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batgurl1989 · 3 years

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A Wolf In Toussaint Chapter Three

Summary: After being summoned by the Duchess, you and Geralt head to the Palace of Beauclair with some trouble on the road.

Word Count: 2120

Warnings: spoilers for the Blood and Wine DLC

A/N: I know this is so soon after the last chapter, but I was too excited not to post it. Taglist is open, requests are open.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five

Taglist: @rmtndew @henrynerdfan @princesssterek @seanh-boredom @djinny-djin-djin @diegos-butt @cynic-spirit @daddys-littlewhitegirl

"Younin! Watch out!" Geralt growled a warning at you as you dodged a stream of caustic acid an Archespore shot at you. Where Igni hadn't scorched the ground, the large plant-like monsters' poison had. Geralt slashed at one of the large plants, trying to sever it's head.

You tried to stay to the edges of the battle zone, drawing on the smoldering embers for power as you kept fire shooting from one hand at the plants. You didn't have any silver weapons on you, which would have to be remedied as soon as possible. You knew Geralt was worried about you, and that was causing him to be distracted. It had only been a few days since you woke up, and this was the first time you had had to fight since the bandits on your way to Novigrad. You knew it was a risk to draw on the fire, as it was the hardest element to control, and the chaos was weakening you at an alarming rate. But right now, you didn't need to control where it went as long as you aimed wide of where Geralt was.

"It's multiplying!" You called out over the din of the fighting. Buds were springing from the ground. Though these weren't full blown monsters yet, the vibrations of the fire and the fighting were agitating them. One burst close to you, spitting acid in all directions. A droplet landed on your boot, sizzling as it ate through the leather. "Shit!"

Geralt was by your side in a flash, pulling your boot off before the acid could make it to your skin. His eyes met yours for the briefest of moments, concern and something else flashing in the golden depths. You nodded that you were alright, and he was gone again. He swung his heavy silver sword deftly into the monster, his energy seeming to have jolted back to full now that you had come close to being hurt.

Turning your attention to the buds, you carefully stepped further back, out of range of any shooting poison. With your boot off, the rocky ground bit into your sole, but you couldn't think about that now. As long as you avoided the acid pools, you could handle it. Eyeing up the buds that seemed ready to burst, you unleashed a stream of fire, using all your concentration to aim true. The blooming plants burst into fire, sizzling as they wilted to the ground, their poison remaining inside and lighting up with the petals.

Your head snapped around when you heard hissing and squealing. Geralt had slashed through the bud that served as the monster's head, ending the monster's life, and stopping it from creating more buds. He carefully wiped his blade off before returning it to it's sheath alongside his steel blade.

With laser-like focus, he stormed over to you, his hungry eyes raking over your body in such a way that your breath caught in your suddenly dry throat. The tip of your tongue darted out to wet your lips, his eyes tracking the motion like a starving animal. You heard a low rumble deep in his chest, and it set all your nerves on fire, ready for him.

When he reached you, he pulled you roughly into his arms, his mouth covering yours with such force your teeth clacked against his. A long low moan escaped you as you pressed against him, desperate to get closer. The adrenaline from the battle still coursed through both your veins, and it needed an outlet. His hands spanned your back, pressing you tightly against his armour, his fingers gripping the linen shirt you wore for the road. You clutched the grooves of his armour, standing on your toes to kiss him deeper, your tongue delving into his mouth to tangle with his own.

His hands travelled lower, gripping your arse before he lifted you off the ground. Instinctively you wrapped your leather bound legs around his waist, your arms going around his neck to steady yourself. With one arm banded under your legs, his free hand dove into your hair, pulling it free of the ponytail you had tossed it into. Your red hair caught in the breeze, fluttering around both your heads in a curtain of fire, blocking out the world.

You pulled away when breathing became a necessity, resting your forehead on his. His golden eyes searched yours, but you didn't know what he was looking for. You breathed deeply his scent, the adrenaline leaving your system, and your nerves calming. This man drove you wild and seemed to centre you. It was a complete whiplash effect, and had your head spinning, but you wouldn't give it up for anything.

"I suppose we should find the horses?" You whispered, not wanting to destroy the mood of your little world. Geralt chuckled softly, before kissing you all too briefly one last time. Slowly, he let you slide down his body until you were on solid ground again. As your foot hit the rocky ground, you remembered you only had one boot on. "I don't suppose you packed extra boots in my size?"

"Sorry, it was a vast oversight on my part." Geralt shook his head, going to retrieve your boot. He examined it quickly to make sure there was no acidic poison left on it, and to make sure the hole hadn't ruined the integrity of the boot. "You should be able to wear it until we get to the city. I promise to buy you a new pair."

"You don't have to do that. I can buy my own." You blushed as you sat on a nearby log to pull your boot back on. The hole wasn't any larger than the size of your pinky nail, and as long as it didn't rain, you would make it to the city. "Could we also stop by a blacksmith, and see about getting me a silver sword or at least a dagger?"

"Of course." Geralt nodded, offering you a hand to help you up once your boot was laced again. You took his rough hand, but didn't let go once you were vertical. He raised his eyebrows at you, but a small smile played at his lips, and his grip tightened around your fingers. "But first, horses."

It didn't take you long to find the horses. They had run off at the first sound of trouble, but these were Toussaint horses, and were used to being ridden into battle, so they hadn't gone far. They were munching grass as though bored, which you couldn't help but laugh at.

"Dandelion is bringing Roach and Marabelle when he comes down. He sent a letter while you were sleeping." Geralt explained once you were back on the road to the Palace of Beauclair.

"So the King let him go?" You were surprised that you hadn't been worried about it until now. Sure you had been busy being captured and then healing and regaining your strength, but your friend's well-being should have come to mind before now. You mentally kicked yourself for being so selfish. "Do we know yet what went wrong?"

"From what Yen could figure out from her sources, the King of Beggars is either working for someone who wants you and he was delivering you to him, or he was trying to get you away from the person who wants you." Geralt fought hard but ultimately failed to keep the edge off his tone. You weren't the only one jealous of an ex. "One day, you will have to tell me what he means to you."

"If that's what you really want." You had nothing to hide, and if Geralt needed to know for his own peace of mind, you wouldn't keep that from him.

"I'm not sure that it is." Geralt grumbled, adjusting the reins in his hands. "But it might be something that can give us a clue as to what just went down."

"Perhaps when we get back from the Palace, we will have time." You nodded. You knew how hard it was to ask about an ex, and if Geralt wasn't sure he was ready yet, you weren't going to push it. The King meant literally nothing to you other than as a friend, but you weren't sure Geralt would believe that without hearing the rest of it. "So is there anything I need to know about the Duchess?"

"Other than she likes things done her way and quickly, not really." Geralt shrugged. To him, the Duchess was no different than any other client, other than she had the army to back up her demands while farmers and villagers barely had the coin to get his services in the first place. "She can run a little hot and cold, but that depends on how grave the job is. If there is no job, she is actually quite pleasant to be around."

"Oh?" You raised your eyebrow at the Witcher, your voice dripping with unimpressed sarcasm. Knowing him and his past, there was only one conclusion that jumped out at you after what he said.

"Not like that, I swear." Geralt laughed deeply, warmly, in a way you rarely ever heard. Then his face grew serious. "Her sister, however..."

"You're joking! You have to be!" You blinked a few times, trying to wrap your head around the fact that he slept with the Duchess's sister. You were pretty sure she was dead, but didn't know if Geralt had a hand in that or not. "Are you joking?"

"I don't kiss and tell." Geralt winked at you but remained silent. Frowning you tried to think of a way to get him to talk, but knew that once he set his mind to it, there wasn't much you could do to change it.

"Fine. Keep your secrets." You mock pouted, turning back to the road ahead. The palace and the sprawling city across the river from it had come into view, and it took your breath away with its beauty.

"Like nothing up North, isn't it?" Geralt commented, watching you take in the fairytale-esque scene in front of you. The towering palace with its spires and arching bridges. Tall trees and rooftop gardens painted the scene with every shade of green. The lake shone like a fiery sapphire as the sunlight reflected on its smooth surface.

"Definitely not." You couldn't tear your eyes from it as you continued to ride towards it. You didn't remember making the decision to kick your horse into a gallop, but sound the wind was whipping through your loose hair, pulling it behind you as you raced toward the city. Geralt kept pace with you, smiling as the joy inside you bubbled into laughter at the freedom you felt in that moment.

At the city gates, you slowed your horses. Unlike in Novigrad, the guards at the gate were mostly there to keep the peace. No one was checking papers, or questioning anyone about whether they were magical or not. Everyone was free to roam in and out of the city as they wished. The atmosphere was completely different than what you were used to, and you felt almost giddy about it.

As you rode through town, your head was constantly swiveling to take in the sights and sounds of the lively city. Artists advertised their skills and their work outside brightly lit shops. Bakers were rushing to keep up with the demand for their pastries. Florists boasted about the colours of their most recent blooms, ready to steal the hearts of those who received them. Fresh fish was brought in from the river, the catch of the day being shouted to draw in more customers. There were few street walkers and even fewer homeless people. The cobble streets were wide and clean, nothing like what you were used to in Velen.

Geralt watched you with an amused look, indulging you when you wanted to stop to watch a street performer either sing or dance. He handed you coins to give to them when the performance was finished as you clapped loudly. Your heart sang out in happiness that he was showing you this part of his world and his life. You could see yourself easily settling in at Corvo Bianco, making wine, traveling to the city when you wanted to take in some art and culture. You found yourself wondering if Geralt would ever retire from the Path, and settle down here for good. But you shooed that dark cloud away before it could rain on the brightness of your day. You didn't know what the Duchess wanted, and that was as much darkness as you wanted right now.

#geralt x reader #geralt x ofc #geralt of rivia fanfic #geralt fanfic #witcher fanfic #witcher fanfiction #henry cavill fanfiction

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laudedliar · 3 years

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For the OTP Extra-Dramatic Post - as @noire-pandora has requested

#1: Who would make a deal with the devil

Dorian had been told Cullen was seen in the city of Val Chevin. That Scout Harding had almost taken the man’s life out of pity.

”Please, no. Let me speak with him.” Dorian had begged over the sending crystal with the Inquisitor. “I’m in Orlais, I can be to him within the week. Please, I don’t ask you for anything. Please give me a chance. Let me try to save him.”

The Inquisitor, as hard of a man as he was, thankfully took Dorian’s pleas for mercy to heart.

”I won’t have him sullying the Inquisition’s reputation. You have a week to get him off the street.” Inquisitor Cadash said. The line was drawn.

And now Dorian found himself scouring the streets and back alleys, looking for the blonde Templar. Heart pounding, he knew that Harding was following behind him wraithlike, watching, ready to report back to Cadash if he were to fail in finding Cullen.

“You can help me you know.” Dorian called out after yet another alleyway proved unsuccessful.

There was a soft rustling sound and Harding stepped out from behind a stack of crates. She watched him carefully, blue-green eyes hard as they gazed upon him. “I’m not supposed to assist. Inquisitor’s orders.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Dorian shrugged his shoulders. He hadn’t assumed Cadash was the jealous type. But a spurned lover, it appeared, was not an easily won ally.

“He knows a lot more than you think.” Harding warned, but she stepped towards Dorian all the same.

“He’s still sore about my leaving, then?” The Tevinter asked, even as he followed in the scout’s footsteps to the end of the alleyway and back onto the street. She didn’t answer, only glanced over her shoulder at Dorian.

“And other... things.” The dwarven woman was as astute in her observations as ever.

“Ah. Yes, well. He was the one who only wanted a part time... Thing.” Dorian’s hand waved about as if he could fish the word he was looking for from the air.

They walked down another dirty, stinking alleyway, Harding easily jumping over a puddle of what was most likely piss. Possibly vomit. A dirty, haggard man reached out his hand towards Dorian, begging for coins as they passed. He did his best not to let his disgust show on his face.

Harding paused just before another slumped figure. Dorian paused as well, head tilted to the side as he watched the dwarf carefully. She stared right back at him. An uncomfortable moment passed between the two.

“You wanted help? Here. He’s right here.” Harding waved her hand towards the reeking person beside them.

Dorian’s throat constricted as he glanced over at the emaciated corpse-like being. Once sun-blonde hair now matted and filthy. Golden-brown eyes that had been so bright were now dull and empty. Ragged clothing hung to the man’s thin body. No longer the strong Lion of Fereldan. Dorian now looked upon the diseased, withered shell of Cullen’s darkest fears. He knelt down beside him, one hand lifting a silk handkerchief to his nose to block the rancid smell that surrounded the man.

“Cullen?” He asked, voice hushed.

Those dull brown eyes slowly slid to look in the general direction of Dorian’s face.

“Do you have any spare coin?” A raspy voice asked. Nothing like the calming tenor Dorian remembered.

“I’m here to help you. Do you remember who I am?” Dorian shifted slightly where he knelt, glancing around the filthy alley. Some other beggars were watching with a slight interest and suddenly the mage felt acutely aware of his fine clothing and jewelry.

“We shouldn’t linger.” Harding announced unexpectedly. Grey eyes blinked at the dwarf, surprised to still see her there. “I suggest we pick him up and leave. If that’s what you were thinking? Unless you just wanted to see him like this....” There was a hint of scorn in the woman’s tone.

“Of course. You’re right. You don’t mind helping me?” Dorian asked, even as he stood from where he kneeled.

“Just don’t tell Cadash.” She warned, stepping towards Cullen.

The man blinked at them as they closed in on him. “I don’t have anything right now. I told you last time, I’ll pay you when I get the money.”

“We’re here to help you.” Dorian soothed, even as he tried to grab the man’s arm to pull him from where he sat against the wall.

“No! I promise, I’ll pay! I know I’m behind, I’m just waiting on some money to be sent in the mail. He said he would send me more, it’ll be here soon-”

Dorian felt bile rise in his throat. If Cullen was talking about what he thought he was, it was in reference to a letter the man had sent to Dorian years prior. Asking him for a small loan. Dorian had promised to send him money. Had, in actuality, sent him money. But the courier had returned a few weeks later, coin pouch with him. He had been unable to locate the Templar, saying that there hadn’t been a man named Cullen Rutherford at the inn in Denerim.

“Cullen, please. It’s me, Dorian! I’m here, I’m here to help you!” A large, dirty hand slapped against his chest futilely. “Please.” He couldn’t help the whine in his tone.

“Just get him up, we’re drawing attention.” Harding hissed, already tucked under Cullen’s other arm.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder towards a few of the other haggard beggars in the street. Some were getting to their feet, the cold glint of steel in their hands as they watched the two attempt to get Cullen up.

“Would be nice if your magic was actually useful.” Harding grunted.

For someone as emaciated as the Templar was he was surprisingly still heavy. Dorian and Harding panted heavily as they dragged him through the streets and back to the mage’s hotel. The front clerk watched them, an undisguised look of disgust at the smell that followed.

“I need a bath prepared, lots of water and soap. Scissors as well. And food!” Dorian said as they began hauling the man up the stairs to his room. “Now!” He hollered when the clerk just stood staring at them.

The bath was brought up expediently, along with extra jugs of hot water and bars of good soap. Getting Cullen into the bath, however, was a completely different story. The man struggled against Dorian, pushing him away as he tried to get the ragged shirt off the other’s body. Harding had already left, muttering about Dorian ‘being on his own’.

“Let go of me! I will not be subjected to your blood rituals, mage!” Cullen shouted as a plume of white fire burst from him.

It felt like all the air in the room had been sucked away instantly. As if he had been slammed down face first into the ground from a two story fall, wind knocked from his lungs. The entire world coalesced into a pinpoint that centered around the dirty, ragged Templar and Dorian suddenly knew fear. Breathless, heart stopping fear that skittered over his skin and rippled under his scalp.

He had been subjected to the red Templar’s anti-magic spells but he had been ready for them, aware of what was about to happen. He would never have ever expected Cullen to Silence him. And not with such force.

It took a moment for his head to clear, his lungs achingly attempting to pull air in. Dorian stumbled back, hand grasping the edge of the bed as he tried to pull himself back from the abyss he’d been thrown into.

And as he did, grey eyes locked with honey-brown. Brown eyes that seemed, for that instant, clear and aware of what had just happened.

“Dorian?” Cullen asked, looking frail and frightened. His hands clutched at his dirty shirt and he was looking around the room in confusion. “Where am I? Why are you here?”

Dorian stumbled to stand up straight, still gasping for breath. “Cullen! Oh, Maker! You’re here with me, you’re okay now. I’m here.”

“Why?” The blonde was stepping back from him, shame and guilt pinching his face. “Why are you here?” There was the sound of a sob edging the other’s tone.

“Now, now. Don’t fret over it. You’re safe now. I’m going to help you.” He felt like he was trying to calm a spooked animal, soothing the larger man as he stepped forward step by tiny, sliding step.

“I-” Cullen paused as he took in the room around them. “I’m not quite sure I understand.” He looked down at his hands, the nails torn and crusted in filth, his fingers scarred and tattered. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten quite a lot.”

“Let’s get you a bath first, hm?” Dorian motioned for the bath tub. The water had cooled considerably.

Cullen was surprisingly easy to deal with in this state. Though he kept repeating himself, saying again and again he didn’t know where he was and he didn’t understand why Dorian was there. But whenever Dorian moved away to get more soap, or the scissors to trim the man’s now clean hair, Cullen was quick to reach for him and grab his hand. Like a child afraid to be without their parent nearby.

The bath water was so dark with filth by the time they finished Dorian couldn’t see the white porcelain bottom.

“I’m going to get some food, and have the servants come to take away the bath.” He said soothingly to Cullen, the man sitting on the edge of the bed wrapped in a bath robe. “It’ll be alright, I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Tears were gathering in the other’s eyes and he nodded slowly as Dorian opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The door was slowly shutting when a soft whimper came from the blonde.

“Please don’t leave me! It’s so dark all the time, I can’t remember wh-who I- why am I here?”

”You’re rather foolish for a mage. Always following me around. Do you know what I’ve done to mages who bothered me in the past? What is it about me that excites you so much you feel the need to be a rock in my shoe?” Cullen asked, eyes lifting from the paperwork strewn across his desk as Dorian sauntered into his tower.

“I came to see if you would care for a game of chess. There’s no one else here that can even come close to my prowess in battle.”

“Your prowess.” Cullen snorted and returned to his work. “I have utterly defeated you every game. I find it difficult to believe anyone else would be unable to also pummel your pride.”

Dorian clutched his chest above his heart. “You wound me sir! Such venomous words from so sweet a face! When all I ask for is but a moment of your time.” He dramatically slumped against the ladder and pouted at the ex-Templar.

A small smile slowly stretched it’s way over Cullen’s lips and he looked up at Dorian through long lashes. “Alright, alright. Let me finish here and we can play a game or two.”

“Please.” Cullen begged again and it brought Dorian pause, his head leaning against the wood of the doorway.

“I’ll be right back, Cullen. I promise. I promise.” He answered, tears of his own gathering along his lower lashes and spilling warm and salty down his cheeks. The door clicked close and soft wheezing sobs escaped the mage. After a moment he was able to gather himself together, hands roughly wiping at the tear tracks down his cheeks as he headed along the hallway to get the servants.

The next morning Dorian awoke, his arms wrapped around Cullen’s waist, the other’s back pressing warm against Dorian’s chest. He could smell the lyrium on the man. Like a sharp electric scent that tinged the air. It mixed with the smell of clean skin and the underlying scent that was Cullen.

”You smell... different.” Dorian said as they sat at the long dining tables in SkyHold’s main hall eating dinner.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cullen said, his sharp tone telling everyone around he didn’t want to talk about the subject the mage was broaching. But Dorian was ever one to press an issue.

“It smells familiar somehow. Like a lightning storm.” Dorian whiffed the air again, ignoring the warning glance that Cassandra shot his way.

“Leave me be, mage.” Cullen snarled as he stabbed his fork forcefully into a piece of potato.

“It reminds me of...” A mana potion. It reminded him of the smell of a freshly opened mana potion. “You’re taking lyrium again?” He asked, his voice lowering to a horrified hush.

“I said leave me be.” Cullen growled as he pushed away from his barely touched meal and stormed out of the hall. The companions that had sat nearby watched him go in horrified silence.

Everything had gone downhill from then. Cullen had withdrawn from the others, pouring himself into his work instead. He’d ignored Dorian’s overtures for chess games. Had not even blinked when the mage had joined Sera in ‘pranking’ the Commander.

Dorian’s arms tightened around the sleeping man. He had spent so much time and money trying to locate the Templar. He had almost lost hope as the days had turned to months, which turned to years. But when Cadash had contacted him, telling him that the Commander had been found...

He pressed a soft kiss to the back of the man’s head, lacing his fingers between thick, calloused ones. The gentle steady rhythm of the other’s breathing filled the quiet room.

”C’mon. You haven’t left this room in four days!” Dorian complained. “Are you really that upset about the Inquisitor disbanding the Inquisiton?”

“What am I going to do, Dorian?” The man asked, sitting hunched on the edge of his bed.

“I don’t know. You could come with me? I can show you such wonderful things. Have you ever been to a concerto grosso?” Dorian asked, reaching a hand out to touch Cullen’s shoulder. He sat down beside the other, his hand sliding around the man’s back to pull him in for a sidelong hug. “Oh! Or the Gardens on the River in Verchiel?”

“I’ve been to the Gardens.” Cullen said despondently.

“Think of this as... A vacation! Hm?” He gently shook the man’s shoulders trying to cheer him up.

“I have nothing left, Dorian.” The utter hopelessness in the man’s voice crushed his heart.

“No, no. Don’t say that. You have me. I will always, always be there for you. No matter what.” Dorian promised.

“Why?” Cullen asked, eyes glassy.

“Because I care about you.” A single shoulder shrug.

“But why?”

He paused, mulling over the man’s question. “Because... You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. Because you care so deeply. Because you are so adamant about everything you stand for. You never waver in your convictions.”

“I wavered in one.” The other man said softly, staring down at his hands.

Dorian could never forgive Cadash for forcing the blonde to take lyrium again. “You didn’t. It wasn’t you.”

“I can’t stop myself. It’s like I’m stuck in a whirlpool and I can’t swim out. It’s frightening. It wasn’t like this before, Dorian.”

“I’m here. I can help you. Just... reach for my hand, won’t you?” Dorian pleaded.

Golden brown eyes looked up into his own, so much pain and fear held within it crushed him beneath it’s weight.

He was unable to stop himself as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against the blonde’s thin, scarred ones. It surprised him when the man didn’t pull away but instead returned the kiss tentatively. The kiss grew in intensity rapidly. Like a stoked fire, hands began to rove over cloth and grasped at warm skin beneath. Kisses turned from soft tentative exploration to open mouthed, teeth clashing, and needy.

Dorian was swept away by problematic emotions as they came together in a carnal rush. Like his own rising concerto, his body sung with his release as Cullen kissed him again and again. It last an eternity. And ended too soon. Bodies lay entangled in the sticky aftermath of their encounter. The Templar’s heavy, solid weight upon Dorian was welcome, and the mage wrapped his limbs around the other as they shared more soft kisses in their post coital glow.

“You’ll come with me in the morning?” Dorian asked in a hushed whisper against tousled blonde locks.

“I’ll think about it.” Cullen murmured sleepily. Together they slipped into sated sleep, arms encircling and holding close.

The next morning Dorian awoke to a cold, empty bed. A letter of apology on the pillow next to him.

I’m afraid I can’t go with you You are my only friend and I would not burden you unduly

Thank you for everything

Yours Always, C. Rutherford.

Dorian was caught off guard as an elbow slammed back against his ribs, knocking the wind from him. Cullen crawled from the bed, his hands clutching the robe wrapped around him.

“Who are you.” The man growled, eyes once more glossy and far away. “Why am I...” He paused, looking down at the thin robe that barely concealed anything at all. “I...” Dorian rubbed at his chest and groaned as he sat up slowly. “Was I... Was it enough?” The blonde asked, clearly concerned about whatever it was he thought the two had gotten up to the night before.

“It’s me, Cullen. Dorian. And was what enough?” The mage asked, still rubbing at his sore solar plexus as he slid to the edge of the bed, his silken pajamas rustling softly with each movement.

“Was it enough to cover my debt? And maybe... Maybe more?” There was a strange light that came to the man’s eyes and suddenly Dorian knew exactly what it was that Cullen was asking.

“No. No. This wasn’t anything like that. Cullen, surely you remember me. Dorian Pavus.” He swallowed down the sickness that was threatening to rise from his gut. “It’s me, amatus.” He whispered, slowly approaching the confused man.

Cullen was shaking his head as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing. “N-no. Look, I just need a little to last me the week. One vial, I’ll do whatever it is you want. Just one vial.”

