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roraruu · 1 year

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YOTO: May

Shadow/Tikal. Flower langauge. Sunshine. Mission fic. “Who are you?”

Sunshine hits his face. His black quills drink in the warmth, restoring heat to his skin, his body. He feels cool fingers on his temple, brushing something matted out of the way that tugs, tugs, tugs.

He slowly opens his eyes, drawing enough energy in his hand to produce a Chaos Spear. It’s tiny, pitiful, but enough.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A gentle voice advises.

He stares up at an orange echidna, her eyes cast away as she touches him, healing what he now realizes are tiny little wounds.

“These grounds are holy. Any desecration is a motive worthy of death, or exile.” She explains. “We do not allow any fighting.”

His voice is thin, rough and raw. “Who are you?” He asks.

She meets his eyes at last, her eyes a brilliant blue. She smiles softly. “Tikal, priestess of the Knuckles Tribe.” She says before adding, “What is your name, stranger?”

“Shadow.”

She smiles again, this time a little sadder. “Well Shadow, your wounds are deep. You must have been hurt badly in a battle.”

He stays silent, then tries to get up. Tikal reaches out to stop him, but she fails to do so. Instead she sits back as soon as he’s out of her grasp and watches as he painfully sits up, leans his back against a pillar of the shrine and looks behind her, his eyes wide.

“The Master Emerald.”

Tikal takes a cursory glance behind her. “Yes, that is it.” Her gaze grows more worried and she inches back before it. “Did you… where did you come from?”

“Somewhere else.”

“Where else?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Are you of the Nyx Clan?”

Shadow remains quiet, unsure of the meaning of the clan or the title or the meaning. Tikal’s eyes grow worried, her arms stretching out to protect the Master Emerald.

If I could get closer, the Chaos Energy would heal my wounds and I could go. He thinks to himself.

“Chaos.” Tikal breathes out nervously, and in the blink of an eye, the waters surrounding the Shrine build up, form into a green-eyed, gelatinous creature and with a sweep of it’s massive watery hand, casts Shadow half way across the isle before Shadow can even draw a spear.

Shadow rolls through the green grass, then stares up at the sun, too weak to fight back. He groans, rolls over as Tikal hurries to him and stands over Shadow.

“I thought you said fighting was outlawed.” He groans.

“Defending the island and Master Emerald isn’t.” She explains.

“Some double-standard.”

Shadow frowns as Tikal asks, “Are you of the Nyx clan?”

The gelatinous monster crawls up behind her, ready to strike again.

“No.”

“Do you swear?”

“Yes.” He says.

Tikal stares at him, her blue eyes searching his. “Where are you from then, Shadow?” She says his name with contempt and uncertainty.

“Not from this era.” He sits up and the monster gurgles. Tikal holds out a hand to quiet it.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not important.” He says, then stumbles away and collapses before he’s across the bridge that connects Shrine Isle to the mainland. Tikal and Chaos carry him back and heal his wounds.

***

“You have a connection to the Chaos Energy.”

Shadow stares out at the stars. From below on earth they look quite magical. Up in space they looked… depressing. Dots of white spread across a pitch-black sky. Here, amongst green mountains and trees and crystal waters, they’re the perfect finishing touch to a beautiful sight.

He turns his eyes to Tikal as she mashes something into a paste. Her eyes focus on it, not raised to his. “I can sense it now.”

“Took you long enough.”

Tikal frowns. “I’ve never met another being…” Chaos bubbles in annoyance and she smiles momentarily and corrects herself. “Aside from Chaos and I who are able to harness it.”

He watches as she scoops up the paste and smooths it over his back, where a particularly stubborn wound is. He bites down a hiss of annoyance and upset. “My own connection isn’t that strong, but I can sense it.” Lower she adds, “You have a Chaos Emerald too... Don’t you.”

Chaos grows upset and she calms him with a look. Quietly, Shadow produces the green emerald. Their eyes flock to the pillar, where their own emerald is poised above them all. Not duplicates nor doubles, from a different time, a different place.

“I was…” He pauses before spitting the word out, “Helping collect them in another time, just as I told you, I’m not of this era.”

Tikal stops. “Why did you not tell us?”

“Because you wouldn’t have believed me.” He explains. “Besides, you were assuming I was of the Nyx clan.”

Tikal tenses. She stops her movements. “That is true.” She says in a wounded tone. “I am sorry for that; please accept my apologies.”

Shadow scoffs. “Unnecessary.”

A silence falls between the two, a comfortable quiet that only the two of them can understand. For Shadow, many people regret his silence, grow annoyed or feel degraded when he’s silent; in Tikal’s case, many remark that she is a strange girl for her quiet demeanour. But the two of them, not quite friends but no longer enemies, can understand the peace, the comfort in the lack of noise, the exemption of talking.

“Your wounds… They must have…” She cannot finish the sentence.

“They came from the jump, yes.”

“No.” She insists. “They’re healing, but not because of my cures.” Her voice drops lower. “We do not know much about the Emeralds. Or their power… Yet… Can you tell me why?”

Shadow weighs the possibilities of doing so, the consequences, the issues with it, and the positives. He pauses, stares out at the sky and thinks.

He’s already probably ruptured something by landing here and meeting Tikal. To expose more might cause something dangerous and irreversible.

(If he tries to think of her in the future, it’s all a haze, a gentle fuzz. He knows that she will be Knuckles’ ancestor and he will be a descendant of her tribe, and that she still resides on Angel Island, but little else.)

“I cannot.”

He can sense Tikal tense up, her unease, her discontent. “Believe me, if I could, I would.” He promises me. “But for the good of us both, I can’t.”

“I don’t understand.” Tikal begins. “But I can respect your choice.”

***

Tikal keeps Shadow a secret while he heals. In the days, she is called back to the hidden city within the jungle where she is the pacifist daughter of the warmongering chief; at night she flees to the shrine where her secret is kept.

He’s seated before the Master Emerald when she comes back one night. While walking along the trail, she plucked flowers, thinking they might brighten his mood, raise his spirits. As she takes the staircase, she called out a hearty hello.

Shadow turns back to greet her, then his eyes fall on the flowers. She feels herself blush. “I just saw them along the path. Pretty, are they not?”

He remains silent and looks at them. “You’re thinking of someone.”

Long, blue salvia are in her hand. “What do you mean?”

His eyes move to the flowers. “The flowers you picked. They mean you’re thinking of someone.”

Tikal blushes again. “Oh. Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Lucky man?” He asks with a raise brow.

She shakes her head and lies, though it pains her. In that moment, she realizes what the flowers could mean to him. “No. My grandmother.”

His brow lowers. Tikal rests the salvia before the Master Emerald and sits down. “She raised me. She’s been gone sometime now.”

“I see.”

“I miss her often.” She finds herself confessing. Perhaps it’s the momentary nature, the understanding that this isn’t forever and that they will not meet again. The truth, which she keeps hidden most often beneath her reserved expression, comes out readily like a stream. “I miss her more than I miss my mother.”

“I assume she has passed too.” He sits down beside her.

“Yes.”

“My apologies for your loss.” Shadow must feel the same thing. “I lost someone dear to me, once. It… I know the pain all too well.”

Tikal gives him a gentle smile. “Thank you.”

The quite returns to them, the mutual feeling of loss they know so well. Then, without any reservation, she blurts out:

“I like you, Shadow.”

He stares at her as she looks into the Master Emerald’s reflection, a scarlet blush on her face. She nervously plays with her hands, which find her dreads and twirls the edges. “I meant to say I like your company. There is a peace in it.”

He scoffs. “Odd.”

“Why do you say that?” Tikal asks.

His voice is low. “No one much enjoys my company in my time.”

“That’s… Very sad.” Lower, she adds, “Though I know the feeling.”

“Out of step?” He asks, thinking of the fiends he must fight back home.

“Very much so.” She answers, thinking of the battles she refuses to wage.

A silence returns to them as they watch the stars. The night is clear and cool. There is a peace in the air, a peace Tikal has rarely known and probably never will.

“When will you return to your era?” She asks quietly, hating herself for asking it.

Shadow waits a moment. “Soon.” He responds, then adds, “Though, I have a problem.”

Tikal turns to face him. “What ails you? How can I help?”

Shadow almost smiles, perplexed by her worry and kindness towards him. His eyes move down into his arm, which loosens from the cross over his chest.

She feels it as soon as he lowers his arm. A seeping feeling, like the breath being pulled out of her.

Tikal remembers a time, when she was young—before she took up orders as a priestess, before the rift between her and her father, before she realized her purpose was connection—and her grandmother noticed a sudden bout of lethargy took over her. That was when she received the blue clay bands she wore daily.

Shadow raises his right arm, showing off a busted band, shiny gold and scratched and bent wrong.

Tikal nods. “I see.”

“I can’t travel if one is broken. I must have hit something when I fell through time.”

“Stray rock?”

“Something like that.”

