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ladynightmare913 · 3 years

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Secrets of the Darkened Seas

Welcome to Chapter 10! I know it has been a long while but, reality got in the way. As always, I would like to give a big thank you to my best friend Olivia ( @asunshinepuff ) for inviting me to help her bring this world to life.

Just a small reminder that the next chapter will be posted on Olivia’s blog!

As always there is mermaid lore hidden with the story. The included lore for this tale has been written under the guise of Fantastic Nautical Creatures by Newt Scamander. As always it will be taken from the book “The Secret World of Mermaids” by Francine Rose while putting our own twist.

Don't forget to send me an ask if you have any questions or comments about the story or its characters, or if you simply want to say hello!

Now without further ado,

Chapter 10: Dúi hǎi and Shou

Sirius glared at the snake, which was currently a bracelet on Remus’ hand. “How come it doesn’t bite you?” His eyes never leaving the gold snake.

Remus shrugged nonchalantly, unperturbed as he leaned against the lower walls of the quarterdeck. “He likes me.” He continues looking over his notes in a worn leather notebook.

“What do you mean he, it’s a sword, pretty sure it doesn’t need pronouns.” Sirius had been tasked with tying knots, eyeing Remus opening with contempt.

“And yet we call ships, she.”

“That’s different, you’re talking about a sword as if it can understand what you’re saying.”

Remus glances up for a brief moment, an unreadable expression upon his face as he considers his answer. “Because he can.”

Sirius pauses, “How?” He raises a skeptic's brow. Remus doesn’t respond, ignoring him in favor of continuing his work in the book. Sirius simply rolled his eyes, continuing to tie the knots.

Remus continued to have Sirius work on the ship for many hours. Sirius was not let out of Remus’ sight. And at small moments, Sirius would hear a soft humming sound. As if metal was vibrating. Sirius would look around to try to see where the humming was coming from, but no one seemed to notice.

And every time Sirius focused to find the source of the humming, it would stop. Oddly enough, Remus chuckled to himself softly throughout the day. Insane, Sirius thought as he was sent to retire for the night. Remus threatened another full day of work the next morning. He was definitely insane.

The next day, Remus was once again immersed in his work with that worn leather book of his. Sirius continued to work, mopping the deck under the beating sun. Then the humming returned. He ignored it at first. But as the day drew on, he noticed that it only seemed clearer to hear whenever he was nearby Remus.

“Are you humming?” Sirius prompted.

“No.” Remus look strained as if it physically wounded him to dignify Sirius with a response to such a stupid question. So Sirius carried on. Until he couldn’t take it more.

“What is that incessant humming?! It sounds like ringing metal!” Sirius cried out, searching for any possible source of what that horrid humming was.

Remus froze at the words, finally looking up to Sirius. “Wait… you can hear it?”

“I’ve been hearing it for nearly two days!” Sirius retorted with a dramatic turn of his head.

“I thought it was dramatics,” Remus replied simply.

“Please tell me you hear it too.” Sirius ran a hand through his black locks. “Otherwise, I think I still have some of that thing’s,” he pointed to the gold snake on Remus’ wrist, “venom in my veins.”

“Yes, though not humming, it’s words.” Remus closes the book, placing his quill as a marker in his place. He wouldn’t dare fold the pages of the journal. “There’s no venom.”

Sirius stared at the tawny-haired boy dubiously. “What? What do you mean, it’s words?”

“More a song really.” He continued as if the ebony-haired pirate had never spoken.

Sirius raises a quizzical brow, “Alright, I’ll bite. Who is singing?”

Remus gave the man a pointed look, growing bothered at the simple conversation, “Dúi hǎi.”

Sirius stared unblinkingly. “You’re joking. A sword?”

“Why would I joke? Over humming?”

“Why would a sword sing?” Sirius countered.

“It can’t physically speak to us, so it makes a near-silent song.” A male voice replies.

Sirius turned to the helm, the First Mate was resting his arms on the railing, his legs crossed, a wide grin on his face.

“And not everyone can hear it. Which is why Remus thought you were merely jesting.” Quinn explained.

Sirius’ eyes flickered as he looked between the two. “Can you hear the humming then?”

Quinn nods in reply, “I can. Though it’s a bit different for me, I had to train in order to hear it. It’s a process, but since then, I hear the sword’s song.” He glances down to Remus, “Remus had to train as well.”

“So why can I hear it?” Sirius frowned.

Quinn smiled. “Because you were bitten by Dúi hǎi. Its venom ran the course through your veins, as you so kindly pointed out earlier, it increased your exposure to the sword’s properties rather quickly.”

Sirius glared at the snake. Dúi hǎi took it upon himself to come alive and hiss at the pirate in retaliation.

Quinn tilted his head as he tsked. “Dúi hǎi, be nice. Your venom is very potent you know.”

The snake simply hissed, Quinn stuck his tongue out with a low chuckle. Sirius couldn’t help but watch the interaction with awe and mild horror.

Remus watched silently, amused at the interaction. A small smile upon his face as he watched the little snake.

“It can actually understand you…” Sirius spoke lowly. Disbelief and amazement on his face.

Quinn looked back to the pirate. “He is alive, so of course he can.”

“A language, like an actual living language that people learn and understand?”

Quinn smiled once more. “Well, it’s more like a melodious tune. There are no actual words in the Language of the Spirit Swords.” He chuckled at that. “It was a pain to learn.”

“The sword is alive, it has a spirit. And they are very aware and in tune with their environment. Dúi hǎi is the spirit of the sword. He was born when he was forged but named by his master. My sword is the same.”

Quinn reached for the sword at his side, brushing his fingertips across the hilt. A hum reached their ears. Sirius’ eyes widened.

“How does one come across a sword like yours?” Sirius found himself asking.

Quinn clicks his tongue, tilting his head side to side, contemplating his answer. “It’s a complicated answer. You usually don’t find a sword like ours. Not to mention they could reject you as their master.”

“Why?”

“Oh, there are many reasons. Personalities don’t match. The swordmaster could be cruel. They could physically harm a sword— and yes, you can harm a sword. Sword and master could reject each other. The sword could even be picky. Shou, my own sword is picky about everything.” Quinn paused. “It’s a lot like choosing a horse really.” He chuckled.

Shou, a wide sword with a solid black sheath adorned in gold accents, hummed loudly. Quinn winced a bit but otherwise ignored it. Remus also winced.

The hilt of the sword had red and black cross stitching etched the smooth grip. In the center handle, there was a small lion’s head, engraved in gold, much like the snake of Dúi hǎi.

Sirius simply continued to watch in astonishment, his lips parted. He simply couldn’t believe it.

“Shou and Dúi hǎi were forged for us, to fit our personalities. But even then, it does not guarantee the sword will accept you.”

Sirius found himself nodding as if he were a student. For once in his entire life, Sirius was behaving like a diligent apprentice. Remus stared at Sirius with perplexity. He has never seen the pirate this quiet for so long. Quinn looked between the two teens with a knowing grin.

“Well, I think that’s enough for today’s lesson class. You’re dismissed.” He chuckles. Leaving the two teens to their own devices.

Remus nodded his head in acknowledgment as Quinn left them. Sirius carried on with his task of mopping the deck. Silently.

As the day turned to night, Remus looked at the rising moon, noting that it was nearly full.

Soon.

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lollytea · 3 years

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Fearless (part 1/3)

(Ty/Louie fairytale au fic. i am simply a bitch writing about my au and my oc so it is all very catered to me personally and im aware not a lot of ppl will read it. but if you DO read it, i love u so much. i guess tw for blood/serious injuries relating to teen characters. nothing too graphic but be warned. Also if you’re curious, info on the au here, here and here.)

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[OCTOBER 22ND, 6:19PM] The sky was bleeding pink and orange and Louie tried to focus on it. Didn't take much brainpower to appreciate a sunset. He clung to the sight with desperation, muttering the simplest thoughts under his breath like a mantra.

It was pretty. He liked sunsets. He liked pink. He liked orange. The distraction wasn't working. The unpleasantness that was already writhing in his stomach churned. His finger was on his temple, idly tracing delicate circles against the tightly wrapped bandage. His head hurt. The point where his shoulder met his upper arm was also dressed. The stitching still had to heal up. That hurt too. Louie was pretty stupid. Which was not something he usually thought. But it was a real kick in the confidence when someone sharp-witted did something stupid. And it was a real kick in the heart when someone who didn't wanna hurt anybody ended up hurting somebody. This was stupid. He had already tried reading as a means of distraction. Too hard. Too many words. Way too much of a strain on his mild concussion. This was so, so stupid. Sitting by his windowsill, he hoped this dumb bandage would be gone soon. His forehead felt sticky and damp with sweat. He was stupid. He wished Webby were here. If she were, she'd be in the courtyard below his window sparring with Dewey. At least then, Louie could watch and keep his mind occupied. No. No, that wasn't right. If Webby were here, she would've attached herself to Louie by now, hugging him tight until his injury healed. If it had been any other incident, Louie would let her, crumbling into her arms and whimpering about the pain as his amazing, magical sister made it all ebb away. But this wasn't any other incident. If Webby were here, he wouldn't be able to accept her hugs. The very idea rubbed him the wrong way. If anyone was entitled to healing hugs, it wasn't Louie, it was--.... His face twisted up. Webby wasn't here. She was off on some quest with Lena. Probably wouldn't be back for days. So there was no point in dwelling over hypotheticals. Louie would heal on his own. They were both gonna have to heal on their own. The sunset was fading.

It was pretty. Pink... Orange.... He couldn't do this.

Why was he doing this?! Louie always knew himself to be a coward but this was to a pathetic extent. Depraved even. He felt sick.

He couldn't. He just couldn't. Every additional second he spent hiding in his room was weighing him down. It was suffocating. But he couldn't leave. He was too scared.

Freezing up just like always. Just stop being so fucking scared! He would have to confront what he did eventually. There was no way around it. So, why couldn't he just go now? Louie had far worse things in his life to be dreading. Far worse. A ticking clock of trepidation was seated deep inside him. A predestined future he couldn't rewrite which, on all accounts, should render him paralyzed. But he wasn't. This was the sort of thing to demolish him. Apparently. Stupid. This shouldn't be overdriving his other senses. This shouldn't be flooding his mind. He shouldn't be drowning right now. This shouldn't have his hands shaking. This shouldn't have him pacing the length of his room. This shouldn't be stealing the oxygen from his lungs. His brain was pounding against his skull, protesting his rapid back-and-forth movement. He was dizzy. He shouldn't be crying. Fuck it! He was always crying, who cares about that?! Just stop panicking, just stop crying, just stop being so selfish for once and just own up. Louie's back crashed against his door, gasping for breath. Stars were blotting his vision and he couldn't breathe and it was the end of the world. Okay. Okay. He was spiraling again. That was all it was, it would be okay. It would be okay. The prince's bed chambers, alive with the choking sound of contained distress, subsided to complete silence for just a moment. Inhale. Exhale. And then all to be heard was a small, crackling voice straining to sing himself a quiet little lullaby. ___________ [OCTOBER 22ND, 10:07AM] "Your highness, don't be an idiot. You can't just---Hey! Wait up!" "H'oh boy..." Louie's eyes flicked to the high heavens. Right now he felt like he was tasked with personally escorting this goddamn boy across this goddamn forest by the goddamn ankles. He whirled around impatiently, crossing his arms with a flourish. "Pick up the pace, Tiberius. We don't have all day." "Can you maybe not be a huge pain for like... I dunno, five minutes?" Snapped Ty, his dearly devoted retainer and most notorious pain-in-the-tail. "Can you maybe loosen up? Y'know it's a real mood killer when there's a paranoid guy on my case all the time, insisting that the whole world is out to get me. Being constantly reminded of my fragile mortality? Woo, talk about fun times." Scowling, Ty stumbled his way over a protruding tree root. "You've got a bad habit of attracting danger, you know that, right? I'm pretty sure it's a Duck thing." The remark slapped the annoyed expression right off Louie's face. Ty quirked an eyebrow. "What's that look for?" Before he could further analyse, Louie sharply turned on his heel and strode on. "It's a Duck thing." He said, keeping his tone even. Both of them knew it was a Duck thing. Ty just didn't know the half of it. "Your highness," He heard Ty gripe. "You know this is a bad idea. A prince shouldn't be out in the open like this without proper protection. And I'm unprepared right now. I can't--" If Ty weren't yakking so much, Louie wouldn't know if he was still there. He wasn't wearing his armor for once so the familiar clank and clatter of metal was nonexistent. "You got your sword, right? You can do a lot of damage with that thing." "Yeah but no juice. And I need juice. See, 'cause what if we get in a tight spot and you--?" "What do you think is gonna happen, Ty?! For the love of all that is gold, It's just a party." "It's never just anything." He grumbled. Ty jogged ahead a little, matching his pace to Louie's. His footsteps alongside him were purposefully heavy So, he was stomping now. Real mature. Louie rolled his eyes. He was fully aware Ty was pissed, he didn't have to go above and beyond to make his anger known. "You really think I'm an idiot who doesn't take safety precautions? I'll have you know keeping Prince Louie alive isn't just your problem. Prince Louie is pretty serious about that too." He gestured to himself. "If you haven't noticed, I'm incognito today. I've got no crown, no mantle, no status whatsoever. And look at these ugly peasant threads," Louie pointed out, tugging at the hem of his dull green tunic. "It's actually kinda depressing how drab I look. I'm never gonna do this again actually. But! See how committed I am right now? Who's gonna recognize me? As we're all aware, I'm pretty well known for my pizzazz." "Just 'cause you stop being a prince doesn't mean danger stops existing." "No but it makes you way less of a target. Now, are you really gonna spend your whole day off bitching at me?"

The glare Ty shot him was petulant at best. "Well, I didn't wanna. But I got dragged along on this little adventure so guess I gotta." Louie pursed his beak, irritated. He did not drag Ty along anywhere.

"Come to think of it, I don't remember saying you had to follow me." Well, that came out as harsher than intended. Ty didn't seem hurt. At least, there was no sign that he was. No expression cracked his stone mask. "I've got a duty." Louie scoffed. Ty and his stupid duty. It was really starting to wear on his nerves. But not today, absolutely not today. On this fine, glorious day, Louie was intent on having fun. He would show up at this little forest shindig and he would drink and dance and schmooze and whatever else any carefree person at a party would do. He would forget about everything that was eating at him. He wasn't gonna let it consume him, he wasn't. He was gonna live. While he still could. His sixteenth birthday loomed closer. Six months left. "Sorry." Said Ty, unprompted. The shadows festering in Louie's head cleared out as he snapped back to the present. Ty had his eyes firmly downcast, a noticeable slump to his posture. "It's not like I wanna be running around killing the fun all the time. I really don't. But I gotta." Louie said nothing. His eyebrows rose in quiet astonishment as he studied Ty's side profile. He remembered when Ty first came into his life. Twelve years old, brandishing a sword too big for his body and grinning lopsidedly in an unmistakably trouble seeking sorta way. A real firecracker of a boy, loud and bright. Hungry for adventure and excited to throw himself head first into the action. He remembered one of Ty's earliest and most confident statements. When he lowered himself to bow to Louie in his uncle's throne room and declared that the prince would never fear for his life again. Because Ty would protect him and Ty was fearless. Louie believed him. Make no mistake, Ty had plenty of bite back then too. He had disliked Louie and the feeling had been mutual. But he never doubted that Ty had spoken the truth with his entire heart. Ty was fearless. When Louie was with Ty, he was safe. He believed that and he always had. Despite how they clicked as well as a dagger and a keyhole. Despite Ty being annoying. So annoying. He was still annoying. But it was different now. Louie couldn't pinpoint when that permanent glowing smile of his had dwindled and a thin frown had become Ty's default expression. His sword, something he always used to proudly haul around over his shoulder, now unceremoniously sheathed against his belt. Although Louie had noticed that his right hand never strayed too far from the hilt. Protecting royalty with your entire being was an all-consuming duty and it seemed, at some point, the reality of such an allegiance had slapped Ty across the face. He had this distinct way of holding himself now. Always stood straight and rigid, coiled up with agitation. He was prepared to fight at a moment's notice but it was clear the thrill of doing so had been long since drained out of him. He still smiled. He still laughed. But only sometimes. Ty was annoying because he was paranoid. Because he was snarky. Because he was too stiff, too protective. And man, what Louie wouldn't give to have Ty's former brand of annoying back. At least never made him feel sorry for the guy. "Can I ask you a favor?" Louie finally spoke, pushing back a drooping tree branch so they could walk below it "You can try." Ty shrugged, his gaze still fixed ahead. "What if we just turn off this whole 'Prince and Retainer' thing today. Whadd'ya think?" He turned to him blankly, complete with a slight tilt of the head that made Louie a tiny bit weak. "Wha....?" Ty was simply not computing. He looked as though Louie was throwing out algebra equations and he was supposed to solve them right on the spot. And he was not a math guy by any means. The cute clueless expression was making it a little hard to focus. Louie swallowed. "Listen." He began, his thumb dragging itself across his sweaty palm as he struggled with how to phrase this. Louie had a way with words, always had. But he had a tendency to trip over his own tongue when Ty was involved. Especially when Ty was staring at him with his soft cande-light eyes and doing that stupid adorable head tilting thing and-- "You need a break." Louie blurted out. "You're stressed like constantly and it's getting kinda insufferable and I think your Dad would sick a dragon on me if his barely fifteen year old son suddenly kicked it 'cause of a paranoia overload so I think you should just forget about being my big strong hero for today and come hang out with me at this stupid peasant party and we can just be two regular kids instead of a royal and his bodyguard do you think you could give me that Tiberius?" It was only in the following beat of silence that Louie realized how fast he spat that all out. He struggled to catch his breath. One second. Ty blinked. Two seconds. A flicker of vacant eyes and then a rush of realization. And then disbelief. And then-- Three seconds. His brow scrunched together and a snarl crinkled his muzzle. His eyes flared. Oh, he was mad.... "Are you crazy?!" Ty shouted. He was beside himself with a malfunctioning mix of fury and incredulity that had him stammering his words. "You-You can't just--.....D-do you even-- you don't...do you realize how disrespectful that is? For you to say it? For-For me to do it?! I was given this duty by the King! The fucking King! To just suddenly "turn it off" would be--....I can't--!" Maybe "mad" was an understatement. "Ty--" Louie tried. He was cutting across Louie, treading back and forth on their forest path,. Not going further, not going back. Just walking to nowhere for the sake of being too scandalized to possibly stand still. Louie was attempting to get Ty's attention by grabbing his tunic but he kept shaking him off. "I'd be a disgrace! An embarrassment! I'm trusted by the royal family to keep--...to keep you safe! I-I can't just walk around with my liege like I'm on vacation and not be on guard! You don't even get it, you--" "Ty!" Louie said loudly."You wanna maybe listen for a sec?!" Frankly, he was surprised Ty halted his tirade. His eyes were blown wide, stunned and Louie wasn't quite sure why until he followed Ty's look, snapping down. Seems in his effort to get a hold of the guy, he had instinctively reached out and snatched Ty's wrist. They stood frozen for a moment, each set of eyes boring into the touch that tied them together. Louie's fingers began to uncurl. Then he decided no. His grip on Ty tightened with a purposeful squeeze. Ty met his gaze, looking....panicked? Confused? Didn't matter. He could besottedly dissect his unreadable facial expressions later. Louie inhaled, deciding to shoulder his dignity for just a second. No safety rails of snark this time. Ty might make fun of him for being sincere later but this was important. "Don't you miss being a kid with nothing to worry about?" Louie implored. "Because if we're being real, I don't think we're ever gonna get to live like that again." Ty muttered something to himself, shaking his head a little. "But listen," Louie continued, taking a step into Ty's personal bubble. Ty took an automatic step back. But since he was still holding his hand, Louie was led a step forward. It was difficult to tell with the pink fur but he could've sworn Ty reddened. "Look I know it's weird for me to be asking but....can't we just take a risk today? It's just a party in the woods. Literally the least likely place to find any danger in the whole kingdom." "We shouldn't--" "Ty, please." Honestly, Louie was a little surprised at himself. He hadn't even planned for Ty to accompany him anyway. But in the heat of the moment, everything had shifted upside-down. Turns out there was something inside him willing to beg. Something that wanted more than anything, for Ty come along. He just wanted a simple memory of just killing time with Ty. Separated from the castle and everything that reminded him of his fate. He would like to smile without a hint of dread for once this year. So, he said just that. "I'm not just trying to make you come along 'cause I'm stuck with you. That's not it." He swallowed. "You're--....you're cool. You're fun. I wanna have you around. You know, when you're not so worked up and you're just being yourself, I like hanging out with you." He tugged Ty's hand a little. Further from his sword and closer to Louie. "I want you to come with me. And I want you to try having fun too." He may as well just tell the idiot he thought about him every time he saw a sunset. The hand he was grasping flexed its fingers. Ty abruptly broke eye contact and glanced to the side, his tongue poking out to pierce the tip of his jagged tooth. His indecisive face. "I just--.....I dunno...." He muttered. "If something happened to you--" "Nothing's gonna happen to me." Said Louie immediately. "I've got a good feeling about this. And c'mon Ty, that coming from a coward?" "You're not a coward." He said, barely a whisper. He was now staring at the ground. "I promise." "Huh?" Louie smiled tightly as Ty looked to him questionably. "I promise nothing is gonna happen. I'm gonna be fine. You're gonna be fine. Now, can you do me this favor and maybe, I dunno, trust me?" The look Ty gave him was a little sad, but it was soft. And then with only a tiny twitch, it shifted into something else entirely. It was trust. Blind trust. Maybe stupid trust. A minuscule pang of guilt jabbed at Louie. Of course he wanted Ty to trust him. He needed him to if there was any hope of achieving his goal here. But objectively, he really shouldn't. Louie was hiding way too much from him. It wasn't fair. Then Ty broke the world, shattered orbit and played around with reality itself by cracking a smile and Louie forgot every coherent thought he ever possessed. He would never put on record just how long he spent pre-preparing jokes, gunning to get the corner of Ty's lips to flick upwards. Made him seem kinda desperate. Which he was not. Ty had that oh, so stereotypical "cute boy" smile. It was crooked, cocky, it was utterly obnoxious. Louie hated it. And worst of all, it was like a little spell to kick Louie's heart into high speed. Sometimes it dazed and confused him like a blinding light flash. But other times, it was warm and if he stared long enough, he'd fall asleep. Louie loved Ty's smile. Every time he tried to convince himself he didn't, he ended up dwelling on it too much and the way his mouth would quirk up would play in his mind on a maddening loop and then it would be too much to handle and the truth that he loved it would always overpower him. So, whenever that happened (like right this second.) he gave up and admitted it. To himself, anyway. He loved Ty's smile. He loved Ty. ......Wait. That last part was new, hold up. Rewind. But he didn't get the chance because Ty was talking now. Still a little dazzled, Louie didn't catch what he said but he figured it was good since he was still smiling. And then that smile broke into a huge grin, his eyes flashed with trouble and his hands were on Louie's shoulders and-- "Race ya!" Ty cried. With a light push, Louie was stumbling backwards and Ty kicked off into a sprint. For a brief moment, Louie could only gaze after him, stupefied. Love, huh? Like the real deal? That was crazy. But then he snapped out of as he recalled the audacity of this bastard. "You just pushed your liege!" He shrieked, receiving a loud "WOO!" from Ty as a response. And then Louie was grinning. He was giddy. He didn't quite know if he forgot about love in that instance or if it was the force powering him but he was tearing off after Ty, yelling about the latter's totally unfair head start. In hindsight, he should've figured it was love a long time ago. Who else would get him to run for no reason?

#ty cloudkicker #fairytale au

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tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 4 years

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Unique Weapons, 8: Blades, bludgeons and bows of all shapes, sizes and mysterious backgrounds. Heroes and villains across fiction can often be immediately recognized by their signature weapon, causing the weapon itself to be an iconic part of the character. From Perrin’s spiked half moon axe to Roland’s enormous sandalwood revolvers, the jedi’s lightsabers, Arya’s needle, Legolas’s bow, Wolfwood’s Punisher, Detritus’s Piecemaker, the bride’s katana, Bond’s Walther PPK, Robin Hood’s longbow, Jason’s machete or Indiana Jones’s whip, a weapon can even function as a physical manifestation of the character’s personality. None of these weapons are intensely magical in their own right but can serve as the physical basis for family heirlooms, legendary artifacts and magical or masterwork weapons. Alternatively they can be found as loot and become part of a PC’s distinctive appearance, allowing the player to become fully immersed in their character’s look and feel. —Note: Some entries call for the DM to “Roll a Random Weapon” which simply means that the DM can roll from the pregenerated lists on this blog or choose whatever weapon they feel would be appropriate for the situation.

A maul with a long dark wood handle, at the end of it a large slab of granite, shot through with obsidian, and banded with platinum. On the head of the hammer is a motif of a face, smooth and expressionless, set against a burning anvil.

A cup-hilted rapier crafted by the fey and decorated with a fantastic depiction of the Wild Hunt. A bearer grasping the handle is flooded with the energy of a predator on the hunt: excitement, hunger and bloodlust. When wielded in combat, the wielder can hear the bellowing sounds of a hunting horn blasting in the distance, rousing him into a murderous frenzy.

A venerable looking longbow that sounds out a musical note each time it fires an arrow. The deep resonating sound is part of an ancient, secret song that when played in full, unlocks secret doorways to places long forgotten.

A sinister battle standard attached to the end of a gruesomely bladed lance. The banner's leering emblem is not a sign or victory but a herald of the carnage to come.

A well-woven, wicker quiver containing 20 arrows tipped with magically strengthened leaves rather than metal broadheads.

A dark bladed battleaxe with rippling patterns in the metal and a handle fashioned to look like four figures each shackled to the haft with their faces wracked with anguish. An insightful bearer experiences the unsettling feeling that the weapon can be used to steal souls. Whenever an intelligent being is killed by the battleaxe, one of the four figures on the handle changes shape to create a perfect replica of the victim appearance but shackled to the weapon and writhing in agony.

A longspear of black stained wood tipped with a wickedly sharp, white bone blade. Being struck with the weapon causes a sudden feeling of intense grief that is quickly overcome by the pain of the wound.

A wedge-shaped club with an oval cross-section that widens near the end and iron bands around the tip to increase its lethality. The weapon weighs about six pounds, two feet long, constructed from ash which was then fire-hardened and sealed in beeswax. The weapon sports a distinct pommel, expertly carved to resemble a human face contorted with rage.

An all-steel mace with a rapier-like hilt and hand guard. The business end sports a flanged design and bears small openings in the head that produces an array of whistling noises when swung.

A scimitar forged from a single piece of alchemically strengthened silver, whose pommel prominently displays a distinctive heraldry of a were-lion creature. The weapon is old and it seems as though it was seen countless battles and has been expertly repaired on many different occasions. Its matching scabbard bears the following inscription tooled into the worked leather, "Every scratch tells a story, and every notch has a name. Generations have held this blade. You shall not disappoint them."

—Click Here for homebrew Masterwork Weapon Bonuses or Here for homebrew Minor Weapon Enchantments to give these objects even more personality and mechanical benefits.

-Click Here to be directed to the Hotlinks To All Tables post, which provides (As you might have guessed) convenient links to all of the loot and resource tables this blog has.

—Or keep reading for 90 more weapons.

—Note: The previous 10 weapons are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A sinister battle standard attached to the end of a gruesomely bladed lance. The banner's leering emblem is not a sign or victory but a herald of the carnage to come.

A well-woven, wicker quiver containing 20 arrows tipped with magically strengthened leaves rather than metal broadheads.

An all-steel mace with a rapier-like hilt and hand guard. The business end sports a flanged design and bears small openings in the head that produces an array of whistling noises when swung.

A sinister-looking black longbow with weblike patterns carved into the wood. The thin, yet strong, silken bowstring is almost invisible to anyone but the wielder.

A magically fabricated shortsword with a hilt covered in brass carvings, depicting a library full of books, scrolls, and arcane apparatus.

A Random Sword with a hilt of tarnished brass and a red and sinuous blade bearing ten glyphs of diabolic power along its length. The weapon sparks violently when it makes contact with celestial creatures.

A gilded dagger resting in an ornate emerald-and-silver sheath. The elegant weapon is slender, making it closely akin to a stiletto. The scales of justice have been engraved in silver on either side of the guard. The handle is a spiral of exotic ebony wood ending with an emerald disc on the pommel.

A menacing shortsword with a blood groove that travels down the full length of the well-oiled blade, which turns into cruel saw-like ridges near the guard. The handle is wrapped tightly in simple leather which has been splattered with the blood of countless victims. Etched into the blade in a gothic style is the word “Veritas”.

A wooden case containing 26 crossbow bolts with shafts of hickory wood painted cream-colored and fletching of two crimson feathers and one brown feather.

A battleaxe with a solid steel handle etched with tiny runes, wrapped in blue dragon hide and a star sapphire set into the pommel. The axe head is forged from silver, electrum, and steel alloys whose edges constantly shimmer with a deep blue luminescence.

A bastard sword with a hilt of polished bone, ending with a monkey's paw, gripping an onyx sphere. The honed blade is polished steel with a distinctive squared point. The ebony scabbard is wide, rectangular and hung with small gold chains.

An ostentatious rapier with intricate, organic sweepings of polished steel shield that protect the wielder's hand. A round, pink tourmaline is set into the front of the crossbar. The scabbard is soft, pale leather decorated with a pattern of leaves. Examination reveals naked, dancing women among the leaves, along with vaguely phallic clusters of grapes.

A short, hafted, sharpened goad with a heavy, rounded tip and a large pointed hook. Knowledgeable PC's will recognize it as an ankus, a tool commonly used for managing elephants. In addition to serving as a pachyderm prod, the solid steel implement serves as a perfectly functional mace.

A short thick knife known as a seax with a broad spine and rounded edge. Used with either a hacking or stabbing movement and favored amongst barbarian tribes as a sidearm if an axe or sword is lost. The dagger's thick blade make wounds more severe than knives of a similar length.

A hunting bow (Shortbow statistics) made of yew wood whose grip is wrapped in bison hide. The bowstring is actually a fine chain made of dull silver.

