#and it makes NO SENSE given that shes apparently a renowned assassin

[fumiko-matsubara]

List of Multi-talented AssClass Characters

This includes both characters who have actually showcased their many skills and characters who had shown potential to be multi talented.

¤ The teachers, assassins, and Gakuhou won't be included in the list as they are already a given.

Asano Gakushuu

I mean, do I even have to say anything? He's got the grades, the athleticism, the artistry, the reputation, and even being able to responsibly handle all of these at the same time. Rather than asking what else he can do, the better question is: What CAN'T he do??

This guy is the epitome of multi talented because it's not just him having a lot of skills, but you can really expect him to be good at each and every single one of them. Truly an ace.

Akabane Karma

This one is just half-assed lol. But let's be real, I can't even expressed how much of a genius this guy is, it's actually terrifying. Like imagine being able to remember the stuffs you've secretly studied for after two weeks of study ban, to the point that you managed to place 2nd in rankings among the entire 3rd years?? He's ridiculous.

I think it's just him being disinterested that's stopping him, because it should be obvious that he'd be the type to easily become scarily good at the skills he just picked up.

Isogai Yuuma

Being practical is his strongest suit. It probably stemmed from the fact that he's currently the one providing for his family, but I could totally see Isogai picking up plenty of skills just for the sake of making things easier. For all we know, he could've tried applying for different kinds of jobs that required certain skills before he settled on being a waiter.

Then top it all off with his good grades, being athletic, and leading the class well, yeah he's got it good.

Sugino Tomohito

One day we are going to have a whole discussion about Sugino having many hidden talents (that he's also VERY good at doing). Let's start off with baseball. It has been confirmed by Matsui himself that ever since Sugino had joined a local baseball team in town, along with perfecting his own curved ball pitching technique, it's been assessed that in the technical side of baseball, Sugino should have already surpassed Shindou in most areas.

As stated by Karasuma in the character book, Sugino literally has ZERO flaws in his assassination skills and if you look at his stats, there was not a single category that he was lacking in omg. Sugino had also shown exceptional skills in the art department, specifically in acting and drawing, as repeatedly praised by Korosensei.

Chiba Ryuunosuke

Being multi-talented isn't just about having as many skills as possible, it's also about being incredibly good at the skills you have even if they aren't that many. Chiba is a great example of this.

Sniping, maths, architecture, and spatial awareness ー those are some of the skills he was explicitly shown to have in canon and there is no denying that he is good at every single of one these. Not just good actually, but exceptional, to the point of being directly praised by actual professionals themselves.

Kayano Kaede

Being a gifted young actress, it would be no surprise that Kayano would have to have a very wide range of skills in order to be able to tackle any acting role given to her, which is what she was specifically known for.

And who passes the entrance exams of an academically renowned school on their first try at the last minute? She has it all lol.

Kataoka Megu

I think Megu is the type to find herself picking up skills and become good at them since she is a leader with a natural sense of responsibility. Especially when it's sports, because you're telling me that this ace swimmer with a record for freestyle swimming is also good at basketball, enough to both coach, lead, and carry her team all at the same time?? Damn.

Of course not forgetting the fact that she's also one with exceptional grades and is good at languages, Megu is defintely a well-rounded leader. Wish we could have seen more from her.

Hayami Rinka

As remarked by Koro-sensei, Hayami is a "jack of all trades but lacks in her own individuality and passion". Because she is said to be skilled enough in so many things, she became a reliable worker who people can depend on no matter what it is for as she can surely tackle them.

Perhaps a little bit too reliable? While there are some skills that she is obviously good at, like her sniping and dancing, I don't think people would really notice how much of an ace she is at first glance, likely because she wasn't being loud about it (as in she was lowkey).

Maehara Hiroto

Defintely the dress to impress type.

I am adding Maehara to this list because this dude came back 3 years later and suddenly he's good at b-boying!

He's good at sports, dancing, singing, he gets along with people, he dresses well, and for a carefree playboy like him, the last thing you would expect from him is his best subject being Maths, right?

I won't be surprised if plenty of these were just because he wanted to impress the girls he goes on dates with. If anything, it's likely lol. Whatever helps him I guess.

Bonus: Potentially multi-talented

Yada Touka

Being under the tutelage of Irina, it would be no surprise that Yada would end up wanting to expand her skillset as she'd find it beneficial for her in the future.

Nakamura Rio

Maybe because she's bored or just wants to be funny, but Nakamura had shown skills with... random stuffs (like diassembling gadgets or the ability to make geeky boys flustered with her dirty jokes through the school radio... 😭). As long as it can be funny, I think she can pick up anything she can use to toy with others.

Kurahashi Hinano

Drawing! It's surprising because no one can argue that she is the best at it among the girls, but it wasn't explicitly showcased AT ALL (if it weren't for that skills ranking in the manga extras, we wouldn't have known this). I wonder what else she's really good at that haven't been addressed.

Takebayashi Koutarou

I am adding that joke from the career chapter of Koro q that Takebayashi is apparently good enough at dancing to land a career for it 😂

But yes, he also ranked 4th best artist among the boys for being the "2D master". Being an anime fan does have plenty of perks... I wonder how good his singing is 🤔

#yes this is an appreciation post #:) #assassination classroom #ansatsu kyoushitsu #assclass #asano gakushuu #gakushuu asano #akabane karma #karma akabane #isogai yuuma #yuuma isogai #sugino tomohito #tomohito sugino #chiba ryuunosuke #ryuunosuke chiba #kayano kaede #kaede kayano #kataoka megu #megu kataoka #hayami rinka #rinka hayami #maehara hiroto #hiroto maehara #kurahashi hinano #nakamura rio #takebayashi koutarou #yada touka #meta #headcanon #???

[mecomptane]

MQ: Barnabas of the Adrestia

Part one of... many. So many. Oh no.

Also, my italics for Greek and/or emphasis no longer exist, so that’s great. 10/10. Might try uploading to dreamwidth first from now on, and then copying/linking in to here.

-

“Kephallonia is… here?”

Barnabas leaned over from the wheel, turning so that his good eye focused on where Kassandra was pointing. “Hm? Aye, that’s Kephallonia--and just to the north, there, that’s Ithaka!”

“I know Ithaka,” Kassandra retorted, toeing the island painted on the deck of the Adrestia idly. “I’ve looked at it almost every day.”

The real Ithaka--and Kephallonia--were well behind them, bare specks on the horizon. She’d spent the first few hours since departing sitting on the stern bench, watching over her shoulder as the land she’d spent the last twenty plus years on slipped away. They weren’t home, not really: not Ithaka where she’d honed her hunting skills, and not even Kephallonia, though all the friends left to her in the world lived there.

But a job was a job, and between the plague slowly spreading over the islands and the sudden hush of contracts that came in the wake of facing off against the only other mercenary on the island in spectacularly violent--and public--fashion, there wasn’t much work or coin coming her way any time soon. Kassandra sighed and scuffed her toe against the painted map again, slowly cataloguing the different lands and waters, so carefully rendered. So many places to see, so many people to meet, armies to fight… and somehow, with all those people and across all those lands, Elpeanor managed to find her. Decided to hire her.

To kill the Wolf of Sparta.

Nikolaos hadn’t been a young man when Kassandra was growing up, a General of Sparta and one of the greatest warriors the city had seen since the death of King Leonidas. He’d gained fame within Sparta for his tactics and skillful maneuvering, and renown through the rest of the Peloponnese for his treatment of enemies and allies alike. Not merciful--he was Spartan, after all--but a certain amount of respect. Other generals might take prisoners as slaves; Nikolaos was more likely to ransom them back to their cities or, if seriously injured, grant them an honourable death.

“It’s so isolated,” Kassandra remarked, still staring at the map. “But I can see the coast of the Peloponnese from my house.” House, shack, hut. It was newly built a hundred years ago and left to ruin sometime after; she’d claimed it and fixed it up, but it wasn’t any sort of luxurious.

Barnabas laughed at her, gesturing to the map as he turned back to the helm. “You can? You must have the sight of the gods, then!”

“Or maybe I just have two working eyes,” she snarked back. Sight of the gods, right.

But Barnabas laughed again; did nothing upset this man? “Or perhaps four eyes; I see you talking with that eagle of yours!”

The eagle in question--proud, defiant, and a mother hen in turns--was perched on the wooden screen that shielded part of the stern bench, alternating between watching the sea and watching Kassandra and Barnabas. Kassandra clicked her tongue to get his attention; Ikaros shrilled at her, fluffed his feathers, and turned back to the sea.

She sighed at him; her oldest friend was an eagle. A stubborn eagle, at that. “The only thing we talk about is him taking off to hunt and me scolding him when he shows up just in time to annoy me.”