“I… My mother used to be the guardian of this shrine.” She looks up at the ceiling. “Perhaps I could find one of her other bands.”

Shadow remains quiet and Tikal can sense his discontent. Quietly, she pulls off her own band, her wrist feeling lighter all the sudden. She faces him, gingerly takes his hand and twists off the broken band from his wrist.

She swaps them and looks at him with a pleased smile. Shadow stares back with a frown.

“Is this satisfactory?”

“I suppose.” He lifts the band and looks at the pale blue. “But it doesn’t match.”

“The colours shouldn’t matter, Shadow.”

“No, I mean the energy that’s emitted. It’s different. Your bands withhold…” He looks at her and then stops himself. “Never mind. It will do. Thanks.”

Tikal feels the joy seep out of her now. The busted ring slowly depletes the energy from her and she can feel it: the Chaos Energy leaving her system in a slow, steady, invisible drip. “Does this change your leaving?” She asks.

“Slightly. I need to make sure I am up for travel first.”

“Well, Chaos and I are happy to help. Do you need food or water?”

“I have no need for such things.”

“Really?” Tikal asks, aghast. “Do they have supplements in the future?”

Shadow looks at her bemused for a moment. His expression melts back into indifference. “No, I simply don’t need those things.”

“Oh. How odd.”

Shadow half-smiles. “You’re not the first person to say that about me.”

“So. Leaving? When?” She asks, then adds. “N-Not that I am trying to get rid of you but…”

He pauses. “After my wounds are all healed.” He tells her.

And so, she has a day to hope for and fear.

***

Shadow notices that she hasn’t changed the band. His inhibitor ring still rests on her right wrist, busted and broken. Perhaps she hasn’t found a replacement, or maybe it’s for a more selfish reason.

He doesn’t ask, he’ll never know.

Tikal also notices that his wounds have mostly healed. All remnants of bruises and scratches have faded amidst his exposure to the Master Emerald. Perhaps he hasn’t fully recovered, or maybe it’s for a more selfish reason.

She doesn’t ask, she’ll never know.

But, while she and Chaos visit the Chao in their little garden, her father, Pachacamac, visits Shrine Isle and almost discovers him.

Shadow dodges and hides beneath the water until he and his warriors are gone. As soon as they leave, he makes up his mind and seeks her out.

Making his way to the Chao garden isn’t hard: he can hear the sounds of the annoying little creatures from nearly a mile off and follows the sounds. But before that, since Shrine Isle is far off, he closes his eyes and tries to sense her.

Those with a connection to the Chaos Energy will be able to sense others easily. There’s a pull, almost like magnets, between the two: and he feels a pull towards Tikal before he even closes his eyes.

He treks through the jungle and finds the clearing where she plays with the Chao. Chaos is more lively with them, absorbing a few and then flinging them out to their delight. She must sense him too, for when he arrives she hurries over to him.

With a look, she understands his worries, his concerns, why he’s there. “You have to go.”

He nods solemnly.

“Promise that you’ll visit me!” She demands.

Shadow turns around and stares at her.

Tikal blushes for a moment then stands her ground. “People like you and I won’t die like others. I’m sure I’ll be around for a long time.”

He thinks, partly amused at how she already knows what she will become and partly mournful for the same fate. “I promise.”

“And promise are forever, right?!” She calls out.

Shadow dips his head in a nod. “They are.”

Tikal smiles at him as he turns away and leaves. She wears that smile through tears, through her breaking heart for losing a friend she’d only just made, for the other being who could understand her. Seconds later, Shadow raises his Chaos Emerald to the sky and summons all his energy, travelling through time in the blink of an eye.

***

The sun seems to shine brighter on Angel Island.

(It’s probably because it’s a floating island in the sky, but still.)

Shadow sets foot on the island, perfectly timed to Knuckles’s schedule, right when he goes out to train halfway across the isle. Shrine Isle, floating and chained to Angel Island, has changed. The pillars and shrine are crumbling, the stone ruining as they talk.

In his hand is the clay band. After returning to his time, a lengthy report to his commanding GUN officer about his romp through space and time and extracting a promise that he would not be forced to do so again, Shadow ordered a replacement inhibitor ring. The second it came out of the press, he took it up and slipped off the clay band.

He held it for a while, staring at it and found himself here.

He climbs up the same stairs he climbed what was perhaps days or centuries ago. At the top, he sees the quelled, quiet water that runs through the shrine.

“Shadow.”

He hears her voice and fights a smile.

“Didn’t expect to see me, did you?”

“You had me waiting long enough.”

A small red ball of light appears before him. It zips around him in a circle then stops.

“I had some things to do first, but I keep most of my promises.”

The light turns bright white then she appears, unchanged from when he met her. His eyes trail down to her right wrist, where the busted ring remains. “So you do. That brings me joy.”

“I came to return something to you.”

“So I see.” Tikal says before sitting down before the Master Emerald. “I thank you.”

She takes the band from him, restores it to her wrist and holds his busted ring.

“I can dispose of that at my workplace.”

“No.” Tikal says softly. “I’d like to keep it.”

“Don’t tell me you have fond memories.”

“I do!” Tikal exclaims. “Will you deny me them?”

Shadow remains quiet.

“Just as I thought.” Tikal laughs. “Knuckles is busy training, then I believe Mr Sonic and Tails are coming to take him to socialize. And Chaos will go to see the Chao shortly. I’d happily take some company.”

Shadow sits down beside her. “Well then, tell me about the last three thousand years.”

She smiles and moves closer to him, closing the years-long distance between the two.

#Shadikal #Shadow/Tikal #tikal the echidna #shadow the hedgehog #There was an influx of art and it awakened something inside my soul yall #yoto #year of the otp

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circa-specturgia · 2 years

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Hello, hello~! Happy wbw to you. What is some of your favorite world building details from each of your projects? What makes them stand out in that world?

Hmm… This is one I had to think about but I’ll try and keep it brief and not get too carried away… I tend to do that a LOT and end up with posts I work on for like, a week, which is kinda tough when I got a bunch of asks I still want to answer cause they’re all so fun! ✨

So, let’s get to it! Thanks for this ask @ren-c-leyn! ✨✨✨

Circa Specturgia

I’ll list three, if that’s ok, since Circa is my most fleshed-out WIP! Storms/clouds, Lavenda, and Vælan ocean-faring vessels!

The world of Istra is one with a far higher water/land percentage than earth, with far deeper oceans too, a dozen kilometers or more. Thus, the cloud cover in the atmosphere is also far different than that of earth! Instead of wide spreading wispy clouds, clouds more often form as mountainous masses in the sky, like shifting islands… Some of these form charges, and evolve into Storms; wild and destructive hurricanes, forces of nature to the most literal degree! I like how I’ve managed to give some thought to it in terms of setting the tone of the setting, as well as adding cool history, like a city having an enchantment that keeps those away, and incorporating it into other areas, ie Stormwind! ✨

Lavenda is a plant that grows in abundance especially in Ahætiems inlands, the fields around the capital city’s lake nearly entirely overgrown by it! It’s purple flowers (like those shown above!) have a unique scent, along with being found to be both a substance which helps specters in their casting and focus! More recently, at the dawn of the technological revolution, researchers figured out how to process lavenda in order to make it into an extract combined with several other catalysts into a potent fuel! I don’t know why I chose lavender exactly as the flower for the setting, but it just fit. Maybe it was my mother paintings field of lavender that caught my eye, or the lavender lemonade I drank while on vacation in the mountains with friends, but either way, it was something I felt worked well and added a nice touch!

I’ve outlined a bit about the ships in this post, but I thought I’d mention it anyways! I’ve LOVED all sorts of magical ships in fiction, always, and Circa Specturgia continues to be a love letter to all the fiction I loved cause I just had to include some form of ship that’s not just normal. See the post for more info on em, but I guess what makes the Vælan ships stand out are their engineering, but also just their sheer SIZE, massive by comparison to any other vessels on the seas, capable of actually handling the open ocean and not just sailing alongside the shoreline.

Prometheus

The Visage Hall, at the Watchtower. A massive room used primarily for training and planning by the crew, in the heart of the complex known as the Watchtower, the Vanatean research facility and archive they discovered and reactivates. The room is massive, the size of a stadium, rectangular. It’s design is modular and able to be manipulated, in two key ways. The first is big alterations, changing the layout, such as adding a second level to the room on the perimeter, a walkway a few stories up, or forming a labyrinth! The second way is one using the nanotech and projection tech mastered by the Vanateans, which can be used to form hyperrealistic recreations of places, notably being able to recreate spaces from the memories of someone who is properly hooked up the the controls. A few characters use them to take some time off in places they find familiar from back on earth. Scents and sounds can also be manufactured, allowing for a faithful recreation of say, hiking through the redwood forests! While it’s a place often used for training, some of the characters use it as a place to take a break too, a brief moment of respite where they can forget the pressure and stress and feel like they’re back home on earth…

Untitled WIP

The Cars! Both cars in my little snippet I wrote one a whim as the idea for the WIP had been plaguing me use spherical wheels, as shown in (and inspired by) this video! Faulkner has a chassis of a 69’ Dodge Challenger and Vesper has one off of a ‘69 Corvette Stingray! I really like the design idea I have in my mind, maybe I’ll draw them sometime? There’s something about the idea of these heavily modded unique cars driving over the post-apocalyptic healing world that hits a Ghibli adventure note in me.