A Random Sword with the symbol of three triangles arranged to form a larger triangle etched into the base of the blade. Each small triangle bears a different emblem, which represents courage, wisdom and power. The weapon’s hilt is made of a shiny blue metal, and the crossguard is in the shape of a pair of angelic wings spread open.

A longspear with a robust leaf shaped head mounted on a bone shaft. A large red shroud is tightly wrapped around the grip and is winds upwards to just under the spearhead where the loose ends constantly flap as if blown by a strong breeze.

A simple mace with a wooden haft and a star shaped, stone head designed to put as much pressure and force on as small a point as possible.

A glaive whose blade's flats are dark blue with spots of white that slowly drift along the surface, while the edge is partially opaque and a lighter color. The shaft is made of a diamond-like crystal etched with the images of gears.

A longsword made of a deep blue metal, with a floral motif etched into its blade and filled in with gold leaf. A well-polished square-cut obsidian gemstone rests at the center of the guard.

A heavy mace with a shaft carved from shadow-wood, engraved with necromantic runes formed by deep red silkstone and tiger eye agate. The head of the scepter is comprised of a human skull covered with alchemically hardened, gold plating. Two onyx gems are set into the golden eye sockets, glittering with what any observer would swear was malicious intelligence.

A silvered short-sword forged in a style of a faraway city. Time has not been kind to it, but it refuses to retire. If only it could talk...

A slick shortsword with a red guard. There is a small knot made out of red linen on the pommel.

A twisted Random Sword seemingly made of non-melting ice. A tortured humanoid shape made of stone (Arms outstretched) makes the handle and pommel.

A scimitar whose blade is made of a dragon's tooth. The long curve of treacherous enamel was pulled from the head of some long dead wyrm some time ago. A grip has been worked into the root of the wicked tooth, curved into the opposing direction. It allows for biting sweeps of the blade, that cut deep and with great force.

A battleaxe covered in elaborate and well maintained designs. The weapon is fully functional yet bears hints of ceremonial, official or noble importance and would look at home strapped to a warlord's hip. To split wood with this weapon would be sacrilege, the tool has but one purpose, and that is war.

A longbow, black as night and built of a material unlike any the bearer has ever encountered. The bow gently writhes in the bearer’s hands, and the wielder could swear he occasionally hear whispers in the back of his mind while using it.

A bloodstained whip made of dull brown hydraskin with shards of glass embedded into its business end. After dealing damage to a living creature, the clear glass fragments glow with a lovely lavender light for a few minutes before dulling.

A Random Sword that features a long, plain blade made of a dark metal and a large avian skull embedded into the hilt. The sword cuts through flesh like butter, and the eyes on the skull glow with an eerie intensity as it kills... and kills... and kills...

A simple dagger whose blade has a crude carving of a rat etched into one side, and on the reverse it says "We may be small but we are legion". Knowledgeable PC's have heard of legends that describe weapons similar to this being used by a band of misfits, lost children and forgotten souls led by one known as “The Rat King”.

A rustic quiver containing a dozen arrows made from roughhewn chunks of bone with strange runes carved into them.

A massive, intricately crafted composite bow of dwarven make. Mostly carved from bone, from some unidentifiable creature’s ribs or tusks of some kind, with a thick metal chain acting as a bowstring. It is plain just by looking at the contraption that it requires a strong arm to fire.

An iron quarterstaff belonging to an evil cult that worships an archfiend of a Random Evil Domain. The head of the staff doubles as a brand to anoint the newly inducted.

A handaxe carved from an enormous pearl bound with a simple leather wrapping. The weapon glimmers slightly, even in pitch darkness.

A flail with a simple leather grip but whose spiked head is carved from solid, unbreaking malachite. The green banded, precious stone seems to become the faintest bit heavier each time it is swung.

A woven linen bandolier which holds a dozen artfully carved throwing knives. Each one is made from a single large shard of translucent jade with simple leather wrappings. The daggers whistle like the wind when thrown.

A longsword of celestial origin with an otherworldly, silver colored blade. The edges glow a light blue when swung. The cross guard is relatively wide with colorless, blue, red and yellow diamonds decorating it.

A six foot tall longbow made of elm rather than yew or ash, making it astonishingly stiff, large and strong and equally capable of use for long and short shooting.

An oak bokken (longsword statistics, deals bludgeoning damage) that bears relief carvings of a brave warrior in battle with monsters along its blade. It is unnaturally strong and cannot be dented, cracked, burnt, or warped.

A single shard of topaz carved into a two-foot shortsword. The guard is simple, and the handle is delicately carved for grip. The entire weapon is as durable as a steel bar and glows with a faint, bluish tinge.

A leather quiver containing 28 razorhead arrows with shafts of untreated cypress wood and fletching of green feathers.

A polished quarterstaff made of birch wood. The staff is capped on one end with a small steel carving of a wide scalloped seashell.

A long shaft of wood with a massive, jagged ruby set in the end. The longspear looks more practical than beautiful, but the deadly tip is bathed in a ferocious and elegant crimson light.

A simple-looking dao (Longsword statistics) with a paper-thin blade and a long line of silk tied to the hilt, depicting a bubbling stream with flowering lilies floating on the water.

A pair of identical sais (Dagger statistics), both beautifully crafted so the center prong resembles a serpent. Green leather covers the handle and the tines are fashioned to look like recoiling vipers, fangs bared.

A sickle that always looks well-polished and new, its blade is covered with light etchings of satyrs dancing.

A longsword forged from one solid piece of burnished steel that glows a deep purple when drawn. The craftsmanship of this blade is distinctly elven.

An elegantly designed hand crossbow, decorated with ancient symbols of wind and energy along its handle.

A heavy pick that is exquisitely wrought and decorated with abstract patterns and ivory inlays.

A light crossbow covered in hooks, small sliding compartments and tiny nooks perfect for potion vials, the contraption can hold several small objects. When first found the weapon contains a set of lockpicks, a magnifying glass, a small silver mirror and a Random Sealed Glass Vial.

A weighed net fabricated from heavy, rubbery strands of some tightly woven organic material that gives off a tangy, acidic scent. Although the gray snare lacks the hooks of other combat nets, its perpetually sticky strands are just as hard to escape.

A heavy flail whose perpetually filthy head always appears dingy and ill cared for. Even the chain of the flail appears rusted and caked with small bits of long-rotten matter

A discrete belt pouch containing 15 blowgun darts tipped with steel pins and fletched with gray feathers.

An ornately designed knight's lance, decorated with ribbons, tokens and favors of affection.

A punching dagger with a blade engraved with images of spider webs. Upon close inspection, the images seem to come alive as if spiders were swarming across the webs on the blade.

A fullblade with a wavy blade that is almost transparently thin and glows with ethereal energy upon being grasped.

A bastard sword whose blade always appears lustrous and polished, with a hilt wrapped in alternating colors of deep black and royal purple.

A halberd whose axe-like blade is shaped like a snarling dragon, its maw stretched wide as it closes for the killing blow. The haft is engraved with the circling image of a dragon in flight.

A greatsword with a double-sided blade of folded blue steel, intricately engraved with ancient runes that glow with eldritch flame while in combat. The hilt is inlaid with ebony and wrapped with silver wire; the pommel features two silvered dragon heads.

A lightweight shortspear that appears eternally fresh, appearing to be newly cut wood. The head is tipped with a bone point rather than metal but is no less effective than a typical spear.

A fine katana made of exceptionally fine steel, durable and flexible, and is able to easily withstand the passage time. The masterfully forged weapon is distinguished by its light weight and flexibility, and by the fine lines of bluish damask running down the cutting edge, causing the entire blade to shine with a slight tint.

A bronze shortsword with a row of six matched bloodstones set into the helve of the blade on its left face.

A slim longsword of fine make, crafted of good oil-slaked steel, devoid of adornment or inscription. It does not glow of itself or even reflect light, so that it does not appear to be metal from afar.

A large iron anchor (Maul statistics) that is beginning to rust from constant expose to seawater. The weapon sports barnacles creeping along its top and coiled around the ring rests a long spectral chain that wraps around the wielder's hand when the weapon is gripped.

A wicked bronze dagger, with a crosswork pattern of roses along its length and thorns sticking out near the top of the crossguard.

A silvery longsword, engraved with intricate webs and spiders, and shines with a golden light, as if it was a part of the twilight web.

A longbow made of supple willow that forever looks freshly carved.

An opalescent quarterstaff made of alder wood. The weapon has numerous small studs made of brass protruding from it.

A traveling bard’s light crossbow that is dotted with holes and can actually be played as a simple wooden flute.

A spiked chain forged of thick metal bands interspersed with long, sharp dagger points. Knowledgeable PC's are aware that the followers of the minor God of Random Evil Domain prize these grisly weapons for keeping their prisoners subdued.

A mace bearing a long straight shaft with four sharp flanges, each depicting a different phase of the moon.

A slim, hollow dagger made of a spider fang fastened to an ivory handle without any crossguard.

A longbow made of red cedar wood with a grip wrapped in shiny brown hydraskin. The bowstring is made of pebbled brown leather.

A Random Sword with a macabre blade that ends in a hilt made from an occasionally twitching, perpetually decomposing, severed hand. The eternally rotting hand attracts vermin, blowflies and other scavengers and a keen observer can usually spot a maggot wriggling around under the pale skin.

A quiver containing 33 flight arrows with shafts of ash wood painted black and fletching of two carmine feathers and one sky blue feather.

A cutlass (Shortsword, longsword or scimitar statistics DM's choice) once owned by reavers, pirates and vicious mercenaries. Its hilt is wrapped in tanned humanoid skin, and it seems to sing for blood as it is swung. When held, the wielder can feel their heartbeat pound in their chest with a purposeful beat, like the tempo of the drums on a slaveship galley.

A child sized shortbow and quiver holding 31 blunted training arrows with shafts of beech wood engraved with knotwork and fletching of ebony feathers.

A Random Sword set with a somehow functional blade, carved out of white marble and set with a meteorite pommel.

A custom made flail whose business end is shaped like a ram’s head. The haft is made of chestnut and displays a knight’s crest carved into its apex.

A well-used multi-stranded scourge (whip statistics) made of basilisk hide and embedded with barbed lead hooks.

A razor-sharp glaive with a haft of mahogany and a carbonized steel head. The haft is inlaid with eight white marbles.

A sinister maul with a haft of ebony and a spherical head made of iron. Good quality knotwork has been engraved into the haft.

A tarnished battleaxe composed completely of steel. The axe haft is capped with a sharpened spike and the head is decorated with scrollwork. The end of the haft is decorated with seven pine green feathers.

A gruesome morningstar with a head shaped like a screaming face being impaled with spikes that form the weapon’s business end. The haft is smooth and well-weathered from use.

A well-used light crossbow with a poplar stock and a cherry wood bow. Accompanying the crossbow is a quiver of bison hide containing 18 crossbow bolts with shafts of ironwood wood in its natural color and fletching of sand-colored feathers

A soldier’s arbalest made of ash, with the bow made of specially treated apple. The stock has a depiction of the symbol of crossed spears overtop of a kite shield.

A razor-sharp light lance made of cypress. The weapon is painted solid maroon, probably to make bloodstains less apparent.

A rust-flecked saber (Longsword statistics) bearing a blade composed of iron layered with steel, with a hilt wrapped in pebbled drab leather. The blade is inscribed with the name Nimlos. A blood groove runs the length of the blade on each side and the basket is composed of thick wires stretching from the crossbar to the pommel. There is no scabbard present.

A utilitarian hatchet (handaxe statistics) with a fine steel head bearing no decoration or design of any sort.

A polished gray hiking stick made of hickory wood. The staff while not sturdy enough for use as a bludgeoning weapon itself, has a leather thong at one end, suitable for use as a sling. A bearer proficient in slings can wield the sling-staff as a two handed weapon which increases the sling’s damage die by one step to the next largest die. The sling-staff cannot be wielded one handed. The weapon is slightly harder to fire rapidly compared to a standard sling and reloading the sling-staff takes an action equivalent to reloading a crossbow. —Note: If a normal sling deals 1d4 damage, the two handed sling-staff would deal 1d6 damage.

A greatclub made of ash wood wrapped in bands of steel.

A wicked-looking fullblade that has a blade of steel and a hilt wrapped in adamantium wire. The blade is inscribed with the name The Fate of Arrogance. A large rounded pommel of polished agate provides balance for the substantial blade. The round quillons are unremarkable, but the crossbar is stamped with the symbol of a lightning bolt. The weapon rests in a scabbard of hickory wood, inlaid with whale tooth.

A longsword set with a pointed blade which is black at its center and purple around the edges. The guard resembles the branches of a tree with purple leaves on the end of the dark branches. In the center of the guard rests an amber gem that sparkles in the sunshine. In the pommel lies a large seed that if planted slowly grows into a small bush with black stems and purple leaves. The sword's pommel seed eventually regenerates over the course of a month.

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wu-sisyphus-gang · 4 years

Text

Motion Sickness: I let you Die I

Summary: Diverging at the start of volume 4, Jaune reforges Pyrrha's weapons into a massive sword. He seeks revenge against the one who killed her, even if it costs him his life. With a different semblance, Limit Break, he will be the one to slay Cinder. FF7 Elements.

Cloud Strife is a character from Super Smash Brothers Ultimate for the Nintendo Switch and probably other things too. The comparisons between Jaune and Cloud are painfully obvious. So obvious, that this story is basically low hanging fruit.

This story picks up at the start of Volume 4 and continues with Jaune unlocking a different semblance, called Limit Break. You won’t need to know anything about Final Fantasy in general or VII in particular to read this story.

I think that’s everything so without further ado have some Lancaster stuff and nothing else.

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“There you go, son.” The horned smith heaved the heavy breastplate onto the counter before me. “It’s gonna be heavier than you’re used to, but you’ll thank me the next time you go up against a set of claws.” From the sound it made against the wood, I believed him.

I struggled briefly before conceding. The metal in front of me was a bit much to look at all at once. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t gotta say anything! Just put it on!” The smith turned towards the back and called over his shoulder. “I’ll go get the rest.”

“So... What are you waiting for?” Nora asked after only a moment had passed.

“Oh! Uh… Right.” I walked up to the counter and took the chest-plate I was wearing off. “Guess I was going to grow out of it eventually.” I set it on the counter.

I looked down. I’d traded my hoodie and jeans in for a blue cotton shirt that went up to my neck and a baggy set of black pants that went down to my boots. Mistral was honestly too hot with armor to put myself through my old hoodie, still had it, though. I still wore gloves, but I’d gotten new grey ones.

I was basically a new person.

“A sign of progress,” Ren agreed with me except he seemed genuine.

Well if Ren thinks so…

Progress. It was hard to argue that I wasn’t closer to being a huntsman now than I was before. The fact of being a huntsman and slaying monsters mattered dramatically less to me now, however.

I strapped the new piece to his chest. It fit snugly, no undue chafing at my joints was always nice. The new white with golden highlights looked good in contrast to my blue shirt. There was only one shoulder pauldron and I immediately strapped it to my left-hand side. I had found early on that no amount of lotion or baby powder could help with the constant rubbing of the metal over my fingers, so I’d taken to wearing thick finger-less gloves and developing callouses on the sides on my fingers. The gauntlets slid all the way up to my elbow. I stretched and flexed. They didn’t impede my range of motion and felt get this, comfortable.

“And we can’t have a huntsman without his weapon.” I looked up as the man set the newly forged shield and sword on the table. Qrow, Ruby’s uncle, had brought Miló and Akoúo̱ to me from the top of Beacon Tower when he’d found Ruby there.

Miló had been forged into my sword. It was longer now and broader, too, but not so big that I thought I couldn’t wield it. It was mostly white with the bronze trimmings and the deepest crimson of Milo had been turned around and spiraled into the dramatically longer handle and wider guard where it mixed with my own old blue and became a very dark, almost black purple.

Akoúo̱ had been melted down and added to my shield, much like its partner. The whole shield was more angular now. It was still symmetrical and was divided into two parts. It started off square before it tapered down to two separated triangular edges which left a narrow valley between them which ran only briefly before meeting white.

It was taller than before with the bronze of Akoúo̱ added mostly to the top and bottom and less to the sides. It would cover me better from ranged attacks. I’d found that without any range I would need some protection, so I was just free from a distance.

A gun was a great equalizer.

The taller shield had been Ruby’s idea, she pointed out how much my legs got shot at school a lot even before. Then she got the opportunity to do something about it and if you gave Ruby a cookie...

“Made all the modifications you asked for.” Yeah, my modifications. The shield and sword were linked together, forming a great cross shape. I reached out and held the shield in my hands, I strapped it to my left arm. It didn’t compact like it used too, but the sword still fit into the shield, I just had to carry the entire thing on my back now. I drew the sword from the sheath with a soft whisper. “That was some fine metal you brought me. Accents the white nicely. Where’d you get it from?”

I felt the new weight of the sword in my right hand. It felt uncomfortable but mostly because I was used to the old weight, not because I wasn’t strong enough. Time would change my preferences as I re-taught myself the muscle memory.

I was adjusting the memory rather than making new ones, so it shouldn’t take as long.

“From a friend.” I answered. The pommel was a bit longer than one would expect, long enough so that I could grip it comfortably in both hands with plenty of room to spare. I’d always found the amount of room to choke down and up on Crocea Mors to be lacking and when I’d mentioned it to Ruby, she flawless took it into the design.

I slid the sword into the shield until it clicked into place. Then I pulled the sword back and drew it with the shield. The shield folded over the sword and different sections of the shield began to slide over the length of weapon.

As I drew it, the motion it pulled parts of the shield with it, until I’d drawn a six-foot-long single edged broadsword. I brought the weapon around me and let my left-hand rest below my right.

It was heavy. Heavy enough that someone without aura couldn’t possibly have wielded it for more than few minutes, if that. I pulled my right hand back and extended my left, easily holding it with one hand. I let my fingers run down the edge gently.

“Well,” Nora demanded. “Is it or is it not also a gun.”

“I told you it wasn’t a gun every time you asked,” I insisted.

“So it doesn’t have another form.”

I shook my head and strapped the entire contraption to my back. “No, it doesn’t, it just has the two forms.” I reached over my head and drummed by fingers against the handle over my head. I felt confident I’d be able to draw either form quickly. Or if I failed to do so it wouldn’t be the sword’s fault or because of where it was.

I just couldn’t count myself out of things.

I’d have to practice sliding the shield onto my arm and back again to get the hang of it.

I finally turned around and nearly bumped into Ruby. She scrunched up her face at the weapon behind me. Big silver eyes looking up at the weapon. “How does it feel? Do you like it?”

“Like it was made for me.” I rolled my wrists and flexed my forearms under the gauntlets again. “You’re a genius Ruby.”

“It’s so cool!”

I laughed a little. “You knew what it was going to look like.”

Ruby snorted before she covered her face. Turning slightly red. Generally more red. “Sure, on paper, it’s another thing to meet face to uh- face," she stammered.

“Face to face huh,” I smirked.

“Shut up. Stop looking at me.”

I audibly slapped my hands across my eyes and mouth and even though I was blind and mute she kicked me in the shin.

“He cleans up alright." The smith smirked. “Don’t you think? Say, you kids sure you wouldn’t stick around? You’ve been good to this town.”

We'd run a few patrols and hunts for the city to work out a deal to pay for the new weapon. We'd stuck around a few weeks killing Grimm for the small village and running the occasional odd job besides. Even a mecha-shift weapon as simple as this one wasn’t cheap or fast to make.

Not well at least.

I opened my mouth and shut it, Ruby promised to hit me if I apologized for stalling them on it.

“Its not just some silly errand.”

She’d shoved a finger in my face, too.

“It’s important.”

Nora and Ren honestly didn’t seem to mind either not that I could always tell with Ren. It was like that with Ren.

Nora on the other hand couldn’t seem to hide that she seemed to have something to hide.

“Sorry, but we’ve got another mission-”

“-Make it to Haven Academy, no matter what!”

“We’ve heard the next village over has a working airship.”

The smith frowned. “No way to know for sure. Scroll signals were bad enough out here when Beacon Tower was still up. Haven’t heard from Shion village in a while.”

I looked at the village. Without global communication what would happen here? Could the kingdoms stay as they were?

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I was awake when Ruby opened the tent we shared. Whatever dream I was having slipped from me even as I tried to grab it.

I said nothing, even as Ruby half crawled, and half crouched around the tent. I wanted nothing more than to go back and ignore my shift.

It was slightly uncomfortable, then, when Ruby ignorantly tried to nudge me awake.

“Jaune," she whispered. “Jaune, wake up.”

“My shift?” I murmured back. I felt as much as I heard her nod in the dark. “Alright.”

I blinked forcefully until I’d wrung all the sleep from my eyes and rose from my sleeping bag. I maneuvered past Ruby. I stretched picked up my sword and added water to finish the process of waking up.

I waited in the dark while Ruby got comfortable and slunk back into her bed-bag. “It’s cold,” she moaned. I couldn’t completely stop myself from laughing. “I bet yours is warm.” She grabbed the edge of her cover and pulled it tight against her.

“Wear more layers.”

“Its not comfortable.”

“Put more covers on?”

I heard her move to ‘glare’ at me. It was like pitch a few feet from my eyes in the tent, though. “That’s not comfortable either.”

“Well what would make you comfortable.” I had to wonder. “This isn’t a hotel or Beacon. All you have here is me.”

“Ugh. You-I-“ I heard the sound of her rolling in her bag. “Ugh. Night Jaune.”

“Rest easy Rubes.”

Ah yes. Second to last shift.

It wasn’t so bad. When it became clear that first and last shift were most desirable, followed by second, it was intuitive that it was the shift for me.

Maybe it reminded me of me.

I stepped out of the tent into the absurdly early morning. The fact of the matter was that taking a shift as a huntsman was sort of subjective. Ren’s sense of danger was good, so he didn’t have to pay a lot of attention during his shift. He barely even had to be awake.

Which meant even a huntsman as mediocre as I was could still feel danger while training.

I held the broadsword out in two hands. First, I practiced my basic movements while holding the broadsword - attempting a few amateurish swings until I got a feel for the weight of it. The weight was a lot further forward than I was used to. I swept the blade in a wide arc and brought it back to neutral as quickly as I could.

I couldn’t help but grimace.

I was slow enough that I was seriously going to have to stand here and practice bringing the weight back around. I brought the weapon back into neutral and swung it again.

I practiced two different cross slashes until my arms burned. I had sweat running down my brow as I tried to control the tool. The weight really was enormous. It had to be heavier than Cardin’s Mace, even, and when I’d first arrived at Beacon I’d thought that thing was ridiculous.

When I brought that up to Ruby she just scoffed. She just reminded me that the weapon was still shorter and lighter than many such swords that I’d seen huntsmen smaller than myself use.

I rested against it and wiped my forehead. I’d need a drink if I kept this up. I groaned. I left my water in the tent. If I needed a drink, I’d have to gamble waking Ruby up.

Not worth.

I brought the broadsword around, the shield clicked into place around my arm and I drew the longsword out. I felt the new weight and changed my grip along the very long handle. It was light and easy to control compared to the broadsword form. My burning wrist were more than enough to handle it. The shield was easy to swing and large enough to hit something fairly hard with. I crouched down as though avoiding gun fire and mimicked peaking around the shield and made several wide jabs with the sword.

My arms throbbed with the motion, but we can’t all be winners and I was pretty determined to get a feel for the new weight.

Because people I like could die otherwise.

Pyrrha taught me a few forms to run through. Wide brutal swings followed by quick diagonal cuts before defensive posturing and foot-work. It didn’t sound like much compared to a real fight or even a practice match. It also really wasn’t. It was good cardio and weights, however, and it was familiarity with my weapon.

I mimed parrying with the tall shield before a thrust and two waist length sideways cuts with the sword.

Blocking with the shield was easy. Well easier than the small wrist movements required to block with the sword. Especially with the broadsword form, the last thing I wanted to do was commit to a block with any unnecessary movement. It was all in the wrists, small rotations that covered me just enough, or long enough for the shield to come around with the ‘ittle bastard.

I panted for breath, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from my eyes again. I really needed a drink. I had no choice, really. I turned back towards camp.

Maybe Ren left some water out?

The thing about that was it something I would do. Ren was careful and smart besides.

I blinked when I got near my tent, though, the water was out in the cool night air. I glanced at the tent and listened for Ruby’s soft breaths.

She was there alright. I picked the water up and took a drink.

I must have brought it out with me.

I shrugged and carried back with me, kicking my way through the camp fire and cinders.

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Birds flew, bees stung, and it hadn’t taken Ruby long to examine the new and improved weapon. Less than a day, in fact.

Ren was making breakfast over the campfire, eggs, cheese, beans and rice in a burrito. Ren, of course, unanimously had last shift for this very reason.

They were perfect.

When she asked to take a look at Crocea Mors 2.0, I handed it over and let the burrito and Ruby do their business without my interference.

“Well it is heavy,” Ruby murmured, it seemed like she was confessing some terrible sin and I had to restrain myself from chuckling at her. “At least heavier than it was before.” It was true. It weighed as much as Crocea Mors had before with the shield, plus Miló and Akoúo̱ and Pyrrha’s circlet and some of her armor. “Do you remember how to take apart and clean the mechanisms? I don’t remember everything about it.” Ruby admitted the last bit almost sheepishly. Like she was ashamed of having forgotten.

I choked on the precious food.

Ruby looked at me like I was being dramatic, but Nora mimed a heart attack and Ren reached out with the back of his hand like he was trying to take her temperature, so I felt not only justified, but moderate.

Ruby swatted his hand and turned her chin up at me.

“You did what?” I asked grinning.

Nora pointed at Ruby aggressively. “She’s an impostor.”

I managed to swallow. “They’re simple enough for me to understand so I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out again. I’ll show you later tonight, when we make camp.” I took another bite of burrito.

“We could also practice too, if you want," she offered.

I’d seen her fight and we'd occasionally sparred for Ms. Goodwitch at Beacon. She’d always tried to take it easy on me, she’d always won, though, super easily. She was faster than a sixteen-year-old had any right to be and swung her giant scythe around like it was nothing. She hit so hard so casually.

Her power made her spacing immaculate. She could rush her opponents down easily or escape to regroup at her leisure. She could totally control the pace of the battle, at least against me. She was a menace.

I nodded. “I’d be an idiot to say no.”

“It’s like some kind of fusion of swords now.” Nora looked the weapon over with Ruby who was pantomiming swings with the broadsword.

She’s already better than me with it.

I finished my food and set about helping Ren pack up. Leaving the girls to chat while they cleaned up.

I rolled up my sleeping bag and the tent and packed them together. I took my sword back from Ruby, trading her for her backpack. Ren and Nora joined us with their things at the road and we were off again.

Ruby walked with the map out in front of her, stretched between both hands. “So, the next town is… Uh-huh! Uh-huh…” She gave up. “We’re lost.”

“We’re not lost. The next town is Shion. My family used to visit all the time.”

“Oh, yeah! Don’t you have, like, four sisters.”

“I have a few of those, yeah.” I did my best to evade.

“Seven,” Ren helpfully pointed out with a subtle smirk. Thank you, Ren.

You fucking traitor.

Ruby just giggled beside me.

Nora had the sheer audacity to act like she was thinking, but I knew better. “Y’know, that actually explains a lot.”

I had to let out an enormous sigh, I had no ammunition and no defense. “Yeah.”

“So, what did you guys do there?”

I left the smirking Ren and Nora behind to step up next to Ruby. “Oh! All sorts of stuff!” I took the side of the map in one armored hand. “Over here is a great hiking trail, and over here is where we went camping all the time! I got my own tent because I was special.”

Ruby waited patiently for me to finish, somewhere between exasperated and amused.

“Also, so my sisters would stop braiding my hair.” I did.

“Didn’t like the look?”

“Yeah, they just kept doing pigtails, but personally I think I’m more of a ‘Warrior’s Wolf Tail’ kind of guy.”

“Isn’t that just a ponytail?”

“I’m not proud of a lot of things, Ruby.” I bragged. “But I can rock any haircut?”

Ruby stifled a snort. “Really, any haircut? I think that I cou-“

“Uh, guys?” Nora intruded.

“What-”

“Huh?”

I doubted we’d be able to rent an airship here.

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I was thinking about Shion. I had to decide, and they were looking at me to do it right here and now. They hadn’t asked yet, but they were thinking it. I could tell.

And not about Ren either, though his behavior was extremely erratic for what a Ren was.

It wasn’t like him, but Ren had never pushed me about anything, even when he’d been in the right to do so after initiation, so I can’t bear to bother him before he’s ready.

There was no communication. No one to let the village they had just left know that Shion was destroyed. Or the villages around that, for that matter, if they still existed.

“We have to head back then,” Nora asked. “But it took us days to get here. Can we afford to do that?”

Ren shook his head. “This isn’t about Lien. We have a moral imperative to let the area know about the destruction of this village. How they choose to handle it is their business.”

“Wait, don’t we need to let all the villages know,” Ruby pondered. “And what about the bandits and Grimm! We’re the best equipped deal with them!”

I stared hard at Ruby and when they finally all turned to look at me, I was still staring. I sighed.

I don’t even know if I can convince her to press on. Let alone if I should.

“We’ll set up camp here and wait, if there are any survivors they’ll have come out of hiding by then.” I hesitated. “Ruby if you ran there and back how fast could you spread the word to Gailong about Shion’s destruction?”

She hesitated. “I’m more for short distances than for long but uh…”

She’d still be faster than anyone else.

“I’d really need to rest afterwards, but maybe a few hours.”

Ruby was invaluable to their combat capabilities, if the bandits or Grimm struck again, we'd sorely miss her, even if we were able to win. The danger was everywhere not here, it seemed. Communication was just too slow.

I remember reading about what interstellar communication would have to be like and what old fashion communication was like. Experiencing it was miserable.

If Ruby got split up again from there, would I ever be able to find her?

Also if I sent her off alone and she got hurt I’d-

It must have shown on my face.

“I’ll be fast and safe.”

I was already shaking my head by the time she opened her mouth. It didn’t matter what she said. From the moment she left until she got back, I would have no way of knowing if the bandits had been waiting for us to do something like that or were just in that direction in general.

