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thecitythatdoesntsleep · 3 years

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Vampire Master-Guide

First of all I want to start off by saying I've gathered inspiration from MANY vampire medias. Fictions, games. The biggest influences are Vampire the masquerade (primarily bloodlines) and Vampire Knight (manga). As well as honorable mentions to Vampyr (game), Queen of the Damned (movie) and Van Helsing (movie, anime). So if anything sounds familiar, chances are it is. I highly encourage you to explore them as they are a few of my favorites.

Second of all this is going to be massive, so I'll be putting it under a cut. But it will be a comprehensive guide to my personal vampire lore that I've crafted and worked with through the years. If you like it, feel free to use it! I'd absolutely love to be tagged (so I can shower the creations with praise) but it's not required. I'm just out here making one more version of vampires that hopefully inspires you. There will be a couple different categories that I will touch base on.

History (this part is super short)

Physicality - Medical Information

Physicality - Appearance/Body

Mental Effects

Society

Anything from my vampire lore will be tagged #vlor

Now follow me under the cut, lovelies. But please be Warned: We'll be discussing blood, violence, physical and mental illness. As well as regular vampire related things. If any of this could trigger you, please kindly skip this post because you're far more important to me!

'History'

The original vampire to walk the earth, cursed by the heavens was Caine. After committing the first murder, a blood-soaked punishment was to forever be banished to walk the darkness with a constant reminder of his crimes. Thirst. Craving for the same blood he shed against his own kin. The sin was carried through the years and he came upon another outcast kindred by the name of Lilith, cursed by God in a different way and hexed with powerful disciplines.

They bonded as kine and Lilith taught her chaos to Caine in hopes they'd rule together. In the end his nature stayed true and his now empowered wrath befalls Lilith, committing murder yet again and taking her life.

To feed upon and be fed, was a now animalistic instinct that spoke louder than supposed human nature ever could. And thus the curse spread. To anyone that drinks from the tainted or is bitten by a rabid, is surely to bear it at the final heartbeat. The path to redemption is sealed but survival is nearly infinite. So long as the beast is obeyed and satisfied, there is no constraint on lifespan. They will be damned to an eternity enslaved to thirst.

(Primarily from VTMB but I really like the idea of it being some sort of ancient curse from the gods so I thought I'd include this tiny historical bit. Onto the good stuff.)

Physicality - Medical Information

Vampires are anemic, let's just establish that all vampires are what modern day medicine would consider anemia. But they also have super aggressive red blood cells that function x100 that of human white blood cells. All in one combo of super cells. No illness spreads. No disease can contract, nothing can live in their system. They don't fall ill with colds or flu. STD's aren't feasible. Their systems are far too strong and combative to infections, bacteria.

Their integumentary systems regenerate about x200 - x300 times faster. Within seconds (if there is or has been fresh blood in the system recently) their skin regenerates and goes even beyond that. Mere hours and limbs grow back, bones realign.

Vampires don't have functioning organs. (If they are turned from humans they are there but they don't work and will eventually wither.) Hearts don't beat, lungs have no need for air.

Vampires can't drown. They don't breathe and even if water fills their lungs, they would be weighted down but not die. They also don't float like humans do naturally.

Vampires can go out in the sun but they have hard times with sun poisoning. Think of a sunburn but more like a rash. They can't process the vitamin D very well and almost all of them have trouble with getting severely burnt very rapidly or having a rash from the sun. Prolonged exposure can make them feverish, nauseated and give them body cramps and fatigue. Even longer can make them violently ill and can essentially melt their skin. It can be healed but takes longer.

Staking their hearts immobilizes them but does NOT kill them. They can be detained this way and it is excruciatingly painful. But it doesn't kill you.

Vampires can't eat food. Only few can consume liquids aside from blood. They have no ability to digest it and no longer make acid. They'll usually heave it up along with whatever blood content is left in their gut.

They have perfect eyesight, hearing, hyper senses of taste and smell. Touch is extremely sensitive as well. Their skin isn't fragile, in fact it's a bit thicker than average skin from how fast it regenerates and is constantly maintaining itself.

They are very resistant but not impossible to scar. Scars from human life are erased with first turning.

Vampire blood tastes like flat soda or icky, room temperature tap water. Unpleasant to other vampires but in a desperate pinch, it will sustain but nowhere near as good as foreign blood does. Even animal blood takes better care of a vampires system than another body of recycled blood. (Think of it as they've already taken the good stuff out of it for their own bodies so all that's left is the taste and a few stray nutrients.)

Vampires fangs grow back indefinite. At about x10 the rate of humans losing and replacing their first set. No matter what comes of them, their fangs will always grow back. No other teeth mutate like this.

Fangs lengthen and retract when around blood or not. It's not something that can be helped or even trained out. When blood is present, fangs will lengthen even if there is no intention to feed. Automatic reaction and a painful one at that. They get used to it but it's a sharp pain like having a human tooth extracted but it doesn't have prolonged swelling or discomfort. Only when getting longer or retracting back in.

Whenever they're in bloodlust or a state of starvation, they gain a sense of x-ray vision but instead it's vein mapping. They can see through skin to arteries and if it's severe blood lust, they can even see the smaller, tinier veins in fingers and faces. This is a sight that ever vampire possesses in order to obtain blood easier or figure out a good place to bite. Anything that is living will be seen in a structure of veins. Animals, humans, other vampires.

Severing the brain stem from the body is one of the few sure-fire way to kill a vampire. Alternatively burning them to pure ash and scattering them or holding them in separate vessels. (If ALL ashes are contained somehow and mixed with fresh blood, there is a reanimation process so beheading them is more permanent.) Silver weapons or exposure to silver prior to wound can result in death as well.

Alcohol is SUPER effective when they drink it. Think of one shot making them drunk because it hits their bloodstream almost immediately. A double would have them seeing double and acting like a hot mess. 3+ for even the beefiest of men would have them blacked out and vomiting on the sidewalks.

Drugs effect them but only in extremely high doses and for nothing really over 2 hours or so. Short, short longevity but they have the same crash that humans do. If it's hard detoxing symptoms for humans, it's the same but faster. They can do a hard drug, feel the high for maybe 1 - 2 hours and immediately go into hallucinating and shaking from the aftermath. The same goes for Pharmacia. There's really no medicine that works.

Garlic is a myth. So is wolfsbane.

Silver on the other hand is a very real, very deadly weapon that still rings true. A single pinprick of a silver sewing needle and it can render a vampire powerless. Slow them down to the speed of a human, take away their rapid healing and remove all of their heightened senses. Silver directly into the bloodstream essentially renders them as they were before they turned in physical response and structure. It's the only metal that burns vampires skin and will char it if it sits in one spot for too long. Silver is the only kind of metal that can forge chain that vampires cannot break and can successfully be restrained in. Any wounds inflicted in silver take longer to heal.

They can't reproduce after being turned. Purebloods + Purebloods are the only exception and it's still extremely rare. (Only 9 children born in over 2,500+ years.)

Physicality - Appearance/Body

Whatever color their eyes are, blood-lust accentuates the brightest color. I.e: Brown eyes turn Yellow/Gold, Blue eyes turn White/Purple exct. (Different powers can change this depending on the vampire and their history, sire.) Just think neon, glowing eyes in the dark if they're thirsty or hunting.

They stay frozen in whatever physical appearance they're turned in. Their metabolism is whack so they don't really lose or gain weight, it's down to cosmetic changes or cosmetic surgery. Which at least it heals flawlessly and doesn't ever change. But there aren't many options for personally invested physical change.

Their hair and nails grow super fast.

Vampires usually have the hair color they have when they are turned but around 15% experience graying or whitening of their hair within a few days of turning. Due to a semi-common genetic string in humans.

Vampires don't tan. They burn. No matter what their skin color is. Most are the palest/pasty tone of their natural skin color merely due to anemia and lack of blood circulation.

They don't blush or show physical signs of fever.

Vampires don't sweat or flush when exerting or exercising. They don't have to regulate their body temperatures.

They get dry skin pretty often and it's important to combat it with baths and soaks and lotions/oils whenever possible.

They are usually a lukewarm body temperature. As low as 15°C|59°F to as much as 21°C|69.8°F.

Every vampire has a certain amount of charming allure to them. In whatever form or fashion suits them the best, it's a natural attractant to their human counterparts. A glint to their eyes, a certain smile, the pitch or timbre of their voice. Endearing, seductive, mysterious, whichever shines through in their personality. They are magnetic, attractive to the human eye, no matter what they tend to look like.

They can see themselves in aluminum coated mirrors. Just not silver.

Mental Effects

There is a staggering 95% probability that 'created' vampires will have amnesia unless turned by a pureblood/noble/king/queen/high ranking blood vampire. They remember nothing of their human lives and this is extremely common. It's actually very rare to remember anything prior to your awakening. (That's why there are usually strict laws about siring without consent and proof of consent.)

It is very easy for vampires to be blinded by fits of rage when starving for blood. They can fly into blind anger and attack people they normally wouldn't or even foes they have no chance of winning against. Depending on their remaining strength when this tipping point of starvation happens; it can be extremely dangerous to be around.

Most turned vampires suffer a psychotic break in their early turning years. (Between 6mo and up to 25 years of awakening age. I.e: from the date of being bitten.) The brain is the last thing to be altered in the physical process and because of this, it's believed that their mental state has to crumble to be built better. It's unknown as to exactly why this happens but it's almost guaranteed. It's the vampire equivalent of 'adolescence'.