Hope this answered your question! It was fun to think about! ✨

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing community #writing #writing inspiration #writing thoughts #circa specturgia #wip.circa specturgia #wtwcommunity #answering asks #wip.prometheus #prometheus #wip

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fizzingwizard · 7 months

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all sims youtubers want to talk about is cars and fairies, cars and fairies. especially cars cars cars cars cars.

i do not want cars cars cars cars cars. i could care less about fairies. the cars thing in particular i dont understand. sims is not about to become an open world. the most you'll be able to do is drive slowly around your neighborhood. and only in certain worlds (there'd be absolutely no point in doing that in willow creek for example bahahaha). maybe they'll give us a track like the horse racing ones and you can watch the car just go around in circles destination nowhere. for real y'all what are you expecting from a cars pack??? inquiring minds want to know

what I do want ever so much:

MORE INSTRUMENTS. let me make a band. let me be a singer in the band!! expand the singing skill! expand the options on the microphone! karaoke does not cut it! really i just want garage band tho no get famous nonsense. let's busk in the park together. let me play more than just three string instruments x'D flute harmonica saxophone drum kit plz and thank u

more non-American/European locations. they honestly did a pretty decent job on mt komorebi. now how about a world where the beautiful architecture that came in the oasis whatever pack would fit right in? how about a jungle world which is themed around the people who actually live there and not indiana jones.

dine out refresh? uhhh how about REALM OF MAGIC complete redo? like this is the only thing that would sell me on fairies, if it overhauled the magic in the game completely. realm of magic was such a promising yet such an empty pack. I especially hate that your options are "be a nice wizard who cleans things and makes flowers grow" or "be evil," and 2/3 of the spells you can learn are evil spells. and yes your rep does take a hit if you cast evil magic. even if you do it for good (like lighting someone on fire because someone else just hit them with the freeze ray and they're encased in ice... oh you saved their life SO WHAT you still set them on fire you EVIL WIZARD you). like what.

gardening visuals overhaul. I'm stoked about the increased usage for gardening with the cooking skill updates. I just wish gardening looked nicer. the plants that came with base game pretty much look the same. that's why when builders on youtube make gardens and farms they use debug plants to make them look more realistic. the plants that came in cottage living are great. really wish they'd just update all the older visuals for gardening. at this point there's so many cottage-y garden-y games out there that have nice plants and flowers it's like sims y'all can't compete. which is a bummer because gardening is somehow a huuuge part of sims 4. (and while you're at it update the base game food visuals too!!)

rowboats. plus lakes and ponds updated so you can row out on them, and the ability to go fishing on the boat. i think you can on the island living boat?? i dont remember but anyway that boat is too huge for anywhere outside of sulani so how about they just grab one of the many debug rowboats and make it functional. please??? fishing skill would be so much more enjoyable if i could do it in a boat instead of just standing in one spot.

okay my real wish is more boats in general this is really specific but i would buy a boat pack lightning fast. give me kayaking give me white water rafting give me going over a waterfall in a barrel hahahaha. i used to love going out in boats rl but it's now been many years since I had the opportunity. please let me live vicariously through my sims ;_;

new cool rewards in the vein of storm chaser and stuff would be nice...

I know I've made a post juuuust like this before and probably make one like clockwork every time people start going off about cars and fairies cars and fairies. but my wishes, as well as cars and fairies, remain unanswered. so here we are :P

#sims #sims 4 #there is so much in the world that its impossible for everything we want to appear in the game i know that but #so much of the whimsy is gone from sims games and the lack of real unicorns in horse ranch is proof #altho if there is a fairy pack maybe unicorns will show up then. i dont really care just saying all hope is not lost for the unicorn lovers #theres quite a divide between realistic packs and fantastical pack which makes it difficult to let them overlap whimsically the way we want #like how come cooking skill wasnt used to flesh out the magic skill!!!!!#herbalism is so pack specific that its a real pain to do!!!!

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hwandorp · 2 years

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Hello! This rp looks so great. i hope you get the apps you need soon. do you mind explaining more about the bash app please? also is there a magical wifi or internet thats only used by students?

hello anon, definitely can do!

and that's very sweet of you, thank you! we're hoping that we receive the number of apps to complete the 10 soon too!

i do apologize as the reply did get a bit lengthy. a majority of it pertains to the bash app and the wifi is addressed in the bottom section!

bash app

for the bash app, it was originally created with the intention of spreading news instantly. despite printing magic paper, just like generations grow and things change, students began to lose more interest in having physical papers to read when they could just text each other details.

alumni choi yushin created the app with intentions to help the newspaper club start spreading news around quicker about things pertaining to campus and any big issues regarding the city of hwando that pertained to students well-beings. as all things develop though, the app soon changed gears and direction as those with access to the app realized they were definitely gaining more traction, but only about things that seemed gossip worthy.

essentially, it was updated into a magic social media app where students could start making their own posts and sharing things online, by popular demand. this as well considering that yushin didn't want it to be a complete app dedicated to gossip on only students' lives especially if a lot of them were groundless and harmful rumors.

what makes the bash app unique to modern day social media is that there are magical features to it! the magic features require things such as using your wand as another authentication feature to login to your user. yushin also figured out a way to program allowing charm spells to be sent and received through private messaging such as sending a small rain cloud, flowers, birds, etc that would cast upon the message being opened.

as for the main account, that's the entire secret. no one is able to view or access the main account. gossips, reveals, secrets, everything comes at random times of the day through it and disappears without a trace after a certain amount of time. sometimes these posts are made available to everyone, other times, only to certain individuals. considering the origin of its creation, it's rumored that the members of the technology club are the ones who have control of the main account.

wifi

lastly, as for wifi, what's used is definitely the same as muggle wifi, however with magic amplifications on it! with hwando's growing developments of magic and technology, they've found a way to widen wifi usage at the same speed all across the island. this means that wifi is technically free and gives everyone the ability to automatically connect or disconnect.

additionally, the amplifications of muggle wifi allows its users to access the newly created wizarding web ( also developed by a team lead under choi yushin ). the wizarding web is basically like the regular web but for wizards and witches! this definitely helps in modern times for magical classes when one needs to search up if a certain spell exists or not. disconnecting from the amplified wifi will take away access to the wizarding web however and allow the user to access the muggle's internet.

if you have any other questions about the bash app or the magic wifi and wizarding web, please feel free to send in another ask!

— admin emerald

#hwnanswered #krp #kpop rp #hp rp

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professorthaddeus · 3 years

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Mother, Father. This will be my final letter.

You know, I used to find the two of you everywhere. I would see the love I betrayed in the faces of families who are whole. I would hear your terrified screams in laughter. I would see your bodies twisted in agony in the flickering of a campfire. I would feel your blood on my hands every time I cast a spell.

I would find you everywhere, and so I held fast to the possibility that I would bring you back.

Today, I relinquished the chance of it ever becoming a reality.

I could have gone back and saved you. It would have worked. There were puzzle pieces in that chamber that I would have clicked into place; there was magic buried in those relics that I would have unlocked and unleashed.

I would have joined the ranks of mages of myth. I could have unraveled everything.

The chamber is nothing but ashes now.

I still find the two of you everywhere. Your dreams for my potential are in the spells I learned from Essek. Your hope for the Empire is in Beauregard’s pen as she fights for our people, stroke by stroke. Your love is in the grin that Veth shines on her son when he fires a toy crossbow at the ass of a local shopkeeper.

I miss you. I love you. I am sorry.

I hope I can still make you proud.

Caleb closes that worn, leather-bound book for the last time. Tucks it back beneath his arm, stands, walks to the entryway of his tower. His hand shakes as he reaches for the handle.

Well, you and the Nein got me to the door. Now I have to walk through it.

He takes a deep breath, then takes his first step outside.

He arrives in Blumenthal alone, visits their graves, leaves his letters in the ground.

And he gets to work. But in this, he is not alone.

Beauregard is there, matching every armload of books he carries with two of her own. They spend their days compiling records and narratives, wielding the truth both in court and behind the scenes—children of the Empire leaving their home better than they found it for the children who will come after them, just as they always vowed.