She’d be spending aura the whole time on speed and this whole thing assumed that she wouldn’t need to fight.

“Absolutely not,” I snapped. “We’re not splitting up.”

“Jaune I can do it.”

“You have to give me something beyond ‘I’ll be safe’ and ‘I can do it.’” I demanded. “Please.”

Her teasing glare completely absent, it was replaced by something cold and metallic. She would bow to my plan on how to help, but she wasn’t going to not help. It wasn’t in her nature.

“Where will we camp?” Nora wondered. Her left hand was gently touching the fabric of Ren’s sleeve. So small was the gesture that she barely manipulated the cloth.

“Here, in town.”

“You think we should?”

“Yes.” I did. I couldn’t bear the though of leaving survivors to die. Some child or infant could be tucked away and just waiting. “We’ll do some searching through the rubble.”

“Then what?” Ren demanded. “And if the Grimm and bandits come?”

“We have to destroy them.” I affirmed. “We’re the only ones who can possibly do so within any time frame that doesn’t feel like leaving people to die.” I waited for a beat for anyone of them to step in. “Then we’re going back to GaiLong tomorrow; all of us,” I insisted. “Together. from there we will search for the bandits and destroy them from GaiLong.”

Ren briefly considered it. “I’ll start searching, then.” He paced away quickly, Nora bounced to catch up with him.

Peer to peer communication with scrolls was good enough that we’d be able to contact each other from within the village ruins so I let him go.

“Jaune...” Ruby began. I looked down at where she stood beside me. I think she expected me to walk away like Ren did and I surprised her because she didn’t say anything else for an uncomfortably long time, or it seemed that way.

She managed to blurt out a, “thank you,” at the same time I said, “let’s start searching too,” and it turned into an unintelligible mess.

“What?” I wondered.

She shook her head. “Let’s go.”

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It was eerie, camping in the town square. By their very nature as search and rescue operations don’t try and hide at all, can’t, even. It set my teeth on edge, but it was necessary.

“We’ll be training a little too, but we’ll try and keep it down.” I let Ren know. He was scrapping some dinner together and some other meals. We'd found perishables that the bandits hadn’t bothered to take and would literally rot if we didn’t eat them.

Ruby had wondered if that made them better than the bandits but together the three of them convinced her otherwise.

From, “you can’t give it to anyone.”

To, “you can’t save it for later.”

And fervently, “all this in all these empty houses will be rat food if we don’t eat it now.”

She gave in but didn’t eat much.

She was stressed, they all were. Especially considering how far we just got set back in terms of our travel time. Money really wasn’t an issue. Huntsmen could make a living anywhere and with communication down…

With communication down the law of the land in most places was whatever the guy with the most fighting power said it was. Who were you going to call and how were you going to call them and what would they do by the time they finally arrived to do something, if they ever came at all?

Huntsmen will have even fewer problems making money anywhere. Perhaps too few.

I set another log on the campfire. There was a flare of sparks and the fire snapped a few times at me. I stared at them like the patterns they made would reveal something to me but there was nothing at all.

Nora was already turned away from the dim light in her sleeping bag. Ren being emotional had evidently exhausted her beyond her energy.

Ruby had found a clearing she liked as we’d set up camp and I followed her there now from the campsite. I hadn’t bothered to take my armor off at any point. I needed to get used to it and I’d do it by wearing it sixteen hours a day, more, probably.

“You’ll probably need a whole new fighting style, I mean, have you ever practiced with a broadsword?” She chatted as they walked.

“I haven’t but a sword is a sword.” What’s so hard to understand about swish-swish-stab? A lot, to be honest. “I’ll be able to figure it out.”

“I know some of my uncle’s moves.” Ruby continued. “Would they help?”

“I’m bad enough that they literally couldn’t make me worse.”

She looked like she wanted to hit me for that but couldn’t because she was about to hit me anyway.

I stared at her from the side, watching her lips move. She reached up while she was talking and brushed her short hair over her ear.

She was building up contained excitement like a diesel engine getting warmed up and I had to smile. Once she started talking it released like a wave and I found myself nodding and listening along as she carried on the better part of three conversations at once.

“A lot of his moves are horizontal, it’s hard to swing a sword that big upwards. The ground gets in the way. His most powerful attacks are usually ones that come downwards, though, using gravity. His weapon is different, you know?” I did, I was confident she’d told me, at least. I’d hear it again, though. "It’s a broadsword with a similar scale to yours but also turns into a scythe, and, unlike yours, it has a gun too.” She looked at me to make sure I was listening.

"It’s actually a lot more complicated than yours but you’ve always been simple.”

I agreed so, I nodded.

“I don’t mean simple like that. I mean simple like- well, you know.”

I did, so I nodded.

“But every person is like that, everybody is unique.”

“-what?”

“Weapon!” She corrected herself a tad-little loud. “Every weapon is like that.” She glanced at me.

She dared me to call her out.

I couldn’t possibly.

“I really don’t know much about fight with shields, though, I’m sorry I won’t be more help. But like I said, swing downwards instead of upwards and it’ll help.”

I grimaced. If I swung the broadsword down, I’d need to lift it up again. It seemed obvious but the thing was heavy now. I’d need to do it as little as possible to conserve energy.

I watched her spin away from me into the clearing.

It took me a second to realize she was waiting for me and I stepped opposite her and drew the broadsword from my back.

Ruby’s scythe extended and she reversed her grip on it, holding the weapon behind her back. I didn’t think for one second it was an opening. I couldn’t cross the distance between us before she would move.

Still, I knew if she were willing to spend ammunition on a sparring match, I would be the one forced to approach. In the spirit of that, I charged at her anyway.

I committed to an attack with Crocea Mors, swinging from my shoulder down at her. She danced out of the way, her footwork was tight and fast. She was able to stay just out of my range, dipping in to slice across my breastplate with her scythe before I could bring my weapon around again.

It was enough to buffet it me and I was encouraged further to back up when she rolled the sycthe around her body in an upwards diagonal arc.

It wasn’t where I wanted to be, backing up was so much worse than side stepping. On the back-foot your opponent could charge and stand and fight you.

Pyrrha had hammered that into me non-too gently. Sometimes she used her shield as the hammer.

Sometimes she hadn’t.

Ruby stepped with me, staying inside where I would feel comfortable with the sword.

I lashed out with my foot in a clumsy kick, balancing the sword’s weight with my own and all my armor on just one leg with little practice. The kick flat out missed and Ruby had the good grace not to laugh. She did catch the leg I was left standing on with her scythe and pull me off my feet.

I felt myself whirl through the air and land flat on my back.

“Sorry Jaune.” She smiled down at me sheepishly.

I got to my feet shaking my head. “I’ll get over it. I’m not afraid of looking like an idiot.” I leveled the broadsword at her. “I still have plenty of aura for you to beat out of me.”

She took that as a sign to continue and this time she rushed me.

I sidestepped lashing out with Crocea Mors into the space I had just occupied. It collided with Crescent Rose’s barrel with a heavy metallic clank. The weight was enough to stop Ruby’s momentum and she squealed as she strained against it and the noise she made was enough to distract me.

She retreated spinning the crescent behind her, before she reversed again, rotating once more towards me in whirlwind of red and steel.

“How are you not getting dizzy?”

She giggled at me for that like I was just being just so extra silly when I truly did want answers. It sometimes felt like I could barely stand up without my head spinning and here she was like a top.

I raised Crocea Mors and blocked the blade of Ruby’s scythe with a grunt. I turned my wrists to block her next attack when she came around the other side.

I like to say my efforts stopped her but really she just hit me three times anyway.

Her blade swept across my stomach, glancing off my armor. I threw out Crocea Mors to try and gain some space, but she simply stepped back then back in and hit me hard in the side of the head with the back of Crescent Rose.

I stumbled back but she was all over me sweeping her blade towards me and chipping away at my aura. I grunted lowering Crocea Mors to defend once again. I blocked then thrust my blade out and swung it upward, Ruby easily dodged the thrust but wasn’t ready for me to continue my assault. I rushed forward. She jumped, elegantly dodging the attack with her semblance.

She flowed to my right like water before she zipped to the left and seemed to hit me from behind as her scythe extended to a nearly impossible range. She threw me off balance, her scythe was a spinning blade of death that sunk deep into my aura, shredding away chunks of it. I stepped back like I was going to retreat but I whipped the blade out and I clipped her side.

She rolled with the attack to the ground to avoid me chasing her, but I had stopped.

The sword made meaty noise when it hit her, it was the first time I’d hit anybody or anything with it and I immediately regretted how hard I had swung it and that its first target was Ruby besides.

We were just training, and it wasn’t like she was out here swinging to hurt me. I winced slightly. She looked a little winded. Her hand dropped down a little. I shouldn’t just be throwing out haymakers at her.

Duh, Jaune, what a way to say thank you.

Her body shimmered with soft red light as she recovered, getting to her feet. I let her rise unassailed; in a real fight I’d be all over her; I wasn’t above hitting someone while they were down, after all, the world had no problems doing it to me, but this was just training.

“Are you alright.” I asked, my eyes roved her body, looking for any sign of injury. Her hand rose from where I had hit her, and she nodded.

I was sure Ruby could go toe to toe with nearly anyone, I’d seen her fight Yang and Pyrrha. But my sword weighed as much as either of them did, soaking wet in full gear. And unlike a potential Yang based weapon, Crocea Mors had all of that force condensed into a tight blade.

Ruby’s own weapon was spindly in comparison and for a moment I wasn’t totally sure that I wouldn’t crack her barrel in half if I came down really hard on it.

“I’m fine. That hurt, though, you’ve gotten stronger.”

“It's the new sword, it’s heavier,” I dismissed. “It’s easy to hit things hard with a giant sheet of metal.”

“Well, I’m sure that's true, too.”

I continued to look her over. I was thinking about her hit and run fighting style.

That old big kicker-why?

Why did she bother retreating when she was so strong? It wasn’t just a fighting style preference. I was beginning to suspect that she needed to. She needed to dodge rather than block and she couldn’t afford to tank hits like I could.

She wasn’t weak - it was impossible to think that, really. It was honestly weird to think about her as fragile, too, even with the evidence right in my face.

“How am I doing so far?” I managed between pants.

I decided I would give her a moment to catch her breath, if she needed it. It looked like I had knocked the wind out of her, even through her Aura.

“You need to move more, you stand too still.” It was familiar advice, and it brought me back to rooftop training sessions with another redhead. I changed tracks, not wanting to think about Pyrrha right now.

Thinking about Pyrrha only made me want to train. I wanted to train and fight until I was strong enough to kill Cinder.

It was fucking bullshit that Cinder got to walk around while I didn’t even get to bury Pyrrha. I shook my head, thoughts of revenge clearing. I had a long way to go until I could hold candle to the woman who killed my partner.

Besides I was training now, I couldn’t be more training than I currently was.

“Well it’s hard to keep up with you in terms of movement,” I deflected but made it clear I agreed. Standing rooted like a tree would only serve to cost me precious aura. Plus, now I had two sources telling me to get my ass in gear and move around the battlefield. Not that I’d ever ignored Pyrrha’s advice but sometimes lessons took a while to stick.

We started again.

I slashed two wide arcs at Ruby, and she ducked under one and deflected the other. The large sword wasn’t cutting it for me right now, but the point was to train with the new form. My movements were telegraphed with the broadsword, much more so than with the bastard sword and the shield would also allow me to defend myself from her wild slashes better, but the point of training right now was to learn how to use the new length to my advantage. It was not necessarily to use the best weapon for the situation.

She hit me twice with Crescent Rose before I felt the blade swing around me. She traded places with it, swinging me and herself in a sort of orbit connected by her weapon. She brought me around in a wide arc before she used a tree to halt her moment and mine. I could only watch as Ruby effectively pulled the blade towards her and through my aura.

It clotheslined me hard into the ground and made a loud gonging noise as it her blade dinged off my freshly polished armor. I lay there on the ground with my chest flashed with soft golden light as my aura flickered. Ruby seemed to realize that I’d had enough and stepped back, folding her scythe behind her back as she did.

I tried to rub my chest through my armor for a moment before managing to puzzle together that it wasn’t helping. Even through the protection granted by my soul and armor it was enough to sting.

I sat up and just tried to focus on breathing.

Ruby sat down next to me. Plopping down in her skirt with practiced ease.

“Was it really okay to re-forge Pyrrha’s weapons like that?” Ruby asked. “I know I sort of talked you into this. I didn’t mean to make you do something you might regret.”

I understood the sentiment immediately, but this felt right.

“Her sword was in pieces and it would only have served as a reminder that she wasn’t actually invincible,” I began. It wasn’t like I hadn’t thought about it. “And I’m sure that she would be fine with me using her shield to defend myself, too. And you know there’s going to be something satisfying about killing Cinder with a weapon reinforced with the one she broke.” I chuckled lightly at the thought.

“Well, I guess it’s okay, then?” She struggled to find something to say after that. “I’m sure you’re right.”

They sat quietly together in the forest lit by moonlight. It wasn’t a full moon, like the night before, but still plenty bright.

“Jaune…” She trailed off.

“Yeah?” I answered anyway, ignoring her hesitation.

“About Pyrrha…” She pressed on.

“What about her?” I could talk about her, with Ruby of all people, at least. I didn’t particularly want to, but I would.

“Did you and her ever…”

“No, we didn’t. I didn’t know until it was too late.”

“Oh.”

I realized my fingers were brushing my lips. The rough material of my gauntlets was nothing like Pyrrha’s lips and my fingers tasted like sweat and grime.

So soft.

I remembered the way she’d kissed me before she left. It had been desperate but with a certain finality. She’d known she was sending her valedictions to me at the time.

I’d known too.

“She was a really good friend.”

“The best.” I agreed readily. I wasn’t sure where she was going with this.

“Would you have?” She grimaced looking pained. “Sorry.”

“I don’t know. Alright? I really have no idea. I don’t get to know.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Ruby slipped into silence and I watched her fight herself again for a long minute. “But she wouldn’t want you fighting Cinder.”

“Well of course not.” Hell, the last thing she’d done was push me into a locker and not give me the choice of dying with her. Which I wasn’t bitter about at all. “But that doesn’t change how I feel. So, I’m still going to.”

“But…” She trailed. Her concern was like a fire, it flickered out towards me but it there was nothing for it to catch onto.

“Hey look.” I pulled his sword over to where they sat. “You wanted to see how the mechanism works, right?” Anything for a change in subject, literally anything. It was weak but Ruby seemed to understand.

She just nodded and listened while I went over the weapon with her. I could tell that she remembered how the mechanism worked part of the way through his explanation, she’d helped design it, after all. She just needed the refresher, but that was it.

I explained all of it anyway.

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This is exactly how Jaune talks in my head.

-WG

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pocket-luv101 · 4 years

Text

Across Time || Chapter 19

Fandom: Servamp Ships: KuroMahi (main), LawLicht (side) Characters: Kuro, Mahiru, Hyde, Licht

Summary: Mahiru falls into a well and is taken to a new, fantasy world. He comes across a half-blooded cat demon trapped in a tree. After he frees Kuro, he helps him collect the shards of the sacred jewel. (KuroMahi, InuYasha AU)

Ch.1 || Ch.2 || Ch.3 || Ch.4 || Ch.5 || Ch.6 || Ch.7 || Ch.8 || Ch.9 || Ch.10 || Ch.11 || Ch.12 || Ch.13 || Ch.14 || Ch.15 || Ch.16 || Ch.17 || Ch.18 || (Ch.19) ||

“How could you let Father’s sword be damaged? It was cracked in a fight against a lowly warthog demon as well. I don’t understand how someone was able to make a crack in it when it’s forged from Father’s fang.” Hyde said in disbelief after Kuro told him about the events at the herb farm. Mahiru knew how important the heirloom was to the siblings and he worried it could cause a rift between Hyde and Kuro.

“Wait, Hyde, it wasn’t his fault that the tessaiga was cracked. Kuro was trying to protect me and the other people there. The warthog demon charged at us.” He stepped between them to defend Kuro. Mahiru felt guilty that the sword was the damaged because of him. “Maybe we can repair it. Licht, are you knowledgeable about weapons?”

“My village created weapons from the remains of demons we slay. I was in the combat squad but I had a friend who forged weapons. Sometimes, I would watch Kranz repair my boots. We can take the tessaiga to my village and I’ll try to mend it there.” Licht offered. He examined the thin blade that Kuro held between them. “You might be better off finding a new sword though.”

“This is a family treasure. Even if it didn’t have sentimental value, we can’t simply throw it away. The tessaiga holds immense power.” Hyde told him. He grabbed the hilt to show him the power of the sword. Kuro tried to stop him and warn him about the seal he placed on the sword but he was too late. Electricity travelled up his arm and the pain caused him to flinch. He accidentally tossed it into the sky.

Kuro managed to catch the sword in the air before anyone could be hurt. He sheathed the sword and said, “There are two seals on my sword. The first only allows someone with human blood to hold the tessaiga. The other one suppresses the sword’s full power unless a demon holding it uses it to protect someone. With the seals, this sword is useless.”

“The tessaiga is essentially a sword that protects. I don’t think that’s useless.” Mahiru wrapped his hands over Kuro’s on the sword. Most would overlook the simple sword because they didn’t know the story and strength it held. He thought that Kuro was similar. He lowered his voice to a whisper and said, “Your mother forged the sword. Is there a way to repair the crack?”

He doubted the crack would weaken the the blade since his demonic power would reinforce the metal during battles. Kuro looked down at the dull sword where Mahiru was reflected in the metal. He vowed to never use the tessaiga again but it helped him protect Mahiru and Hyde in previous fights. After he thought it over, he said: “It can’t be repaired with simple metal. My mother forged the sword with my father’s fang. Her family may be able to repair it though.”

“Your mother?” Mahiru echoed under his breath. His mother was human so it was unlikely that she was still alive. Returning to his home would be difficult for him due to the memories and loss. He thought of when his own mother died and how lonely that was for him. He lightly squeezed his hands and vowed that he would support Kuro the best he could.

Kuro couldn’t remember the last time he returned to the village he was born in. He looked over the buildings but a lot had changed since he left. While he grew up in the village, he never considered it his home. Memories came back to him and he took a deep breath. He felt a warm hand on his back and he looked behind him to see Mahiru.

“We’re here for you, Kuro.” He smiled up at him reassuringly. Mahiru thought of something he could say to make him more comfortable. “Your mother forged the sword. Did you work with her or helped her forge other weapons? Those must be some interesting memories. I would love to hear about them while we’re waiting for your sword to be completed.”

“I would help sometimes.” Kuro answered but he didn’t explain his family situation to him entirely. The village told his mother that they would only allow a half demon to live in the village if he made weapons for them. His demonic powers were helpful but they never accepted him as part of their village. “Let’s go. The quicker we repair the tessaiga, the earlier we’ll be able to leave.”

He walked forward before the others could follow him. Mahiru quickly ran to his side and took his hand. He pulled him back but it was the concern in his eyes that made Kuro pause. He didn’t want to make him worry and he forced himself to relax. The memories of his childhood came back to him even though he did his best to repress them.

“Everything will turn out okay, Kuro.” Mahiru whispered to him.

Licht glanced around the village as they walked through the gates. The people around them became still and stared at Kuro. Then, they saw Hyde and ran towards the large castle standing at the far side of the village in a panic. He was a demon slayer and he had seen many people’s fear. Yet, something was strange to him and he looked up at Hyde. “Humans are scared of demons but they should be accustomed to your presence if you two grew up here.”

“I was raised in a nearby oni village. We’re siblings so we would play with each other sometimes but Father believed it was best to keep us separate. He wanted us to be the perfect army. Emotions would only cloud our judgement during raids.” Hyde shrugged. His words made Licht’s eyes widened though. He was raised to fight as well but his family had been warm and loving.

Hyde saw the slight hesitation in Licht’s steps and he could guess the thoughts running through his mind. He patted his back and lightly pushed him forward. “It wasn’t that bad for me. I’m sure my big brother had it worse since he’s half demon. Also, he hasn’t returned to the village so they don’t know him well. Though, they would still distrust him even if he lived here for a thousand years. He’s half demon.”

Licht unconsciously placed his hand on Kirara who rested on his shoulder and he lightly scratched its head. He had to admit that he would’ve thought the same as the village before he came to know the group better. He stared at Kuro and Mahiru in front of them.

“That’s strange.” Mahiru’s steps slowed and he looked towards the large building that the villagers had fled to. He could sense a jewel shard within it. Kuro noticed him pause and looked back to him. Mahiru debated if he should tell the others about the jewel shard since Kuro already had a lot on his mind. He smiled at him and said, “Your mother created swords. Did you live in the blacksmith building?”

“This was my house.” Kuro stopped in front of a large gate. A few of the guards blocked them and pointed their weapons at him but he barely reacted to their silent threat. Mahiru gripped the bow over his shoulder, worried that they didn’t recognize Kuro and would attack him. He hoped they wouldn’t have to fight in Kuro’s hometown though.

Kuro expected their reaction and slowly moved his ears. “I am Kuro Sleepy Ash, the first son to Lady Mizuki. She passed away already but I have her sword as proof.”

“You have the tessaiga but are you able to wield it?” The voice wasn’t from the guards before them but someone behind them. Licht heard the unique sound of metal against dirt and he turned around. A man approached them and he had a sword dragging behind him. From his posture, Licht knew that he intended to attack them. The man moved faster than he expected.

He seemingly vanished but Licht quickly realized that the man had leapt over their heads to attack Kuro. It was impossible for a mere human to jump so high so he was likely a demon. While the others prepared to fight, Kuro only let out a groan. He pulled Mahiru against his side to protect him. With his other hand, he blocked the man’s attack with the tessaiga.

“There’s a crack in the blade. That’s irresponsible of you.” The man observed. In response, Kuro pushed on his sword to force him back. He didn’t continue to fight him and sheathed the sword instead. Mahiru had to wonder if they knew each other since Kuro didn’t appear cautious of him. Yet, Hyde didn’t seem to recognize him as he pulled out a spell tag.

The man gave Hyde a brief glance before he spoke to Kuro. “Come inside. You can tell me how the tessaiga was cracked. I’ll decide how much I should kick you for damaging the family’s heirloom.”

“Kuro, who is that?” He asked as the man disappeared through the gate. The guards had lowered their weapons due to the man’s presence. It was clear that they knew each other but anyone from his childhood would’ve passed away long ago. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“His name is Gear and he’s an inugami. We knew each other when we were kids because my mother took him in. We would help her forge swords.” Kuro told him. He took Mahiru’s hand and squeezed it for strength. He took a deep breath and walked through the gate. “We parted on bad terms.”

“The way you’ve treated the tessaiga is disgraceful. This sword was one of your mother’s greatest creation and now it’s mostly rust. Your mother taught you how to polish and care for blades yet it looks like you haven’t treated it in decades.” Gear clicked his tongue as he examined the sword. He couldn’t touch the tessaiga since he was a demon so he had Kuro hold it for him.

“I sealed the sword in my father’s grave and I only reclaimed it a few months ago. Treating the blade after so long would’ve been troublesome so I didn’t bother. My demonic power would make the sword stronger so I didn’t need to worry about maintaining it beyond that.” Kuro shrugged. The glare Gear gave him didn’t faze him though. “Can you fix it?”

“It won’t be easy.” He told him. “I will need the fang of a full fledged nekomata—preferably a nekomata related to the original demon used to create the sword. I know one of your siblings is a nekomata. He will do. How strong are those people you brought with you? What about that man with the arrow?”

“I haven’t seen my brother since he tried to put a hole in my chest last week.” Kuro said sarcastically. He assumed he would speak with Gear briefly about the sword so he told Mahiru to wait outside with Hyde and Licht. “My brother almost killed Mahiru so I would like to avoid facing him again. Is there something else we can use? If I continue to fight while the tessaiga has this crack, what could happen?”

“The blade is strong but it will snap if your opponent strikes it with enough force. We have to repair it with a new fang. You don’t want to fight Tsubaki but your father did have another nekomata. We can use your fang.” At first, Kuro was confused because he wasn’t a full fledge demon. Gear took out a jewel shard from his sleeve and placed it against the sword’s crack. “This should be enough.”

“Is that a jewel shard?” Kuro’s eyes narrowed when he saw how its colour was different from its usual pink. He could only recall once when he saw it a different colour. The tainted jewel had been placed on a mask that took control of Mahiru’s body. “Did someone give you this sh—”

Kuro wasn’t able to complete his question when a sudden wave of pain overtook him. The air from his lungs was forced out of his chest. He collapsed on his knees and he clutched his sword. A red haze overtook his vision but he saw that his claws were growing. He didn’t understand the power raging through him but it was eerily familiar. “What is this?”

“The tessaiga draws on its wielder’s demonic power and the jewel’s power will enhance that ability. A half demon like you won’t be able to bear that power. It will either kill you or force you to transform into a full fledge demon. If it’s the latter, I can take your fang to repair the tessaiga.” Gear explained. He drew his claws and said, “This will be easier if you can keep your sanity through the transformation but that’s unlikely. I hope your friends are strong.”

“Maybe we should go check on Kuro. He said he wouldn’t be long but he also said that they parted on bad terms. I would like to be there to support him if Gear does bring up the past.” Mahiru told Hyde as he worriedly glanced towards the room Kuro went into with Gear. While he hadn’t told him directly, he knew returning home would be difficult.

A pained scream cut through the air and Mahiru jumped to his feet. His heart sank the moment he recognized Kuro’s voice. He ran across the hall and threw open the door before he could think. He saw Kuro on the floor and he rushed to his side. As he called his name, he knelt next to him and placed his hand on his back. “Kuro, what’s wrong?”

“Get away from me, Mahiru.” His voice came out as a hiss but Mahiru couldn’t leave him when he was in pain. He heard Licht and Hyde enter the room and he looked to them for help. The moment he looked away from him, Kuro pushed him aside and ran to the balcony. He only took a few steps before he stopped again. The grip on his hilt trembled violently.

Kuro turned around and Mahiru could see that the shape of his red eyes had narrowed like a cat. He almost resembled a full demon like Tsubaki. Before Mahiru could call Kuro’s name again, he leapt over them to attack Gear. Mahiru was still trying to make sense of the situation as the two demons fought.

“Well, you have some control over your power if you didn’t attack your mate but targeted me.” Gear mused and casually blocked the swing of Kuro’s sword. “Your attacks are sloppy so you don’t have complete control over yourself. Your demon self is fighting through instinct. I knew this would happen once I used the jewel shard on the tessaiga.”

“You did this to Kuro?” Mahiru yelled. While he was angry, he told himself to focus on helping Kuro. He remembered when the mask took control of his body and forced him to fight his friends. He was scared yet Kuro was able to save him.

His mind raced for a way to reverse Kuro’s transformation. Peering closer, he realized that there was a tainted jewel shard in the tessaiga. He didn’t understand fully but his instincts told him that the jewel had caused Kuro’s transformation. He should be able to purify the shard to save him. First, he needed to stop Kuro or else he could do something he would regret.

“Sit, Kuro!” He used the enchantment to force Kuro to stop. Gravity forced him to his knees yet he had enough strength to raise his sword for a slash. Mahiru ran behind him and grabbed his hand to stop him. He tried to pry his fingers from the hilt but he had a strong grip. His claws cut into his fingers the more he tried to pull the sword from his hand.

Mahiru realized that it was impossible to take the sword from him. He didn’t let go of his hand but he turned to Hyde. “Place a barrier around me and Kuro while I try to purify the transformation. If this fails, we have to keep him away from other humans. Sit, Kuro!”

He repeated the enchantment when the first spell started to fade. He walked around him so he could face Kuro. Mahiru kept one hand around Kuro’s and then cupped his cheek in his other hand. He let his spiritual energy flow into the sword and hoped it would overcome the demonic aura to purify it. “Please, Kuro, don’t let the shard control you. I know this isn’t you.”

He cursed softly when Kuro tried to pull out of his embrace. It was difficult to concentrate on purifying his sword and hold him at the same time. Mahiru looked into his red eyes and saw that Kuro was struggling against the shard’s influence. With the hand on his cheek, he tilted Kuro’s gaze down to him. “I know you’re stronger than whatever this is. Come back to your senses.”

He rose onto his toes and pressed a kiss against the corner of his lips. Kuro stopped moving as all thought escaped him until he could only focus on Mahiru’s lips moving over his. The kiss was shy and tentative but it slowly grew bolder. The weight of the enchantment disappeared but Kuro didn’t stand. He was certain that the kiss had its own power over him.

Once the tension had left Kuro’s body, Mahiru leaned back. The soft love in his red eyes reassured him that he had control over himself again. He was relieved and he threw his arms around Kuro’s neck. He reached up and brushed his bangs from his face so he could see his eyes. Kuro looked down at him and gasped softly. “Mahiru, your fingers. Let me see them.”

Kuro ripped a strip of cloth from his belt and wrapped it around Mahiru’s fingers. While the marks were small, his heart tightened at the thought that he had unintentionally hurt him. He wanted to hold Mahiru’s hand and comfort him but he didn’t know if he should with his long claws. Mahiru must’ve read his thoughts because he tangled their fingers together. He wanted to return his embrace but then Kuro felt a sharp tug on his jaw. Gear stood next to him and pulled out a fang.

“This should be enough to repair the tessaiga. You should fully purify the shard before Ash is overwhelmed by its demonic power again.” Gear told him. Mahiru let go of Kuro and took the sword from him. He ran his spiritual energy over the shard and weakened the demonic power until he could pull it out of the crack.

“You should’ve told me your plan before you forced me to transform.” Kuro glared at Gear. He held out the sword to him. “Where did you get that tainted shard?”

“A young man has been selling these tainted jewels to demons. He’s travelling with your brother but I don’t recall which one. I’m certain you’ll run into him soon though.”

Kuro stood in front of his mother’s grave. He opened his mouth several times to speak to her but he couldn’t find the words. A warm hand fell on his back and recognized that it was Mahiru even before he turned around. His hand moved from his back to take his fingers into his. “Do you want more time before we leave? I can tell Hyde and Licht to wait for us.”

