?”

“I’m head of-”

Darcy’s laugh is harsh and short. “No, no I’m not asking for your job description.” It’s her turn to pace now, circling Stillwell like a lioness that’s cornered a gazelle with nowhere left to run. There’s a malicious hunger in her eyes, and it sends a delicious chill through Homelander’s spine. He finds himself pressed right to the wall, eager to hear where this is going. “Are you prepared for his reaction if you make me go?” Stillwell opens her mouth, but Darcy raises a hand to silence her. “No, you’re not. You people haven’t let him think for himself a day in his life, have you?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “Well, that ends now.”

Homelander shivers as Darcy slinks past Stillwell, an air of confidence he hadn’t yet associated with her. His own heart hammers in his chest as she rounds the corner, fiery look still blazing in her eyes. Ferocity didn’t seem to come naturally to her, but she had stepped up to the plate in his defense. He feels strange. For the first time in his life, someone else is protecting him. The words won’t come to him, rendered speechless yet again by her soft smile.

His.

“So, you uh…you heard all that?” Her voice is shy, unsteady, unused to her own strength.

He hates the unspoken apology in her tone, hates whatever and whoever had taught her to make herself lesser. He sees her for what she is, a goddess, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make her see it too.

He wants to reach out for her, kiss her like she’d kissed him, hold her in his arms until all that’s left is her and him…but he knows better. This woman is different; push too hard and he’ll lose her forever.

Never.

“Saw it too.” You were magnificent, he thinks. “X-ray Vision, remember?”

There’s a blush to her face now, and he swallows hard when she looks away from him, heart beating just a little faster. That’s all the confirmation he needs to know that she wants him too. She’s already mine, he assures himself. I just need to prove it.

He gestures charmingly down the hall, genuine smile on his face. “Shall we?”

She looks up at him, smile as bright as ever, and nods, falling into step by his side. “Don’t want to miss our movie.”

His chest puffs proudly, eager to be alone with her. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

#homelander #mypost #the boys homelander #darcy hayes dreamweaver #homelander/oc #homelander x oc #dreamweaver oc #your honor I love him #homelander fanfic #Homelander the boys #critical darling fic tag

[painful-tm]

TOH AU Info Dump 🧵:

I'm going to start off with some ranks, keep in mind that these are still a work in progress!

Elites- The royal family, King Xyxion, and her descendants. (children, grandchildren, etc.)

Elders- The planets, life and death, light, space and time, and other elements that make up the universe. As the oldest star-children apart from Xyxion, these star-children were given the elder title. She entrusted them to influence his decisions and assigned them to his council.

Dreamweavers: Dreamweavers have the unique ability to enter the dreams of other star-children and communicate with them through the dream realm. They are often sought after for their guidance and wisdom, as dreams are believed to hold important insights and prophecies. They work closely with the Elders to interpret dreams and visions.

Constellations- Groups of stars that carefully select trials that all neophytes must surpass to gain their titles. These trials test their wisdom, strength, and resourcefulness. On top of testing the neophytes, the constellations are in charge of the justice system.

Preservers- As the brightest of stars, they serve as bodyguards to Xyxion and the elders. They are treated with the utmost respect and are pretty much pampered by Xyxion in return for their service.

Curators- Led by the planet and goddess of war, Mars, curators serve as generals in the army. They command large units of scouts and plan their operations in the field.

The Grand Huntsman- A title given to Elerin by the titan trappers, and later passed on to Ezmune.

Starforgers: Starforgers are responsible for the creation of celestial weaponry and defenses. They craft powerful weapons imbued with the energy of the stars, which can be used in times of war or to protect their homeland from external threats.

Collectors- Led by King Xyxion, collectors are responsible for harvesting materials from foreign terrains and transporting them back to the homeland for the archivists to preserve. Each collector has their unique way of collecting, such as scrolls, curses, globes, and many more. This rank is the only one that can UNDO a collection, as it is their specialty. If a material is collected, and there are no collectors around to reverse it, it remains in its collected form until it is handled. Collectors are VERY picky with the resources that they harvest and are quick to discard anything they deem as having little or no benefit for the homeland. This has resulted in shortages of materials and required collectors to venture back into foreign terrain and gather more supplies. Each patrol of collectors is supervised by two or more scouts as a precautionary measure. Collectors can defend themselves, but they aren't specially trained for combat like scouts are.

Archivists- Led by the planet Mercury, the archivists' job is to preserve the materials harvested by collectors. They preserve resources to be used later, in case it is eliminated on its original planet. Archivists are scholars and spend a large chunk of their time researching their possessions and the abilities they could harness from them. Archivists are very dedicated to their jobs and are held in high regard by Xyxion. The king works closely with Mercury and supervises both collectors and archivists.

Scouts- Led by the planet Mars and her curators, scouts are the soldiers of the starchild society. Scouts are the newest ranks, only made after Lilan attacked the homeland. They are responsible for fighting all wars and leading attacks on enemy planets. When not occupied with battle, scouts accompany collectors on their missions. Scouts (obviously) are behind the genocide of the Titan race.

Keepers- Previously occupied by Lilan, this position was filled by Tukturjuit. The keeper is responsible for the safety and well-being of all proto-stars in their care.

Neophytes- Apprentices who are under training and preparing to become archivists, collectors, star-forgers, or scouts.

Protostars- Very young star-children, babies, and kids. Protostars are well-protected and kept in the homeland's nursery where they are watched over by the keeper when they're not with their parents. They are not allowed to leave until they become Neophytes and have mentors accompanying them.

Watchers- The watchers' job is apparent. They watch those who stray from their homeland and keep a sharp eye on them at all times. Should a collector overstep a boundary or dabble in affairs that they shouldn't, watchers will report back to Xyxion. Watchers are subservient to those who summon them, acting almost as puppets. Their magic type depends on which starchild summoned them.

Lost stars- There are two types of lost stars: those who were led astray by Lilan and never found their way home, and stars that did not originate from the homeland and were accepted into society later in their lives. They are often treated poorly, being considered outsiders. Lost stars are the lowest of ranks, even beneath the watchers.

Cosmic Healers: Skilled in the art of celestial healing, they use cosmic energies to mend wounds and cure ailments. They play a crucial role in the well-being of the starchild community.

Celestial Engineers: Skilled architects and builders who design and construct the grand structures, cities, and fortifications in the homeland. They work closely with the Star-forgers to integrate celestial defenses into the architecture.

Astral Navigators: Expert astronomers and navigators who guide the society's ships through the cosmos. They study the celestial bodies to predict safe travel routes and explore new territories.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

NOW ONTO SOME HOLIDAYS AND TRADITIONS!!! >:)

★ Meteor showers are displays made by the elders to commemorate fallen star children who were lost as a result of Lilan's actions, these honorary days are called Ημέρα των πεσόντων

★ There are celebrations whenever the planets align because it symbolizes peace. This celebration is called Το σύμπαν της ειρήνης.

★ Starchildren celebrate the harvest moon at Xyxion's palace, where he has a feast prepared. Dishes from Earth, and the homeland alike, are served there. This holiday is called Η νύχτα του φεγγαριού του θερισμού

★ Starchildren celebrate the creation of the universe every turn of the century, and the holiday is called Creatio Omnium. On this holiday, they have a parade in front of Xyxion's palace. They paint their faces in the colors of different planets, sing songs, and leave gifts for the elders. During Creatio Omnium, neophytes and mentors partake in a ritual where they exchange small cosmic tokens symbolizing mentorship and guidance.

★ In spring, they collect plants, flowers, and moss from the earth and decorate their homeland to be more in tune with nature. They eat seasonal foods such as strawberries, blueberries, and an assortment of vegetables.

★ For the summer solstice, they bring the moon closer to the earth to raise the tides and collect washed-up shells, teeth, and sea glass.

★ During the winter, they tilt the sun away from the earth, freeze over bodies of water, and adorn animals with their winter coats.

★ It is common practice to spread the remains of a star, that way new solar systems can form out of their stardust. In very rare cases, stardust will form a new vessel for the host to become part of.

★ A darker, more sinister tradition was implemented once the starchildren began forcefully invading other planets. They would plaster their victim's belongings/remains on the walls as trophies.

★ Competitivity is encouraged in the starchildren society, and they hold magic-related Olympic events for neophytes and adults alike to participate in and bring home rewards. One such activity is Meteor Racing. Star-children ride specially enchanted Meteors through the cosmos!

★ During rare celestial events such as solar or lunar eclipses, starchildren participate in an elaborate masquerade ball. They wear intricate masks that represent their identities, and the event is marked by enchanting dances and celestial music.

★ Starlight Vigil: Starchildren hold a solemn night of reflection and remembrance on the anniversary of Lilan's attack. They light candles and release lanterns into the sky, symbolizing the resilience of their society.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

OK ABOUT THEIR LANGUAGE, THIS SECTION ISN'T TOO DETAILED YET.

Αστεράκια is a dialect coined by the star-children. This language is composed of celestial imagery, each symbol correlating to its own unique letter. Αστεράκια is a language mostly used in the form of writing, but for the scouts that worked with the trappers, it became a vital means of communication that titans couldn't understand.

Each spoken letter of Αστεράκια correlates to a musical sound that star-children mimic to pronounce them.

This form of Αστεράκια is called τραγούδι των αστεριών / Song Of The Stars.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

SOME FUN FACTS!!! >:D

★ In order to help collectors and scouts find their way back home, Constella created Halley's Comet. This comet orbits around the sun, which is near the homeland. If a starchild sees this comet, it's a sign that they're on the right path.

★ Lilan was the first starchild to make a deal with outsiders, and coined the term "pinky swear".

★ Teenage collectors get space acne bumps in the shapes of different celestial objects. In the case of moons, they get craters on their skin. Suns get solar flares.

★ In the case of beings like Elerin, they sneeze out clouds and sweat up rainstorms. When frightened, lightning may shoot out of their body.

★ Pluto is no longer considered a planet because he changed his name to JJ, and left Nebulous to become a space cowboy.

★ Elders and their descendants have "true forms" which are more grotesque and terrifying, so they adopt a more humanoid figure to lower the chances of frightening the mortal beings that they encounter.

★ Mortal heaven is managed by Uranus, who is somehow still alive…???

★ King and his siblings are direct descendants of Elerin through Vidia (Titan Trapper Island titan) who is a hybrid child of a cosmic scout and a titan.

★ In this AU, when Luz is revived, Calypso actually gets an apology message from the BI titan.

★ Calypso and King go on space adventures together whenever Calypso returns to the isles to pick him up. Don't worry, King has a space suit!