What wasn’t planned is this: a couple times every week, Beauregard drags Caleb out of the library. They teleport to a remote cottage in a location that few are privy to, where Yasha will have started preparing the ingredients for a new recipe from Caduceus. The instructions are often passed through a jumbled chain of Jester’s messages, and there always seem to be a suspicious number of bugs included for supposedly vegetarian dishes, but they make it work all the same. On more than a few occasions, Caleb plays referee while Beauregard and Yasha spar, safe in the knowledge that their attacks are of their own free will and they will never truly harm each other again.

Jester and Fjord spend much of their time on the open sea, but Jester’s voice is never far from Caleb’s ear. She tells him of everything from her newest tattoo victim to an encounter with a dragon turtle with a grudge, from a shanty about dicks she came up with on the fly to an update on a young half-orc girl Fjord has taken under his wing. Every once in a while, Jester will demand a reunion, too. Some of them are out of necessity—such as when Uk’otoa finally comes knocking and Fjord can no longer sail the other away—but many are not. They meet in Nicodranas when the Nein Heroez docks for a pastry run, they meet in Hupperdook for a night packed with drinking contests and celebone sticks and hugs for Kiri, they meet on Rumblecusp when life becomes too much and the nine of them sorely need to fuck off to a vacation. Soon, even Darktow is open to them, once Kingsley has unseated the Plank King and lifted their ban from the island. His reign is long, and it is magnificent. Until he grows bored.

Caduceus joins them for every mandated reunion, but for the most part, he tends to his garden or explores the world on his own. But he is never out of reach, and when he does not come to the rest of them, they go to him. It is not uncommon for Caleb to arrive in the Blooming Grove to see Beauregard already meditating by the pond. Other times, Fjord will be there drinking tea with Caduceus, and the three of them will share a quiet conversation, each far more secure in their words than they’d been over fish and chips all those years ago. Often it is just Caduceus and his parents and siblings, and Caleb will be invited to a family dinner in a home that Ikithon could not burn down.

Veth remains a constant in Caleb’s life. Of course she does. Sometimes, when the two of them are teaching the neighborhood kids how to point a copper wire, or reminiscing over a glass of sherry, or simply talking while she weaves flowers into his hair on the beaches of Nicodranas, he’ll think back to his old fears of losing her to her family and laugh. After all, how could such a thing be possible when he is a part of her family himself?

There are others, too.

Countless students who pass under his tutelage and grow into young mages who know that power should be used to protect, not to manipulate. A cat—well, there are many cats, but there is one in particular that Caleb does not own, a snowy white fey cat who slinks in and out of his classroom as he pleases, whose eyes seem to flash when the Martinet arrives to have a word, who settles into place around Caleb’s shoulders with a purr when the rare nightmare returns.

An unexpected kinship with Yeza, forged at first through mutual respect and an understanding in their love for Veth, but eventually growing into a friendship in its own right. It is one that unfolds in quiet nights by stacks of books, in gleeful debates when comparing notes on magic and alchemy, in exhausted evenings watching over Luc together while Veth takes a girls’ night out to cause some chaos with Jester, Beauregard, and Yasha.

His old friends, who, try as they might, never seem able to sever the threads that have always tangled their fates together. It is Eadwulf who comes around first, with the silent offering of a bottle and a grim smile as he and Caleb crumble the bricks of Vergesson to dust. Astrid takes time. It makes sense—she has always been a fantastic dancer, and for a while, it appears they will be trapped in a precarious political tango forever, stepping around each other in their roles as the Archmage of Civil Influence and a simple teacher who may or may not be practicing treason in his classroom. But in the shadows, Astrid pulls a few strings to keep Caleb out of prison. Caleb hears a rumor and sends the might of the Cobalt Soul after a colleague who wants Astrid dead. And eventually, she begins joining him and Wulf on their evening walks through the streets of Rexxentrum. They return to the dance hall. They get lunch. They share memories, relearn each other’s old scars, and discover that solace can still be found in each other the way it was when they were children. It will always be complicated. It starts to become beautiful.

And of course, floating by Caleb’s side every step of the way is Essek, a drow who has learned to curb his ambition and care for others, who has decided to make his own amends. The former Shadowhand to the Bright Queen, who now spends his days picking up cupcakes for Jester in Uthodurn, planting seeds in the Blooming Grove. Sitting in on Caleb’s lessons with a different face each week, sketching runes into the floor of Caleb’s home amongst scattered papers and spell components, curling up on a couch beside Caleb and begrudgingly getting through Tusk Love because he promised. A traitor, a hero, a lifelong friend. A steadfast love.

So when Caleb Widogast arrives at the final page of his story, he is no longer shrouded in guilt, or grief, or regret. No, he is surrounded by the warmth of his chosen family when he takes his last breath, when time has run its course and he is finally ready to meet his parents again.

(And even before he sees their faces, he knows. He knows he made them proud.)

—————

also on ao3 | my other cr fics

#critical role #caleb widogast #mighty nein #empire siblings #shadowgast #blumendrei #cr spoilers #c2e141 #this is very delayed because i've been too busy to sit down and finish it until now and it's kind of a mess #buuut here tumblr have half my feelings about the finale and the nein crammed into one fic #my writing #my ramblings #c2 epilogue #cr fic

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vickarieo · 2 years

Text

Tavoro Waterfalls

Stepping out a cloud of beauty

Iris expands to spectate a spectacular being in a rare state

Androstadienone perfume pouring purring prowling for a playmate

Shedding old woes but garbed in the skin of a snake

Geometrics couldn't define this shape

Lost with no map in a euphoric state

She actually showed up, wipes sweat

This was no play-date though a tad bit late

Nervously taking her hand upon mine

Star stuck by the dense shine, radiance

Can't believe presented to such divinity so intrigued and into me

Thanks and praise to the highest! The divine!

Instantly bragged to close mates

As we do online with pictures of abroad of trips we know most, can't afford

Sharing both our deepest thoughts

With her worth outshining any flaw

The love boat anchored trying to pull us aboard

She brought up past struggles

Reminded me of the old strength

The hustle it took to recollect common pieces of sense

The Biblical swords that set ablaze then sent dem back to the fire

And the regret of not being able to reciprocate

How much I appreciated it all

To have a world in hand but lose grip

Afraid to touch the sun

But basking in its light

Dancing in the moon

Yet casted shadows trigger fear

But by moonlight and sunlight and storm front

I sail...

Arriving in Mai Island at random

As if the whole island drove up to my front door

After a lightyear afloat

I kissed the shores of this land untouched by man

In what seemed to be ages

Almost lost my will sailing east

Somewhere on the pacific to be specific

No water in what seemed like, almost dying of thirst

I saw light cascading off waterfalls somewhere over yonder in the distance

After just a bit of skin stroking through thick tree trunks I gently massaged

Kissing and nibbling on the fruits of my labor

A matter of seconds seemed like an eternity

The beauty was not in the doors of the palace but what lay beyond

Sailing through The Jade pool

Hiking mountains to the rare Tagimoucia flower

I could sit back and stare for hours

What is this wonderland almost forgetting, I'm still dying of thirst

Traversing crevasses with tongue out as cave walls drip

I stumble upon a clear lake, in my hands I take

Without a doubt, I taste the purest water🥴

I push in my face in beard dripping

Gorging myself full

Only thought was to lick, suck, drink and hydrate

To shower in the waterfalls

Wishing I had bottles to take

The purest essence of this lake

To foreign lands near and far

Not to share but to sip

To remind me of this place of bliss

The perfect ph of 7

If drowned in that lake

Sure you'll still wake in heaven

I couldn't get enough but I wasn't ready to stay

I had plans to go back with materials

I promised I would make

A house around where I could grow old

But what I did wrong was sail away without making

Any claim to those lands

I return and another man has

Seemed to find that magical place

Overheard in folklore the island calls out to certain righteous men

To traverse its curves and find his own way in

I do not know if he has gotten that far at all

In spite, I hope he never finds the waterfalls

The secret of the islands mind is not for lighthearted

I wish I went in whole sail and found myself boring children of the call

I swore to cuddle those shores till death made them home

Should have been a legend with pictures painted in halls

A great discoverer, of uncharted beautiful lands

I sail on

But its not a second I wish I had never left

Tavoro Waterfalls.

#poem #poetry #she was pretty #she was nice #she was beautiful #fiji #fiji water #this ones for you #you #love and lost

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beansbeware · 3 years

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Beans’ Bagginshield Recs

Here it is! My first rec list eight years since I first started shipping Bagginshield. When this lockdown started (and ended and started again) I found myself re-reading OG/classics and discovering new ones. Sifting through my AO3 history I realized I have read and already forgotten so much fic over the years. For a while, I though the ship had run its course but as we can see now, Bagginshield lives! Check back for updates as I discover (and remember) more fics. Pay attention to the tags and trigger warnings!

I Sang In My Chains Like The Sea by orphan_account for lincesque, IronPanda

In which Bilbo is a Jaeger pilot candidate, and Middle Earth stands on the brink of destruction. (Pacific Rim AU) [Wasn’t sure how this one worked but man it did]

At the Turn of the Year by northerntrash

They say that strange things live in the woods, fair folk and things more spirit than man; don't step between the old oaks, parents mutter to their children, or they might find you, and eat you. Thorin never believed that, but now winter is settling into his bones, the shadows are growing longer through the hoar frost, and he is lost among the trees.