“I thought I should say a few words to my mother before we go but I don’t know what to say. It has been so long since I saw her. I can barely remember her face.” Kuro admitted. He stared at the ground because he was afraid to see judgement in his brown eyes. He knew the thought was silly since Mahiru was too kind and sympathetic to judge him. “How are your fingers? I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t hurt me, Kuro.” He reassured him and placed his finger beneath his chin. Gently, he turned his face so Kuro could see his smile. His claws had cut his hand when he tried to take the tessaiga from him. Kuro bandaged them afterwards and he still felt guilty. He brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them softly. “You stopped your demon self.”

“You were the reason I was able to, Mahiru. I won’t let anything hurt you again.” He vowed.

Mahiru sat on the ground and Kuro did the same. He leaned his head on Mahiru’s shoulder and felt him tenderly stroke his hair. Since his mother died when he was young, he understood how he felt. “Memories fade with time but the feelings you shared will be in your heart forever.”

He held Kuro’s hand against his heart and looked into his red eyes. “I’m sure she has been watching over us but you can also tell her about our journey so far. You can talk to her about anything that’s on your mind too. She’s your mother.”

“It has been so long that I’m worried she would be mad at me. Angry spirits are troublesome.” Kuro felt guilty that he avoided facing his past but he was able to face those regrets with Mahiru by his side. Gently, he stroked his arm. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Mahiru’s soft scent mixed with the flowers and he relaxed.

Mother, I’m sorry I haven’t returned to speak with you. This place never felt like home without you. But I found a new place I belong. His name is Mahiru and I love him. I also reconnected with my brother and I might be able to talk to the others with his help. I’m doing fine. Kuro opened his eyes once he finished. He stood and held out his hand to help Mahiru up. He shook his head and told him.

“Can you give me a few minutes? I would like to give a prayer to your mother as well. I wanted to wait for you to finish first before I spoke to her.” Mahiru told him. Kuro was curious about what he wanted to tell his mother but he didn’t ask. He nodded and sat next to him again. Mahiru folded his hands and hoped his thoughts would reach his mother.

My name is Mahiru. I don’t know if Kuro told you about me earlier. I should apologize for dragging Kuro along this dangerous quest to collect the shards. You don’t have to worry about Kuro because I will stay by his side and protect him.

Mahiru opened his eyes. He placed his hand in Kuro’s and he helped him to his feet. “Oh, I forget to ask you something. You said you and Gear parted on bad terms but you never told me what it was. He held a grudge against you for years and even forced you into your demon form. He still helped you in the end but I don’t approve of his methods.”

“Mother took in Gear when we were both kids. She thought we would become friends but we were different people. We would play together since the other children were afraid of us.” Kuro told him about their childhood as they walked. “My mother passed away and I left the castle. I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving before I disappeared and he never forgave me for that.”

“It must’ve been painful for you to say goodbye to your only friend at the time.” Mahiru could imagine why he left without telling Gear. “You’re stronger now with more friends.”

#servamp #kuromahi #sloth pair #greed pair #servamp kuro #mahiru shirota #servamp hyde #licht jekylland todoroki #servamp gear #fanfiction

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eorzeanharmony · 5 years

Text

Mnemon - Memory

Character: Aethelric Firesoul

The sun sat low on the horizon, its dying rays painting the jagged mesas of western Thanalan in fiery oranges and rich violet. The vista was striking, and the solitary figure making its way down one of the myriad dry wadis sunk into the heat-scorched landscape still had it in his heart to appreciate it, however many times he saw it. The desert was harsh and unforgiving; even without its myriad dangers the land itself would devour an unwary traveler like the jackals that stalked its rocky expanse… yet like such predators, it retained a fierce beauty.

It bespoke the traveler’s relaxed frame of mind, though, that he took any time at all to look at the mountains for their glory at sunset. This was no mission of blood and vengeance, but rather of succor. The large satchel slung across Aethelric’s broad, darkly-tanned shoulders contained not weaponry but foodstuffs and first aid supplies, along with a few small luxuries… spices, tea, hard candies. Simple things, but precious, out here in the wastes. The scarred warrior’s yellow gaze also scanned the cliffs looking for the thin thread of smoke that marked his destination… the cooking fires of a small Ala Mhigan encampment tucked into a series of caves up in the foothills. Usually it was visible by now, but the lack of the thin white plume against the cliffside earned a frown and a slight hastening of his steps.

It was dusk by the time he reached the path up to the caves, and as he drew near, he could see the wide entrance of the main camp black against the paler backdrop of the cliff. But it was wrong… where were the fires, the bustle of lank bodies lit by their light, the sounds of song, chatter, and occasional laughter. The cave’s entrance lay dark and still, as devoid of life as it was when the encampment arrived. Years of experience had taught Aethelric the value of caution, however, and rather than charging up the scree toward the cave, he unshouldered his pack and loosened his sword in its sheath before cautiously approaching from an oblique angle amongst the rocks.

His boots moved almost soundlessly over sand and stone, a surety of step learned over two decades in this blasted waste. Once close, he could see the cookfires… or what was left of them. The ones on the periphery were still intact, albeit dark and still, while the ones nearest the entrance were toppled and scattered. As he tried to gain a better look without exposing himself, he found his footing suddenly uneven, the surface he expected to be solid proving soft and yielding… and not anything that a man should find under his boot. Recoiling with a near soundless hiss, he turned his attention downward to the darkness between the boulders… the dying sun now too low to lend much visibility to the hollows between boulders. But what he’d mistaken for dark stone proved to be none other than a body, toppled limp and unmoving in between the rocks. Scarred fingers found no warmth, though now that he’d ceased travel, he found the air already alive with the soft susurration of syrphids…always the first to feast after a battle. Straining against the darkness, and now that he sought them out with forethought, he could now just barely make out the uneven darkness to one side of the path…not just one body, but dozens, simply thrown down the scree hill into a rough pile.

Aethelric turned his gaze back to the mouth of the cave…where, as he squinted into the darkness, a dim light was still visible, deep within. Stifling a low growl, he shifted his position and stalked toward the cave, yet still without rushing, only sliding his scimitar out of its sheath and weighing it silently in his hand.

A moment was spent at the entrance, crouched down by the stones to one side. Within, perhaps twenty fulm down the passage, lay another pile of what were obviously corpses. Unlike those outside, however, these appeared to have been arranged with some care and what looked like a tarp draped over them… catlike, Aethelric stalked over to them to carefully pull back the corner.

What met his wolf’s gaze brought forth a snarl, unbidden and louder than he’d intended… but even he was unable to stifle the rage building in his heart. Every one of the neatly arranged corpses wore a black and red uniform all too familiar to him and one that raised bile in his throat. All of them also looked to have died from sword wounds… which brought him some small, cold comfort. Letting the tarp fall again, he turned and stalked toward the back of the cave and that dim firefly glow. No longer does he skulk from shadow to shadow… this was a march toward an intended goal, and one intended to result in one very clearly defined outcome.

As he reached the main cavern, the first thing the light beyond outlined was the massive, metallic frame of a Garlean Reaper unit. Aethelric had certainly seen such monstrosities in the past, but never this close, and never this inert. The metallic nightmare simply stood with its back to the entrance and the main chassis canted down to presumably allow its driver to disembark; a silent sculpture in iron death. Beyond lay a small camp… apparently cobbled together out of the remains of the residents’ things, a few crates, an Imperial sleeping roll, and… the sickness rose in his soul again… a box containing the precious items the bedroll’s owner had scavenged from the corpses of the fallen Ala Mhigans. On one of the crates, the source of the glow… no honest fire, but some strange light-emitting device. Of the owner, there was no sign. Cursing his luck under his breath, Aethelric leaned down to pick up the box when he heard an ominous click behind him and froze.

“Well well, what have we here. Seems like I missed one…” The voice was gratingly cheerful, the mocking amusement of someone content in the knowledge he holds all the cards. “Most of you grubby bastards fight like demons, for what good it did you. Where were you, hiding behind one of the sorry excuses for trees they have around here and trying not to piss in your armor?”

Gritting his teeth, Aethelric set the box back down again, but as he started to turn, a shot ripped past his ribs so closely he felt the heat of its passage. “Ah ah. Why don’t you just drop that weed chopper you’re holding. We don’t want any…accidents, heh.” With obvious reluctance, Aethelric stuck the point of his scimitar into the sand beside the box and slowly turned around to face his opponent. With the light behind him, the identity of the Garlean man was unmistakeable… and, now that he looked at him, not in the best of condition. His uniform was ragged in places, he’d lost his helm somewhere, and there was a sunken, desperate look in the man’s eyes that he recognized … How long had these men -been- out here? Now that he could see it, the reaper likewise looked in rough shape, its once-glossy black paint now sandblasted and chipped, rust creeping around every joint and gasket.

“… ‘We?’ Aethelric graveled, thinly smiling. “It seems there is only one of you now… the rest gone to sate Rhalgr’s thirst for vengeance, if I am any judge.” Wolf-eyes narrowed, “Even if you kill me… the desert herself will claim you; you cannot eat firesand or steel. Though I suppose you jackals are not above devouring the slain,” he adds, spitting on the bloodstained sand between them. For all his bravado, though…the Ala Mhigan sought desperately for a way out of the deadlock, but…truth was, he was on the wrong end of a Garlean carbine with a desperate man on the other. Silently, in the back of his mind, he offered a prayer…not to the Destroyer, but to Althyk… if there was ever a time where he needed an unexpected new path forward, this would be it. But…as ever… nothing answered him.

“SILENCE!” The carbine in the Garlean’s hands was shaking slightly, for all that this wasn’t particularly comforting to his target. “… Heh. Actually.. I might have a use for you after all. You desert rats know where the water is, don’t you? Eheh..” The ragged edges of his uniform fluttered in a gust of wind from the entrance. Just for a moment, the soldier glanced back over his shoulder, but then whipped his attention back forward again as Aethelric shifted his weight. “HALT! You’ll do as I say! Or you’ll end up like your filthy cousins outside!” What was intended to be a command cracked as it was given… and yet there didn’t seem to be any cause for it that the Ala Mhigan could see. A flicker of motion caught his eye, though, and he glanced up to the top of the silent reaper, just for a moment. There, above the thing’s dormant hulk drifted a small blue ball of light. A plasmid… not uncommon out in the wastes where the desert had claimed a soul or ten. The Garlean didn’t seem aware of it.

Aelthelric turned his attention back to the man, smiling thinly. “You will find nothing out here but your end, and your bones will bleach under Azemya’s unblinking gaze,” he growls quietly. “Your people know only how to take, and the wages of theft are death.” The longer he could keep him talking, the longer he had to contemplate ways to escape his situation. In fact, he was just about to ready another barb, when his attention was drawn back to the reaper again. There were half a dozen lazily swirling lights above it now… more than he’d seen anywhere other than late at night in the lichyard. With effort, he dragged his attention back to the soldier… and stared. Not at him, but past him. Out in the gloom of the desert night hung more small blue lights than he could count, swirling outside the cave’s opening like constellations fallen to earth. Slowly, they drifted into the cave mouth and gathered above the silent magitek machine with an inexorable deliberation. The Garlean mistook his vague shock and confusion for fear and lowered his weapon slightly. “Heh, you lot really are cowards, aren’t you. Not much better than those lizard things… no wonder you like it out in this dusty hell pit so much…” It was almost like the man needed to talk, as if the sound of his voice alone was enough to comfort his obviously frayed nerves. Aethelric ignored him, staring past him and slightly upward.

By now, the cluster of plasmid motes had become a cloud, swirling amongst themselves like a syrphid swarm, until one broke off and sank through the console of the stilled mechanical beast. Then…another, and another… until the last vanished beneath the reaper’s scarred hull. And, for a moment, there was only dark silence.

Then, abruptly, yet still without sound, blue fire erupted between the machine’s armor plates, racing from joint to joint like flame following a miner’s fuse, until every seam and port was limned in blue lichfire. And -still- the rambling soldier remained unaware… until the machine gave a small lurch, accompanied by a screech of corroded steel on steel.

With a small cry, the soldier pivoted immediately, bringing his weapon to bear on whatever new assailant had snuck up behind him, only to see… initially ‘nothing’, until he registered the eerie glow around the towering machine. Both he and his would-be captive watched in equal shock as the thing rose up on its long legs, tongues of luminous blue smoke leaking from every joint, and with another scream of tortured metal, took a step forward, the sound of its footfall like the crash of a coffin lid.

A terrified shriek ripped from the Garlean’s throat as he snapped, bringing up his carbine to spray bullets wildly against his own machine’s armored hull. Aethelric threw himself to the sand, covering his head in order to avoid the ricochets. The bullets from the light arm simply dug shallow scores in the reaper’s plating as it lurched forward another step… it moved like a puppet with broken strings; jerky and uneven yet with a terrifying strangeness to it that belied the simple action of servo and motor, the only noise it made the wailing howl of rusting steel on steel.

It took only bare seconds for the Garlean to empty his magazine, leaving only ringing in the ears from the report to counter the ominous movement of the machine. That and the mindless click-click-click-click-click of the man’s finger on the trigger of his now useless weapon.

And then, with a long, slow screech that echoed loudly in the cavern… a screech that sounded more like screams than simple mechanics should ever do…. the great black beast simply toppled forward like a falling tree and lay still. As it fell, there was a dull, unpleasantly wet crunch, and the abrupt cessation of sound.

Aethelric laid there, face down in the silent sands, for several moments… possibly an eternity, possibly only a handful of seconds, before slowly pushing himself to his feet. The only thing left visible of the soldier under the collapsed machina’s bulk was a hand outstretched, still grasping the carbine. The Ala Mhigan went to go pull it away but then hesitated, glancing back up at the reaper and taking a step backward. Luminous blue smoke still curled from it, but even now it was fading, leaving only a silent black hulk crumpled on the sand. After awhile, he reached out and lightly touched it before quickly withdrawing his hand and going to collect his sword and the box of valuables. He would return them to those families he could track down.

For now, though, he had a pyre to build.

#FFXIV #Aethelric Firesoul #Halloween writing #ghost story #Mateus

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fire-the-headcanons · 5 years

Text

"Ah, the scabbard's got an ejector." She reached out and pressed a button on the cylinder in Raven's left hand.

BOOM.

An ice-blue blade shot from the sheath and smashed against the wall, erupting into a jagged star of ice. Raven shrieked as the cylinder nearly tore itself from her grip, dropping her sword to catch it with her other arm.

Carmine paled. "Whoops. That's significantly stronger than standard. Are you all right, dear?"

Follow the Beacon Qrow—Whoops

[This really should have been two chapters. Link to Masterpost]

The squat stone building looked more like a warehouse than anything else, except for the various chimneys. A set of metal double doors opened straight onto the shop floor, where a half dozen Huntsmen and Huntresses were doing some kind of work on their weapons at the workstations scattered around the room. At the sound of the doors, one of them yanked off her goggles and Qrow recognized the red-haired professor they'd spoken to yesterday.

"Ah, the Taupe twins! You're early!" she said cheerfully, hopping down from her stool. A couple of the floor's other occupants glanced up, but quickly resumed their work.

"S-sorry," he stammered as she reached them.

"No problem, I could use a break," she said, gesturing for the two of them to follow her into a much smaller room—probably the classroom, actually, from the number of desks. "It'll be a bit quieter in here."

Raven scowled quizzically at the door. "Aren't they old to be students?"

"Well, they're not," Carmine said. "Pro Huntsmen use the schools' forges all the time for upgrades, repairs, what have you. It's one of the main benefits of being licensed. And the kingdoms build a few big, well-stocked facilities instead of dozens of small ones that only have the bare essentials. " She rubbed her hands together excitedly. "But school hasn't started yet, so I'll save the lectures for next week! Let's see what you've been using."

The twins drew their weapons and set them out on the workbench. Carmine kicked a short stool over without even glancing at it and hopped up for a better look.

"Garbage," she said dismissively, flicking Raven's two-handed sword before seizing Qrow's shotgun and popping it open to inspect the Dust assembly. "Though well-maintained. You one-shotted a Beowolf with this? "

"Uh…"

"Again, you did a great job fixing it up," she said, tossing each piece in the scrap bins behind her as she broke it down. "But you didn't come to Beacon to keep using hand-me-downs, did you."

"No, ma'am."

She yanked the Dust assembly free and inspected it. "Hmm. Less terrible." she muttered, setting the assembly carefully back on the bench. "So what do you two have in mind? We don't really have time to forge custom pieces before classes start, but you'll need to use something while we work on your designs."

"Something like that would do," Raven said, looking up at the long single-edged blade hanging on the wall.

"I said basic, not simple," Carmine said. "That's practically a template."

"I want something simple. Easy to maintain."

"Hmm. Y'know, I think the SDC sent something a while back that fits the bill." She stepped down and crossed to a large cabinet emblazoned with the familiar snowflake. "They keep asking me to come and work for them, say they want to expand their weapons catalog beyond just ammunition. As if I'd ever leave Oz hanging like that. Here we are!" she shoved a few rifles out of the way and grabbed a black cylinder.

"What is it?"

"The blade's removable," Carmine said, seizing the hilt and pulling it from the large scabbard. Instead of a blade, there was a nub about a hand's breadth wide for one to be slotted into. "People have been trying to make swords out of Dust for years—the ultimate engineering challenge. Too brittle and rigid. The Schnees' solution was to give you a few replacements." She angled the scabbard so the twins could see the rainbow of different blades inside. "Let's see how it does, shall we?"

She slotted the hilt back into place and pulled the trigger with an audible click. When she drew it again, it held a glittering, blood-red blade. "Looks like they've suspended powdered Dust in some kind of resin. Crystals of this size would cost a fortune."

"Resin wouldn't hold an edge very well." Raven said.

"There's a few steel blades in there too. But with Dust—" Her aura sparked around her hand and the blade ignited. "Not bad for mass-produced! Wanna give it a swing, kid?"

Raven accepted the blade and scabbard—it was definitely a better size for her than the Professor.

"I'm surprised they didn't put a pistol in the hilt, that's pretty standard these days. We can work on some modifications later." She frowned. "Although… I could have sworn there was some ranged component," Carmine muttered, returning to the locker and hauling out a box from the bottom. "You'll want the manual anyway."

Raven inspected the hilt of her sword as the Professor dug through dozens of near-identical books. "Here we go!" Carmine beamed, flipping through one. "Ah, the scabbard's got an ejector." She reached out and pressed a button on the cylinder in Raven's left hand.

BOOM.

Carmine paled. "Whoops. That's significantly stronger than standard. Are you all right, dear?"

"I'm fine," Raven said, strapping the cannon to her belt. Qrow didn't miss the pointed glare she snuck at him over the professor's head.

"A bit excessive," Carmine muttered. "But handy against something big. Anyway! They're manufacturing this with private security in mind, I think, but you know the SDC. You'll be able to walk into any Dust shop and pick up more blades for a pittance." She squinted at the manual. "What do you think?"

Raven retrieved the hilt, careful not to brush anything as flames danced along its length. "It's a good size."

Carmine raised an eyebrow. "Well, uh, why don't you take it outside and get acquainted. I've got a couple other 'basic' options if this one doesn't feel right."

Raven nodded and clipped the scabbard to her belt, turning away.

"What about you, son? How are you with Dust?" the Professor asked, one hand on the cabinet door.

Qrow shrugged. "Kinda lousy."

She nodded, closing the locker. "I always say the modern Huntsmen rely on it too much. Are you looking to stick with dual wielding? Sword and shotgun?"

His face grew embarrassingly warm. "I'd, uh…I'd like to learn to use scythes."

"Scythes?" Carmine looked bewildered.

Qrow stared at the floor, too embarrassed to make eye contact, ears burning like Raven had singed them with that fire blade. At least she wasn't in the room right now. "...Like the Grimm Reaper?" The professor probably wouldn't even know what he was talking about, why would she know about some obscure character from—

"Oh! Those are kamas, more like sickles than scythes. But there aren't any kama wielders at Beacon, you wouldn't have anyone to teach you."

"…Oh." A blanket of disappointment settled over him. He should have known it wouldn't—

"Hey, cheer up! I'm not saying it's impossible, I'm saying it'll be a challenge," Carmine insisted, tapping him on the elbow with her fist. "But you'll need a more conventional weapon too. Something you can work with in class without your teachers coming to yell at me. So, dual-wielding, or combination?"

"Combination." He wanted to be able to use recoil better…and it probably wasn't a good idea to keep mimicking Bones' style.

"Let's try in here." She opened another cabinet and started flicking through various blades. "How about this?"

"Isn't it a little big?" Qrow asked apprehensively as she dragged a massive broadsword out and extended it—the thing was more than half his height, and at least two palms wide for most of its length. It was so massive the blade retracted in the middle to make it possible to wear.

"They don't put a gun this big on a rapier," she said, tapping the shotgun embedded into the blade. "Besides, it's better quality metal than that hacksaw you brought in. Here." She handed it to him, handle first.

It was surprisingly light, barely heavier than his old sword had been despite being twice its size. Now that he was holding it though, he could see the blade was hollow.

"We usually use adamant alloys here, it's far lighter and stronger than steel. The blade's width makes it better for defense," Carmine said as Qrow gave it a few experimental swings. Despite its size, it wasn't too hard to wield one-handed. "It's big enough to kind of use as a shield in a pinch—it'll cover your vitals, anyway. Take it outside, swing it around a bit, see if it feels all right."

"O-okay," Qrow said, following the professor out into the yard. There was ice everywhere, and Raven looked fairly pleased as she swung at a practice dummy. She'd always been pretty good with Dust, even if it was hard to come by at home.

"You two spar for a couple minutes and I'll observe," Carmine said, drawing a small pad of paper from her pocket. Raven shrugged and swapped out the glittering ice blade for a metal one. "Don't let your auras fall below fifty percent, you'll want to be fully recovered by the start of school."

"Yes, ma'am," Qrow said, raising his new sword. Raven copied him and stepped to the left. He mirrored her in turn, and they slowly circled, waiting for the other person to move first.

"I didn't think you'd pick something so simple," she said, swinging down in an overhead strike. Qrow pushed forward, swinging up to knock it away even as he stepped right to avoid the spear of ice that shot from her scabbard. It crashed behind him, tinkling like broken glass as the ice grew.

"Careful, Miss Taupe!" Carmine warned. "That's a bit excessive for practice!"

Raven rolled her eyes, striking at Qrow's shoulder. He knocked her blade away again, fired the shotgun to change the blade's direction more quickly, and swung at her exposed side. She flipped back, taking the strike on the scabbard's case.

"It's just to start with." Qrow grinned. His sword wasn't too different from his old one, but Raven's seemed like it was much lighter. He might actually win today, if he could focus on keeping her off-balance.

He leapt forward, sweeping at her shoulder. She ducked beneath it and struck at his knees—he jumped, changing the blade's arc to plant in the ground and kicked with both feet at Raven's stomach.

She stepped back but not far enough—his foot connected with her hip hard enough to send her stumbling back a step. The momentum carried him over the sword, and he landed with both feet behind it as Raven recovered. She screamed as she leapt forward, swinging at his right ear—he fired again, using the recoil to force the sword out of the ground and into her blade's path.

Whomph. Now it was his turn to sprawl back as her knee caught him in the stomach. He parried three more strikes, trying to regain momentum.

There—an opening—her sword was just a little too far out from her center. He sprang forward and leapt right past her exposed side, swinging at her back as he passed. She raised her left hand from the scabbard and caught it, her aura flashing around her hand under the pressure, before jabbing her blade at Qrow's stomach. His own aura glowed from the impact, and again in response as he knocked a second strike aside with the back of his arm and fired the shotgun to wrench his sword from Raven's grip.

"Tournament rules, for pity's sake!" Carmine screeched, and the twins froze in alarm. "I've never seen such a reckless display!"

Qrow stepped back, heart pounding harder now than when they'd been fighting. What had they done wrong?

The professor took a deep breath. "Miss Raven, I would recommend rolling forward in a situation like that. Grabbing your opponent's weapon may seem like an easy way to win, but it will drain your aura exceptionally quickly and get you disqualified from a proper match. Mister Qrow, a simple kick to the knee would have sufficed."

"Yes, ma'am," he said quickly.

"All right. Well. You'd both better call it quits for the day," she continued, still breathing harder than before. "You should make another appointment by the end of the week, so we can begin customizing your weapons. And do yourselves a favor—look up the tournament rules before term starts. Professor Mikado won't hesitate to give you detention despite your current lack of formal training."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you." Qrow's heart was pounding in the back of his throat, and his knuckles were white on the hilt of his sword. He couldn't see what Raven was doing.

Carmine's expression finally seemed to soften. "…Remember, the rules are there to keep you safe too, not just your opponent. A big part of becoming a Huntsman or Huntress is learning your limits. You and your team have to be able to rely on each other, and that means managing risk." She glared at Raven, waiting for a response.

His sister's face was impassive. "Yes, ma'am."

[Again, Carmine Eitri has nothing to do with Carmine Esclados.

I wanted her to do the "crazy engineer" trope, but make her high-empathy and momlike instead of the usual asocial/"lol wut is human" traits that are common with that archetype, especially when it's a woman. Not sure if I got that across as well as I'd hoped but I love her anyway.]

Next Chapter: Summer—First Impressions

#rwby #rwby fanfiction #qrow branwen #raven branwen #carmine eitri #maria calavera #grimm reaper #the grimm reaper #follow the beacon #mine

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queenofcats17 · 5 years

Text

The Ink Demonth 16

Today is swap, which gives me a chance to write about @dumb-batim-aus Fallen Angel AU. Which I am already working on writing in full. ^^”

Note: Tom is mute, but he knows sign language. So whenever he “Talks”, he’s signing.

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Allison had come to a crossroads. There were two doors before her with a sign pointing to the each. To the left was the one labeled Angel and to the right was the one labeled Demon. She shivered at the memory of the twisted version of Bendy she’d seen in the room behind her.

“Angel it is, then.” She sighed, heading through that door. She could hear something slam down to her right. It seemed she wouldn’t be able to through that door now, even if she wanted.

The room beyond the Angel doorway was filled with ink. It was flooded and ink dripped from the ceiling and stained the walls. There was a desk shoved against the wall and a chair in the corner. The chair had an audio log on it, which Allison probably wanted to hear.

“Great. Another flooded room.” She sighed, stepping into the ink. Well, her clothes were pretty much ruined already. She waded over to the chair and pressed play. She tensed as Susie’s voice filled the room. Her showman voice, not her real one.

“There’s nothing wrong with dreaming. Wishing for the impossible is just human nature. That’s how I got started. Just a pencil and a dream. We all want everything without even having to lift a finger. They say you just have to believe. Belief can make you succeed. Belief can make you rich. Belief can make you powerful. Why with enough belief, you can even cheat death itself. Now that…is a beautiful, and positively silly thought.”

As soon as the tape finished playing, Allison picked it up and hurled it at the wall as hard as she could. The tape recorder cracked and broke, the pieces falling into the abyss of the ink.

“WHOSE DREAM WAS IT, SUSIE?!” She screamed. “WHOSE PENCIL?! IT WAS MINE! MY DREAM! MY WORK! I WAS THE ONE WHO MADE ALL THIS! YOU STOLE IT!” Her breath quickened as 30 years’ worth of repressed anger came bubbling up.

“I TRUSTED YOU!” Allison kicked the wall, tugging at her hair and beginning to pace. “I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING I HAD BUT IT WAS NEVER ENOUGH!” Tears sprung up in her eyes, wiping away some of the ink as they trailed down her face.

“We were supposed to be partners!” Her voice faltered as she was choked by a sob.

“We were supposed to be partners.” She started to sob, collapsing to her knees in the ink. “We were supposed to be friends…” Allison had never had many friends. She’d always been the sort to keep to herself. She’d had…bad experiences with people in the past. She’d thought Susie would be different. But in the end, her ‘friend’ had been just like everyone else. Only interested in what Allison could do for her.

She stood there for a long time, outright wailing and screaming at the ceiling. It felt good to vent her frustrations. She’d kept it all bottled up for so long. Once she felt calmer, she wiped away her tears and continued out of the room. From there, it was down another hallway.

“If I’d known how much I’d be walking, I would have worn better shoes,” Allison muttered. She was glad she hadn’t worn heels, but her flats still weren’t doing much in terms of support. She paused, leaning against a wall for support as she took off her shoes and shook them out a bit. Once she was satisfied she’d gotten most of the ink out, she kept going.

She should have listened to Linda. She should never have come back here. She’d left for goodness sake. She’d gotten tired of being pushed around and she’d left. She had no reason to come back here. But...some part of her had hoped that maybe, maybe, if she came back Susie would the same woman she remembered. The one who had praised her ideas and supported her. The one who was her friend. She missed that Susie. She wanted to believe that Susie had been real. Susie couldn’t have been pretending the whole time, right?

Allison was so consumed in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the Alice cutout that had been set up in front of her until she ran right into it. She shrieked, stumbling back and drawing her sword. Tom poked his head out from around the corner, a smug smile on his face.

“Tom! Don’t do that!” She yelled, sheathing her sword. “You nearly scared me half to death!” Tom snickered quietly, putting the cutout back against the wall.

“You’re the worst.” Allison rolled her eyes, exhaling with a sharp huff.

“Sorry.” Tom signed. “Thought you could use a laugh.” Allison’s irritation ebbed a bit at this.

“Thank you.” She allowed herself a small smile. “I appreciate the effort.”

“No problem.” He returned the smile. He looked a bit awkward smiling, but she was glad he was trying.

“We should keep going.” She said, gently pushing past him.

Through the door was what might have once been a storage room. The room was occupied mostly with shelves filled with plushes of Alice, Bendy, and Boris. Most of the plushes were small and on the shelves, but there were a few massive ones on the floor. And, here too, there were Alice cutouts. Despite the puddles on the floor, the toys seemed mostly untouched. Tom passed through the room without a second thought, but Allison lingered. She stood in front of one of the shelves, letting her fingers graze an Alice plush.

“I should take you with me.” She said, smiling softly at the toy. She’d always dreamed of having merchandise of her characters. Alice was one of her proudest achievements as well. She’d always wanted to have a doll of Alice. The studio hadn’t been nearly successful enough for that when she’d left. Susie really had done a lot without her.