★ The oldest living titan is named Behemoth.

Once all of the trappers are dealt with, Elerin forms titan-shaped clouds over Trapper Island to honor the fallen. TTI is then maintained by two young titans named Meevin and Spaghetti, who spread new plant life all across the island to help it thrive again. The wildflowers on TTI are a memorial to all the slain Titans.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

THIS CONCLUDES ALL OF THE INFO I CAN GIVE WITHOUT MAJOR SPOILERS! (I THINK....)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

#the owl house #the titan toh #toh au #titans toh #toh oc #collector oc #the collector #alternate universe #oc x canon

[collectornahas]

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[earthendandinbetween]

When your queen sells your goddamn soul lol. (set in the pp1 timeline.)

The tone of the zigoton territory had grown tense--- Well, it had already been tense. That. That wasn’t quite the right word to describe the feeling in the air as Queen Kharma had gathered troops around herself to speak. Unsettling, perhaps. She was clearly out of her mind at this point, paranoid and exhausted from the unending movement of the patapons.

She had become irrational at one point, conspiring with a demon and promising to sell her own soul for power to stop the patapons march. All to protect her tribe from certain doom, should they reach their goal. He could understand the sentiment, getting stronger and remain undefeated. But to sell one’s soul…

It didn’t matter much, there wasn’t much anyone could do to convince the queen otherwise. The general knew he certainly couldn’t say much. He was not one taken very seriously, usually only accepted as extra muscle and not much else. That was fine by him, he had gone into training for a reason, they were right to rely on him for such.

There was a strange empty feeling he couldn’t shake still, gathering just in-front of the lower ranking soldiers that had been called. The only other...living general, Spiderton, was off at the other side of the meeting, flanking the slightly more unruly newly trained zigotons to keep them inline. Kharma glared down, seemingly impatient at the slow arrival of all called.

It had to be important. The general had a sinking suspicion he knew what the queen had to say. That her soul was no more, and that the patapons will now be defeated. They would of course. With power like that? He almost envied it. ...Almost. Remaining in good graces with the real deities of zigoton legend was still more honorable and reliable, even if he didn’t always seem like one to believe in such.

“I see you’ve all made it,” The queen’s voice was low, tone sharper than it had usually been in the past, stress had really taken over, “Spiderton, I’m to assume you’ve gotten your...Trainees under control.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good,” Kharma continued her speech, tone growing colder with each word, “As we all know, those filthy, no good patapons have disposed of General Gong. Their march means the end of us all, and it cannot come to fruition under any circumstance. There is no price too high to pay to prevent this.”

“Yes, of course Queen Kharma,” Spiderton cut in softly, “We will do what we must. But, I must ask, why isn’t the rest of the tribe with us? This is an awfully small gathering for something you stated was of utmost importance-”

“Quiet.” There was a twitch in the moth queen’s wing, “Stay in your place, General Spiderton. I will explain as I need to.”

Beetleton snuck a smug ‘grin’ in the kibaton’s direction as he was chastised. Served him right for always being so fickle about information, even if--- and he always hated to admit this--- the other general was right. This was a very specifically small gathering, unheard of for the likes of this tribe.

And of course, was the statement of the demise of General Gong. Unfortunate, surely. He hadn’t known him well, but the other was always very wise sounding. Full of strange advice and the like. But, when you are too weak to protect your tribe, death was the only fair price to pay.

In the tateton’s own words that he could recall ‘death is a path all warriors will face’. Beetleton couldn’t help but feel a smug pride. The only thing to take him would be age, not a pathetic spat with another tribe. He would do better.

“This was my last straw,” Came the voice of the zigoton queen once more, “My last natural line of defense, broken and strewn aside by those patapons. Though extreme, I have sealed the deal with the demon known as Gorl.”

There were a few mutters, shocked gasps, questions of why. This surely in the end wouldn’t end well for the queen. He saw it as an interesting, if not utterly ridiculous sacrifice for the sake of her people.

He would not do the same actions if he were incharge. No, the dekaton would simply train harder, work better, find more deadly and effective routes. They were a few eyeballs roaming the forests whom had not known proper training for years.

No, this was simply all a mistake. Luck on their parts, but nothing more. They would be snuffed out shortly.

“I know, it seems unbelievable,” Queen Kharma silenced the small crowd, “To sell one’s soul for the sake of her people. But, Master Gorl had promised such power to me, though he is merely a servant to the underworld.  I knew I had to play this smart, get the most out of it all, and have a deal struck with the true overlord.”

Something very suddenly did not feel right from the way she had spoken. He was very aware he was not the only one noticing an oddity to the way this gathering had gone as a few soldiers exchanged nervous glances between one another.

“Not only have I been granted power,” Kharma ‘grinned’, “I have gained an ally in Gorl himself to assist us in battle! A true undefeatable plan, something to assure those eyeballs will never roam again in any lifetime.”

“Q...Queen Kharma,” Spiderton interjected again, a shiver present in his tone and body, “Gaining the allyship of a demon is--- Dangerous. An incredibly difficult deal to strike unless you have enough to trade--- How did you---”

“Spiderton, you are no fool,” The zigoton queen approached closer to the group, “And I am sure you are fully aware of what I had to trade to Gorl.”

“Kharma you didn’t-”

“Silence!” Her tone was loud, gruff enough to quiet down all of the fear stricken murmurs among the troops, “Gorl demanded strong souls. It is a warrior’s right to serve their queen, to protect their tribe at all costs. I have chosen all of you and for good reason.”

He wasn’t hearing this right. He couldn’t be.

Certainly this was a cruel joke.

“Now, not to worry,” The moth flitted back, attempting to offer some kind of calming resolution to the horror she just unleashed onto the unsuspecting group, “As your leader, you can trust me to make choices that are only for the good of all. I promise this will work out, and our tribe will thank us. The world even, when it does not end from those cursed creatures.”

It was an eerie silence that followed. One of shock. Beetleton held his tongue forcefully. With Kharma this out of her brain, any attempt of reason or disagreement could only make it worse.

Hah. As if that was even possible.

“We are going to make preparations for battle soon,” The tone was ever shifting, from cold and angry, to suddenly incredibly cheerful. It was uncomfortable, “I want you all at the front lines. I will be staying with Gorl for reinforcements, should we need such. He and his kind have granted us all such a great gift of power, do not waste it. Do not make what I have done go in vain.”

With a turn of her heel, the moth moved further among the desert fortresses marking their homelands, her last words being a quick ‘Dismissed’. That was all.

No sorrow, no apologies for being so rash. Nothing. Like none of these soldiers mattered a lick to her. Just free souls to exploit. Free shields. She had never shown him much respect, but to disrespect the other soldiers? It was unheard of. Demon trickery, of course, yet he still held contempt for her as well.

He felt ill. The dekaton always admired the thought of growing stronger, to be one who would never fall in battle. But to lose one’s soul as the cost of such strength.

Was that truly all this tribe saw out of him? Not a fellow soldier, not a fellow zigoton. A fighter and nothing more. Easily disposed of in this way.

With a tighter grip on his dreamweaver, the beetle begun to take heavy, uneven steps towards the training grounds. So be it. If that’s all they wanted, that’s all he would be.

He would make sure all would understand how foolish it would be to cross him. Force his so called queen to remember how lucky she is that he is on her side and not on the opposing.

He could easily drift into the part that was so demanded of him. He didn’t care, it was clearly all he had.

So be it, then.

#Writings (oneshots) #Stubborn Beetle (Kuwagattan) #Moth Queen (Queen Kharma) #Web builder (spiderton)

[fistsoflightning]

1: the devoted and the dead

prompt: crux || masterpost || other fills || ao3 mirror

word count: 3138 (ha ha HA WHY AM I LIKE THIS)

Taban travels to Eorzea in the wake of the Eighth Umbral Calamity expecting nothing but land and finds the organization devoted to saving their heroes instead.

Contains Shadowbringers spoilers concerning a major plot point that explains a major plot point from LVL 79 MSQ onwards!

Mor Dhona is a sight to behold, crafted in crystal spires that pierce the cloud cover and brilliant violet skies, the ruins of a centuries-old town and war scattered beneath the aether fog. The winds are quiet, but if she listens closely she can hear the remembered laughter and chatter of a lively place, filled with adventure and trade and hope . It is a sweet taste of something she has not had in a very long time.

It is also a reminder.

“We’re nearly to the Tower,” the man named Biggs says, voice muffled slightly by the mask pulled taught around his face, and she is reminded of the mask over her own nose, leather digging into the skin around her scales. “There isn’t much else to see here, otherwise, but it’s something compared to, well...” He waves his arms around to the crystals jutting out around them, and then to the dying plant life by her feet.

She nods, following close with her shepherd’s cane in hand when he turns back around. The bell jingles lightly every now and then as she stumbles over unfamiliar landscape.

After a few bells, the Tower is finally in sight, piercing the skies even further than the spires that had covered the walls on their trek to here, and her companion races forwards to call to four figures standing at the ledge, looking off into the distance.

“Cid,” Biggs calls, and the white-haired man turns to face the two of them. “I brought the missus from camp to see it; she kept waving her cane at me when I said it’d be too dangerous, so…”

Biggs sheepishly rubs the back of his head, and she has to physically remind herself not to whack him in the back with her cane like she used to with her husband—he wouldn’t understand the unspoken really now that came with it, anyhow.

Before Cid can speak, she thrusts her hand forward, a pendant with a glimmering indigo crystal in the palm of her hand. She knows he has seen it before; perhaps he has held it before. It matters not.

“I see,” Cid mumbles, and he looks like he thinks twice before continuing. “Are you certain? We’re not even sure if it’ll work, nor if they’ll be saved. Not the most well-thought out of plans, but if there’s even a sliver of hope…”

He turns, looking back towards the tower for a moment, and she wonders what could be so important about the Tower in the distance. What could have been so important that they left it alone until now?

“Of course I am,” she responds hoarsely, grasping the pendant tighter in her fist. The little lightning that arcs from it barely tickles her scales. “I have nothing else to lose.”

…

While Cid, Nero, and the remnants of what used to be Ironworks toil over the mechanics of opening the Tower’s doors, and then of what might be used to reverse the tides of Garlemald’s Black Rose, she finds herself falling unto old habits.

Namely, that of storytelling.