And it was there that Thorin met him, that strange, laughing creature, walking barefoot through the bracken.

Canon-ish

Homeward Bound by perkynurples for 61Below

His life slips away from him on an elven boat carrying him overseas, and there is one last journey Bilbo Baggins must take if he truly means to arrive home.

Sansûkh by determamfidd

The battle was over, and Thorin Oakenshield awoke, naked and shivering, in the Halls of his Ancestors.

The novelty of being dead fades quickly, and watching over his companions soon fills him with grief and guilt. Oddly, a faint flicker of hope arises in the form of his youngest kinsman, a Dwarf of Durin's line with bright red hair.

(Follows the story of the War of the Ring).

The Great Shire Conspiracy by Avelera for Emsiecat

Ten years later, Bilbo can't even go to the Green Dragon without a dwarven tourist buying him a beer and sobbing over Bilbo's great tragic love affair with Thorin Oakenshield. Which would all be quite touching and heartbreaking, if not for one little thing...

Dark (generally not a fan but this one made the cut)

Pain-Bearer by lilithiumwords (unfinished)

In an alternate reality, Erebor was never taken by Smaug, and the War of Dwarves and Orcs never happened. The Orcs invaded the Shire, slaughtering hundreds and taking countless more as slaves. Bilbo is slave to Azog, the Dwarf King's mortal enemy... until the Dwarf King rescues him.

Dwarves! in the Shire

Selling to Hobbits by HildyJ

Exiled from his kingdom and living on the mercy of others, Thorin is determined to make his own way in the world for him and his family. And the annual Summer Fair in Hobbiton sounds like the best place to sell enough of his crafted goods to do just that.

Oak and Mistletoe by HildyJ (series)

After a life dominated by a strange form of sickness, Thorin is sent to the Shire to seek a cure only Bilbo Baggins can offer.

Erebor - Nope, Never Fell

A Most Sensible Idea by HildyJ

Bilbo Baggins isn't sure about this. Not one bit.

Frodo is definitely too young to enter into an arranged marriage with a dwarven king called Thorin Oakenshield. It's a good thing that Bilbo is there to chaperone him through their courtship.

After all, there's no chance that a fussy hobbit bachelor would ever catch the eye of a king.

Signs and Meanings by HildyJ

It shouldn't matter to Thorin that the visiting hobbit cook doesn't speak his language. But it does.

Per Aspera by northerntrash

Deep in the dungeons of the Kingdom of Erebor, in an old, unused storeroom, lived a Hobbit.

In which Bilbo Baggins, a strangely successful thief, makes a mistake, and meets a Prince.

Erebor - Rebuilding

Mother-Tongue by northerntrash for HildyJ

Forget-me-not: a small flower, with four petals, which are normally found in shades of blue with a pink or white centre. These are traditional flowers of intent in the Shire, used to express true love, and remembrance.

In which Bilbo plans to leave Erebor, and Thorin tries to understand why.

Previous Engagements by Lunarflare14

After the Battle of Five Armies Thorin and Company have a new task: rebuilding their reclaimed home. Suddenly Bilbo finds himself up to his ears in responsibility and he surprises himself with how well he can navigate negotiations with elf dignitaries, farmers in Dale, and a dwarf king who has patience for neither.

But as Spring approaches a caravan from the Blue mountains brings something everyone had nearly forgotten: the dwarf woman Thorin promised his hand to many years ago.

Which is fine. It's all fine. It wasn't like Bilbo was falling in love with the king or anything.

That would be tragic.

And I'm Your Lionheart by Lee_Whimsy

Bilbo lingers in Erebor while Thorin recovers from his wounds, and soon finds himself caught up in politics, romance, and the occasional kidnapping. Ensemble cast. AU. Eventually Thorin/Bilbo.

Fix-Its (Gawd we need them)

An Expected Journey by MarieJacquelyn

For years Bilbo has written about his adventures and told stories about his dealings with dwarves and dragons. To most it seemed like fanciful nonsense but to Bilbo it was all very real. A weight followed him home from his travels, one called regret. Now in his final moments Bilbo has a choice to make – go quietly into death’s embrace or go back again and face all the fear and pain for the chance to make things right?

Of course, change is a fickle thing and not everything can be done again as Bilbo is about to find out. In the end, it may not only be salvation that he’s fighting for.

though the stars walk backward by baggvinshield, killaidanturner

Bilbo wakes, always in Erebor, with dark shadows to one side and the first light of a terrible dawn to the other.

An Expected Journey by MarieJacquelyn

Of course, change is a fickle thing and not everything can be done again as Bilbo is about to find out. In the end, it may not only be salvation that he’s fighting for.

Over Your Shoulder by northerntrash

The battle is over, and the lost have been counted. There is too much death, too much blood, and in the middle of it sits one small Hobbit, left quite alone but for a body on the ground and the memory of what might have been. But he is a tenacious creature, and if there is one thing that he has learnt, it is not to give up hope.

In which Bilbo Baggins goes on one last journey, and doesn't come back alone.

Historical Setting

The Ghost And Mr Baggins by perkynurples

They say that everything can be cured by saltwater - sweat, tears or the sea. Bilbo Baggins chooses the last option, taking his recently orphaned nephew and moving to the charming Oak Cottage, overlooking England’s grislier shores. The house charms him instantly, and though he knows nothing at all about the sea, or about making ends meet on his own so far from everything he’s known his whole life for that matter, he’s quite determined to stay, and see his nephew get better, odd sounds in the night be damned. He’s living in a modern world, after all, and the nonsense he’s been hearing about the house being haunted by its former owner, the mysterious Captain Durin, is just silly superstition… isn’t it?

Hobbit! Thorin

I've Grown a Hedge Around My Heart by pibroch (littleblackdog)

Thorin Brandybuck, just recently come of age, still lives in his family’s smial in Buckland, with his parents and two younger siblings. Thorin is an odd duck amongst his relations and neighbours-- unsociable, grumpy, shy, and awkward. And beyond that, he looks rather strange even for a Bucklander, strongly favouring the thick, dark haired build of his Stoorish blood.

It defies all sense and reason why Bilbo Baggins, an exemplar of all the respectable traits Thorin lacked, would ever desire a friendship with him.

Bilbo, as Thorin discovers, is not always as sensible as he appears.

Marriage (or something like it)

An Unexpected Proposal by Eareniel

As Bilbo sat smoking in his empty hobbit hole, he couldn’t help but wonder – when did his life become so boring? Or better yet – when did his old life stop being enough?

He suspected the answer to that question lay somewhere around the time when he had refused Thorin Oakenshield’s offer of marriage.

Something Blue by Lapin

Thorin marries Bilbo after the Battle of Five Armies, a marriage of convenience, not love. Slowly, they must come to make the best of it, Bilbo resolves. After all, he's a Hobbit. They make the best of things.

Magical/Super Powers

On Adventures and Other Forms of Conduct Unbecoming of a Wizard by manic_intent for beingevil

For as long as even the old Gaffer could remember there had been a wizard living in the hill at Bag End, overlooking the Shire. As wizards went, this one wasn't the wandering sort, always out to lure gentle folk out onto nasty adventures, or even the powerful kind, the sort that lived in high towers, reaching out into the ways of the world.

Modern Setting

Old Stone, New Fires by northerntrash

Bilbo was not sure what he had expected when he had agreed to supervise the restoration of Erebor House, on the lonely tidal island in the North sea, but it was not this. The winters up here are cold and harsh, and there is a strange feeling on the air, thick with the brine of the sea and secrets to which he is not privy; there is some part of the long and troubled history of the place that has not been spoken of, a shadow between the broken family gravestones and the caves beneath the cliffs, dark and dangerous.

Perhaps it is all in Bilbo’s mind, but as the nights grow longer, he starts to doubt it, and as Thorin sinks ever deeper into black and incalculable moods, he will have to find what has been lost, before it takes them all.

For This by northerntrash

Thorin Durin had lived in his new flat for approximately eighty four minutes when things started to go terribly, terribly wrong. The wrongness came in the form of a package, delivered to his door, wrapped in brown paper and string, with a small tag wishing him a very sincere welcome to the building.

Nothing Gold Can Stay by perkynurples

Bilbo Baggins led a rather peaceful life, thank you very much, until an old acquaintance decided to turn it upside down, and he found himself agreeing to take a job that’s… let’s say not exactly up his alley, and might eventually cost him a little more than his treasured cozy lifestyle. Who would have thought tutoring a slightly menacing monarch’s more than slightly overbearing nephew could prove to be such an adventure?