Kassandra looked up just in time to see Barnabas shaking his head, his whole body shuddering. “Hey! Are you laughing at me?”

“You talk about your Ikaros like my old friend talks about his wife.”

She snorted. “You live with someone long enough, I suppose it all starts to sound the same.”

One of the skeleton crew below called out for Barnabas and instructions; as the old captain saw to his people and ship, Kassandra lounged back against the bench, tilting her head towards the sun.

They were heading for Megaris, which Barnabas assured her was the current major battleground in the war between Athens and Sparta. Elpeanor had said that Nikolaos would be there, but she trusted the old seaman over some shady mainlander who let his guards get killed as a test to see her skills. Or however he reasoned it; she didn’t want to ask, because that meant interacting with him more. Whether he was hiding out on Kephallonia to avoid Nikolaos and the bounty he’d put on the Wolf’s head was Elpeanor’s way of avoiding some consequence, or if he was on Kephallonia for another reason and wanting Nikolaos killed was incidental, she didn’t know that, either.

Kassandra shifted, pulling out the old broken spear her mater had given her, so long ago. She’d never taken a bounty contract before--the closest was hunting down a handful of local thieves (who were a drachmae a dozen on Kephallonia; the island wasn’t entirely made up of criminals, but it was probably a fifty-fifty split between law abiding citizens and those who just did not care). The contract to kill Nikolaos was more an excuse to get off the island that’d been her home since she was eight, see more of the world, make a name for herself. That didn’t mean she didn’t intend to uphold her end, and to do that… sword, short sword, spear, bow and arrows would all work, but using the broken spear wouldn’t just be effective. It would be poetic justice.

The man who married Leonidas’ daughter, killed by Leonidas’ own broken spear. One of the kings had sent Spartans to recover the spear from Thermopylae at the same time as they recovered Leonidas’ body for a burial with honours, and it had been given to Myrrine after the internment. Or, knowing the woman, she had demanded the last relic of her father to be handed over immediately, and everyone who stood in her way suffered for it.

Kassandra ran a finger down the edge of the spear’s blade, testing the sharpness and checking for rust. None, as normal. As much as she liked to think it was all the maintenance and care she paid to the old weapon, the metal shone in a way that she’d never seen before and no matter what she stabbed or threw the spear into the edge never dulled. Good for a quick kill, then, and that’s what this would have to be: a quick kill. Stealthy, maybe. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that between Nikolaus’ skills and the Spartan army, there was only one way she could really hope to complete the contract: a proper assassination.

“What are you frowning about, o mighty misthios?” Barnabas’ voice broke her from her thoughts.

She startled upwards, coming to her feet and not-so-accidentally treading on the painted islands in the process. “Barnabas! Don’t startle me like that.”

“Eh, I know you wouldn’t hurt this poor old, one-eyed man,” he shrugged off her annoyance. “I need to go below; do you know how to handle a ship?”

That brought her up short. “Do I know how to… what?”

He waved her forward to the helm. “Come, come, let me teach you quickly. We have another day of sailing before we make it to Megaris, more than enough time for lessons!”

She reached out to grab the old wood, worn smooth by many hands over the years. “What am I--what do you want me to do?”

“Keep her on the same heading, there--no, no, sun just slightly behind and to the right, we want to head east-south-east,” he instructed. “There we go! See? I knew you’d be a natural!”

Kassandra flexed her fingers, checking her grip. “And I just… stand here?”

“Exactly! Any questions?”

“Yes: why are you trusting me with this?”

He laughed and patted her shoulder. Flinched slightly away when his hand contacted the hard lines of metal and buckles that were hidden by the Shroud of Penelope Kassandra had wrapped around her shoulders and head. “Well, obviously you have sailed before! How else would you get from the mainland to Kephallonia?”

She tried not to stiffen or show another reaction, but from the corner of her eye she could see Barnabas looking at her worriedly. “Me? From the mainland?”

“From the Peloponnese, somewhere, probably,” Barnabas confirmed, would-be casually. “You sail as long as I have to as many places as I have, and you can pick out details like that, too. A bit of an accent, and a way of framing your sentences that sounds more like Lakonian or Messenian, maybe Arkadian. But most of the time you sound Kephallonian! If that’s why you’re worried, the accent of your latest home comes through clearly.”

She shook her head at him. “Kephallonia isn’t my home.”

“Even after… however long you’ve lived there?”

“No,” Kassandra confirmed. Even with Marcos and Phoibe and the few other people who were almost friends, almost family. “No, not Kephallonia.”

Barnabas hummed, apparently having forgotten being called away. “Then… wherever you were from before? Is that your home?”

She couldn’t help herself; she snorted. In her mind’s eye she could easily picture the spear, Myrrine, Nikolaos, the masked men, baby Alexios, the mountain. “I might have been born in Sparta, but I was never really Spartan.”

“Spartan?” Barnabas asked, surprise lacing his words. “And you’re looking for the Wolf of Sparta?”

Kassandra nodded; Barnabas had said he took no side in this war, even having been an Athenian captain, once upon a time. Still, Kephallonia supported Athens, and so far most of public opinion--that Kassandra had heard, anyway--swayed in favour of Athens, too. It would make sense for her to be after a Spartan General if she had been from Athens or somewhere that was firmly part of or on the side of the Delian League. She could see why Barnabas would be surprised.

“I am,” she confirmed, her lips curling upwards. Not a smile, not a sneer; she wasn’t sure what she was feeling about this, but it wasn’t anything good. “I’m going to track Nikolaos down, and before I kill him I am going to get some answers.”

“Answers?” Barnabas parroted.

She nodded, shortly. “Answers. When I was eight, the oracle said that my baby brother--who was in perfect health--would bring about the fall of Sparta if he was allowed to live. Mater fought against the order, but we were all brought up Mount Taygetos and---and Alexios was thrown off the mountain cliff.”

Barnabas hadn’t completely retracted his hand before from her shoulder; he rested it again against the shroud, patting gently. “That must have been difficult to witness, Kassandra. I am sorry. ...but what does that have to do with the Wolf?”

“He was there,” she answered after a minute. She had to refocus; Barnabas had actually sounded sincere. When was the last time someone had actually meant what they said to her? “He was there, he let them kill Alexios… and when I fought back, pushed the priest who had thrown Alexios off and killed him…. Nikolaos threw me off Mount Taygetos, too.”

She could feel Barnabas withdrawing, air abruptly sucked through clenched teeth. “And you survived?”

“I did,” she nodded. “That’s the night that Ikaros found me.”

“So you’ve known him for a long, long time,” Barnabas surmised, looking up at the eagle. Ikaros’ attention was focused wholly on them; she’d noticed the minute he’d zeroed in on them, but the predatory gaze had long been comforting. “But you know what happened then. What answers are you looking for?”

Kassandra shrugged, careful to not jostle her hands and change their heading. “Just one answer, I guess,” she conceded. “I want to ask him… I want to know why, when the priests said that Alexios would bring us to ruin, when they told him to kill me in return for the life of one of their own…

“I want to know why he sided with them over his own children.”

#fic:Mercenary Queen #Assassin's Creed: Odyssey #KHR #KHR/ACOdy #meco writes

[whitewolfandthefox]

The Black Blade

Anonymous: omg pls pretty pls for me write scenario 10 w/ geralt x reader!!

Prompt: After stalking their prey and tracking their movements for so long, assassin CHARACTER has begun to fall in love with them.

*check out my new series inspired by this fic! The Black Blade Masterlist

Words: 5.5 wow this one got away from me

Warnings: mentions of poison, blood, gore, killing, fluff, tiny bit of angst

Masterlist

Add yourself to my taglist

Summary: Y/N is an assassin known as the Black Blade. She has taken to a contract to kill Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. She spends months tracking him, learning his habits and patterns in order to complete her contract, and falls for him over that time.

The Black Blade

It had been months of tracking, months of hiding, slowly learning his habits. You had never met him, but you knew him intimately. You knew that he talked to his horse when he was lonely, that he had given her the awful name of Roach. You knew that he travelled alone, and preferred this. You knew that he was an awesome warrior, and that he would be a challenge to apprehend. You knew he slept lightly, or not at all, having learned this particular fact when you made your first attempt.

He had woken before you had even made it into his camp, coming to his feet with his sword drawn, golden eyes piercing the darkness as you dropped to the forest floor, staying as still as you possibly could to avoid detection.

You had spent months following the Witcher known as the White Wolf. Normally, you wouldn’t spend this long on a contract, but the coin had been too good to turn down. You hadn’t met your employer, working through mediaries who had given you a handsome fee when you had agreed to take the job, promising even more when you delivered on their request.

They wanted you to kill Geralt of Rivia.