A sick tightness gripped his throat and Dorian swallowed thickly once. Twice. “You don’t need any of that. You’ve quit it before. You can do it again. I’m here now, and I’ll help you. We can do this. Together.”

Anger flashed over the haggard man’s features. Brown eyes glanced around the room and the robe was dropped as he picked up his freshly cleaned, but still ragged, clothes from a nearby chair. Dorian watched as the man pulled them on and the blonde stumbled towards the door.

Quickly the mage stepped forward, grabbing Cullen’s forearm and pulling him away roughly from the door. “No. No, you’re staying here with me.” Fear flashed cold down his spine when those brown eyes focused on him, the threat of another burst of the Templar’s wrath imminent.

“I paid you what was owed! You have no right to keep me here!” The blonde cried, trying to wrench his arm from Dorian’s grip. But the mage was better fed, and thusly stronger than the once sturdy warrior.

“It’s for your own good!” Dorian cried. He may have been stronger but it was still a struggle to keep the writhing man from breaking free.

A fist lashed out, slamming against his jaw and lights flashed before Dorian’s eyes as his head jerked to the side with the blow. He grunted in pain, briefly releasing his hold on the other. Just long enough the man was able to escape out the door and rush down the hallway, bare feet pounding muffled against the lush carpeted floor of the inn.

“Forgive me.” Dorian hissed as he cast Terror upon the fleeing man.

Cullen’s body seized up and he froze in his step near the top of the stairs. The mage rushed forward and quickly grabbed the terror frozen man, dragging him back to the room. The deadbolt in the door was locked firmly and Dorian waited patiently while the effects of the spell wore off. He was ready for the rage surely about to be released upon him.

But it never came. Instead, when finally released from the horror of the spell, Cullen crawled to the corner of the room and huddle with his knees against his chest, arms wrapped around them as he rocked back and forth.

It was like that for days. Cullen would beg and plead Dorian for lyrium, promising him he’d pay him. Do whatever he wanted. One time, Cullen had even fallen to knees in front of Dorian, hands quickly trying to pry open the front of his pants. But the Tevinter had pushed him away, horrified at the implications the act made of the blonde’s recent past.

And when the mage refused to give him anything, the Templar would escape the room. Or attempt to.

That was only during the day. The nights quickly devolved into nightmare. When Cullen would actually sleep he would toss and turn, moaning in pain as he burned with fever and left the sheets soaked in sweat. And when he didn’t sleep, he would hunch in the corner of the room, muttering to himself and scratch at his skin as if insects crawled over him.

Dorian found himself crying more than not as the days passed and the symptoms of withdraw grew worse. He hadn’t planned on staying so long in Val Chevin. He had been expected back in Qarinus a day ago. During one of Cullen’s fretful episode’s of sleep he left the room and sent a letter back home to Maevaris, apologizing for his absence and promising a swift return. But he knew it was a lie. Return would be delayed. For an unforeseeable amount of time.

The days turned into weeks. Harding had stopped by once to check on him, letting him know that if he needed help (any kind of help) she was nearby. Dorian knew what the offer entailed.

“I’m not giving up on him.” Dorian had told her, arms over his chest.

“Would he have done the same for you?” She asked. “Lyrium withdraw can get pretty bad. Violent even. Just... don’t make Cadash regret giving you the chance, okay?”

The dwarven woman was loyal to a fault. Dorian appreciated her for it. Not many would have remained just in case.

As time rolled by Dorian felt his own sanity leaving him. He wasn’t sure just how long they’d been locked inside the room. Every day blurred into the next. If it wasn’t for the passing of the sun, Dorian wasn’t even sure he would know day from night.

He watched from his chair as Cullen sat staring at a wall, muttering unintelligibly as he scratched with ragged nails at the wood paneling of the room. Dorian’s own fingernails were chewed down to the quick as he watched the man hunched in the corner destroy the interior of the rented room.

He bit too far down, the coppery tang of blood on his tongue as he tore a chunk of nail off painfully. Grey eyes stared as a small bead of blood gathered on the end of his finger. Possibilities bloomed within the sanguine drop.

He could save Cullen. He just needed help.

The bleeding finger was shoved further into Dorian’s mouth and he bit down hard, teeth tearing at the nail bed, drawing forth more blood as he searched the ether for that desired help.

His call was answered faster than he imagined. His conscious mind pulled from his physical form to the Fade. He knew the Fade, knew the feel, the smell, the taste. He knew he needed to remain calm, even as he found himself walking the familiar, yet hazy, lower courtyard grounds of SkyHold. Most things were in their remembered place. But not all. A blink and he was walking along the battlements towards Cullen’s tower. His feet never faltered, knowing the Demon was toying with him. Trying to unsettle him, make him easier prey.

The heavy wooden door of the tower swung open and Dorian stepped into the familiar office. Mostly familiar. There was an extra bookcase on the far wall, filled with copies of ‘Hard in Hightown’. Some volumes yet to even be published. If ever they were.

She stood there, the Desire demon. Staring at the stacks of paper that littered the top of the desk.

“It’s been a long time, Dorian.” She crooned, low sultry voice echoing through the Fade.

“Not long enough, I’m afraid.” He answered, jaw set in determination.

“What is it you come to me for? You weren’t interested in what I had to offer last time. Or... Maybe I do know.” As she turned her true form shimmered and altered until before him stood a young Cullen Rutherford. Far younger than even Dorian knew him. Fresh faced, eyes bright with an eagerness the blonde man probably hadn’t shown since his early twenties. He wore the Templar armor, shined to perfection, red sash perfectly tied at his hip and holding his once ever-present sword at the ready. “Is this what you’re after?” The Demon asked, now in Cullen’s own familiar tenor.

“A little young for my taste.” Dorian quipped back.

“Hm. Then perhaps...” The youthful figure before him shimmered, the Templar breast plate turning a darker color, the great red plume of fur replacing the large ornate pauldrons, and a more aged face appearing. A wiser face. Familiar scars and creases lining the Demon-blonde’s visage.

“Better. But I didn’t come to play dress up. I came to ask a favor.” Dorian said, turning away from the figure before him to look at the bookcase against the wall.

The Seventh Blight, a History sat beside Horrors of the Third Inqusition. Dorian wondered at the truth of the titles. The Fade sat in between time, living all ages simultaneously. What was, is, and could possibly be.

“What you wish of me is not an easy task.” Demon-Cullen stated, drawing Dorian’s attention back to him. “Templars take lyrium to not only protect from magic, but also demons.”

“Your kind were able to infect the Seekers easily enough, and they had taken lyrium. I just want you to... Help him.”

“You want me to bring this one back. Which is impossible. Why not just stay here and be with me? It’s much easier. And so much more pleasurable. For all involved.” The Demon-Cullen stepped close to Dorian, one of his hands reaching up to stroke along Dorian’s cheek in a loving manner. He moved closer, closing the distance between them and pressed a warm, stubble rough kiss to Dorian’s mouth.

“No. If you won’t do what I want, I’ll find another.” Dorian was quick to the door, his heart pounding in dread at what he was doing. The game he was playing. The way the Demon’s offer was so tantilizing.

Demon-Cullen sighed heavily. “Fine! What are your terms?” He asked.

Dorian paused at the door, hand on the handle ready to flee at any sign of trouble. “I want him cured of the lyrium madness. I want him sane. I want him healthy.”

“I assume he need to remember you?” The Demon asked, looking at his nails as if bored with the transaction already.

“Yes.”

“And love you?” Golden eyes glinted with malice as they looked at him.

“I want him as he was. As he is. Nothing more, nothing less.” Dorian slowly turned, arms crossing over his chest as he faced the Demon once more.

“It will be difficult. You’ll need to cast a ritual so I can enter his space... Even now, with you so close, I can smell the lyrium in him.” The Demon-Cullen glanced at the door of the tower as if he could see past it and into the room where Dorian’s body remained. Where Cullen remained huddled in the corner, lost in his insanity.

“And in return?” Dorian asked. His throat flexed rigid, breath catching as brown eyes met grey.

“I want you. Tit for tat. A life for a life.” The Demon said, Cullen’s lips stretching into a wide, feral grin.

Dorian’s jaw shuddered, teeth clattering behind his tightly sealed lips. “You ask too much.” His voice quavered just slightly.

The Demon paused, mulling over it’s options. It knew Dorian could find a better deal elsewhere. Could find a simpler demon to assist in what he asked, and the stupid demon would probably do it for a lollipop and a hand job.

“Five years hence, then.” The Demon-Cullen bartered, knowing such a deal would not present itself again with such a wonderfully exquisite specimen for a very long time indeed.

“And then what?”

“You become my vessel. Don’t worry, as long as it’s agreed upon you’ll retain your good looks. I never liked the monstrous form some take. And the fun one can get up to with such a fine exterior...” The Demon-Cullen ran his hand down the front of Dorian’s chest in an appreciative manner.

Dorian stepped back from the Demon and brushed at his shirt front as if to push away the lingering feel of the other’s fingers. “Ten years.” He countered.

“Six.”

“Eight.”

The Demon contemplated him carefully. “Ah. The things you humans do for love. Deal.”

The tower flashed bright and disappeared, Dorian gasped for breath as he awoke once more within the room of the inn. He knew the ritual that needed to be done. The knowledge was just there, inside him. Slowly standing from his chair, Dorian crossed the room towards the still muttering, mad Templar.

His hand found it’s way to soft wavy blonde locks and fingers threaded through the fine hairs. Heart thumped against his ribs and he leaned in to press a soft kiss to the man’s temple. As he pulled away, he recited the incantation, once more ripping at the still sore skin of his finger and drawing forth more of his blood. A hot, white light illuminated around the blonde and a rising sound like that of whistling wind over hot desert sand drowned out all else within the room.

He was thrown back into the chair he’d risen from, the wooden furniture smashing into pieces as his body slammed against it. The splintered wood pierced his skin and he cried out as whatever spell he’d cast drew from his life essence to fuel the Demon’s work. Blood swirled in ribbons around the now white hot glowing Templar. He could see Cullen writhing as if he were in pain, back arched, limbs flailing. But it was difficult to look directly at the other man like he were the midday sun and Dorian a cave dweller.

The whistling wind grew, tossing about other pieces of furniture. They slammed hard against the walls, barely missing Dorian where he lay curled up on the floor. The bed shook and rattled across the floor boards, sheets torn from it and whipping about the room as well.

It seemed to never end.

But end it did.

The furniture that had been zipping about fell to clatter on the floor. Sheets lazily drifted down to cover Dorian where he lay. The wind stopped and the only sound within the room was the rasping wheeze of his breath. Eventually he peeked out from under the silken sheets that covered him to glance at the corner where Cullen remained.

Honey-brown eyes, no longer glossy or lost, looked at him from across the room.

“Dorian?” Cullen called, his voice thready and weak.

“Cullen.” He sat up fully, rushing across the room to the other man still huddled where he’d been all day. “Cullen, Maker be praised!” He cried as his arms wrapped their way around the shivering man. Warm kisses fluttered over the blonde’s face.

“I thought... I thought you were in Tevinter. I tried to send you letters but...” Cullen said, his voice shaking. But the larger man didn’t push Dorian away even as the mage continued to press excited kisses to his sunken cheek.

“I’m here now, amatus. I will never leave you again. I promise.” Dorian whispered against stubble rough skin. And he meant it.

Tick Tock. A sultry voice whispered.

#cullrian #dorian pavus #cullen rutherford #demon #lyrium #withdrawal

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breelandwalker · 4 years

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Sneak Preview - The Ferryman’s Curse

Vassili went on further till he reached the ferry, where the old man asked: 'Did you think of me?'

'Yes, and as soon as you have ferried me across I will tell you what you want to know.'

When they had crossed over, Vassili said: 'Let the next man who comes stay in the boat, but do you step on shore, push the boat off, and you will be free, and the other man must take your place.

- The Story of Three Wonderful Beggars (The Violet Fairy Book)

-----

Intent: To curse another with the problems that plague your own life.

Materials:

Two pennies

Previously-used jar candle

Fire source

Body of water

Ideal Timing: Dark of the Moon / New Moon / No Moon

Fair Warning: This is not a nice spell. This is not a polite spell. Baneful magic by its’ very definition is not meant to be pleasant, but there can be a difference between ill-wishing someone yourself and asking a figure from the realm of spirits to help you do it. The fact that you are entering into a minor pact to accomplish this goal creates an additional degree of difficulty and uncertainty. If you choose to perform this ritual, please proceed with caution.

In order to do this spell, you have to make a deal with the Ferryman, who carries souls across to the hereafter and may also haul away bad luck and strife if you pay him and ask nicely. You'll need to work carefully and quickly to pull this off.

Before you begin, perform any protective steps you would normally take before doing spirit work or baneful magic. Make preparations to cleanse yourself and your home upon completion. If you don’t have anything in place, you might want to check out the Protections section of this book for ideas. (Golden Hood)

Obtain two pennies from the same year. Any year will do, so long as they match, but new and shiny is preferable. Carry the pennies in your pocket for one week to absorb your bad luck. Then, on a moonless night, go and stand on the shore of some body of water. For best results, I suggest a lake or a river too wide to be easily crossed without a boat.

Make a circle around yourself, large enough to stand in without being too close to the edges. You can use chalk, pebbles, stones, sticks, a line in the sand, whatever material works best for the location. You might also use a premade containment figure such as a hoop or a rope circle. Stand in the center, light the candle, and place it at your feet so that the light fills the circle. While you perform the next few steps, take care to stay within the circle of light. Do not look behind you during the ritual and do not let the candle go out. (I recommend using a jar candle which has burned down a little ways so that it is shielded from chance breezes.)

Remove one of the pennies from your pocket and hold it out before you towards the water. In a quiet clear voice, call to the Ferryman:

Ferryman, Ferryman Sail to the shore I’ve a penny to give you And soon will have more One day to sail outward One day to sail in Come back on the third day And you’ll have its twin

No soul do I offer No body to bury Only lighten my load Take this burden I carry Ferryman, help me My fortunes are poor Ferryman, Ferryman Come to the shore

Throw the penny into the water. Try to land it as far from the shore as you can. Carefully extinguish the candle and leave the area as quickly and safely as possible. Once you return home, you may want to salt your doors or refresh whatever protections you have in place, in case something has followed you home.

You then have until midnight on the third day (starting from dawn the day after you toss the coin), to somehow get someone else to take the other penny from you. It's best to have a target in mind, preferably someone who really deserves that bad luck. If you start out thinking of a particular person, you can either hand the coin to them, slip it into their belongings, leave it inside their home, or bury it on their property. What matters is that by the time midnight on the third day rolls around, the coin is in their possession and not yours.

Your bad luck and misfortune should leave or lessen during this three-day stretch. If you successfully pass the penny to someone else, your bad luck will fall on them. If you do not manage to get rid of the coin, you can return to the water on the third night and toss the coin in yourself. Otherwise, your bad luck will return and you'll be right back where you started.

The only way to break the curse is for the person who has received the bad-luck penny to go to the same body of water and throw in the coin that you gave them.

It may be prudent to return to the body of water in the daylight after your bad luck has passed and toss in another penny to thank the Ferryman for his help, just in case he's disgruntled over your trickery. It would also be prudent to never again show your face there after dark or on foggy days.

Note: This ritual should only ever be performed in the same location once. If you wish to do it again, you’ll need to find a different body of water. It would also be wise to let some time pass, at least a few months, or find other ways of dealing with your problems. Don’t tempt fate too often if you can avoid it.

-From the forthcoming book, The Sisters Grimmoire, Vol. II (c) Bree NicGarran

#witchcraft #spells #hexes #curses #witchblr #The Ferryman's Curse #The Sisters Grimmoire II #And don't come at me with your curse shaming or your Rede-thumping.#You won't like the reply.#Meant to post this for Halloween...hope you all enjoy!

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5lazarus · 3 years

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Labyrinth

Chapter Two: Kirkwall Read on AO3 here. Read Chapter One: The Circle here. Summary: Anders tries to enjoy a life roving without a care, but destiny--and justice, and letters from Karl--draw him to the City of Chains. A better world is possible, and though Kirkwall's a shithole, Anders is convinced that once he breaks Karl out of there, they can do anything. If you want the full story of how Justice and Anders take on a despair demon that's clogging people's lungs in the Foundry, check out my story Phosphorescence! (and read on, to find out why that's referenced!)

Anders wakes up in a dirty bed in the Gnawed Noble to Isabela tying a kerchief to keep back her hair. He watches her a moment, enjoying the suppleness of her back. She is lovely, nude but for the blue in her hair.

She glances over her shoulder carelessly. “Oh. You’re still here. I liked that thing you did with the lightning.” She picks up a letter, bound with a lyrium sigil pressed into the wax seal. “This came for you.”

“From who?” he asks, rolling out of bed. He stretches, enjoying taking up space with his nudity. He loves the lankiness of his body, he loves letting it feel good, the magic running through his veins, the pleasure this all brings to him and to others, the woman who took him to bed.

“Some mage in a silly hat,” Isabela says. “I don’t ask questions. Are you going to leave, or what?”

He snorts and gathers his clothes. Dressed now, Anders grabs his satchel and ambles down to the inn. The innkeeper places a fryup in front of him, generous because he fixed her back and hand tremor. Ferelden has never cared that much about mages, either locking them up or letting them go, and Denerim everyone always looks the other way. Anders eats until he’s full, luxuriating in the looseness of his body, and contemplates the letter in front of him. Who would reach out to him at this point?

Justice says, You left a lot of people behind. Karl? Mahariel let you go but she wasn’t happy about it.

I don’t want to think about that.

He slips the letter into his pocket, downs his ale, and leaves with a clatter of dishes. He should leave Ferelden soon, but cutting through Orlais seems a nightmare. There’s only so much amnesty the Wardens provide.

Anders finds himself at the city gates, slightly befuddled, and blinks. He draws in breath suddenly and coughs on the sweetly rotting smell of gutter garbage. Justice says, You should read that letter. I bet you it’s important. Taste that lyrium. It’s familiar, isn’t it?

“Shut up,” he murmurs.

The guards eye him warily. He hitches his satchel on his shoulder and passes through the gate without incident. The roads are busy now that spring is here and the slushy mud has dried again. Anders passes families returning to Denerim and merchants heading up the King’s road. At a crossroads he sits under the old wooden signs and pulls out his satchel. He’s got some hardtack left, and he nibbles at the corner of a piece while he contemplates what to do next. There is always the Anderfels. The Mages’ Collective needs more messengers, too, if he wants to be useful.

Justice says, You need to read that letter. You owe it to whomever wrote it.

Anders snorts. What are you now, my conscience?

If you need it. Justice is unplaceable. If it is right.

Sighing, Anders pulls out the letter. He presses his thumbnail onto the wax seal and surges a quick snap of lightning. Faintly, the lyrium sigil glows. The wax releases the paper. He opens the letter and begins to read. To his surprise, it’s not written in Common, but in Anders instead--clunky, constructed like it were Common, but understandable nonetheless.

“They’ve sent me to Kirkwall and I don’t even know why. Every few months someone goes missing and I can hear the Gallows screaming, no one knows where they’re going but it’s clear they’re trying to kill us. There are no old mages in the Gallows. The First Enchanter is the oldest and every day he is looking more pinched, more worn, he talks to himself or something, I don’t want to know. That’s how this place gets you. There is so much I don’t want to know but every night the dead rise teeming in my dreams, and they tell me this city was built on blood.

“I’ve heard rumors the Divine sent the Seekers to investigate and no one knows whether it’s to annul us or reconsider the Chantry’s puppet, Meredith. She killed the last Viscount and sent the new one his bloodied ring, as a reminder. This is where they send the liberati to die, if Uldred couldn’t ground them down first. Every month there’s a new disappearance and I do not know if it’s despair--you know me, I have never had patience for despair--but I wonder, when will I be next?

“Do not let me be next. Let the Mages’ Collective know--Kirkwall cannot be forgotten. We need help. Orsino is trying his best but the nobility is terrified of the Knight-Commander and clearly the Divine finds her useful. Get me out of here. Get us out of here. Or there will not be a Circle left.”

He heads back to Denerim and convinces Isabela to take him as far as Highever. He could get himself a bunk at the castle if he felt like it, Teyrn Cousland is generous to stray wardens since his sibling ran off with the Crows, but he wants to say unnoticed. He finds the Collective’s safehouse. A mage, fled from the White Spire, is sheltering there. When he tells her he’s heading to Kirkwall, she laughs.

“I promise I’ll get a drink for you, when I see your name of the missing list of the collective newsletter,” she says. “Me, I’m heading towards Denerim. I heard the Wardens are taking anyone, nowadays.”

“The Deep Roads suck,” Anders says flatly. “And they wouldn’t let me take my cat.”

“Why the fuck would you take a cat to the Deep Roads?” she says. “What sort of darkspawn cruelty is that?”

Needless to say, he does not make a new friend.

He leaves a letter at the Collective, for them to forward faster than he can get there: “I’m coming. I love you. Stay strong.”

It takes him another two weeks to get across the Waking Sea and into Kirkwall proper. Though it’s summer, the seas roil. The Wardens say that all the seasons fall out of joint after a Blight. It snows in Seheron, it rains upon the Hissing Wastes. He doesn’t get seasick; Justice keeps him strong, helping him ease into the gravity of the waves.

Sometimes you gotta lean into it, he says. Sometimes you gotta be swept away.

Rainsplattered and queasy the ship drags itself into the City of Chains. The bronze of the statues of screaming slaves shines dully in the low morning light. Anders feels suddenly the great despair of acceptance the millions who have passed through these gates grasp at his heart and tug lightly. Above the Gallows Hightown shines, clad in marble, on the literal backs of these statues. Karl had never sailed before. Stumbling down the plank, pushed by the eager crowd at his back, did he contemplate falling into the waters instead? Did he know how to swim? He had never been in a body of water larger than a bath.

Anders draws his hood over his face and disembarks, shaking. Justice says, steady, steady. This is where you’re meant to be. There’s work to be done yet.

“I need to get him out of here,” Anders murmurs. “All of them.”

Some nobleman’s Tevinter wife bribes the guards to let him through unquestioned. He gets a piece of paper that certifies he is sent by the Wardens to provide holy aid for the lost souls of Darktown, after the Blight. That isn’t forged, Mahariel sent it ahead of time; she keeps tabs on him, to remind him whose, exactly, he is. Karl’s, the Circle’s, the Anderfels’, Kirkwall’s--he is beaten and robbed on his way to meet the messenger from the Mage Underground. They take his shoes. Kirkwall’s cobbles are hard under his feet, and positively grotesque in the rain. He drags himself there regardless.

Justice says, Karl. The mages. There’s rot here, can you feel it? Millions dead. I came here too late. Or soon enough. There’s a grimness to his thoughts. Get yourself some clothes. Beg. Fuck. There are things in motion and we must be part of it.

Eventually he finds the right tenement and someone washes the grime off of him and gives himself to drink and ill-fitting boots, bought with Tevinter money. Sure, magic is made to serve man and not to rule over him, but the First Enchanter sends all records of the money the Formari bring in to the Chantry, so they take what hidden cache that can be ever-so-conveniently found. Someone explains to him that Tevinter has interests in the city.

“No shit,” Anders says. “I saw the statues. Got anything stronger to drink?”

He jots down a note in Anders, drunk and tired, as the rain floods the streets below: “I’m here. Where/when can we meet? I love you.” He tucks the note into a hollow gold coin. The next morning, as the neighbors bail out the basement apartments, Anders slops through the gutters to the Gallows. He heads to the Formari stand and slips it to the buyer. Then he hurries back to Darktown and makes himself useful. He patches houses and welds leaky pipes shut. He fights a Despair demon that mired itself in the muck of the Foundry. He develops the classic Kirkwall cough, and learns how to heal it.

He watches a lot of people die--starved refugees from the Blight, miners possessed by those who were sacrificed to the quarries centuries before their time, too many babies who seem to have been born listless, without the will to survive. Lirene calls it the Kirkwall disease.

“Mages don’t do well here,” she says, late one night in her shop, eating the last scraps of stew after a long beggars’ line. “You should try your luck elsewhere.”

Anders says, “Where? Tevinter? I’m not a slaver. No. This is where I have to be. You know.”