Tom once again drew her out of her thoughts by rapping on the doorframe with his metal hand. She stumbled away from the shelf, mumbling an apology. It was so easy to get lost in her memories in this place. She exited the room to join Tom. He pointed to the switch in front of him and then to the wire snaking down the hallway.

“I need to throw this switch. You need to throw the other one.” He said.

“We need to throw these switches at the same time,” Allison said. Tom nodded, pointing to the wires again.

“Alright.” Allison followed the wire toward where the switch likely was. She paused, though, as she saw a hallway to her right leading to a different part of the level. She could see an audio log on a table. She pursed her lips, glancing back at Tom. He was watching her expectantly, arms folded. She decided she’d get it on the way back. The wire, sure enough, led to a switch. It was right next to a poster of the Butcher Gang.

“I remember you.” Allison laughed to herself, approaching the poster. “You’re not nearly as scary as you look here.” She turned to flip the switch when something suddenly busted through the poster. She screamed, stumbling back. To her horror, a mangled version of the Butcher Gang leader, Charley, got its feet and shambled toward her with an unnatural rasping shriek. She took it down, of course, but it proved to be tougher than the Searchers she’d previously faced.

“Fuck this studio.” She growled, slamming the switch down. She stalked back out of the hallway and down the other one. She jabbed her finger down on the play button of the audio log.

“Alright, let’s go over this again,” Wally said. “If the pressure goes over 45, I screw the safety bolt in tighter, right?”

“No!” Thomas snapped. “For the last time, you do that, you’ll blow every pipe in this place! If it reaches 45, you unhook the safety switch.”

“You sure?” Wally asked. “You know, this sounds harder than comparing ear wax to bee’s wax!”

“Look, it’s not that difficult!” Thomas said. “Just keep an eye on the gauge!”

“Look, pal,” Wally said. “If you think I’m doing my job AND yours, I’m outta here!”

“Oh, Wally.” Allison couldn’t help but smile as the recorder clicked off. She loved Wally, but he could be such a doofus. She turned away from the tape recorder, walking back to join Tom by the door.

“I heard you scream. Are you alright?” He asked.

“I’m fine.” She assured him. “Just another fucked up ink creature. This place is crawling with them.”

Tom snorted. “What else is new?”

“Point taken.” Allison laughed wearily. “Let’s get going.” Together, they proceeded through the open door. They passed through a short corridor lined with gears before coming out in the area with the elevator. There were bathrooms to the right and a wraparound staircase leading down to the elevator. Tom and Allison descended the stairs, pressing the button and entering the elevator.

“You’re so interesting...So different.” Joey’s voice purred out from the speakers. “I have to say, I’m an instant fan. Looks like you’ve got a date with the devil, toots.”

“I was hoping he wouldn’t keep doing that.” Allison groaned quietly.

“Come to me now, Level 9.” Joey continued unhindered. “Just follow the screams.” Tom jabbed the button before shuffling back and folding his arms.

“Yeah, I know.” Allison patted his shoulder as the elevator began to descend. “He’s...Something.” She couldn’t think of the creature dictating them as Bendy. She just couldn’t.

It didn’t take long for them to reach level 9. Allison didn’t recognize this area, but then again, she didn’t recognize a lot of areas she was seeing.

“Come on, step out of your cage,” Joey said as the grating slid back. “There’s a whole twisted world out here.” Allison glanced at Tom, then back at the level before him. Then, taking a deep breath, she stepped out.

#bendy and the ink machine #fanfiction #the ink demonth #batim fallen angel au #allison pendle #thomas connor #tom boris #joey drew #bendy the dancing demon

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minttoy · 5 years

Text

all that we lost

CHAPTER TWO

Summary: Five years since the war has passed. Five years since she joined the Dragon Guard. Five years since she saw either of the princes. One of them is a King now. Rayla doesn’t consider herself blessed. How could she lose so much of herself and gain nothing back? The war has come and gone, and still she’s counting her losses. Amidst this fractured peace, she returns to Katolis to make up for lost time.

Pairings: Callum/Rayla

Genre: Romance/Angst

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

For Chapter 1:

Chapter 1 (FF.net)

Chapter 1 (AO3)

She has a nightmare.

Swords clashing, bodies laying waste, the scent of blood and metal. Someone whispers draconic into the ominous air. There’s an ugly sound, a strangled cry, a loud splat. Her lip quivers as she looks unblinking. Around her, the wind’s whispers turn into screams. The trees hunch and cower in mourning. And then alarmingly, all at once, her vision goes red.

With a choked off cry, Rayla shoots up from the ground, grasps for her sword and strikes it hard halfway through the bark of a tree. Her eyes flash open.

She’s shaking, shivering, drenched in sweat. And then she takes a large breath, as if she’d just found an air socket, and kneels herself over. Her body knows the routine.

Close her eyes.

Plug both ears.

Stay still.

Remember to breathe.

The actions are ingrained in muscle memory, even in disorientation. The bridge, she calls it, from nightmare to reality. Year five and the impressions of war and bloodshed are still inescapable. As a child, she likened them to monsters hunting at night. They feed off dreams, ruin sleep, breed terror. They follow her still, but nowadays, it seems these demons like to tug, nudge, even jab every once in a while. They like to creep slow. They crawl as they please, but rarely in daylight.

The trick is to remember they’re not real, but that stopped making sense a long time ago. All her visions are real and difficult circumstances, conjured with terrible outcomes. Each night is a different mistake. A different failure. A different death. No matter what, the horror is the same: the war rages on.

Every night, she wakes to a different sky, but she’s always thinking, always trying to find ways to be thankful, thankful, thankful. If she doesn’t, then her efforts would have been in vain. So when the shaking subsides, she reaches into her bag, retrieves the small paper book, grips it in her hands like a lifeline.

She write lists. Odd, isn’t it? It’s one way of feeling in control.

She flips to an empty page, begins anew, thinks of all the worthy and wonderful things in the world. Like counting her blessings, but instead she writes them out, so she’ll never forget.

Runaan likes to count, but always up. Counting down is like a race against time.

The first time she caught him shaking in his sleep, this is what he’d done. He blocked out all noise, stared at the ground and murmured softly to himself. Back then, she didn’t quite understand, only knew it was out of character. Unaware she’d walked into something private and personal, she asked what was wrong.

He stopped himself, froze on the spot. And after a few minutes of swallowing his terror, he told her it was nothing.

At the time, she didn’t know to comfort him, so she did the opposite. “Elves aren’t supposed to show fear.”

He was silent for a while and eventually agreed with her.

She never brought it up again, but she doesn’t forget it either. At the time, she used to think he was invincible. Hard-wired, with potent strength. Daunting and efficient, as everything came easy with his speed and skill. Made of metal, because nothing pierced him.

Looking back, she wishes she wasn’t so tone-deaf. She can see now that night terrors run in her blood. The fear in his eyes that night told her things she never knew. He had his own fears, but seldom showed them.

But the morning sun has risen now. These monsters don’t appear in daylight, just spill through on occasion.

The first thing she does is grip the hilt of her blade, try to yank it free from the thick bark of the tree. It takes a few tugs, bends and pulls, but finally the blade is wrestled out. She sits herself on a mossy rock, takes the next few moments to sharpen it with a piece of whetstone. These blades are complicated crafts and she’s been taught to prolong their wear. Since joining the Guard, she’s already had them replaced too many times.

It’s a common practice over there. Coincidentally, so are the demons in the night. Some of the elves at the Guard are damaged beyond repair. Hopeless, too. How strange it attracts some of the most broken people.

Shouldn’t you have known this?

Rayla slows, and then stops sharpening altogether. A sigh, and then she rubs her hands on her face.

Didn’t you ask for this?

Carefully, she sheathes the sword behind her, stares at the patchy grass and her boots. The memories run deep. They are cold and dank, just like the stronghold. A place that seemed like hell in the worst moments.

She glances over to her bag, quickly recalls the night before. Her book of lists. She lowers herself to her knees and fishes it out. Some nights she can list out fifty good things. Other nights, only one. Sometimes it’s the same thing repeated fifty times. What had been the case last night?

She’s about to find out when she hears something in the distance. Rayla pauses, hand frozen on top of the book. She listens close.

Voices. Stomping. Horses. Not many. A small cavalry, but they’re close. The scene rings familiar. She sees herself in the window to the past, but this time, she doesn’t hide. She puts away the book and seals the bag tight, kicks it behind the rock. She reminds herself the war is over.

When they draw close enough, she glances up at them. Three soldiers, three horses and a bloodhound – they’re tracking her scent. She recognizes one of the riders easy enough.

“Rayla!”

The man on the white horse approaches closer. The other two stay a small distance back. She raises a brow, watching as Soren takes his time dismounting the horse. She lets him.

“Long time, no see, huh?” he comments, offering a grin and stretching his limbs as walks over to her. “You here by yourself?”

She plays along, looks around for other company, and then shrugs. “Yup. It’s just me.” To point out the difference, she tips her head to the soldiers standing guard behind him. “What about you?”

“Oh, you mean them?” He points to the troops behind him and she spares them another cursory glance. “We’re just following orders. Looking for you, actually.”

If he’s talking orders, it could only be one of two people. “Did Callum set you up to this?”

He shakes his head and then eyes her with suspicion. “No, King Ezran. Apparently you missed dinner last night?”

The terrible recognition sinks in, like something bitter settling in the back of her throat, and she has to smack herself in the head for forgetting. “Oh…right. Sorry, it must have slipped my mind.”

He waves it off, lightening the mood. “Nah, it’s fine! Think nothing of it. I just need to relay the message that you are A-okay.” She stares blank, not used to his volume and level of enthusiasm. Perhaps Ezran had suspected she left town. Suddenly, Soren hones in on her because he’s not getting the reaction he needs. “Umm, you are okay, right?”

She takes a step back, nodding once. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He claps his hands together, and it’s done with so much spirit she flinches. “Great! You’ll be happy to hear he also extends an invitation for lunch.”

This is when she takes another glance at the other guards. Poised and stalwart. She doubts either of them could boast the same energy so early in the morning. She looks at the man in question and considers the offer. “Do you have an extra horse, by any chance? For the ride back?”

The question is futile as Soren lights up in recall. “Extra horse? Oh, damn. I didn’t even think about that.” He glances around, as if one could magically appear before them. “Hmm, that does make things tricky, doesn’t it?” He scratches his blonde mop of a head and contemplates it for a short moment. “…you know what? I can escort you back personally, if you don’t mind walking, that is.”

Her expression is unsure, and surprisingly, so is his. The first time they’re on the same page. It shouldn’t be a problem, she tells herself, because they live in a world of peace. “I don’t mind. We can walk.”

He nods and waves a simple command to the other guards, tells them to forge on ahead. The horses turn and gallop at speed, carrying them away and now they’re alone. Of course, he makes a grand gesture of it and waves her forward. She picks up her bag, gathers her things and starts walking.

They walk in step as he pulls the reins of his stallion. “Can I assume you came back for the festival?”

That’s been the story so far. “That’s right.”

“I haven’t seen you since the war ended.”

She knew she’d hear it. The most she can do is shrug and spare him an excuse. “I haven’t been back. The last time I was here, I think it was…” her voice trails off as her mind thinks back to the full moon rising that night, her body dissipating into thin air. “…well, you know. You were there.”

It makes her want to crawl into a hole, but instead she plasters a sheepish look.

He seems to brush over it. “That’s so strange. I thought you and Callum hit it off back then. I kind of assumed I’d be seeing you around more often.”

She frowns, casts her eyes down as she walks. “It didn’t end like that.”

They’re silent for a bit. Just the crunch of leaves under their feet and the soft whistle of the wind in their ears. While his eyes are forged ahead, she allows herself a glimpse of him as they walk. Just as she expects, there’s a small limp there. He bears less weight on his left side.

She looks away and grimaces. Seeing it gives the same kind of ache when she bandages what’s left of Runaan’s arm.

“You should get back on your horse,” she pipes up. At the same time, she tries not to sprinkle her words with judgment or concern. “I know the way back to the palace. If you want, you can wait me there.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I need the fresh air and exercise. Besides, I am in much better shape than I was years ago. My limp’s gotten better too. Sometimes, I hardly feel it.”

He did notice her. She just didn’t want him to. Now that it’s out in the open, she doesn’t hesitate to clear the air. “I thought Claudia fixed you up.”

“Claudia used magic.”

The statement hangs in the air.

No need to say what kind. He says it firm enough, but not with any sort of anger. He only points out the two are not the same.

He stretches his limbs, his own way of shaking it off. “I guess you could say I never returned to my normal form.”

It’s become the unspoken truth. That even when the war’s been won, it’s impossible to return where you started. She knows, and even he knows, that he’ll never go back. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, akin to someone talking about an incurable or irreversible thing. It’s the bottom line and harsh reality.

“Does it get easier?” she asks in a slow and meaningful way, because no one walked away from the war unwounded.

He sighs. “Yes and no. I guess you could say it becomes more manageable. With time, of course.” He notices his own downward expression and then turns it around. “But…it’s nothing to worry about. I’m still a knight of the Crownguard, aren’t I? So it’s not like I lost everything.”

She puts on a pained smile, suspects his optimism is a means to cope. Hopeful, but without belief. She chooses to read between the lines. To hear what he’s not saying. Because hadn’t he lost his Father? How could he smile knowing his corpse is still rotting underneath layers of blood-soaked soil, in a land with no cause.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

He seems oblivious, but maybe she doesn’t give him enough credit. “For what? You didn’t cause this.”

It doesn’t matter. She knows the pain of losing something. “…I’m still sorry.”

“Rayla, had I known you had no place to stay for the night, I would have offered you a room.”

Ezran sits at the head of the table and she sits on his left. Her gaze hovers from one pot or plate to another, thinking there are enough bread rolls here to feed the castle. She doesn’t know how to tell him not to do things for her, like fetching her from the forest, preparing meals like this, offering her a room. The gesture is too great.

“I don’t mind. I prefer it, actually.”

He nods, taking a sip of stew. “How was the trip to the Banther Lodge?”

A loose shrug. “It was fine.”

“Brings back old memories, huh?”

“Yeah.”

He turns to her now, eyes on her plate. She’s barely picked at it. “Callum…” he starts, almost sighing. “…I hope he didn’t upset you or anything.”

Her tired gaze turns into curiosity. She wonders if he knows. If he thinks the same. That even after five years past, there are still lingering regrets about how the war was won. If it’s a frequent topic discussed in kingdom negotiations, hushed meetings, locker room talks between guards and generals. She’s curious because she hears it in her own country too, from skeptics and conspiracists and politicians alike.

They act as if the war’s been lost. Refuse to settle past transgressions. Diminish the work she’s put into achieving this frustrating and fragile peace. The thought makes her enraged, fuels fire in her mind. It’s the reason she opted out of politics after the war. Such a peculiar battlefield. A different kind of cold. She translates herself better with swords than with words.

“Not at all,” she pipes up with a forced calm. “We just talked. Caught up on a few years. Exchanged pleasantries.”

From behind, the heavy door creaks and opens. Both of them turn, eyes following Callum as he shuffles along and makes his way towards the table. He looks like he slept three hours. Rayla sinks into her seat because, of course, the moment she lies, opportunity arrives to bite back at her.

“Late, Callum, but how nice of you to join us.” He eyes the way his brother drags his feet across the floorboards with wry amusement.

Callum just offers a phony smile at Ezran’s jab as he takes the seat across Rayla. “Morning, Ez.” He acknowledges her with a nod. “Rayla. Good to see you here.”

“Likewise,” she returns quietly.

Ezran wipes his mouth with a handkerchief and drops it on his lap. He’s been waiting for this moment because he clears his throat, commanding their attention. “Alright, I know it’s early, but I want to get a few things clear since I have the both of you.”

Rayla pauses, bracing herself as she fills with awful anticipation. It’s been five years since the three of them have been in the same room together.

“As both of you know, the festival is tomorrow, which means I’ll be busy with preparations all day.” He leans towards Rayla, offers her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Rayla. I wanted to show you around and give you a proper welcome, but maybe after the festival? I hope you can stay a couple more days.”

She lets out a small sigh of relief and dismisses the apology. “That should be fine.”

He smiles. “Regardless, you’re free to do as you wish during the festival. I’ve taken the liberty of informing my guards to assist you if necessary. If not, I’m sure Callum will help.” Rayla tries to keep a straight face as Ezran turns to his brother, whose attention seems vacant. Either he’s fatigued or his mind is occupied elsewhere, or both.

“As for you, have you made your speech yet?”

He shakes his head absently and reaches for his cup. “I’m…still working on it.”

“What about Lady Freya? Have you received word whether or not she’s attending? I mean, you did send her an invite, didn’t you?”

Callum almost chokes on his drink, coughs up a few times to clear it out of his system. He puts the glass down. Certainly he’s awake now. Rayla peers up from her plate to follow the exchange, watching as Callum glances at her before glaring at his brother.

Ezran thinks nothing of it, just shrugs. “I don’t mean to be a nag, but everything needs to be sorted by today if we want tomorrow to go well.”

He takes a few moments to calm himself. “She, umm…sent a message earlier. She can’t make it,” he says quietly.

Seemingly finished with announcements, Ezran nods and then silence reigns.

Callum resumes his quiet disposition and stares idly at his lap. Ezran’s not far off as he sips his soup like nothing’s wrong. With the palpable tension creeping in, Rayla stares out at the open window, desperate for relief from this stuffy air. There’s no better way to put it than she feels the strain settling between them. It’s rather uncomfortable.

Before the tension silences her completely, she shifts towards the table, eyes latching to a basket of jelly tarts Ezran arranged the night before. It was impolite for her to forget, so she makes good on her promise, grabs a couple for her plate. It’s the first thing she eats today and no surprise, it’s delicious. Ezran’s noticed and he smiles.

Amidst the silence, she mouths him a small ‘thank you’ and the way he lights up gives her a rare joy. Because in that small, fleeting moment, he wasn’t the king. He’s the boy she met several years ago. Looking back, it seemed easier then. Somehow, fate had gifted her purpose. Filled her with enough desperation to bring peace. Enough that she betrayed her kin, took an uncalculated risk, found herself at death’s door. She could move mountains with that determination. At the time, she was just doing what was right. Things are different now.

“Rayla?” Callum pipes up from the other side. The illusion shatters. “I want to apologize for last night.”

It’s Ezran who reacts first. “You told her, didn’t you?”

Callum sighs in exasperation. “Yeah, I did. Go ahead. I know you’re angry with me. But you know what, Ez? I’ve kept it for five fucking years so cut me some slack.”

Rayla leans back in her seat. Funny how predictable the two of them are, having both just lied to Ezran about last night’s affairs. It’s rather troublesome how quickly things escalate when she’s involved.

Ezran stands, bent towards his brother. “I don’t believe it! You told me it was all behind you!”

“It is! That’s why I’m apologizing. I didn’t mean any of what I said. I was just upset.”

“That’s not how it works! You don’t air out your grievances and then apologize for them.”

They’re both standing now, except for her. Something hurts in her chest and this time, she can’t stop her hands from fidgeting and gripping the hem of her shirt.

“Ez, the whole thing is complicated. You don’t understand half of it.”

The topic is a tired one for the both of them too, it seems. “I don’t understand it? Callum, you can’t hold a grudge like that and then go about how we can improve peace. That’s hypocrisy and you know better.”

The timing isn’t perfect, but Rayla stands now, slides her chair back. She lets the creak of the chair against the floorboards interrupt their talk as she shakes off the nervous energy.

“Stop it. Please,” she begs, because this is more pointless fighting. The two of them turn to her and she looks to older one first before talking quickly. “Callum, I accept your apology. I hope we can put this behind us. And Ezran…” She sighs, ignoring the incoming pangs, which are increasing steadily. “…thank you, but you don’t need to protect me.”

She’s not innocent either. Kneeling, she quickly sweeps her bag over her shoulder before squeezing out of the dining table. “I’ll leave you two to sort it out.”

And with that, she heads for the door. She doesn’t spare them a second look, only focuses on making it out. She moves faster than she needs to, because her breaths are staggering and it’s spilling just how unsteady she’s become. Truly, she can unravel in a matter of seconds. She can’t afford to have them know.

She slows down and breathes a sigh of relief when she’s in the hall by herself. A hand reaches up to her heart, willing it to slacken its pace, even as her façade of calm visibly buckles and fades. She closes her eyes, tries to quiet down the dread and panic settling in her chest.

There’s footsteps behind her and she builds herself up again, tries not to hyperventilate even as she feels herself slipping.

“Hey, Rayla? Are you still here?”

It’s Ezran. She turns around in time as he reaches for her left hand to stop her from leaving.

He means no harm at all. His grip is gentle, and yet she yanks back her hand because all of a sudden, it is burning. She begs it not to, but it does. The world slows as a sudden, dreadful sharp pain sears through her hand and travels up her arm. She winces and grits her teeth together.

Fucking hell.

She hunches over, clutches her wrist and holds it close to herself, all the numb and tingly sensations flooding back like her wrists are tied again. She hears the exchange of vows and fancy words. Feels the thread snaking around her skin, sinking its fangs and venom into her blood. For a second, she sees her hand is blackened, crushed by the thin white thread of fabric. So unassuming but deadly. And still, even ten years past, she can’t explain this recurring phantom pain that she’s bound again.

The moment comes and goes, and then she’s snapped out of it. When she looks down at her left arm, it’s normal again. No pain. No binding. No black or purple skin. But now she’s scared to look up and face him.

“Rayla…?” He sounds frightened. “Are…are you okay?”

She doesn’t how long that episode lasted, but he’s seen enough. Sheepishly, she hides the arm behind her. “…I’m fine,” she says, even though she has nothing to show for it.

Concern and sadness paints his face like never before. To ease the mood, she attempts a smile, but it doesn’t come.

“Please don’t tell Callum,” she whispers.

He nods his head slowly and she knows she can trust Ezran to keep his promise.

She breathes a sigh of relief. Carefully, she raises her left arm. Shakes it lightly to get a feel for it again. Not bound, Rayla. Not bound.

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

“You know, I think I have just the thing to cheer you up.”

Out in the gardens, Bait clambers out of the small pond once he sees her.

Rayla kneels down on the grass, gives him a few rubs along the back even though it’s wet to touch. He croaks, nuzzles into her hand and for a second his hide glows to a playful pink. Funny he’s changed the least out of all of them. Grumpy and scowling. It’s how she remembers him and how he looks right now.

“I missed you so much,” she says softly, tracing the spots on his skin. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

He croaks again and the most she can do is pretend to understand. “You’re curious about Zym, aren’t you? Well, he’s grown a lot since you saw him last.” She humors the thought, surveys the garden around them and imagines the dragon. “Hmm…he’s taller than that tree, maybe as wide as this clearing…his wings are probably as wide as that building.”

Bait makes a grunt and she smiles. “Of course he misses you. I doubt he forgets his first friends. Didn’t the two of you play all the time?”

His eyes glower and then she remembers it better. Zym was quite the energetic creature as a hatchling. If anything, it was more like Zym wanting to play and Bait wanting nothing to do with it. Add that to the jealous and petty moments between them and the two made a dynamic pair.

“I know I haven’t visited in a long time,” she starts. “Things are…complicated, at home.” He croaks and she chooses to interpret it as empathetic. “I’m trying to do better, even when it’s hard. I mean…I’m here, right? Finally, after so many years.”

She imagines Bait nodding, agreeing with her.

She casts her gaze to the stone castle behind her. The legacy of this kingdom is both revered and haunted. The night of the full moon, when everything was set into motion, she made a significant choice that eventually changed the world. It was noble, honourable, easy to keep faith, but she paid no mind to the costs. In hindsight, she knows now even noble choices have consequences. She made herself a hero in the war, but an enemy to her comrades. Who knew you could be both? The price was steep, because only Runaan is left and even he is not whole.

Ralya shakes her head, tries to throw off the memory. Instead, she inspects the grounds, assures herself no one is keeping watch or standing guard. That it’s just the two of them.

She glances down at him. “Bait, can I tell you a secret?”

His expression doesn’t change much, or even at all, but she thinks there’s mild interest written there. She reaches for her bag and pulls it close.

“You can’t tell Ezran though. He worries enough as it is.”

He croaks at the familiar name, and she takes it as an affirmative.

She pulls out the small paperback and sighs. “You see this book? This is where I write my lists. Mostly, I write when I’m sad or scared or lonely,” she says softly. And as if the glow toad can read, she opens the book and displays to him the first few pages. She feels rather ludicrous at the moment, but she thinks the effort might be worth it. “They’re blessings, prayers, wishes, reasons even. Things I’m grateful for. I started writing lists because it’s like counting, and there’s no need to go into detail.”

She sighs. It registers this is the first time she’s said it out loud. “It sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

Her mind trails off as she flips to the last page. Her most recent entry, fresh from last night. She furrows a brow at the first word, friend, and then begins to read quietly.

Friend.

Artist.

Prince.

It clicks, because she remembers now who her nightmare had been about.

Partner.

Mage.

Confidant.

Lover.

Hero.

The last line is an incoherent scribble. She lowers the book, uncertainty clouding her mind. It’s odd, because he’d been written in the book before. Several times, but not like this. She’s never painted a picture of anybody with a list of words, like she’s trying to remember them and hold on tight. Perhaps it’s a wish, because she still wants him in her life.

“Rayla?”

She jumps at the sound, snaps the book shut and whips behind her, finding Callum slowing to a stop just a few feet from her. She puts away the book as discreetly as she can before rising to stand. Clearing her throat, she tries not to look so distracted.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he starts, raising his hands in surrender. “I promise I only came to talk.”

She swallows hard and forces a nod, because her mind is still flummoxed by the book. “O-okay. Everything sorted out with you and Ezran?”

He gives her a smile. “Yeah, it’s fine now. No more hard feelings.” There’s a small silence, because she looks on with anticipation as he figures himself out. He clears his throat slightly. “About last night…I just want to apologize again. I had no right to make those accusations. They were out of line. I mean, I used to have those thoughts, but not anymore.”

She shrugs it off. “Callum, it’s okay. Really.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, more to himself. “When I saw you standing there, there were a million things on my mind. I didn’t handle it well and I don’t want you to think I’m angry with you, because I’m not.”

She nods as her heart abruptly picks up its pace.

He lifts a hand to scratch the back of his head as he continues, “I mean, to this day, I still think about you constantly. Everything we did together, and how you made me feel. I always wish you were still here.” He pauses, face flushed deep it almost matches the red on his scarf. “Anyway, none of that showed last night, but it’s what I should have said.”

He’s talking like she remembers. A bit of awkward, a lot of rambling. Finding the right words to say even as he’s speaking. Trying finding the right time. And when he doesn’t know what to do, he spew outs words until someone stops him.

He glances up at her and sighs. “I think more people should know who you are, what you did for them. I wish they could see what I see,” he continues, giving her a sad smile.

She pauses and observes thoughtfully. “…Does it still matter? Even now?”

His gaze turns wistful. “It does, Rayla. Because…we lost so much of ourselves. The war gave nothing back.” His eyes lift to meet hers and she’s a little taken aback by the intensity. It’s not of anger or rage, but grief. The feeling is so palpable her face tightens, turns rigid.

“I was still a child then, and I saw a lot of things I shouldn't have. I lost my mom, my dad and…” You. He gives her a hard stare and then stops short of himself. His expression loses its edges as he casts his gaze to the side. “…anyway, now everyone thinks I’m some war hero. It doesn’t feel right.”

Rayla frowns. “You are a hero, Callum. You saved your kingdom.”

He sighs. “You saved yours too.”

She looks away, uncomfortable.

He glances at her, features sad and delicate. “That’s what I mean. You don’t like it either, when I lay it at your feet.”

She shakes her head. She’s no hero, but the title is a heavy burden. He’s a champion with much to atone and live up to, and sometimes it’s hard to do both. But the world still needs its figures. People to represent hope. Symbols for peace and victory. Living reminders that things are better and the war is done.

Rayla sighs.

“Callum?” she calls softly, waiting until their gaze is levelled. “…I forgive you.”

She watches relief take over him. His eyes are earnest, he smiles with gratitude. He’s lighter somehow, like a weight pushed off his shoulders. The feeling you get when the person you love decides they love you back and forgiveness is just as important. That’s what it feels like.

“Oh, okay. Thank you. You don’t know how happy that makes me.” And suddenly, he takes one of her hands, wraps it in both of his. She feels a spike of panic and familiarity gripping her at the same time. “It means a lot to me. Rayla, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

She tries to smile back, but she makes a mistake – peers down at their linked hands for a second before glancing up at him. He doesn’t miss it. She knows he’s reminded of the void between them, filled with years of space and absence. He can’t reach out for her like before, back when they were comfortable doing this and so much more.

He lets go and her hand falls loose beside her. For some reason, her chest is hurting. It’s a different ache this time. Tinged with longing and hollowness. She thinks of the last time she maintained significant physical contact with someone, a gentle hand on her back or a reassuring squeeze of her hand, and she can’t remember.

He wears a sheepish expression as he looks at the ground. “Umm, thanks again.”

She offers a small smile. Rather boldly, she lifts his chin with a finger so his eyes meet hers. She hasn’t touched him in so long, but it feels necessary. “You’re welcome.”

#rayllum #rayla x callum #tdp rayla #tdp callum #Rayla #callum #angst #romance #dragon prince fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #the dragon prince #tdp rayllum

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insecure-amphibian · 5 years

Text

Making a friend

@nyura-shadowstep and @olliehaldstan because Nyura adores this AU and Ollie wanted to see. This is old writing but I still gotta post it again.

Elliarie knew for a fact that the day she submitted her request to her officer to join the Royal Guard, that she’d make it. She’d stand silently, loyally and with determination in the throne room to directly serve the king.

Years of serving the Alliance militia, as a healer, as a paladin had done her more than good on chances of getting the role, and this job was much simpler than her previous experience in the patrol. Stand around, protect the king. And most importantly right now, make sure no one that wasn’t authorized got in.

She honestly didn’t know how long Varian Wrynn had been missing. No one gave clear answers it seemed. She wasn’t new to people not directly answering questions. She had been apart of the military for seventeen years. But she knew, none of the civilians were allowed to know. When she first was introduced to the royal guard barracks at the basement of the keep it irked her wrong. People sitting around, unarmed, unprepared, drunk off their asses and arguing. Men and women unqualified for the job who Elliarie at the time didn’t realize were hired just to keep suspicion off Lady Prestor’s back.