Over 75% of vampires experience periodic depression and random bouts of sadness. Another 39% live with bouts of mild to moderate psychosis. (This has been suspected to happen because of the physical stasis and improper circulation of chemicals/hormones/exct. Many believe it's because of the guilt of their King, Caine.)

Mental illnesses that aren't born from physical imbalances are in cases of amnesia, cured. Those that are chemically related are usually worsened by the stagnant physical changes of vampirism. It's rare that those with amnesia remember their traumas or emotional upsets after turning.

The "amnesia" of turning is the death of a human psyche. With the staggering rate of permanent amnesia, it is hard to figure out exactly how it happens but it's widely known.

Society

Humans are not fully aware of vampires. This still rings true with the fear of world war and or wiping out the human race given their species.

There is a high society "government" type of monarchy. Each clan or type of vampires has a leader "elder". This is usually the oldest vampire to date of that specific type. Sometimes it's a group or a family of elders. In most modern day they have adapted to a more "presidential" route and have to establish themselves as leader types to be considered for any kind of law making or enforcement. (I.e: Noble bloodline, diligent efforts of servitude such as public service, military or other.)

There is a strict law against turning humans. Vampires are required to have clearly given consent and the process is to be looked over by an elder or enforcer. They must show strenuous documentation of that persons preservation in the name of probable amnesia. They must have a comprehensive processing of that persons interests, personality traits, societal standing, proof of occupational termination, familial status and situational agreement. (Basically they don't want humans forgetting their lives entirely and they want to make sure that they are able to move somewhere or hide from their families until they're well trained enough to be around them again. It's a very long to legally accomplish it.

Every city handles turning differently. Some require the sire to pay the death penalty and others are strictly against killing the one person responsible of their turned kindred.

Vampires are in every day jobs, doing anything and everything that humans do. From trash collecting, to law and doctors. Fame, fortune, poor, criminal; they all live as many walks of life as humans do.

Anti-vampire establishments are alive and well. Most are run by other vampires. Some humans share their beliefs but most typically it's a resounding amount of vampire extremists. This is legal due to the fact that they try to adhere and coexist for their sanctions ordinance. Helping enforce justice for their regions and implore an opposing force for rampaging vampires or other law breaking kindred.

Most human killings are covered up, tampered with or has someone on the inside working on doing both. It's a constant job but a needed one to keep their existence safe from being proven.

There is a massive shortage on vampire doctors serving other vampires or studying from what little information there is on vampirism. The ratio looking like 1 to 300. 1 doctor for every 300 vampires.

The most vampire dominated and lucrative occupations are generally law, publishing and sex working. There are 3 vampires with these jobs to every human worker.

Here is an additional post about how vampire blood would effect humans.

So that was everything I could think of for the time being. I may continue to edit and update this as I have time or I think of something that I haven't touched base on yet. But this is just the general lore I work with when I do write about vampires or when I think about them in general. Feel free to skip certain parts or like.. adapt it however you'd like. I made this to more so inspire people not to show a list of HOW things should go. Take of it what you like and ignore what you don't! Add more if you think of something!

Some of it gets a bit random but it's still things that I've either incorporated in some unpublished fics or talked about with some friends or just fantasized about in general. There's bits and pieces in all media for vampires that I really enjoy and I think every new style spins something different and makes for wonderful content!

#whump prompt #vampires #vampire prompt #whump list #character development #character reference #character sheet #vampire reference #character guide #vampire #vampire list #tw blood #tw violence #tw vampires #vlor

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unsteadygalaxy · 3 years

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all is soft inside chapter 11

a miragehound multichapter fanfiction

Also posted on Ao3, my username is the same there!

previous | next

11. one day life will be kind

Mother is soft.

They don’t know a lot of things, but they know that much. Mother is soft as she cradles them in her arms. She’s singing something sweet and soothing, and it distracts them from their tears. Why are they crying again? They don’t remember.

They look up at her with wide, shining eyes, and watch her mouth as it moves. Her braids fall over her shoulders, and their fingers grasp at them, pulling lightly. She laughs and tugs their wandering hands away, kissing their little palm.

“I love you, little one. Keep your curious heart with you always. It will serve you well.”

They’re too little to understand what she’s saying, of course, but the tenderness of her tone makes them smile and laugh. Mother is so kind and warm. And soft.

------

Father is soft. Mostly.

He tosses them gleefully in the air, and they just giggle. He catches them, of course, like he always does. Their mother looks on, caught between amusement and worry, and she cautions Johann not to drop them.

“I won’t!” he replies, smiling at her. “Brigida, my love. You worry too much.” He looks at them. “Your mother means well, little one. She just wants to protect you.”

They know their parents love them. They know they’ll always be there to protect them.

Until, of course, they aren’t.

------

Artur is not soft.

His hands are rough and scarred and cracked from how dry the air is, and they pass uncomfortably against their knee as he bandages their bleeding wound. They wish Mother was here. Her hands were always soft, made so by the lotion she spread between her palms each morning. But Mother is gone now. She’s resting under the ground, like Amma and Afi. And Father.

“Okay,” Artur says gruffly. “No more bleeding. Better now?”

They nod, their tears smearing across their arm as they wipe their eyes.

“Good. Be strong, young one. Save your tears.”

He stands up and pats their head, leaving them alone on the porch. The pain in their knee stings, but it soon subsides to a dull ache. They run across the meadow to lay in the grass, running their fingers through the long green blades. The grass is cool and soothing. And soft.

------

Sigrid is only soft when she’s not teaching them how to throw an axe.

“Again!” she commands, but there’s a glint of fierce pride in her eyes. They run to the target and pick up the axe from where it had fallen and scurry back to the mark.

“Feel the weight of it in your hand, young one. Balance it, and breathe deep…”

They follow her instructions carefully, aiming for the center of the target. They suck air into their lungs, raise the axe, and throw as hard as they can, a small grunt leaving their chest.

The axe embeds itself into the target, just barely off center.

Sigrid smiles. The lines around her eyes soften.

------

Some of the villagers are soft, afterwards. And some are not.

They know it’s not their fault. Their brain knows it, but their heart can’t keep up. After all, they had failed to obey Artur in the first place, and he was dead because of that.

He was dead because of them. And the villagers knew it.

“Take responsibility for your actions,” one of them says, seething at them. “You will forever be in the Gods’ debt.”

Bloodhound had watched Artur’s funeral ship disappear over the lake. They had watched as something in Sigrid’s heart died when she looked out over the horizon.

And years later, they watched as their aunt, too, dissolved into the water.

There weren’t many of them left after that.

------

Boone is soft.

He often tells Bloodhound of his dreams to leave the village, to leave Talos, to become a doctor or a nurse somewhere he could properly flourish. These confessions are whispered between feverish kisses and gentle caresses in the dark- always in the dark; it’s easier that way- and Bloodhound wants to go with him.

“There are so many opportunities out there, Hound!” he gushes to them, lying bare next to them under the thick furs, his blue eyes sparkling in the darkness. “We could save people. We could help them.” He is quiet for a moment. “We could learn things that would have saved Artur.”

Bloodhound is silent every time he says that. He mentions it many times. To Boone, the IMC is that opportunity for something more. Bloodhound cannot forgive, nor can they forget that the IMC’s arrogance buried their parents under the ice.

But Boone can.

Boone turns nineteen and leaves the village, his beautiful eyes full of pain and anger.

Days later, Bloodhound also turns nineteen. They walk through the forest one last time, giving the old facility a wide berth, and no one from the village sees them for years.

------

Bloodhound very quickly finds that the universe is like a jötunn.

They’re nineteen and a half years old and sleeping on the streets.

The city is too loud. It hurts their ears and rumbles constantly and plucks at their mask with its curious eyes, demanding everything. They are not careful enough. It takes from them without mercy, shreds every bit of dignity from them without restraint, rips open their chest without any care in the world who they are or who they have been.

In a way, they’re grateful for the anonymity. They’re grateful for the trial. Every night, they offer up their pleas to the Gods to guide them and help them choose the right path. But the Allfather is no longer listening. He abandoned them the moment they left Talos.

They think they deserve it. Just a little. (Or a lot.)

Sometimes, people offer them a place to stay. They decline. They are used to huddling under doorsteps, crouching beneath benches, sleeping underneath the canopy of trees in the park.

They miss the forest. They miss the village.

They miss Mother.

------

They are twenty and they think everything might be okay.

Ophelia smiles at them wearily, sliding them a large stack of plates to be cleaned. “Careful with these!” she always cautions. “These are the only plates this whole place has got.” Wisps of her red hair poke out from under her hairnet, and she reminds Bloodhound of Sigrid. Their heart aches in their chest.

Their hands and forearms throb from washing pots and pans all day, but they scrub each dish carefully, stacking them next to the sink. When they are done, they sigh, remove the rubber gloves, and lean against the counter. They and Ophelia talk about everything and nothing, exchanging stories and jokes as they clean up for the night.

But Bloodhound slips on a puddle of water and crashes into the counter, sending the stack of freshly cleaned plates tumbling into the ground. The glass shatters into millions of tiny pieces, littering the floor with a minefield of shards, and George fires them on the spot.

George is not soft. Not in the slightest. But Bloodhound can’t even blame him.

------

They are twenty and a half and their whole body aches.

“No,” they choke, clutching their chest, pressing the respirator into their face. They’re barely keeping themself off the ground, having been brought to their knees by the burning in their lungs. “No more. Please. I cannot.”

“You think that because your lungs are broken that you cannot master the blade?” Huizhen barks, pointing one of the dao swords directly in their face. “You are wrong, young one, as you often are. It is not your lungs that limit you.”

Bloodhound wants to scream, to yell, to rage against his expectations, but this language is firm and unyielding, and their tongue cannot form the words.