You were a renowned assassin, the name Black Blade known through the underworld. You had gained that name through your signature black daggers, made out of a dark metal so as not to reflect any light when you hunted in the shadows. You were a shadow, in and out without leaving a trace, and the colour of your blades reflected this. The whispers that accompanied your name were full of fear, speaking of the ruthlessness with which you dispatched your victims. 

You had just completed a difficult contract when you were approached with this offer. Kill the Butcher of Blaviken. We will see that you can retire and live handsomely should you be successful.

A Witcher was a daunting task, they were known for their enhanced senses and their fighting abilities. You were good, but you didn’t know that you were that good. The reward was too enticing though, after a short day of deliberation, you reached out to your contact and told them you would do it.

Shortly, you were provided with funds enough to buy new equipment, a new horse, hunting clothes, and supplies enough for a long hunt. You were delighted to find that you had enough coin to custom order a long, black sword. Your favoured weapons were your daggers and garrote, but a sword was better in a fight, and was better against monsters. Although they were not your primary work, you occasionally made a stop to dispatch a particularly bothersome one, though always for a price. You had had such a sword before, but had lost it when a job had gone sideways. You completed the contract but lost your weapon, so you were delighted to find you could now have a new one made. That alone made this job worth the effort.

You had made several attempts on Geralt’s life so far, but none had been successful so far. The first attempt, you had misjudged the Witcher. You had only been following him for a couple of weeks and had decided the best time to make your move was at night. He travelled alone and slept alone, you figured it would be an easy in and out, slit his throat in the night. You still hadn’t figured out what gave you away, the man had shot up as soon as you had gotten within fifteen feet of his camp, sword in hand. You had spent the next several hours motionless, your hood up to cover your face as the Witcher sat next to his fire, gazing into the darkness.

You had learned your lesson after that. You hadn’t realized that Witchers’ senses were so enhanced. Even when you were riding far back, the man would occasionally stop, suddenly turning to look behind him. You would dive for the treeline at these points, and after Geralt had performed this maneuver several times, you took to riding close to the trees.

When in town, you would try to approach him unnoticed, possibly slip a knife between his ribs, prick him with your poisons, slip a potion into his drink. No matter what you did, you were unable to get close to him. He was always alone, no one would approach him, making it difficult for you to do so. Even when was in a crowd, he always seemed to know you were there, and you were reluctant to tip your hand.

The most recent attempt was somewhat closer, taking place in an inn. You had dressed in a tight red dress, the fabric hugging your curves. The dress flowed off of your shoulders, highlighting your collar bones and pale skin. Long sleeves adorned your arms, ending in silver wire bracelets that could quickly be turned into a garrote. The skirt was long, a slit running up the side to just below your hip, hiding the dagger strapped to your thigh. The back of the dress was laced tightly, allowing various small knives and other weapons to be tucked into the fabric. You had lined your eyes with kohl and painted your lips, highlighting your sharp features.

You had spent the night fending off the advances of other men, waiting for your target to let his guard down. He had stayed at his table, eating and drinking all night. He didn’t even glance at the other working girls in the tavern, much less you. Though you tried, you couldn’t get close to him all night without seeming suspicious. Every other girl ignored him after the first was blatantly ignored. You could feel him looking at you occasionally, but not with any interest, just a professional courtesy to see who else was in the room with him.

Frustrated, you went to the bar in search of a mug of ale. The next time a man sidled up to you, complimenting you on your beauty, you smiled and fluttered your eyelashes at him, allowing him to escort you out of the inn.

Once outside, you were quick to snatch one of your daggers, striking him in the temple and slowly lowering him to lean against one of the buildings, retrieving your belongings from your room and slipping off into the night.

***~*~*~*~***

Before you could make your next attempt, a problem made itself apparent. Namely, in the shape of a lively bard. Although you were an assassin, you still had morals. Unlike the mercenaries who would kill anyone and anything, you chose your victims carefully. Only those who were truly deserving of death’s embrace received the kiss of your blade. Jaskier, as you discovered he was called, was guilty of nothing except an overindulgence in fine wine and fine woman. Nothing that you would determine to be a crime worthy of your touch.

The bard travelled with Geralt for the next few weeks, their paths seemingly going in the same direction. While you were frustrated at this interruption, it gave you a chance to learn more about Geralt’s mannerisms and habits. 

You learned that he hated showing feelings, but had certain tells. His lips would turn up just the slightest at the corners when he was amused or happy. For the most part his face was still, but you had been trained to read people. The slight wrinkling of his eyes, the tip of his head, this man was very emotive. Even his single word responses told much, depending on the inflection, he could communicate interest, happiness, displeasure. 

His body language was very expressive as well. He would remain alert, but you could see the exact moment when he turned to alarm. When he was frustrated or sad, his posture would tense. This would happen often when he was thrown out of a town just for being a Witcher. You sympathized with him, when the people would discover who you were and what you did, you were often leaving a few hours later with your tail between your legs. 

Just like you, he never unpacked his bags, even when the two would camp or stay at an inn for longer than a day. You always had to be ready to leave, to be prepared for the worst. Often, Geralt would leave beige Jaskier, waiting in the woods for him when the villagers started to get twitchy. 

You learned that he cared more than he wanted to. Just the fact that he would wait for Jaskier was a sign of this. He would put up with the bard’s singing for hours on end, even when you were starting to question your decision not to harm him, Geralt would only grunt in response to Jaskier’s endless questions, would never lose patience at the incessant chatter. 

Your view of the Witcher changed drastically after he fought and killed a Selkiemore, putting himself into danger to save a town and then refusing the coin offered to him. You could see how thin the children were, how worn the villagers’ clothes were. You felt guilty there, dressed in your good hunting leathers. You left several gold coins in that town before you left. 

You could hear Jaskier berating Geralt for not taking the coin as they travelled down the road. Geralt just grunted in reply, trying to dismiss the conversation. Jaskier wasn’t leaving it though, continuing to pester the Witcher before he spun in his saddle to pin the bard with a piercing glare. 

“Did you not see the state that those people were in? They could barely afford to feed their children, much less pay me. I will not take coin from those who need it.”

The bard was shocked into silence, though only for a moment until he burst into song once more. You could hardly hear Jaskier’s singing as your thoughts whirled around your head. Everything you had been taught about Witcher’s was slowly being dismantled the longer you followed this man. They were said to have no feelings, yet Geralt was more expressive than any other man you knew, in his own way. He cared more than the lords in charge of the land, did more for the people than anyone else did. He frequently put himself in danger when no one else would, taking the most dangerous jobs and occasionally refusing payment when he didn’t think the people could afford it. 

He was the complete opposite of you. 

You thought you only killed those who deserved it, imagined yourself a saviour to their victims, an avenging angel. You realized you were what the people thought Witchers were, killing only for coin, killing to survive. 

Killing because they enjoyed it. 

You didn’t realize you had stopped moving until Jaskier’s voice had faded to almost nothing. Shaking yourself to rid you of the thoughts gathered in your head, you hurried to catch up to the pair, making sure to stay out of sight. 

That moment changed you, and you found yourself wondering at how much truth you had been given when your contract outlined why exactly they wanted Geralt dead.

***~*~*~*~***

In the next town, Jaskier and Geralt parted ways. You should have felt happy that the bard was finally gone, that you had a free shot at the Witcher, but you found yourself hesitating to strike. The morals that had formed your shield had suddenly been shattered, leaving you reeling and unsure of what you were killing for. The one was seen as unfeeling and cold cared more about the people he saved, regardless of what they had done or might do. You chose your victims based on a set of rules you had decided on. What made you better than him? What gave you the right to choose who lives and who dies?

You spent your nights guarding the man, patrolling the forest to keep the beasts who would venture near away. The men who came together to throw Geralt out of town were quickly disbanded. A few threats and a showing of your daggers were all that was needed, it rarely took force to make them leave. When it did, you left them unconscious, dispatching them quickly and neatly, not even unsheathing your blades. 

It has now been almost 6 months since you had taken the contract and you needed to finish it soon. Your employers are starting to get impatient, a mediary meeting you at an inn where Geralt had stopped on a job. 

“It seems that your abilities were grossly overestimated when you were recommended to us. My employer didn’t think it would take this long for you to complete the kill.” The man kept his hood up at the table where the two of you sat, tucked away into a corner. 

“I ran into some complications. A bard was travelling with him, and you know my terms. No collateral damage, I kill only those who I have selected.” Your stony face hid your raging emotions. The last few weeks had seen you reluctant to go through with your kill, wondering at the truth of the accusations leveled at Geralt. Everyone had heard of the butcher at Blaviken, but you had come to the realization that there might be more to that story. It had been blown so out of proportion over the years that it was more of a folk tale than a true retelling of the event. 