At first, it is solely for her own comfort; she lets swirls of smoke and ember come from her hands to make the Dawn Throne and Reunion, and sand for the people of her home. She doesn’t dare to use water—not when Silvertear Lake is polluted enough to make her sick and the little water they do have to drink cannot be tainted at all costs—but as the stifling feeling of snuffed aether fades from Mor Dhona she finds she doesn’t need to be in her element anyways.

But then, when she hears a quiet wish from the bedside of Cid Garlond, she finds herself reaching for her cane anyways.

It takes little effort to weave together a quiet night in Rhalgr’s Reach with the Warriors of Light as pieced together by Cid, Nero, and Biggs; a gentle retreat, after a long week spent fighting some alien and a few mishaps with their engineered tea kettle.

The joy she brings to their faces, no matter how disguised, is enough for her to bring her spellweaving to the rest of their little resistance camp. 

She starts working more and more on her less whimsical spells when Nero, too, falls ill, hands shaking as he finishes up the last mathematical proofs required to successfully prove Cid’s theory possible, with the right materials. One for healing—she saves a lost moogle once, and they continuously wander back and forth from places to bring her more tales—and one for more selfish reasons.

Time. She needs time, if she is going to memorialize anyone, any thing , and so she works until her left eye is milky white and the tips of her fingers are numb and she outlives her family even longer.

“There is a saying, among one of the tribes of my homeland,” she says, once, when asked why she would choose to live longer in a place like this. By then, she has already learned the languages she would have once spurned—not all books and scriptures come in easy to read script, after all. “That the soul burns brightest when it has a goal—formerly battle, but I know of a few Dotharl that have dedicated themselves to honoring their names with other pursuits. Mine is merely storytelling, and if it takes devoting more time than I have to give to keep telling, then I will.”

She can tell they still have questions for her, perhaps about the gentle sadness that carries in her words, but they do not ask, and for that she is grateful.

After she pulls together a sight of the famed Operation Archon one night—with gratuitous help from the few scholars still residing in the camp, including a small Lalafellian lady with a buttery yellow coat—

Eventually—maybe it is after she weaves the ending of the Dragonsong War from Count Edmont de Fortemps and Lord Commander Aymeric de Borel’s final memoirs, or perhaps upon recreating the charge on Ala Mhigo as recorded by the descendants of Resistance Fighters, desperate to see what their mothers and fathers fought for when all they know is bleak futures—people come calling her things like Hopekeeper and Dreamweaver in lieu of the name she has yet to give. In time, people come from farther away to bring her stories; ones of hope and adventure, mostly, but once she receives a tattered journal from another Xaela, of a dark knight, and she tells only him the tales held inside as a reminder of what he still fights for.

A little Xaela child—she does not know whose child, but she knows that he is Oronir, by the golden highlights and the little sun pendant around his neck—comes to her after her fiftieth year and thanks her.

“What for?” She kneels down to his height.

“Everything,” he says, so earnest it feels like true sunshine. “My parents came here ‘cause of you, and then we found this place! And now I can listen to tales of heroes instead of, well, y’know. You’re hope’s storyteller!”

He bounces excitedly on his heels, and she can’t help but laugh so bright her lungs are aching afterwards.She is little more than a sister dreaming of her siblings, a century dead and lost to the winds, but she smiles every time someone calls her hope’s storyteller afterwards anyways.

…

It is on the turn of the second century after the clouds of Black Rose fell upon Eorzea that Cid Garlond’s wildest theories are finally brought to fruition. The doors of the Tower fall open while she is asleep, and it is back to night when Biggs and his small crew return from the Tower announcing their plan is now in its final stages; that of creating the behemoth of an automaton that their founder theorized would make this all possible.

She seems to be the last one to meet the man of the hour, standing on the meager stage of haphazardly put together wood and nails so that she might create her stories around her, like a troupe making words come to life. His ears and tail are hidden under his robes, and he wrings his hands a bit nervously, but she can tell this man is much more important than he presents himself as, something bone-deep and aching as the memory of Cid’s bedside.

“Pray tell,” he starts, and everyone in the crowd turns to him. “Is there aught in your repertoire about the Warriors’ journey through that tower over yonder?” 

His smile is bright as she considers—perhaps for a bit too long, as it falters slightly when he pipes back up to say, “Forgive me for interrupting your, er, plans with my selfish request, but—”

“Nonsense,” she murmurs. “There is nothing too selfish here, and it happens that is a tale I’ve never told before.” She holds out her hand to the miqo’te, watching his ruby eyes flick up in surprise with his ears, even under the heavy woolen hood Biggs must have shoved him into before they’d left on their little pilgrimage. “Care to help me tell it, G’raha Tia?”

She holds out her hand to him, and the small yet eager crowd in front of her parts like the clouds to let him walk forward and take it.

…

G’raha’s hunger for knowledge spanning that two century long rest in that tower of his borders on voracious ; even when Biggs says he can stop, that he knows enough to fill in the gaps, he manages to wheedle his way into more and more danger looking for it. There is an incident, when making their way back from Ishgard with what books and memoirs they can carry, and while numerous people fall Biggs and G’raha make it back barely alive.

She cannot rightfully say she is any less hungry than he, but she can tell his hunger is all-consuming, possessed. He gets out of his sick bed earlier than even she could recommend, and there is not a day that goes by that G’raha spends outside—not that anyone could blame him, seeing as all he knew is dead and the land continues to die around them, but she finds books piling high in his tent.

When even Biggs turns aside one night, evidently tired of trying to convince him that what he needs will not be found in books, she steps forward to grasp his arm before he can relight his candle.

“Are you going to try and stop me, too?” He looks up to her, and the desperation in his eyes flickers with the dying candlelight.

“No,” she answers, but instead of letting his hand reach for the matchbox again she sticks a scepter into his palm. It glimmers pale gold, the foci a bit dulled but still usable. “I am going to help you.”

G’raha looks indignant at that. “I do not need—”

“If you want to die and never see a brighter future yourself, so be it. You may be devoted to this cause,” she says, quietly tightening her grip as he keeps resisting; he doesn’t seem to expect her strength. “But you will end up dead faster than them if you do not train.”

“I—” He starts, but he looks to the bandages covering his hands and then down to his lap.

It does not take much convincing after that.

…

There is precious few bells left before the Tycoon is set to make or break the future, and so she finds herself sprinting through camp with her journal held tight to her chest—the last one, because all the other tales and fables she had kept in her time have already been packed up and stored in the various rooms of the Crystal Tower, destined to bring hope to thousands of others.

(That is, if G’raha does not fail.)

Her feet carry her quickly across the uneven crystal leading to the Tower, and by the time the door is in sight she is panting madly, nearly tripping over her robes as she barrels into the main stairwell of the Tower.

Luckily, the man she was looking for is still here.

“My friend,” he says, ears flicked up in surprise. “What are you doing here!? The Tower is not a safe place for you to stay—”

“I have one last story to tell,” she admits, hand patting the heavy leather tome she holds to her chest. She’s still heaving, legs complaining, but it is nothing compared to the need to tell this one last tale. “A special one, at that. Would you care to listen?”

“Of course.” He sits haphazardly on one of the crates that are scattered about, and she walks—slower than usual, this time—to stand next to him. She sets the book by his side, the worn leather cover embossed and covered with vibrant paints, and it seems to catch his attention momentarily.

“My favorite memory,” she starts, aether coalescing slowly around her—she has grown weaker, in her two centuries of extended life, as the spell she’d uncovered could not save her from even the hallows of time, but it was enough for one more tale. Weaving the walls of her yurt are as simple as calling a burst of wind. “Has always been this, and I might think you’d find a bit of joy in it, too.”

It is a simple thing, to fill in the faces of these shades, frayed as her memory might be; the fuzzy pink lion had sat with his fairy next to the quiet elezen, sharing their plates as her own brother and sibling had sat opposite of them, quibbling over who would get their share of khuushur first. Then, the miqo’te red mage that she personally had seen time and time again when she had barely been knee-height and shyer than a mouse, sat next to the solemn knight who had stared as she’d kicked the little lord from their yurt—a measure of privacy, and peace, for someone so intent on twisting the Naadam for his own purposes even at the request of the Mol was not one even she had wanted to share buuz with. The roegadyn warrior with chef’s hands was with little Och and Qara in the back, excitedly telling them stories with the two miqo’te men who had both declined a place at the fire, more than content to watch the stars in mostly-quiet company. And then…

G’raha gasps next to her, watching as she weaves strands of starlight and motes of Mor Dhona’s violet skies together at the final place set by the cooking pit. She is quiet, but the moonlight that filters through the open flaps of the yurt swathes her in a luminous glow, and her face is near picture perfect to when she had actually sat in her sort-of extended family’s yurt. 

“She was my sibling’s fifth ‘almost-sister’, as they put it.” She stifles a giggle in her sleeve, dusty as it is. The shades move around the two of them, false fire creating a sense of warmth. “Back home, in the Steppe, it is uncommon that outsiders are accepted into another’s yurt for supper, especially should buuz be on the table. But my sibling…”

A flick of her hand has them a bit further in time, when she has offered her spellweaving talents to the menagerie of friends her sibling has gathered. 

“They did not trust easily, as I am sure you know,” she says, looking to G’raha and then to the images of the very tower they’d been preparing to send into the past for the last fortnight, formed in the embers of the cooking pit. “But the strength of this bond was worthy enough to share our mama’s specialty buuz with.” She points to them, now laid back on the mats and rugs of the yurt, quietly failing to fight off sleep. “I did not recognize them when they returned, at first, but by supper’s end I was certain this was still the same Zaya that had flew west on the back of their yol.”

She smiles when the memory skips to later, when the moon is high and every adventurer has fallen asleep haphazardly on the floor of the tent. “Happy as they may be on grand adventures,” she whispers, letting the strands of hope fray and unravel as her magic fades. “I have not seen them any more at peace than this moment.”

The memory ends quietly, in a burst of sunlight and moonglow, and as the motes of aether fizzle back into transparency G’raha slides off of the crate. He stays silent, for a few moments, still transfixed onto that one spot where his dearest ‘friend’, as Zaya had once put it, sat.

Only when she softly clears her throat does he turn to look her in the eyes, ruby eyes wild and hair just the slightest bit disheveled. He looks both terrible and determined at the same time, and she cannot decide whether she sees Zaya’s spirit or Oktai’s determination in his soul first.

“I…” he starts, eyes looking back down to his feet, wringing his hands like he did when she first met him. “I would ask your name, but I feel it would be improper to only do introductions when I am about to leave.”

Her quiet huff of laughter has his head snapping back up fast enough for her to hear the light crack of his neck. “Taban Qestir,” she says, bowing slightly. “Famed storyteller and well past her years.”