Huizhen sighs and offers them a hand. At least he is soft, sometimes.

------

They are twenty-two and Kwan’s knee presses uncomfortably into their chest.

“Please,” they gasp, trying to wrench her off of them, feeling the impact of her blows all across their body. “I am done, please, get off-”

“No, you are not done,” she says sternly, the line of her mouth thin and severe. Bloodhound struggles against her grip, their hands scrabbling against her knee. “You are not done until your Gods will it. Do you wish to betray your Gods, child?”

“No, never-”

“Good.” She lifts her knee and stands, leaving them gasping on the ground, massaging their ribs in anguish. “Honor them. Beg for their forgiveness and bring them glory. You are capable of so much more than this.”

Kwan’s eyes are hard, critical, pitying. She shakes her head at them and walks away.

------

They are twenty-five and they want nothing more than to go back home to Talos.

A fist connects with their chest, and their breath exits their lungs in a thorough whoosh. The impact knocks them back a little, and they stumble over their own feet, trying to stay upright. Another fist comes flying at their face, and they dodge it just barely. Bloodhound ducks and jabs their fist up into the man’s stomach, but he barely even flinches. He sends a fist into their gut, and another into their jaw, and they fly backwards, hitting the ground hard.

They feel the mask break around their face, and they panic, trying to press the pieces back together. But their hands are shaking and their breathing won’t settle, and their lungs burn horribly with exertion and shame. The mask falls fully to the ground, and a thousand pairs of eyes bore holes into their face.

“A face only a mother could love, that is!” a spectator jeers, as someone plops a wad of bills into his outstretched hand.

“Poor ugly bastard, no one would want a face like that,” another laughs, throwing a crumpled up piece of paper into the ring. The crowd begins to laugh and boo and jeer, and Bloodhound’s heart dissolves in a roaring maw of acid.

Their opponent looms above them, and they can’t do anything but stare up at him in terror. His eyes glint with a triumphant spark, and nothing about him is soft at all.

------

They are twenty-six and their money has run out.

They lurk in the shadows, waiting for some unsuspecting poor soul to wander out of the bar. A man stumbles out the door, leaning against the frame for a moment before he promptly throws up into the trash can.

Bloodhound seizes their chance.

“Are you all right?” they ask as they approach him, trying to make their tone friendly so he’s not alarmed by the mask. It doesn’t work.

“Who’re you?” he slurs, trying to pull away from their outstretched hands.

“Do not worry. I am just going to call you a cab,” they soothe, grabbing him to hold him upright. He immediately goes slack in their arms, and Bloodhound swiftly searches his pockets for his wallet or billfold. They locate it with ease and pocket it, and they’re left feeling a strange sense of longing.

They haven’t touched another person like this in years. Never mind that it’s not romantic. Never mind that it’s not even platonic. The pressure of this man’s body against theirs satisfies a deep ache they have been harbouring for an eternity, and they have to force themself to instantly let go of him. He stumbles blearily and collapses against the wall of the bar, groaning.

They walk away, the man’s wallet burning a hole in their pocket.

------

They are twenty-eight and what they’re doing feels so, so wrong.

“Just hold still,” she murmurs, her soft, well-manicured hands moving down their chest and stomach to undo the belt around their waist. Bloodhound tries to relax, tries to press their head back down into the pillows and let Keres do her work. She’s beautiful, and certainly attractive, and they know that she would treat them well, but this feels so foreign, so alien. They… they don’t deserve this. Not after… everything. Panic and fear seize their chest, and flashes of memory flit across their eyes- Boone’s beautiful blue eyes locked on theirs as he moved in to kiss them; his hands on their body as they moved together; his heartbeat in their ear as they relaxed in his arms, breathing heavily-

Her fingers make quick work of their belt, button, and zipper, and she’s eagerly teasing the pants off their legs when they cry out, “Stop!”

Keres’ lust-filled eyes wander up to theirs, and she looks irritated. Cross. “What is it?” Her voice holds no softness, only a hard frustration that Bloodhound flinches against.

“Please, just stop,” they beg, pulling their pants back up in a hurry. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done this.” They nearly kick Keres in the face in their rush, and she dodges, scoffing.

“Fine,” she spits, sitting up straight and pushing all her gorgeous brown hair over one shoulder. “I bet you couldn’t handle me anyway.”

Bloodhound scrambles off the bed, grabs their bag, and is out the door before she can insult them any further. The moment they had refused, she had been so biting, so annoyed. Bloodhound does not think they would have enjoyed it like she thought they would.

But she could have been soft.

------

They are thirty-five and tired. So tired.

They slide the card back across the table, fold their arms across their chest, and shake their head. “I have no need of your petty squabbles for fame and glory,” they say, their tone flat and emotionless. “I have my own path to follow, and I do not wish to disrupt it.”

Blisk shrugs. “Up to you. You know where to find me.” He pushes his chair back and stands, and then begins to walk away. But he stops, seeming to remember something, and turns. “You know, that accent of yours sounds a little familiar. Met a doctor a couple years back that sounded just like you. Wouldn’t happen to be from Talos, would you?”

Bloodhound stiffens. “No.”

“Shame.” He shrugs again, and yawns. “Knew some scientists that were there when the meltdown happened. Nasty stuff. Wonder if they might know anything about the team that died?”

Their blood turns to ice.

They pick up the card and pocket it. “Count me in.”

Blisk smiles. There is no softness there. “That’s what I thought.”

------

They are thirty-eight and their senses are muddled and crossed.

Bloodhound can just barely make out a couple of voices fighting, but they’re much too tired to try and figure out who they are.

“Hey, look, I’m just trying to see if they’re okay-”

“And I am telling you that their medical details are none of your business. Bloodhound’s privacy contract very clearly states that no one aside from myself or Ms. Che is allowed inside their room after matches without their express consent. You will just have to wait, Mr. Witt.”

“...Damn. You’re just as stubborn as they are.” A pause. Then, “Why do you sound just like them?”

Bloodhound’s eyes flutter, then open.

An ache immediately settles into their limbs, concentrating in their skull and neck and radiating outward to their extremities. The light from above the medical bed pierces their eyes and makes them sting, and they turn their head away in discomfort. Their head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. Bloodhound groans a little, their hand moving to rub their eyes. Someone has removed their helmet and goggles, but they’re not afraid. They trust their doctor with their life.

The sound of quiet feet greets their ears and they look up, squinting through the bright lights above them. “What happened?” they ask in their native tongue, and their mouth is uncomfortably dry.

“It seems that you lost.” Boone’s voice is tired, annoyed. Bloodhound’s vision clears up, and they watch as Boone scribbles on a clipboard, his blue eyes sparkling under brows furrowed in concentration. His white-blond hair is tied up in a bun, little wisps falling out at his hairline and his nape. A long-forgotten curl of fondness takes place under Bloodhound’s ribs, but they allow it to drain away, knowing they’re just high on pain medication. Their time with him has long since passed.

“And so it does. How long was I asleep?” Their voice feels brittle and drained, and they swallow to bring some moisture back. It’s difficult, but eventually their mouth no longer feels dry and sticky. “And where is Artur?”

“I sent Artur on his way. He’s fine. Not a scratch on him. It’s only been a couple hours since the end of the match.” Boone replies. He finishes writing and clicks his pen. “You’re good to go. Rig did its job. You should only have a headache for a couple hours.” Boone inclines his head toward the door, finally looking at them. “You’ve got a visitor, by the way, and he’s quite insistent upon seeing you. Keeps bothering me every time I leave the room.”

Bloodhound’s eyes wander to the door, and they spot shadows of a pair of feet passing back and forth on the other side of it. They would recognize Elliott’s anxious pacing anywhere. A smile wanders onto their face, and they forget that they do not have their goggles on to help hide their emotions.

Boone scoffs and rolls his eyes, his jaw set. “Really, Hound? Mirage? That’s just pathetic.”

“What do you mean?” Bloodhound asks, a hint of defensiveness creeping into their heart.

“Heartthrob of the Outlands, isn’t he? Bet he’s got a new person in his bed every other night.” Boone strides over to the whiteboard on the wall and jots down a few notes.

A strange flash of annoyance strikes Bloodhound’s chest, and their eyebrows furrow. “You don’t know that, Boone. For all you know, he could be completely inexperienced.”

Boone laughs, his face incredulous and doubting. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, Houndie. Mirage, a virgin? Even you know that’s a load of shit.”

“Don’t call me Houndie,” they snap, locating their goggles to put them back on. “You know I don’t like that.”

“Oh, fine, Bloodhound,” he replies, rolling his eyes. He hands them their helmet from where it had been lying on a side table, just as they finish stretching their limbs. “Just get your things and get out of here. And if he kisses you, don’t say I told you so.”

Bloodhound’s cheeks burn fiercely, and they’re more than happy to put the helmet back on. “Him? Kiss me? You’re out of your mind, Boone.” They get up from the bed and test their balance, keeping a hand on the sheets. Their head pounds and spins just a little bit, but they breathe deep through the respirator and the spinning soon stops. “Elliott would never bother with a face like this. Besides, who said I was interested?”

“Oh, it’s Elliott now?” Boone smirks. “That familiar with him, are you?”

“Oh, hush,” Bloodhound says, already irritated with him. “Do I get anything for the pain, or must I suffer even more because of your nonsense?”