Somedays the job was easy. Stand around, keep an eye out, hold a sword at your side. Nothing ever went wrong in the keep. Bolvar Fordragon seated next to the child she never realized she’d call king in just a decade.

Other days it was political mess after political mess with a stumbling, presumably orphaned child trying to find his father who was halfway across the world fighting gladiator battles under the lame Lo’gosh. No search party ever worked it seemed. They all worried about their king, desperately wanting the public to know about his disappearance but they... Couldn’t. Lady Prestor forbid it.

Most of her early weeks were a blur. Few things stood out. It was the same lame nothingness that lead her to crave the action on the Stormwind streets. It felt like she never left the keep, she was locked in a vast prison with hundreds of other useless guards, cut off from the world because some liar wanted to gain the trust of an eight-year-old boy.

Elliarie had always felt bad for him. He was young, too young to have a crown, even to understand most of what Fordragon told him about. His mother had died not too long ago, and now his father was gone. The child truly had nothing, and he was to be king.

One day she had been stationed outside of the map room. The king refusing to sit in the throne that belonged to his father while the adults argued about their next decision, not even taking into consideration the thoughts of the boy. Elliarie watched the child sneak through the small crowd of adults, arguing about where to look for Varian next. His face scrunched in some poorly articulated expression that conveyed anger and sadness. Looking back at the adults still practically screaming at each other in the keep, Elliarie tracked the boy as he slipped past the wall into the map room door right behind her.

For a minute her heart ached, fearing the child went away to break under the pressure of ruling far too young. Her face twisted into a worried expression as she darted back and forth between the men and women who had been advising him and the door that had softly clicked behind her. The guard to her left had long since dozed off into a fantasy land, staring blankly at the wall. For a moment she didn’t know if it was in her place to check on the prince, but an instinct she didn't know she had kicked in and forced her to leave her station. Sword lowered into its sheath silently as possible while tiptoeing ever so slowly to the door, only to open it, checking back at the people behind her, too focused on whatever it was they debated to notice the vanishing of not only the prince but a guard as well.

Through the crack she had so far pushed from the door she heard no sounds of sobbing, nor see the prince. Just the banners that decorated the grey walls and the grand map in the middle of the room, figures on it toppled over, others placed she could only assume strategically as markers for Horde and Alliance troops. Slowly the door creaked open and when it was just wide enough she put herself through it, armor only lightly touching the stone frame of the keep, leaving a small scratch on the back of her armor, which she ignored, favoring forcing the door closed as quickly as possible. The sound was soft. Inaudible to the people outside, but blaring loud to the silence of the map room. A rustle sounded to the left side of the room, the sound of things frantically being hidden away under shelves or behind curtains as Elliarie peered around, rounding the small inlet corner of the doorway to reveal Anduin Wrynn. He stood with his hands behind his back straight up looking Elliarie in the face with his best ‘not guilty’ face. His features still retained a bit of that anger he had left with, but we're poorly masked with doe-like eyes.

“My apologies Prince Anduin. I wanted to make sure you weren't… upset. Please don't let me bother you. I just don't want you to be left unattended, I'm sure you understand.” Her voice was heavy with professionalism while still retaining a trace of that softness most adults spoke to children with. Elliarie nodded to the boy who softly nodded back, understanding as Elliarie moved back to the corner of the inlet, standing once again in front of the door, keeping a keen ear out on the young Prince.

For the most part there was silence. Before the rustling of curtains and the sound of struggle to grab something just out of reach. Elliarie paid no attention for a long while. What felt like hours went by, the faint sounds of argument still outside the wooden doors filled her ears. But more clearly the sound of wood and metal clashing each other and the soft voice of a young boy filled the map room air.

“What are we gonna do! We're surrounded!” He said in a high whisper, in his soft high-pitched child voice.

“We're going to fight until the end! Stand ready!” He spoke in a separate modulated voice.

Elliarie peered around the corner, to see the blonde boy sitting on the ground, in front of him where a bunch of the figurines from the map table. Carefully crafted men on horses, Orcs on wolves, foot soldiers of both races, battleships strewn aside for later use of both factions and small color coded houses used to represent some sort of village or so she could imagine. Three of the alliance men, one of which on a horse were circled by the orc figurines both on and off mount with some of their war machines taking up the outermost circle. Anduin shifted each figure as they talked, side to side up and down and reenacted a grand battle where three men single handedly fought an entire army of Orcs. One by one each Orc figurine was knocked to its side by one of the three alliance figures. Though the practicality was off, the spirit was there and Elliarie couldn't help but admire the child acting out entire battles with just what he found in the map room.

She followed what she could of the story, three alliance soldiers who had been the last remaining of their squadron, Officer Pyre, and foot soldiers Quinton and Rascal as they bravely fought through waves of Orc, sparing their lives to make peace with the horde. At one point a third character was introduced, Mar'tag, a veteran orc soldier who shared their ideas of peace between Horde and Alliance and joined them on their journey. She picked up that this was a universe where Thrall was not leading the horde, and instead a tyrant he had simply called 'Warchief Proudwind'. What was a child playing became oddly investing to the woman, she hadn't caught herself staring at all, and she wasn't sure if Anduin had either.

But now she watched Anduin play. Soon the four men came to a grand city carefully set up. But a single orc stood in their way.

“By the order of the Warchief, we order you to stop! Mar'tag, you are a traitor to the horde, you and your friends are given one last chance to give up before you are killed!” Anduin yelled in a very breathy whisper, his voice low in attempt to be scary. Elliarie watched, unconsciously moving from her place, around the corner completely and sitting in the ground, leaning into her hands to watch.

“Gor'tag, brother you can't stop me or my friends! We don't want to hurt you!” He called in Mar'tag's voice.

“You're not my brother! There can not be peace with the Horde and Alliance! Stand down or face the wrath of Warchief Proudwind!” Gor'tag called out, and the group of three men had gasped.

“Mar'tag.. Warchief Proudwind is..”

“He's my brother… I tried so hard to show him the ways of peace.. but he never listened.” Mar'tag said turning to his companions. His features twisting into sorrow as once again he faced his brother.

“I do not want to fight you. If you must kill me, then let me die with honor. But peacefully talk to my friends. Please Gor'tag.”

“An Orc like you doesn't deserve honor!” shouted Gor'tag and he ran forward with his axe, swinging it into the air, and only a moment later Mar'tag's statuette lay on its side in front of Anduin.

Elliarie had sat back and gasped audibly. “He just kills him, like that?” She asked, startling the prince who jumped at the sound of her voice. His cheeks flushed red. Taking the figures of Pyre and Rascal and hiding them behind his back.

“I.. I'm sorry I know I'm not supposed to play with them it's just… I'll put them back right now!” The prince mumbled, bright blue eyes frantically looking between Elliarie and the figures as he scooped them up in his arms, but Elliarie put a hand out.

“N-no.. Prince Anduin. I want to see how you finish the story.. it's okay really.” She spoke, her tone soft and welcoming now as Anduin looked at her and the figures in his hands and arms, before slowly sitting down and setting the scene back up, cautiously he picked up Pyre and Rascal again.. but he wouldn't speak, just held them quietly looking at the ground. Elliarie cocked her head, before realizing he was nervous. Slowly she scooted closer to him, legs crossed as best as possible in her armor as she picked up the figure that marked Gor'tag's position. Clearing her throat she deepened her voice as best she could and moved his figure from side to side.

“Now that he is out of my way, you three with fall against the might of Warchief Proudwind!” Gor'tag shouted, holding his axe to the air. “Lok'tar Ogar, death to the alliance!” As behind him hundreds of orc soldiers appeared through the city and gathered behind the Warchief.

For a long moment Pyre, Quinton and Rascal all paused. Hesitant as they decided how to react. But finally the three were comfortable. Pyre reared up on his horse. Sword raised in the air as he called “For Azeroth.” While Quinton and Rascal both joined in.

The battle was long and dramatic as the three Alliance fought hordes of... Horde. Slaying the charging soldiers one by one while all standing around the corpse of Mar'tag. When finally, the Horde soldiers realized they were outmatched and flead with their lives, and it was down to the trio and the Warchief.

“You damned Alliance dogs! You have no honor, no glory!” Gor’tag howled, holding his axe proudly, covered in bleeding wounds despite his clear loss he stood tall, refusing to bow.

“No Gor'tag. You killed your own brother who only wanted peace… you have no honor” spoke Quinton coldly.

“This is your last warning Warchief. Too much blood is on this land, on our blades and on our armor to be for nothing. Stand down or we will make you!” Pyre growled, hopping off his horse and pointing the very top of his blade towards Gor'tag.

Elliarie paused, looking at the figure she held in her hand and the three Anduin shifted between, as well as the many orc figures strewn across the map room floor. She paused, thinking what a great tyrant Warchief like the fictional Gor’tag would do in the face of death. Would he fall to his knees and accept his death? Would he mourn the loss of so many soldiers and be taken prisoner by these three soldiers? Elliarie would never be able to answer that question since the door to the map room was loudly pushed open and the shouting of a woman’s voice called through the keep. “Anduin! Oh, Light where are you!” A woman rounded the small inlet, looking right at the Guard and Prince. She was tall, slim and gorgeous, her hair long and black as the deepest night, skin a deep tan and eyes a startling red. Katrana Prestor. The noblewoman who had gained the trust of everyone upon Varian’s disappearance. She was smart, she knew how to manipulate the people, how to get them to trust her. She didn’t come off as an evil woman though, just a little demanding. Katrana stopped, staring at Elliarie who had stood up and raised her hand to her forehead in a salute, her body standing tall and stiff.

“Apologies Lady Prestor. I saw Prince Anduin enter the Map room, and I left my post to watch over him.” Anduin had stood up, standing just slightly behind Elliarie looking at Katrana. The black haired woman approached the two and looked behind them at the scattered figures and looked down on Elliarie. The black haired woman was much taller than Elliarie at five foot four, and her red eyes glared with a passion and rage at the guard.

“You are a grown woman soldier. You should know better than to play with the map figures. All you’re doing is setting a bad example. I should have you fired for this, right here right now.” Prestor growled, but Anduin had stepped between the two women.

“N-No lady Prestor, I was playing with them...I-I asked her to play with me..” The young boy looked up to Katrana with stern but equally innocent blue eyes. But Elliarie would have none of it.

“Prince Anduin you don’t have to lie for me. I set a bad example, I should take the punishment. Please just listen to Lady Prestor.” Elliarie spoke, not at all relaxing her stance, other than moving her arm to her side. Lady Prestor looked at her and raised a hand, Elliarie could clearly tell she was trying to keep herself from hitting the woman.

“Clean this up, soldier, now. I’ll deal with you later. Prince Anduin, get into the throne room, Fordragon needs to talk to you.” Anduin nodded, both his hands obediently behind his back as he followed Lady Prestor, who had put the tips of her fingers between his shoulder blades to guide him out, and Elliarie was left in the map room alone.

The mess the two had made was disrupted by Anduin crossing over them, Pyre Quinton and Rascal all knocked over as if they had been slain by some warchief named Prestor. The Orc bodies were far scattered across the ground. None of them were broken thankfully. And after a brief moment, she relaxed. Turning around to face the battlefield. Crouching down she gathered the figures into her arms, carefully balancing as many as she could into her arms before placing them on top of the map where she would organize them into their little bins later. Left on the floor last were the figures that represented Pyre, Quinton and Rascal, and beside them, the corpse of Mar’tag. Slowly she bent down, picking them up one by one and turning them over in their hands slowly, looking at each of them before letting them join the other statues of their type that they blended into perfectly. Gone from the imagination of both Elliarie and Anduin. The door to the map room was pushed open by the woman, she took one sweeping glance over the map room, the banners that decorated the grey walls and the grand map in the middle of the room, figures on it toppled over, others placed strategically as markers for Horde and Alliance troops. Slowly the door creaked open and when it was just wide enough she put herself through it, armor only lightly grazing the stone frame leading her to the throne room. She hadn’t noticed how dark it had gotten, the throne room was practically empty, torches lighting up the throne and illuminating a familiar figure in the middle of the room.

“Ms. Newbury.” Lady Prestor purred in a cynical tone. “Done cleaning I assume?” she asked, her red eyes practically glowing in the darkness of the keep. “I can tell you’re quite tired, but I’m sad to say you’re working a double shift. You’ll be at the station you unlawfully left, all night. And I am also very, very sorry to say that the guards' dinner is over. You’ll have to wait for the morning to eat, serve well and goodnight.” The dark hair woman spoke, turning around and walking towards what had been her bedroom since the disappearance of Varian, turning her head to make eye contact with Elliarie once again. “Don't do what you did today ever again, you're lucky you have a very loyal history to the Alliance. But this kindness won't happen again.” She growled, walking up the stairs, leaving her alone in the throne room. Guards were typically lessened in the nights, more were put outside the rooms of the royalty and nobles who called the keep their home, but the throne room was virtually empty most nights, and it was completely empty tonight.

A part of her knew she'd still be stuck here even if Anduin had taken the blame. Lady Prestor, while good at her job, was an awful piece of human in the mind to the lesser like Elliarie. She didn't have respect for people's feats, just their pockets and social status. But Elliarie refused to argue, not when it would put her entire career and life at stake. It would ruin her to even think about arguing with such a powerful woman. So she bit her tongue, stretched her arms, and stood her post.

The darkness of night casted a peaceful aroma all over the keep, but the breeze from the courtyard door that was just barely short of being completely closed filled the throne room. It chilled the woman to her deepest core, freezing the surface of her armor and nearly completely cutting out her personal body temperature. Long shifts were nothing new. Many were far too drunk to be able to stand their posts. So Elliarie dozed off, staring blankly at a wall trying to distract herself from the lull of sleep or call of cold. Her mind beckoned her into a state of waking unconsciousness, and before she realized she had stopped paying attention, the sun had crept into the furthest corners of the keep. Her mental clock had no clue what time it was, but she threw a useless guess at about late five o’ clock. A small rustling could be heard in the depths of the castle, light bumping of metal, likely from the guards getting ready for their posts and therefore allowing her to be dismissed and catch up on the sleep she had lost. Soon footsteps would lead men and women into the throne room and confirm Elliarie’s theory. None paid the tired woman any mind as they readied for the day, she was passed by other guards, dismissed by the higher-ups, snickering at the woman who stood with dignity, before finally, when sunlight had flooded nearly completely into the keep and the torches were put out, Bolvar Fordragon entered with the Prince, speaking to him about the days events.

Elliarie glanced at him and gave a slight smile before focusing back to the wall, she didn't see if he had seen her or not, but from the corner of her eye she could see him go to his spot on the throne room floor and listen to Bolvar, refusing to sit the throne once again. Through the bustle, she couldn't hear them speaking, but it wasn't long before she felt eyes on her. A part of her said it was Lady Prestors red gaze, so she merely stiffed and maintained her position, but a heartbeat later a familiar young voice peeped up.

“Excuse me, Ma'am. Regent Fordragon said I could dismiss you to the Barracks…” his voice dropped to a whisper. “I'm sorry you had to stay up all night… please get sleep.” He spoke, grabbing her hand and pushing something in it before letting go, smiling and nodding. Elliarie nodded, lifting her free hand to her forehead to salute the prince who had then turned heel, leaving Elliarie in her place where she drowsily made her way to the barracks. Alone in the hallway, she finally looked at what the prince had given her. It was a small familiar figure, wooden, intricately carved, it depicted an orc carrying a battle ax. On the round bottom of the statuette was a piece of paper attached crudely to it. Carefully she unfolded the note and read it, hiding the figure in a small bag on her waist so she could read.

“Gor'tag broke down knowing what he had done, how many he hurt and took the peace the humans offered. They burned all the soldiers and Mar'tag's bodies and finally Pyre, Quinton and Rascal went home to Stormwind with their families and Gor'tag helped make peace with the Horde and Alliance. Thank you for playing with me. I'm sorry you got in trouble.” The note was handwritten, the ink smudged and messy in developing handwriting so crucial to eight-year-olds and there was clearly a lot of love put into such a short letter. When she had gotten into the barracks and got to her small corner of the room she placed the figure and note in a bag sitting right under her bed and closed it tight, stripping her armor and crawling into the poorly maintained mattress she called her own, and very quickly sleep overcame her. And in her sleep, she dreamt of three familiar men, all on a journey to create peace on Azeroth.

#Elliarie Newbury #Anduin Wrynn #World of Warcraft #My writing #writing #Au?#but not really #because I am filthy and gross and you all must bend to my will

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marjiandco · 5 years

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Runaway

Marji wriggled like a caught fish as she tried to reach the rope taute against her right ankle. She spat her hair out of her mouth and shook her head to get a better look. How could she be so stupid? Not even her second day as a runaway and she’s swinging upside down at the ass end of some random sea cave. By the Navigator’s compass she should have...no, now's not the time. She had to cut herself loose before the blood fully rushes to her head. As if on queue brown spots appeared before her eyes.

She reached to her side and pulls out her long dagger from it’s sheathe. She put the blade between her teeth like her crewmembers used to do before a raid and tugged herself up by her pants leg. She grasped her bare ankle, but her clammy palms slipped. On instinct she dug her nails into her flesh to stop which made her yelp. She twisted her head to the side to avoid cutting her cheek as her blade fell from her mouth.

Great she thought to herself as she stared hard at her fallen dagger. The torches along the mossy walls bounced off of the metal, and for a moment, a shadow of herself stared back at her. She stretched as far as she could, her free leg kicked wildly. As if it would make her long enough to reach the ground. She let out a frustrated sigh when she heard the sound of a scuff of a boot against rock. She froze, or at least she froze the best she could. The rope twine groaned as it slowly turned her in the air.

“Would you look at the little fish I caught in my nets.” A voice dripping in gold and honey came from behind.

Marji’s heart leapt into her throat as she turned her head towards the noise. Of all the people to have stumbled upon it had to be him. She whipped around, twisting until her abs ached from the stretch to see a long porcelain white tail and curved sickle horns; it’s the au ra captain of the Floating Coin. He grabbed her by the shoulders and had her face him fully. His eyes like hot coal glowering at her. She flinched back as his chains of silver and gold encircling his horns tickled her cheeks.

“Or is it kit? I never know with you miqo’te children.”

He had a toothy grin. Some of his teeth replaced with gold fangs as his blue tongue darting out to tickle his lips. “Now how did you manage to swim down here? Heard of my stash of delicacies perhaps?”

“Let me go.” Her voice stutters more than she wants, grabbing hold of his hands but his grip is tight against her shirt. Her heart hammers against her chest. Of course the first ‘bounty’ she hears about and it’s his. On her ship The Maiden she was never allowed on raids, but she’s heard the whispers and stories from her crew. The pirate who could elude The False Merchant and knows about Mamaci’s most guarded treasure. Marji felt heat rise in her cheeks at the last part, embarrassed to be considered some piece to be hidden away. It was part of why she wanted to run away and stand on her own, but now she wasn’t so sure. Not in this man’s hands.

He squinted at her, looking between her eyes. She closed her eyes. Maybe he hadn’t recognized her yet. “Eyes like gemstones….could you be?” there almost sounded like a laugh in the back of his throat.

Marji lets go of his arms and slaps him as hard as she could. He jumps back in shock, cradling his cheek. He doesn’t growl, or grimace at her; he smiles.

“Oh of course it’s you.” He cackled. It would sound friendly if his other hand wasn’t resting on his saber. “Of all the people to stumble...and you just wander in. Tell me,” he stopped his snickering. His eyes bore into her. “How is my dear Merlona?”

Marji clenched her jaw and felt her bones pop as she lunged up her leg, scrambling to release herself from the rope near embedded into her leg. She feels his hands clench her shoulders, his well maintained blackened nails pulling her away and letting her drop and swing. She flung out her hands, reaching for anything that could stop her movements when he grabbed her by the back of her shirt and yanked her back. The sound of steel leaving its leather sheath and there’s a coldness at her throat. Sweat bled into her eyes. She’s been hanging upside down for so long that stars seemed to dance on top of his shoes.

“I don’t know who that is.” She panted.

He clicked his tongue and sliced against the rocky ground. She jumped at the sudden spark of metal tearing through the earth. “That was a pitiful lie. I’ll cut your jaw if you try it again. Though, I’m sure someone will pay beautifully even if you are slightly damaged. Anyone would for a piece of the False Merchant’s treasure.”

Marji recalled his own tales. The man who could sell anything and take anything. Who only cared for bigger and bigger rewards and could escape any trap set for him. A slippery character bathed in riches whose crew was fat with spoils. He was a terror on the high seas and no army ship much less a civilian one could withstand his crew. A man who never hides his presence as he picks the bones of ships.

She felt his sword fall from her neck and heard a strange ripping noise. All of the sudden she was on the ground. She lay there, trying to regain focus as the heat travelled away from her face.

“Maybe I’ll keep you for myself.” He says, gazing down at her with a mixture of curiosity and malice. “A trophy. Appropriate addition to my collection, wouldn’t you say?”

She rolled over to her hands and knees, shaking her head as she tried to stand and falls. She must have been up there longer than she thought. He walked around her and knelt down. He put two long fingers underneath her chin and gently lifted her up. There was something strange in his eyes, a memory that she was afraid to ask of him. “I know someone who would want to meet you.”

“Enough!” A booming woman’s voice echoed, the crack of crushed rock right after.

The corners of his mouth tugged back, all pretense of kindness vanishing like a diminished flame. The au ra took Marji up by the forearm, twisted it behind her back as he pulled his saber underneath her throat, pushing her close to his chest. His stolen baubles and stones pinched against her skin, and she could feel his jawline scales just above her ears. But she wasn’t afraid of him, she was afraid of the woman staring daggers across the cave. Mamaci is going to kill Marji if she lives.

“Let her go you swivin’ bastard of a lizard.” Mamaci growled.

She felt a rumbling chuckle as her captor raised his blade, tilting her head so far she had to stand on tiptoes to avoid being cut. Mamaci snarled, her grip tightening on her axe. The au ra’s heartbeat was steady, his hand almost loose against his weapon. Marji realized; he wasn’t scared of her, and Marji realized something was wrong. The cave of treasures that happened to have him; the torches still lit even though this place was supposed to be abandoned, how he recognized her so easily. It’s a trap. Mamaci must have read her face, as she took a step forward the man pulled her forearm upwards until she groaned in pain.

“Marji! Stop, let her go now or so help me-”

“Oh she’s too valuable for that. Not when she’s been so helpful as bait.” He leaned down and touched his horn against her head, a rough stroke against her scalp. He whispered low in her ear, making them flatten and her breath hitch. “Sorry about this darling.”

She felt the blade start to dig into her skin and she kicked back as hard as she could at the same time as Mamaci rushed forward, the swing of her axe pulling forward with the ferocity of her aether.

“Now!” Shouted the au ra, pulling his blade away and pushing Marji forward into Mamaci’s path, making them collide together as the lights extinguished in the cave. Marji’s arms shook as she grabbed her throat and Mamaci pulled her into a rough hug.

“Navigator guide me I thought-” But she was unable to finish her sentence. They were pulled apart, Marji by the ankles and Mamaci was left by herself. Marji couldn’t help it and let out a scream before she was thrown back into two burly people who roughly grabbed her by the arms and tied a dirty cloth around her mouth.

“Marji! Where are you?”

No one else could tell, but Marji heard the tremor in Mamaci’s voice.Marji sucked in air through her nose, trying to calm her hammering heart. She has to help Mamaci, somehow. She can’t be the damsel in distress. Not anymore. She shut her eyes and waited for a few seconds then opened them again. She may have a seeker’s name, but her body belonged to her keeper blood. She could see in the dark. Everything had a blue hue as she blinked slowly, realizing there was bioluminescent algae in the waters. The Au ra captain had glow in the dark tattoos drawn all over his body. He had removed his shirt, bones and a sharp skull littered all over his body.

She watched him tilt his head, listening with his horns. So that’s how they can hear. “Keep the girl restrained boys. Can’t have her interrupting.”

Marji groaned as the grips on her arms tightened. She spun her head, assessing the area. Men and women hid amongst the stalagmites and crevices of the cave, their clothes matched with the background. He knew who she was this whole time, just stalling until Mamaci came to rescue her. Her nostrils flared. She’s so stupid as to wander into the first trap she could, and her...her Mamaci could be killed because of it.

Marji, with a half baked plan, jumped up and stomped down on the toes of the man on her left. His grip loosened as he yowled, the other man turning to ask what was wrong. Marji flung her arm out of the ones grip and launched herself and felt the crack of teeth meeting at her head slammed into the jaw of the other. She ripped herself away with such ferocity that she fell backwards and rolled over. With her head clearing however she was able to regain herself and darted into an empty part of the cave. She ducked beneath a flattened boulder as one of them shot wildly with his gun. She shrunk and closed her eyes at the sudden bursts of light and waited for him to be stopped by angry crewmen.

Those two out of the way, she scanned the area and found Mamaci and the gold captain circling each other. He giving taunts, trying to goad her into attacking first in the dark. Marji was proud to know she was too smart for that; Mamaci wasn’t a fool. Beneath his feet, her dagger glowed blue from the algae in the area. A beacon for their escape. She crept forward, running whenever the two captain’s came to blows. After what felt like eons, she managed to grasp the handle and scramble back.

She thought for a moment, hoping for something cool to say.

“Hey! Shite for teeth!”

That wasn’t it but it did the trick. He turned, and she rushed forward and stabbed him in his sword wielding arm. Panic blossomed in her chest as blood spurt out of him so easily. It ran down her hands and the sight of it filled her with terror. Without a second thought she left her dagger embedded in him as he yowled in pain. She grabbed Mamci’s arms and tugged her back, trying to lead her through the darkness and far away from this danger.

#marji writes #marji #ffxiv #so #this takes place way before the calamity #shes like #15/16 years old #shes tired of living on the same 100 ft ship for years and wanted to break away #ittle did she know #she was coddled on the ship and not equipped to handle the dangers #especially if her adoptive mom made enemies #mostly this is a scene for me #because i couldn't stop thinking about this and the 'gold captain'#him and his ward are a new addition to marji's backstory and circle later on

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homesteadchronicles · 6 years

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Title: What a Fine Wish (Beyond the Gates of Glory) Series: Radiata Stories/Valkyrie Profile Characters: Mikey & Lenneth Valkyrie Chapter: 1/3 Word Count: 1,932

Summary: Mikey's unexpected encounter with the evidently divine could both change his opinion of the supernatural and present him with a proposal he cannot refuse.

Author’s Notes: As of late, I have drowned myself in the fanmade support conversations in @unassumingvenusaur's project for Fire Emblem: Fates/Awakening. Throughout my most recent readings, I realized how well that series would work with my favorite game of all time, Radiata Stories. Having support conversations between the countless characters in this game could add an additional layer of depth to each person and their relationship with their fellow teammates. That being said, I devised a handful of potential supports between my favorite characters in Radiata Stories and decided to turn this one into a full-fledged story!

Click “Keep Reading” to read the piece in full! If you would like to read the original piece on AO3, click here!

Mikey could recount from memory every ancient legend, of dragons that threatened their world and the unsung soldiers that slayed them, be they human or inhuman in origin. But songs of the gods? Tales of fictional deities? Stories of supernatural saviors? Only humans needed gods. Humanity invented divinity to supply them with the power they could not themselves manifest. Mikey knew each god by name, but believed in none. Now, he wondered whether those fairytales contained a facet of truth.

Mankind proclaimed Cairn Russell as a god amongst men - a champion of humanity, born of a bloodline fated for tragedy and triumph in kind. To stand before him in a corridor of distorted dreams shook Mikey to his core. Even Jack faltered in the face of his father. That ever-assured smile withered when confronted with a family member-turned-enemy, his hand wavering overtop the hilt of his sword. Cairn spared his son the pleasantries. Their pain was to be settled not with words, but with weapons.

Cairn nearly conquered them in but a moment’s time. His orb-blessed blade tore Fan from the sky before she could conjure a barrier to keep him at bay, her wings flickering before fading entirely. The frenzy of his former plague served as fuel for his fury, countering even Galvados in strength and in passion. Before long, the behemoth fell before his sword.

And then there were two.

Despite countless victories against unthinkable odds, Cairn still retained one tragic flaw - mortality. No man could escape his inevitable end, and Mikey intended to dig a grave here and now. In the end, Cairn proved himself a man no different than any other. He, too, succumbed to his destiny: death.

Mikey witnessed as the fabric of Cairn’s lifeforce unthreaded itself from reality, dissipating the apparition of the knight that once was. See? Mikey thought. No deities here. Just another human playing god.

As Jack stared at Cairn’s new resting place, Mikey distributed medicine to his teammates, helping each to their feet in turn. “Sooooo,” Mikey said when both Fan and Galvados stood resurrected, “where do we go now, boss?”

Mikey had expected Jack to crumble, buried in despair. Instead, he turned towards his team with that same, unshaken smile. “Not a clue!”

Jack slid the Arbitrator back into its sheath and shrugged. “How am I supposed to know where to go with all these stairs? It’d take forever to follow them all!” He huffed, and Mikey caught a glimpse at the child beneath the leader. “Maybe it’s best we split up. Everyone take their own hallway and meet back here when you find a way outta here!”

Mikey knew no worse idea than that. Had Jack Russell never read a single story? Every time that the team splits up, something terrible happens to one, if not all, of them! Then again, Jack and reading did not a realistic couple make. His teammates complied without protest. If even Fan neglected to complain, then Mikey would make no such objection. He hurried on his way with but a longing wave to his wayward friends.

Direction did not reign in the Distortion Corridor, instead surrendering to the chaos that threatened to engulf it. Even gravity relinquished its rule over reality, Mikey soon realized, as he stood upside-down atop a stairwell that led further down into this seemingly endless underworld. When the world righted itself once more, Mikey could scarcely stand. He needed any escape he could take. Yet the only option available to him came in the form of a staircase rising high into the heavens.

Mikey took the risk.

One after another, the steps welcomed his presence with a pulse of unearthly light. Each step further from the next than from the last. A trick of the mind or an enchantment to muddle it? Mikey could not say for sure. He wondered whether he even wanted to know the answer. Mikey stumbled up, step by step, until he reached their summit. He collapsed atop the apex, gasping for air.