Love-In-Idleness by perkynurples

Taking Bilbo Baggins, a successful movie actor who is only just getting used to the perks and intricacies of becoming A Face People Want To See, and putting him together with Thorin Oakenshield, with his very traditional (read: slightly backwards) ideas about what constitutes Real Art and Real Talent, might very well be viewed as just some clothead’s idea of a joke. But there are jokes, and then there are carefully calculated risks the size of controversial reproductions of classic Shakespearean plays - for Bilbo, it is the chance of a lifetime to prove himself to all those who have ever deemed him too one-dimensional to even attempt stage, while Thorin has the opportunity to get out of the rut that’s been hindering his career for so long now, and shine in a role worthy of his talent once again. That is if the two learn how to share the same space for more than ten minutes without wanting to tear each other’s hair out. The course of true love never did run smooth, after all…

If There Were Water by stickman

Bilbo Baggins might be in over his head. He’s purchased an old stone house atop a hill overlooking a city he doesn’t know, and plans to live quietly, largely ignoring the rest of the world. But it’s early April, the rainy season, and the roof leaks, and there's something strange about Bywater House that he can't quite figure out.

Thorin Oakenshield is in his fourth month of trying to reconcile his own grief with his failures at anything remotely resembling a competent single parent, living out of a shoebox flat with Fíli (seven, sullen, and stubborn as hell) and Kíli (five, resilient but cracking), working crap jobs and hating everything including himself.

Under the cover of rainy afternoons and sleepless nights, roof repairs and building restoration, Bilbo and Thorin try to figure out how one navigates isolation, and how one breaks out of it. Every step they manage to take forward finds them dragged back again; every question asked has too many answers, or too few. This is a story about living in a world where everyone is on their own, always, and how things go on.

How the West Was Won and Where It Got Us by stickman

Bilbo is a harried 1st year British literature Ph.D. (early 20th century fiction) who happens to have an interest in spatial narrative structures, a lack of time-management skills, and a tiny apartment with a lot of books and very little furniture. He’s stressed, always, and doesn't quite know where he belongs. He tells himself that really, this is, in fact, what he wants to be doing. But sometimes, as much as he loves books, he gets an urge to do something with his hands.

Thorin is a disgruntled M.Arch. 1 in his last year who can’t be arsed to shave and frightens his students, and, frankly, his profs, but his work is top-notch so no one can really say much. They can, however, bully him into running a hands-on design workshop on Saturday mornings, which is complete crap, because he’s used to drinking his Friday nights into oblivion so showing up at Milstein at 7:45 the next morning and trying to teach in a room of wall-to-wall windows as the sun rises is not at the top of his list. Besides, no one ever shows up.

Except one morning, someone does.

The Boy You Met (At The Coin Laundry) by Lee_Whimsy

Bilbo accidentally spends a summer in Ireland. One rainy day, Thorin appears in the hotel laundry room, naked and dripping wet and about to propose. (But not, unfortunately, to Bilbo.)

Gandalf, Thranduil, and a handful of Spanish footballers all guest-star.

Hooked On You by Chamelaucium

Thorin should have learnt not to trust his brother and sister by now.

Come with us on holiday, they’d said. It’ll be fun, they’d said. A nice break from work.

Yeah right. All this holiday had brought him was being knocked around the head, acute hay-fever, and the biggest, most ridiculous crush ever on the cute, golden-haired fishing instructor.

One-Sided Conversations by northerntrash

"Thank you for listening," Thorin said, getting to his feet. "I hope to be able to return the favour, one day."

The man on the bed didn't respond, but since he'd been in a coma for longer than Thorin had known him, that wasn't entirely surprising.

“One”/Soulmates

you lick your lips (you taste like years of being alone) by perkynurples for stopchasingflowers

Thorin Oakenshield was born without the longing, and has spent his whole life merely observing others as they pursued a feeling unknown to him until they finally found their One. He has made his peace with the prospect of being alone, and has been faring well enough, but little does he know the fates have a different story in store for him.

Things We Grow Together by serenbach

Dwarves are born with a bone-deep knowledge of their One, but Thorin stops feeling the pull of his after the dragon attacks Erebor. Needless to say, he is surprised, and not initially pleased, to find his One living behind a round green door decades later.

Hobbits find a seed that represents their innermost self and can offer it to someone else to plant. This creates a bond as strong as deep roots in the earth between them. It is just like Bilbo, after years of thinking that no one would want his, to offer his soul-seed to a dwarf that does not understand gardening metaphors.

But just because they have found each other does not make the quest to reclaim Erebor any easier, and in the end a sacrifice is still made.

Thorin has to trust in the strength of the bond between himself and his One, because otherwise he will never believe that the sacrifice was worth it.

Colour-struck by northerntrash

Soul mates are like adventures, Bilbo had often consoled himself. Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things that made you late for dinner. It was no great hardship that he had never met his, even if he couldn't tell which of his petunias were blue and which were purple.

Quest-ions

Discovering Mr Baggins by Eareniel

The story of a Hobbit, told through the eyes of the dwarves.

Thorin Oakenshield's Majestic Diary by Fruitsie

Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain and Totally Majestic Badass of Middle Earth, does not have a raging hard-on for Bilbo Baggins.

No, seriously.

Just read his diary.

Call You Home by northerntrash

In which the Company are entirely too nosy about matters that are supposed to be a secret, and Bilbo learns that being concerned about propriety is overrated when you could be making friends instead.

Time Travel (because walking Middle Earth is not enough)

Of an Arcane Binding by Salvia_G

An inexplicable magic ties Bilbo Baggins, hobbit of the Shire, to Thorin, dwarven prince of Erebor

#bagginshield #thorin x bilbo #the hobbit #fic rec #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield

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pocketseizure · 3 years

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The Flower Thief

A young boy comes to Hyrule and meets a princess with a terrible destiny.

Or, Ganondorf visits Hyrule for the first time as a child and falls in love with the green and beautiful land, even as he is warned away by the woman who will become Zelda’s mother.

This story was written for Ties of Time, an Ocarina of Time and Majora's Mask fanzine, which you can find on Twitter (here). The story is also (on AO3).

. . . . . . . . . .

Ganondorf had never been beyond the mountains separating the desert from the plains. The road from the fortress to the waystation was, if not well-traveled, safe enough for a child in the company of an escort. He’d crossed the bridge leading to the canyon pass a few times, always pausing to peer down through the railings at the great river rushing along the gully below, but this was the first time he was allowed to accompany a caravan through the Gerudo Valley pass and into Hyrule.

He thought he knew what to expect from Hyrule. He’d heard all manner of stories from travelers, and he was given Hylian books to study as he learned the language. Yet as the red earth and dry gravel gave way to healthy swards of grass, he could not open his eyes wide enough to take it all in. There was so much green, so much luxury.

The climate changed as the caravan traveled east. The mornings were cool but not cold, and the days were warm but not hot. The sun was veiled by clouds that drifted like floating islands across the blue sea of the sky, dappling the light into gentle shadows.

Ganondorf was not prepared for the rain. Everyone took notice when the afternoon became dark and the air grew heavy, but no one seemed concerned. He was familiar with the storms that pummeled the open desert, fierce and veined with jagged lightning, and he was afraid of what the blanket of clouds might portend. He was even more afraid of the disdain of the adults, however, so he held his tongue. If he cried when the first drops fell on his skin, each tiny splash as soft as the finest silk, his tears went unremarked.

Vast fields spread before him as they rode east. Brightly colored wildflowers pushed their way through the tall grass on leafy stems, and the wind was fragrant with the sweet smell of growing things. The caravan turned north at the first ranch they encountered, skirting along the low fence marking its perimeter. Ganondorf was amazed to find that the crooked and neglected fenceposts were made of wood. He realized that, to the local farmers, timber must be far more common than stone. As their party joined the main road, the trees grew larger and the flowers became even more colorful. The early summer greenery seemed almost blasphemous in its profusion. Stalks of young wheat swayed in the breeze, and cows dotted the rolling plains.

At last, upon ascending the crest of a low hill, Ganondorf saw Hyrule Castle, its spires stretching bravely into the sky. This architectural feat would have been impossible in the desert, where the gale winds would quickly strip the tiles from the towers if lightning didn’t strike them first. The town spilling down from the castle walls was just as bold. Roads and houses spread along the wide valley of a river with no regard for how disaster might strike and send the water roiling from its banks at any given change of the weather. Hyrule was, he thought, a miracle.

Once the road approaching the castle town began to grow crowded, one of Ganondorf’s aunts pulled him aside as they watered their horses. “You must dress as we do,” she said. “The people of this kingdom are guided by superstition, and they will not look kindly on someone that they cannot fit into the stories they tell themselves. You will be in danger if anyone learns that you are different from us, and we may not always be able to protect you,” she warned him as she twisted his hair into a high ponytail and secured it with a jeweled band.