“Oh, you mean you don’t like taking an entire magazine of R-99 bullets to the head?” he says sarcastically, already starting to change the bedsheets. “Of course I’m helping you out. Top drawer, over there.” He points to the counter in the corner, and Bloodhound goes to retrieve the bottle of pills. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

“You know I would never say that,” Bloodhound sighs, rolling their eyes and pocketing the small bottle. Boone was often so sarcastic and assuming- those were qualities that Bloodhound did not like in him. Even after nearly a lifetime of losing each other and finding each other, there were some things that never changed. “Thank you, Boone.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Hound.” Boone nods to them as they walk out into the hall, and Bloodhound inclines their head towards him as they shut the door.

Bloodhound winces as a wave of pain radiates throughout their skull. They can’t wait till they are safely in their apartment so they can take off the mask, down some of the pain pills, and hopefully take a nap. The medical bay is mostly empty now, with only a few doctors and nurses walking through the halls towards their patients. They look around the hallway, and sure enough, Elliott is standing up from his chair, a relieved expression on his face.

“Hey,” he says, a smile breaking through as he walks toward them. “Your doctor finally let you go, huh?”

“Yes, he did,” Bloodhound replies, glancing behind them to make sure they properly closed the door. “I trust him with my life. I hope you can understand his reluctance to allow anyone inside while I am not aware of who is present.”

“Of course,” Elliott replies, nodding. “Hey, why does he sound like you? You guys have really similar ac- accents. Are you siblings or something?”

A funny little jolt electrifies Bloodhound’s veins, and weirdly, they laugh. “No. Boone and I are not siblings, but… we did grow up together.” The casualness with which they drop such a guarded piece of information startles even Bloodhound, and they snap their mouth shut. Thankfully, Elliott has seemed to pick up on when they feel uncomfortable, so he does not push the question further, even though Bloodhound can tell he wants to.

“Are you okay?” He fidgets with his fingers a little, and Bloodhound notices that he has not yet gone home to shower- his hands are caked in dirt and blood. He still smells like sweat and gunpowder, but Bloodhound can just barely make out the scent of his cologne beneath it all. They blush.

“I am fine, Elliott. Why are you still here?” they ask, a little harsher than intended. They find themself wishing they could take off the mask so he could see the smile that they force onto their face so he knows they’re not mad.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he replies, shrugging. “Can’t a man check on his friend?” He raises an eyebrow, and Bloodhound can sense the playfulness in his tone.

“You are right,” they admit, bowing their head a little. “Thank you. You are very kind.” They stand there awkwardly, not sure whether to leave or stay, but Elliott begins to walk to the exit, and Bloodhound follows him without a second thought. “Congratulations on your win today, félagi. It was much deserved, and I am proud of your improvement.”

Elliott laughs and ruffles his own hair, and the way it sticks up makes a curious little feeling rest under Bloodhound’s ribs. “Hey, thanks! I’d say sorry for landing you in the hospital, but it’s just an uc- up- occupational hazard at this point.” He shrugs. “Least I could do is make sure you’re okay.”

“I will be fine,” they assure him. “I have a headache, but it will soon subside.” Bloodhound rolls their neck as they walk, sighing. They suddenly remember the way they had run out on Elliott the night before, and shame floods their stomach, twisting it painfully.

“I am sorry for leaving so abruptly last night,” they murmur, their own fingers beginning to fidget with the bits of fabric on their coat. “I… I was overcome by an unpleasant memory, and I did not want to disturb you with my emotions.” The apology does not feel sufficient enough. Elliott has been so patient with them, so kind and supportive, and they’ve done nothing but hide from him. They want… they want to open up to him. Would that be safe? Would it be smart? They don’t know, but the burden of keeping everything to themself is beginning to weigh on them, and they hope that Elliott can withstand the enormity of their secrets.

Elliott shakes his head. “I was really worried about you.” His voice is low and warm, and it feels like an embrace of warmth. His arm twitches, and it almost feels like he wants to grab their hand. But he thinks better of it, and instead goes back to fidgeting with his fingers. “It means a lot, what you told me. I know that must have been hard.”

Bloodhound’s heart fills with a hope they haven’t felt in years, and if they weren’t still in the hospital, they would have pulled him into their arms right then and there. The urge is so unlike them, so uncharacteristic of their usual persona that they wonder just how much the pain medication is affecting them. They settle their emotions and touch his arm briefly. “Thank you, vinur minn. I am blessed by your willingness to listen.”

An idea comes to their head, and if they had thought of it a couple weeks ago, they would have immediately rejected it. But things could change so quickly, and they had. Elliott is a testament to that. So they open their mouth and ask, “Would you like to visit me in my apartment later this evening? After we have both sufficiently washed, of course.” Their cheeks burn spectacularly at the implication, but he cannot see it, and for that, they are grateful. “I owe you a great many explanations.”

Elliott looks like he’s just been hit with a frag grenade. He stares at them blankly for a few agonizing moments, and Bloodhound thinks they have overstepped their bounds, but he begins to babble. “I- are you sure? I mean, yeah, absolutely! That would be great!” The grin that splits his face makes their heart leap spectacularly in their chest. “I would love to. You definitely owe me, H- I mean, Bloodhound.” His cheeks blaze, and it’s so endearing to Bloodhound that they smile at him stupidly underneath the mask.

“It is settled, then,” they announce, just as the pair of them reach the exit. “You are welcome to arrive any time after eight. That should give us both plenty of time to wash up and eat dinner.”

Elliott nods vigorously, smiling like a schoolboy. “It’s a date! I-I mean-” His face drains of color and he shakes his head. “It’s a, uh, it’s a m-meeting, or whatever you want it to be. I mean, it could be a date if you wanted but I, uh, I mean, that would be fine, I… guess?” The poor man looks like he wants to melt into the floor, and Bloodhound’s heart pounds in their chest as they chuckle.

Bloodhound is enchanted by his eagerness, by his willingness to be with them, and they hope they are not making more out of this than it is. “I will see you then, Elliott,” they say, touching his arm once more. They give him one last lingering look before they walk out the door and into the crisp Solace air.

#apex legends #miragehound #apex #bloodhound #mirage #bloodhound apex #bloodhound apex legends #mirage apex #mirage apex legends #elliott witt #elliott witt apex #elliott witt apex legends #miragehound fanfiction #my writing

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theskythatwritesofthisplace · 3 years

Text

So many feelings.. on everyone else terms. No.

Nyx opened her eyes in great pain and confusion. Were they not dead? They were supposed to be. "Why are the doors locked!? Where's Ann? Quinn!" She yelled in panic. Kristina ran to her, hoping to calm Nyx. "I need you to calm down." Kristina pleaded. "NOT. WITHOUT. QUINN!" she said with her eyes going black. "Quinn is still surfaced within the queen." Whispered Phoenix.

"What.. what happened factually?" Asked Kristina. Nyx conveyed how for months she was trying to do what was necessary. What was needed. What was certain. Only for everybody to show callousness and depravity, or back away from her pair so quickly. That if there was anything left to Quinn or Queen Ann, it was shattered.

"Renegade left, I thought we would be okay. I am the heart and I felt we'd be okay. I was wrong." She belt it out with exasperated breath. She looked around where she realized that they were locked inside of her own dungeon. "Who put me in a cage?" She growled. "Well.. that'd be my fault." Whispered Eli. Just before he could introduce himself, he felt himself pushed into a wall. Constantly being bashed into it. The wolf was mad and unhinged. Kristina and Phoenix lunged forward to try and pry the wolf off the poor man yelling "He's with us! He's with us! He didn't know his own flock would betray!!"

"Betray? Tell me then sir.. what brought you here?" She growled with an evil smirk. "Hellhounds were hunting me. I found this place and these two. I woke you three up with coffee. She screamed and passed out. You were still asleep coming out the stone." He answered. Now Nyx's eyes were fully black. "Where are they?" She asked. "Eli left this domain to get help. But when other ravens came in, they saw the hellhounds. They put us here. Kept the queen in her chambers, completely took over the domain and are fighting at this present point in time." Kristina replied. "So two sets unwarranted… in my home… that's in shambles? You're not off my fuckin shit list." She exclaimed pointing to Eli. "Um, what does that mean?" Eli questioned. "It means you live tonight." Phoenix answered. "If you want to keep your fur and keep your fuckin feathers, find cover now!" She yelled as flames began to take hold. Eli closed his eyes in fear realizing he and his companion were right in the epicenter of the blast. But as he opened his eyes he saw only a woman in Flames underneath the night sky.

The blast from Nyx's flames was enough to think a nuclear bomb went off, exposing the night landscape. "I love being home. God damn I do, but hate what it takes ugh!" She said. She gestured to all who were near to follow, leading to a tree. "Kristina, you go up the tree with me. She told the others to stay at a safe distance. Once she and Kristina got up to the tree, she told her to vigorously shake the tree. As they did large boxes began to fall out of it. "Be careful." Screamed Eli. "I told you to stand back fuckin bird!" She snapped back. Both ladies jumped down to find 3 large chests, and a small one with a simple "Q" on it. Yells of battle and lights of torches and bombs blanket the skies, further aggravating the wolf. "Listen up! I got straight field gear. Bats, swords. Take them, use them! I can do this. But without Quinn I'm shotty. We do our best to push forward ok?" She commanded. They all took a knee, living Nyx perplexed. "Wha.. why are they doing that?" Questioned Eli. "Beats me.." replied Nyx. The raven and his companion looked to her in confusion. "She doesn't know. They wish for peace when you were gone.. peace for the maiden. If they must fight that peace.. they'll do it." Phoenix answered. At this point the very notion of support was overwhelming to her. Factually, she was trying to maintain it and she was unsuccessful. But in this moment, it was enough. "Eli! Here. I need you to do you're best with your Raven to fly ahead and get inside that portcullis. Are there any Elites here?" She asked "Worse. The queen and her court." He said wide eyed. Noticing his worry, she dug into one of the chest and pulled out brass knuckles. She inspected the pair, and then look to him saying "You get up there and you convince them to leave her alone. And to help me. If they don't, I'm not saying the queen... But just do one of those numbers. Really hard." She showed him a few more forms to perform the action. He took off running towards the maiden's castle with his companion plucking him from the ground. She shook her head murmuring to herself "So this.. us.. this life.. Quinn. They mean nothing. I'll give meaning."