“We know your terms, that you think that just because you kill criminals you are not one yourself. Finish the job, before we put a contract out for the both of you.”

With that, your contact stood, dropping a small bag onto the table with a clink. “For your troubles, and a reminder of what waits for you at the completion of your task.”  He turned and walked away as you stared at the bag, conflicting emotions raging within you. 

You were startled out of your revery as the man in question came down the stairs, a burst of chatter before a moment of silence following him in. As you watched him, you saw Geralt’s face tighten at the silence. You felt a sharp pain in your chest, recognizing the distrust the people had for him, the feeling of rejection and hatred. It was the same they had for you. 

Stop it, you chided yourself, get this job over and you will be paid enough you won’t have to worry about it anymore. You can choose your jobs, take the ones where they won’t drive you out, where they will thank you for ridding them of one more problem. 

But do I really care so little that I would kill the man who was saving others?

As you came to your decision, the door to the inn flew open and a woman staggered in, sobbing. Being the one closest to her, you grabbed her as she stumbled, depositing her into the chair you had just vacated. 

“My baby,” she wailed, “my baby! She’s been taken by a monster!”

“What monster.” You started at the rough voice that came from over your shoulder. Turning your head, you were met with golden eyes. You quickly focused back on the woman, ignoring the feeling in your chest that accompanied the eye contact with the Witcher. 

“There, there is a monster, it’s- it’s covered in scales, it’s huge! It took my little girl, Witcher, it flew away with her, you must help me!” The woman gripped your arms as you supported her. 

“A description, woman, I need a description! Did it have wings, claws, teeth? Where was it? How big was it? I need to know what I am facing if I am to get your daughter back.” 

You shot Geralt a glare, taking the woman into your arms, gently shushing her as you stroked her hair. “How big was it? Let’s start with that.”

You could feel the Witcher’s glare burning a hole in the back of your head. Ignoring him, you coaxed more information out of the hysterical mother. It was a hunched black creature that had flown down and grabbed the child out of her mother’s arm. Covered in scales and feathers, the thing had two hind legs and massive wings, standing taller than the average man. 

Having passed the exhausted woman over to the matronly innkeeper, you stood and pivoted to look at Geralt. “It sounds like a Shrieker. You will need help.”

He scoffed, “Not from you. I will be fine.”

Surprised at the abrupt rejection, you shook your head and stepped back, silently gesturing at the door. You didn’t look at him as he studied you closely before turning and heading into the night. As the door shut behind him you turned on your heel, racing for the stairs that led to your room. Once there, you donned your armour and buckled your sword to your waist, a combination of ungalvanized steel and silver, made to fight monsters but to still have your signature black colour. You also grabbed your bow, slinging it and your quiver across your back. Once outfitted, you descended the stairs and headed for the stables to retrieve your horse, not allowing yourself to think of what you were heading to do, whether you were going to help or to hinder. You passed the weeping mother on your way, sparing her a glance before you were out the door, mounting your horse and following the Witcher’s path.

***~*~*~*~***

The battle had started by the time you arrived, you could hear the shrieks from the creature as well as the screams of the child. You ignored the sounds of battle, instead following the sound of the child, deciding that that was the safest thing to concern yourself with at the moment. You were conflicted, unsure what you would do when faced with the Witcher.

The Shrieker had landed in a large clearing below a cliff, sheer stone walls on one side and trees on the other. You could see various shelves on the wall, covered in small bones, blood dried from where it had run down. The dirt was churned up with claw marks from the comings and goings of the creature. The Witcher was currently engaged with the Shrieker, ducking under its wings when it slashed, attempting to make his way to its undefended back, not quite able to duck away long enough to do so.

You quickly found the little girl, cowering against the stone face. She was unharmed but for long scratches on her arms. There were small blood trails running from some of them, but no fresh blood was weeping from the wounds. You gently lifted her into your arms, intending to make your way back to your horse and to leave Geralt with the creature when you sensed a presence at your back.

Without thinking, you tucked the girl against your chest and dove to the side, tucking your body around the child’s to protect her, rolling on your shoulder before coming back up to your feet, the girl still in your arms. You dodged again, avoiding a swipe of the creature’s wing in your direction, moving as quickly as you could to where Geralt was getting back to his feet. A quick glance showed a slice to his armour, the gap weeping blood. You were unable to see the wound, but based on the amount of blood he was losing, you didn’t think it was too deep.

“I told you not to come,” he growled out, glancing at you with black eyes. You started slightly, before remembering what you had learned about Witchers in your training. You guessed he had taken an elixir to help in the fight, which had turned his eyes black.

“You didn’t seem to be doing very well by yourself, so I stepped in. You should know from your craft that the most effective attack method against Shriekers involves two people,” you shot back, stepping slightly behind the man as he swung his sword to catch the next swipe of a wing. He grunted, glancing back at you.

“Get the girl out of here, she’s in danger the longer she’s in the clearing.” He continued blocking attacks, not moving much in any direction. He released a shout as a wing clipped him, causing a trickle of blood to run down the side of his face. Realizing he was giving you a chance to get away from the creature, you gripped the girl tighter as she cowered into your shoulder, running to where you had left your horse. You quickly hoisted her into the saddle and handed her the reins. “You can ride, yes?”

At her nod, you turned the horse in the direction of home and safety, jabbing him in the side to force him into a gallop as the little girl clung to the pommel, crouched low over the horse’s neck as it ran. You cinched the bracer on your left arm tighter before reaching behind you to retrieve your bow. You ran back towards the battle, retrieving an arrow and notching it to the string as you went. As you came back to the clearing, you set your feet, aiming for the creature’s eyes. As it turned towards you, you shouted “Down!”

Geralt dropped to his stomach and rolled out of the way of a claw as you released your arrow, allowing it to fly and pierce one of the Shrieker’s eyes. It released a scream, flapping its wings as it reared back on its legs, swinging its head to focus on you. You darted away as it lunged, the spike on its head just missing your ribs. You ran to the side, again sighting and releasing, missing the creature as it turned to go after Geralt who had just struck at its exposed back.

It screeched and staggered in pain, away from Geralt and towards you. As it turned, it slashed at you with a wing, causing you to leap forward, rolling under its wing, forcing you to drop your bow as you went. Coming to your feet, you backed up until you were side by side with Geralt. You unsheathed your sword, ignoring the widening of his eyes as he saw the distinctive colour of the blade.

“You go left, I’ll go right and make noise, try to get it to focus my way. Geralt grunted his assent, readjusting his grip on his sword. 

“Now!” you shouted, leaping to right as you continued to yell and move in sharp, jerky motions, trying to draw attention. You kept one eye on Geralt as he moved to the back of the creature and one eye on the Shrieker itself, bobbing and weaving under the spike and wings as it lunged at you.

You hissed as you felt a wing slice through the leather on your back, hot blood beginning to run down the skin. You hadn’t moved quite fast enough. You swung at the offending wing, catching it and leaving a deep gash in the skin. It roared and swung its head at you, catching you in the chest and throwing you against the stone cliff.

You hit hard, sliding down to sit dazed at the base of the wall, watching as Geralt shouted and leapt, landing on the creature’s back before slashing down its spine. It screamed, thrashing and throwing Geralt off, turning and leaping at him before he could get out of the way. You screamed as it claws opened deep lacerations across the Witcher’s chest, dropping him to the ground as if he was a doll whose strings had been cut.

The world crystallized around you as you forced yourself to your feet, your sword gripped tightly in your hand. Sensing the new threat, the Shrieker ignored the injured Witcher at its feet and spun to face you as you ran towards it, ducking under its blow, rolling and coming up at its back. You thrust your sword forwards, aiming for the slash Geralt had made earlier. Your blade struck home and you pulled down, further injuring the creature as you severed the muscles to its wing.

It pulled away, attempting to crawl to the edge of the clearing, its wings flapping in vain. You followed it, dodging the claws and ignoring the burning line down your back as you chopped at it, finally ending the fight when you struck home and twisted, severing the Shrieker’s spinal cord. 

It hadn’t even collapsed before you had dropped your sword, turning and racing back towards the crumpled man, turning him over onto his back to find a paler than normal complexion and closed eyes. Using one of your daggers, you cut away his armour to get to the wound below.

You thanked whatever gods were out there for Geralt’s Witcher constitution. The bleeding had already started to slow. You exhaled sharply at the sight of the mangled flesh, ripping a piece of his ruined shirt off to press against the wound with one hand as you released your harness with your other, searching for the catch that would reveal the fake bottom in your quiver.

You quickly reached for the items kept there, thread, a needle, and a healing potion. Pulling the cork out of the vial with your teeth, you poured half of it in Geralt’s mouth, massaging his throat to ensure he swallowed before dumping the other half over the wound. You ignored the low moan that came from the man at your actions, taking the needle and thread and stitching the wound closed.