G’raha almost seems to puff up. “I—Is there anything—”

“No.” She has taught him all she could, all her stories told and her promises filled. After two centuries of outliving one’s family, she thinks there is nothing more she needs than to rest. “I’ve taken enough of your time, I would think.” 

It’s harder than she thought it would be to press the leather-bound journal from her first few years into his hands, knowing that all she remembers of her home is written into its pages, but she does it anyways. “Go on now, G’raha Tia. Your destiny awaits.” 

She smiles, then, just as mirthful as their sibling’s own smile, back when they were sitting around that cooking pit sharing their home and food with friends rather than a grave with them.

And as he turns to retreat further into the Tower that both robbed him of his future and can give him one anew, Taban thinks of Zaya, brilliant and bright and effervescent, and of their friends, their figures not as filled out in Taban’s memory than of them but just as lovely and bright all the same.

She remembers as she walks out of the Crystal Tower, and hopes that G’raha will remember his friends first before the vaunted heroes of the world he woke to.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite2020 #ffxivwrite #ironworks #g'raha tia #taban qestir #shadowbringers spoilers #okay so i meant to stop at 1k max. look at the word count and please kick my tiny ass #ANYWAYS. STARTING THIS FFXIVWRITE SWINGING YAHOO #my writing #tales from the blue #a large amount of this is Vague and that's because it's Taban and i don't know what im doing with her yet! vague hours! #elie's ffxivwrite2020

[spiteweaver]

previous | next

(Note: this story takes place in April of 2020!)

--

There had been no ill-effects of Clan Feldspar’s long slumber—at least, not medically speaking.

The economy was in shambles, and relations with the merchant caravans were rocky at best; having missed out on four eons’ worth of income, they were eager for someone to blame. In fact, foreign affairs as a whole had suffered, to such a degree that the Flight Representatives had been dispatched to each of their homelands for the first time since their appointment. Clan Feldspar’s less devoted allies had raised concerns regarding its stability, citing not only this most recent catastrophe, but all those prior as an excuse to call the competence of its founders into question.

Nature had begun to reclaim local farmland, so that the fields would need to be cleared before the new cycle’s harvest could be sowed and planted. Strangely, while time had all but stopped for the territories’ residents, it had almost appeared to accelerate for its flora and fauna. There were woods now where once there had been golden fields, and the undergrowth was so thick in places as to make traversing by land nearly impossible.

Three Flight Festivals—the Rockbreaker’s Ceremony, the Crystalline Gala, and the Trickmurk Circus—had been neglected entirely, sending the clan’s holy folk into a riotous panic. They had paid no tribute to their Patrons, performed none of the proper rituals, and observed not a single one of the sacred traditions. Only once Dreamweaver had assured them that preparations would be made at once to celebrate each Festival in turn did the churches reopen their doors, no longer fearing that the Eleven may smite them for doing so.

However, none of that was any of Isaiah’s concern. His focus was, as always, the well-being of his clanmates, and so he had spent the weeks since his awakening organizing and conducting a clan-wide examination. Rising stress levels aside, the results had been, mercifully, quite dull. There had been the expected complaints, of grogginess and confusion, but the loop had preserved its victims’ physical bodies almost flawlessly. They had wanted for neither food nor water for four eons; if anything, becoming accustomed to sustaining themselves again would be their greatest hurdle.

That didn’t mean he could rest on his laurels. Sickness and injury had existed before the loop, it would exist long after it, and Clan Feldspar attracted more than its fair share of both. Most pressing were the medicines that had gone bad while they had all slept soundly in their beds. He had been filling orders every day for nearly a fortnight, and still had not made more than the barest dent in a growing list. Some could only be obtained out-of-territory, others out-of-Flight, and yet others required rare or expensive ingredients that Isaiah simply didn’t have the means to obtain.

By the Eleven, what was he going to—?

A knock came at the door to his office, startling him from his thoughtful daze. He realized that he had been staring at the same prescription for far too long. It was a particularly tricky one, but it needed filling urgently. Perhaps if he could convince Goblin to do a bit of spelunking in exchange for—

The knock came again, this time more insistently. “Come in,” he snapped, “but make it quick. I don’t have time to entertain today, so you had better be here on business.”

Isaiah did not bother to look up from his work as the door creaked open and was shut, quickly but quietly, behind his visitor. If he had, they never would have gotten as near to him as they did. It wasn’t until their scent reached him, the pungent aroma of dried herbs and chemicals, that he snapped his head up, his eyes growing wide behind his spectacles.

Then he was on his feet, scrabbling for something, anything he could use to defend himself. This turned out to be a pen, but he promptly dropped it upon remembering that he was a godsdamned dragon. Before his guest could get a word in edgewise, his nails had elongated into wicked claws, and he had launched himself over his desk with uncharacteristic recklessness.

“If you think—”

“Isaiah, wait!”

“—I’m going to let you waltz in here—”

“I don’t want to fight you!”

“—and finish what you started—”

“If you would listen for once in your life!”

“—you’ve got another thing coming!”

The pair danced a jagged circle in the center of the room. Isaiah’s claws dripped with red, but the wound was superficial; his opponent hardly seemed to notice it, simply shrugging off their torn coat and tossing it aside. Presently, their doctor’s mask joined it in a heap on the floor.

“I’ve come to apologize,” Absolom said.

Isaiah scoffed. “You expect me to believe that?”

Their gazes met, only for a moment, and Isaiah felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. Over seven cycles had passed since they’d seen one another, yet still nothing had changed. Absolom was as handsome as ever, his sharp, strong features seemingly untouched by time, every one of them betraying the emotions his mask had been meant to hide. Isaiah could even see the scar he’d given him when they’d parted ways. It was paler now, a fine line against a finer cheek, but his eyes were drawn to it naturally, his chest tightening with an old pain he’d thought long healed.

Then, suddenly, the glint of crimson caught their unwavering attention. His expression softened, filling with concern, and shaking the blood from his fingers, he moved around his desk to retrieve the small first aid kit he kept there. Absolom remained motionless, stiff, save to turn ever so slightly to track Isaiah’s path across the room.

“Bastard,” the doctor spat under his breath, “you absolute rotten bastard. You have no right showing up here, at my place of work, and demanding forgiveness.”

“I’m not demanding,” Absolom insisted, but his voice was weak, his gaze fixed on his feet. “I don’t expect you to forgive me; in fact, I’m not certain I want you to. I only thought that you deserved an apology.”

“So what happened?” Isaiah continued unabated. “Did your precious boss get sick of you? Toss her guard dog out on his ass? It’d serve you right.”

“I left voluntarily.”

Isaiah flinched, his shoulders hunching up into his quickly reddening ears, and was glad that he’d stooped down to rifle through his drawer when he had. If Absolom had seen him in such a state, it would only have emboldened him. Oh, he would have said something sappy, like, “I still love you,” or, “I want to start over,” and Isaiah—gods, he wanted to believe he wouldn’t fall for it, but he knew, in his heart of hearts, that some part, some naive, stupid part of him would.

Because nothing had changed—not for either of them.

“How long?”

He heard Absolom shift his weight, the groan of floorboards beneath his travel-worn boots, the softest exhale through his nose. “Since that night,” he replied at length. “She didn’t want me back after such a catastrophic failure—not that I wanted to go back. I don’t know if she would have tortured me or killed me outright, but I wasn’t interested in finding out.”

“You’ve been on the road,” Isaiah said as his head appeared over the top of his desk, “for seven cycles?!”

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” said Absolom. “If I’d settled in one clan for too long, she would have tracked me down. Of course, I heard about this place—” He took a moment to examine the office in more detail, noting a distinct (and amusingly familiar) lack of personalization— “fairly early on, but when I found out you’d put down roots here, I decided it may be best for me to keep searching.”

“Smart,” Isaiah agreed, “I wouldn’t have been this soft on you if you’d showed up out of the blue back then.”

Absolom smiled, and Isaiah's heart leapt into his throat. “You shouldn’t be this soft on me now.”

“You’re a bad liar without that mask of yours,” Isaiah retorted, tossing the first aid kit to Absolom with expert precision, “so I know you aren’t bullshitting me when you say you’re sorry for the whole, you know, ‘trying to murder me’ thing.”

“I—” Absolom stared hard at the first aid kit, not daring to meet Isaiah’s gaze a second time— “I truly am. There is nothing I regret more. All of the terrible things I did, the lives I ruined, I could live with, have lived with, but what I did to you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Isaiah said with a wave of his hand, “I get it. This doesn’t make us square, Absolom. Wolf might be willing to forgive and forget, but if you want my favor, you’re gonna have to work for it.”

At this, Absolom’s pale eyes lit up, almost as if Isaiah’s words alone had turned them to molten gold. The first aid kit was abandoned in the same heap as his mask and coat, and before Isaiah could protest, he had closed the distance between them. Isaiah’s heart, previously fluttering against his tonsils, swiftly sank into the pit of his stomach. He took a step back, gripping the edge of his desk tight enough to splinter the dark wood. It was only the scent of copper, still heavy in the air, that stopped him from lashing out again.

“Then there’s a chance?” Absolom asked. He was close, too close, but had not initiated contact. Instead, he clutched the place over his own heart, as if it pained him. "I didn’t come here expecting to be forgiven, but—but you don’t know how much I’ve missed you, Isaiah.”

Don’t, Isaiah pleaded, don’t say it.

“I still love you.”

“Get out.”

Absolom blinked, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for a response. Finally, he settled on a hoarse, stuttering, “P-pardon?”

“You heard me,” Isaiah replied, “get out. Take the kit, and get out of my office, out of my hospital. You’ve overstayed your welcome, so get out. If I see you around here again, I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth. Better yet, I’ll let the founder have their way with you. They’re a helluva lot more creative than I am.”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Absolom stammered, “I don’t understand—I thought—”

“No,” Isaiah said, “you didn’t. You never do. Get—out.”

That was the end of it. Absolom lingered a moment longer, searching Isaiah’s face for some clue, some inkling of what he’d done or said to offend him so, but found none. Perhaps in his younger years, he might have challenged Isaiah’s verdict. He was old now, though, and his chest hurt so terribly that he thought it might split. So, without another word, he donned his mask, pulled on his coat, and departed.

The first aid kit lay forgotten.

Isaiah locked the door behind him. He knew that sooner or later, he’d be hearing from Wolf, and the last thing he needed was another interruption. There was too much to be done. The clan was at a delicate juncture. As Head of Medicine, it was his duty to put the needs of his clanmates before his own selfish desires. Wolf would simply have to schedule an appointment like everyone else. Holy men did not receive special treatment—and neither did old friends.