Lirene frowns over her bowl. “Yes,” she says. 1. Her spoon clinks as she places it down. “You know, while you wait for your boyfriend to contact you, you might as well make yourself useful. We can scrape together the bribes for the templars, if you want to do more than mix poultices.” Anders does not immediately answer. He does not want to return to the Circle, to die another slow death, humbling his temper and mastering desire, accepting that he must be watched. But you gotta, Justice says. Aren’t you sick of watching children die? Anders says, “Don’t worry about the bribes. I’ll talk to--” He stops. Lirene smiles at him. ��I have a lover,” she says frankly. “He’s a templar. Oh, don’t give me that look. He’s a good one.” Anders scoffs. “Yes, yes, I know--the only good templar is a dead templar, or ones like Samson, who make themselves useful. He’ll pay the bribes, and he’ll deliver your letters too. If you make yourself useful.” “I want the right to fuck around,” Anders says, leaning back in his chair. The chair creaks warningly. “I’ll help out, sure. If your good templar can cover for me, then yeah. I’m sick of seeing babies die of depression. This city’s fucking miserable. I’m down to clean it up.” Lirene says, “Good. How good are you at fighting? There’s a set of rooms in Darktown the Seven Sisters have been using, but with my people and your mage connections, I’m certain we can talk them on.” Anders writes Karl: “L.’s helped me set up a clinic. I know, you remember how I’d always complain during those anatomy lessons. But it’s paid off, literally. I don’t make my patients pay, of course, but other people are happy to see me taking care of the detritus of Darktown. The shipworkers’ guild and the dockworkers’ guild pay me to treat their workers well. Which you know is getting me drawn into labor disputes which is fascinating but not really the point. What I want to say is that there’s a life outside the Gallows and even though it’s all literally underground, in a quarry where you can still see the clawmarks left by elves falling to their deaths, you can hear the screams at night and in the Fade, and the moss glows phosphorescence, even after Justice and Purpose and I took on that demon in the Foundry--I can feel something building. Something growing in this dank. Something’s gotta give, and it won’t be me. If that makes sense. I love you. Reply soon. Tell me, how are we going to meet?” Karl writes, “I would suck Ser Alrik’s dick for the chance to see phosphorescent moss. Well. Perhaps not Ser Alrik. He leaves me well alone. A mercy. Others aren’t so lucky. Our friend’s wife says the Seekers were last seen sniffing around the Viscount’s office, which is a good sign. Dumar’s M.’s puppet, and behind her is Elth and behind her is of course our great DVine. But I think it’s a good sign that she’s conducting an independent investigation of what makes Kirkwall hell. The entire apprentice class failed their Harrowing this week. It is so hard to keep the Tranquil safe, my love. We cannot risk leaving them alone but they stare and they stare and these ones, they’re barely more than children. Kinloch Hold was a slow death but this, I sometimes wonder how Jowan is doing in the Aeonar. Because I think it’s better than here. I’ve volunteered to watch the Tranquil in the market next week. We’ll be under heavy guard, we won’t be able to talk. But maybe you and L. can walk by. Even stand on the stairs. A glimpse, that’s all I need, to get through this. I love you.” Anders writes, “Your hair’s gone gray and you’ve let your beard eat your face. That’s how I know you’re suffering, my love. And you’ve lost weight. I don’t know how you can stand to be surrounded by Tranquil. They enrage me, they drive me past any control, and I don’t know if it’s Justice or grief or this fucking city, but I can’t stand seeing them, it makes me feel like I’m going to burst out of my skin. And there’ll be Anders-gore plastered all around the fucking Gallows courtyard, like when Kirkwall had its first of many uprisings. Well, it’ll happen

eventually. My tribute to the sacrificed of the city. Except we’ll win, too. Every day I’m more and more convinced that not only a better world is possible, but it’s happening. So much that I can’t write here but the M.U. and the collective has eyes and ears everywhere and you’re right that it’s a good sign, what you told me. There’s more sympathy in high places than I thought, and all of the low. In my clinic I’ve met all sorts of people. Too many Fereldens, and they all think I’m Ferelden. Lots of elvhen nationalists. That’s how they spell it in Common, with the extra-H. Makes me wish I paid more attention to how Leorah used to write. There’s a Dalish clan nearby but they’re not from the area, they’re from the Korcari Wilds, and they don’t deal with the alienage. But I’ve been hearing a lot from the elves who work down on the docks, that’s not what they’re all like, and they’re so different about magic. They take it for granted, almost. None of the shame we get fucked with. They’re proud when little Ellana or Mahanon starts shooting sparks from their fingertips, and they’ll move their kids from alienage to alienage and clan to clan to keep them safe. I met a woman who’s been running a long time, to keep her son safe. He has bad nightmares, Kirkwall makes it worse, but she doesn’t have the money to move on. I gave her more than I can spare. If you could leave where would you want to go? I’m sorry. It’ll take longer but I swear I’ll get you out of there.” Karl writes, “My love, don’t worry. We can wait. We have time. You did the right thing. Maybe she can talk to the Dalish? Orsino’s complained about how Clan Sabrae has made dealing with M. more difficult. Huon was recently captured, he’d been living quietly in Kirkwall for years. He’s not taking the Circle well, but do any of us? I thought I could survive Kinloch Hold but now I see what you mean. I will kill to feel the grass under my ass. I mean it, Anders. I will. So, I suppose I want somewhere with grass. Do you remember the high grass on the steppes, how the frost would linger on the wheat? I remember my last harvest. It was beautiful, even if it meant that some of us were going to die. It came as a relief that the templars came. One less mouth to feed that hard winter. I wonder if any of my family survived. My mother was never good at rationing. I’d like to check. I haven’t ridden a horse since I was a child but perhaps we could steal horses and ride hard across across the Imperial Highway, through the wastelands of the Blight to the Wandering Hills. Do you remember crossing the Hunterhorn Mountains, when they dragged you to Ferelden? I want to see the sun rise on the mountaintop, above the frozen wastes, and tuck my hands under your tunic to keep them warm. I want to fuck you slowly as the bird wake up in the valley, in some forgotten corner of the mountains where no one will ever see us, and it will take centuries for anyone to stumble across our campsite. Promise me that. That you’ll keep me warm.” Then Anders does not hear from him for weeks.

#dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fanfic #kanders #karl thekla #anders #anders/karl #karl/anders #kirkwall #labyrinth #da2 #lirene #justice #dao #awakening

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razieltwelve · 3 years

Text

The Girl Of Many Talents (Final Rose x Game of Thrones)

Syrio waited patiently at the docks. Night had descended upon Braavos, but his ship was not quite ready to leave. It had not been an easy decision to leave the service of the Sealord, yet he had felt compelled all the same. Since his late teens, he had been acknowledged as the finest sword in the city, and his time as the First Sword had only cemented his position. But his heart yearned for more.

The world was a vast place, and he had yet to see much of it. He wished to see what he could while he was still young enough to travel, and the honours heaped upon him here could not replace the simple joy of being his own man again, of choosing for himself where he would go and when he would leave. To be the First Sword was to serve the Sealord, and Syrio Forel had served loyal and well, but he had served enough.

To his credit, the Sealord had not chastised him when he had told him of his plans. Instead, he had thanked Syrio for his service and bid him go where he would. It had stung a little to be treated so cooly, but it was not common for a First Sword to leave, and so the Sealord had suffered a loss of face. Indeed, Syrio counted himself fortunate that the Sealord had not sent assassins to avenge the insult, for many of his predecessors would have.

Perhaps it was because of their past. He had known the Sealord before he was the ruler of Braavos, back when he had been a cunning man seeking to revive the fortunes of his faltering House and Syrio had been a prideful bravo, still eager to prove himself and far too quick to draw a blade when wise words and a watchful eye would have been better. Were they friends? Syrio liked to think so, but there was little room for friendship when a man became Sealord. Instead, a man had to worry about knives in the dark and the great game between kingdoms.

Movement in the shadows nearby caught his eye, and Syrio reached for his sword. He had returned his favoured blade, one given to him by the Sealord when he had made him First Sword. It would have been rude to keep it, and Syrio was not a man to be rude unless the situation called for it. Still, the sword he had purchased was a good one, and he still wielded the skills of the First Sword of Braavos, though he no longer held the title.

“Good evening,” Syrio called out to the cloaked stranger just barely visible in the flickering torchlight. “Are you out for a stroll or perhaps something more?”

The figure raised their head, and he found himself staring into a face so perfectly ordinary that it could not be natural. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and he drew his blade. A Faceless Man? Surely, his old friend had not taken his departure so poorly.

And then the ordinary man’s lips twitched, and he was no longer staring at a man but at a familiar girl with a faint smile.

“Good evening, Syrio.”

Syrio did not quite relax. Girl she might be, but Alera Antaryon was the eldest child of the Sealord and quite possibly the most dangerous person he had ever met. Skilled with a sword, yes, but even more with words and wits, Alera was a plotter and schemer whose guile had crushed the enemies of her House whilst the magics she could wield had given pause to even the Faceless Men. There were few who would dare to cross the Sealord, but amongst those who truly understood the ebb and flow of power in the city, there were even fewer who dared to cross his daughter.

“Good evening to you, Lady Alera.” He inclined his head. “Is this about business?” Was she here to kill him? If so, he’d not make it easy although he did not like his odds. She would not have come here unprepared, nor would she have come alone.

“No.” Alera came closer, and Syrio’s eyes flicked to the guards who slipped out of the shadows. They were her own personal retainers, hand-picked for their skills and loyalty. Her father had allowed it after the first assassination attempt against her, and her guards had dealt with every subsequent attempt thereafter. “I come on my father’s behalf.”

“Oh?” Syrio sheathed his blade. “And what have you to say on the Sealord’s behalf?”

Alera’s lips curved up into a whimsical smile, and he would have been fooled into thinking her a kindly young woman if he had not known better. “You are a good man, Syrio Forel, and you have served my father well since he appointed you. Yet there are things a Sealord cannot say in public that his daughter might say in private.”

“And what might you say then?”

“He will miss you,” Alera said. “And though he could not give you face when you resigned, perhaps he can make up for it now.” She tossed him a pouch. It was full of coins. “Your ship sails for King’s Landing. You will need the right currency when you arrive. That will help.” She nodded and one of the guards came forward with a sword. “And the man who was once First Sword of Braavos and who remains my father’s friend should not have to content himself with store-bought steel.”

He accepted the sword graciously and drew it. “A fine blade.” He found himself smiling. It was the equal, perhaps even the better, of the one he had given up. “A truly great gift.” He bowed. “I apologise for thinking poorly of your father. Let him know that Syrio Forel remains his friend now and always.”

“I had hoped you would understand.” Alera came forward herself and handed him a medallion. “This will identify you to my agents in Westeros.” She handed him a piece of parchment. “When you go to King’s Landing, seek out that address. It is run by an agent of mine. They will aid you in whatever you wish to do, and they have been instructed to provide you with ample funds. They will also be able to inform you of other agents I have that might be able to aid you in your dealings.”

“My lady...” Syrio was moved. “You do not have to do this. I understood very well what I was giving up when I resigned.”

“Yet my father and I both wish to do this.” Alera smiled fondly. “You are a good man, Syrio Forel, but the world is not full of good men, and we would have you return to us one day.”

“You have my thanks.”

“Do you know where you will go?” Alera asked.

“I think...” Syrio paused. “I will go first to King’s Landing, as my ship is bound there, but then I will go North. I read of the Wall when I was but a boy, and I wish to see it and many other things with my own eyes.”

“I see.” Alera nodded. “Then go with my father’s blessing. May fair winds and following seas be ever at your side, Syrio Forel. And if you should ever see or hear anything that might be interesting to me or my father...”

“I will be sure to pass it on to your agents.” Syrio chuckled. “You know, Lady Alera, you were by far my finest student, yet I cannot help but feel that you are still improving. I shall return one day, and we shall see how skilled you can become.”

“I look forward to it.” Alera glanced past him. “Your ship is almost ready.”

“Then I must go.”

“Farewell, Syrio.”

X X X

Alera - a girl who had once been Jahne Nabaat - watched Syrio Forel board his ship. It was a pity to lose him. He was by far the most skilled of the warriors in her or father’s employ, but he was also not a man much enamoured with the treachery and guile of politics. To be sure, he could handle himself in that arena, but she meant what she had said. Syrio was a good man. He would have been perfectly content running his own school of swordsmanship or simply travelling the world and seeing what he could.

But as sad as it was to see him go, forcing him to stay would have been worse. Men of Syrio’s calibre were not to be antagonised needlessly, and her father had enough enemies as it was without worrying about his First Sword’s loyalty wavering. Besides, this could also be spun to their advantage. With her father seemingly weakened, his enemies would be more likely to reveal themselves.

When they did, Alera would be waiting with knives in the dark, whispered rumours in the market, and cunning deals signed and sealed. She bit back a smile. Perhaps it made her wicked, but she did so enjoy these sorts of games. And she had several pupils of her own, boys and girls from allied Houses, who could be taught using the coming conflict as a lesson. They would see the fall of her House’s enemies, and they would know not only that they had made the right choice to ally with her House but also that allying with her personally was in their own personal best interests. After all, many of them had siblings to worry about, competitors in the often muddled battles for succession amongst the nobility.

More to the point, she had already known that Syrio would head north. He had spoken of that desire more than once while training her, and she did need eyes and ears in the North. Few Braavosi were suited to the harsh climate and rugged inhabitants of the North, but Syrio had a good chance of making it work.

“My lady.” One of her retainers stepped forward. He was a slim fellow, hired for his stealth and cunning rather than his fighting ability. “I have received word from an associate in Pentos.”

“Oh?”

“It is about a certain Beggar King and his sister.”

Alera’s lips curled. Oh, this was going to be fun. “And what did that associate of yours have to say?”

“Many things, my lady, but he did say something most interesting about an impeding marriage...”

Alera chortled. “He plans on marrying his sister off, no doubt.” She snorted inelegantly. “It is a tragedy to see a House as great as the Targaryens reduced to a naive girl and a stupid, spiteful boy who fancies himself a king. Still, tell me everything. The boy is beyond help, but the girl might yet be useful if we could get our hands on her.”

X X X

Author’s Notes

Ah, Jahne, still being Jahne. Yes, Braavos suits her to a tee. Her father is the Sealord, but she is his daughter... and his most trusted advisor and assistant. In truth, many already speculate that she will succeed him, and there are few who dare to draw her ire.

Syrio was one of her tutors, and as you can see, she and her father are both fond of him and genuinely wish him well. Of course, if he can still be useful, Jahne isn’t going to complain.

And being who she is, Jahne likes to be kept apprised of events happening in the other Free Cities. After all, they are the enemies and rivals of Braavos, and she abhors slavery. Although there is zero possibility, in her opinion, of actually overthrowing Robert at this point, Daenerys is still a useful piece on the board, one that she might be able to parlay into something beneficial. Of course, if or when Dany gets her dragons, Jahne will definitely be interested.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

I also write original fiction, which you can find on Amazon here or on Audible here.

#final rose #game of thrones #fanfiction #jahne nabaat #syrio forel

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solar-bear · 3 years

Text

The New Addition

I make my way home from spending the afternoon with Allison and her children, it was a nice feeling like I was part of a family, even if it was for a short while. I sigh as I weave through the mass of beggars and refugees lining the dirt road leading back to the home I share with the cryomancer, I look around for a moment or two, searching for the young mother who was here earlier. It doesn’t take me long to spot her, her child crying in her arms, I make my way over to the pair and crouch down, offering my hand, “come with me. I can give the two of you a place to stay for a few days and at the very least give you some good food.”

She looks up at me, her face streaked with fresh tears, “I-I couldn’t repay you, I have nothing,” she says softly, her voice breaking as she tries to comfort her child.

“It doesn’t matter, you and your child need more than the streets provide, and while I can’t help you long term I can at least do something while my master is away,” I smile at her, pulling her to her feet, mindful of the child. The girl starts crying, whispering her thanks over and over as I lead them back to my modest dwelling, it’s not the fabulous manor house I had just come from visiting, but my little one-bedroom, stone house seemed like a palace to me after spending my youth in a cage. “Here, sit. I’ll fix you something,” I point to the small table and chairs just off the kitchen.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she rocks her now slumbering child, “her father was killed in a raid on Earthrealm before Shang Tsung started sending his elite warriors to do the job.” She explains looking down at the child, the exhaustion evident in her face, “we were left with nothing, nowhere to stay, no money to feed her, absolutely nothing.”

I sigh as exhale to light the fire under the wok, I pour some oil into the large cast-iron wok and let it heat up as I grab some aromatics from the fridge and mince them finely before tossing them into the wok, “I know all about the raids, the master of this house is Sub-Zero, he’s currently away tracking down more of Earth’s champions. Every time he leaves I always fear he will befall the same fate,” I throw some meat and a good amount of mixed vegetables into the wok, stirring them with ease and precision.

I try and ignore the gasp from the girl, “S-Sub-Zero?” she asks, “I-I shouldn’t be here, what if he comes back?” She asks in a worried voice, hugging her small child closer.

“If he comes back early, I will deal with him. I’ve been by his side for 400 years, he will indulge my desire to help a mother and a child, I promise no harm will come to either of you,” I scoop a large serving of rice out of the rice cooker leftover from the morning. I add a simple mixture of broth and soy sauce to the quick stir fry before thickening it slightly with cornstarch before I scrap everything on top of the bowl of rice, not always the conventional way to serve a dish like this, Bi-Han would surely reprimand me, but it’s the ideal way to feed a starving girl who will no doubt shovel the food into her mouth. “Careful, it’s still hot. If you need more don’t hesitate to finish off the rice in the rice cooker,” I set the dish in front of her with a spoon and sit down at the table. “I’ll be happy to hold her while you eat,” I smile and hold my arms out.

The girl’s stomach growls loudly as she hesitantly hands her daughter over, “I-I’m sorry if she’s fussy, she’s not used to strangers.” She gives me an apologetic look, “thank you, for the meal,” she adds as she grabs the spoon and digs in, letting out a deeply satisfied groan as she takes her first bite. “I can’t remember the last time I had real food, let alone a proper meal, really I can’t thank you enough.”

I coo and rock the baby happily watching her mother eat, “really it’s no trouble, Sub-Zero and I have more than enough and look, woman to woman, I have a soft spot for children, so I really couldn’t leave the two of you out there with nothing.” I try not to give the girl too much information, and not ramble and tell her how much I wished to be a mother myself. “I’m guessing you don’t have any formula for her do you?” I ask rocking the child gently, humming softly.

She thickly swallows her bite, “n-no, I have nothing for her, for a while I was able to nurse her, but my body is becoming so malnourished I haven’t been able to produce enough milk for her.” She looks down at the bowl of food and ashamed before continuing to shovel the food into her mouth. “This is really good by the way, what are you? A professional cook or something?”

I laugh softly, “no, more like a professional housewife, without the ring,” I give her a small smile, “I am very fond of cooking though. Sub-Zero has a pretty healthy appetite, so I had to get good at cooking pretty quickly. We continue to chat and make small talk as the girl finishes her meal, I lay the child down in my bed while her mother goes to take a shower, when she’s finished I give her some of my clothes to wear. They’re a bit small on her due to my short, petite stature, but they’ll do, “here,” I start handing her some gold coins, “there’s a market down the street and around the corner, get what you need for your daughter and whatever essentials you need too, I’ll watch her. What’s her name?”

“Iza’ana,” she replies softly as she thanks me for the coins and kisses her daughter’s forehead, “be good little one,” she whispers and heads out the door.

Hours pass and the girl doesn’t return, eventually, I take Iza’ana with me and head to the marketplace to get what she needs, I ask everyone I see at the market if they’ve seen the girl, they all say no. I worry my bottom lip between my fangs as I purchase formula, diapers, clothes, bathing goods, anything and everything the girl could need, “he’s going to kill me,” I mutter to myself dragging the bags and child home with me.

The home is cold when I get back, “shit,” I whisper under my breath as I open the door and let myself in.

Bi-Han looks up at me wearily, I can tell he’s exhausted but not too banged up from the look of it, he just sits there, icing his cheek, “what is that Zhīhuá?”

I set the bags down and hold the girl on one hip as I pinch the bridge of my nose with the other hand and exhale loudly, “please don’t be mad aì rén, I brought her and her mother home a few hours ago and fed them, the mother left to get supplies for the girl but she never came back. Can I keep her, please aì rén? You know how desperately I’ve wanted a child, and this one basically just fell in my lap.” I beg and plead, giving Bi-Han the best puppy dog eyes I can as I feel the tears of desperate need watering in my eyes.

He sighs loudly with frustration, “well if she’s been abandoned I guess there’s nothing else we can do. I don’t like this Zhīhuá, you know how I feel about children.”

“I-I know Bi-Han, but I promise you won’t have to do anything for her, I’ll take full responsibility for her and take care of her and keep her out of your way as much as I can,” I rattle off frantically, my breathing is shallow and fast as I’m so close to getting what I always wanted.

Bi-Han grabs the child from me and sits her in his lap, “you don’t have to, she’s ours now, whether I want her or not. I’m not going to make you get rid of her, and I refuse to be like my father,” he makes a small rabbit out of ice in his hand to entertain the girl. “What’s her name?”

I don’t even hesitate when I answer, “Xiǎohán, that’s her name now, Xiǎohán,” I can’t help but cry tears of grateful joy as I see Bi-Han playing with our daughter.

“Hm, Xiǎohán huh? Trying to curry my favor by naming her after me huh?” His blue eyes twinkle with mischief as he pulls me close to kiss away the tears, “it’s working.”

(the photo is from google from a children's clothing website, it's not some random child lol)

#mortal kombat #sub zero #bi han #mk rp #bi han x zhīhuá #frozen dinosaur #canon x oc #mk #open rp

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icicleteeth · 4 years

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So I wrote a tiny ESO AU with @your-holy-mountain ‘s Finn and my dunmer Servyn for the laffs and because I got emotional about Finn being a good friend because Tii is a good friend of mine enjoy the trash under the cut...

(Disclaimer though, this isn’t going to be super well written at all, as it’s just an off the cuff little ficlet alsjfdj)

The early morning rabble of Mournhold’s central trading plaza sings with the hustling and bustling of a city which never sleeps nor rests--men, mer, beast, automata, and sometimes tamed daedra fill the streets in a near shoulder to shoulder crowd, all of which with important work for important people to attend to, though none of which called themselves nor anyone else by their real names, as such work wasn’t so important as to interrupt the annual weekly celebration of the Jester’s Festival--an honored holiday amongst all of Tamriel where Khajiiti named Kitty Kitty Bang Bang and Bosmer named Big Meat Indulgence address eachother as such unabashedly, as if it were completely normal and expected to do so.

Servyn wished he could join in on such festivities. He quite hated his name and would usually revel in any excuse to change it (even if temporarily)...but there wasn’t much use in changing one’s name when said one is a street Dunmer. He never had any reason to give anyone his real name, let alone a silly made up one. Most just called him Beggar. He supposed “Beggar” was a better name than “Servyn”, but it would feel odd to share the same name as every other beggar in Mournhold (of which there were many).

He lies curled up on the ground against the blacksmith’s plaza. Many filter in and out without noticing him much, though this particular spot gave a perfect view of the city’s wayshrine, where those coming in from all over Tamriel will inevitably see him, as the blacksmith’s is right across from the shrine’s entryway. Servyn looks to his tattered cap a few feet away, and makes a heartless effort to reach for it without having to get up (this being for a lack of motivation, he tells himself. Not because he doesn’t trust his legs to give out the moment he tries to use them). He’s able to brush the tip of it, but gives up trying to check it. Probably no coins in there anyway. At least watching the large guild stores haggle with passing knights and mages and trading goods he could never hope to behold in his life brought him some amusement. The aforementioned humorous names exchanged while doing so helped a bit, too.

Something was sniffing--a breathy heavy sniffing--at him. Servyn had managed to shift between laying on his side facing the streets to instead face the wall some time ago, which he’d done so when watching a trader present a whole roasted bantam guar became too much to handle. This seemed like a good idea at the time, though it meant he couldn’t see what was currently invading his personal space; not that this was too unusual. Street animals were just as numerous as street mer, and even they weren’t desperate enough to gobble up filthy urchins with hardly any meat on their bones. Just let it happen and it’ll go away.

“What’s that you found, Dandelion?”

At the sound of a man’s voice close behind him, Servyn twitches and sweats. Okay, so it isn’t a nix hound. That’s fine. Right? He’ll take one look at me, reel back in repulsion for a few seconds, and let me go--

Before he’s able to finish that thought, he’s suddenly off the ground, for whatever was sniffing at him decided to pick him up and carry him by his shirt. The first thing he sees is the large bear paws--bear paws!--shuffling below him on the ground. The second thing he sees is an even larger Breton man in a black tunic and huge muscles adorned with intricate tattoos standing before him.

This is it, then! This is where I die, right here and right now! Be it by the hands of a strongman or in the belly of a bear...or both! All he could muster is quick desperate breathing, for it was useless to cry for a guard. They wouldn’t care to see a beggar go, anyway.

As expected, the Breton reels back with a look of surprise--though this surprise doesn’t seem like one of disgust.

“Wow! You found a baby grampa, Dandie! Amazing!”

Grampa? He was hardly past his early twenties! Not that he was offended by the mixup--his hair is naturally white, and the unkempt nature of his facial hair could certainly fool anyone into thinking he was an old man. The uncontrollable shaking in fear surely ought to tell the man he was far from a grizzled elder. Now you’re just giving him more reason to see you as easy prey!