That finished, you left him lying on the ground and went in search of his horse. You had run yours off with the little girl, but you were sure that Roach would be around here somewhere. Finding her, you led her back to the clearing, soothing her when she balked at the stench of the Shrieker. 

Taking the bags off her side, you returned to the Witcher to find slitted golden eyes, the black having faded away while he was injured. Relief coursed through you at the sight of him conscious. He watched you with suspicion as you rifled through his bags as you searched, finding what you were looking for. You turned back to him and held up a roll of bandages before gesturing at him, sliding a hand behind his back as he struggled to sit up. Without speaking, you wound the bandages around his torso. You refused to meet his gaze, feeling his eyes on you the entire time you worked.

You stood, turning on your heel and starting towards the edge of the clearing, trusting that the man would be able to get himself back to the town.

“Wait.” A raspy voice came from behind you, freezing you in your tracks. “I know who you are, Black Blade.”

You looked down at the ground before slowly turning to face him. He was sitting on his own now, staring at you with an expressionless face.

“I know you were hired to kill me.”

Refusing to meet his eyes, you shook your head, releasing a sigh. “Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you? You had the chance.” He sounded confused, as if he had expected to have died at your hand.

Looking to the side, you debated your answer. Geralt waited patiently, still staring at you with those golden eyes you had come to favour. “I don’t know. It felt wrong.” You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, surprised when you saw him lift and drop one shoulder before wincing.

“Thank you.” Startled, you turned to look at him fully.

He must have recognized the shocked look on your face as he chuckled, slowly shifting as he struggled to get to his feet. You didn’t move as he approached you, invading your personal space. You tilted your head back slightly so that you could meet his gaze.

“For helping me. You trusted me enough to guard your back, even though you had no idea what I would do. I knew who you were, I could have taken the opportunity to kill you just as much as you could have as well.”

You shook your head at this, denying that he would have harmed you. “I knew you wouldn’t, you look out for people, you don’t hurt them.”

He caught you with his gaze, “And how do you know that?”

You hesitated, debating how much to tell him. “I have seen you forgo payment in poorer towns, you will often spend more money on items than you really need to so that you can help those who need it. You are a good man, Geralt, better than I am. I am as bad as the monsters that you hunt.”

“You say you are a monster, yet you didn’t harm Jaskier while he was travelling with me. In fact, you stopped attempting to harm me at all. I have heard stories of you, Black Blade, and you don’t hurt those who don’t deserve it.”

Shocked, you stared at him. “You knew I was making attempts?”

He nodded, “I also knew that after the first one or two they stopped being real attempts. You left signs, they stopped surprising me after the initial attempts. I must have changed your opinion of me. You have a good soul, you won’t hurt those unless they hurt others. I am glad that your opinion of me changed.”

You looked away, thinking of the day when you saw him stop and buy a meat cake only to give it to a child who had been staring at the cart hungrily. At that moment, you realized that you wouldn’t be able to kill him. 

You didn’t realize tears had started to run down your face until Geralt took a step towards you, bringing a hand to your face to wipe them away. He gently placed two fingers under your chin, turning your head to look at him, his golden eyes soft and open. 

“We have met before, you and I, though I don’t think you realized it at the time. It was many years ago, you saved my life. I had been imprisoned by a king for being unable to free his daughter from a curse. He had gone mad, ravaging the country and killing his people for no reason. I was the next one to be hung when you intervened. You made a public display of him, a message to those that would hurt others that the Black Blade is always watching and is ready to step in. I never forgot that to this day.” He smiled softly. “You saved my life, and you have spared it again.”

You attempted a watery smile, before the expression dropped from your face. Your heart sunk as you remembered the threat. You would never again be free, you would always be looking over your shoulder, waiting for someone to come out of the woods after you. Your name and reputation wouldn’t protect you for long. They also wouldn’t protect Geralt, you realized. As long as you had been hunting him no one else would, for fear of your retribution. Now that there would be contracts out on each of you, you would never be safe. You realized you wanted him to be safe.

“I haven’t saved it, I have condemned it. Now that I have failed to kill you, my employer will come after us both.”

Geralt chuckled, “I would like to see them take down the two of us.”

Hope flared in your chest. “The two of us?” you questioned.

He gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Of course, mouse. Just as you have been watching me these past months, I have also known you were there. Not all the time, no, you are very good at your job, but I would see you occasionally in town. I always wanted to get close to you, but I was worried I would spook you.”

Your heart fluttered at his words as you reached up to gently grasp the wrist of the hand that now cupped your face. You smiled gently up at him, “Then together, we can keep each other safe.”

His breath ghosted over your lips as Geralt slowly leaned down, “Always.” His lips captured yours as his arms came around you, pulling you into his chest. You were careful to avoid his wounds, placing your hands on his waist as you melted into his embrace, savouring the feeling of physical affection, something you rarely received. 

Panting, you separated, leaning your forehead against his. “Together then.”

“Together,” Geralt agreed, before leaning down to capture your lips once more.

**~*~*~*~**

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[the-whims-of-fate]

The Lancer Arturia Ramble no one asked for because I’m garbage

Lancer Arturia is a character that I’ve seen a lot of mixed opinions towards. Whether it’s the fanservice elements or an apparent lack of personality, the Fate fandom doesn’t really give her a lot of positive attention; something I feel is a bit undeserved, or is at the very least explainable to an extent. As you can probably guess, this will likely be a ramble of considerable length, so I will put the rest under the cut as to not clog your dashboards. I will also be mentioning her Interlude, so if you’d like to be unspoiled in regards to the events therein, this is your warning.

I’ll start with her design, as it’s probably the most glaring aspect. Yes, it is a bit impractical and overall unnecessary, but the idea was to create an Arturia that wasn’t affected by the age-halting effects of Excalibur. So, from that perspective, it’s not completely unfounded, especially given the age gap between her and her Saber counterpart as a whole. Granted, it could definitely be toned down, I’m not here to argue otherwise. But for the concept of an Excalibur-less Arturia, it’s not horrible.

Actually, while I’m on the topic of her concept, I want to go into why she seems so lacking in terms of her personality, because making her uncertain regarding things like likes and dislikes actually makes a bit of sense. First, consider what makes a Servant in terms of their summoning and manifestation. A large factor of the Servant is the story behind them, as well as the prominence or importance of their story. Gilgamesh is so powerful because he is largely regarded as the first hero. King Hassan is so powerful because he lies at the very root of the term “Assassin”. Even Vlad III is not only powerful, but his power fluctuates depending on his domain due to his renown as a hero in Romania, and a vampire almost everywhere else. Arturia is lore-wise one of the most powerful sword-wielding servants because the thought process is Swords → Knights → King Arthur. However, Rhongomyniad is hardly as well known, to the point where any mention of it in any sort of legend is brief at best. Lancer Arturia may say that the lance itself is “not inferior” to Excalibur, but whether or not that’s true, it doesn’t change that Rhongomyniad is nowhere near as renowned.

Not only that, but as the Rhongomyniad is only ever briefly mentioned, she has little foundation to her legend as a lance-wielder, which is way more important than you might think. As I said before, one of the most important factors of a Servant is their story. Not only does it play a factor in their summoning and their strength, but also in their manifestation. Pretty much every Servant is so fleshed out because they not only have a story to be based off of, but they themselves have lived through it. Their stories and experiences have shaped them and gave them character as a result. However, Lancer Arturia never got that. As far as I have found, there has been no tale of King Arthur where the Rhongomyniad was prominent enough to warrant more than a mention, meaning she exists as such. Her spirit core resembles that of Arturia Pendragon, but she exists only as a mention, a what-if, without a story or lore of her own from which to be her own individual. In her likes and dislikes, she can’t think of anything because there is nothing to draw from that would qualify. She is a blank slate and didn’t really consider changing that fact until being summoned by you.

In her interlude, with the help of a little dream chloroform from Merlin, Lancer Arturia states that she can no longer understand things like human warmth or laughter, and therefore concludes that she is a heartless machine. However, with a little shouting help from Romulus, she sees that the divine aspects of the Rhongomyniad gave her a “god’s vantage point, but not a god’s heart”, which is proven by both her reaction to her master shouting confessing to her, and the hypothetical scenario of her master hating her. Your contract with her, without her realizing it, is the opportunity to have an identity of her own that she never was given, especially since all she had before was the divine aspect of the lance and word of mouth regarding the events of Camelot.

Overall, Lancer Arturia is a good example of what can be done with a concept when expanded upon. It is unfortunate that some of her bond lines and such were used for boob jokes, but if we were to get another interlude or something to that effect, it could expand on her character even more, and ultimately give her the development she deserves.