“Are you lost, little one?”

The unexpected conversation sent a startled Mikey slipping down a stair or two. He propped his gaze up from the stairwell to find a woman of unfathomable wonder. Inquisitive eyes greeted him at the top of the staircase. He swore they shone with the same emerald radiance. Waves of silver hair adorned a head crowned with a feathered helm. Azure armor coated the length of her outstretched hand, the straps of her bracers weaving up her arm to embrace the breastplate fastened round her torso.

Mikey refused her offered hand. He had only one question: friend or foe? “No!” A lie. One they both knew, at that. “Well, I was. Not anymore.” Mikey rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his shorts.

The woman straightened in kind. The sword strapped to her waist clacked against her grieves before retreating behind the folds of her skirt fabrics. “Then you know where we now stand?��

I might be in hell, Mikey considered. Or heaven? Maybe I’m dead. Or this is all a dream! Just like in my stories. He only hoped they stood somewhere outside the Distortion Corridor.

Mikey opened his mouth to respond when his eyes caught sight of what lay beyond the woman. Golden gates, resplendent in their unrivaled glory, stood stalwart against the wall. Where they led, Mikey knew not - but he knew he wanted to.

“...maybe not.”

The woman hummed with amusement. “A good answer. Few understand it.” She continued on towards the gateway. Mikey found himself following. “Well then, what is it you seek? Me - or what I defend?”

Mikey furrowed his brow. “Neither.”

The woman stopped dead in her tracks. The heel of her grieves skirted around the stone floor. He had expected to find fury in her eyes, or perhaps confusion. Instead, he discovered something akin to sympathy. Or condescension? He could never tell between the two. “Everyone wants what I guard, child - whether they know it or not.”

“Not me. I’m looking for my friends.”

Her expression softened. “Then you’re in luck - many friends of yours lie beyond.” Her gaze rested on the bars of the gateway. Her eyelids sank, lips drooping. “They very much would like to reunite with you.”

Mikey released a sigh of relief. “Phew! I was starting to worry I’d never find Jack again!” He started towards the wall without hesitation. “Here he went, going on without me! Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“I’m afraid your Jack does not rest beyond these gates.” A moment passed, and the woman corrected her claim. “At least, not yet.”

Mikey turned towards her once more. “Then...what about Fan?”

She shook her head.

“Galvados? You know - big guy, all red, scary horns? You can’t miss him!”

“I’m afraid not.”

The hope that had lifted Mikey’s spirits disappeared. With this newfound disappointment, his heart sank deeper into his chest. “Then...they left me behind?” His gaze met the ground.

The sound of metal sweeping across stone signalled her approach. Only the careful caress of her hand on his shoulder caused him to meet her eyes. Empathy poured forth from her pupils. “Many leave before we wish them to.” She squeezed with surprising strength. “Do not fear, child. It is my sworn duty to guide lost souls home again.”

Home? Mikey could not conceive of this stranger knowing his home. He had stood guard at the gates every day since time immemorable. He would have remembered a woman of her magnitude. “You know of the Forest Metropolis?”

Silver locks spilled down her shoulder as she tilted her head. She furrowed her brow, exposing her suspicion for but a moment, before stating with the utmost certainty, “I know of a metropolis more beautiful than any forest could ever hope to be.”

More beautiful than the Metropolis? Not a chance. Mikey had dreamt that the world beyond their motherland could compare to that of their makeshift shelter. Yet his travels with Jack and company had only proven that nothing could surpass the nostalgic comfort and natural charm of the forest. If she spoke true, then that meant… “It sounds like something out of a fairytale.”

That appeared to please her. “The written word could never encapsulate its majesty.”

“And...you could take me there?”

She nodded. “If that is your wish.”

“My wish?” Mikey echoed. “Are you...a djinn?”

Melodious laughter echoed throughout the corridor. “I am much more than that.”

The woman extended her hand towards Mikey. In her presence, Mikey felt pulled towards her palm. His fingers gravitated towards hers without willing them to, yet he did not resist their draw. If a world of such wonder existed, he wanted to see this storybook kingdom with his own two eyes.

He took her hand in his.

“Miiiiiikeeeey?”

Another voice, another startle. Mikey spun to face the source, only to find none.

“Hellooooo? Anybody home?”

Such a familiar voice, yet for a moment, he could not recall its owner. With the utmost caution, Mikey approached the entrance to the chamber. “...Jack?”

With his head stretched overtop of the stairwell’s summit, Mikey found Jack none too far off. Jack stood more than halfway up the steps, his hands cupped around his mouth. His eyes scanned the horizon before finding Mikey. Indignation painted his expression. “There you are! Where the heck have you been!? We’ve been looking all over for you!”

Jack hurried to reach the top. Fan fluttered behind him on newly-healed wings. Last but not least, Galvados ascended the stairwell with all the grace of an ox in heat.

Mikey motioned towards the woman and the world she defended. “I was talking with…” Yet, when he turned to invite his newfound friend to meet his comrades, she had vanished - along with the gateway she guarded.

Jack raised an eyebrow. “The wall?” His clammy hand mussed Mikey’s hair. “You weirdo.”

Galvados howled with laughter. “Little man talk to wall. Like broody hero in fantasy story, yeah?” His gargantuan hand clutched his comparable belly as he bellowed.

“I wasn’t talking to a wall!” Mikey’s cheeks burned red with rage. Once-open hands instinctively clenched into fists. “There was someone here - a lady!”

Fan grinned with devilish intent. Mikey recognized that look - it meant trouble for whoever she directed it at. “Oh ho, imagining the ladies now, huh?” She elbowed Jack. “You must be rubbing off on him.”

Jack drew back, hands resting behind his head as he balanced on his heels. “Nah, it’s all those romance novels! Kid’s always got his head in his fairytales!”

Mikey snatched the hat off of his head, too embarrassed to engage in their games. Instead, he tugged at the loose strands of blonde that Jack knocked astray. At least his hair could hide his shame. “How did you three find me, anyways?”

“You cackling, remember?” Galvados replied.

“We could have heard it from Helencia,” Fan amended.

Jack smirked. “It was kind of creepy.”

Laughing? Mikey thought. But I never…

Mikey lost the opportunity to complete his thought as Jack tugged on his arm. “Come on, chuckles. Let’s go home. I’ve had enough of this place for one day.”

His teammates hummed in agreement, Fan already plotting her next prank with Shin and Galvados his hunt to come. As Jack dragged Mikey out of their twisted prison, Mikey could not help but look back one last time at the place where his potential savior once stood. Still, it sat empty. Had it all truly been a dream?

Yet as they descended the steps, Mikey swore he heard her laugh one last time.

#fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction friday #radiata stories #write #writer #writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #ao3 #ffnet #archive of our own #valkyrie profile #lenneth valkyrie #valkyrie #jack russell #galvados #fan #fandom

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gillytweed · 6 years

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Hanged Men and Angels - A Critical Role oneshot

Whoop whoop, finished another one. This time around it’s an AU about how Molly met Yasha. I see so many fics making Molly the one who’s suffering so I decided to switch it up a bit. Feel free to see it as shipping, but personally I see them having a close sibling vibe.

It was interesting what one came across when you traveled everywhere. Small town, large city, tiny settlement that couldn’t even be called a hamlet, they all had secrets. Some were boring, like the typical “Miller cheated with the Farmer’s daughter,” others were unsurprising like “Young Nobleman dead after being far too involved with the local crime,” and then there was this town. A small close knit town a ways down south. Seemed normal enough, a few odd characters here and there on the road, but really who was he to judge. However, the closer they moved towards the town, the more uneasy he grew.

“Molly, when we get in take Bosin and get a replacement wheel for the cart.” Desmond strode by, barking out orders to everyone he passed. Molly simply exchanged glances with Bosin and nodded. It wasn’t an unreasonable order, if delivered a little sharply. One of the carts back wheels had been damaged when they’d road over some particularly rough terrain, and at best it looked like it would survive a few more miles before properly breaking, thus getting a replacement before the inevitable would be wise.

Once they’d set up camp, the large carnival tent looming tall, he and Bosin made their way further into town. The unease grew, feeling like a tightness in his chest and a slight shake in his limbs. He hid it behind his usual swagger and grin, but he couldn’t help how his eyes darted everywhere, the need to be cautious pressing on his mind.

He stayed near Bosin, asking around the small market square until they, with some difficulty and wary looks, managed to find the only wainwright in town. The man lived almost on the very edge of the settlement, only a road away from farmland and the local lumber mill, but as he and Bosin continued with their task the tightness in his chest grew, almost becoming a tugging that pushed him forward.

They came to the wainwrights workshop, a large building that almost resembled a barn with a bold hanging sign that declared the shops name and services. A ways past it, a bridge arched over a twisting river, the road curving around a gnarled old oak tree, before stopping at the doors to the lumber mill.

The sight of the building made him pause, making Bosin swerve with a huff to avoid running into him. The half-Orc looked at him for a moment, debating whether he should ask, but instead turned with a sigh, pushing into the shop and leaving the Tiefling alone.

Leaning against the short fence that ringed the workshops front yard, he took out his cards and began to shuffle. The urge to keep his hands busy was overwhelming as he looked at the lumber mill. He shuffled the cards several ways, eyes never leaving the lumber mill. It was like any other mill, a large wheel turned by the roaring waters of the river, tall sturdy supports, nothing remarkable whatsoever, but it intrigued him.

“Molly,” Bosin’s voice jolted him from his thoughts, two cards slipping from his fingers and fluttering to the ground. “Got the wheel, lets go.” Bosin didn’t wait as he hefted the new wheel over his shoulder and began walking. Molly bent and scooped up his cards, pausing for a moment to check what they were.

The Angel and the Hanged-man.

Molly couldn’t sit still as the Carnival began. His leg bounced as he read fortunes, his smile a little more forced than usual whenever the Angel or the Hanged-man was drawn. Even Orna commented on his odd behaviour, which he waved off like everyone else’s inquiries.

The tightness in his chest hadn’t eased, instead it had grown worse. It was like a tugging on his lungs, hooking on his ribs as it tried to pull him with great urgency. He had a hunch about where it wanted him to go, and as soon as the last of the evening��s patrons were through the entrance, he was off.

This late at night, the town square was essentially empty, just two of the local guard on patrol and a few alley cats skulking in the shadows. It was rather simple slipping past, staying just out of the lights reach as he skirted the edges of buildings and darted between patches of darkness. The rest of the streets were similarly quiet, a guard or two, maybe a night creature, but nothing more. No candles flickered in cottage windows, and the hanging lamps at each street corner were weak and guttering. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that the local folk had fled, leaving their homes empty and abandoned.

Despite the easy travel, the way to the wainwrights felt far longer than it had that morning. Maybe it was because of his sense of urgency, or the slow closing of his throat, but the time seemed to stretch on forever as the moon slowly ascended in the sky, casting silver shadows across the ground.

When he did finally reach the workshop, equally silent like the rest of the town, the tightness eased and for the first time that night he managed to take a deep, shaky, breath. The tugging continued, more gently now, almost like a guiding hand resting on the small of his back, directing him further down the road, over the bridge, and up to the doors of the lumber mill.

A flickering light shone from beneath the door. Odd, considering the rest of the town was eerily dark. Pressing close to the door, he tried to hear if anyone was inside. It was quiet, the only sounds being the rustling of the wind in the trees.

Then a piercing scream of pain had him jerking back.

Hands on his scimitars handles, he slunk around the side searching for a window, and attempted to peek inside when he found one. The glass was far too dirty to properly see through, coated in dirt and sawdust, but shadows moved across the space, intangible and imposing. Swallowing, he scrubbed away the dirt in one small corner, allowing for a slightly clearer view.

Inside there was the expected equipment, the smudged outline of the large table saws and lumber piled on the far wall. In the middle of the room were two figures, one kneeling and restrained by chains that stretched their arms out and away from their body, the other one tall and muscled as they circled the other predatorily. He couldn’t discern the sex of either, the glass still too filthy to see much detail.

He flinched when the standing figures hand darted out, grabbing something on the kneeling ones back and yanking, drawing another agonizing scream. He felt the tugging in his chest again, like claws digging deep into his flesh were pulling him back towards the entrance. He wasn’t even aware of what he was doing until he’d pulled open the mill doors and drawn his blades.

Now properly able to see the situation, his breath caught in his throat.

A young woman knelt in chains, crimson blood pooling around her knees. It dripped down her arms from where her wrists were bound by manacles, the metal having worn into the skin. Her head hung against her chest, dark hair falling to cover her face. A man stood behind her, hands bloody and eyes wide in shock.

Molly stepped into the mill slowly, shoulders hunched as he held his swords ready at his sides. His thoughts raced and a foreign anger crawling up his throat. There was no conceivable reason he could think of that would justify this.

Finally coming to stand in front of the woman, he could see the resemblance between the two. Sharp features, pale skin, and dark hair, although now he could see the black faded into white in the long hair of the woman. He felt the skin of his face and chest burn with rage

“Is this your daughter?” The man was far too old to be her brother and the physical similarities were undeniable. The man swallowed visibly, his eyes never leaving the tiefling and his glinting blades.

“Is this what you do to your family?” Molly stepped forward, raising his swords to a more threatening stance. He didn’t remember his birth family, but the very thought of someone hurting anyone at the Carnival, his new family, made his blood boil. To hurt someone you were supposed to love and cherish was unthinkable to him.

The man turned quickly, lunging for one of the axes hanging on the wall. Molly, lifted his swords to defend, but darted forward, nearly slipping on the slick floor, when the man swung towards the chained woman.

He managed to swipe the axe away with one of his swords just before it hit the woman’s back, and with another swing the handle was sliced through. The metal head fell with a thud as a spray of fresh blood splattered on the floor. The man tumbled back, falling and slumping against the wall as blood bubbled and dripped from his mouth.

Molly didn’t move, blades at the ready until the man stopped twitching, body going limp. Lowering his swords, he looked down, surprised to see two different coloured eyes looking up at him, one green and the other a soft lavender, both clouded with pain. Suddenly the adrenaline seemed to drain out of him, now replaced with worry and concern.

Licking his lips nervously, he sheathed his blades and knelt down so they were eye level. Closer now, she seemed younger, more a girl than a fully grown woman. Bringing his hand up to brush hair away from her eyes, he felt pity squeeze his heart when she flinched away from his touch.

“Hello,” He spoke softly, like he would when Toya came to him after a bad dream. “My name’s Molly.” The girl remained silent as he looked at the chains binding her wrists, the skin torn and bleeding from the harsh metal. “Let’s get you out of these, hm?”

More silence as he glanced around quickly for the keys before drawing a lockpick from one of his coats many pockets. It took a few moments of careful maneuvering but the lock came undone easily enough with a soft click before the cuff fell open.

The girl let out a pained breath, wet sounding like she was close to tears, as he carefully removed the cuff and helped her tuck her arm tight against her body. He was surprised she wasn’t in tears already, considering the blood and obvious agony.

The other cuff came off with the same amount of ease and the girl practically collapses against him once she was free. His arms circled her torso instinctively, but he was quick to lift them from her back when she let out a pitiful whimper of pain. His breath caught at the mess of bloody feathers that came away on his hand, everything clicking into place.

She was an Aasimar.

“Oh you poor thing,” He murmured softly as he adjusted his hold on her to offer more support. One of his hands found her hair, fingers running through it in slow gentle strokes. She slumped against him, her body growing limp as she gave in to her obvious exhaustion. When he pulled away, tilting her head just a little to see her face, she looked barely conscious, eyes glassy and half lidded.

“I’m going to get you out of here, alright?” She gave an almost imperceptible nod in response as she struggled to remain in the waking world. “Can you tell me your name?”

She blinked up at him, then managed to breath out “Yasha” before her eyes fluttered closed. Her breathing evened as she fell into unconsciousness, and Molly heaved a deep sigh as he tugged her on to his back, realizing how tall she was as her feet brushed the ground. He wasn’t a particularly strong man, but he was determined not to leave the poor girl. Groaning with effort, he stood, bouncing a little until she settled more comfortably, then without looking back at the gruesome interior of the mill, slipped out the door.

Returning to the Carnival took a long while, needing to take time to rest as well as waiting for the perfect moments to dart past any wandering guards, but he managed. He could still hear the show going when he made it back to camp, the sound of objects being crushed and broken telling him it was nearing its end.

Being as gentle as he could, Molly hoisted Yasha into the bed of the main cart and up onto the cot Gustav generally slept on, laying her on her stomach so she wasn’t pressing on her wounds. He pulled out the Carnival’s healer’s kit from under the cot, tossing the lid open and grimacing at the lack of supplies within. There were a few bandages and a pot of salve, but that was it.

Looking Yasha over, he winced at the mess that was her back. Bloody and broken clumps of feathers, torn skin, and what looked like the small shafts of growing feathers littered her shoulder blades. Her head rested on a lumpy pillow, her face turned towards him. Even in sleep her face was creased with pain, eyes flickering restlessly under their lids.

Sitting for a moment, he gathered himself. First, he needed to get rid of the blood, then he could worry about tending the wounds.

Grabbing a bowl of water and cloth, he set about wiping away the bloody mess. For the first bit, the cloth would catch on the broken feather shafts, making Yasha whimper in pain and him feel a stab of guilt. He quickly realised that following the direction of the feathers caused the least pain, and clumps of blood and feathers soon came away, falling to the floor in limp piles.

He was half way done when Gustav hopped up into the cart, the man paused at the bloody sight before him. “Do I want to ask?” He simply sounded tired when he spoke, resigned more than anything.

“Probably not,” Molly shrugged as he got back to work, making more feather clumps fall. Gustav sighed, grinding his palms into his eyes before dragging his hands down his face.

“I’ll go get Orna.”

Molly sat with his back resting against Yasha’s cot, listening to the soothing rhythm of her breathing as he shuffled his cards idly. She’d fallen in and out of consciousness over the last couple days, but she looked better than the night he’d found her. While still pale, her skin was cleaned of blood, and the broken feathers had been removed.

The feathers that had managed to survive where small and soft, downy and newly grown. That, along with the scars that littered her skin, told him that what he’d stumbled upon hadn’t been the first time. The thought made his skin crawl with anger, and for a moment he wished he’d left the man alive, simply so he could go make his death far more agonizing.

A small groan had him turning, a small smile quirking his lips when he saw Yasha’s eyes open. Her gaze was unfocused for a few moments, but sharpened when she let out a small cough, the jolt shifting her back.

“How do you feel?” Molly asked, keeping his voice soft and movements relaxed.

“Awful,” The answer was blunt, her voice a croaking groan. “Like someone ripped my back open.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Molly shifted onto his knees so he could get a better look at Yasha’s back. He and Orna had decided against bandages, not wanting to accidentally damage the remaining feathers, so instead they’d soaked cloths in water mixed with the last of the salve and laid them over the wounds. “But I think you’ll live.”

That drew a soft huffing laugh from her, then a groan as her back shifted. He sighed empathetically as he adjusted the cloths. It would take a long while for her to heal, the only issue being with whom.

“Do you have anyone in town that could help you?” She stiffened at his question, her lavender eye gazed at him critically. He could practically see her mind turning as she tried to find the meaning behind his question.

“It was a public mill.” She replied, promptly turning her head away from him, but it was all he needed to know. If the mill was public then anyone could use it, meaning the entire town probably had known what had been happening yet had done nothing. He was suddenly very glad they were leaving soon.

This girl had no one, much like him when he’d woken weak and ill on the side of the road, memory gone other than the whisper of his name. The Carnival had shown him kindness, so he was determined to pass the kindness on.

“Well then, I guess-” He was interrupted by the appearance of Orna hopping into the cart, her face stony.

“Guards are coming from the town. Do we need to hide her?” Yasha turned back to look at them both, gaze wary, and slightly fearful if he had to guess. Molly watched her for a moment, chewing his lip. The guards would be looking for her, and if they were caught the entire Carnival would be in deep shit.

“Ah fuck it,” He huffed a sigh and properly stood, stepping over to the large chest where they stored the performance tents canvas. “In here.” Orna considered him for a moment, eyes narrowing suspiciously, then nodded.

He began shifting the canvas to create a sort of nest for Yasha to lay in while Orna helped her sit up and don a large shirt that had been graciously donated by Bosin. Together they helped the tall girl stand and shuffle over to the chest, easing her down as gently as they could. Yasha held in her pain well, only letting out soft grunts and gasps. She groaned tiredly once she’d been settled in the canvas, curled with her knees tucked up against her chest. It was a tight space, but it would have to do.

“I’m going to cover you as best I can. Don’t move until we tell you, even if we open the lid got it?” Molly waited for her to nod, then began covering her in layer upon layer of fabric until it looked just as it had before. Finally, he stuffed his coin purse in one of the chests corners near her feet, closing the lid just as a guard clambered up into the cart. His weight made it shake, armour clanking as they swayed side to side.

“Oi, what’s in there?” His voice drew another guard over, the man peering in over the carts edge. “Open it up.”

Molly tried not to let his nervousness show. Glancing back at Orna, he saw her perched on the bed, space miraculously clear of the medical supplies they’d been using. Silently sending a thankful prayer to the heavens, he began stuttering out an excuse, trying to remember all he’d ever learned about redirection and trickery.

“Well, I- you see gentlemen, I hardly think you need to-”

“Oh we need to, we’re investigating a murder, and nothing is to be overlooked.” The guards gaze hardened, eyes glinting.

Molly fumbled with words for a moment, then he heaved a sigh, making it sound like he’d been caught red handed. He turned with slow shuffling steps and lifted the chests lid fully to reveal the mass of canvas. “We use this to store the tent, but I-” He reached down and grabbed the coin purse, hand gently brushing Yasha’s foot.

He hefted the bag, the coins clinking within. He smiled sheepishly and the guard rolled his eyes with a huff, interest now lost. He did a cursory scan of cart, eyeing the two Carnies before turning on his heel and hopping down. Once they were gone, both he and Orna let out relieved sighs.

In case he needed to repeat the act, he returned the coin purse to the chest, resting his fingers on Yasha’s ankle gently. “Stay in here until I come back, we’ll handle this.” He felt the touch of fingers on his wrist, gentle, like she was trying to convey a million things in the brief moment of contact before he drew his hand away.

They’d been delayed in leaving for a few hours, but once they were on the road and several miles from the town, Molly lifted the chests lid and shifted the canvas aside. He couldn’t help but smile when Yasha’s face was revealed, relaxed and soft in restful sleep. Once again, she reminded him of Toya, someone who needed care and protection. Until she was healed at least.

He’d saw and felt her muscles as he’d tended to her. There was little doubt that she was strong and capable, simply weak from her injuries. A little time and she’d be back on her feet, able to do who knows what. The signs of her strength meant it was no doubt impressive, and he was sure she’d fit right in if she decided to stay.

‘Maybe she’d want to join the Carnival as a strong woman?’ He thought to himself idly, setting the chests lid off to the side before settling on the bed. He wasn’t foolish enough to try and move her on his own, so it was best that he left her to sleep.

His fingers brushed through newly grown feathers carefully, applying salve to the last of the healing scars. He felt Yasha shiver under his touch, hunching a little bit away, then straightening to allow him to continue. He shuffled a little bit closer on the bedroll, his crossed legs almost pressed against her back. Flickering candle light filled their tent, allowing him to find the places without salve rather easily.

After a good month on the road, Yasha had healed well. The wounds had closed, leaving raised ridges of knotted scar tissue, but her feathers had grown back to create a soft dark covering on her shoulders. Some places were a bit patchy where the scars were a bit too thick, but overall they were barely noticeable with how densely the rest of the feathers had grown in.

Once he was done, he patted her shoulder gently then moved to put away the healing supplies. As he did so, Yasha slipped her shirt back on, then her cloak. He’d discovered she was much the opposite of him. Quiet and prefered to cover her oddities where as he was loud and proud about his own. It was an interesting dynamic, but one that worked well, or at least he thought so.

“Shall we go get dinner?” He asked as he stretched, making his back pop deliciously. Yasha nodded, heaving a deep sigh as she stood, then pulled him to his feet. They’d started sharing a tent a week or so after they’d left her hometown, a good arrangement considering it seemed like Yasha was the only one besides Toya who could handle Molly’s presence for such a long period of time.

They slipped out of the tent after putting out the candle, and joined everyone else around the evening fire. A spiced stew was bubbling over the flames, the strong smell making his stomach grumble in want. Without a word they sat down on any spots available, squishing onto the two logs that Bosin and Yasha had dragged over earlier in the evening.

Molly smiled as Toya skipped over to Yasha, who smiled kindly as Toya began chattering softly then clapped happily when Yasha allowed her to braid her hair. He’d been right when he thought that she’d fit right in. Toya had taken to her almost immediately, and the rest quickly followed, even Desmond had seemed to like her, or at least tolerated her better than he did Molly.

Taking out his deck of cards, he began shuffling, letting the action soothe him as he reveled in the feeling of being surrounded by his family. A strange family, but family nonetheless. He felt relaxed and protected with no need to worry knowing that they all had his back. They took care of their own after all.

#my writing #Critical Role #critical role yasha #critical role mollymauk

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tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 6 years

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Unique Weapons, 2: Blades, bludgeons and bows of all shapes, sizes and mysterious backgrounds. Heroes and villains across fiction can often be immediately recognized by their signature weapon, causing the weapon itself to be an iconic part of the character. From Perrin’s spiked half moon axe to Roland’s enormous sandalwood revolvers, the jedi’s lightsabers, Arya’s needle, Legolas’s bow, Wolfwood’s Punisher, Detritus’s Piecemaker, the bride’s katana, Bond’s Walther PPK, Robin Hood’s longbow, Jason’s machete or Indiana Jones’s whip, a weapon can even function as a physical manifestation of the character’s personality. None of these weapons are intensely magical in their own right but can serve as the physical basis for family heirlooms, legendary artifacts and magical or masterwork weapons. Alternatively they can be found as loot and become part of a PC’s distinctive appearance, allowing the player to become fully immersed in their character’s look and feel. —Note: Some entries call for the DM to “Roll a Random Weapon” which simply means that the DM can roll from the pregenerated lists on this blog or choose whatever weapon they feel would be appropriate for the situation.

A shortsword whose grip was forged from a pale ivory-like material that's smooth in parts and rough and porous in others. The pommel of the sword is an oddly contoured knob and Knowledgeable PC's can determine that parts of the weapon were created using materials taken from the arm bones of a humanoid.

A beautiful recurve bow (Composite bow statistics) made for a tall being. It appears to be constructed from layers upon layers of glued and compressed maple leaves of many different autumnal colors. It's functions perfectly well and is surprisingly sturdy despite its leafy components.

Roll a Random Weapon: A worn, ancient weapon, heavily tarnished with use. It lacks adornment and is coloured in drab muted grey tones. When wielded by a creature capable of casting druidic spells or nature based magics, the weapon transforms into a masterfully made version of itself that lacks a single nick, dent or imperfection. The weapon is bathed in rich vibrant hues and seems to project a small aura that sharpens and intensifies colours around it. The weapon returns to its dull appearance whenever not held by a creature capable of casting nature based magic spells.

A two-handed mace with a thick, slightly bent shaft of antler for a haft that has been polished amber by antiquity. The based is capped by a gnarled socket of bronze, while the head is vaguely shaped to form four battered bulbs and made of a deep blue, mercurial metal that's harder than iron.

A plain wooden sheath containing a two-handed sword with a silver dragonskull pommel and an archaic crosshilt. When drawn from its sheath, the sword groans awake, emitting chains of smoke and filling the air with the sounds of creaking wheels and a chorus of hopeless moaning. Any blood that falls on the blade instantly boils and turns to ash.

Roll a Random Weapon: The weapon is inexplicably made solely of a crystal clear, glass prism. The glass has been magically enchanted to be stronger than steel and the weapon is as flexible and functional as a typical one of its type. The transparent material refracts even the weakest light into a rainbow of colours that shine in all directions.

A curved dagger with a gold scabbard worked in strange symbols. Fine gold wire wraps the hilt, which is capped by a ruby as big as a man's thumbnail, and the quillions are golden-scaled serpents baring their fangs. The bearer of the dagger gradually becomes more suspicious and distrusting of the creatures around him. A long term bearer could develop full blown paranoia and refuse to trust anyone. These feelings fade slowly on their own when the creature no longer carries the dagger.

A mace with a partially hollow head that contains a small chamber closed off by a set of iron grills. The chamber can be filled with pitch, oil and rags, coals or other flammable objects in order to be set alight. The mace then serves as a torch as well as a weapon which can free up a hand in a dark dungeon. While the reduced weight of the mace does make it less deadly when unlit, the heat and flames of a burning mace balances out its lethality. When lit, half of the weapon's rolled damage is fire damage and the rest typical for a mace. When unlit, the hollowed mace only deals half its rolled damage.

A long katana that constantly emanates a pale green mist from the blade. The symbol of a thundering storm cloud is etched on the grip of the weapon. Small winds can be seen whirling around the sword and harmless thumb sized tornadoes form when the blade is first drawn or the wielder is angry.

Roll a Random Weapon: The weapon's grip is wrapped in perpetually pure white linen from which a network of thin golden veins extend outward. When held, the wielder's mind is filled with thoughts of redemption, righteous vindication and protecting the innocent.

-Click Here for homebrew Masterwork Weapon Bonuses to give these objects even more personality and mechanical benefits.

-Or keep reading for 90 more weapons.

—Note: The previous 10 weapons are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

Roll a Random Weapon: The weapon's grip is wrapped in dark purple leather from which a network of thin black veins extend outward. When held, the wielder's mind is filled with dark thoughts of cruelty, senseless violence and causing harm to innocents.

A greatsword with a blade made from a light, translucent metal and a pommel bearing a beautiful ruby. The wielder can feel that the weapon's power is dormant, lying ready to be awakened by a worthy being.

A gleaming white scimitar with a wavy hilt and similarly patterned blade.

A cane blowgun with a prayer to the forest gods carved onto its length.

A heavy stone greatclub with bone spines drilled through it.

A steel dagger concealed in a special sheath in a pair of boots. The dagger is clearly unused, its blade is sharp and polished to a high sheen.