“Oh, but will you please let him go, Dandie? Most people don’t like being held by a bear’s maw--I know, I don’t get it either. But it is what it is!”

Just as commanded, the bear releases Servyn, who falls to the ground like dead weight. Were it not for his still raspy and frantic breathing, one could easily assume he were already dead.

“Sorry about that, little elf! Dandie likes magical things, because she’s magical too! But that means you’re magical, right?”

Not really. He may know a good deal more magic than the average street rat, but it was only simple magic he picked up from beginner’s spell books in the public library. He likely paled in comparison to the city’s many wizards and Telvanni mages. Surely this adventurous looking man has seen a good number of better mages to gawk at.

“Finnegan Stormborne, at your service!” he bows, and squeaks “and Dandelion, at yours as well!” in his best (and frankly impressive) falsetto. The bear still seemed uncomfortably interested in Servyn, but he was powerless to run away. He didn’t want to talk to the stranger, but decided maybe if he engaged in small talk with the man, then he may be generous enough to not let his bear tear him to shreds.

“Is...that your Jester’s name, sera?”

The Breton blinks, though is silent for only a moment before bursting into hearty laughter.

“Ha! I could never be a real jester, no. They’re funny on purpose, you see.”

“I...do?” The intentions of the Breton named Finnegan were lost on him. It didn’t seem like information--which was good, because Servyn wasn’t like the other beggars in that way. It didn’t seem like he simply wanted an easy target to bully, as he hasn’t done so--yet. It couldn’t be money, because surely the last place you’d look for extra gold is--

“Say, you dropped your hat!”

Oh. Maybe it is money after all. Servyn doubted anything was in it anyway, but on the off chance there was...well. He supposed it wasn’t the first time he’d resigned himself to another night of sleeping hungry, though he didn’t have much time to lament about this, as he feels something placed on his head, and a handful of coins presented to him.

“These were inside it, too. Best hide ‘em, you never know when the gold-eating rats decide to come out...”

The what?

With great effort, Servyn sits up to better address Finnegan (though slightly wilting at the man’s towering height).

“There are no gold-eating rats here, sera. Or anywhere...at least, I don’t think so...” He cuts his own sentence off quickly, fearing the man would snap at him for talking back.

“Oh! That’s just what I call tax collectors. But eh, what does sera mean, by the by? Do you mean to say “serenade”? Cus I’m always in the mood for a song, and I don’t do so well, being tempted with a good time!”

Now it’s Servyn’s turn to blink. Finn, on other hand, seems jovial as a drunken Nord.

“Yeah, you know what? What do you say to a night in, Dandelion? I’ll get you a good roast, sing some songs...hey! Why don’t you join us, Dunmer? Dandie seems to really like you!”

Now the Breton must really be out of his mind. Him? In a tavern? With other people, who will probably sneer at the presence of a vagrant in their establishment? Alongside a stranger, no less!? The worst part was said stranger seemed genuine in his offer--but it didn’t matter. He shouldn’t go. He can’t go.

“Erm! I’d be happy to join you, Sir Finnegan, but my legs aren’t very strong, and I don’t think I will be able to stand...nor do I think tavern patrons would stand me, if you understand what I’m saying. You’d best be off on your own, the local tavern is that way--”

In an instant, Servyn, for the second time, is lifted off the ground; this time in the rock-hard muscular arms of Finnegan (a feat not difficult for him at all, as Servyn’s meager height of under five feet tall and malnourished frame required no more effort to lift than a sack of potatoes). This time he does yelp, though it comes out more akin to a frightened squeak.

“If that’s all that’s stopping you, then I can help with that! By the way, you can call me Finn. Now, where’d you say the nearest tavern was? That way? Come on, Dandelion!”

Servyn wasn’t sure which was worse: watching Finn dance the Lava Foot Shuffle directly on the Flaming Nix Inn’s hot coal stove, or watching Dandelion gnaw at roasted salmon. Neither one helped calm the frantic anxiety for his new friend‘s wellbeing...or the ravenous appetite of his long-unfed stomach. Finn notices this, and hops off the coals for a moment.

“Hey, are you alright? If you tell me your name, I can sing a song about you!”

In truth, Servyn wasn’t really paying attention to Finn. In an attempt to look somewhere else, his eyes ended up settling on the large cauldron of duck soup cooking behind the innkeeper’s counter. He didn’t notice the bit of drool escaping his mouth, but Finn does, with a sad “Oh.”

Before Servyn knew it, a bowl is presented to him, with Finn kneeling down a bit to look him in the eyes. “I’m sorry, friend. I should’ve known you must be famished, being on the streets and all. Do you like this stuff?”

Were Servyn in a different position, he’d beat himself up for such rudeness, as he didn’t wait to ask before taking the bowl from Finn’s hands without a single word and wolfing the soup down in a hunched up ball on the bench. Finn, however, is more than happy to let his friend be, and return to his dancing, only turning around to say: “I paid the chef for as many bowls as you want, so don’t be shy if you want more!”

Three bowls and an unceremonious belch later, Servyn lies sleepily against Dandelion, who situated herself behind the mer and quite enjoys acting as a large fluffy pillow while she dozes a bit herself. Finn, in his never-ending zeal, still happily dances amongst the coals whilst singing a new song about a Nordic king in a far-off kingdom. However, once noticing his ursine companion give a big toothy yawn, he stops singing.

“Ah, suppose you’re right, Dandie. It’s getting late. Hey innkeep! I’ll have two rooms for the night, put it on my tab, will you?” He makes to leap gracefully off the coals, but trips on a particularly odd-shaped stone and falls with a thud and a nonchalant “Ow.” Servyn perks up, immediately worried for Finn, and is not calmed down despite the Breton getting up easily and without distress.

“The second room I bought is for you, Dunmer. You don’t have to take it, but I thought it’d be better than going back to the streets. It’s no big expense on me, either way.”

There wasn’t time to worry about that right now. Struggling to get up, Servyn manages to stand, though with wobbly legs and a belly that felt much heavier than he was used to.

“Sir Finn, your arm..!” He points to a raw patch of skin which endured direct contact with the coals, and is now a large splotch of pink. Finn shrugs.

“Oh, don’t worry about that! I’ll take care of it later. But you look exhausted, friend. I can carry you to your room, if you’d like. Or the streets, I guess...if that’s what you want...”

Without thinking, Servyn trudges over to Finn, half of his energy focused on not collapsing, and the other half dedicated to channeling a healing spell. He all but collapses into Finn’s arms, but is able to cast the spell on the burned skin, and watches with relief as it mends right before his eyes--and Finn’s who stares in awe.

“Say, I knew you were magical! My arm feels good as new!” He hugs Servyn a bit tighter than he’d like, but thankfully the man has enough foresight to not put his usual effort into the embrace. He now cradles his friend, who looks to the floor sheepishly.

“It was just a simple spell, and was the least I could do, given the kindness you’ve shown me...”

“Simple? I’d say that’s a real talent you have there! Have you tried joining the local Mages Guild? I bet they’d love to have you!”

Of course not. Someplace as prestigious as a guild would turn him away the moment they saw him, with his dirty untamed hair and filthy ragged tunic and patchwork pants. Finn was the weird one for not doing the same. Why didn’t he do the same?

Knowing he expects and answer, Servyn simply shakes his head. Finn makes his way up the stairs, still with the mer in tow, who doesn’t object or ask to be taken back to the streets.

“You should! I work for them sometimes. Sort of. I find these weird books all over the place that they’re interested in, but lots of mages are real stuck up. They complain and say things like “Finnegan, why is it covered in swamp stains?” Maybe because I found it in a swamp! You wouldn’t care if I gave you a book I found in a swamp, right?”

Servyn once again shakes his head, and mutters “a book is a book, sera. It’s not your fault it happened to end up in a swamp.”

“Right!? See, you understand, and I bet you would call me Finn instead of Finnegan. Mages do that to sound regal, but it’s too formal for me! Wish I had a friend in the guild who wasn’t so stuck up...like you!”

They reach a door. Finn pushes it open with his shoulders, and lays Servyn on the single bed. He blushes a bit--at the softness of the mattress and blankets so foreign and long forgotten after years of sleeping rough, and at the seemingly never-ending kindness of the Breton man.

“I’ve got to tuck Dandelion in now, but I’m in the room just across from yours. You can knock if you need me.”

Finn turns around, but before he’s able to leave the room, a soft voice interrupts him.

“S-Servyn! My name is Servyn. So you know who to...um, send the bill to. I don’t know when I can pay it back but--”

“Servyn, eh? I like it! Now I know exactly how to introduce you to the Magister! This is fantastic! Thanks for telling me, Servyn. But I’ll let you sleep now, okay? We’ll need all our strength for tomorrow, after all!”

The door clicks shut before Servyn is able to retort back. He isn’t sure whether he’s decided to give up on understanding Finn or understanding why he let the Breton sweep him up into a tavern room to begin with--all he knew was he was tired, much so that he didn’t want to think about it anymore. He could hear the man from the hallway baby-talking (presumedly to his bear) but didn’t feel at all annoyed by this break in silence. Finn’s voice truly exude a warmth so rarely heard, even from the kindest Temple priests. Servyn couldn’t bring himself to complain, and felt odly...okay with him knowing his true name, and he knowing Finn’s, and this sickeningly sweet okay-ness that he never thought he’d ever feel again lulls him into a gentle sleep.

But if anyone else asks, my name is Captain Sujamma Guzzler.

#eso #the elder scolls online #fanfic #this isn't edited so apologies for the uhhhhh zero quality #doodledumps

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likesomekindofcheese · 4 years

Text

Songbird of Jamestown Ch.8 (Samuel Castell x fem! Reader)

Fandom: Jamestown ITV Series

Summary: You are among the English maids in 1619-1620 who have agreed to board ship for the new world in Jamestown, with the intention to marry the men there. You have chosen to find a husband and life of your own and pay back the company, than be pre bought and bound to a random stranger. Life is difficult and you and your friends struggle, but there is a certain recorder who’s willing to help. He’s kind-hearted and handsome ...and has already been pledged to another. You want to be with him...at what risk?

Chapter One //Chapter Two // Chapter Three // Chapter Four // Chapter Five// Chapter Six// Chapter Seven

Word Count: 7K

Warnings: attempts at accuracy that aren’t always on point, swearing, drinking, marriage, religion, a bit of bullying, angst that becomes fluff, and steamy parts but nothing explicit.

A/N: Here we are! The wedding chapter woohoo! I hope you all enjoy it!

“Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”- Sonnet 116

“We may not be in England anymore, but have a Boleyn in our colony,” you heard him smirk.

The tavern tonight was supposed to be full of people. You shouldn’t have picked out that voice. Of the two dirty-faced men with dark beards leaning close over their beers. Yet as soon as you helped Verity finish another drinking song, you did hear it. As clear as thunder.

Some customers came by to press coins into your hands for the song or wish you luck for your upcoming nuptials. Those seemed deaf. You kept glancing back, wondering what you could even say.

“…Miss Woodbyrg’s fiancée…”

“…her maid, even! We’ll be counting the days until Y/N’s head gets lobbed off…” the shorter one hissed.

“Poor Miss Woodbyrg, one cannot understand her grief…” the taller one acknowledged with a shake of his shaggy head.

“Imagine giving someone like her up!”

“A beauty if there ever was one! And Castell tosses her aside for her former maid! Why would the madman do that?”

“Well, why do you think…one large reason why…who knows what Y/N had between her legs that carried him away…” he joked lasciviously with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Look at her, singing away for tips here like some beggar.”

No, you wanted to interrupt, Verity allowed your singing since her throat is sore. But you dared not and could only nod in silent thanks as a teenage boy pressed a gold coin into your apron pocket.

“That’s the woman Castell chose over Jocelyn. A dirty pub singer over a lady. Y/N’s probably after his money. And he just wants a whore he doesn’t have to pay.”

Bits of tears stung your eyes, you bit back your tongue. You turned away to the side to stare at a wall. Making a scene would not solve anything. They would think even worse of you.

“I thought the man was balless,” he chuckled “reading fairy stories and fawning over babes like a damn woman.”

“Maybe not! Now what’s beneath her dress is all he can think about! She must’ve brought the man out of him!” the man gossiped, gesturing towards you.

The words simmered in your brain so much you hardly noticed an old planter hobbling towards you. His beard was streaked grey and his balding head wrinkled.

“Why, that drinking song I’ve barely heard! Do ye happen to know…”

There were strong footsteps and a broad figure from behind cut in front of you.

“Do not bother the lady, sir!” he said

Nathan Bailey’s dark head cut in front of yours as he walked in front of you and you hid behind him. Samuel had paid him to help guard you at least until the wedding. It was a blessing and a curse. The new bride replacing an old one and needing a soldier accompanying her everywhere probably raised a few eyebrows, you wondered. But he did his job, never asked why, and was a decent young man.

“Oh! I meant nothin’ wrong! I was just moved!” the old man pleaded.

“I was just lost in thought, Nathan! He’s been perfectly respectful!” you cut in.

He turned to you with a huff.

“Alright, but if I see you or any man getting handsy with her, you’ll have ‘em chopped up!” he spat.

You mouthed a thank you to Nathan. He returned to sit by you, nursing his water but always hawk-eyed. Processing what you overheard, the insults piercing your insides, you hardly noticed Verity walking up to you.

“Why, Y/N--looks like you made enough coin to buy France! How about some…what…what is it?”

Her cheerful, freckled face darkened at you looking down at the floor.

“I…I’m just…I heard some…I can’t tell you. Not now…” you said, glancing back at the soldier.

The tavern had plenty of men. And even if it was empty, Nathan was there. You were hardly alone even when you had to use a chamber pot or squat in the woods to relieve yourself. Not when you worked. Especially not when you ate. As badly as you wished to confide in Verity…the soldier could overhear something.

“Oh, Y/N, don’t cry…” she comforted, using a spare cloth to wipe your face.

“Just…some people said…bad…bad things…” you managed to blubber out. You wished you could be strong, but it hurt.

She placed her hands on her hips.

“Oh, pah! Damn them all. You’re a good person, making money honestly, and you said you’re about to be married in two days! Who’s the man?”

“You don’t know?” you gasped.

“Is he decent? If not, I’ll…”

“Well-you…you haven’t heard…anything?” you asked.

“No, not even from you…and there’s been too many weddings here I can hardly keep track!” she said with a shrug.

It was not a secret so why hide it?

Verity stood next to the soldier. Her husband was playing cards excitedly with a large group opposite away.

“Do you know the recorder? He made me an offer of marriage and I accepted.”

“Ha! I knew-you’re far too pretty and far too sweet for any decent man here to turn his head away! But wasn’t he…he was…”?

“He was previously betrothed to… someone else. They decided to end things. Her money was paid already, so there was no debt. So, he asked me to marry him…” you said flatly. And technically, that was the truth.

She nodded in understanding. Perhaps even more than even you could say. Perhaps it was a fading in her eye. But she understood.

“Let me walk you home, dear, at least….” She said, looping her am around yours. “I ain’t scared of the bloody dark, I can walk back here backward without fear. But I can’t have a bride fall on her face she has to keep pretty for the wedding.”

The soldier raised his eyebrow and looked at you.

“That…that would be nice…” you answered.

The next morning, you fought not to nod your head off with Lady Yeardley. Sitting on her table reading as she listened was not too reviving an activity for the morning. You completed a reading of the thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians. She picked that chapter and had you read aloud the fourth through the eighth verses. Looking up, you thought she would ask you a question for discussion. But it wasn’t a question, it was a phrase.

“Well, speaking of love- my dear...” she said kindly.

A smile broke on your lips. She took the brown bible from your hands.

“Today…today’s my wedding day, ” you finished despite yourself. You could hardly believe the words coming out of your lips.

She then took your palms and guided you to stand up with her.

“I…I’m so nervous, Lady Yeardley!” you confessed.

Was this even the right thing? You felt wrong. Perhaps not the altar was waiting at that church but the guilty nose of adultery. But you could not get the nasty comments of those men last night out of your head. What if they were right?

“I’ve already been married twice and even then I was always nervous at my wedding…” she recalled, taking the bible from your hands. And child! I know you’re afraid but…Castell is a good man, a kind man, you know that?”

You nodded.

“Lady Yeardley…you do not think…you do not think I’m a wicked, bad person, am I?”

“Why, no, not at all…”

“I always feel like I am…I feel like I am doing something wrong…”

“You consented to something sacred, Y/N, how could that ever be wrong?”

Now was the time.

“And I came here wanting a husband, a lord who could provide for me, take care of me. Someone who could protect me the way God protects us. And in turn, I would give him my respect and my…my obedience…” you added hesitantly.

Her eyes beamed. Even if it wasn’t entirely true, it wasn’t entirely false. But most of all, it was everything you knew she would want you to say.

Two can play at that game, Woodbyrg.

“Well, of course, my dear! And you’ve been blessed with the opportunity-there is nothing wrong with that! Quite the opposite in fact!” she cried.

You saw Nathan in the corner, ever diligent. He checked his fingernails for dirt, more interested in those than some silly female chatter.

“Perhaps…we can pray today…since I’m nervous…” you suggested. Now that was entirely true.

“Yes…”

Both of you knelt to the ground. Lady Yeardley asked for a blessing for you and Samuel, as well as a note of thanks for both of you being here in the colony together. It was genuinely sweet of her. Your eyes were closed, but you smiled again.

As soon as an amen was voiced, you got up. It was the morning already. But one other matter was pressing on you too much

Saying your goodbyes just outside, you turned to Nathan and ordered “please go with me to Samuel’s house, now.”

He trotted behind as you picked up your skirt and hurried there. He was puffing to keep up with your sudden speed.

“But- Miss! Miss! Istn’t it-you shouldn’t!” he huffed out.

Knocing eagerly on the door of the short house, you spoke through.

“It’s me! It’s Y/N!”

You heard a slight gasp and a panicked shuffling of feet and closing of doors. Mercy cracked the door, her lily white face face barely sticking out.

“Why Miss Y/L/N! Why are you here? Before it’s time?” she asked chipperly.

“Can…can I speak to him?” you asked.

“Today’s the morning of the wedding! You’ve got a dress and everything to get ready!” she cried

“Mercy, please! I just wish to speak to him! A little!” you begged.

“But miss! It’s bad luck for you to see each other before the wedding! You don’t want that, do you!”

“I don’t need to see him…just speak with him…” you reasoned.

She blinked her eyes, and then turned around. You saw Christopher peak his head in the space too out of curiosity.

“Mercy…could you cover my eyes and Christopher…cover his…that way we can speak?” you asked.

They looked at each other then nodded. Mercy walked you inside and then sat you down. She placed her pale hands from her sides oer yours until all was black. You heard a few footsteps.

“Y/N…what is the matter, darling? Is everything alright?” you heard Samuel ask. Thought the slight laugh in his voice was undeniable. “I haven’t put the check in yet…so you’ll have to wait a little while.”

“Samuel, if I am to do this, I have to know something…what am I to you?”

“Why, why such doubts?”

“There has been…been talk on my character…” you blurted.

“Who has been speaking? I’ll deal with them if need be!”

“No! I was worried if your intentions were…if they’re honest…because they said that…I must have been some, some conquest to you. Am I? Please be honest!”

“Oh, Y/N, I would fight those men if I could but…sweetheart, if I saw you as a conquest, would I consider marrying you? Would I consider using my own tobacco for you if I planned on abandoning you after?”

“…no, you wouldn’t…”

“You’re no prize. Y/N. You’re my light, my friend, my joy, my beloved-you know me better than anyone and you care for me more than anyone I’ve ever met. And I know if I am at that church and I don’t see you walk up to me later today… I don’t know what I’ll even think. And now I feel scared you…you won’t.”

You felt yourself sniffle “Oh Samuel, I’m so sorry! I was just hurt by gossip-can you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive…you were hurt and unsure. And there’s been many a poor maid beguiled in the past. You didn’t want to end up becoming one.”

“I wish I could embrace you now.” You said, not caring who was there to hear it.

“We’ll have time for that after. There’s a check I need to give to the governor first…and I have to be at the church after, would you like to join me?” You could hear the smile in his voice

“More than anything else in the world…I will see you later.”

“I’ll see you later, Y/N.”

Mercy pulled your arm up and turned you around while your eyes were still closed. She walked you outside and closed the door. She trotted after you, but saw that the emotion welled up in you had let out. You let out a few tears and covered your hand with your mouth.

“Miss, there’s already a lot to do for today- and there’s something I…Why, miss? What is it? Please don’t cry!”

She took a handkerchief from her pocket, you noticed it was white with little strawberries sewn into the middle, You patted your eyes dry. Nathan stood by, quiet and watchful.

“Master Castell will not want you to see you so upset! Especially not today of all days!”

“I…I don’t think I’m upset…not anymore. I’m crying because…I’m happy. I’m happy that I can be sure he…he cares about me.”

“What have people been saying, miss?”

“I…I’ll tell you later. I just have something to ask of you…what is it you were talking about?”

She took your arm, pulling you excitedly to the front of your house. Nathan stayed outside, always keeping a safe, polite distance but his pistol ever by his side.

As you walked inside, you were surprised to see Alice there with pink flowers in her hands.

“Oh, Alice! Th-thank you!” you cheered, accepting the plants.

“I’ve picked them this morning, so they were fresh…” she added proudly.

“This is a precious gift, thank you!”

“Well, I have a gift…but it is not this one…” she teased, her cheeks grew rosier from the happiness shining from her beautiful face.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

She smiled mischievously, “I know it’s not like me to take things without asking…but you did so much for me, when we went on the ship and…and after and with everything…I had to thank you…so I asked for Mercy’s help. I’ve kept the key you gave me.”

“And right glad I did, miss-and it’s most beautiful!” Mercy cut in.

“What is?” you asked.

She stepped aside and gestured to your bed.

When you looked on it, there was your dress. It was your nicest dress. When you packed it, you knew that if, no, when you were married at the colony you would wear it.

But it was different. There were decorative little flowers sewn into the skirt. A few tears and patches were fixed and smoothed out. There was a beautiful, shining material added to the skirt and bits of gold decorations that shone in the light. It did not look like just merely a nice dress for a Sunday church service. It looked like a gown a queen in a fairy tale might wear.

Covering a slight gasp, you embraced the two of them with another hundred thanks for their work.

Mercy tied up your stays and helped you put on a few more petticoats. Alice held it gently open for you to walk in. Once it was slipped over your body and buttoned, you noticed the skirt felt wider, as if you looked like you were floating. You slipped two lace gloves, the only luxury the company gave each woman aboard, Mercy nudged your arm.

“Oh! Please! Please let me do your hair! I’m so good with hair and I’ve had practice!” she begged with wide eyes.

“Why…sure…you can, Mercy! I’m sure you do wonders!” you agreed, settling into the chair.

It had been long since England since any changes were made to your hair. Since first boarding the boat it had grown out some. Mercy was gentle as she tucked in strands, put pins in, and did her best to brush it through and present your hair in a way that was beautiful.

“And these!” she cheered, pulling a few flowers from her pockets and tucking them into the crown of your head securely.

Looking at your reflection in the window, they looked like little jewels. Alice folded her arms and admired it quietly.

“One more right here…I do hope you are not tender-headed, miss….”

She fixed it in a way that flattered your face yet felt soft, free, and romantic. Alice’s eyes went bright as you turned to face her.

“Oh…oh heavens…you look beautiful, Y/N…” Alice said.

“I don’t know if the whole world itself had such a bride!” Mercy declared, folding her arms behind her.

You were on the verge of your next hug when there was a knock on the door. Christopher walked in.

“Ladies…the check has been delivered. In a few minutes, he’ll be ready at the church.” He reminded.

“Yes, but get you gone! You have to be there too!” Alice teased, shooing him away. She waved goodbyre as she left.

“I’ll see you after, Y/N…”

Your heart began to beat hard against your ribs. The time was approaching.

“Mercy…Mercy…thank you- you made this all happen…not to mention all of that cooking!” you recalled.

“I’m only glad you could assist me!” she said.

“I couldn’t let you do all of that by yourself!”

She smiled, sniffing up a few tears herself.

Outside, you heard up a few fiddles and instruments playing in the distance. You knew they always did at weddings. And here they were, almost like an approaching army but not bringing war but bringing joy and expecting not a battle, but the approach of a bride.

“You’re most welcome…Miss…Mistress Y/N…I bet the Master might swoon at the sight of you…”

“I’m feeling dizzy myself…” you confessed.

Taking a deep breath, sudden fears clenched inside your stomach, images and bitter memories flashing in your mind. This was all too perfect. Any minute, something horrible might happen. Something would go wrong.

“Oh miss! Don’t be so troubled! Today is going to be the most heavenly day!” she cheered.

You nodded, returning the strawberry handkerchief to her.