Thank you for sitting through my ramblings. If you weren’t made aware, either by interaction or by seeing my Support List, I really like Lancer Arturia, so having the chance to vent some of that appreciation was nice. I didn’t really mention her Alter because I am still unfamiliar with her overall, but that might change in the future. What do you guys think? Would you like to see more long posts like this? I know it’s not the most cohesive rambling, but it was at the very least fun to write.

#Admin Rambles #long post #Arturia Pendragon Lancer

[ralafferty]

80.11 Archipelago (end)

There is an advantage in very old and mutilated writings: they are improved by the mutilation. It is the first and the last sheepskins that are always lost or worn. There is no story that is not improved by having its first and last pages lost.

I tried to figure out how to wrap this up without using that quote, but ironically it's so deeply woven into the text that I think it's impossible to work through this section, or this novel, or Lafferty himself, without recourse to an aesthetic of mutilation.

Lafferty is a bricoleur, no doubt, but he's not always one just to take the pieces he finds around him; he's continually active in creating new pieces by shredding what went before. Archipelago, at least on the surface level, is not possessed of the gleefully grotesque mutilation that marks works like Space Chantey, but that's not because it's absent, it's just because he's kicked it up a layer or two.

So while the bodies of Finnegan, Dotty, and the assassin Niccolo Crotolus are assuredly mutilated in the final gun battle, we are denied the details of how exactly the bullets tore into flesh, where the damage was and how deep: information he rarely stints on elsewhere. This may in part be because of an aversion to combat in this "war novel with the war removed," but it also directs our attention to other aspects of the scene and setting.

Here we are given the elements of a blaze-of-glory shootout: a protagonist, his old flame, and an antagonist after the former who will not hesitate to go through the latter. But Lafferty has already ripped up the script before the action starts. Our hero, Finnegan, is not armed and does not return fire; he goes down from the first shot and stays down. Instead, it is the old flame who retorts, who acts as the protector rather than the protected. Even the antagonist is detached from the encounter: he's a hired gun, but one who is oddly drawn to Finn and who makes every effort to ensure that his murder will be accomplished with the victim in a state of grace. (As a side note, anyone know the source of Lafferty's distinction between the "piccolo vendetta" and the  "grande vendetta," the revenge unto salvation or unto damnation? The latter is one of his more chilling concepts, though then again Lafferty's own ideas of hell were surprising and complex.)

There is, as often in Lafferty, an overload of imagery and association here, heaped up to the point of confusion. We get here an inverted Garden of Eden, with the serpent (played by Nick the Sidewinder) striking to make sure that the man in question is saved rather than damned, while the woman is completely guiltless. And we end also in a sort of frustrated Pietà, with the Christ figure felled, and Mary unable to cradle his body because she is too busy shooting and being shot.

Meanwhile the book, which started on an island on the Thursday of the creation week just prior to the appearance of man, now concludes on an island on the Wednesday, "the same as the Fourth Morning of the World when God had already made the ocean and let it roll all night and now was ready to place the sun in its course. And He hung it fifteen degrees up in the sky and let it start from there, just above the morning cloud bank. ... Now it was just as it had been in the beginning." Thanks to this chronology, Archipelago loops back on itself just like Devil Is Dead and More Than Melchisedech, just in a more subtle way. And it serves as a reminder that to tell stories is to mutilate time, to break a continuity into discrete units and rearrange those pieces into new and sometimes ungainly configurations.

But it's not just the single timeline of Archipelago that is structurally endangered; the barriers between all the fictions are breaking down. Finnegan, as X will say elsewhere, is the funnel between the worlds of Archipelago and The Devil Is Dead; he is also one of the foci of the world created by Melchisedech Duffey, and characters of that world determine their positions within it with respect to him.

Back from Chapter 7: "Was Finnegan a simple schizo in his living several lives? No. He was a complex schizo. His travels ended only with his life, though X (who claimed to have later congress with him) said they did not end even then. The apocryphal of the Finnegan adventures cannot be separated from the canonical. They raise the question: are there simultaneous worlds and simultaneous people?" As his body is mutilated here, so also are the people he knows and the worlds he inhabits; the two timelines only barely kept separated in Archipelago and The Devil Is Dead bleed fully into one another, and their weird mirroring becomes finally apparent. Many of the characters in Devil are already doubles, but here (in a work written earlier, but perhaps substantially revised after? the textual history is very difficult to unravel) they are revealed as parallel selves to people we have already met in Archipelago. And while we can say that all of us are many people at once and lead potentially many lives across many timelines, that doesn't make it any less confusing for the reader or for the characters themselves—or, we might say, for Lafferty as well. It's telling that Finnegan only realizes this when sketching out the people of his acquaintance, making one last use of his prodigious artistic talent. Inasmuch as Lafferty uses Finnegan's artistic talent as a surrogate for his own (and along with that, his anxieties over squandering that talent), it's tempting to read the early years of his career as an attempt to not become a Finnegan, to have something to point to when the Master demanded an account.

But even if that sort of a crisis (in its original sense of "judgment") is in view, the narration explicitly denies this to the characters involved: "In a crisis there should be a change of attitude. The attitudes of none of them were going to be changed by the shooting." Had Finnegan's attitude changed already? Had Lafferty's? Are there simultaneous worlds, and simultaneous people? It's a difficult set of questions, even beyond the basic impossibility of having a definitive answer for any one of them. Certainly the climax here gives way to anticlimax, as so often with this author who delights in the shaggiest of dogs. And whatever validity we grant to the claims of X—a notorious and renowned liar—this is certainly not the last time we will encounter Finnegan in this life, or in the one to come.

So that's Archipelago: possibly the oldest novel of Lafferty's to be published, and certainly one of the best, even if it took several decades and ultimately immense efforts by Rick Norwood to make it happen even in the limited release it got. If you find a print copy, snap it up! And if not, fortunately, digital copies are now readily available.

One last question about this section, before I move on at long last to Dotty: why Cuba? The action of the book, of course, is in the late 1940s and early 1950s, so this is pre-Revolución. And certainly the bulk of the writing is done before that point. But all the revisions for this novel happen after that point, and in particular after the debacle at the Bay of Pigs, another happening on a Cuban beach. (Albeit one not walkable from Havana, as the scene of the final showdown here.) For Lafferty, Communism was never a red herring, though it might only be one head of a larger hydra. And the book's most persistent subplot centers around Communism: Casey falling away from the Church into its only coherent ideological rival, and subsequently being restored. Not something I have an answer to yet, but I will loop back to it when taking up the later In a Green Tree volumes. Any other questions must be assumed lost in the mutilation in this manuscript.

#novel #bestof #nongenre #argo #cuba

[overthinkingfeathers]

They're not what Zevran was expecting.

The plan isn't ruined, per se, but he was rather counting on them to be slightly less suspicious. Grey Wardens are heroes of legend, and people routinely called heroes are supposed to be giving and trusting. This lot clearly isn't. The elf - Dalish, if he's seeing correctly - and Qunari are just short of openly disdainful, trading eyerolls when they think no one can see. At least, he clearly sees the elf roll her eyes; the Qunari is on the far side and perhaps more mannerly than Zevran gives him credit for.

Perhaps only the human is a Grey Warden then. He certainly seems eager to assist the woman Zevran's hired. His information is scare and outdated; it's entirely possible the others could be tagalongs. That would be more fitting. Champions sometimes amass a following, and outlaw heroes have their own appeal. And if the Grey Warden is this blindly trusting, well, he certainly needs them.

That rather complicates things for him though. The two suspicious ones are scanning the horizon, shoulders tight, clearly expecting something. The massive dog - and Zevran's not sure if he's a Grey Warden or not, this being Ferelden - is scenting the air. They're not going to make it to the wagon.

Well. He can improvise. He leaps up, shouts, "The Grey Warden dies here!" and charges the human. Around him, he can hear sudden clattering as the others spring out of hiding places, and he can taste the bitter dryness of a mage gathering mana. He hopes at least one of them will down the elf before she can intercept him.

They don't. She steps in at the last minute, close enough that he can see her expression shift from anger to surprise. Then, before he can take advantage of that, she lashes out and hits him. The first blow is a lucky shot. She catches him in the stomach, and he stumbles back, winded. The second blow is skill.

He doesn't remember falling, but he's definitely on the ground when he wakes, and there's a boot on his chest. It can't have been long; faraway sounds of battle still echo around him, with the occasional loud snap above his head. His vision swims, and he refocuses upwards.

The elf is standing above him, unhurriedly tracking the fleeing mercenaries with her bow. She is grim and focused, and Zevran is reminded of an Antivan statue of Andraste that's many times taller than him. It is, despite the artist's best intentions, ominous and looming, towering over the city like an unvoiced threat.