Sighing, he reclaimed his seat behind his desk, but when he tried to recall what he’d been doing before, he found that he could think only of four words, whispered so sweetly that the mere memory of them made his stomach churn.

“I still love you.”

“Bastard,” he said again, and dropped his head into his hands, “we really haven’t changed, have we?”

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: isaiah #c: absolom #BUT ALL I EVER LEARNED FROM LOVE #WAS HOW TO SHOOT SOMEBODY WHO OUTDREW YA

[sgdonnan-blog]

Congrats on the Cronkite Award. Walter will always be my hero. You have been greatly honored.

Why are you not exploring in depth the reason Central Americans are desperate to leave their homeland? This has not been adequately covered in my opinion and would deeply increase the understanding of how dangerous remaining in Central America can be. A recent news release indicated that Honduras is the new drug route via Venezuela. 

Recruitment of local people is a long time practice which I have personally witnessed in the good old USA, Los Angeles San Fernando Valley, California. 

Let’s get to the root of the problem - go deep Jacob! Why are we not assisting Central American countries and enriching local economies allowing people to live decent lives in their own countries. We call it reverse immigration in the Textile world. See Dreamweavers in Puerto Escondido, MX.

Thank you for your courageous efforts and reporting. Don’t stop!!

Sharon Gordon Donnan

[bastardfucker]

A couple WIPS of Homelander/Dreamweaver(Darcy Hayes) from my fic Critical Darling

#mypost #myart #my art #art #digital art #sketch #WIP #my WIP #homelander #Homelander/Dreamweaver #Dreamweaver #Darcy Hayes Dreamweaver

[bastardfucker]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Here’s a screenshot from the Homelander/OC fic I’m working on

Yes it’s in Comic Sans, I read that it helps some people type faster and tbh I think it works a bit??

Not sure yet who in this fandom to tag, so anyone who wants to do this go ahead and say I tagged you!

#mypost #wip wednesday #fic wip #homelander #Homelander the boys #Homelander x OC #Homelander/OC #Dreamweaver oc #Homelander/Dreamweaver #DreamLander #my OC #Darcy Hayes Dreamweaver

[bastardfucker]

THE OUTLINE OF A HOMELANDER/OC FIC I PLAN ON WRITING as I discuss it with my friend

Dropping this here in case anyone is craving some trash man content 🥺

#mypost #myart #homelander #Homelander #Homelander the boys #the boys homelander #the boys OC #Dreamweaver OC #Homelander x OC #Homelander/OC #Homelander x Dreamweaver #my writing #fic outline

[spiteweaver]

In a way, Dreamweaver feels like they’re responsible for everything that goes on in the Sunbeam Ruins, perhaps because that’s how the Lightweaver treats them.

So when Clan Imperator is up to no good, and Clan Aphaster acquires a new human clanmate, even though they merely share a homeland with these clans, it always ends up coming back to bite them somehow. The Lightweaver always looks to them and says, “Fix it, fix it, fix it,” and if they don’t, they assume as much of the blame as their neighbors, possibly even more in the Lightweaver’s eyes.

They would much rather play a supporting role to their allies, but the Lightweaver expects them to be an extension of Herself, and so they have to stick their nose in where they feel it doesn’t belong.

“It’s their business,” says Dreamweaver, “and while I will always be there to support and protect them should they call upon me, they can care for their own lands and peoples.”

“No,” says the Lightweaver, “now get in there and meddle on My behalf.”

#clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: dreamweaver

[spiteweaver]

L?

As the clan’s Water Representative, Levi is regarded with immense respect by his peers, whether they hail from his homeland or abroad. In fact, it could be said that his reputation preceded him, as it was Dreamweaver who sought him out when it came time to establish the Council of Eleven. Although he possesses little in the way of magic, his great physical strength and sharp mind serve him well, in and out of negotiations.

Levi hails from a deep sea clan of Guardians, who have long served as interpreters of their deity’s visions. Their greatest treasure, an Oculus stone, which is believed to be unmatched in its perfection, aided them in this task–but when it was discovered that the Oculus was Levi’s charge, the clan elders entrusted its care to him in the hope that it might one day help him accomplish an important feat.

Generally, he is a reserved drake, quiet and expressionless. However, he is not cold, and though his size may intimidate, he is surprisingly gentle, generous, and obliging. Only when he finds a dragon he truly connects with does he let his impenetrable outer exterior melt into a warm, loving smile–and if he likes you in a certain way, you’ll find that he can be quite flirty.

SEND ME A LETTER!

#marmite-fr #asks #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: levi

[spiteweaver]

previous | next in arc | next

Slowly but surely, and as it always did, life in Clan Feldspar returned to normal. Sornieth was changing before their very eyes, but time marched relentlessly onward, towing dragonkind in its wake. So, despite everything, the borders had been reopened, the caravans had returned, and construction continued all throughout the territory.

It was late April now, and Wavecrest Saturnalia was in full tilt. The clan had come together in an effort to make this the most resplendent celebration Feldspar had ever hosted. Some hoped to comfort their sea-dwelling clanmates in their time of need; others believed that a sufficient display of loyalty might bring the Tidelord back from whatever dark crevasse he had sunken Himself into. Regardless, it was set to be the grandest festival since the clan’s anniversary the previous cycle.

Understandably, the ambassadors had been kept busy. The end of an eon was always hectic, but Juneau could not remember ever being spread quite so thin. He felt as though he had been grasped at both ends and stretched to breaking, and that if one more duty fell upon his shoulders, he would snap.

At least, he thought, he would be able to rest come May. He was desperate to visit Aphaster lands, and spend time with his mate--and with Artha, who he had seen far too little of in recent eons.

Across the square, Levi looked up from his work. “Thinking about Penitence again, are we?” he called.

Juneau started, and scrambled to find something to do. The festival may have already been underway, but that didn’t mean he could laze about. There were events to plan for, and events required catering, decorations, entertainment--

A heavy hand came down on his shoulder, halting him in his tracks. “Why don’t you go home?” Levi suggested. “You’ve worked harder than anyone, and this isn’t your festival to plan. You should’ve had a break this eon, to spend with Penitence and Artha.”

“No, no,” Juneau insisted, “I wanted to help. I know this means a lot to you.”

“That’s your problem,” Levi said, “you’re too nice. Go home. Better yet, go to Aphaster, see your family. They need you more than we do.”

Juneau chewed his bottom lip. “You’re sure?” he asked.

“Positive,” Levi replied, “now go.”

Juneau needed no further encouragement. He thanked Levi, reported to Dreamweaver, and in five minutes’ time, he was home, rummaging in his closet for the dress he’d bought for Artha. He hoped she wouldn’t be too cross with him--or that she would interpret the dress as a bribe.

His thoughts were scattered by the sharp rapping of knuckles on wood. Sighing, he set aside the dress and shrugged on his furs. (It was warm now in the Sunbeam Ruins, but he had to look the part.) Yet, as he moved to open the door, a familiar scent gave him pause. In a rush, he threw it open, his heart in his throat.

Another Tundra stood on the stoop. Although he had removed his own furs and draped them over his arm, he was still sweltering in the April heat. His long, dark locks stuck uncomfortably to his skin, and he was quite a bit thinner than Juneau remembered, but he was unmistakably...

“Alois!”

The two embraced, Alois laughing, Juneau sobbing with relief. “You’re alive,” he breathed. “I thought I was the only one...”

“It’s good to see you,” Alois said, cupping Juneau’s cheeks when they parted. “You look well! How you’ve survived in this heat, I’ll never know! It’s miserable here, brother!”

“This is an unusually warm eon,” Juneau said, and his tears at last gave way to a bright, loving smile--then to embarrassment when he remembered his manners. “Oh, but come in! I still remember how to make that tea you like!”

“Great! It’s been too long since I last had it!”

Alois stepped into the foyer, and relaxed visibly. Juneau’s home was cool and, most importantly, dark; the harsh sun had done him no favors, dressed all in black as he was. Juneau ushered him into the kitchen, small and modest, like those of their homeland. “It’s good to see you haven’t forgotten your roots,” Alois commented.

“Of course not,” Juneau said, busying himself with the tea. It was a heavy, aromatic blend that filled the room almost immediately. “I didn’t leave the Southern Icefield because I wanted to. After what I had done, I...”

Juneau’s stomach lurched. He placed the lid back on the kettle and turned, forcing another bright smile. “Anyway,” he began again, “where have you been all this time? What happened?”

“I’ve been busy,” Alois replied. His eyes were alight with mischief, just as Juneau remembered them being. Even during the long, hard eons of training they’d endured, Alois had never lost his childlike wonder. “As for what happened...” He dropped his gaze to his hands, toying thoughtfully with the hem of his sleeve. “We got lucky. There was a brother among the Goalers, and he was able to see at least a few of us to safety.”

When their gazes met again, the light had faded from Alois’ eyes, replaced by something that Juneau could not put a name to. He felt as though he was being hunted when Alois looked at him, and shrank back against the counter. “Not you, though,” Alois said. “Why did the Warden spare you?”

“I...” Juneau turned back to the kettle. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “When I awoke, I was alone. The smells of our clan were all around me, but the doors of the Fortress were shut. There was--there was blood in the air, and I--”

“I’m not blaming you,” Alois was quick to assure. “We’ve all been in hiding since then, so when we learned that you had been spared, we grew curious.”

“I really did think I was alone,” Juneau stressed. “If I’d thought--if I’d known, I would have--” The kettle let out a shrill whistle. His hands trembling, he poured the tea, and joined Alois at the table. “All these cycles,” he said, “I’ve believed that I was the last of our clan. Alois, please, tell me, did any of my siblings survive?”

“We’re all your siblings, brother,” Alois replied.

Juneau pursed his lips. “I meant, born of my mother and father,” he said, “siblings by blood; or my aunts, my uncles, my cousins?”

Alois took a long sip from his cup, his gaze falling to stare hard at a slight chip in the porcelain. “It was a very few of us who survived,” he mumbled, “a very, very few. I’m sorry, Junie.”

“Right,” Juneau said, and nodded stiffly. His voice remained even, but his grip on his cup tightened. “Of course. It was always a fool’s hope. At least you made it out. For that, I--I really am eternally grateful to that Gaoler.” He held out a hand. Smiling softly, Alois took it. “You were my best friend in those days. Having you here now, I finally feel whole again.”