"Alright… get in the game too. Why'd he do that? The fuck. Shit!" She yelled at herself. She herself fine. But the mind shattered and the girl confused. She couldn't fight without acknowledging what did press the heart. She needed the beast. "Rogue!!!" She continually screamed as if howling. Without fail, the beast responded. Realizing her wolf was in the heat of battle, Nyx aimed to get closer. "Why.. why us.. why her.. why why why!?" She screamed, driving her sword into a hellhound's chest. As if in a daze, she punched, she kicked, she slaughtered. Completely unhinged with confusion. With each strike she took, five fell before her. She knew what she was gunning for. She moved swiftly through the forest taking down Ravens and Hellhounds alike, with no remorse. Trespass she thought. A few yards away from her she sets her eyes on Rogue Kristina and Phoenix, killing everything in sight; yet still taking on too much damage. She stopped to take accountability of the environment she was in. And with one smooth breath, she began to take the essence of death into herself. As it all begins to solidify she channeled it into her flame.. and her strength. "What if she ain't it?!" She spoke to herself. Madness and blood lust, combined with the heartache she truly felt began to consume her. Stripping her features from her face. Her skin glowed red with lava within her. "Bottom line.. you don't touch a girl like that and say the things you do. There's a lie." She said wide eyed. Just before she could lecture herself, she found herself dodging a sword at the hands of an armored raven. "No armor to you, love? Pity." He gritted taking aim. Nyx simply smiled with black eyes knowing what was to come. "My grounds.. haha.. my hounds" she snarled as Rogue jumped over her killing the raven with swift movement. "Good girl. Who is the stranger to us..?" She whispered to her wolf, embracing her fur. A simple low growl gave the answer. Just as the woman and Beast came to one mind, Phoenix and Christina ran up. "There's too many." Said Phoenix. "Here's the plan.. we got a mile from portcullis. We're gonna line it so we can try. I need The Hellhound and I need The Hollow Sparrow. Got it?" She commanded. Within a matter of seconds each of them took their forms ready to go. Nyx for her part wanted fun.. and a mean head start.

The pain of the heart showed through now. Bloodlust wanted to take hold, but a break stops it. Nyx held her hand up high signaling not to move. As Kristina and Phoenix stand large as The Hollow Sparrow and The Hellhound, all three allowed enemies to gain ground. "Hold steady…. Steady!" Commanded Nyx. She let them move closer and closer just until she was ready. She sent out a huge pulse of fire knocking every single person to the ground. And as she saw the last one hit the ground, she screamed "Bear those teeth! Go!" She looked to her wolf excited, bolting into the fight. "One and done Rogue! One and done!!" She yelled becoming one with the beast. "Do..we.. kill?" The voice of the beast whispered. "No.. we've killed enough.. and I rather break alliance." Nyx answered as they got closer and closer to the portcullis. "With who.. say who.. I know who." The voice whispered once more. "All except protectors.Every single last one but fucking Protectors!!!!" She screamed, sending both into a feverish frenzy. "My side we're coming up!!" She warned. The sheer carnage gave delight to the three beasts, making the hellhound and Rogue howl as they ran. The portcullis was within her sight. But all three Beast couldn't surely fit through doors, never the matter they weren't trying to be polite.

#purpose #death rattle #rumble

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finalfantasyxivwritings · 5 years

Text

Tell Me to Stay (And I Will) [1/4]

AO3 Version

Relationship: WoL!Reader/Crystal Exarch

Rating: NC-17

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Summary: After the events of Shadowbringers, the Exarch is excited to rekindle the friendship you and him once had together, though fate seems to have other plans for him. When your prolonged presence around him sets off a heat well over a century past-due, he'll have to put those plans off until after his body is done with the feelings of yearning and lust that consume him.

When you learn of the man's problem however, you're far from wanting him to deal with it alone--so will this foreseen challenge break the fragments of your old friendship...

...or will it reforge them into something more?

There is a yearning that finds itself within the man’s chest as he looks upon you.

It is more than the sweet, boundless joy he expected when he fantasized about being able to speak to you as himself, even knowing his plan of action to save you and the First would lead to his demise–one that he was saved from in the end of course, through no shortage of luck and perseverance he did not at all deserve.

Regardless of how fate had chosen to unravel around the two of you, G’raha is left with a yearning far deeper than anything he prepared himself for. It sits deep within him, mind and body both, and blossoms like a crimson rose.

Burning. Searing. Agonizing.

The sensations hit the Seeker so hard that it’s hard for him to even think. So many years he had prepared himself for your arrival, so many years thinking and pondering and planning–how could he fall apart so easily?

It takes many days for the answer to come to the man, from memories long-past of issues he never thought he’d deal with again; the boiling in his belly, the fire between his legs, the ache in his chest that he felt with every glance in your direction and breath that he took into his lungs with the succor of your scent upon it.

A heat.

The realization blindsided the man almost as much as the physical sensations themselves–after he had merged his being with the Crystal Tower, G’raha simply assumed much of his bodily functions would alter or outright cease–and he had been correct to some extent, despite knowing precious little of what other effects the union may have on his physical form.

But he never once considered that he would feel such a burning need once more in his belly as he does for you. The raging fire of hormones that leave him wondering if he is literally dying despite all the effort you put in to save him–but he’s not, thank the goddess, and so he’s left to try and deal with himself with no shortage of confusion and long-numbed memories of what it was like to be a young Seeker taking care of his own heats.

He is grateful for the privacy of the Ocular.

As G’raha takes himself in-hand, he is so grateful that the walls are thick to deaden the noises that come within. He is grateful for that of your scent lingering in the air from your many visits in the past several days. He is so very grateful that he can but feel your touch upon his skin when he closes his eyes and thinks about it–your arms around him tight, hugging the Seeker close against you when you were finally able to have a reunion without the fear of losing one another.

Oh yes, G’raha was so grateful for it all. The man could but clutch to the thoughts as tightly as his fingers wrap around his cock, fist stroking himself over at a feverish pace to pull one orgasm after another, his lips constantly shaping around the sound of your name in a moan no less than reverent.

“My warrior,” the Exarch, the man once known only as G’raha Tia, moans shamelessly into the air of the Ocular. “My dearest warrior, I yearn for you so. Need you. Want you.”

His words sound as soft as a prayer.

As the man draws yet another messy, hot orgasm from his body, he can’t help but feel a distinct shiver run down his spine, wondering what sort of mess he would make if you were the one to help guide him through the blistering heat rather than his own hand.

For the rest of the day and into the evening, the Exarch can merely entertain himself on idle fancies and filthy thoughts, his fingers scarcely enough to satisfy the craving that lay deep in the pit of his stomach. Where he desires warm hands and wet lips, he can but barely get a fraction of the pleasure with the friction of his own hands, palms soon slick with sweat and precum, stroking himself over until he feels raw and yet needing of more.

The man has counted four orgasms by the time the fire in his stomach has finally died into a dull smolder of heat–a fifth, perhaps, if one would count the very last, with his hips too weak to thrust and his pleasure dry and cock aching even as it barely throbbed against his hand. He can spill not even a drop more of warm seed–though the Exarch has already made a sufficient mess of himself from the many wet climaxes prior, and the dry climax is a mild blessing, if not physically infuriating in how little it quells the fire.

So the Exarch sits in the ocular, in his private quarters and among the towers of books he’s read a dozen times over each. He sits on the ground, body strained and mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, leaning his head back until it hits the wall behind him.

There’s no noise in the ocular save for his gasping breaths and rapidly beating heart.

He is grateful for a lack of reflective surfaces. The Exarch can but feel how much of a debauched mess he is without needing a visual aid; hood fallen, robe open, legs splayed and a cooling stickiness coating across his lower stomach, dripping down his inner thighs. His face feels as hot as stoking coals and his fingers yet twitch, as if his body yearns for but one more orgasm, one more blissful moment of euphoria, just one more-

But he can’t. Even the raging fire of his belated heat can’t win against exhaustion, and he was caught vastly unprepared for the level of arousal that would be raging through his body. With neither the resources or lovers to take, the Exarch knew he would have but himself to deal with the issue for the time being.

In the old, distant memories he could still fathom with some stunning clarity, he recalled having to deal with the rare heat every other season. Most of the times they lasted but a single sun, mayhap two if he was particularly unlucky with his hormones. He never quite knew why he had them, only in that some Seeker males could get them even if they did not fill the role as a tribe’s nuhn. It was an issue that the Exarch–G’raha Tia–never cared enough about to bother researching.

After all, how could he find issue with feigning a terrible sickness and having a day to himself, excused in all of his shame to take himself in hand and jack off to all manner of thoughts he’d dare not to speak about otherwise?

But he was a young man then, as G’raha Tia. Now he is a leader, a man of responsibility, and he cannot afford to lock himself away for however long his body deigns to keep him locked in the hot embrace of boiling need that seems to color every thought in his mind. He can’t afford to let it linger–and there’s not telling how long this heat may last.