“Yes I will…I’ll try to forget everything…I’m just…nervous. I almost feel like I’m going to die once I step inside that church…” you confided.

“Why, you won’t die! But the master might die of unhappiness if you don’t! You can clutch my hand as we walk…that way you know that today is today!”

She handed you the pink flowers from Alice.

“And I might die of unhappiness if I don’t make myself go too…” you reasoned.

Shaking it aside, trying to slow your breathing, you both walked out. You treaded through a bit of dirt, but you didn’t mind. You kept your eyes forward. There was plenty of a crowd watching. Even if they were running errands about town, they watched. Your gown contrasting with the many drabber colors of ordinary day clothes as if you were a large butterfly. Some ladies even curtsied, and men took off their hats in reverence.

Finally, you saw the church. And a few figures outside the door.

Samuel was there, so was Christopher by his side, patting his back in brotherly congratulations. You felt as if your breathing would stop at the sight of Samuel. He looked incredibly dashing, his cape just over his shoulder, and never more like a prince than today.

When you walked up to the entrance, Mercy slipped out of your arm to go back into the crowd. You took a few soft steps to be by his side.

“You look beautiful, Y/N,” he said quietly into your ear as the doors opened.

“Thank you…you as well…”

A few witnesses, Christopher and the Yeardley couple, walked in as everyone else waited outside. Reverend Whitacker stood at the altar. The church had been decorated with a few extra flowers than normal. But oblivious to any unsanctimonious joy, he stared at you both. He was a sour faced man with long gray hair and beady eyes, analyzing you both. And his solemn frown seemed a bit serious for a wedding. Had he heard the rumors in town concerning you? And believed them? You wanted to freeze. You kept walking up and reached the altar.

Whitaker began to read the first rites. Looking down, once your other hand let go of the flowers, you noticed it was shaking. This was all so happy. Too happy almost. But here you were, about to be married to the sweetest, dearest, best of men. You had braved separation from your family, a voyage on a ship, hard work, faced drudgery, heartbreak, and came close to death. It was all overwhelming, and the words and first prayers seemed numb to your ears. You found you were smiling a little, but you wanted to cry again.

You felt Samuel turn his head to see you. His eyes were a little bright and his mouth closed as if trying to keep himself from speaking or anything lest he should cry too. You felt his hand come close and take yours. You accepted it. He felt less tense, as did you.

Samuel leaned forward after a prayer to him.

“If you would mind, minister…I asked you about a passage from the book of Ruth earlier…can it please be read here for the ceremony?” he asked.

“It’s not normal to…”

“Pease, just for this ceremony, I think it would be appropriate for today…” Samuel reasoned.

“If it’s for this ceremony, I will…” He nodded soberly, turning his head down to the bible and flipping the pages.

You turned to face Samuel. As the priest read, you could see him lightly mouthing the words to you. As if he was genuinely saying them to you.

“Entreat me not to leave thee or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people will be my people, and thy God my God.”

A stray tear escaped you. But your smile widened.

Finally, you made vows to love and honor each other. Your voice became stronger with each promise “from this day, until death do us part.”

After a bit of communion with wine and bread, a final prayer was said. You began to breathe in a little deeper. You felt his hands were shaking as well. Both of you let out a deep breath as if you both were holding it in throughout.

“I now pronounce you, man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Samuel leaned forward and kissed you so quickly and deeply you almost got dizzy. Your hands reached up and froze, and then wrapped around, deepening it.

It’s…it’s done! It’s happened! I never knew it would happen. This day I never thought would ever come.

Once you walked out, almost in a trance, the crowds of people were outside. You wondered if they would jeer or throw mud at you for a second.

They applauded. Women in pretty dresses and their hair done in braided buns tossed flower petals from their baskets. Samuel took your hand and raised it up and men cheered for him. Alice even walked up and gave you a large hug.

“Congratulations, Mistress Castell,” she said.

More people, strangers even gave their good wishes. Nearby there was a small band of musicians playing fiddles, drums, flutes, fifes, and you gazed at them, smiling at the joy of the music and all that it brought you.

You felt Samuel gently put a hand on your shoulder as you listened, and then turned around and kissed you again, and you felt yourself smile into it.

“I never knew I could be this happy…” you confessed.

“Neither I…but I love you, my sweeting,” he said cupping your face.

You leaned into it, kissing part of the palm of his hand and grinning. A few flower petals went over you in a flurry and some got into his brown hair.

“You didn’t tell me you would wear flowers today!” you joked, following the wedding party as everyone began to walk.

“I guess I wished to match you!” he replied, he gently took a hand to touch the little flowers in your hair that was Mercy’s touch. In turn, you brushed a few petals off his shoulder and placed them on the top of his head teasingly.

Everyone went over to the tavern. Tables set aside; everyone went quiet once each person received a glass of ale. Governor Yeardley himself handed you and your new husband two each.

“Everyone!” he barked. The party stilled.

He beamed at you two. Glasses with ale were passed around to as many as who could get one.

“Castell is a good man, a man without whom our colony would be lost and dysfunctional. Every day, every event we see him scribbling away in the corner, making sure our history is secure. Y/N is an honest, God-fearing woman. Together are the ideal, perfect couple for our colony.”

“To the health of the Castells and of Virginia!” he declared, drinking deep. The rest of you followed suit.

Mercy and a few of the women began to scramble in and out of the room carrying plates of food. Music picked up as everyone began to feast on the bounty saved for today. You enjoyed eating with Samuel publicly without a sense of shame.

“That verse was beautiful, thank you…Whitaker isn’t always a friendly man…” you said.

He nodded and beamed, “I’ve talked with him a bit before…and I thought with the conversation we had earlier…it felt right to have it in. It’s from the Bible after all.”

People walked up to congratulate the two of you constantly. If you happened to be chewing on bread as someone babbled away, Samuel put a protective hand over you and thanked them for your sake so you could eat your food. Christopher was arriving as Samuel got up from his seat and embraced him happily, the two of them talking deeply with large smiles.

The same musicians began to play some tender ballads. You both enjoyed biting into your wedding cakes, the ones Mercy handed out, made with honey into it and frosted with powdered sugar. Samuel brought your hand to his lips and kissed it.

“I’d like to speak with Farlow and the governor, I’ll be back…”

“I’d like to speak to the Sharrows, I’ll be back as well…” you said, both of you getting up from your chairs.

Once you had wandered, talking with the Sharrows, and a few more people here and there, you found yourself backing into a corner. It seemed as if almost all of the bloody colony had arrived and the air was stuffy with the crowd. It was fading to be the hours of dancing and people began to step away to form a dance floor in a messy oval in the wooden room. Silently, you felt yourself walk backwards. You felt the cool air of evening by your cheek as you got close to the door.

“Congratulations on your marriage…” a voice as low and smooth as honey spoke to you.

“Why th…”

Head turning, your heart stopped at the sight of her.

“Yes. Thank you.” You said to Jocelyn.

Your feet were stuck in place, and a word kept repeating in your head, ‘no no no no, no, no….’ As hard as you tried to plaster a smile on your face, your food began to swirl in your stomach.

“May I ask, what is Samuel doing tomorrow?” she questioned matter-of-factly. “Who is he speaking with?”

Her eyes looked down at your dress in surprise at the work and quality. For once, it was clear from your clothes that you were no longer below her station.

“He’s going to just do his normal work of recording Assembly business. And that’s it. Why should that matter to you?” you said.

“It should. If you do not know what is happening in here, then you’re truly a dull woman. You’ve been married for an hour, you should know these things.”

You shrugged.

“I don’t care to know them.”

“That’s your folly. Give him a smile and be sweet, that’s all you have to do to get a man’s attention…it seemed that and spreading your legs to him worked in your favor, after all. Now you can use it to be useful.” She added with a glance in his direction.

“I have not spread my legs once to him!” you blurted quietly, glancing to make sure no one overheard. You had had enough.

“That’s what everyone thinks now. You’ll have to-might as well be practical with it. But perhaps…you aren’t that good in bed. Well, when a wife can’t satisfy her husband…you know what they say happens, it’s the nature of men…” she said with a wicked smile.

A hundred curses were caught in your throat.

“If that’s all you have to say then I do not need my time wasted, there’s guests I’d like to talk to before the day is over,” You replied a little icily.

There was only so much you could do or say with people surrounding you.

“If you are going to blindly let Farlow, Redwick, and Yeardley destroy everything, your time is being wasted,” Jocelyn said.

She adjusted the hat on top of her head from tipping too far off.

“They aren’t much! And this isn’t a day for politics…it’s a day for feasting and my food is getting cold,” you dismissed, starting to walk away.

She swerved in front of you.

“It’s also about to be a wedding night and if you don’t please him tonight with your pathetic body...”

“Thank you for your kind sentiments,” you interrupted sarcastically. “Now I must leave, farewell.”

As you turned away, deciding it was best to be aggressive, you felt her grip your arm, pulling you in close with an immense strength that you were surprised Jocelyn had in her slender arms. Your stomach dropped and you bit back the urge to yell. Perhaps she was provoking you on purpose. Especially in public on your wedding day.

“I haven’t forgotten. This will not make you any safer. Samuel gave the company the money so you could be his slut. Now no one cares what happens. you’re a dead bitch walking,” she hissed lowly so that only you could hear.

Fear gripped you. Your face dipped down, feeling warm. You could have sworn a head or two turned your way out of the peripheral of your eye.

You released a false laugh, your courage growing, and walked away from her.

“Miss Woodbyrg, what a funny joke!”

She looked stiff as a bust. Her soft, plump lips were growing tight.

“I mean it,” she voiced.

Biting away a frown, you heard the fiddles pick up a quick tune.

“You must excuse me,” you said in an official voice as you could muster. “I’d like to have a dance with my husband.”

Fleeing as far from her as you could, you joined your husbands side on the other half of the room.

Seeing your face, his own turned dark.

“Darling, what is it?” he asked, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You shook your head, feeling one flower fall off a strand of your hair.

“It’s…it’s just I’m…I’m worried…” you confessed,

“Can you discuss this now?”

“Not with everyone around us…”

“It will be alright but…would you like to dance-would it make you feel better?”

He gave you his open hand. You placed your own hand, blanketed by your lace gloves, in it.

“Y-yes,” you agreed.

You got into lines and danced with the others finding him surprisingly talented. They were simple country dances that everyone knew so as many people could attend the wedding as possible. But you smiled with the movements, the switching of arms and touching of hands as you walked with him in a circle, skirts and the odd cloak floating like a bird’s wing. How couples could line up and run to the ends then run through the lines of people and still be together. Even if there was a mistake or a stepped toe, people smile and chuckled it off. Any worries were replaced with your muscles getting sore from the quick movement.

As the song ended, instead of a last gentlemanly bow as was tradition, you felt Samuel walk to you and place his arms around your body. In an instant, he lifted you up and you started laughing, placing your arms around his shoulders for security as he twirled you around, your skirt billowing. The others smiled at the sight.

“Today, I am the happiest of all men!” he chirruped to them, giving you a sloppy kiss on your cheek as you returned his embrace. It was comforting, enveloping even.

Though you felt yourself sight a little once he let go.

There were so many dances, you weren’t aware your feet were hurting. Or that the sun long past dipped over the horizon.

Mercy picked up her apron and ran to you. In one hand she held a large cup of ale.

“Oh, Miss…. Mistress! No- Mistress Y/L/N! No, not that! Mistress Castell!” she corrected herself.

"It's alright Mercy, I'm new to it myself!" She blinked away tears, rubbing it off with her eyes. Her chest huffed with crying.

"I'm so happy today! So happy! I'm so happy for both of you! How he smiled! I thought he would burst when we walked up to him! I remember how you comforted me-I was the first person you even spoke to here. But now…now you're my mistress after you've been my friend, and my last mistress…she…she’s so… and….and oh! I feel so much!" she cried, letting out pent up tears.

"Have peace Mercy! It's normal to cry! Everything's changing, but for the better this time! Just dance and enjoy yourself!" you cheered.

Returning the strawberry handkerchief, it was your turn to wipe off her sniffling face.

"I have to clean up all the…"

"No, you don't! Just enjoy the party!" you insisted.

"But its ending! See! Everyone's walking out and…you have to…to go home and I have to pick up the mess!" she refused.

Part of you jumped, already with a faint jittery shiver running down you.

"Let's just…finish your drink, let's enjoy today while it lasts and not worry," you suggested.

She drank half of the ale in a large gulp.

"But…you might need some water, too," you added.

People filtered out with bright eyes from dancing and farewells on their lips.

Samuel walked up to you and linked his arm around yours. Suddenly aware of how close he felt, your breathing quickened. You felt flushed from all the people, excitement, and dancing.

He wished any slightly drunk guest's good night as you finally walked outside into the night. It felt crisp compared to the cramped dancing quarters and you shivered a little. Clutching his arm, you felt yourself become weak at the sight of what was now your door.

"Welcome home, Mistress Castell," he said as he opened it. "Can I carry you in? It's bad luck if you trip when you walk inside."

"Yes, you may."

He scooped you into his arms and carried you past the main room. Looking around, you saw more flowers were on the tables, chest, and desk than what was normal, into your shared room. You could have almost collapsed from the nerves and excitement.

The bed had been decorated with a few spare ribbons tied into bows. Just like people did for weddings back home. You even noticed that there were pink primroses on the chest next to the bed.

As he let you down, both of you stood near each other. His face looked as flushed as your and he placed his hands together in what seemed to be…timidity it looked.

"Have you…have you eaten well? People kept talking to us, I hope you aren't hungry from all of that," he asked.

"I'm stuffed, I can't take another bite…it was all good, though," you said, attempting to break the awkwardness.

"Have you had some water?"

"Yes."

"I have…I have a little bit of wine I've been saving. I thought we could open it to…to celebrate…" he offered.

"Yes, I would like that," you replied.

He hurried out, returning with the bottle and two green glasses. You sat on the edge of the bed and watched as he poured you both a glass. Sitting by your side, you clinked your glasses together in a toast, having your first sip.

"Your house looks wonderful with the flowers" you complimented.

"I did it for you. Well, Mercy did too. We both picked them. She laughed at me picking them."

"You've picked plenty of flowers before..." you gestured to the primroses.

"I thought you would like that touch. Even then I wanted somehow to show you how much I adore you…"

Leaning forward, though wine was still on your breath, you took his hand and kissed it, leaving a small mark on it.

"I hope every day I can show how much I adore you as well…" you said.

He gave you another kiss, trailing over from your mouth to the crook of your neck. You gasped at the feeling. Your hands naturally went to hold onto his arms, but you felt his hands wander to the buttons on the back of your dress, teasing away at them much to your mixed nerves and thrill. But then as he pressed another kiss on a certain spot on your neck you had to let out a laugh.

"Mmph, what is it, Y/N?" he asked quietly.

You replied, "your beard tickles!"

Both of you laughed a little from the released tension.

"It's been itching me since morning," he confessed.

"I can't take it off, but I can help you with your cloak, can I?" you offered.

Sitting so you could reach it, you unhooked it and set it away.

He undid a few buttons of his doublet then paused.

"And let me help you…first with your hair…" he said.

Nodding, you sat and felt his hands touch it, letting strands free. He took away the flowers, pins, the turns, and tucks. You realized he never saw you with your hair down…and felt the last part fall free. You looked at him, with your hair freely released and everything set aside. His eyes were sweet. He gently took a strand.

"You'll have to get used to it being down all the time, now…" you commented.

"I won't mind at all…would you like to change out of your clothes?" he asked.

"Yes, I think it's time I did."

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you." You had more to remove than he did.

His hand went to the back of your dress and you felt him unbutton it. Slowly, as if he was touching a piece of glass, he removed the dress, then helped you out of your petticoats, and slowly undid your stays, figuring out how to loosen them. The cups of wine were left on the chest, almost entirely drunk. You felt yourself feel warmer with each bit of skin that was slowly being revealed to him. Finally, you felt it loose enough to be taken over your head.

He looked down as you stood before him in your shift, and only your shift. His eyes softened.

"I…I know what you expect of me tonight…" you confessed, jumping right to it.

"I…I…uh, yes. I…I don't expect…expect anything…" he said, his ears going pink.

"Have you…do you have any diseases? You can be honest with me," you pleaded.

"No, I don't," he answered, shaking his head.

He began to undo the buttons of his doublet and removed it, in his white shirt.

"Have you been with anyone?" you asked, placing your hands in your lap.

He froze. His blush increased to his whole face.

"Twice. You will be ashamed of me…"

"You can tell me. Was it anyone here?" you asked.

"No. I was of age and wanted to prove to my brothers that I was a real man. I decided to try a prostitute in Oxford…I got too attached. I saved up to see her second time. I wrote her a few love letters and tried to visit her, and she laughed me away after…I was young and foolish," he recalled.

"You just didn't know…" you commented thoughtfully.

He removed his shoes, stockings, and pants. Now he was also in his shift as you were.

"And you? I know they all boast of the purity of the maids to make wives…but we're alone now, Y/N. You can tell me. Have you been with anyone?" Samuel asked in turn.

You looked him in the eyes, your beloved, and told him honestly about what experience or lack of experience you have had. He was nonjudgmental and nodded in understanding. Jocelyn's words from earlier flashed in your mind.

"I just don't want to…to... to displease you," you said, looking down at your feet.

"You're my wife now, I made vows before God to protect and cherish you. I don't care about being pleased. I just want to tell you that you'll always be safe with me. And you shouldn't be forced to anything. We don't have to do anything tonight." He assured you.

He felt a slight rush of excitement as he went up to kiss you again, feeling butterflies in your body as he did. But you felt an aching further below. You pressed your lips further, tasting the wine. You began to lay down on the bed, feeling it shift with your new weight on it.

He turned his head up and asked "would you…would you like to make love tonight? If you don't want to, I…"

"Yes!" you cried.

"Yes?…are you…"

"It's our wedding night! And…I want you too much…" you replied bluntly, looking in his eyes. Perhaps it wasn't ladylike to admit it. He didn't seem to care. And it was the truth.

You took his hands and led them to your sides. He laid you down softly on top of you, but not his whole weight. You could even feel how badly he wanted you from under his shift.

"Well, if my wife insists, I'll obey…" he smirked.

Letting out another little laugh, you began to kiss him. Your hands began to touch him boldly, you felt his body from the shift-his back, his biceps, his waist, and you felt one of his hands get to your hair. You pressed each other's forehead against each other breathing in deep with the cold rush of each other's breath. Courage made you push him a little bit away. You placed your hands over the tie on the front of your shift that held it together, the last thing hiding your "pathetic" body. You unhooked the front of your shift. His pupils went large once you removed it over your shoulders and let it fall away.

He smiled at you, "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, Y/N…God, you make my head spin."

As you laid back on the bed with a grin, your heart beating against your ribs so hard that you could hear it through your eardrums, you looked up at him you laid down and he placed one hand on the collar of his shift and joined you.

"Tell me you love me," you voiced nervously.

He took it off and laid on you, cupping your face again.

"I love you…that's everything I can think of right now. I'd say some pretty verses I'd say to you now but…at the sight of you naked I forgot it entirely…"

"I appreciate the thought, my darling," you commented with a smile.

It was a night that was tender. Every physical urge you both suppressed around each other was released in a wave inside of you. Pleasure flooded every inch of you. You forgot the men at the tavern. You forgot the tears from earlier. You even forgot the woman you wanted to forget about most of all. You only knew his name. You cried out his name as a prayer many times that night. And he prayed yours.

Now completely, husband and wife, you both fell asleep in a tangle of each other's arms.

Taglist: @bluesfortheredj (sempai) @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @theworksgaga @itscale @theoneandonlyeclecticepileptic @queenlover05 @rubystarflight @themficsilike @namelesslosers @itsametaphorgwil @grigorlee@isitstraightvodka @rhapsodyrecs @cxllianmurphy @princealfie

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theravenshade · 4 years

Text

April 18, 2020

We stan one (1) fox man!

I really let this one get away from me, but I sincerely hope you all enjoy! Here's a kistune soulmate story!

@towa-no-yume @templeofthesilverkitsune

Rome padded through the village, early sunlight bathed the houses, plants, and homes in a warm light. She loved this time of day for it's silence whenever she would take a walk. This morning, however, wasn't quiet. She was making her way through town so she could go ahead and deliver a sewing commission that had taken her some time to finish. The family that commissioned the piece lived just about as far from her own home as one could get, so she was beginning the journey early so as not to have to walk home in the dark. The dark was dangerous.

Normally, Rome would be a little miffed at having to walk so far to deliver her work, but this family was wealthy and always paid well. They were frequent customers, and she would always use the money they paid her with so she could continue living independently, if she missed even one payment, she'd be screwed. A unique factor in delivering to them was their neighbor, a powerful man by the name of Akimasa Fujiwara.

Akimasa had taken a special interest in Rome, one that she originally wasn't sure how she felt about. Maybe she could like him if she gave it some more time, and it seemed innocent enough, right? Flirting, walking her home, or offering to pay for her meals whenever he found her eating in town. It seemed perfect, she wouldn't have to struggle on her own anymore. So why couldn't she pursue him?

She didn't love him. That's why. Something felt off about him that kept her from allowing herself to just dive into whatever life Akimasa had to offer.

When he realized that she wasn't going to surrender herself to him, things took their turn. Whenever she was out, so was he. He would always somehow find her in town. He showed up at her house unexpected.

Uninvited.

Thats when she made up her mind on him. Rome became pretty good at avoiding Akimasa in the hopes that he would just lay off one day and stop bothering with a woman who wanted nothing to do with him, but he didn't.

She looked up, the sun had risen almost to its peak and her feet had taken her all the way to the family she was delivering to. Akimasa hadn't tailed her yet, maybe he was out on business. The transaction was over fairly quickly and Rome was back in the heart of town soon enough with a red bag of coins that softly jingled in the sleeve of her kimono.

Her stomach grumbled and she bit her lip. Looking at the fabric stalls would have to wait for now, she hadn't eaten anything for breakfast and the consequences were appearing.

She hurried to a crowded teahouse and sat down. She quickly placed an order and tried to make herself as unobtrusive as possible so as not to attract any unwanted attention. A plate of dumplings was set in front of her before the server was swept away in the bustle. Rome smiled and began to pick one up when she felt the weight of someone's gaze, she looked up to do a quick sweep of the room when an arm slung around her shoulder.

"My dear Rome!" A voice boomed. She cringed away, holding back a sigh. "Come with me." Akimasa grinned at her, grabbed her hand, and less than gently brought her to her feet. "But I need to pay, and I haven't eaten yet.." Rome started to protest. "The owner owes me a favor." Akimasa turned her towards him with a soft smile. "No no..." Rome began. "I insist on paying this time, you always pay for me, please?" She found herself begging softly. Akimasa nodded, smile ever present. Her gave her hand a light squeeze and rubbed her wrist. "Of course, I'll be waiting right outside of the exit for you. I have special plans laid out for us today." She found herself agreeing just to get him away from her, she would come up with an excuse to cancel in the meantime.

The server returned soon after. "I hope you enjoyed your meal, how will you be paying today, miss?" He rushed out, clearly stressed by the amount of customers. "I have it right- here?" Rome reached for the money that she had just gotten from the commission and found herself grasping at air. "My money is gone!" She gasped. "It must've fallen out of my sleeve, oh, please let me go home to get the money-" Rome started pleading, genuinely upset. She had a bad habit of not tying up her belongings properly, it was bound to happen some time. "No!" The server snapped, quickly shedding his thin facade of pleasantness. Customers nearby began to notice the interaction. One black-haired woman began to shield her child's eyes, a golden-eyed man raised an eyebrow. "We have no tolerance for thieving women! You're not going anywhere!" He aggressively started towards her, rearing one hand back, when someone jumped in between them, blocking the blow. It was Akimasa!

Akimasa shoved the angry man away, getting in front of Rome in a protective stance. "Are you alright, Rome?" He turned around, genuinely seeming concerned. "That woman is a thief!" The enraged server pointed at Rome who was clutching tightly to Akimasa. "You heard her, her money was gone." Akimasa glared at the man. "I'll pay her bill." He stepped forward, slamming more than enough money on the table. "We'll be leaving now." Akimasa took hold of Rome's hand and she let herself go with him, anything was better than staying.

"Are you okay?" Akimasa asked again, softening his voice as he began leading her away from the teahouse. "I- I am." Rome nodded. "I can't believe I lost my money! I feel like such a fool. I needed that money!" She began to panic, without that commission money, she wouldn't be able to afford living by herself anymore. She was so in her head that she hadn't noticed that they stopped.

"Rome." Akimasa turned her to face him, using a finger to tip her chin up to look him in the eyes. "I brought you here because I need you to know something. I'm in love with you." She froze. In love? "Please, marry me."

The sight began to attract a few onlookers, but Rome payed them no mind.