The boot on his chest is hers. It's an odd choice. The fight, judging by the lessening noise, is mostly over, and he has lost; there's no chance of him bringing them all down. Still, he could twist and unbalance her, maybe grab one of the daggers on her belt. She would probably still win, but he never expected to walk away from this anyway.

She grinds her heel harder into his chest, as if sensing his thoughts, and he lays still instead. The mud feels like it's sucking him down, and he counts the seconds between her shots. He doesn't want to think about why he's still alive.

When she finally releases him, he sits up slowly, more dazed than he thought. He sees no trace of uncertainty in her hazel eyes or in the steady hand that points a dagger towards him. The others are still some distance off, dumping out bags and recovering arrows. If they realize she’s left him alive, they don’t show it.  

"I have some questions," she says, and her tone is menacing, the threat of further violence clearly implied. She would be easy to antagonize, he thinks; there's no reason he has to keep going. She would kill him without a second thought. That is what he wanted. That's why he took this job in the first place.

He opens his mouth to seal his fate and finds that he can't do it. He's walked away from a sharp knife a dozen times over, cursing his inability to end himself, and this is no different. It seems wrong to die calm and unafraid.  

So he flirts, barters with information, and in the end, lives.

_____________________________________________________________

Zevran makes it a month and a half before falling ill. It's a charming side effect of such a damp climate, he's sure; nothing life ending, but it will take a while to recover.

He tries to hide it from Mahariel for as long as possible. She is not needlessly cruel, but her practicality can sometimes brush the edge of it. It's a trait tempered by the kinder members of the party, none of whom currently trust him. He doesn't think they'd just let her abandon him on the side of the road, but he's not sure enough to test it. The fights when he first came back with her were vicious.

So he pushes himself harder than he should. Even walking leaves him exhausted and sore. By the third day, not even halfway to the Circle tower, he feels lightheaded and queasy. It is, all around, a truly miserable experience. He drops behind further than he means to, too wrapped up in a fever haze to notice his slowing pace.

He only realizes when he runs straight into Mahariel. She's facing him, frowning with her arms crossed. The others are a good distance ahead.

He opens his mouth to apologize, but she speaks first. "How long have you been sick?"

He feels like it's been forever, but that can't be right. He tries to narrow it down, fails, and goes with a shrug instead. "A little while."

She scowls and steps closer. A reflexive knot of fear rises in his stomach, and Zevran pushes it down. Mahariel is not a Crow, and he has never seen her do more than raise her voice at the others, but old habits die hard.

If she notices, she doesn't show it, but the hand she presses against his forehead is gentle and cool. It's the first thing in hours that's felt good, and inappropriate as it is, he wishes she'd stay just like that for a while.  

She doesn't, and to his credit, Zevran doesn't protest when she moves. Out loud, anyway. She surveys their surroundings, searching the flat land dotted with the occasional tree. Finally, she shrugs. "This spot is as good as any other." Cupping her mouth with her hands to amplify the sound, she shouts, "We're making camp here! Come back!" In the distance, the others turn.

Mahariel doesn't bother to check. She takes off her pack and tosses it on the ground, then turns to Zevran. "Give me yours."

He struggles with the straps and succeeds only in getting it halfway off before she steps in and eases it off his back. She places it on the ground - a good deal more gently than her own, he notes with faraway amusement, like he has anything of value - and unhooks his bedroll. She spreads it out and points.

"Rest." He must look blank, because she frowns and repeats, "Rest. I'm not asking."

He wants to protest. Setting up camp is difficult and monotonous, and everyone is supposed to help. It's one of her rules. But he can hear his heartbeat in his head and feel every aching muscle, and he wants badly to sleep. If she's ordering him to take a break, it can't be a bad idea, he justifies. He lays down and almost immediately begins drifting off.

"'Tis barely past midday," he hears, and Mahariel's response of, "I'm going to need you to make more health potions."

Then he's gone.

When he awakens, the spot has changed. It's night, and tents are clustered around a low fire. He feels surprisingly comfortable. Not well yet - he can feel the pain at the edge of his conscious, but for now, with the benefit of hours of sleep, he can ignore it.

To his right, Mahariel is sitting at the fire, systematically grinding deathroot in a mortar. Her hair is loose and tangled, reddish undertones illuminated by the flames, and she's discarded most of her armor in favor of light clothing. It's a rare look for her, one normally reserved for the time between waking and leaving each day. He doesn't see anyone else, including her hound. She must be on watch then.

He's aware that he should say something, perhaps thank her for stopping. He's been loyal and hardworking, and he deserves as much, but it's still not the reaction he expected. He doesn't understand her. She's reserved and combative, so confident in her skills that she routinely fights her way out of situations that never needed to be escalated in the first place. The others regard her as their leader, and it's a role she's embraced, often deciding in favor of harsh solutions the others object to but ultimately obey. She's made it clear that her only goal is stopping the Blight. Any good deeds she does along the way are simply for material benefit. Anyone who stands in her way is as good as dead.

And yet, he's still alive and wrapped in rather more blankets than he started with.

He goes with the same question he's asked every night since he first joined her, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn't expect an answer; she's never given him one. "Why did you spare me?" His voice is rougher and louder than he expects, but Mahariel doesn't startle. She merely puts down her work.

Tonight, apparently, is going to be different. "Danyla," she says. She says it simply, like the name itself is a sufficient explanation. It means nothing to him.

"I'm afraid you must have me confused for someone else," he says when it's become clear she's not going to continue. "My name is Zevran. Fiendishly handsome assassin, renowned lover, personal bodyguard? You remember this, I hope."

She rolls her eyes. It's a favorite gesture of hers, usually accompanied by an exasperated sigh and a muttered, "Creators, must I solve everyone's problems?" This time, however, fondness is tugging the corners of her lips up slightly. It is a good look for her, he decides.

"You don't ever let me forget. But I'd like you to tell me important things - like, you know, when you're sick - so I guess I can tell you this." The teasing smile dies away as suddenly as it appeared, and she's back to her usual self, serious and wary. For a minute, she stares into the fire like she's reliving something, and Zevran  wonders if the reason is more painful than he imagined. Perhaps he shouldn't have asked. Then she shakes her head and says, "When we were in the Brecilian Forest, there was an elvhen woman named Danyla. She had been infected in the werewolf attack and transformed. The Keeper said she was dead, but really, she had run away. We found her in the forest. She could still speak, but she was in tremendous pain. She asked me to kill her. I did. I slashed her throat and continued on like it was nothing.

"We found out later that there was a cure. She could have been fine. Instead, she's dead." Mahariel turns toward him, serious and intent. The fire behind her illuminates her silhouette, making her look like a painting of some sort of lost prophet. She is the kind the Chantry would try to erase, he thinks, strong and war like and unabashedly elven. "We lose so much every year, Zevran. I killed her, I killed an ancient elvhen spirit trapped in a crystal, I killed a second ancient elvhen spirit because it attacked me. I ransacked a temple filled with our history - history we don't even know, history we'll never get back - because it was filled with werewolves. I'm one of the People; I'm supposed to add to our clans, not take away from them." It’s more regret than he’s heard in her voice before. Up until now, he thought she simply wasn’t capable of it.

She sits back, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. "I promised I'd never kill another Dalish elf if I could help it."

There is a lot he could say in response to that. She knows about his mother, knows that he isn't Dalish himself. She had asked about his clan there on the field, when he was at her mercy, and he hadn't lied. She could have killed him and not broken her vow.  Instead, she had taken him back to camp, patched up his wounds, and given him protection. Half of his gear is now Dalish made, all gifts from her.

He doesn't know what to say. She misinterprets his silence and says, a bit defensively, "You came from behind us. I only got a glimpse of your tattoo."  

He can work with that. "Your tattoos are in honor of your gods, no? Is there a god of ridiculously talented elves? I could see why you would think I'd bear his mark."

She snorts. "The only half face vallaslin I've seen is for Sylaise. One of our sister clans uses it. Or they did at the last Arlathven, anyway."

"Is she the goddess of ridiculously talented elves then?"

"She's the Hearthkeeper. She gave us medicine, weaving, and fire." Mahariel sketches a pattern in the dirt. "It's been years, but I think it looked like this. Yours would need a lot of work to match."

He's too far away to make out the finer points of the design and too comfortable to move, but he can tell it is far more complicated than his tattoo. "I'm not sure a wise woman quite matches me. Besides, I am not Dalish."

"I know that." Her face is still turned towards the ground, hair obscuring her expression. He cannot tell if her tone is defensive or sad. Perhaps it is both.  