There was one time that the Exarch had ever managed to mute his heat, or conceal it enough that it only vaguely hindered his ability to function. He had been tired, irritable and overstimulated at every turn, but he at least did not feel utterly compelled to fuck the nearest consenting adult who would allow him the pleasure in their touch.

Or well, he still did, just….

It had been sometime after he met you. When he was still a young man with too many opinions and nowhere to set them, no shortage of goals and hardly enough time to figure them out. He wanted for knowledge obsessively, and rolled his eyes at any challenge that came between him and his exploration.

In fact, his heat was triggered in much the same way as this one–the lingering, beautiful scent that hugged you tight, the sight of you caught betwixt battles, the way you held yourself above all others. It takes so desperately little before the Seeker is left at the mercy of his raging hormones, body filled with the carnal need to mate mate mate until he can barely keep a cohesive train of thought.

Luckily, by the time you came to Mor Dhona and met with him officially, he’d already taken precautions; a well-informed Rambroes (who was the only one aware of his seasonal afflictions), a very expensive tincture from a traveling alchemist, and several hours of private time to work out enough pleasure so that the tincture could take effect.

It was not pleasant by any means. The Exarch can still recall the way his body hated him dearly for suppressing it, how he felt itchy all over and craved nothing more than to swim in the nearest body of icewater. If you had thought anything of the man in your first couple days of friendship, then the man had been blessed to be totally unaware of it–and even if you did, he hopes dearly that you’ve long-forgotten it.

But this is no Mor Dhona, and there is not a young Seeker happy to enjoy the bubbling hormones of his body. There is but an old soul who wants the mercy of peace from his traitorous emotions, if only so that he can enjoy a proper reunion with you without sullying it with what filth his mind has conjured up in multitudes.

In the brief few bells of sobriety from arousal, the Exarch is at least able to clean himself up proper and hail for Lyna. Though he is begrudged to call for anyone in such a state, he trusts her more than enough to heed his words without imploring too deeply into the details.

Because if the first day of this new heat was this bad, only the mercy of the heavens would get the Exarch through the rest–that and a tincture, if there was but even one soul who could procure it for him.

---

No matter how long you wander, the Crystarium is but a maze. There’s likely a semblance of logic to be found in the grand city’s layout, though you’ve yet to understand even an onz of it. Even Ul’dah, with all of it’s back alleys and twists in directions, made more sense to you than the sprawling settlement of the First.

It’s not without some charm though, as you’ve come to enjoy. Where you may be left wanting for a more logical sense of direction in its amenities, there’s no shortage of kind folk who are happy to set you on your way without fuss or issue. In your simple journey to the marketplace you’ve gotten turned around at least three times, and have had just as many nameless Crystarium residents help you find your way.

You step into the open room (if one can even call it that for how large it is) and begin your errands without much thought.

First, your armor and weapon need mending. The lack of attention over the last several battles had left more scuffs and scratches than you’d care to let linger, and the repairs would take no more than a small sum of gil and several bells worth of time. You get that out of the way first with no issue; the mender offers you a smile and a promise to have your items ready later in the afternoon, so you give him the same smile and move on to your next idle chore.

Restocking your potions is a more expensive task, but a necessary one. Too many times were you on the receiving end of near live-threatening attacks to be saved but by the magical effects of a well-timed potion; it’s become vital to have at least a few on your person, even if they are wholly unneeded in one form or another. The last thing you needed, of all people, would be for word to get back to the Scions that you got into a messy situation with little preparation.

You had grown familiar with the alchemists and potion masters of the Source among the many larger cities–in the First however, you’re yet to remember faces beyond the very few you’ve interacted with extensively. The constant barrage of duties left your mind in a whirlwind, so you were lucky to have even the mildest sense of direction while in the marketplace itself.

With enough gil in your pocket to by at least a few of the highest-quality health potions, you make your way over to the vendor you recall as having sold them to you before.

The market is bustling, thanks to the return of the sky’s natural state allowing merchants of all sorts to travel between Norvrandt’s cities. You can’t find a reason to be annoyed even as you try to press through the shifting crowd, a word of apology falling from your lips every few moments when you inevitably cross paths with another. By the time you come to the apothecary's stand however, you’re but mildly irritated to see that there’s someone already at the counter.

That is, until you see precisely who it is speaking to the merchant. Between her uniform and the shape of the tall, fluffy ears extending from the top of her head, you recognize Lyna with ease. You are mildly surprised to see her at the marketplace, considering that all of the resources procured for the Crystarium’s militia were sourced without her direct involvement.

You step close just in time to catch a portion of the conversation.

“You don’t understand Keel-Sai, I need this tincture,” she says, tone almost exasperated. “I have been given very strict orders to obtain it.”

“Captain, I understand that you may need it dearly, but I simply cannot make such a formula on such short notice.”

The apothecary, a middle-aged Miqo’te woman–Mystel, you remind yourself–looks genuinely apologetic. She lifts her hands in a motion to calm the unnerved Vii, though it’s obvious that Lyna cannot be soothed by mere motions and apologies.

“Please,” she says, leaning her hands onto the countertop. Her voice falls low, but you’re yet close enough to still catch the words- “…..Exarch himself asked for it….personal issues…illness….”

The sound of the man’s title catches your attention instantly, causing you to step closer and gain both women’s attention without so much as a moment for your mind to think if it was the right action to take.

“Did you say there was something wrong with the Exarch? Is he sick?”

For a moment, both of them are silent, merely staring at you as if you’d grown a second head. Lyna fumbles over some words, but it’s the apothecary who reacts first, letting out an almost jovial chuckle as she reaches up a hand and runs it through her hair, ears flicking.

“With the kind o’ tincture the captain’s askin’ for, I don’t think he’s all that ill, though I bet he’s not feeling the most comfortable right now.”

She laughs for a few moments longer before Lyna seems able to collect herself, expression somewhere between embarrassed and annoyed, though unsure whom to toss the emotions at.

“Please keep your voice down!” she exclaims, quick to throw one of her hands over her own mouth when her own words come out a touch too loud. After a moment the Vii narrows her eyes and, begrudgingly, beckons you closer.

You do so without a word, unsure whether you should be more curious, concerned or amused by the turn of events.

Nevertheless, once close enough, the captain seems content to start speaking again–her voice is hushed and soft, and you can’t help but join with Keel-Sai to lean in to listen to her.

“Listen,” she murmurs, brow drawn in worry. “I was simply informed by the Exarch that he is ill and requires this tincture; he offered no further explanation and I am not one to question him, especially in a matter obviously private.”

“Well,” Keel-Sai says, caring little to match the hushed tone of Lyna’s voice with a half-cocked smirk on her lips. “I suppose private is one way to describe what he’s likely goin’ through right now. Never thought the Exarch was able to have issues like that anymore, considerin’ his age and, well….” she makes a vague gesture with her arms upwards, and with but a moment of thought you realize she’s gesturing towards the Crystal Tower.

“What is he going through?” Lyna’s eyes narrow with the question.

“Oh honey, you don’t know what this tincture is even for?”

The Vii shakes her head after a moment, the motion as wary as the expression on her face. The Mystel apothecary looks something between amused and sympathetic as she glances towards the captain, and then finally towards you.

“…he’s a Mystel himself, am I right?”

Before Lyna can say something to avoid the question, you merely (stupidly) start to nod. Though much of the man’s personal details were lost to the entirety of the Crystarium, you knew him well–you knew G’raha Tia better than anyone else on the First, you’d even bet. If there is something ailing him, then you would rather deal with the consequences after he got the care that he needs.

Lyna is a breath away from saying something to you, but yet again the apothecary speaks before the Vii has the chance.

“Aye, then I certainly don’t have the time to make what he’ll need to quell it–even if I begun gathering the ingredients now, he’ll be as high as a Eulmore resident by the time I’ll have it done.”

When all you and Lyna can offer is a stare in Keel-Sai’s direction, the Mystel woman merely blinks.

“…traditionally, we Mystel would take this tincture in order to avoid going into season.”

Lyna blinks, staring blankly as if the words hold little meaning to her, which is a rather strange expression to see upon the face of the captain of a militia. Nevertheless, it’s a genuine look of confusion.

Keel-Sai looks as if she’s not sure whether to sigh or laugh–she eventually gives into the former.

“Honey,” she starts, speaking gently. “The ol’ Exarch himself is comin’ into season. Into his heat.”

When you glance over to the Vii, you see that her eyes are as wide as gil coins. She looks as surprised as you feel, thoughts rolling over the information you’ve taken in over the course of just a few minutes–where you had been worried about the Exarch being half-dead, you are quick to realize that the issue is far more intimate than that.

Keel-Sai seems to find the situation amusing, as she chuckles once more.

“If he’s anything like the males I’ve been with,” she quirks a brow, hands perched upon her hips. “-then he’s probably mewling away like a kit, especially if he’s got nothing to do but use his-”

“I don’t need to hear anymore about it, thank you very much!”

Lyna waves her hands rapidly in front of herself, looking far more unnerved than you’ve ever seen her in even the thickest of battles.

“I have heard quite enough to get the point–the man is like my grandfather, seven hells Keel-Sai.”

The Mystel only offers a shrug of her shoulders in apology, the smile never leaving her face for a moment. It leaves you a free moment to think about the situation at-hand. Of the Exarch–of G’raha–dealing with a heat.

And, oddly enough, the realization makes your stomach flip.

There’s something about the thought of your old friend lost in the need of carnal pleasure that sends your heart beating twice as fast as before, your chest feeling tight and the sound of blood rushing in your ears. You wonder if he’s in his room, if he’s found a comfortable place to lay himself–would he have already started trying to quell the fire between his legs? Would he have himself in hand and someone’s name upon his lips?