She immediately began thinking up excuses. There was no way she could do this! "I have nothing to offer, without that money I will be out on the streets. You don't want someone like me." Rome shook her head furiously. "I could provide everything for you, and do it happily!" Akimasa got to a knee, urging her softly. Her resolve began to weaken. All she would have to do was marry him. That's what people did in this time. They married not for love, but for financial and social security.

The fear of dying a beggar outweighed what felt like common sense, alarms sounded loudly in her head, and she said yes. Akimasa got to his feet with a triumphant grin as a stranger walked by, accidentally bumping him by the hip as he tried to get past. Akimasa ignored him, choosing to crush her to his chest in a hug instead.

She heard a slight tinkle, so quiet it shouldn't have been possible to hear, but she did.

Her eyes drew a slow path down to where he had a pocket by his hip, red fabric hung out ever so slightly.

Very familiar red fabric.

The consequence of what she had done rushed down her body as if someone had poured cold water over her head, focusing on her heart. Akimasa had her money.

"You see, I just knew you would say yes, that's why I had already drawn up our marriage contract. You've been my wife since this morning, and you didn't even know it!" Akimasa announced boastfully. Rome knew at once that she was in a very dangerous situation, and whatever she said or did would have drastic consequences. She had to be smart.

"That's so smart!" Rome forced a beaming smile upon her face. "I was just ready to ask about moving in with you as soon as possible- but I don't have to wait past tonight." Akimasa was quite pleased he had managed to tame this woman after so long. "I love the way you think, Lady Fujiwara!" He clasped her shoulders. "Please, let me gather some of my essential items so I can meet you quickly at your home." Rome blinked hopefully at him, sick to her core that her family name had changed and she hadn't the slightest clue or given consent in any form. "Of course, this gives me time to put finishing touches in place. You have one hour." Akimasa smiled and sent her on her way.

It took every bit of strength in her body to not immediately bolt, she knew he was watching. Rome maintained a calm pace as she walked in the direction of her home, tears silently sliding down her cheeks. As soon as she was out of sight- she bolted. Not home. She could never go home. She ran for the forest.

Rome eventually slowed to a stop, sitting against a sturdy tree. She bit her lip and furrowed her brow, something felt off. She felt something in her chest. Was someone watching her? Had Akimasa managed to follow her without getting noticed? Rome clutched her kimono in her hands, ready to run as far as she needed to get away, but a low chuckle halted her movements.

She looked up, golden eyes gleamed in the low light, amusement filtering through them. Whoever this was, it wasn't Akimasa, he had brown eyes. Meekly, Rome began to speak. "Hello?"

"So the little mouse can squeak after all."

She could hear the grin in the deep voice that responded to her. "Who are you?" Rome frowned, tilting her head. "Are you from the village? I don't recognize you." She stayed still, body stiff. The stranger seemed to ponder his responses deeply before choosing to speak. "My name is Mitsuhide."

The man- Mitsuhide- walked forward. He was tall, with hair the color of pure snow. His eyes resembled the purest gold. Secrets swirled just under their surface, Rome could tell. He wore a primarily white kimono, the family crest was one that was unfamiliar. But ultimately, he was attractive. Very much so.

"Now, little mouse, what are you doing all the way in these woods? Haven't you heard that they're dangerous?" Mitsuhide raised a snowy eyebrow. "Trickster spirits are said to inhabit these lands, preying on beautiful young women as yourself." He grinned wryly, that smile stirred something within Rome. Anger, indignation?

Attraction.

Rome shook her head as if to fling the thought from her mind. No, she was upset, definitely upset. He was treating her like she was a child! "I haven't met any problem so far, I'd rather take my chances here than the village at the moment." She grumbled. "Oh? Is there trouble?" Mitsuhide questioned, stepping closer. The sly smile never left his face. "I don't understand why this information is necessary to you." Rome huffed. She didn't need to tell him anything!

"But it is necessary." Mitsuhide nodded. "Oh very necessary indeed. For I have just made my way out of your village on a check-up, and if something were to be wrong, I would need to know." He crouched down to her level and held out a large hand in offering. Rome stared at it and begrudgingly took hold. Shocks as strong as lightning pricked her hands and raced up her arms and down her body, but she could not let go. They seemed to hold the both of them together. The sensation dulled as he helped pull her to her feet with little effort, and her thoughts quickly drifted away.

How strong is he?

"I can never go back." Rome stated quietly. Mitsuhide halted for a fraction of a second, too short for Rome to notice. "I see. Would you care for an escort away?"

That was how Rome met Mitsuhide. He was from Azuchi, the left hand of Nobunaga Oda. The warlords of Azuchi castle had taken to Rome very quickly and Nobunaga was so amused by this new fireball that she was taken on as a new princess of the Oda. Rome protested, and while Nobunaga still kept her a princess, he allowed her to take up the role of chatelaine to soothe her adamancy at doing a real job.

Life had never been better, though she loved all of the Oda allies, one had always stuck out. Mitsuhide Akechi, the one who had brought her from her old life and into a new one. She began to truly get an understanding of who he was as a person, but she would never get over the teasing that left her red everyday. Yet, she found that she wouldn't change it for the world. They became fast friends, and she developed feelings just as quick. Sadly, Mitsuhide seemed to keep any feelings of his own hidden. She never saw any form of attraction on his end and tried desperately to keep her own concealed. Rome didn't want to appear the foolish, naive girl he would occasionally point out in his teasing.

She sat on the veranda, a needle and thread on her hands as she stared at the commission before her. She was awfully distracted, the image of a certain mischievous man danced in her mind.

The moon chased the sun across the sky until it was out of sight and the stars revealed themselves, twinkling down upon the woman with the needle. Rome had met Mitsuhide earlier in town as she bought the fabric she was currently working with. They had stopped at a teahouse she would frequent and just enjoyed each others company. He claimed she had a crumb on her cheek and brushed it away with his thumb with the grin now familiar to her, and watched as her face bloomed red like a rose, pleasant sparks traveling outwards from his contact. What wouldn't come to her mind until much later was that they had not even begun eating yet.

The sparks, oh the sparks.

Rome couldn't explain the sparks, he never mentioned them so she supposed it was just herself that felt them. They were no ordinary butterfly-in-stomach nervous jitters, they were actual sparks that she felt across the skin where they touched. It felt like when she sat on her leg too long and then tried to walk as her leg woke up. These sparks were unnatural, and she figured mentioning them might garner more than a few strange looks.

Rome looked back down at her latest work, gasping in disbelief. She was so distracted that she sewed the sleeve inside out! She let out a groan of frustration, a certain white-haired man wouldn't get out of her head, and she knew he wouldn't leave any time soon.

She sighed, leaving the kimono on the floor, and stood up with a stretch. She would take a walk through the garden to clear her head before she came back and went to sleep. Something in the woods beyond caught her eye, a flash of color through the trees. She couldn't make it out too well in the darkness, but curiosity got the best of her. She walked into the forest.

A tugging in her chest caused her to stop and look up. Rome's walk took her farther than she had planned, and she found herself in the woods. She grasped her heart, it was as if an invisible tether urged her to go back home. Before Rome could turn around, a loud snap from directly in front of her stopped her in her tracks. She looked up, eyes wide and mouth agape in horror, she cried out in distress as her eyes met brown ones.

----

Mitsuhide frowned, bringing a hand to his chest as he felt their soul-tether stress.

She must be far. Why?

Mitsuhide questioned himself as he stood up, ready to retrieve a certain mouse who had strayed too far from her den when their invisible tie lit up an alarming scarlet.

She is in danger.

Mitsuhide wasted no time in bolting from his room, following the string that led to his soulmate.

He had only just met her by accident when drinking at a teahouse in one of the neighboring villages. Mitsuhide took note of the man she was with and watched them very carefully. Watched the man obsess over her. Watched the man steal her money to look like a hero. Watched the man steal her life in the ways of the human world. All Mitsuhide did was make the man's actions a little clearer to protect his little mouse. Now that he had her, he would never let her go.

I've been too slow to introduce her to the world she really lives in.

Mitsuhide cursed himself, she was going to have to find out in a very difficult fashion.

----

"You whore!" Akimasa spit out, pointing his finger at her from where he stood. "I search high and low, I come to Azuchi and I find you!" He hissed. "All I wanted was to bring you home to my side where you belong! And you shack up with that random man like the prostitute you are!" Rome started backing up. Her eyes were wide and full of tears. "You're coming back with me, I don't care if that other man thinks he loves you, I'm the only man who gets to love you!" Akimasa was yelling, red in the face.

He must've watched us in town. Rome deducted. But why does he assume Mitsuhide loves me? Perhaps he saw my own love for him.

"You do not get to just stand there quietly and cry, I'll give you something to cry about!" Akimasa unsheathed the shortsword he always kept on his waist and reared it back. Rome threw her hands over her head and squeezed her eyes shut.

The tugging in her chest went away.

The blow never came.

She opened her eyes and choked on a gasp, there stood... Mitsuhide? It looked like him but...

"Kitsune!" Akimasa cried out. Rome saw that his sword had been bent out of proportion and tossed aside. Mitsuhide stood in front of her, turning around. The large, white ears on his head swiveled and his large tail twitched. "Are you alright, Rome?" It was a twisted parallel to what Akimasa had done at the teahouse that felt like ages ago. Only this time, she smiled.

Mitsuhide walked forward, cradling her in his arms. She had never felt so safe or protected. These circumstances were so strange, but everything just felt right. "I'll answer your questions later my darling, but right now, I need you to close your eyes and keep them closed no matter what you hear, can you do this?"

Rome nodded, looking into his golden gaze, beyond his shoulder she swore she saw another figure stride towards Akimasa, but she closed her eyes and leaned against Mitsuhide's warm chest, pressing one ear to it. The sound of his steady heartbeat did well to soothe her own. Sparks filled her body with a pleasant feeling as Mitsuhide hummed. He stroked her hair with one hand and placed his free hand over her ear to drown out the screams of pain that his illusion was drawing out of the man who had threatened the soulmate of a kitsune.

#ikesen mitsuhide #iksen #ikemen series #ikemen sengoku #ikemen sengoku mitsuhide #soulmates #kitsune #theravenshade #templeofkitsune2020

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ask-de-writer · 4 years

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THE LOTTERY, (1part) : A Fantasy of Dirkhan in the Desert

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THE LOTTERY

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

Cover by The Whisper Sisters, now @wind-the-mama-cat

1264 words

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions, provided that such things are done without charge. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of fan activity including but not limited to art, stories, musical compositions, plays or anything else is ACTIVELY ENCOURAGED.

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The finest public house in Derkhan-in-the-Desert is Ahkin’s. An old battered lyre hangs on the wall. If the company is happy and the mood is on him, Ahkin himself, wealthy Ahkin, will take the lyre and treat the crowd to his ethereal or rowdy tunes. He plays both with skill.

He is often asked why he does not get a better lyre. His answer is always the same. “It is a poor man who abandons the friends who helped him when he was down on his luck.” He always pours a cup to Luck at such a time, and every day before opening, too.

Ahkin was not always rich….

The day was cooling down as the sun set on Derkhan-in-the-Desert. The sweet notes of a lyre rose into the evening from the marketplace. Ahkin’s fingers danced over the strings. The lyre and its player were both shabby. The bowl in front of Ahkin’s feet held a number of copper flukets and one lonely silver djabala in it.

The merchant Kabhir strolled by the gaily colored booths and carpet spaces, his face sour. Not even the sweet music lyre could lighten his mood. In Kabhir’s estimation the day’s trade had gone poorly. Though he made a profit it was, like always, never as large as he hoped for. He turned his sourness on the the innocent beggar. Hands on hips, he demanded of the beggar, “When are you going to do honest work for a living, Ahkin?”

“Master Kabhir, I do no evil thing. I play the lyre. Those who are pleased give me such coin as they can spare. Wherefore the harm?”

“You are indolent. I should call the watch to run you off. This is a marketplace for trade, not a haven for beggars,” said Kabhir with some heat.

“I beg to differ,” retorted Ahkin with a chuckle at his own witticism. “My license allows me to beg in any public place, if I create no nuisance. Ask the merchants about me, if I create a nuisance. None complain.”

Defeated, Kabhir turned and strode off, ‘accidentally’ over-setting Ahkin’s begging bowl. The coins scattered into the dust. Muttering under his breath, Ahkin gathered up his day’s take from the dirt. “Another day brightened by Kabhir’s sunshine. Ah, there is enough for dinner, lodging, and a lottery ticket!”

He gathered up his lyre and the bowl. Down Imperial Way he went, and turned left at Red Lantern. A few buildings beyond, there was a queue. Ahkin joined it. There, only a few places up the line stood Kabhir. The line moved quickly, each paying his or her five flukets and receiving a ticket with numbers inscribed thereon. Kabhir got his ticket with a bare grunt. Ahkin got his with eager anticipation.

“A winning number, if you please, Hakit. My thanks. Look you at all those threes! A winner for sure!”

“I hope that you do win, Ahkin. None has more spirit each week than you. Luck go with you.”

A passing lady cocked her head at that parting comment and, curious, followed Ahkin.

For the next three days, until the drawing, Ahkin played as usual in the marketplace. The ticket he kept close in his pouch, lest he lose it. Ahkin played the lyre and counted his flukets with his usual care. He gave a happy word or a pleasant jest to any who spoke to him, as had been his custom for over ten years. The lady often passed near, never speaking but always taking the time to watch him. She smiled and nodded to herself.

The day of the drawing dawned. Even a beggar must attend to business, failure to get up early and stake out a good location was a sure way to have a poor day’s take. Ahkin found a spot near a bright blue and yellow awning. He set out his bit of threadbare carpet to sit on, placed his bowl handy and began to play. The end of the day would be soon enough to check the lottery.

His playing was especially scintillant that day. He needed to empty his bowl twice, lest it appear too full and draw unwelcome attention. Several times Ahkin saw the same unfamiliar lady in the crowds that he drew. Sometimes she would whisper in the ear of a person, and that person would change his mind and give a djabala of silver instead of a fluket of copper. Whoever she was, Ahkin was glad to see her.

That evening, Kabhir came past, sour as usual. He paused to listen to Ahkin. Turning a tone-deaf ear to the music, he heard only racket. The lady approached him. Spying her, Kabhir waved her away, arrogantly snapping, “Peddle yourself elsewhere, whore!” She retreated silently, nodding.

Insolently, Kabhir spurned Ahkin’s bowl with his foot, scattering Akhin’s coins. He snorted, “That for your infernal noise,” and strode away. The lady followed him, beckoning Ahkin to do likewise.

Ahkin hastily gathered up his spilled coins and set out in pursuit of the lady who followed Kabhir. A strange sight greeted his eyes when he caught up to them.

They stood in front of the lottery shop. Kabhir was looking intently at the winning number poster. This was odd because the lady held her hands in front of his eyes and he did not seem to notice. It was as if he could not see her at all. Kabhir snarled, “Luck! Bad, as usual. I should have saved my flukets.”

He heard Ahkin’s approach and whirled about. The Lady whispered in his ear. Kabhir spoke sharply, “I suppose that you want something from me for spurning your bowl. Here! The only alms that you will ever receive from me!” He hurled a crumpled paper at Ahkin’s feet and stomped angrily away.

Ahkin nearly stepped past it but the lady, without a word, smiled and pointed to the crumpled paper. Akhin scooped up the wadded bit and went to look at the numbers posted on lottery shop’s sign. “Odd, I can’t tell Hakit’s numbers apart today. His writing is usually better than this. I’d better go in and ask.” As he muttered it, the lady nodded.

Stepping into the friendly gloom of the shop, Ahkin said, “Hakit, your writing is terrible today. I can’t read your sign. What are those numbers?”

He handed Hakit the ticket that he had got with his hard-won flukets. Hakit took the ticket and looked at it. “These are mostly threes. I am sorry, Ahkin, but this is a loser.”

Dejected, Ahkin was about to leave the shop, when he caught sight of the lady and remembered Kabhir’s discarded ticket. “What of this?” he asked, proffering the wadded paper.

Hakit smoothed the paper out and squinted at it. His eyebrows tried to crawl up across his pate, as his eyes went wide. “Ahkin, you did it! You’ve won! It’s the biggest jackpot we’ve ever given out! It’s over a thousand golden djals! Congratulations!” He threw his pudgy arms about the beggar.

Then he offered, “Ahkin, I don’t normally advise folk on what to do with their winnings. Do you want my advice?”

Turning to Hakit, he said, “My friend, advise me, please. I have never had any great sum before and I would not squander it. Money won is easily lost, the saying is. A moment only, my friend, and I’ll listen to all that have to say,” said Ahkin.

He put his head out the door and looked a question at the lady. She smiled and nodded. Then, she vanished like smoke into the crowd.

-THE END-

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Return to Dirkhan in the Desert

This completes The Lottery. If you enjoyed what you just read, please go to the Master Story Index for links to all of the stories that I have posted on Tumblr.

#THE LOTTERY #Dirkhan in the Desert #Written by De Writer

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griimreaping · 4 years

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@utternocries - one word fic prompts

Lower ( part 1 )

The tolling of the church bells was genuinely ominous. An impending sense of dread dominating the grey morning fog, which blanketed Novigrad. Those silvery sounding clangs ringing out through the mist to call forward its faithful masses from the gloom. Pulling the traveling cloak tighter around her shoulders, if only to stave off the nerves rather than the general chill that harkened the coming of autumn, Jean flinches when Geralt's shoulder lightly brushes hers. Nerves had been high in the woman's chest as they neared the city, the last time she'd stepped foot in those walls being the night before her family died. Now with the cold solid stone rising around them, Jean couldn't help be reminded of a tomb.

This must have shown on her face from the flicker of a frown that graced the Witcher's mouth. He'd been summoned on a contract put forth by one of the wealthy governors that had come to occupy a mansion in the northern district of Novigrad. Since he'd taken up residence there, it's caused the man nothing but grief. Deaths in the family, along with some more insidious spectral activity that made even the most persistent of tenants shy away from even renting the place. Which only added to the misfortunes befalling an otherwise uninteresting and mundane man of wealth. With such wealth, he enlisted Geralt's help, and by some lucky stroke, Jean as well. Who had insisted she come along since the governor had mentioned something about black vines overtaking most of the house.

"What plant has black vines?" Had been the first question Geralt had asked when done skimming the frantic letter that had been sent forward to Downwarren. The Witcher had to stop spending so much time in her little hut, now even people outside of the village were beginning to notice. Plucking the letter from his hands and chewing on the inside of her cheek as she read, Jean's mind crunched over all the various odd species that thrived in this environment.

"Devil's bramble is the first that comes to mind, but it's more of a shrub than vines. Could also be just a mistaken color?" Placing the letter back down and folding arms across her chest, the Druid casts an uneasy glance out of the dewy glass in her kitchen to the misty bog. She hadn't been to Novigrad in nearly fifteen years. The harsh smell of a house fire coming back in a wave so sudden it took a considerable amount of will not to choke on the air stuck in her lungs. Hugging herself tighter, Jean forces the words out of her lips in an attempt to cast away unwanted memories. To drown the screams.

"You'll probably need an expert on plants and herbs," a glance is cut at the Witcher to gauge how the words are received. "I won't ask for any of your payment, I'm just genuinely curious now and could do with a bit of adventure away from the bog and corpses." Geralt grumbled a few words about how things were dangerous, and Jean's rebuttal of how she could handle a sword along with magic seemed to lessen the worries only marginally. Or at least enough that he put them to bed. Now walking among the cramped sewage reek which clung to the southern district like a diseased lover, Jean begins to miss her bog. Roaches hoof beats echo in the dull mist as they weave through cobblestone streets going north. A beggar approaches before seeing the Witcher and thinking better of his choices, slinking back into a darkened patch of fog that yawned into an alleyway. The struggling morning sun had yet to touch these streets, sleepy shop windows gazing out onto quiet abandoned boulevards. A liminal moment in time before the meager warmth of an autumn day shone through the slate clouds above.

That invisible line between districts isn't so invisible in Novigrad. A stark change between cramped tenant buildings that had begun to go crooked like a thieves smile, to the gaudy colors in the markets almost hurt the Druid's eyes. Even at such an early hour, a merchant in puffy gold pants tried valiantly to hawk some bruised peaches to her, claiming they were the city's sweetest. More polite "no thank yous" than Jean figured were necessary, and he'd given up his venture only to flag down another tired traveler bustling away. They did not make it out of the markets without expending a small amount of coin, which Jean put out to receive a small set of glass bottles in return, which now clinked softly in her bag. Geralt eyed the merchant selling her the glass wear with a critical eye, waiting to see if he was going to swindle her or not. This intense cat-eyed stare is more than likely what got jean a reduced price just to make them go away.

"I think I have a new idea about what the vines are." The Druid pipped up as another jarring change in scenery happened from the markets to the northern district. Now polished iron gates bore their teeth at them from the mouths of massive walkways up to ostentatious villas. No longer is the lower districts' corpse stench lingering; instead, a delicate waft of mountain roses and lemon trees walk in step with the Witcher and the Druid. Jean felt dirty here like she shouldn't be permitted to touch anything for fear of sullying it beyond rescue.

"There's a rare type of flower which only grows on the site of immeasurable evil. I've only ever read about it, though; the drawing seemed close enough to the description he gave." Rummaging around in the folds of her cloak, Jean produces a very worn and overly bookmarked tome. Roughly the size of her palm, the books brown and yellow pages had the look of something that had been steeped in bog water and perhaps blood at one point. Leafing through to the proper page, the pages crackle with age under the woman's touch.

"Here, Dagon's breath. Black vines with leaves about the size of a supper plate, able to produce flowers but only on full moons. Dried flowers turned into a powder can produce some of the most potent madness-inducing potions known to the world. Since this is such a rare specimen, there are speculations that even the scent of the flower can cause severe hallucinations." Reading this passage aloud, the Druid could feel a cold hand drag down her spine. If this was what they were dealing with, then whatever cast the curse even to make it grow had to be obscenely powerful.

The Dagon is old magic. Older than what most perceived as life it's self, coming from the chaos before time. From all that Jean could find in the books in her home, it was a god born of entropy and discord but required strict worshippers to ensure that it would have a proper host to inhabit when the void took back over. Mages and fanatics alike that dabbled in the Old Gods were ones that put their minds in the hands of babbling madness willingly, hoping to be rewarded with some form of forbidden insight to the world. The thought made the Druid shudder. She'd tasted the sharp edges of madness once before, those dark whispers in a language lost still snaked into the blackest of nightmares that she couldn't wake herself from. They'd always promised such alluringly unfathomable things to her.

It's lost in these troubling murky visions that cause the woman to bump into Geralt when he stops at one of the ornate gates. Placing a hand on her shoulder to steady her, the Witcher's disquiet shows fully. He'd had many half-hearted qualms about bringing her along on this, and now that she was becoming so distracted, it only furthered his worry about her being a liability.

"You should go wait back at the inn. Now that I have a better idea of what this plant is, it shouldn't be a problem." I don't want you to get hurt; goes unvoiced, but his cat-like eyes' narrowing conveys the sentiment. Jean's face flares pink around the ears at her embarrassment, but she doesn't allow the dialogue of the inn to go any further. Making a vague gesture at the nameplate affixed to the gate, the woman lets out an irritated breath, the frustrations more directed at herself.

"We're already here; it wouldn't make sense just to send me away now. Plus, I don't remember which roads we took to get here through the fog. Come on, Geralt, just let me continue, and I'll keep my head on straight, okay? No more distractions." A half-hearted smile that she hopes will cement the words into place only has Geralt absently rolling his eyes. Producing the key that had been sent along with the letter they'd received, the gate is unlocked. A horse post just inside the iron portal is where they part with Roach, who busies themselves with munching on the fresh hay that had been left out.

Path flanked on either side by overgrown flower beds containing every flavor of poisonous plant known to the region. Even a few that look notably exotic had a tight knot of anxiety forming in the woman's chest. A breeze sighing up the path causes the nefarious blooms and grasses to seethe in a green ocean around them, their ghostly voices curling in Jean's ears. Reaching out to place a holding hand on Geralt's arm, Jean freezes in her tracks when the house looms into view from the dismal fog, which had turned into a light misting rain.

When the governor had stated the vines were growing along the house, she had expected a few sparse fingers grasping greedily at the spaces between the bricks. Instead, what they were greeted with was a building that seemed to move with a life of its own. Thick coal-black leaves nearly the size of Geralt's head shiver in the breeze giving a sinister shivering quality to the house from foundation to rain gutters. Interspersed with wine-red flowers sporting elegantly curved petals and long golden yellow pistils that reminded Jean of a great blood-sucking insect searching for its next meal.

Then the whispers.