"Which god do your tattoos represent?" They cover most of her face, lines half sharp and half rounded as if the artist could not quite decide what suited her. The ink is lighter than his own, with a reddish brown undertone, but it's not yet faded from age. He cannot picture her without them. He can almost picture her getting them, expression serious and stubborn, shoulders unflinching.

She glances up at him. Suddenly, he wants to ask if the experience prepared her for this, if having to remain unmoved while needles jabbed under her skin was anything like having to fight monsters day in and day out. He waits instead.

"Ask me some other time," she finally says. "You’ll need a new question now that I've answered the last one."

It is, somehow, the nicest thing she’s ever said to him.

#Dragon Age #Dragon Age Origins #Zevran #Warden #Mahariel #Aderes Mahariel #Feathers writes #Fanfic #Fanfiction #This has literally been sitting in my docs for months now #with the title 'I exist only to embarrass myself' #so #I'm setting it free #Go forth half done fic and stop haunting me everytime I start something new #(It's not really half done #just the original concept was going to have like 2k more words #Maybe one day I'll do a chapter 2 or something to finish it but eeeeeeh probably not #whoops) #This post is scheduled #Will it post correctly? Who knows! Not me #Tag ramble

[oscillohero2]

Mielle’s Backstory

Mielle Feuille was the eldest of three, born from an elven mother and a human father, both whom had high military statuses. Her father was a seasoned commander who has led many armies to victory and was a trusted man within his country and nobility. Her mother, an arch sorceress, oversaw many circle of magi and well renowned for her magical prowess across the land. Having two very prestigious parents placed a lot of pressure on their eldest child, everyone had high expectations for Mielle, especially her mother. From a very young age, Mielle was taught and practiced in the magical arts by her mother. Despite having the blood of her genius mother, she struggled to perform any kind of magic. But her mother continued to push her with a strict regimen because no child of hers wouldn’t be able to use magic. Mielle sought for her mother’s approval, and even studied during her free time for the sake of finding out why she couldn’t use magic.

Years passed and her younger brother and sister began their practices as well and quickly surpassed her capabilities. Distraught by the fact that she was living in the shadow of her whole family, failing to meet everyone’s expectations, she desperately began to search for answers by sneaking into her mother’s private library. The sorceress warned her daughter to never go in there since the library contained books on powerful, demonic magic. Despite her mother’s warning, she would frequently break in and read all the books she could for the sake maybe improving her chances at performing spells. She found one of the books intriguing and would always go back to an old tome with a battered leather cover written in an ancient language. Thanks to her mother’s training, she easily deciphered the contents of the book. It contained rituals for demon summoning spells and contracts. Mielle had no desire to perform any of these rituals, but little did she know something was watching her from afar.

Time continued to pass and Mielle still almost no signs of improvement. Her brother and sister, though still young, both became excellent sorcerers much to their mother’s delight. It became apparent that the sorceress was losing hope in Mielle and began to dismiss and ignore her daughter. But Mielle hadn’t lost hope, that maybe one day, she would receive her mother’s approval. But then that one fateful night happened, a group of assassins broke into their home. *Mielle’s Father* was still at war, and as a tactic to lower is his morale, the enemy faction sent assassins to kill his family. They had infiltrated the home and avoided all the magical traps and alarms. It happened so quickly that *Mielle’s Mother* didn’t have time to properly way to defend her children. Amid combat Mielle led her younger siblings to the private library to hide them from the killers. Outside her mother was trying to fend off the assassins but it was clear she was losing the battle. Inside, Mielle was trying calm her siblings down, one whom was cradling the corpse their cat whom was killed by one of the assassins. Aburuptly, Mielle’s mother burst through the door, covered in wounds and heavily bleed. She looked up and was bewildered at the sight of her children standing there looking at her. She hadn’t realized that they had chosen the library as their hiding spot. Then they heard footsteps getting closer and closer. The two younger ones began to cry and their mother had a blank look on her face, as she knew there was nothing else she could do. The footsteps got louder and louder, and her heartbeat began to increase as well. The adrenaline began to make Mielle nauseous. Soon five shrouded figures silently walked into the room, their cloaks torn from their battle with Mielle’s mother. Although their bodies were completely covered, one could sense the incredible blood lust emitting from these five. The fear of losing everyone she loved, the fear of never living out her potential, the fear of dying completely over took Mielle as she stood there paralyzed. Then almost in complete unison, the five shrouded figures dashed towards the family. As soon as one almost reached her mother who was collapsed on the floor, Mielle yelled “NO!!!!”, the shroud stood there frozen, much to Mielle’s bewilderment. She looked around and realized everyone around her was in a stasis like state. Suddenly the book that intrigued her since her youth appeared before her. A loud booming voice manifested in her head. “I’ve been watching you my child, you have struggled and suffered with no fruition. I have peered into thy heart and seen your deepest and darkest desires. Form a contract with me, and I shall grant you the power thy wishes. With it, you can save the family you love so very much.” Mielle hesitated for a second, recalling all her mother’s warnings about contracts with demons, but it was the only chance the save her family. She agreed to have her wish granted and began chanting the ancient script from the tome. The ritual needed a vessel, so she lifted the cat corpse from her sister’s arms and presented it to the demon. Swirling flames began to surround the young half-elf and in that instant, time began to flow again. The flames that surrounded the girl began to engulf the shrouded assassins. Their cries pierced the room as they were incinerated in a glorious blaze. Mielle stood there, still processing what had just happened as she turned around and saw the expression on her family’s faces. Her siblings in awe of the magic their older sister performed, but her mother with a dreaded and ferocious look her face. Gathering her strength she stood up and looked directly into her daughters eyes, and after confirming what she saw, slapped her daughter’s face. “HOW DARE YOU!” she boomed. “TO PERFORM A CONTRACT WITH A DEMON IS THE HIGHEST TABOO ANY SPELLCASTER COULD MAKE”. Mielle stood there, her face feeling bruised and on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry mother I know you have warned me not too, but I did it to save you three. I didn’t have another choice.” she pleaded. Her mother scowled, completely unphased by the response. Rather than giving her a proper response she said, “I FORBID YOU FROM EVER COMING NEAR ME OR MY FAMILY EVER AGAIN. YOU ARE NO DAUGHTER OF MINE FOUL DEMON.” Mielle collapsed on the ground, despair began welling inside of her heart. She tried to breath, cry, or do anything but the shock of her mother was too much and she fainted.

She woke up the next day in her bed with bandages on her wounds. The sorceress had called a nurse to tend to everyone. Mielle stood up, her mouth dry and had a massive headache and she recalled the events that took place the night before. Her eyes began to water at what had happened. The nurse walked into her room and relayed a message from the sorceress. The sorceress was to take her two children far away and go into hiding, in fear of more assassins to come after her. Mielle was to leave the mansion immediately and to never come back or search for them. Tears began to fall down her face and the nurse comforted her. The elderly woman looked into her eyes and said “Go child, find your father. Maybe he might have a way to remove this curse from your soul.”. Mielle wiped the tears from her eyes and nodded in confirmation. She once again was given a glimmer of hope to prove herself once again. She looked into her closet and found the attire her father sent her on her most recent birthday. She had never worn it since it was a bit too flashy for her tastes, but this a chance to reinvent herself; a new and better Mielle. With it, she gathered some of her most precious belongings and bid her home adieu.

As she began to walk towards the closest town, she heard a familiar meow. She turned around a saw what seemed like her cat. It looked into her eyes and a booming voice projected into her head. “You haven’t about our contract, have you?” the voice said. Mielle realized that the vessel needed for the contract was for the demon to possess. Although, this was a serious matter, Mielle couldn’t help but laugh at the demonic cat. “Stop laughing” the cat said “I’m serious!”. Mielle at this point was on the floor still laughing and tearing up. After she began to calm down, she stood up “No I haven’t, but after everything that has happened, I really needed that laugh” she wheezed. The cat stood there relatively frustrated. After she was on her feet Mielled asked “By the way, what do I need to do for my part of the contract?”. “Feed me the souls of the living” the cat retorted “those assassins last night were quite delicious”. Mielle felt disgusted, besides last night, she never killed anyone before. “What happens if I don’t?” she replied. “I’ll turn thee into an arcane horror who seeks out to prey of those who are weak minded” the demon said. The thought began to wrack her head, she had no desire to kill but she also didn’t want to become an abomination. But it quickly crossed her mind that she could slay those who are evil and feed their souls to her cat. That way she would be a warrior of justice rather than a harbinger of doom. “Fine” she said. “Hrmph, alright then, as long as you understand then let us proceed.” The cat motioned towards Mielle. Although an unlikely traveling companion, Mielle was content she wasn’t going to be alone. The pair began their journey, a journey destined to be filled with hope and despair.

#My OC