“We’re going to start over,” Alois informed. “Now that the Warden’s attention is elsewhere, we can rebuild. Juneau, we want you to come home.”

Juneau's entire body tensed painfully. Alois was still smiling, and his heart ached in his chest at the sight. His clan lived; they were waiting for him. He could go home, and be with them as he once had been. It would be as if nothing had ever happened. Whatever darkness had come over them all was now banished, a ghost trapped in memory.

They could be a family.

“I can’t.”

Juneau set aside his tea, and pulled his hand away. He kept his eyes downcast, unable to bear even the thought of seeing hurt in Alois’ face. “I have duties to attend to here,” he said. “I can’t leave.”

“Duties?” Unexpectedly, Alois laughed again. Juneau hunched his shoulders. “Junie, they can find another Ice Representative! Maybe not one as good as you, but I’m sure they’ll understand! This is your clan we’re talking about!”

“It’s not just that,” Juneau murmured. “I have...”

He could picture it so clearly, the night he had given Penitence his ring. It was a simple band, fit for a simple man, and he remembered how it had caught the light, and how he had felt putting it on Penitence’s finger, and how he had cried when he’d showed him the matching sapphire upon his own. He touched it now, and realization dawned on Alois’ face.

“You took a mate,” he said.

“Yes,” Juneau replied, “and we’re--well, I suppose we’re raising a child together. I even have a pupil. I couldn’t leave them, Alois; they’re my family. I want to be with you and our people so, so much, and you’re my family too, but I thought you were all dead, and I had to move on. I had to find someone else to live for. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...”

Alois’ brow furrowed. He seemed perplexed, running through the exchange in his head, before finally reaching the inevitable conclusion. Rather than anger or hurt, however, he met Juneau’s worry with another smile. “Silly,” he said, “you have to come home. The Dominus wills it.”

Juneau’s heart stopped.

“The...the Dominus...?”

“He’s still completely smitten with you,” Alois went on. He spoke casually, as if of the weather, but every word drove an iron stake into Juneau’s chest. A cold sweat beaded on his brow. His eyes were wide, his teeth clenched, but Alois didn’t seem to notice. “You always were his favorite, his protege! I wish he’d talk about me like he does you; not that we haven’t grown close since his return! I’ve been his right hand in your absence!”

“He’s...” Juneau gulped around the lump in his throat. “He’s alive?”

“Of course!” Alois exclaimed. “You didn’t think the Warden would kill a Gaoler, did you? No, no, He sealed our poor master away in those awful Dripcave Dregs! With His attention elsewhere, though, our drake on the inside was able to get him out! I told you, we’re going to rebuild!”

Finally, Juneau stood. His movements stilted, he rounded the table and knelt in front of Alois, grasping him by his arms. “You’re going to stay here,” he said. “You can stay with me. I’ll tell the founders, and we’ll organize a rescue mission to retrieve the rest of the clan. Then we’ll--we’ll put him back on ice--”

“What?” Alois stood as well, brushing Juneau’s hands away. “What are you talking about? ‘Rescue mission?’ We don’t need rescuing. Junie, you must’ve spent too long away from home! Don’t you remember? We’re going to--”

“--usurp the Warden, yes, yes, I remember.” Juneau gripped his robes. His breath came in short, panicked gasps; his chest felt like it was in a vice, and he clutched at it frantically. “I also remember what he did to us,” he panted. “He pitted us against one another. We were children. We hardly knew our mothers and fathers. Then he--he chose me, and he turned me into--he made me--”

A Tundra’s memory was a fickle thing, like a sieve filled with fine white sand. Juneau remembered, though. He had tried so hard to forget, but it was stuck to him like a burr, a sickly, poisonous burr that pricked and prodded him no matter which way he turned. Blood, and steel, and ice, dark, black ice, seeping from his hands and ruining all it touched.

“--nie? Junie?”

Juneau’s eyes fluttered open. He was on the floor, pressed tightly into a corner. Alois was hovering over him...

...and the room was full of black ice.

“Are you all right?” Alois asked. “I haven’t seen you lose control like that since we were kids.”

“He turned me into a murderer,” Juneau whispered. He reached out, grasping desperately at Alois’ furs, beckoning him closer. “Why would I ever want to go back?”

Alois reeled back as if stung, and Juneau crumpled in on himself. He could feel his friend’s, his brother’s eyes on him, hot with shame. “You’ve forsaken the cause?” Alois asked tersely.

“Yes!” Juneau cried, hiding his face in his hands. “Yes, of course I have! He was a tyrant! He was a monster! He ruined me! He ruined us all! Our clan is dead because he willed it so! For what?! For what?!”

“For our people’s honor!” Alois snarled. His fist came down hard on the table, cracking the thick, rich wood. “The Warden hid our ancestors from us! He is ashamed of His own children! Why should He rule over us when He would rather lock us all away in the Dregs?! The Dominus belongs in His place!”

“The Dominus is a lunatic!” Juneau screamed.

“You’re a coward!”

“If you go back to him, you’ll die!”

“I’ll die gladly, under his banner!”

“Please!” Juneau forced himself to his feet. His stomach gave another, more violent lurch, but he swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. “Please, Alois, if you ever loved me, stay. I can’t lose you again, and he’ll kill you, Alois, he’ll kill you like he killed everyone else. Please, I love you, I love you, does that mean nothing?”

For a very brief moment, he thought Alois might heed him. The harshness in the lines of his face gave way to a soft, immature fear. Juneau glimpsed, just barely, the boy he’d known in it, with clever eyes and a gentle hand.

Then, scowling, Alois turned. “You’ll come back,” he hissed. “One way or another, you will come back. The Dominus wills it.”

Juneau fell to his knees as Alois swept from the room. He saw his reflection in the ice, disheveled, his eyes red from crying. The last time he had looked so haggard, he had just lost everyone he loved. The Dominus had taken them from him.

He would not let them be taken a second time.

@nostlenne

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #chapter: black ice #c: juneau #TAKE IT #I'M DONE TINKERING WITH IT

[spiteweaver]

previous | next

The day was fine and calm. Overhead, fluffy white clouds scudded across a clear blue sky. Dreamweaver watched them until they melded with the mists ringing Weaver’s Crown; the peak was some distance from Feldspar Proper, but visible from most parts of the territory, and theirs was a particularly lovely view. Its sides had begun to blossom with fresh verdure, threatening to push the snow back from its ever-white cap.

Below, where they stood in the village square, life proceeded as it always had. Tau’s troubles with the Lightweaver had been seen to largely in private, and so the clan had little reason to feel ill at ease. Most were unaware of his loss; he told only those he felt needed to know. The primary market was flooded with visitors from across the Continent. With winter now creeping toward spring, the caravans were more active than ever.

“I think this is everything,” Banrai said as he stepped from the cool shade of their home and into the humid warmth of the square. He wiped beads of sweat from his brow. “Argus should be coming along with Mergo soon enough. I thought you lot were only staying in the Wasteland for a few days. You definitely over-packed.”

“It pays to be prepared,” Dreamweaver replied, and pressed a sweet kiss to their husband’s damp forehead. “I could have carried that.”

“You’ve a long journey ahead across hostile territory,” Banrai said, returning their kiss with one of his own. “You’ll need your strength. By the way, Phantasos is still pouting.”

“I know he wanted to see the Wyrmwound,” Dreamweaver said, “but I need him here helping you oversee the clan while I’m away.”

“He understands,” Banrai assured. “He’s just wheedling you.”

“There’s Plaquemine,” Dreamweaver said. They waved to the Plague Ambassador from across the square; he did not return the gesture. Even at a distance, they could see that he appeared anxious--more so than usual. “Oh dear,” they murmured, “I wonder what’s happened now.”

The clan’s Nature Representative, Keakaokalani, joined Plaquemine as he crossed to the founders. They spoke in harsh, hushed tones, Kea moving his hands rapidly in a series of complex gestures. Dreamweaver strained their ears to catch snippets of the conversation.

“--a-a-and I trust you’re f-f-fully aware of to whom the b-b-blame will fall,” Plaquemine concluded.

“Yes,” Kea said, the mouth beneath his mask of feathers turning sharply downward, “I am. I trust you are fully aware that this was an unforeseeable mishap.”

“I am,” Plaquemine agreed, “but my p-p-peers are less easily convinced.”

The pair met Dreamweaver at the door to their home. They had already opened it, and stood aside to allow their ambassadors entry. Neither stepped forward. “You aren’t coming in?” they said.

Plaquemine and Keakaokalani exchanged a glance. “The meeting hall might serve us better,” Kea replied. “We’ll need to summon all of the clan’s Flight Representatives.”

“For what purpose?”

“There’s been an incident,” Plaquemine said. “The Armistice has been b-b-broken.”

In stark contrast to the pleasant afternoon outside, the air in the meeting hall was thick with uncertainty. Dreamweaver sat at the head of the table, their face craned low over a set of letters in their hands. The letters were a courtesy, come to them from the Scarred Wasteland and the Viridian Labyrinth respectively, informing the Lightweaver’s most trusted acolytes that the Armistice had died the day before following a series of (as of yet) unexplained events.

Reading the account in plain draconic did nothing to aid their comprehension of the matter. They knew of the Armistice, but the thought of it having ended, after over four hundred cycles of unbroken enforcement, seemed utterly improbable, if not altogether impossible.

Yet, there it was, in plain draconic.

“What does this mean for our clan?” they asked, eyes never leaving the parchment.

“Hopefully nothing,” Plaquemine replied. “Our clan is far removed from this c-c-conflict. Keakaokalani and I are b-b-both in agreement that, regardless of the outcome, we hold no ill will toward one another, and will d-d-do what we must to ensure stability within Feldspar lands.”

“No leads on how Ambassador Liefa fell so ill?”

“None yet. Her quarters were zealously g-g-guarded.”

“Keakaokalani, have you heard anything out of the Labyrinth?”

Kea bowed his head. “Only whispers of rumors,” he mumbled in response. “In Liefa’s visions, she saw the Behemoth wither, and with it the Labyrinth. Some have taken it as an ill omen; perhaps her visions were not merely fever dreams. She is returning to the Labyrinth with the First Seed.”

“What of Ambassador Yugona?”

Plaquemine shifted uncomfortably. He was a deeply asocial individual on a good day, let alone when eleven other sets of eyes were gazing at him expectantly. “She has not b-b-been seen since her d-d-dismissal from the Labyrinth,” he confessed.

“Sabotage?”

“We w-won’t know until she’s found.”