"Geralt, we shouldn't go in there." We're the words Jean heard herself saying, startled by how her voice sounded so terrified. While the Druid can listen to most of the passive voices of the plant life around her, these held that same nebulous darkness that only spoke to her in deepest nightmares. They carried the same voice as the madness. Their saccharine-sweet smell only there to lure you in closer with beckoning leaves and candy red petals.

Before responding to such a statement, a loud voice calls to them excitedly from the house. A gaunt man in a midnight black traveling cloak hurries toward them, waving his arms and wearing an almost crazed smile that shows far too much of his gums, which are far too pale to be healthy.

"Witcher! And... company. So good of you to finally arrive, and when I fear I am at my wits end!" The man nearly shouts at them, reaching out to vigorously shake Geralt's then Jean's hand with both of his clammy skeletal paws clasped around theirs. When his fingers leave the Witcher's, he notices fresh raw wounds on the man's forearms peeking out from his dark robes' confines. They looked almost like symbols carved into his skin, but such a quick glance hadn't been enough time. Deep-set eyes that once would have struck a woman dead with a glance now flit in their sockets nervously, the striking ocean blue ringed with bloodshot scleras and the deep shadows of exhaustion. The man looked to be hand in hand with death, yet the cold grip that clutches Jean's own spoke of fierce hidden strength that still dwelled like an angry spirit inside him.

"You must come inside! He has told me so much about you. I am looking forward to speaking with you before we get to such dark and dismal affairs. Come come." Voice and grip offering no rebuttal, the governor loops his arm with Jean's, nearly dragging the woman toward the house of dark whispers. Following close behind, Geralt notices the low humming of his medallion as they approach the building. There was nothing good contained within, the corrupted magic oozing out and tainting the air around them.

#‘ﾟanswered » JEAN MASTERS — ❝ here the light only dies to remember ! ❝#‘ﾟships » UTTERNOCRIES — ❝ two sides of a scarred coin ! ❝#verse﹕WITCHER ► the dead they speak so ﾟ* LOUD #utternocries #alright so look this is part one #part two will get posted tomorrow because I’m trying to edit it to give it an actual endinstead of rambling for like 10000 words

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djinnylein · 4 years

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Day 5 - Target

Hey there! My entry for day 5 of the AC1 week is here!

Before you’re wondering what a female assassin is doing there: Neria is my OC from my first fanfiction, of which I’m very proud. And I’m also very proud of her. So I had to put her in a story. Unfortunately the fanfiction is written in German. :/ But if you can read German, I would be very happy and grateful, if you would read it here. Still, have fun with my story for today!

There he was, standing on the side of the street, while watching workers loading goods on his carts. Goods, that could be very dangerous in a fight. Goods, that should be brought to the Templars. But they won’t and for preventing this, therefore Neria was here. The female assassin, who did come together with Altaïr to Jerusalem, so she could watch over him and his mission, did get a mission for her own, while the former Master assassin was looking for clues for where and when he could assassinate his target. For her own mission, Neria already did get all the clues and it was now time to put her intention into action. She did have a plan. She already had stolen a large piece of cloth, that she had wrapped around herself, so her hair and face, except her eyes, - she put down the hood already - were hidden. So were her white assassin clothes and all of her weapons, so she could approach the supervisor without much problem. A last time the assassin let wander her eyes around, not seeing any other guards except the one on her target’s side and one at the carts. It looked like they didn’t think about being attacked in any way. What a naive thought. Then she went around the corner, at first going around some other passersby, holding her hand open and asking for money. They were in the poor District, so it wasn’t rare, that beggars went around. At last Neria reached the supervisor, still holding out her hand. “Please, mister, give a poor soul some coins. I need to feed my children!”, she plead, without meaning any word she said. Her target looked her over for a moment, before making a shooing movement with his hand, without saying anything. But she didn’t want to go away so easily. On the contrary: she got even closer and put both of her hands out. “Please!” Being now close enough she wanted to stab him now, but before she could, her target suddenly took her right wrist. He held it up in the air, so Neria needed even to stand on tiptoes. “I don’t have anything, so go away, woman!”, he growled, looking at her with sharp eyes, which she returned. Then she pulled back her left arm, only to shoot it forwards and stab him with her hidden blade, that went through the fabric of the cloth and straight in his upper body. The supervisor gasped and looked himself down, only to widen his eyes in horror. Finally, Neria felt her wrist being released and now with both feet firmly on the ground again, she stepped back. Only when his master collapsed to the ground, the guard realized what happened, realized that he failed in protecting him. “What did you do, you hag?!”, he cried, now pulling out his sword from its sheath to cut the murderer of his master, but before he could, Neria dodged the attack. She crouched down and soaked a white feather, she hid inside her sleeves, with the blood of the supervisor. Then she again dodged an attack. The next thing the guard saw, was the back of the woman, while she ran away, as fast as she could.

* * *

Neria cursed under her breath. Before her and beside her were walls. Tall walls, smooth as a mirror, without any stones stick out. These walls weren’t climbable, even for her. Unfortunately, she couldn’t turn around and go back the way she went in, either, because then she would run into the arms of more than a half dozen city guards. During her escape, her pursuers screamed for help in catching her and other guards were too happy in being involved. So she tried free running over barrels and joist, but as it turned out, her cloth made intent much more challenging, and she fell. Straight on a shard of a jug she just broke. It hurt, but she could keep up running and that she did. But because of this incident, she remembered her disguise. That’s why she ran into an empty alley, where she loosened the cloth, threw it behind some crates and put on her hood again. Then she went out of the alley again, where the guards followed her into just some seconds later. As it seems, she considered them more ignorant, than they unfortunately were. Just the assassin thought, she could get away unharmed, one of the guards turned to her, while she slowly walked away, hands folded in a non-existing prayer. “She is hurt at the same place at the murderer. She’s an assassin!” They figured it out much faster than she thought they would. That’s why she had started to run again, only to end up in the dead end, where she was now. When Neria heard the footsteps of her pursuers behind her, coming into the alley, too, she turned and looked around again. Still, an escape route was nowhere to be seen, except straight through the guards, but these won’t let her through. That was, what their drawn swords made clear. She had no other choice. She needed to fight and that’s why she also drew her sword out of her sheath. Her opponents didn’t wait long and soon pulled her into a fight, in which she needed to stay strong, if she wanted to win. But this was easier said than done. Even though her injury was small, it bothered her while fighting against all the men. She mostly dodged their attacks, only to charge while they were distracted for a brief moment. With that, some of her enemies went down, being unable to move anymore or even dead. Unluckily for her, they also could hurt her, too. The injuries weren’t deep and weren’t big of a hindrance in the fight, but they were much more, than she wanted. Eventually, her enemies could put her literally in the corner of the valley, and she had the back directly in her back, watching where the next - and maybe even deadly - strike would come from. But there wasn’t any. At least not for her, Instead, one of her enemies was lying on the ground, bleeding from his neck because of a stab wound. On top of the man was another, but this time one in white clothing and red and brown belts. Another assassin, who came from above. The guards gasped in surprise, now laying their attention on the newcomer, who stood up from the corpse and also drawing his sword. Neria used the distraction and struck again, slashing one of the last standing enemies, who screamed in pain, but fell down a short while after. Now, with the help of one of her brothers, they could eliminate the last opponents, so they both were the last one standing, surrounded by unconscious bodies or corpses. The woman was the first one, to sheath her sword, after looking around one last time, before facing her helper. “Thank you, brother, for your help”, she thanked him, inclining her head in a grateful nod, but when the other assassin turned around to face her, she pressed her lip together. It was him. The one, who was the reason, she was in Jerusalem. The one, who was at fault for the attack on Masyaf. The reason, why Malik lost his brother and his arm and why she also lost something precious. Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad, the degraded Master Assassin. The assassin, whom she wanted help from the fewest. “Maybe the next you should really watch out, where are you going, woman”, he used her mistake, to lecture her - to take a little revenge on her, because she was usually the one nagging at him. But she didn’t let it bother her. Instead, she crossed her arms and looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t want to hear that from you. I completed my mission successfully. The only ones, who got injured, was my target and just some guards”, she explained herself, before her voice became sharper. “I didn’t break any of the rules. In contrast to you.” As a reaction, Altaïr just snorted. “Watch, what you are saying!” “Or what? Will you kill me, then? Do you want to have the blood of another innocent on your soul?”, she asked him harshly. It seemed he couldn’t answer to that. Maybe Neria even made him speechless with that. Did his conscience finally win over his pride? Finally, he spoke again: “Just go back to the bureau and patch yourself up.” This baffled the female assassin, and she watched quietly, as Altaïr turned around and left the alley. Did his conscience finally win over his pride? Was that why he said that? The former Master Assassin was still a big puzzle for her, but he was right. She should get back, tell the Rafiq about her completed mission and then treat her wound accordingly. One last time she looked around the alley, before also leaving the corpses alone in the alley, looking down on the white, blood soaked feather in her hands.

#AC1week #Assassin's Creed #Altair #altair ibn-la'ahad #I wasn't so good at english when I wrote the fanfiction #and because of that it is in german #my writing

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v-thinks-on · 4 years

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The Sign of the Four

Part 2 of The Man Who Sold the World

First | Next

With one thing or another, two months passed. Christopher Keswick was, by all outward appearances, an ordinary man; a contract lawyer who rented properties on the side. He was brought in for questioning, but if he knew anything of the murders - which Dr. Holmes strongly suspected he did - he said nothing and was declared a dead end as Mrs. Sawyer had been.

Jefferson Hope did not resurface and Professor James Moriarty did not appear. Dr. Holmes resigned himself to moving on to other cases. After all, he was a busy man. It hurt his pride, but he was no Sherlock Holmes, and he did not have the brilliant detective’s unparalleled record - he was only human. This case was perhaps more personal than most, but life went on. Whatever had possessed a man calling himself Jefferson Hope to kill Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson a second time, he appeared to be content to leave it at that.

It was a quiet day. Dr. Holmes had gone out on a walk through the city to clear his mind and returned with the solution to his latest case in hand. He hurried home to call Mr. Hess and tell him his problem had been solved. To his surprise, the landlady, Miss Thompson, greeted him at the door.

“I told you he’d be back soon,” she said to someone in the other room.

A small, blonde young woman stepped out of Miss Thompson’s office, into the suddenly crowded hall. She was well, if plainly dressed in a greyish beige dress, with a white scarf around her neck. Her clothes suggested low-level administrative work, but her hands were rough, as though she was accustomed to manual labor and possibly somewhat frequent injury. She gave him a smile, with a touch of mischief in her eyes.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting, Miss-”

“Marston, Mary Marston,” she answered.

Watson did a double take. For an instant he thought he glimpsed the all too familiar features of his dear Mary on this stranger’s face. Her wide eyes especially were an arresting bright blue that seemed to shine with a uniquely spiritual and sympathetic light. He could almost see her there, as she had been laid out on her deathbed, her face much too pale and so thin he could see her bones clearly beneath her skin.

But as his eyes tried to focus on the woman before him, the similarities seemed to vanish, and he was only met with an unfamiliar face, superficially similar at best. His grief turned to anger at whoever so callously tried to drag his dear departed Mary from her much too early grave. He had no doubt that this was the work of the same deranged hand that had reenacted the murders of Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson by Jefferson Hope some months before, but now he had struck much deeper.

The woman who was not Mary held out a hand for him to shake.

Watson- no, Dr. Holmes hesitated to accept it, but she was just as likely an innocent victim as a complicit pawn in the grander scheme. He forced his anger down and briefly took her hand. The confusion that had flashed across her face, no doubt in response to his expression, began to fade.

“Miss Marston,” Dr. Holmes said, more for his sake than hers, as he attempted to reorient himself, “What brings you here?”

She hesitated. “I’m not sure where to start…”

Dr. Holmes suddenly realized they were standing in the middle of the entrance hall, with a bemused Miss Thompson watching the interview.

“My apologies, please excuse me. Shall we?” He gestured up towards his rooms.

She nodded and led the way up the stairs. Dr. Holmes opened the door and let her inside. He took his usual seat by the fire and she assumed the other.

He took just a moment as she got comfortable to steady his nerves and steel himself for what was to come before forging into the case at hand; “I believe the beginning would be a good place to start,” he suggested, as gently as he could.

He knew how the story went: ten years ago, her father, a captain in the British Army, had vanished upon his return from serving abroad. Six years ago, she saw an advertisement asking for her address, which she answered and has, every year since, received a priceless pearl in the mail. And now she had received a letter inviting her to meet her benefactor. The details filled themselves in of their own accord as Watson struggled to distinguish his client’s all too familiar words from his own memories.

“This morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for yourself,” she concluded her tale and handed him a note on expensive antique paper.

He felt an eerie sense of deja-vu as he half-read, half-recalled the letter, “Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven o’clock. If you are distrustful bring two friends. You are a wronged woman and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend.”

He read it several times over to be sure he had understood every word exactly as it was written before him, and even then he was not quite sure he had not imagined it entirely from memory.

“The envelope too, please” - he faintly recalled Holmes asking for it.

He must have spoken aloud, as Miss Marston handed it to him. It was postmarked July 7th, 1888 and bore a large thumb-mark on one corner. There was no address, but Watson did not expect one. None of it was precisely identical - just like Miss Mary Marston they were all a mockery of the reality - but it was close enough.

There was no doubt that this woman was not who she claimed to be; she knew her story too well, said it too carefully. Watson wanted little more than to run her straight to the police. But she could have just as easily been an actress who had been paid off. Imitating the dead was not a crime and unfortunately nor was it enough evidence to tie her to the murders of Drebber and Stangerson. He could not act in haste as he had before. To trap whoever was behind this, he needed to be patient and clear headed, to wait for them to make some mistake.

He asked for each piece of evidence in turn in the hope that one of them would shed some new light on the case, but he knew how each would pan out. All of the letters were by the same hand and none “could be more unlike” her father’s. Whoever had written them had even taken the pains to write with Greek e’s and a twirl on each final s - both clearly forced. But they told him nothing about the true identity of the man behind them.

“What do you intend to do?” Dr. Holmes asked at last, his gaze fixed upon his client.

“That is exactly what I want to ask you.”

“Then we shall most certainly go,” he answered with a grim smile. “I will accompany you.”

“You are very kind. I have led a retired life and have no friends whom I could appeal to. If I am here at six, will it do?”

Dr. Holmes nodded and played his role as he had practiced over the centuries, “I shall look out for you at six. If you’ll allow me to keep the papers, I may look into the matter before then.”

“Au revoir,” she said with an impish smile and took her leave.

He wondered if she knew who she was imitating and to what ends. What would his dear departed Mary think if she saw him now, frozen in time, chasing threads of the past? But this woman was not Mary, glaringly so, and that made the reminder all the more painful. He wanted so badly to confront her, to make her give up her foul sport, but there was more to the incident than Miss Marston - or whatever her real name was. If Dr. Holmes was not mistaken, a man’s life was in danger and he had the chance to save him, if only he could solve the mystery in front of him.

As soon as he heard the outside door shut behind her, he threw on his jacket and hurried down the stairs to see her walking away along the sidewalk without a care in the world. He paused to give a coin to an old beggar sitting by the door to create a little distance between them, before he followed after her at a leisurely pace. They did not have long to walk, as she descended into the Baker Street underground station. He followed after, picking up a paper on his way, and took a seat in the next car over, with a clear view through the connecting door. He pretended to read his paper as they crossed beneath the city in mere minutes with only a low roar to betray how fast they were traveling through the dark tunnels.

After only fifteen minutes, with frequent stops, she stood and got off the train. He followed her at a respectable distance up the escalator, to another train that traveled on rails above ground, on level with the usual traffic. The rush of movement outside the windows was distracting, but it was a relief to be back on the surface. Finally, after another short ride, she disembarked in southern Camberwell, near the old King’s College Hospital.

From there, she continued on along a busy road, and eventually turned onto a residential side street. At last, she arrived at a large house. A taller middle aged woman, wearing a dress that would not have looked out of place when Watson was a young man, opened the door and greeted Miss Marston warmly. But there was nothing he could see about the woman or her home that suggested she was anything other than possibly a little old-fashioned. He resisted the urge to break the facade once and for all and question them lest they vanish as Mr. Hope had done, but he had no evidence of a crime, and even if he did, such a rash action would inevitably cost him the man he was truly after.

He stopped some ways away to watch the house, but no one else entered or exited in all the time he waited. Finally, he jotted down the address, and returned home.

Dr. Holmes sank into his usual chair by the empty fireplace, the case running circles through his mind as it had the whole way back in the cab. There was hardly enough evidence to speculate, and he very well knew the dangers of trying to draw conjectures from mere wisps of smoke, but unlike Holmes, he could not simply turn off that train of thought and bring his attention around to some other passion. Instead, the mystery stewed as he turned it this way and that, searching for an ever-elusive answer. He leaned back and resisted the painful urge to find a cigarette.

He kept coming back to the same question: why replicate Sherlock Holmes’s old cases? Miss Marston had come to him specifically, perhaps her employer had figured out his true identity and was attempting to wreak some twisted revenge. He had certainly made more than his share of enemies over the long years. But if it was revenge, it had taken a strange form. It seemed more likely that Miss Marston had come to him merely because he was the one who had published that advertisement in the paper about the ring as Holmes had done. But to what ends it had all been orchestrated, he could hardly fathom. It almost felt like he was being drawn into some horrible game against an unknown mastermind - he shuddered at the thought.

He didn’t like dancing around, playing this criminal’s game, but he had to be careful. He wasn’t the only one who knew the old cases and the criminal very well knew that now. He had already made the mistake of revealing his hand too soon, he couldn’t risk it again. But still, he could not in good conscience waste an opportunity to spare an innocent man’s life. Enough time had been wasted already while he was chasing after Miss Marston.

He picked up the phone and called Mrs. Houghton. He was met with a recording, so he left his message after the electronic tone - “Hello, I am afraid the man responsible for the staged murders you brought to my attention last month will strike again tonight. I have reason to believe his next victim will be a man identified as Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, living at Pondicherry Lodge in Norwood. The culprits will likely attempt to climb in through a second floor window. I will be out at six to pursue another avenue of investigation, but expect to meet you there around eleven. Good bye,” with that somewhat uncertain farewell, he hung up.

Only once that was taken care of did he realize that he had all but forgotten to phone Mr. Hess about the solution to his case, which Dr. Holmes hastily remedied.

Dr. Holmes met Miss Mary Marston outside 221 Baker Street a little after six that evening. He spotted the same beggar he saw there earlier that day, slumped against the wall not far from the door. The poor man didn’t seem to notice them as they hailed a cab to the Lyceum Theater. There they were met by a small, dark, brisk man who was dressed like a proper coachman. Dr. Holmes half expected to be taken to their destination in a horse-drawn four-wheeler, but instead a sleek black car was waiting for them, and so they drove off in a swirl of lights and a blur of scenery.

Miss Marston had brought another piece of evidence with her - the paper bearing “the sign of the four” - so in lieu of conversation, Dr. Holmes busied himself with pretending to examine the prop as his mind wandered in weary circles.

So long ago, in a night not unlike this one, he had sat in the back of a horse-drawn cab, between his beloved Mary and his dear friend, Sherlock Holmes. It had been a wild night, the beginning of a case he would never forget, and now... He nearly sighed at the memory of his lovely Mary. She was truly a beautiful woman who had died much too young. What did the young woman beside him have to gain from dragging her from her grave to play a part in this ridiculous ruse.

Dr. Holmes wanted to turn to his companion and demand why? What was the purpose of attempting to recreate the past like this? It tore at his heart to see his memories twisted so. But he was a detective and he had a case to solve. They both knew it was a farce, they both knew no one was being fooled, and yet it continued on. And he let it in the hopes that maybe it would lead him to some clue that would put an end to it once and for all.

Finally, they arrived at Coldharbour Lane in South London. They stopped in front of a derelict apartment that could have been the same one he had visited ages ago with his dear Mary and Sherlock Holmes. Dr. Holmes and Mary Marston were led inside, into a bright yellow room, inhabited by a tall, nervous man, who was bald aside from a ring of red hair around his head. Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, as he identified himself, dawdled and delayed while Dr. Holmes wondered whether the police had found Mr. Bartholomew Sholto and if he was alive or dead. Dr. Holmes found himself agreeing with Miss Marston as she voiced her impatience.

He hardly listened as they recited the whole scene from memory, as he had written it up years ago. It was all an act, as ill intentioned as it was preposterous, but Dr. Holmes went along with it in the hopes that somehow it would lead him somewhere, to some evidence he could use to bring it all to an end before anyone else got hurt. Mr. Sholto explained that his father, Major Sholto, was a friend of Captain Marston. They had taken a treasure out of India together, but when the captain came to take his share, he suffered a sudden heart attack and died. Major Sholto, afraid of being accused of Captain Marston’s death, hid the body.

That mystery solved, he went on to recount how his father had been pursued by a peg-legged man. With the power of hindsight, Dr. Holmes knew him to be an escaped convict by the name of Jonathan Small who stole the treasure and was responsible for the murder of the real Bartholomew Sholto all those years ago. As the story went, Major Sholto eventually died. As he died, the peg-legged man - now attributed a hairy face - appeared at the window. The Major had hidden the treasure and its location vanished with his dying breaths. Per his father’s last wishes, Mr. Thaddeus Sholto had shared what little of the treasure his father had not hidden with Miss Marston, despite his brother’s dissent.

And now, the treasure had been found in Pondicherry Lodge, the family home now occupied by Mr. Bartholomew Sholto. So, they were finally off to the lodge to beg Bartholomew Sholto to share it with Miss Marston. Dr. Holmes breathed a sigh of relief as they piled back into the car and set off to pursue the only real mystery of the evening - was Mr. Sholto alive or dead?

It was not long after eleven at night when the car stopped and Mr. Thaddeus Sholto declared that they had arrived at Pondicherry Lodge. Dr. Holmes and the small company of actors who accompanied him stepped out of the car to discover that the police had already arrived at the rundown mansion.

“What’s your business here?” the officer stationed outside called to them as they approached the house. He looked like a local officer, fresh toward the beginning of his shift.

Mr. Sholto hesitated, but that was well within character. “I-I’m Thaddeus Sholto. I’m here to see my- my brother, Bartholomew - he lives here. What’s going on here?”

“And who are you?” The officer turned to Dr. Holmes and Miss Marston.

Dr. Holmes stepped aside with pointed gallantry to allow Miss Marston to speak first.

“Mary Marston,” she curtsied at the officer, “It’s quite a long story, but the short of it is that my father, Captain Marston, knew the late Major Sholto. Mr. Sholto, here, was bringing me to meet his brother.”

“And you?” the officer asked, turning on Dr. Holmes with a sharp gaze that said he knew the doctor had purposefully put off his own answer.

“Doctor Jonathan Holmes,” he said, ready for the long night to be over. “I believe Inspector Houghton is expecting us.”

The officer held up his two-way radio and reported their arrival to D.I. Houghton. Dr. Holmes could hardly make out Mrs. Houghton’s voice on the other end, it was so heavily clouded by an electronic buzz.

“Detective-Inspector Houghton will be down in a moment, she’ll explain everything to you,” the officer said as he returned the radio to his belt.

“Oh, something terrible has happened, I know it!” Mr. Sholto exclaimed, wringing his hands to get rid of some of the nervous energy which he had in abundance.

Fortunately for all of them, they did not have long to wait as Mrs. Houghton soon arrived, followed by her partner on the force, Inspector Gregson. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Would it be alright if we asked each of you a few questions?”

“Oh dear, oh dear!” Mr. Sholto said, somehow even more agitated than before. “What terrible thing has happened? My brother, is he okay?”

“I’ll tell you what I can, if you’ll come with us.”

Inspector Gregson led Mr. Sholto and Miss Marston away as Mrs. Houghton hung back with Dr. Holmes. “We were too late,” she admitted as soon as the others were out of earshot. “According to the crime scene techs, he was probably killed sometime last night with a strong vegetable alkaloid, and brought over here post-mortem. It was all done up just like Rowe and Easton, we’re working on identifying the victim now. But you know more about it than we do.”

Dr. Holmes shook his head. “I confess, I don’t know anything about the victim. I have some pieces, but hardly enough to tie it all together. Hopefully Miss Marston and Mr. Sholto will provide the missing link, but I fear our man is too clever for that.”

“Well, what’s your piece?”

As briefly as he could, he explained everything from the arrival of Miss Marston at 221B Baker Street to the real story of The Sign of the Four.

“Well, you were right about Bartholomew Sholto,” she said when he was done. “This place was abandoned until it was recently purchased under that name. Some of the damage looks like it was done since then, which lines up with your story. When we arrived, we found the place abandoned and a man dead in the upstairs room - poisoned with a little wooden dart stuck in his neck. He was dressed like someone out of the 1800’s - to match the decor, I suppose. I can show you the scene if you like.”

Dr. Holmes shook his head. “I don’t need to get in the way. I would like to see the photographs when you have them, however. Did you find the trap door in the ceiling?”