A six-foot quarterstaff whose surface more closely resembles stone than wood but weighs little more than a staff of oak. Visible along its length are faint images of various foes caught in defensive postures, appearing almost as though they had been suddenly turned to stone and etched into the staff.

A dagger made from the tooth of a giant purple worm. The monstrous creature the tooth comes from is capable of chewing clear through stone. Without the worm’s massive jaw strength behind it, the dagger is simply incredibly durable.

A morningstar, consisting of an oaken tree-limb embedded with 23 obsidian spikes

A cutesy, steel warhammer, sized for a halfling.

A sharp scimitar made of the thick, yellowed, thigh bone of an unknown creature. Its grip is wrapped in sinew, assumingly of the same creature.

A short sword with a long, leaf-shaped blade, which is damasked with serpent-forms in red and gold. Fiery stones are set on the strange, yet light and strong, metal. The blade gleams and displays marvelous workmanship.

A broad, flat club carved from driftwood, lined with the razor sharp teeth of a great white shark. The wielder can choose to deal either piercing, slashing or bludgeoning damage when they attack. Whenever the wielder rolls a natural 1 on a hit with this weapon, they must roll an additional 1d4. If the roll is another natural 1, roll damage as normal and the weapon shatters, dealing half of the damage to the wielder as well as the target.

A straight-bladed tantō (Short sword statistics) with a small, circular hand-guard that gives off white streaks of pure magic when swung.

A heavy maul made elusively of wrought iron with blue patches on each end of the head. While in the bearer's possession, the creature will prefer to sleep nine hours a day instead of eight and will seek out the odd afternoon nap. The bearer suffers no penalties for not partaking in this additional sleep.

A lance of maple carved with scenes of lovers dancing and kissing. While held, the bearer feels a strong sense of calm and ease.

A karambit-style dagger fashioned from the claw of a large predator, with a wrapped sinew grip.

A glaive of steel sharpened to such a fine edge that it almost cuts to look upon.

A set of 12 wooden war darts, all carved with ancient runes beseeching the old Gods for true flight.

A sickle with a crimson colored steel blade that when swung, smells strongly of freshly spilled blood.

A well balanced morningstar with large, polished spikes. When wielded, a dull yellow glow similar to a sunrise emanates from the spikes.

A grimy dagger of dwarven design. The maker’s mark suggests that it used to belong to royalty

A petrified bone club with an obsidian head.

A crude shortbow made of treated bone with braided sinew bowstring.

A longbow carved from purple heartwood with bright steel fixtures and a black bowstring.

A quarterstaff carved from heartwood, bearing ornate symbols of nature along its length.

A hunting knife and a sheath which sharpens and oils the blade (And only that specific blade) every time it is sheathed.

A slim bamboo quarterstaff that is a quarter of the weight of a normal quarterstaff but much more fragile. Whenever the wielder rolls a natural 1 on a hit with this weapon, they must roll an additional 1d4. If the roll is another natural 1, roll damage as normal and the weapon shatters, dealing half of the damage to the wielder as well as the target.

A slightly curved longsword with only a single bladed edge. There is an etched symbol of a heron on the base of the blade. The longsword doesn’t rust and never need sharpening.

An iron dagger that is slightly longer than the palm of a hand, but wide in proportion. It appears to also have never been sharpened, with an edge that would not cut much more than butter. The hilt is made of deerhorn and wrapped in gold wire.

A steel spike shaped implement with a curve on the base where is turns into an attachment of sorts. Knowledgeable PC's will recognize this as a spiked bayonet or “pigsticker” that can be affixed to the underside of a crossbow. It's used as a last resort for crossbowmen and allows the wielder to make a melee attack with the spike. If the wielder is proficient with crossbows they are also proficient with the bayonet which is treated as a dagger attack, but only deals a single point of damage on a hit.

A blowgun made of bone with red and brown cord wrapped around it for a handle.

A light pick whose blade is made of a vibrantly purple colored steel.

A three-pronged mace made of black iron and fiend-leather. Knowledgeable PC's will recognize it as the scepter of a recently slain devil lord.

A black, lead flail whose head is sculpted to resemble a pair of grasping tentacles.

A curved iron dagger with dried blood on the tip. Its cross guard is slightly wobbly and cured leather is wrapped around the weapon’s handle.

A greatsword forged from silver, with black runes etched into its blade.

A war scythe with a blade of the purest obsidian and a handle made of dark ironwood.

A short sword of exceptional quality. The sword's blade is a polished silver colour with curling patterns and designs etched along the edge. The quillons of the sword have the designs of a sun and crescent moon pressed into them, and the pommel is in the shape of a silver rose. This sword feels supernaturally light and balanced in the hand of a wielder who acquired it thought legal or honorable means.

A bastard sword with an aquamarine crystal fitted into its pommel and smaller slivers of the gem scattered throughout the blade.

A leather brace or quiver containing 3d10 blunted Throwing Weapons or Ammunition specially designed to hurt but not seriously injure the target. The weapons deal nonlethal or stun damage and cannot critically injure or kill a target.

A crude rapier made of a single piece of sharpened whalebone with a seal leather grip bound in sinew.

A double-edged battleaxe that always feels wet to the touch. Barnacles cover the weapon and it emanates a strong briny smell.

Roll a Random Weapon: This weapon radiates evil and profanity like a sour odor that permeates any creature who keeps it on their person for any length of time. The constant influx of immoral and selfish influence can wear on the bearer's mind and long term owners are never quite sure if they wield the weapon, or if the weapon wields them.

Roll a Random Weapon: This weapon radiates goodness and radiance like a fresh breeze that surrounds any creature who keeps it on their person for any length of time. The constant influx of positive moral and compassionate influence can wear on the bearer's mind and long term owners are never quite sure if they wield the weapon, or if the weapon wields them.

A single headed greateaxe bearing a steel blade with silver glowing sylvan runes carved on it.

A grim longbow made from twisted black wood that slowly seeps poisonous sap.

A pair of spiked gauntlets made of pale silvery metal, inscribed with jagged patterns and numerous sharp edges

A brass handled mace topped with a large spiked conch shell, that's as durable and lethal as steel.

A pair of knuckledusters made of large cowrie shells that are as durable and lethal as brass knuckles.

A silver-plated, steel longsword with a large jet gemstone set in the hilt

An ebony quarterstaff capped at both ends with highly polished brass that constantly emits a quiet hissing sound.

An oak lance carved with spirals in such a way that the wood looks as though it was shaped and grown into a weapon rather than carved into one.

A falchion (Short sword statistics) with a segmented, fully rectangular blade, similar to that of a cleaver. The entire weapon is forged of a pitch-black metal. Embedded in the weapon's hilt, is a yellow, crystalline cat's eye.

A scimitar with a jet black blade, inlaid with three rubies along each side of its blood red hilt. The pommel holds a large ruby cut to resemble a rose in full bloom.

A dagger which was never fully completed. It is just a blade and tang; the blade is sharpened and hardened, but the hilt was never finished. There is a strange swirl mark on the blade, and the weapon itself has a slight Random Colour.

A bastard sword with a curved golden blade with a translucent edge and an ivory grip and pommel. The weapon shines with an unnatural brightness and is lighter than an iron sword of the same size.

A leather whip studded with coin-size, dagger-sharp, overlapping half-moon blades.

A quarterstaff made of an unhealthy looking, dark purple wood capped with an unknown blue metal on either end. It randomly emits whispers that are on the barest edge of the wielders hearing.

A folding pocket knife (Dagger statistics that deals half as much damage.) entirely made from tempered and sharpened glass with a smooth glass handle. The crystal clear glass is as strong as steel.

A long, cedar wood quarterstaff with a single red rose at the top end. The rose is always in full bloom and never seems worth for wear despite what may happen to it.

A longspear consisting of a thick ash haft topped by a broad leaf-shaped head made of an unknown stone

A crescent battleaxe consisting of a thick haft as long as a grown man's thighbone, with three-quarter moon iron blades attached at each end, their planes perpendicular to each other.

An extraordinarily thin greatsword whose twin fluted blade has a long tapered thin and edged on both sides. Its surface is a strangely mottled oily blue, magenta and silver. The sword's rounded grip ends in a pommel consisting of a single sphere of hematite.

An ancient single-edged longsword sheathed in a bronze-banded boiled-leather scabbard. While wielded during times of intense anger, bloodlust or rage, the weapon emits a deathly high-pitched keening sound and begins to take on a strange shivering blur.

An antlered hornwood longbow with a bronze-banded, boiled-leather quiver containing 15 rune-etched stone-tipped arrows.

An enormous iron warhammer with a copper wrapped handle.

A massive two handed double weapon that is a crescent-bladed battleaxe on one end and a studded mace painted with the word "SATRE" on the other. ---Note: The wielder can attack using either end of the weapon as a normal two handed weapon, or can attack with both ends of the weapon at once using whatever two weapon fighting penalties exist in your system.

A tip-heavy, black bladed scimitar.

A battleaxe with a wide, half-moon shaped blade on one side, balanced by a thick metal spike on the other. Whenever the weapon is used in combat, the wielder can hears the faint howling of wolves in the distance.

A longspear with a spiraling blade that has a metal crossbar approximately halfway down its length.

A pike with a metal crossbar on which is attached a war banner of red, bearing a circle in the middle, split by a sinuous line. One half of the circle is black, the other is white.

A battleaxe with an oversized head bristling with spikes and a long, thick haft that only barely counterbalances its weight.

A broad-bladed bastard sword with nine heavy rings threaded through its spine, providing additional weight to add to the force of its impressive chopping power.

A longbow made of black yew, with a bowstring constructed of tightly wrapped cords coated in a thin layer of beeswax to protect it from the elements.

A basket-hilted cutlass (Shortsword statistics), with a grip of cracked red leather wrapped in gold wire and a single deep notch low on the heavy blade.

A driftwood handaxe set with a clamshell blade and a grip of tightly wrapped dried kelp.

A slightly curved, elegant steel blade (DM's choice of sword type.) with a striking black grip that feels like wet, polished stone.

A long silver hilted bastard sword with an inky blade so dark it seems to swallow light. The weapon is plain and bears no inlay, no pattern welding and no watermarking, just a long straight-edged black blade with a tapering point and a single dorsal spine flanked by ferules. The blade tapers to a narrower base just above the plain cross-hilt and the weapon ends in pommel consisting of an unpolished silver weighted ball.

A well-balanced warhammer bearing the screaming face of a dwarf at the top, with arms going out to either side, making the bludgeons of the weapon dwarven fists.

A heavy maul made of cracked gray stone that reeks of elemental power. The weapon was carved from the stone heart of a powerful earth spirit and inlaid with geometric sigils in black marble.

Living Blade: A paddle of wood, more club than sword, it is carved with a pattern of thorns and leaves. The weapon is still alive and its magical thornwood edges bite and tear at enemies just as a steel blade would. The wielder can choose to use the weapon as either a club or a shortsword, however the weapon is twice as vulnerable to all sources of fire damage.

A longsword whose blade appears to be made of chalk, and is utterly weightless, although it still has mass (Meaning that is carries momentum when swung, but if placed on a scale it weighs nothing). The handle and cross guard are made from polished bronze, forged into deeply ridged rectangles. It rests in a scabbard of bronze-bound leather.

A two-handed warhammer, forged from a single piece of cobalt. It is unadorned, except for a shallow-relief sculpture of an elephant's face on each side of the hammer's head. Its long haft is wrapped with a single strip of dragon leather. If the leather is unwrapped, dwarven runes on the haft tell the story of the weapon's forging.

A long handled iron staff (Quarterstaff statistics) topped with a complex symmetrical pattern, upon which six tin rings are hung. The tin rings swing freely as the staff moves, constantly making noise. Knowledgeable PC's will recognize this as a khakkhara or singing staff which belongs to an order of priestly monks. The staff and its rings serve a number of purposes: To warn small creatures to move from the wielder's path to avoid being accidentally trodden on, to alert the faithful that there is a priest nearby, as a walking staff and as an implement of self-defence. The staffs are most commonly carried by monks who have taken a vow of silence as a simple method to allow them to create sound in order to communicate.

A basket-shaped, brass censer on a chain that can safely hold hot coals in order to burn incense during sacred rituals. The outer plating contains etched images and icons of a well-known war god. Heavier than a normal censer it is reinforced with a steel frame and fortifying spells which allows it to be used as a flail. The reduced weight of the flail does make it less deadly when unlit, however the heat and flames of a burning censer balances out its lethality. When lit, half of the weapon's damage is fire damage and the rest typical for a flail. When unlit, the hollowed flail only deals half damage.

A bronze scimitar sporting a bone and wire-wrapped grip and a series of odd, stripe-like striations along the dull edge of the blade. The wielder can sense a certain cruel animal intelligence from within the blade that thirsts for blood. The sword whines and vibrates unhappily when chopping into undead or other bloodless enemies, but purrs and sings when used against living creatures.

A small sharp jewel strung on a flexible steel wire. The mostly green flat gem has a blue oval shaped dot in its center and strongly resembles a peacock feather. Knowledgeable PC's will recognize this as an assassin's weapon known as a peacock slasher. The razor sharp gem is easily hidden in plain sight among other beautiful jewels as a hairpiece, bracelet or necklace and the bearer gains advantage on checks made to conceal the weapon as jewelry. The weapon is used by swinging the jewel around by the steel wire allowing the wielder to hit targets up to five feet away (Dealing as much damage as a shuriken) and can be used as a garrote. The uncommon weapon requires at least one hour of practice per week to use properly and remain proficient in.

A bronze longsword with a repeating dark rhombi pattern on both sides of the blade and decorated with blue crystals and turquoise. The grip of the sword is bound by silk, while the pommel is composed of eleven concentric circles. The sword is sheathed in a wooden scabbard finished in a black lacquer that has an air-tight fit with the sword body which keeps the weapon untarnished.

Roll a Random Melee Weapon: The object is a heavily weighted, wooden practice weapon, used as a way to build endurance and expertise. It contains a lead filled core and weighs twice as much as a normal one would, causing it to be somewhat unwieldy at first. A creature unfamiliar with the type of weapon could become proficient with it after enough time and an already wielder could benefit from regular training. If a creature drills, spars or otherwise trains with the weapon for at least eight hours a week for one month they become temporarily proficient with the type of weapon. An already proficient wielder who trains in this way gains a +1 bonus to accuracy rolls to hit targets which represents the improved focus with the type of weapon. After gaining the proficiency or improved focus, the creature only needs to train for four hours per week to maintain it. The benefit from training is lost if the creature does not meet the minimum weekly training hours, however the creature can begin again from scratch. If the creature trains and maintains the necessary hours for one entire year, the proficiency or weapon focus benefit becomes permanent. ---Note: A creature must be permanently proficient with the weapon before they can gains the weapon focus benefit. These rules are of course subject to DM approval and are meant to serve as an organic way to introduce character growth, hobbies and downtime training. Feel free to introduce this item without the training rules at all if you feel it will cause problems or distractions.

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nerddface · 6 years

Text

Winning More Than Games

Characters: Snotlout Jorgenson, female!reader, the Gang (no, not Smidvarg and the Gang, though I do love them)

Warnings: possible secondhand embarrasment

Word Count: 1247

Notes: An old anon asked for a continuation of Cliché Sunsets :) I do apologize it took so long, life has been incredibly tumultuous of late and a couple things got pushed to the back burner.

Based off of this (or these) (x, x)

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This was all his fault. She never should have agreed to this. She knew this was a bad idea! Every introvert nerve in her body screamed at her, from the moment Snotlout had suggested she come, that she say no.

And what did she do?

“Sure!”

What?! You idiot! You said yes to a “harmless camping trip.” You should have known with this group! There was no way it was going to be that simple!

She blamed Snotlout exclusively. “Your sense of fun really needs work,” he’d said. “Try sticking around.”

And she did want to stick around, just… not on a strange island, in the dark, alone. Y/N was pretty sure this was not fun in any capacity. Sure her safety zone needed some expansion, but really.

A twig snapped to her right, and she jumped away. It was Hiccup’s idea to leave the dragons back at camp—We need to be able to take care of ourselves if we’re ever separated. He tried to cover it up as a friendly game of hide-and-seek, but if Y/N knew anything, he had ulterior motives. They were well-meaning ulterior motives, but sneaky nonetheless.

Y/N didn’t know how to wield a sword; she’d lived a peaceful life, she was young, still learning. She raised the metal awkwardly in front of her, heart racing.

The snap turned into a rustle, and she crept forward in the patches of moonlight. She caught a glimpse of something move and her eyes watered. She really didn’t want to die out here, in a game of hide-and-seek gone out of control.

She didn’t say anything, not wanting to alert whatever it was, but it seemed to notice her, and came closer. She lifted her sword higher, ready to deal a blow in defense of her life, when it spoke.

“Ah! I’m too pretty to die!”

Y/N lowered her sword and took another step forward. “Snotlout?”

“Y/N?”

“Oh, my gods.” She sighed heavily, sheathing her weapon. “I thought you were some animal going to kill me!”

He chuckled as she rested a hand on her chest. “This game is not fun at all. I made a mistake in trusting you.”

He scoffed. “You don’t mean that.”

She didn’t respond, but he saw her smile.

“I’d like to not get eaten tonight, or lose this thing five minutes in.” He announced, looking around, and seemed to notice something in the distance. “I think I can see a cave or something.”

“Better than out here,” Y/N murmured. Snotlout reached back towards her, barely visible in the intermittent moonlight, and grasped her hand at the base of her wrist.

“Quick. I think I can hear someone coming.”

Her heart slammed into a faster rhythm, because of new contact between them, or the thrill of hiding in the dark, or both.

He pulled her into the cave, and it quieted slightly. She wasn’t sure if they were going to keep going, but a sharp tug downwards before her wrist was released obviously signaled that they were staying here.

She almost tripped, but managed to get to her knees without bonking her head on anything, and sat cross-legged on the stone. A gentle breeze blew a slight howl over their hiding place.

“Creepy,” Snotlout commented. Y/N forced herself not to shiver, and defended herself in what she hoped was a confident voice.

“I’m not—scared.”

“Yeah. Me neither.” a pause. “But, I mean, it’s pretty dark and how are you supposed to see my beautiful face all the way over there?”

Y/N’s heart picked up again. She hadn’t been this close to him since the kidnapping incident almost five months ago.

She moved a little closer, but found him closer than she had thought. One work-roughened hand grasped her bicep gently, and she could hear him breathing close to her face.

His breath warmed her face, but she didn’t feel the desire to pull back. Not that she could even if she did—she was quite frozen in place, unsure exactly what she was supposed to do, but… it felt right, somehow.

Closer, closer, she could feel his hair tickling her forehead, was she supposed to close her eyes? May as well—

The world around her disappeared—she could only feel warm hands on her arms and his lips on hers, could only hear her racing heart. She was pretty sure her feet weren’t touching the floor anymore.

At least, they weren’t until she heard a clamoring ruckus by the mouth of their little alcove. She didn’t notice it at first, but when the light of flame flickered beyond her closed lids, she jerked away from Snoutlout, her face burning.

“Eauhg! Oh, Gods, what the Hel?!”

“Good Thor!”

“Hahaha! Yes!”

There was a good variety in reactions from their friends. Astrid turned and braced herself on the cave wall, her other hand over her forehead. Hiccup threw his head back, covering his face with both hands. Fishlegs looked stunned, apparently unsure how to react. The only two who seemed at all interested (and not completely disgusted) were Ruff and Tuff, who began clapping slowly, wearing wide, matching smiles.

“Absolutely wonderful happenstance this is, dear sister,” Tuff commented.

“Indeed, brother of mine,” his twin returned, her hands resting on her hips. “Though I do believe it lacks a certain poetic element, wouldn’t you say?”

Tuffnut hummed. “You make a compelling point. Dark caves are so primitive. No decorum. No romance.” He made a sweeping gesture, and turned on his heel. “So much potential, wasted.”

Ruffnut nodded in agreement and took a step towards Y/N and Snotlout, and he shooed her, his hand still resting comfortingly on Y/N’s arm.

“Can’t you see we’re trying to have a moment? Gods, why do you losers always ruin everything? Go back to your stupid game!”

Fishlegs started at Snotlout’s outburst and scurried away, followed by Astrid, who didn’t even look back. “I wish I’d never seen that.”

“You’re dead at any rate, Snot,” Hiccup announced. “An enemy would have an axe to your neck before you could even look up.” He turned to the others. “That means everyone but Astrid has died! You know, I really thought we would do better than this. Looks like we have a lot more work to do.”

This prompted a chorus of protests as the group slowly made their way back to camp, the light from their torches fading as they apparently forgot the couple on the floor.

There was a moment of silence before Snotlout spoke. “We should do this again sometime. Maybe minus the cold, dark cave and the nosy friends.”

Y/N found herself laughing, enveloped in the darkness again. The hands resting on her arm trailed up to find her chin and place another short kiss on her mouth—a surprisingly gentle gesture from someone so outwardly rough and tumble.

Light faded back, and Hiccup’s voice sounded. “Just coming back to get you crazies a torch so you don’t have to feel your way back!”

He came into sight with two torches. “Am I clear?”

Snotlout sighed and stood, extending a hand for Y/N. “Yeah. We’re heading back now. Moment has been soiled.”

She lifted herself onto unsteady legs, and Hiccup handed a torch to Snotlout, launching into an explanation of how both of them could have done better as he fell into step in front of them, back to the others.

Her hand was squeezed momentarily, and the look she got from the Viking beside her told her this was far from over. She grinned, still embarrassed, but excited for what may come.

Maybe this was a little bit fun after all.

#Snotlout Jorgenson #snotlout x reader

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theinternetownsus · 7 years

Text

Requiem of Love

Request: Can I make a request for a Game Of Thrones story please? Red Viper of Dorne x oc where Oberyn saves a woman from Lannister men then holds and comforts her after and promises to protect her, then ends up fighting the mountain. Maybe includes some flashbacks about Oberyn teaching the woman self-defense or poisons and drinking while discussing revenge and love. Or you could just write whatever Oberyn plot fits your fancy, really just hungry for Red Viper feels. Thank you. : )

Requested by: @superwholockianhayniac

Word Count: 1,506

Character(s): Oberyn x Reader, Cersei Lannister, Jamie Lannister, The Mountain

Want to request? Click Here

Want to know what I will write? Click Here

What to see what else I have written? Click Here

AN: I changed it up just a smidge hope that’s okay !!!

This was it, this is your death. Your hands clutch the skirt of your thin dress, pulling it up slightly so you would not trip over the material. You knew you were living on borrowed time now. You should've escaped when you could've, instead of waiting until the last minute, when they had you in their grasp. Making a quick left, you keep your head down hoping to avoid or escape their hunt.

The plan is quickly foiled when your shoulders are sent backwards, your head shooting to the offender, only to catch the glance of a Lannister Guardsmen armour. "Hello there (Y/N) Santagar " the guard puts emphasis on your last name, it was a noble name from Dorne. You go to take a step away, hands dropping your skirt, as you collide with a metal chest plate.

"Cersei Lannister wants to see you, after all, you have been slipping under her nose," the same guard says with slight malice in his tone. Of course, you had been stealing from the King's Mother's wine supplies, but you didn't think she would notice, obviously you were not aware of her strong love for the liquid, unlike the Kings guard.

"Well maybe the Queen should've spent more attention to her wine than her brother," you say with sarcasm dripping from your voice. You knew you were just making your case worse, but you were dying, either way, no need to make it a boring one. The man behind quickly grabs your upper arms, with immense strength, you know that bruises from underneath his hands. The man opposite acts almost as quick, pulling out his blade from his sheath and holding it to your throat. He applied just enough pressure for it to hurt. Struggling, trying to get out of their grasps.

"We should teach the bastard a lesson, shouldn't we men?" The dagger quickly slices at a strap of your dress, causing you to shriek, as the dress falls down slightly. Tears making its way to your (E/C) eyes.

As the dagger reaches under the second strap another voice joins the conversation, one native to your home. "I may not be a man from Kings Landing, but in Dorne, we don't treat our women with such disrespect." Your eyes meet the eyes of the Red Viper, Prince of Dorne. Immediately you bow your head in respect, despite the situation you are in.

"I highly suggest you let go of the pretty woman" after a quick kerfuffle you find yourself on the ground knees in the dirt, with tears still rolling down your cheeks.

You feel a hand reach your cheek, the clang of his weapon hitting the ground, your eyes trace up the arm and towards the Prince's eyes. "I'm sorry for disgracing the Dornish people I-- "

"You disgraced no one, the guardsmen disgraced themselves with how they treated such a pretty lady." he uses his thumbs to wipe away the tears on your cheeks, pulling your body into his own. Arms wrapping around your body with a small hum he says " I promise my lady, that these men will never touch you again and that I'll protect you 'til the day you die. Even if it means I die in the process" You never knew why after meeting him for a couple minutes he decided he would protect you, but you are glad he saved you that day.

This was it. This is your death. Oh, how you wished your saviour was here now, to help you escape death yet again, but no, his body lays in the sept back in Dorne. Which leaves the honour with you to try and avenge his death. It was a losing battle. But yet you still tried, tried to avenge your love. You lifted up the spear from the ground, lifting it up delicately a smirk on your face as you look at your opposition, the Mountain reborn.

"Legend has it that the Martell men and women cannot rest in their grave until their death is avenged," you say as you circle the monster with the crowd watching in anticipation for your next move. "I believe tonight is the night my love will rest easy" you taunt the man with your words. Gripping the spear harder in anger as the man before you does not react, you charge at him in the fury, only to be tossed to the floor, by his hands.

"You fight in anger my love, this does not achieve you anything," he says looking down at you on the floor, as you groan lowly, his spear no more than a couple inches away from your face. Your chest heaves up and down as your eyes meet his, a smirk on your face, holding your hand up silently asking for a help up. Smirking back to you, he grabs your hand, only to be pulled down to the floor next to you. In the flurry of movement, you manage to place yourself on his chest. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him reaching for his spear before he can reach it you kick it away from his reach. " You learn quickly," he says with a sultry tone ", what else do you have up your sleeve, my love?"

"Well wouldn't you like to know, my Prince?" the reply was said in an equally flirtatious tone. You are quickly flipped on to your back, by The Red Viper as he leans down. Your lips connecting softly.

The cheers of the Lannister's and their followers bring you back into reality. Your gaze following the brute as he takes steps closer to you, the sword being unsheathed and pointed at you, only for you to kick at his legs. Not knocking him down, you were too small for that, but just hard enough for him to be shocked by your response. You shuffle away with your spear in hand, kicking yourself upright you look at the Mountain as he edges towards you. "It's funny you know," you say looking at the newly appointed Queen on the balcony of the arena and back to the Mountain, " if Oberyn hadn't stopped momentarily for praise, the Gods know how much he loved praise, you would be dead, more than you are now, and the Red Viper would be still here." You make a quick swipe at the neck of the man. Only making a dent but a smirk comes to your face, Widow's Blood coated the end of the spear, all you needed to do was to get more in his system, and his death would be sealed.

"Now onto Widow's Blood. What does it do my lady?" his voice whispers into your ear, his arm wrapped around your chest his cup of Dornish wine cradled in his hand as your sit on his lap, admiring the view from the balcony of his room.

"It forces a man's bowels and stomach to fail, the man dies a slow death as his body's poisons floods the body.", you feel him smirk, as he places his lips against your neck.

"Well done my love." he murmurs against your skin, placing kisses and bites up and down your (S/C) skin. "You are getting smarter and stronger by the day, I believe that one day you'll beat me in both of those things" a smirk is felt against your skin as he says that. You turn around, legs either side of your lover's lap.

"The only way I'll ever be smarter than you is if by some sort of blood magic you have died." You chuckled at him, placing wet kisses in the crook of his neck, as his arms reach to your waist.

What he says next sends worry coursing through your body. "If I am to die at Tyrion's trial, do not avenge me, my princess. Dorne does not need to lose us both." You move your forehead onto him, whispering "The only way that’s happening is if I am dead as well" he just shakes his head. Lifting you up into his body. Lips attaching themselves to yours as he goes towards the bed.

Snapping out of the memory, you swing the spear at the beast, knocking the helmet off him. Your (E/C) eyes connect with the red eyes of the man before you. This spurs anger throughout your body. You go into the fighting stance, swiping the spear towards his neck, a large gash appearing, but the monster does not even flinch at your attack.

Twirling the spear in your hand, you quickly strike the ankles of the monster. Catching him off guard, he falls to the floor. Pulling the dagger out from the sheath that hangs around your waist. Causing a few murmurs amongst the crowd. You stand over the Mountain, placing yourself on his chest. Placing the knife on his neck, slowly pressing into the tainted skin. You should've known your little bit of weight couldn't have stopped him from getting up. He throws you onto the floor, whimpering as you feel the Mountains foot press into your back, not enough pressure to break your back. You know full well he could if he wanted to. That’s when you feel the blade hit the back of your neck.

"Bring her up here." You hear the Queen's calm voice echo throughout the arena. The back of your armour is quickly pulled by the Mountain as he drags you up to his queen. Silence surrounds you, the only break is from the silence is the sound of you being dragged up to the Queen's seat. Her brother on her left looks between you and his sister. His emotion unreadable. "You are the last remaining Martell, your husband is dead, your child is dead, killing you in front of all these people," she says gesturing to the men around us, " it would be an act of war, an end to one of the great houses. I can spare that if you only bend the knee to me. Surrender all house Martell's soldiers, boats, and arms to the Queen of Westeros and be granted freedom"

"What is the other option?" you growl to the Lannister.

"Simply put you will die, but first you will watch the death of the traitor Ellira Sand and her bastard children, your husbands bastard children." She says looking down her nose at you.

"Fuck you, you cunt." you groan spitting blood at her ", the followers of house Martell will never follow the house who killed their Prince, who slew Elia Martell and her children. You can beat us, kill us, imprison us but you will never win."

Cersei wipes the blood off her face, flicking it back towards the Martell. You try to dart towards the Queen but are quickly grabbed by the Mountain, as Jamie Lannister stands in front of his Queen, hand on his sword. Poised for the attack. "Dear brother," Cersei says in a sickly sweet tone "Please take the lovely (Y/N) Martell down to the cells"

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