Taking care not to be noticed, Ganondorf exchanged his robes for loose pants and a sleeveless tunic. He had learned to appreciate being seen as special, but there had always been a part of him that wanted to dress like the girls his age. The thought occurred to him that perhaps it was only in Hyrule that he could be normal. Ganondorf resolved to use this situation to his advantage. He would break off from the group as soon as it was expedient to do so.

The women shed their travel cloaks in Castle Town as they merged into the throng of people converging in the central market plaza. Zora and Gorons jostled for place among the Hylians in front of the stalls, and Ganondorf spotted the leafy foliage of a few Deku Scrubs and even the broad shoulders of a Moblin. Almost no one paid any mind to the group of Gerudo that gradually split apart as they went their separate ways. A few people paused to cast glances in their direction, especially men, and Ganondorf’s companions seemed to enjoy the attention.

Ganondorf kept his own cloak drawn around his narrow shoulders. The bearded faces of Hylian men were strange to his eyes. He was disturbed by their large and clumsy hands, whose thick fingers sprouted coarse hair. Ganondorf didn’t want to attract their notice, and he was much more interested in seeing than being seen. He watched a team of laborers eating at the base of a tree emerging from the paving stones of the plaza, throwing their breadcrusts into a bed of flowers overgrown with weeds. In an alley leading away from the market, a woman emerged from her townhouse to throw water onto the cobblestones before whisking the puddle into a drain with a broom. And then, wonder of wonders, a fountain burbled its lazy jet of water toward the sky with no other purpose than to provide a pleasant breeze for the cat napping on its stone rim.

All of this was fascinating, yet Ganondorf was not satisfied. He wanted to see something even more rare and beautiful. If the town below the castle was filled with marvels, he could scarcely imagine what treasures might be contained within the castle itself.

It was not difficult to sneak past the guards posted along the outer wall. They were slow and he was small. Just to be safe, Ganondorf used his modest measure of magic to quiet his footsteps while shifting the color of his cloak to reflect his surroundings. He had a fair amount of practice evading the watchful eyes of his mothers and aunts, and he liked to think he was skilled at avoiding detection. Or perhaps it was simply the case that the soldiers standing at the castle gates did not expect anyone to enter. Perhaps they assumed that no one would dare.

The courtyard on the other side of the outer wall was surprisingly pedestrian. Wooden crates were piled near the servant entrances, and a small moat ran between uneven patches of grass that had been trampled by men and horses alike. Ganondorf challenged himself to make his way beyond the castle’s inner wall, which was somewhat trickier but not beyond his abilities. There wasn’t much to be seen here either, nothing more than a few narrow walkways lined with mossy stones sunken into the spongy earth between overgrown shrubs.

Ganondorf was disappointed. The curving rows of proud cypress trees surrounding the Gerudo fortress and the tiled mosaics glittering under its shaded awnings were much more impressive. Ganondorf paused at a muddy puddle lingering in the shadow of the castle’s mold-spotted wall. He debated whether to continue on or turn back, wondering if perhaps Hyrule’s beauty lay more in its wilderness than its towns. He decided that he had seen what he’d come to see. There was no need to remain here.

As he turned, Ganondorf caught a breeze that carried a sweet fragrance unlike anything he’d ever encountered. Intrigued, he followed the scent along the inner wall of the castle until he found himself at the gate of a secluded courtyard garden.

Tall bushes with glossy leaves separated the garden from the bare stone of the castle walls. Each of the bushes bore a profusion of white flowers as large as his palm. The scent was stronger here – richer than jasmine and as fresh as the sky after the rain.

Before he was aware of what he intended to do, Ganondorf found himself slipping his knife from the sheath at his belt to cut the thick woody stem of one of the flowers, whose petals spread elegantly from the golden shimmer of the nectar at its center. He had never seen anything so beautiful before, and he wanted to hold it. He sliced through its stem and watched as tiny beads of sap welled from the incision. As he withdrew his hand, clutching the flower alongside his knife, Ganondorf heard the soft murmur of a woman’s voice, quiet but resonant.

“He’s a good man, I think,” the voice said as it grew louder. “My honored mother wouldn’t have chosen him if he weren’t, Hylia rest her soul. He’s kind, and he has a strong will. And that’s the problem; that’s precisely the problem. He will make a good king. But then what need will there be for a queen?”

Ganondorf watched as a young woman stepped into the garden. The deep chestnut of her hair was accented by her dress, which was dyed with an indigo as deep as the sky at twilight. A white-haired woman of the same age trailed along behind her, as silent as a shadow.

“Tensions are mounting at our borders,” the woman continued, “and Hyrule does not need a king. Hyrule needs peace. I will do what I can, yet I worry about the signs in the stars…”

Ganondorf knew he should flee, but the princess was so beautiful in her garden that he couldn’t help but stare. It was like a scene from a fairy tale. He was transfixed.

A moment later the spell was broken, but it was a moment too long. Ganondorf pulled his foot back to retreat, but the princess’s Sheikah attendant was on him like a cat at the slightest hint of movement.

“What have we here?” she murmured, her voice as soft as velvet. “Such a pretty girl, with such a sharp blade.” The Sheikah bent his hand so that the bones of his fingers twisted. Ganondorf dropped his knife but managed to hold on to the flower.

“A girl after my own heart,” the princess remarked with laughter in her voice. “Bring her closer, Impa, if you will.”

The Sheikah released Ganondorf, but not before giving his hand another painful squeeze. The warning in her touch was clear. Ganondorf understood that he was trapped, utterly and completely. He waited for panic to rise in his throat, but it never materialized. He realized that he might be forced to remain here, with soft grass under his feet and the delicate scent of white flowers lingering in the air. Perhaps such a fate would not be so terrible.

“On a tour of the castle, were you?” the princess prompted.

“Who sent you?” the Sheikah hissed with narrowed eyes. “Tell us and you might survive.”

The princess raised her hand, and the Sheikah fell back.

“How do you find my castle?” the princess asked as she gestured to the flower in Ganondorf’s hand. “Do the gardenias please you?”

Ganondorf knew that neither force nor speed could extricate him from this situation. Words were the only thing that had any chance of saving him, but his tongue was like lead in his mouth. He could only gaze at the princess, who seemed to glow in the pale sunlight. His fingers tightened on the flower.

The princess saw this and smiled. “It seems a shame for us to keep all of these gardenias to ourselves,” she remarked, switching to fluent Gerudo. “We can stand to part with one. I hope you will consider it a gift, but take care not to touch it. Its petals will blacken at the slightest contact with your skin. The flowers cannot survive after they’re removed from the plant.”

She began to reach out, perhaps intending to draw Ganondorf’s hood away from his face, but she allowed her hand to drop to her side. “We will release you,” she told him, “but you must not be caught on your way outside the castle. Nothing will protect you should one of the soldiers find you within these walls.”

The princess smiled again, but her eyes were like ice. “There is nothing here to be stolen that cannot be freely given,” she said, “but remember always, child – Hyrule does not take kindly to thieves.”

Ganondorf did not need to be told twice. He turned and ran, bending to snatch his fallen knife from the grass as he fled from the princess and her garden.

He was careful not to touch the gardenia as he made his scurrying and surreptitious way back outside the castle, but the flower’s petals were already tinged an unhealthy shade of gray by the time he was able to stop to catch his breath. They had begun to curl at the edges, and their sweet smell had grown sour.

Now there was no reason not to touch the flower. Ganondorf stroked its smooth white petals and touched his nose to the golden center of its blossom as he crouched against a dirty wall in a back alley of the market. Even as its petals spoiled before his eyes, the gardenia was divine in its beauty.

Ganondorf used his knife to cut away the rest of the wooden stem and tucked the flower into an inner pocket of his tunic. He wanted the fading flower and the memory of the castle garden to be close to his skin. The furious beating of this heart had slowed now that the danger of being caught had passed, but Ganondorf was still haunted by the cold eyes of the princess.

He would have to be more careful next time.

#Legend of Zelda #Ocarina of Time #Zelda's mother #Impa #Ganondorf #young Ganondorf #Zelda fic #my fic #Ties of Time

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vampiresuns · 3 years

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Look After Your Dead

✴︎ LOOK AFTER YOUR DEAD ✴︎

In which Anatole is very bad at staying dead, and Amparo and Valerian Cassano look for him. 1.9k words. Art is ‘Fruit of Life’ by Megan Rieker. For Anatole’s Apprentice timeline, pre-game, compliant with all routes. Content warning(s): Death.

You can read the rest of Anatole’s apprentice timeline series here.

First came the silence. Both of them had promised themselves in their own way they would not check on Anatole while he was dead; or perhaps they would only to know if he was safe where the dead are supposed to be. He wasn’t, not for long. He had the energy of a wandering dead; a soul, or cumulus of former living energy, which was traversing through the realms still, albeit not because he didn’t know he was dead. On the contrary, like always, their Anatole felt like he was looking for answers — like he was waiting for something to begin, or something to click.