Mrs. Houghton nodded. “It was a normal attic door, someone just concealed it. We also found those footsteps you mentioned inside, they look like they were made by a child.”

“It was an Andaman Islander,” Dr. Holmes explained. “If my memory serves me, they are a small, vicious people - a grown man may be the size of a child.”

Mrs. Houghton was looking at him with a bewildered expression. “The prints we found are those of a child.”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Holmes said hastily, “Perhaps some of my knowledge of the world is outdated.”

Mrs. Houghton looked unconvinced, but she continued nonetheless, “They were working with a man with a peg-leg, like you said. The child came in through the roof and helped the man up through the window with a rope that we found in the room - there were prints everywhere. If there was a treasure, it was long gone by the time we arrived. Officers with dogs are out now trying to track them.”

Dr. Holmes chuckled. He remembered how that had gone. He and Holmes had followed Toby all the way across the city only to find a barrel of tar in lumber yard that must have confounded the dog’s nose. But they found the right trail eventually.

“What is it?” Mrs. Houghton asked.

“Just some fond, old memories.”

She nodded in understanding.

“If they’re doing it by the book, the dog will only be able to follow them so far. I would suggest you start by searching the river for the Aurora, but I fear our man is too clever for that.”

“We’ll see if your friends can’t tell us anything.” She jerked her head after them.

Dr. Holmes nodded. “If you call me in the morning, you can tell me the news and I may have some idea of how to proceed by then.”

“Sure thing. ‘Night, Doctor.”

“Good night, Inspector.” Dr. Holmes inclined his head in the suggestion of a bow and returned home at last.

The next morning, Dr. Holmes woke rather after his usual fashion. It had been a long night and as such, he came to slowly and reluctantly. It was a bright morning, the cheery light streamed in through the windows, prodding Dr. Holmes out of bed. He took a leisurely breakfast, though he had to make it for himself, it no longer being typical for the landlady to be responsible for her tenants meals.

As he cooked and ate, he rolled the case back and forth in his mind. At last, he was interrupted by the ringing of his telephone.

“Dr. Holmes?” Mrs. Houghton’s voice sounded on the other end.

“Speaking,” Dr. Holmes replied. “Inspector?”

“Yes, I’ve just gotten back into the office and thought I’d give you a call. You were right about the dogs; the trail led them straight to a barrel of tar on the docks. I’ve found records for the Aurora, according to the Environment Agency it’s registered to Mordecai Smith. I’m still waiting to hear back from him. We interviewed Marston and Sholto after you left last night. Sholto claims he’s just an actor who was hired to put on a little show, and didn’t know anything. We’ve got him in custody now and have a warrant to search his flat and see what we can find, but we can’t hold him for long. Marston checks out alright; she just received a few strange letters.

We’ve also ID’d the victim. He’s a man named Nelson Duvall who lived a few blocks away from where we found him, and went missing a couple days ago. There’s something not entirely above-board about him, maybe just tax evasion, but we’re looking into it now.”

He sat in silence for a moment, just turning the deluge of facts over in his mind.

“Got anything?”

Finally, he answered, “I would be surprised if Mr. Sholto or Miss Marston is who they claim to be. What we need is evidence of collusion. If you found a phone in Mr. Sholto’s flat, would you be able to use it to locate his correspondents?”

“We should be able to.”

“I imagine he would have a disposable phone similar to the one you found belonging to Mr. Hope. If we can use that to locate his correspondents, if we’re careful we should be able to corner them before they vanish. It would be best if we could give the impression that we’re still looking for the Aurora, in the hope that they may lower their guard.”

“I’ll check in on Mr. Smith when I have the chance. We’ll keep an eye out for that phone and I’ll tell you what we find.”

“Thank you. In the meantime, I may pay Miss Marston a visit.”

“Are you sure? Everything about her checks out. She seems even more confused than we are.”

Dr. Holmes shook his head - though he belatedly realized Mrs. Houghton couldn’t see it. “It cannot be a coincidence.”

He caught a cab to southern Camberwell, back to the house he had Miss Marston had returned to after their first interview. He didn’t walk up to the door, or even the front walkway, instead content to watch from a few houses away. It was a quiet, grand old house, a little worn around the edges and minimally cared for, but nothing inherently suspect. So, Dr. Holmes began his way around the block, going door to door.

“Excuse me, I was wondering if you’ve seen anything unusual in the neighborhood lately?”

The question was met with many more or less pointed no’s. A man with an injured leg who had spent most of the day bored at home gave a more descriptive, but not much more informative response; “Well, there were some rowdy kids shouting up and down the street all last night, I could hardly get a lick of sleep, and the workers at Mrs. Roger’s place down the street make the most dreadful noises all through the day. It’s impossible to get some bed rest to heal up my poor leg.”

When that failed, Dr. Holmes tried a more direct approach. “Do you know anything about the residents of the large house at the end there?”

He was most often met by shrugs. The old man remarked, “They have some strange visitors. There was one man, a big burly fellow, I didn’t like the look of him. If my leg had been right, I would have gone straight up to him and given him a piece of my mind.”

One woman provided, “They just moved in. The place was for sale for the longest time, I’m glad it’s finally sold, but I haven’t seen the new owners around much.”

“Could you describe the people who live there?”

“It’s a woman and her grown daughter, I think,” she said, “though I’ve only seen them once or twice.”

“What do they look like?”

“Well, the older woman is tall, with short dark hair, or maybe she keeps it up in a bun. She couldn’t be much older than me, I don’t think. Her daughter is blonde, a lot smaller, she looks young, but she must be an adult. Now that you mention it, I don’t know if they are related, they look so different, but I suppose families come in all shapes and sizes.”

“You said they aren’t around much. How often do you see them?”

“It seems like there’s usually someone in the house, though it’s hard to tell with just two people in so many rooms. I just don’t see them around the neighborhood much, they seem to keep to themselves and all those people they have over. But I think I saw them when they moved in, and sometimes I see them coming or going.”

“They have a lot of visitors?”

“Yeah, all sorts.”

“Could you describe them for me?”

“I don’t know, they’re all different people. There was a large rough looking man that I saw a few times a little while ago, but otherwise I don’t know if I could pick any of them out of a crowd.”

“Did he by any chance have a particularly red face?”

“Yeah, I think he did, now that you mention it.”

Unfortunately she couldn’t tell him much more. Others could attest to the residents of the house and their visitors; young and old, men and women, from all walks of life, but none could tell him any more about Miss Marston. He returned earlier the next day in the hopes that he would have the chance to question some of the people who hadn’t been home when he called the first time.

He was just walking down the street between interviews when a young woman called out from behind him, “Dr. Holmes!” It was Miss Martson, of course.

He gave a start, but when he turned around to face her he had schooled his features into, if not a smile, something bemused rather than affronted. “Miss Marston,” he greeted her with a nod.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in exaggerated surprise.

“I was hoping your neighbors might provide some insight into why you in particular were targeted by whoever sent those letters.” The lie came out easily, perhaps more easily than it should have.

“Surely you don’t think it could be one of them?” She almost sounded amused.

“Clearly someone has been keeping an eye on you. They may know or have seen something.”

She crossed her arms over her chest as though to shield herself from prying eyes. “Oh, that’s just horrible. It will be such a relief when you’ve tracked down whoever is behind this. Why would someone do such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Holmes said, more pointedly than he ought. And because he had already made one mistake, he pressed a little more and asked, “Do you know why you might be targeted?”

“I don’t know, I’m not anyone of any particular importance, not like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you must be the only one in the world - not the only unofficial detective, but certainly the only one appealed to by the officials when they are out of their depths.” Her words were familiar, but it wasn’t something Mary had said. It took him a moment to realize that she was paraphrasing Sherlock Holmes himself.

“You’re very kind,” Dr. Holmes said, not entirely graciously, “But I am hardly the first nor the only. You must have some unique quality of your own,” he attempted.

“As you know, I am but a lowly governess, an orphan without a place in the world, who is merely the unsuspecting victim of some strange happenstance.”

“Why? You don’t have to do this,” Dr. Holmes exclaimed at last, unable and unwilling to keep up the tired charade when even she acknowledged it.

“What are you talking about?” Miss Marston asked, the very portrait of confusion. “I assure you, nothing I have done has been against my will.”

Dr. Holmes merely sighed and shook his head.

#v writes #Sherlock Holmes #The Man Who Sold the World

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robotslenderman · 5 years

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Think I’ve finally nailed down Mehra’s story in between getting exiled and ending up in the Dark Brotherhood.

Post-Morag Tong, she meets Quen and helps rebuild the Thieves Guild, going through the quests and everything.

She’s pretty highly ranked in the Thieves Guild except there’s a problem... she keeps killing people on jobs. This isn’t too much of a problem at first, but other thieves are like “The hell, Mehra?” She’s supposed to be a disciplined Morag Tong-raised woman, they don’t kill people they’re not supposed to. But she keeps doing it.

(Sometimes she swears she hears Velsa or Zeira or Quen telling her to kill someone, but it becomes quickly apparent to Mehra that that's... not actually happening. They wouldn't do that and then get mad at her for it. Not all three of them at once. Surely?)

Eventually she brings too much heat on the Thieves Guild and she’s asked to leave by Zeira. It's not a hostile kicking-out - it's a sad parting, and Mehra is understanding. She's secretly paranoid the whole thing was orchestrated, but she doesn't let herself resent them and just. Leaves.

Floats around for a while. She knows the DB is probably the only place left to go, but she doesn't want to. Still, she researches them. Stalks a few DB agents she runs into. Ends up tracking down and watching the Black Hand at some kind of Black Marsh ceremony where the Shadowscales are hatched. She's hiding in a basket, watching through the gaps.

When suddenly Nevusa (my headcanon Listener) opens the basket and, without looking down, drops a book on Mehra's head. The Night Mother, she says to the rest of the Black Hand, told her to do that, and then they leave.

it's the Litany of Blood.

Mehra ends up spending the next few months fulfilling it, because... why not? She doesn't have anything better to do. Meanwhile in the Kvatch Sanctuary they're boggled that an outsider has been chosen to do the Litany, and red spectral statues are appearing but the killer hasn't been recruited yet.

Eventually each pedestal is filled, but... still no killer. The Night Mother still hasn't told Nevusa where to find this killer. In reality, Mehra moves around too quickly to be reliably tracked down, so NM is still waiting for her to settle.

(Headcanon is that the Litany is only ever completed by future Listeners. So the whole Kvatch Sanctuary is especially apprehensive and excited because there's a future Listener out there, and nobody, not even Nevusa, knows who it is.)

Eventually Mehra hears about the DB presence in Kvatch, so goes there. She still doesn't want to join, but it's not like she has any other career options.

there's no Thieves Den there, so she relocates to Anvil.

By day she poses as a beggar, using the disguise to scope out houses. By night she cleans out houses and, occasionally, kills. Sometimes she just kills - she hovers on a roof, waits, then just drops on someone on an alley and stabs them in the back.

The DB eventually get wind that there's a serial killer in Anvil. The NM still hasn't said anything to Nevusa - Mehra isn't sleeping anywhere secure, but Nevusa wonders if it's their Litany killer and puts out feelers.

Nobody ever looks at Mehra twice. She's got horrific burn scars and she pesters people for money - people avoid her, they don't stare, so nobody notices her Tong tattoos, let alone anyone who'd recognise them. Mehra thinks it's hilarious, because the second anyone spotted her tattoos they'd quickly realise she's the killer.

But nobody ever looks, so they don't. She sticks out because she's very distinct as both a Dunmer beggar and one so badly scarred, but still people ignore her.

The killer is eventually active enough that the Kvatch Sanctuary actively investigates. Nevusa is pretty sure it's the Litany killer because the method of killing is the same as the Litany victims - as Nevusa found out when she out out feelers. A single knife to the back, right in the artery beside the spine.

Kvatch Sanctuary gets excited again because their future Listener is in the area and fucking up people for the lulz.

But they can't. Fucking. Catch her. There's never any witnesses, or survivors. Nobody acting suspicious at night (by DB standards, anyway). Remains-Silent, Venom and Mirabelle are brought in to try and find suspects - nothing. Elam is stationed at the Thieves Den full time to keep an eye out for potential hit men or freelance assassins - nada.

It doesn't help that Mehra got shy when they showed up, and stopped killing for a while.

Elam does spot Mehra in the TD occasionally and points her out to Nevusa as one of the more suspicious denizens of the TD, but she doesn't like to talk to Elam and her entire face stays covered, so he doesn't yet connect her to the scarred beggar.

Eventually things get quiet enough that Terenus gives Astara permission to pull everyone out of Anvil, so she does. Clearly, the litany killer has moved on.

And the fucking killings start up again almost immediately.

Cue DB facedesking. This time they just keep Mirabelle and Elam down there.

Mirabelle is a servant listening for gossip, working at the barracks. She's to report any progress the guards make on finding the killer, and to inspect the bodies whenever she can.

Elam is to stay in the TD and just get work. In game, IIRC, not everyone uses the Black Sacrament to get the DB's attention and if I remember right Elam is the one they contact if they don't. So in my headcanon Elam spends a lot of time in Kvatch getting work the old fashioned way. Well, now he's charged with doing it in Anvil and he's not allowed to come home until the litany killer comes with him.

So Elam spends time bored out of his mind, missing home, hoping nobody is messing up the Sanctuary too much, and getting work.

The TD is, for once, grateful there's an agent of the DB hanging around because the litany killer keeps picking off *their* guys, because who else is hanging out in alleyways at 3AM?

There isn't much privacy in the TD but he still has to give out work, and the thieves and pirates and so on give Elam as much leg room as they can.

Eventually his Brothers and Sisters start complaining their targets are dead before they can get to them. Elam has Mirabelle look into it, but still lets clients think the DB did it.

Mirabelle reports back that their would-be targets are getting killed by a single knife to the back.

Nevusa's reaction upon hearing about this: "Oh, for fuck's sake."

Elam's is to break down into laughter so hard he can't breathe.

The litany killer is now actively fucking with them and stealing their kills.

and they still don't have a clue who it is

Good news: this means the litany killer comes by the Thieves Den often enough that they eavesdrop on Elam's business deals, or at least enough to know who's pissed at who and who's planning on getting the DB involved.

Elam still thinks this is the funniest thing ever, but when the fences of the TD are notified they are Not Amused and start more actively working with the DB. They want the litany killer dead. The DB decide not to disclose that they're recruiting them.

The fences and the denizens of the TD do some fund raising and ask everyone to pitch in for a DB contract. At this point they've started calling her "Litany", since the DB have spread her moniker.

Mehra contributes a huge amount because she thinks it's just as funny as Elam does. They have the exact same sense of humour.

Those who know Litany stole the DB's kills no longer bother going to Elam and just stand in the middle of the TD and yell, "Hey, Litany, kill X for me!"

which she does

Some with a sense of humour start egging Litany to steal the underwear of someone they hate and stick it on the spire of the nearby Chapel.

She does this too

Litany is suddenly as popular for their sense of humour as they're hated for killing people's buddies.

Elam is like "our future Listener is *awesome*"

Nevusa doesn't know whether to be amused or exasperated.

Astara is Not Amused.

Then a break comes - someone fresh off a ship hears about Litany, and mentions it's similar to some killings in Hew's Bane. They're practically kidnapped and taken to Elam.

They tell Elam that they're a footpad from Abah's Landing, visiting some relative or other, and that some high ranking Dunmer in the Thieves Guild got kicked out for killing too many people while on the job. Mentions that she's a former member of the Morag Tong.

which... seems to fit Litany's MO. Nevusa is aware that *somehow* the Litany of Blood ended up in Litany's hands from Black Marsh, and the killings were done so professionally even the DB can't track them down. For it to be Morag Tong sounds right.

Cue Nevusa going to Abah's Landing, personally, to visit Zeira.

Who - if reluctantly - confirms that... yup, there was a Dunmer here called Mehra Adrano, former Tong. Liked to backstab people she shouldn't. Lovely woman, just... too stabby for the guild. Very lost after her exile from the Tong. Talked openly about how she thought she was going to wind up in the Brotherhood until the Thieves Guild took her. Zeira's surprised she hasn't ended up in there yet.

"We're working on it," says Nevusa. "We're finding it difficult to track her down."

Zeira gives Nevusa a description and as much info as she can. Nevusa does some research, uncovers Mehra’s backstory as Dralsea Sadri.

Nevusa returns to Anvil, where Elam and Astara still haven't tracked her down, and gives them Mehra’s description.

Elam is like "fuck, she's that scarred redheaded Dunmer?! I give her a few coins every time I buy my lunch! I talked to her like five minutes ago!"

They grab the Shadowscales and go to confront her...

Mehra’s sitting on her pallet, notices the Dark Brotherhood's Listener, Executioner, and a bunch of Shadowscales approaching her, and is like "and it only took you lot eighteen fucking months to track me down. Oh, by the way, here's your book back, Nevusa."

And the rest is history.

#Mehra Adrano #Dark Brotherhood #Morag Tong #ESO #TES #my OCs #long post

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treatian · 4 years

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The Chronicles of the Dark One: The Dark Curse

Chapter 3: Justice at Last

His name was Killian Jones, and though they'd only been introduced, formally, one time, it was a name he wasn't likely to ever forget. Or a face. Especially not now that he'd spent the entire afternoon watching him from afar as he sat there in the bar with his crew guzzling mug after mug of ale. It was more than he'd ever thought a mortal man would be able to handle and still be conscious. If he weren't already so disgusted with him, he might have been impressed.

He'd only ever known Killian Jones in one way. As a ruthless man who had taken his wife and refused to give her back, sentencing her to what he was sure was certain death on the high seas, which probably would have been a blessing after whatever treatment she'd received at the hands of those pirates. He'd only ever seen him from the perspective of an enemy and a pathetic excuse for an enemy that he had been. But knowing a person didn't always mean walking up and becoming friends with them. Good observation could provide him with all he needed to know. And he was astonished now to see that with his crew he wasn't entirely a ruthless, barbarian pirate. He sat with them, drank with them, exchanged gestures of friendship and brotherly love with them; small nudges of the elbow, pats on the back, teases that he'd seen other friends give one another when he'd been a soldier in a war. There was a friendliness to them, and yet even from watching them, he understood that they respected him; they looked up to him, the young as a father, and the others as a brother and potentially even a friend. He was sure that if he asked them, they'd tell him he was a good Captain. A good leader. "Good" in this case meaning competent. But he'd always been a firm believer that the way to tell a man's heart wasn't how they treated their friends but those that they'd consider less than them.

He wondered if he'd remember him. He wondered if Jones would look upon his face, gnarled and cursed as it was, and remember the exchange they'd had years ago. Or if he'd forgotten. Was his family, his wife and son, nothing but one of hundreds of hazy memories? Fortunately for him, extracting memories wasn't difficult, just painful for the person he extracted them from. He hadn't had many excuses to try it in his time as the Dark One, but Killian Jones was exactly the kind of person he wouldn't mind practicing on!

He stayed until darkness fell, and Killian Jones finally announced to the rest of the crew that it was time they head back to the ship since they were shipping off in the morning. He left in a cloud of smoke after leaving behind a few coins for the barmaid's misplaced attentions and keeping him well watered. A rowdy group the pirates were. Jones led them through the darkened streets as if it was a parade of some kind. People parted for them, making way either out of fear or respect, but he didn't require either, and he was waiting in the shadows to see what would become of an individual who showed these pirates neither. When no one was willing to take the risk, he decided to take it upon himself. He summoned from his homes a copper cup and quickly pulled the hood of a cloak up over his head, shielding his face, or at least his eyes from view as he held the cup out. And just for good measure, he took a little bit of the magic he used to placate his bad ankle so that he could feel a twinge of the pain when he walked. It wasn't necessary, of course, he'd been a cripple long enough that he knew he could act the part just fine. But doing it for real in front of Jones was fun all the same. When he was ready, he pushed and shoved his way through the crowd of pirates, purposefully shoving past Killian Jones and hitting his elbow before walking on and waiting to see what would happen.

"Hey, you. Stop! Even gutter rats have more manners than you just displayed!" the familiar voice called out after him. And that was precisely the response he'd been hoping to incite. For it gave him an excuse to turn and face Jones one more time, but this time not as a weak, cowardly cripple, but as the Dark One, just as smart as Jones and yet infinitely more powerful.

"I-I'm so sorry, sir," he stuttered out in an accent borrowed from some poor previous Dark One.

"Ah…I was wrong. Not a rat at all. More…more like a crocodile!" he proclaimed. His crew laughed behind him as he advanced. With one swipe, he hit the copper cup from his hand, letting the few coins he had inside spill out onto the stones, then quickly, just as a beggar would, he knelt down to pick them up. When Jones kicked him down, the men laughed, but he didn't cry out or complain. It was exactly what he'd wanted to see. The action was just enough to tell him that nothing at all had changed in the years they'd been apart. He was friendly towards those who he saw fit, and still ruthless to those he saw as below him. And he was about to change that. The men had no idea what they were really cheering for. It was justice for his family.

"What's your name, Crocodile?"

He returned the magic to his leg and, in one quick motion, stood up straight and tall and laughed as he pulled back his hood to reveal his face. Even if he didn't recognize him, with the "rumors" as widespread as they were, he should know at least what he was by just the look of him.

"You…" the Captain smiled. "I remember you."

Perhaps, but it was clear to him that he didn't, at least not as clearly as he would have liked. He recalled his face but not the events that led him to the last time he'd seen it. Fortunately he was all too willing to remind him and content to toy with him until he did.

"Always nice to make an impression," he muttered, stealing the pirate's words from their last encounter as he tossed some of the coins at him. "Where are my manners? We haven't been properly introduced. Rumpelstiltskin!" he announced, falling into an over the top bow before glancing up at him in a slow, sinister way. "Or, as others know me, the Dark One."

That got a rise out of him. Crew backed away as Jones's eyes turned dark, and his face fell. Now he remembered properly. Odd, he would have thought it would take a little more than that. In fact, he'd hoped it would. But then…he supposed beggars couldn't be choosey! And when he took a step forward around his enemy, it was fun to watch his crew back away like terrified girls. He'd trade one terror for another if he had to.

"Oh! I see my reputation precedes me."

"It does," Jones answered.

"Good!" he declared as he turned to lear over the man's shoulder. "That's going to save us time during the, uh, question and answer portion of our game."

"What is it you want to know?" Jones asked, turning to face him. Well, if he did know who he was and not just what he was, that answer should be obvious.

"How's Milah, of course?"

A broad smile stole over the man's face as he shook his head, feigning innocence. "Who?"

Oh, he was sure that look went over well with the ladies, but he could see right through it to the lie. He knew Milah. He remembered her. But, if this was the way he wanted to play this game…

"Only too happy to, uh, dig out the memory," he offered, finally stepping around him so they could face off once more. "But it gets really messy."

That wiped the smile off his face real fast. "She's dead," he offered solemnly. "Died a long time ago."

He didn't let anything show on his face that wasn't planned. If he was honest, it was because there was nothing to show. He'd always known Milah would never survive her kidnapping, and when she never came back, well, he'd mourned her long ago. So long that his words felt less like a proclamation and more like a simple confirmation of what he'd always known was true. But nevertheless, he let the pirate think he felt it. He let his face fall, let his hand twitch a bit as it went to his side. Whether he felt something or not, justice would be served, and he'd rather fool his enemy into thinking it would be easily accomplished because of a broken heart than a battle that was already lost.

"What is it you want?" the pirate finally asked of him. Perfect. Exactly what he wanted.

"We didn't get a chance to finish our duel," he commented after a couple of heartbeats, for effect, of course.

The pirates immediately made to draw their swords, but the moment they did, he had a thought that made their situation so much sweeter. Death couldn't inflict the pain that Jones's choices and actions had given him or Baelfire, but there was another torture that might…if only for a night.

"Not now," he corrected. "Tomorrow at dawn. I am not a cruel man. Get your affairs in order!" he proclaimed lavishly before taking a step forward so he could look him in the eye. "Also, you can spend tonight knowing…it will be your last." He giggled as he saw a flicker of black fear touch those eyes which had once looked down on him with the same pitiful stare he gave him now. "Maybe I am cruel. And don't think about trying to escape," he threatened, taking another step closer so they were nose to nose now. "Because I will find you, and I will gut your entire crew like-a-de-fish…" He repressed a laugh as the men over his shoulder took another step away at just his gaze. But when he looked back, Hook didn't step back. Like the intelligent man he assumed he was, he saw only the fear of death in his eyes.

"Savvy?" he questioned with a smile.

The pirate swallowed before nodding. "Savvy…town square at dawn."

"And I wouldn't be late if I were you…I hate to be kept waiting!" And without another word, he vanished.

#Rumbelle FF Rumpelstiltskin OUAT Killian Jones

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