“There’s more,” Volskaya said. As always, he sat more rigidly than any of his colleagues, his face set in a grim mask. He was plucking almost imperceptibly at a loose fiber in one of his sleeves. “Crucis and I have both received word from the Oculus--something has happened to the Shifting Expanse ley line.”

“Magister Beatrix is suspected of foul play,” Crucis went on, “but Volskaya and I feel otherwise, especially after what occurred at the Oculus before the ley line went dark. The Crystalspines are on the move; they nearly engulfed the Oculus entirely.”

“There have been rumblings in Dragonhome as well,” Rosegold informed. “I know through my contacts that strange discoveries have been made, marked by stranger disappearances. One such disappearance happened seemingly instantaneously, in the presence of several other dragons. None of the missing have been located.”

“The Twisting Crescendo reversed its direction recently,” Dahlia chimed in, “after many months of absence. We do not know if it is merely the playful whim of the Windsinger, or perhaps something more dire. I have spoken with witnesses who claim that the Windsinger was present under a mortal guise, but they are merely guesses.”

“There was an odd occurrence in the Wood,” Silhouette continued, in their wispy, wavering voice. “A voidling disappeared from the Thorndark Alter during a routine gathering. Three guesses where he reappeared.”

Dreamweaver clenched their jaw. “The Sunbeam Ruins.”

“Close,” Silhouette said, “the Hewn City. A cartographer witnessed his arrival.”

“I met with the cartographer in question,” Dawn added hastily, noting the paleness of their founder’s complexion. “She confirmed the event, and the, er, ‘voidling’ has been taken into custody for the time being, to be returned to his mother shortly. He appears unharmed.”

Dreamweaver opened their mouth to speak, but dropped their head into their hands before they could do so. They suddenly wished they had allowed Banrai to accompany them; they would have given anything for his hand on their shoulder. “Is there anything else?” they croaked.

Izalith cleared his throat. “Apparently a new landmass arose from the seas between the Ashfall Waste and the Southern Icefield.”

“Why did you all keep this from me?” Dreamweaver asked.

The group conferred with one another in hoarse whispers, their gazes darting sidelong to gauge their founder’s reactions. Finally, Rosegold spoke. “We did not feel there was cause for worry until today,” she said. “The incidents were unnatural, but seemingly unrelated. We believed they may have been the results of magical mishaps, or perhaps merely the Eleven toying with the shapes of their own lands.

“However, with the Armistice now at its end, it has become clear to us that something greater is afoot. That is why Plaquemine and Keakaokalani chose to request a formal Meeting of the Flights. All across Sornieth, peculiar things are happening, and they appear to be growing in intensity.”

“I’d imagine we’ll be hearing from the Sea soon enough,” Levi said, “or else the Southern Icefield.”

“Perhaps we already have,” said Juneau. “I didn’t mention it before, because, well, everyone else’s reports seemed so much more dire, but there have been some odd weather patterns recorded around the Crags.”

“Just the Sea then,” Levi amended.

“Tighten security along the Water border immediately,” Dreamweaver ordered, getting wearily to their feet. Although they appeared weak, they spoke with authority. “I will inform the Wardens and our allies in Aphaster of the incident in the Hewn City. Volskaya, return to the Shifting Expanse. Learn what you can of the troubles with its ley line. Crucis, put us in contact with the Magisters at the Oculus as soon as possible. Silhouette, council with the Shadowbinder. She may have some insight we lack. Rosegold, continue to gather intel from Dragonhome; have Caesar send word to Ambassador Akhtar at the Warren. The rest of you, make contact with your respective homelands. Plaquemine, you will accompany me to the Scarred Wasteland.”

“You’re still going?” Dawn asked incredulously. “Shouldn’t you remain at home? There’s no telling what may happen next.”

“I will be gone for only a few days,” Dreamweaver replied, “and I promised our allies abroad a meeting before the eon was out. They are expecting us within the week. At this juncture, the Sunbeam Ruins appear stable. If they were not, the Lightweaver would have sought me out. We cannot be crippled by uncertainty. We must move onward.”

“Friendly Plague clans will be all the h-h-happier for our presence during this time,” Plaquemine agreed. “It may help to f-f-further f-f-facilitate a smooth alliance.”

“You all have your tasks,” Dreamweaver said. “Go, and do not breathe a word of this to the people. I will make a formal announcement upon my return.” When their ambassadors remained seated, they shouted, “Go!” and the group rose as one, retreating out into the square.

Plaquemine was the only member of the assembly to remain. “A-are you certain you’re well enough for t-t-travel?” he inquired tentatively. “You look w-w-worn.”

Dreamweaver sighed, collecting the letters and various other documents they’d brought with them in their arms. “We need to strengthen ourselves and our allies now more than ever,” they replied. “This meeting is imperative. There is power in unity.”

“United we s-s-stand, divided we fall.” Plaquemine nodded. “I ag-g-gree that the meeting is imp-p-perative, but...” He dropped his gaze shyly, hiding his crimson eyes beneath long lashes and his many pelts. “...but what if you sent Prince Phantasos in your place?”

Dreamweaver staggered and fell against the table. “Beg pardon?”

“He’s p-proven himself m-m-more than enough,” Plaquemine pressed on, “and y-y-your power should remain here, in case of emergency. You’ve t-t-taught Prince Phantasos w-w-well. M-Mergo and I would g-g-guide him; it could be a t-t-test, on your terms.”

Again, Dreamweaver opened their mouth to speak, but found that they could not. They knew that, logically, their only arguments against sending Phantasos to represent the clan in their place were emotional; they feared for their child’s safety, and so they coddled him more than they ought to. The very thought of allowing him to leave the Sunbeam Ruins terrified them.

Plaquemine was right, though. Time and time again, Phantasos had proven himself capable; reckless, perhaps, but certainly capable, and becoming more so with each passing eon. He had saved them all from the pink celestine growth on Observatory Hill, he has enlisted the aid of Ozymandias using only his own smart mouth and quick wit, he had handled Thalassinus’ arrival with aplomb, and he had cultivated a strong relationship with their people, Feldspar’s allies, and the surrounding Beastclans.

He had much to learn about magic, but as an ambassador, no one was better suited. He would be open and honest in a way Dreamweaver often struggled to be; more importantly, he would be unflinchingly sympathetic to the needs of struggling clans.

“He’s so young,” Dreamweaver whispered, “he’s still so young.”

“Sometimes, y-y-youth is what is c-c-called for,” Plaquemine said.

Dreamweaver nodded. They did not trust themself to speak. With Plaquemine in tow, they exited the meeting hall, making at once for their home across the square. Banrai awaited them on the stoop, eyes shimmering with worry. “Well?” he prompted.

“Phantasos will accompany Plaquemine and Mergo to the Wasteland,” they said. “Fetch him. There is much I must discuss with him before his departure.”

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#flight rising #fr #bounty of the elements #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: dreamweaver #c: keakaokalani #c: plaquemine #i hope to GOD i don't have to come back and edit this lol

[spiteweaver]

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There had been a sense of dread festering beneath Feldspar’s surface since Dreamweaver’s announcement. Many had already begun to take notice of odd happenings here and there prior to it, but now that their suspicions had been confirmed, the air was thicker with unease than before. Transactions in the market were carried out in whispers; dragons kept their young indoors and their eyes on the top of the wall. No one wanted to be the final crack that burst the dam.

Dawn recalled the morning’s proceedings with a lump in his throat. Dreamweaver had requested a second Meeting of the Flights; all had been in attendance, save Plaquemine, who, along with the clan heir, was still abroad in his homeland. All was well across the Sea. It was the first bit of good news they’d had in an eon.

They had each given their reports. Most had been speculative. There was too much happening all at once, and every story they had heard secondhand was as reliable or unreliable as the next. Without a way to filter rumor from truth, they could only play at anticipating the endgame.

Once they had all fallen silent, Dreamweaver had stood. Their head held high, their shoulders stiff, they had announced that the Emperor’s predicted path had been altered drastically. Apparently, something within the Hewn City had caught its attention. It had made its way down along the eastern coast, and up into the City through the area surrounding Thunder’s March. No one had been harmed, to their knowledge, but it was now poised to strike both Feldspar and its allies at its leisure.

“The Lightweaver is in deliberation with Her peers,” they had informed. “If the Emperor is not dealt with by the residents of the Hewn City, then I have been assured She will see to its extermination Herself. Our allies in Clan Aphaster have closed Thunder’s March, and I have instructed the Wardens to evacuate our Gate Towns. As of this moment, the Hewn City is under strict lock-down; no one may enter, and no one may leave.”

It wasn’t the idea of a total lock-down that made Dawn shiver now. Traffic into the Hewn City consisted largely of cartographers and historians, many of whom were swiftly swallowed by the City itself. He was certain someone would complain should the Hewn City remain in quarantine for very long, but thankfully, that fell well beyond his jurisdiction.

No, what he was worried about were the implications. Emperors awoke now and again, but they so rarely ravaged populated areas that they had become more like campfire stories to frighten hatchlings than any real threat. Both of the Emperors that had been recorded in recent history were docile: Silas and Samuel in Feldspar, and a hulking brute in the Warren far to the west.

With time, the stain they had left on the Imperial breed had begun to fade. Now an Emperor had devastated large swaths of the northern plains, and taken up residence in one of Sornieth’s most cursed locations.

It was only a matter of time before something gave.

“Excuse me?”

A finger, lost under copper rings, tapped Dawn’s shoulder impatiently. Already stammering out an apology, he turned to face the stranger, and stopped abruptly.

They could have been a drake or a dam (or a rook, if so inclined); their features gave away nothing, and the cloth across their eyes further obscured their identity. He assumed they were a Pearlcatcher, noting the sandy-colored orb in a sling at their hip, but they appeared to lack the breed’s trademark horns, which would have shown even under their glamour. Judging by the dust clinging to their clothes, they must have traveled a long way.

However, their most distinguishing feature by far was their radiant aura. It was not visible, but its presence was so overwhelming that Dawn moved to shield his eyes regardless. This must have amused them, because they flashed him a wide, pointed grin.

“Are you Dawn?” they asked. Their voice was sweet, but just the slightest bit gravelly.

“Y-yes,” Dawn stuttered, “I am. You’re--you’re not from around here, though. You should really speak with Dreamweaver first, because if it’s residency you’re looking for, they--”

“Oh, I’ll speak with them as well,” the stranger assured. “I thought I ought to do you the courtesy of apologizing first, though.”

Dawn’s eyes darted around the square, searching for familiar faces. He had decided that this person made him very nervous. There was something not quite right about them; he got the feeling they enjoyed his social ineptitude a little too much. “Apologize for what?” he asked timidly.