Is that name yours?

Hopefully you don’t look the part, because you can’t help but look to Lyna with what is hopefully an expression of concern and comfort.

“…if nothing else can be done in terms of potion, I can visit him to see if there is naught I can offer to help. Mayhap even the company of an old friend would sooth his nerves?”

You try desperately not to pay much attention to the look that Keel-Sai gives you. You can feel the gentle quirk of the woman’s lips though, allowing you some grace, she pretends to shuffle off to attend something else at her stall and leaving you and Lyna to speak with a vague sense of privacy.

The Vii holds you with a firm look. Her brow is drawn tight over her eyes, ears drawn low and, for lack of a better term, the captain seems genuinely nervous.

“…you are an old friend of his,” she says eventually, more to herself than to you. “If there is but anyone who can offer him comfort, then I suppose you are the one to do so. Just…please, take…care of him?”

You look at her for a moment, feeling as awkward as she looks.

“I mean-” the Vii stumbles over her words. “Obviously you don’t have to take care of him, but if there’s no other way than to like, take care of him then-”

She stops speaking, closing her eyes tight and raising both hands up to cover her face. With this, the woman lets out a dull groan.

“You know what I mean.”

For lack of a better response, you simply nod, trying desperately not to think about the way your stomach twists and heart flutters at the filthy thoughts of the Exarch–of G’raha–with splayed legs and flushed face and throbbing–

“Yeah, I’ll make sure he’s okay. I’ve actually been with him during one of his ah….heats.”

Lyna finally lowers her hands to eye you, expression something between confused and wary. You but lift your hands and gesture gently to save what little dignity is left within you.

“I mean, I know how he deals with them. Shortly after we met long ago, he went through one and…Likely he’ll be the same way as then.” You lower your hands, vaguely recalling the old memories of when the Exarch was simply G’raha Tia. When he spent the first few days after meeting you reclused and irritable–if he was merely the same, then you had little to worry for. “…It might be less weird for me to show up than for you without the tincture.”

A moment passes. Whether it’s your logic that wins out or the fact that Lyna likely doesn’t want to confront the man herself–the man she was nearly raised by–she nods solemnly regardless.

“Then I will allow you to the Ocular without argument,” she says at last, straightening her posture. “And will act as if I never told you this information at all, warrior. What you choose to do with this knowledge is…above my ability to stop.”

It sounds more as if she’s convincing herself of something, but you don’t have the moment to ask for certain before the captain is already walking away from you at a brisk pace, too quick for you to catch without turning heads.

You stare off into the crowd for a few moments before the noise of someone clearing their throat catches your attention back towards the stall behind you. Keel-Sai stands there, one hand pressed to the counter and the other holding something. A small glass bottle, a clear liquid visible within.

“I’m not a woman to spread no secrets or rumors,” she says, tone soft and assuring. "But I am also not one to keep my nose out of someone's business if I can all help them."

You take her words with comfort, but eventually glancing towards what is held in her hand. She smiles, holding it out to you with a certain twinkle of amusement you can’t read. Though you’re wont to take the random liquid from folks, especially in your many misadventures in the one-off tainted drink, you feel enough trust to at least hold out your hands to take what she’s offering.

“You might need this,” the Mystel says, laying the bottle in your hands and closing your fingers around its body. “If the Exarch can’t stop himself from goin’ into season, the man at least deserves to enjoy it proper.”

For a moment you think to question the woman and her mysterious gift, but Keel-Sai silences it with a wink.

So instead all you do is thank her, the words as rushed and broken as the thoughts whirling around your head, and scurry off back into the crowd as you try desperately to remember what direction you are supposed to go.

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miranthia · 7 years

Text

.:Wind | 28/30:.

Fandom: Dragon Age

Characters: Constance Macayle, Singleton, Brenna Larossa, Ireth Falassion, Myron Shaw, Dahlia mentioned

Pairing: Macarenna sorta

TRIGGER WARNING: Mention/hint/allusion to rape, blood, murder

THIS.....is super dark.

For me, anyway.

I never actually go into any details about anything, nor will I EVER.......but it's there.

And yes, I'm ok, I promise. I just.....got the urge to write, and after I did the dialogue for a different fic that I hope to finish soon, this one popped up in my head and I had to go through with it. I miss writing, and I miss doing things with my characters. Especially Mac!

BUT, I've never really done much that fleshed out her background.

Until now.

Sorta.

Tada?

Also also; I actually wrote this quite a while ago and am just now fixing it up 8′D

FOR REAL PEOPLE; IF THE TRIGGERS ABOVE BOTHER YOU DON’T READ IT. THAT’S WHAT THE BOLD IS FOR, AND THE ‘KEEP READING’ LINE.

—————————————————————————————————

Pain.

Pain was the only thing that she knew.

She remembered sneaking up to the manor, the wind howling around her in the early morning light, and then everything ran together in a swirl of agony and darkness. She had no idea how long it had been; three hours, three days, three years.....she had no way of knowing.

He was relentless.

She didn't even have time to shut her brain off, and go numb to the things that were happening to her. The pain was constantly overwhelming her senses, and each time he came back, she thought she would die. She wished that she would die, rather than go through with this.

Death would not become her.

She had come there for a reason; in the early morning light, through the howling wind. And while she had not planned on this happening, she still had a score to settle with this man.

Now, she had even more of a reason to fight.

The room that she was locked in was much darker than it had been, her vision steadily returning to her feverish eyes as she slowly looked about. He hadn't returned to her in several hours, the fire nearly to embers. She sucked in a sharp breath as she chanced a look up at the solitary window, the dark silhouette of trees swaying in the wind greeting her sight.

He had either exhausted himself and had fallen asleep, or he was out of the house.

Either way; time was of the essence.

Every move she made sent a new wave of pain through her entire body, and she could no longer tell if the salty taste in her mouth was from sweat, tears, blood, or all three. Her back throbbed and stung against the hard mattress beneath it, the chains around her wrists and ankles clinking together softly at the slightest movement she made.

She squeezed her eyes shut tight as she tugged her right ankle, remembering the sound of the wood splintering the last time he had been down there. Her legs and inner thighs screamed in protest with every move she made, her quiet whimpers filling the small room. She took in a deep breath and jerked with all of her might, the chain breaking free. She swallowed the scream that threatened to rip out of her lungs, taking in several deep breaths before working on her other ankle. The shackle slipped off of her raw appendage with little effort, the combination of blood and sweat providing enough of a lubricant to help the restraint along.

Stiff fingers wrapped around the chains at her wrists, the girl taking in another deep breath as she pulled with all of her might yet again, trying to push herself up the cot with her legs at the same time. She cried out in agony as she managed to move a fraction, the pain in her arms and between her thighs almost unbearable. She whimpered quietly into the side of her arm, not giving up until she had enough slack to prop herself up to the best of her abilities.

She sighed deeply after she controlled the sobs wracking through her body, resting her clammy forehead against her bent arms, feeling what little strength she had drain out of her.

She was half-tempted to give up.

But as she looked up, and saw the nail jutting out of the wall; the same one she had seen as she was thrown to this very cot and shackled to it, she grit her teeth and stretched towards the heavens. The tips of her fingers barely touched it, her muscles and ribs screaming in protest as she stretched out as far as she could, throbbing fingers working at the nail to pull it from the stone. With one last tug the object came free, the girl collapsing and shaking quietly from the pain and the exhaustion.

She allowed herself a moment's rest before she pulled herself up once more, and fit the sharp end of the nail into the lock. Her hands trembled as she jiggled the object around, a click finally reaching her ears. Sitting up slowly, swallowing back the nausea, she unlocked the remaining shackle around her ankle.

Her tender feet touched the cold stone underneath them, and as she tried to stand she collapsed to the ground, curling in on herself. She sobbed into the clothes beneath her, the agonizing waves of pain shooting up through her spine for what felt like an eternity, the dying firelight glistening off of the open and bleeding gashes along her naked back.

Every breath she took.

Every move she made, whether it be insignificant or major, felt like she was ripping in two from the inside out.

She felt useless, and utterly broken. Her body had gone through so much torture and trauma that she didn't even know how she could still draw breath. She didn’t even know if she still wanted to.

At this point, she wondered if it was better to just give up.

Amid the swirling emotions and thoughts that reeled through her brain, one thought stuck out amid the rest: He still lived. He was still capable of doing this to other girls and women, for many more years to come.

He would continue to do this.

Unless she stopped him.

She slowly pushed herself up to her knees, drying her eyes on the blood-stained sheet of the cot and gritting her teeth with determination. She rummaged through her ruined clothes and slowly pulled her top on, wincing and sucking in sharp breaths with her every movement. She set her pants atop the cot and mustered her remaining strength to pull herself back onto the mattress, steadying her breathing as she pulled the garment, then her boots, back onto her body.

Bit by agonizing bit she stood to her feet, feeling her unsteady legs tremble beneath her. She pulled her pants the rest of the way up and chanced a step forward, stumbling into the small table in the center of the room. Her thighs seared in pain, the throbbing in her core intensifying the longer she stood. She wiped the sweat out of her eyes, brow furrowing in anger and frustration as she pushed herself back up and hobbled towards the locked door, nail still in hand and her breath escaping her lungs in ragged pants. She stumbled to the door, grasping the handle firmly as she inserted the nail into the lock, picking it in a matter of seconds. Just as it clicked and she swung the door open, she spied a heavy mallet hanging on the wall. The adrenaline now coursing through her veins renewed her hatred and her strength, ripping the heavy weapon off of its pegs as she crawled up the stairs, keeping her movements as quiet as she possibly could.

Hours seemed to tick by as she slowly ascended the wooden stairs before her, her entire body struggling to comply with her will. Finally she reached the landing, taking a moment to rest on the very top step. She pressed her face into the side of her arm, muffling the sounds of her heavy breathing and whimpers of pain. After swiping her sweaty forehead against her arm she grasped hold of the door handle with one hand, using the mallet to push herself up with the other as she pulled. Once steadied, she chanced the handle grasped firmly in her hand, surprised when she found that it was unlocked. She inched the door open slowly, stepping through the threshold when nothing came to investigate.

Amid the sounds of her throbbing heart, she could hear the wind howling outside, a fire crackling away in the room adjacent to hers. Gripping the handle of the mallet tightly she limped forward, her eyes zeroed in on the light flooding through the doorway.

He was standing in front of the blazing fire, fingers twirling the stolen locket in one hand as he sipped at something in his other hand. The smirk that he wore went unseen, a tuneless hum leaving him as he stared at the crackling logs, completely unaware of the woman sneaking up behind him.

Unbridled rage swelled up inside of her body as she kept her eyes glued to his back, her grip on the handle of the mallet so tight her knuckles were turning white. She inched forward slowly, breathing quietly through her mouth so she was not heard. When she was so close she could touch him she raised the mallet up and swung down with everything she had, an enraged scream ripping itself out of her lungs.

He buckled and yelled in agony, both the drink and the locket dropping from his hands as his broken shoulder dangled uselessly at his side, his body careening to one side before pitching forward. He screamed out again as the other shoulder was struck as well before both of his knees were smashed, leaving him completely incapacitated.

She stood over his prone and broken body, panting for breath as another surge of adrenaline rushed through her. Without a second thought she forced her body to bend, rolling her adversary over onto his back. As his eyes widened in shock at the realization of who his attacker was, and what just happened, she allowed herself to smile.

“What are you screaming and crying for? There’s absolutely no reason for it!”

She crouched down beside him, watching him struggle to move his arms and his legs, his agonized curses and pleas falling upon deaf ears.

“Stop fighting it, sweetheart.” she slowly stood up to her feet, bringing the mallet up once more. “Relax, and allow the sensations to overwhelm you. You’ll learn to enjoy. Every. Single. Repetitious. Motion! You’ll be begging for more before you know it.” she enunciated each word with a swing of the mallet, bringing it crashing down onto the man’s groin as many times as she could as those same words echoed in her mind, her own screams faintly filling her ears.

As he screamed and cried and spluttered, blood dribbling down his stark-white chin, she knelt down next to him once more. “You should have killed me when you had the chance, Singleton. I always keep my promises.” she spit on his broken body derisively and forced herself to her feet, limping over to the blazing fireplace. With a kick she dislodged several of the burning logs, not even wincing as the puddle of alcohol took fire, the floor quickly becoming consumed. The light glinting off of the fallen locket caught her eye and she bent to scoop it up, rolling a log towards her enemy. She squeezed the object in her hand and glanced down at the screaming man, his leg engulfed in fire.

Without a backward glance she limped towards the front door, a bottle of alcohol exploding behind her. As the screaming intensified she stopped momentarily, turning her head towards the blazing inferno slightly. “This was for Dahlia, you bastard.”

With that she left the Manor behind, the wind catching the licking flames and soon engulfing the entire building. If it hadn’t been for the three month drought, the house would have never burnt in the first place.

“The forest is no place for a warrioress! How far could this blasted Tavern be?” a woman huffed as she stumbled yet again along the uneven path, wincing as her ankle rolled slightly. “I’ll be happy to never set foot in the wilderness ever again!”

She straightened her tunic and took another step forward, tripping over a jutting object and sailing to the dusty ground beneath her. “Maybe I should stop drinking…”

She dusted herself off and chanced a look at the thing that had tripped her, arching an eyebrow at the sight before her. Instead of another tree root, it was the boot clad foot of some passed-out sot. At first glance it looked to be a dirty, disheveled, homeless woman.

“Perfect, now I’m tripping over random people in the woods. Wonderful.” she pulled herself to her knees and sighed heavily, eyeing the prone form in distaste. “Excuse me miss? Hello? Perhaps the next time you feel to take a nap, you should refrain from hanging over into a path. Can you hear me?”

“Hellooooo?”

She frowned and moved closer to the other woman, her mouth going dry and her stomach dropping as she studied her further. She was covered in dirt and soot, and her clothes were ripped and torn. That much was obvious.

On closer inspection, most of the dark splotches covering her were deep bruises. Her face was covered in dried blood and cuts, bruises swelling certain places. Her entire body, the parts that weren’t hidden by her ruined clothes, was covered in even more dried blood, bruises, and gashes.

The warrioress took it all in in a horrified silence, reaching a timid hand out to press to the woman’s forehead, the skin searing her palm. To her relief the woman twitched slightly, slowly turning her head to the other side. “Don………...don’t t-touch…….m-me….”

“It is alright, I won’t hurt you. I promise.” she wet her dry mouth slowly, feeling hot tears of anger well up in the corner of her eyes. She shook out of it after a moment, returning her attention to the injured woman. “Are….are you able to move?”

The woman’s eyes rolled underneath the feverish lids, her throat bobbing several times as the faint and raspy voice escaped her lips once more. “N...no.”

She nodded and took a limp arm in one hand, pulling the injured woman up with her and slinging it over her shoulder. The agonized yell that ripped out of her new companions' lungs sent a cold chill down her spine, the warrioress fighting the urge to cry with the woman. She grit her teeth and wrapped an arm around the trembling waist, ignoring the pain in her own ankle. “There is a Tavern not too far ahead. It will be slow going, but I can get you there. All I ask, is you try to help as best as you can.”

She felt the head nod next to her, internally sighing in relief as she felt the weight lift slightly off of her shoulders.

The two took a few unsteady steps forward, the quiet gasps of pain tearing her up from the inside, but the injured woman did not stop, nor did she ask to.

“I’ll get you there my lady, I promise.”

They slowly limped on in relative silence, a sign for the tavern in question obscured by the overgrown trees. They had less than a mile before they reached The Black Nag, and an hour to go before night fell.

Hopefully, they would make it.

"Aye, take the last of those apples out to th' ol' nag, Ireth. We may as well close up for the e'nin."

"Throwing the towel in so early, Myron?" the elf asked with a snort, resting her broom against the wall and striding up to the counter. "It's only just now dark, I'm sure there will be customers before too long. Creators know there are enough drunken sots around these parts."

The old man snorted, returning to the dirty glass he had been attempting to clean. Before he could answer her the front doors swung open, the customers stumbling in. "Well 's abou' time! Looks t'me ye lot got an early star- Ireth, help 'er!"

"Some......assistance......would be.......appreciated!" the woman gasped, struggling to keep both herself and her companion standing.

Both the elf and the old man rushed to her side, catching the unconscious woman as the other's legs finally gave out and she collapsed onto an empty stool. Ireth bent to see to the woman on the floor, Myron rushing off to get something cool for the other one to drink. The elven woman put a hand to the woman's forehead, gasping in shock at the feel of her burning skin, the shock growing as she took in her beaten and battered appearance.

"What happened to her?!"

The warrior downed the pint that was presented to her, shaking her head as she steadied her breathing. "I have no idea, I tripped over her on my way here. I don't even know who she is."

Ireth's gaze darkened as she studied the blood stains on her ruined clothes, a deep sense of sadness overwhelming her as she saw the patches between her thighs. She sniffed briskly and swiped at her eyes, putting two and two together on her own, before she hooked her arms under those of the unconscious woman's.

"Come, help me move her upstairs where I can treat her better, Miss?"

"Brenna." she scrambled off of her stool and bent to grab her companion's feet, secretly relieved that she was passed out; now she wouldn't have to hear the agonized cries.

Between the two of them, Brenna's ankle now throbbing as the previous adrenaline rush she had had wore off, they managed to get their charge upstairs. Myron was already up there to open the door leading into Ireth's room, taking his leave once they were in. They placed the woman as gently as they could upon the bed, the elf's eyes straying down to the warrior's foot. "Let Myron have a look at that. He should be able to bind it up for you."

Brenna shook her head, keeping her gaze fixated on the prone form of the battered woman. Despite her efforts to keep herself distanced from the woman she virtually knew nothing about, she couldn't help but feel responsible for her. "Not right now, I'm fine."

Ireth smiled softly and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, nodding towards the door. "It is alright child, she's in good hands I promise. Go, you've done all you can for her. I will look after her, and let you know when she has awoken. You need to get that ankle taken care of in case it's broken."

With one last look at the woman on the bed, Brenna finally relented. She smiled and nodded her head, allowing the woman to steer her out of the room and help her down the stairs. Questions burned in the back of her mind but she strove to push them out completely. She did her part, and had helped the woman find some help. Now she was free to go, as soon as she got her ankle taken care of and downed and couple more pints.

She had no reason to stay.

On the third day, the woman's fever finally broke and she came to, much to everyone's relief. She did not speak much, and had no recollection of how she had arrived at the Tavern. Ireth had asked her about her injuries, but she adamantly refused to talk about it, and the elven woman did not wish to pry.

Despite the fact that she had no memory of the woman that had saved her, Brenna decided to stay, against her better judgement. Maybe one day she would decide to move on, but for now.....

For now she remained where she was, keeping an eye on the silent woman that kept herself closed off to the others, gracing her with a smile when the two met eyes occasionally from across the room.

One day, Brenna would tell her it was she that saved her.

But for now, she shared soft smiles and foaming pints with the woman she would forever be drawn to.

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