The stranger cocked their head. “Oh, you haven’t heard?” They tutted and took a moment to fret to themselves before feigning sympathy. “You poor dear,” they said, “you haven’t heard. The Lightweaver’s decided to rectify Her mistake.”

“Wh...what does that mean...?”

“It means...” They placed a consoling hand on Dawn’s shoulder. His skin rippled with revulsion. “Imperials no longer have Her favor, and you’re no longer suited to your position. She’s sent me to replace you.”

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#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: dawn #c: hyperion #dreamweaver vs. lightweaver round two DING DING #lenne put the emperor in the hewn city #and i was like #'hmm now what' #but then i realized #she had played right into my hand #or hyperion's hand i suppose

[spiteweaver]

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It wasn’t unusual for Clan Feldspar to see an influx of new residents in the spring. The caravans were becoming active again after several eons of winter, and it was a good time for nesting, as any hatchlings born would be fledged by the end of summer. Even with the reversal of Sornieth’s weather patterns, or perhaps because of it, the southern Sunbeam Ruins remained a safe, comfortable place for dragons from all walks to perch.

Calcifer was just one of many to have made the move. His homeland, the Ashfall Waste, was in turmoil, and he had never been the sort to involve himself in political affairs (though if you pressed him, he would throw his lot in with Por). So, seeking quieter quarters, he had traveled north to inspect the lands beyond his Flight.

The Shifting Expanse had left him rattled to his bones. There was too much errant electricity in the air, and it didn’t agree with him in the slightest. He was not yet ancient, but he was by no means young, so keeping up with the fast pace Lightning dragons set was a tall order.

For a while, he had lazed about on the Water border, but his natural affinity had eventually driven him inland. Although the shores of the Sea of a Thousand Currents were breathtaking, and the villages along them often provided exactly the relaxed atmosphere he sought, he simply couldn’t stand being near so much water for very long.

Feldspar was to be the final stop on his journey. Its people were friendly, its location was convenient, and it had plenty of vacant land tucked away in isolated corners. He toured a dozen or more of these plots, and fell in love with a small patch of woodland far enough from the capital to be cozy, but close enough for him to come into town whenever he pleased.

It was perfect for an old hearth witch like him.

So it was that on the fine afternoon the day after his arrival in-territory, Calcifer could be found speaking candidly with Dreamweaver and Banrai in the town square. He was taken with the pair, thinking them almost impossibly polite and hospitable; they were equally as taken with him, if their eagerness to keep up the conversation was any indication.

“Now there’s a sight,” Seaglass commented from afar.

“Hmm? What?” Atsushi glanced up from his book and around the square. “Are you ogling Hart again? I would’ve thought he would be in Aphaster, with all that’s been going on of late.”

Seaglass snorted. “It’s not Hart,” he said, “though I wish it was, now you mention ‘im. No, look, it’s Dreamweaver; they’ve really hit it off with that new fella. He must be a saint.”

“That is unusual,” Atsushi agreed. “I wish they’d talk to me like that...”

“Well ya did almost destabilize their clan,” Seaglass reminded.

Atsushi groaned and buried his nose in his book again. “Don’t go letting the fresh meat hear you say that,” he grumbled. “I’d like a chance at making a good first impression for once.”

“Does Carnelian need to be worried?”

“You’ll need to be worried if you don’t watch yourself.”

Calcifer did not catch the finer details of their back-and-forth, but he noticed their eyes on him. He noticed quite a lot of eyes on him, in fact. All over the square, faces were turning toward him, bright with curiosity. “Feldspars love a newcomer,” Dreamweaver said when they caught him staring. “Don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”

“It’s all just a bit overwhelming,” Calcifer confessed with a weak smile. “I feel like I’m on display...”

“Well, there are plenty of singles here who’d say you are!” Banrai joked.

“Oh, they wouldn’t want a geezer like me,” Calcifer said. “All these pretty young things--they could do much better. I’d bore them with my crocheting.” Even so, his gaze wandered again, and a slight warmth rose in his cheeks. “It is nice to be appreciated, though.”

“Try your luck,” Banrai pressed. “You’ll find more than one dragon here who’d appreciate a drake who can crochet!”

“Have you been mated before, Calcifer?” Dreamweaver asked.

“Once or twice,” Calcifer replied, “though never for very long, and I’ve no children to show for it. I did what I felt was expected of me, but I was young, so I hadn’t yet grown much of an appreciation for love.”

“Just steer clear of Beleth,” Banrai suggested.

“Why? Is he a widower?”

“Nothing quite so drastic.” Dreamweaver crinkled their nose, searching for the right words. It was difficult to describe someone like Beleth without coming across as a bit mean-spirited. “He’s not a bad drake,” they said at length, “but he really has no shame. A gentledrake like you would be better suited to someone with a bit more, er, tact.”

Just then, a shot rang out through the square. Banrai forced Dreamweaver behind him, and Calcifer, being the largest of the three, placed himself in front of the founders, his wings flaring wide. Across the plaza, Seaglass and Atsushi ducked, magic already swirling at their fingertips.

“Hell’s bells,” Seaglass exclaimed, “it’s Branwen again!”

“What’s he gone off about this time?” Banrai called.

“Couldn’t say! Some poor bloke probably touched a nerve!”

“Is this a regular occurrence?” Calcifer asked.

“More than we’d like for it to be,” Dreamweaver muttered. They nudged past their husband and Calcifer, rolling up their sleeves as they went. “He’s a fire witch,” they explained, “so he has a nasty temper. I’m sorry about this, Calcifer. I’d hoped we might get through one day without an incident.”

“It’s fine,” Calcifer said. “Let me come with you. I’m a hearth witch, so I’ve had my fair share of experience with fire witches.”

“I couldn’t let you--”

“I’ve already made up my mind.”

They did not get very far, however, before Branwen arrived on the scene, dragging a stranger behind him. Judging by his dress, Branwen’s latest victim was from one of the Dragonhome caravans. What he had done or said to earn the fire witch’s ire, they could only begin to imagine.

“This ought to be good,” Atsushi sneered.

“Oh dear,” said Dreamweaver, “he’s really gone and lost his temper this time. I’m not sure if we’ll be able to get through to him.”

“We’ll think of something,” Banrai replied.

It seemed that Calcifer already had, as when they looked up from their deliberation, he had left their side and strode boldly forward to meet Branwen in the center of the square. Dreamweaver moved to follow in a panic, but Banrai held them back.

“You must be Branwen,” Calcifer said, “and you seem troubled. Maybe I can help.”

“Get this lunatic off of me!” the stranger cried. Branwen’s grip on his shirt collar tightened, turning his knuckles white. “He just--he just came at me and started screechin’ his head off!”

“He’s...” Branwen grit his teeth. Calcifer could see him fighting against the urge to act, and took another tentative step forward. “He’s awful!” Branwen shouted. “He’s a monster! I had to do something! I had to--if I hadn’t, he would’ve--”

“Ok,” Calcifer said, “ok, so he’s done something wrong. Tell me what happened.”

“I’m trying!”

A burst of flames engulfed Calcifer, and Seaglass surged forward, drawing water from the fountain to quench Branwen’s magic. A sudden swell of panic arose in the square. Dreamweaver ripped free of their mate’s grasp, and the light of their Patron flared to life in their palms.

Calcifer, now drenched, shook himself. Both he and his clothing appeared unscathed. “You know,” he said, wringing water out of his hair, “if I’d been anyone else, that might’ve killed me. You should be more careful.”

“Thank goodness,” Dreamweaver panted as they reached him, “oh, I thought--I thought for sure you’d--”

“I told you,” Calcifer said, flashing them a lopsided smile, “I’ve had my fair share of experience with fire witches. Thanks for the assist, uh--”

“Seaglass,” Seaglass supplied, and gave Calcifer a quick once-over while Dreamweaver fussed with his nonexistent injuries. “Cor, not a burn on ya. You’re made of solid rock, you are.”

“It’s a good thing my clothes are as enchanted as I am.”

“Branwen,” Dreamweaver started, but held their tongue when they noted the horrified expression on Branwen’s face. He dropped the stranger, who was quick to put some distance between them, and pressed both hands over his mouth. “Well,” Dreamweaver said, “I suppose that was an accident then. However, Calcifer is right; a witch of your ability can’t afford to lose their head.”

Just as soon as it had come, Branwen’s embarrassment melted into a fresh wave of anger. He pointed a trembling finger at the stranger, his cheeks still deeply flushed. “He’s a slaver,” he informed tersely. “He snuck in with the caravan. I caught him badgering Asura. He’s lucky Haematica wasn’t here; she would’ve done worse. I just singed him a little.”

“A slaver?” Dreamweaver placed a hand over their heart. “How on earth...?”

“Deal with him,” Branwen spat. Then he turned on his heel and stormed out of the square.

“Seaglass,” Dreamweaver said, “would you be so kind as to fetch Solaire? I’ll see that our ‘guest’ doesn’t wander off. Gracious, what a mess; a slaver, in Feldspar lands. It’ll be the death of me.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Banrai asked. Calcifer paused mid-step, his shoulders hunching reflexively. Banrai drew up alongside him; his expression was stern, but still somehow comforting. “That was awfully reckless,” he said. “I’m not usually the one who gives the lectures, but you really should have let us handle matters.”

“No, I--I understand,” Calcifer assured, “I just felt--I felt bad for him. He was so upset; I couldn’t stand seeing someone hurting like he was. I could tell that he was trying to keep a level head, but he couldn’t manage it, and I thought I might be able to talk him down.”

Banrai sighed, but gave no further admonishment. “You did better than most,” he conceded. “Truthfully, that went about as well as it could have. I think even I would have had a hard time withstanding a focused blast like that, and it wasn’t likely that we were going to be able to get through to him.” He looked in the direction Branwen had gone, his gaze thoughtful. “You want to go after him, don’t you?”

“I feel like I may have overstepped my bounds,” Calcifer mumbled sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to embarrass him, and I get the sense he’s not the sort of drake I want to get off on the wrong foot with.”

“Go on then,” Banrai said. “Dreamy and I will take care of things here.”

“Tread lightly,” Seaglass warned as he passed with Atsushi. “It doesn’t take a slaver to get him riled.”

“I’ll...” Calcifer touched a hand to his chest. His shirt was still warm from the intensity of Branwen’s magic. Rather than worrying him, as he knew it should have, he felt oddly soothed by the gentle heat. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: calcifer #c: branwen