Second came the turning. Anatole was a restless yet restful dead. He didn’t come back to deliver any messages, he didn’t come to sit in anyone’s dreams. Both of them could tell it wasn’t because he didn’t want to do it, it wasn’t because he didn’t want to turn and tell them something they could only imagine. Anatole was still searching for something, and they both knew him enough (one saw him grow, the other grew up with him) to know Anatole would keep going, even if he turned his head to look back, until he found what he was looking for. Giving up was not in his vocabulary: if it were, he wouldn’t be dead.

Third came the jump. It would take both of them a while to realise what had truly happened. Valerian had never witnessed it before like this, Amparo had never witnessed it at all, used to the energy of those who were gone and came back as ghosts, or sometimes, never left, changing into something which shouldn’t walk their world. Those were the kind of changes in the dead that she was used to. This was different. It felt as if Anatole’s presence had jumped and relocated somewhere to never be found, somewhere which wasn’t the realm of the Dead.

In the magical realms, the person known as Aelius Anatole Radošević De Silva had climbed to the highest peak of the Fool’s realm. There he could see a dragon fly above his head, getting lost in the horizon while he stood alone in the overgrown island. The words had been clear: We will look after you, and then the Fool’s: When you’re ready, all you have to do is jump, I will be waiting.

Waiting for what? For whom?

For him, of course, he knew that. But where? And most importantly why?

He stared at the horizon as darkness faded, and the greyish first tints of sunrise left way to an explosion of colour, and as if the shoe he was waiting to drop finally hit him on the head, he laughed. The conclusion came to him like a realisation, and on top of a building that was once shaped like the Lazaret he cried. He only hoped his mother would forgive him for making her weep for however long. He would walk the clouds again, he would see the faces of the people he loved again, he would step on the cobblestones of Vesuvia and breathe again.

Giving up had never been in his vocabulary. All he had to do was jump.

“Am I dead?” He had asked, a year ago.

“Yes,” he had been answered. “But I do not think you’ll stay dead for long.”

He recalled that conversation as he drew a breath and, like a lover running to the arms of the subject of their affections, he ran to the edge of the precipice and jumped.

It took Amparo and Valerian about eight months to piece together what had happened and to dare say it to each other. The first clue came in the shape of energy, picked up by Amparo before Valerian could; energy which reassembled Anatole’s, was Anatole’s, but faded like a fire which stubbornly fights against its nature to be lit. Or perhaps, like a fire which does not have the right conditions to do so. Amparo had promised herself she would leave the dead alone, but she guessed that if the energy of the dead felt so alive, then she was allowed to look.

She didn’t do it immediately, too hurt, too scared for all of it to be wishful thinking. But what if it was him? What if it was him and he needed someone who knew how to transverse energy and life and death? Amparo felt she was justified enough to ‘create a tether’ between that energy and herself, a way of keeping tabs on her dead cousin.

That energy disappeared suddenly after three months, and reappeared two weeks after that just like it had gone: with no warnings. This was when Valerian picked it up too — the distinct energy of someone who had died and come back to life, someone who, against all odds had come back as themselves but didn’t know who they were yet. Valerian had never witnessed such a thing face to face, instead he had seen the results of it once when he was in his twenties. Most of the time necromancers did not interfere with the natural order of things, and when they did, it usually was for their own selfish reasons: a necromancer who did not understand that everyone eventually had to die was either a very incompetent necromancer, or a very dangerous necromancer.

It took both of them some time to raise the topic with each other. When they did, they felt like they could breathe again, like there was someone else to bear this weight with; Valerian was old, older than most, and while he had no intention of dying yet, he didn’t know if he could bear something like this alone again.

Their plan was to track the energy so they could come to the bottom of it, with Amparo doing the tracking and neither of them doing the talking, too aware of the negative consequences this could have. If they were wrong, they’d break their families hearts for nothing and they couldn’t do that to them, especially to Anatole’s parents, Valerius, Amparo’s own mother, Milenko or his friends. However, if they were right, Valerian had advised Amparo to tread with caution.

“Death is not a pause, but often a reset. How people come back, or how they remember who they are — if they remember at all — is a very delicate matter, my dear.”

Amparo now was one of the few living people who knew Valerian Cassano, former darling of Vesuvian theatre and window of Iovanus, former Consul, was a necromancer, but it seemed like a light secret to keep in comparison to the possibility of Anatole being alive. Without saying it, they both knew the secret would be their responsibility to keep, theirs to carry until they knew more of the situation. How had he come back, had there been side effects, was it really, truly him? Valerian explained to Amparo that there was a possibility the person who came back would look like Anatole without being Anatole: his entire personality and everything that made him himself misplaced, lost, as something new and alien took its stead. A new personality, for a new person.

Amparo hated to admit it made sense, even though she insisted this had to be Anatole, it felt too much like him. Even if it felt like he was coming from behind a veil, or from underwater. With a determination not even Valerian’s well-meaning advice could temper (though she accepted it, as she knew he cared deeply about Anatole) Amparo swore she would find her cousin. She owed it up to him.

“Valerian?” She said one day, after much thinking, finding the old man in the winter garden. “I think I know how to find him without being seen. I think we have to wake up Antu.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, Lele, darling.”

Valerian stood up with the help of his walking cane, moving towards the closest bed of flowers; Amparo rushed to help him kneel down, but he shook his head telling her to save it for when he had to stand back up. He ungloved one of his hands, handing the garment to Amparo as it revealed a perfectly youthful hand in its absence, the skin looking more like it belonged to a 20 year-old than a centenary, and counting, old man. When Valerian had stopped practising necromancy for his own reasons, all that pent up magic began working its way through the magician himself, or affecting his immediate surroundings.

One of those side-effects had been his abnormally young hands. The magic regenerated them on its own accord, the instrument it had been one casted with.

He cut a handful of flowers, and in their place new ones began to grow in a blink. “Here,” Valerian said after Amparo helped him up, “if I cut them, they will last a little longer.”

It was three o’clock, the Palazzo moving to the rhythm of its afternoon shift. Amparo would have to go through most of it in order to reach the small external garden it had, and from there she’d have to descend to the family’s mausoleum. Of course, Anatole’s actual body was missing. Or rather, it was nothing but charred bone so there had been no body to bury. As she made her way, no one from the staff stopped her, nor asked if she needed anything, the flowers on her hand were telling enough. She prayed to the Sun in high-heaven and the Moon looking after her that no one would.

Amparo also prayed she didn’t run into Anatole’s parents. Nothing would ruin her tries more than running into Louisa, or even worse, Vlad. Valerius was a different matter entirely, she was angry at him over some argument he had had with her mother in the Council, so while she had no desire to cross paths with him, he was relatively easier to get rid of. One would think Louisa would be the hardest, but Anatole’s mother grieved her son in different ways which luckily involved staying as far away from the mausoleum as possible.

Dr. De Silva, as a former war doctor, was no stranger to Death, nor she was unevered by it or the rituals the living had to reminisce on those they have lost; however, Louisa De Silva would not cry tears to an empty coffin. She said her son was in other places, not there, so she didn’t need to go as often as her husband did, even if she still went down to leave him flowers once a week.

Vlad, on the other hand, had practically become as part of the family’s mausoleum as the dead themselves.

Like Anatole’s father, his familiar had also become a permanent fixture in it. After Anatole died, Antu kept going back to the East Docks on his own, waiting for him to come back, trying to throw himself into the sea to swim all the way to the Lazaret. He was too smart of a creature to stay doing that forever, so sooner rather than later it sunk in that his magician, his companion, his saviour and protector was well and truly dead. Amparo wasn’t sure what sounds Racoons made when they were sad, strangely, she had said they must’ve sounded a lot like dogs, or perhaps, howling foxes.

She had never expected Antu’s outward noise (a sad little series of chirps) to be nothing in comparison to the wailing cacophony that would echo in the mind of whomever could communicate with the raccoon. Would’ve she been able to drink enough alcohol, drink whatever potion, undergo whatever spell to not hear it, Amparo would’ve done it.

But if anyone could track Anatole it would be Antupillán. Luckily for Amparo, he was the only thing in the mausoleum, except of course, for the Dead, but the Dead were always everywhere.

Antu came back two days later.

He is alive, my Anatole, he is alive!

#the arcana #the arcana oc #the arcana mc #the arcana apprentice #my writing #aelius anatole #apprentice anatole #anatole's apprentice rewrites #amparo cassano #valerian cassano #antu the raccoon #the radosevic-cassano

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uniasus · 3 years

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While technically a very delayed day 12 for summer of whump, the ‘reliving your death’ part turned into something much bigger.

BBC Merlin, Mordred POV. Read here or the whole 2K on Ao3.

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Mordred remembered it all. They all do, obviously, even if the memories didn’t kick back into place until they all sat around the new round table. He could tell by how the other knights – could he even call himself a knight? - shot him shy glances.

The worse was the small looks Leon or Guinevere gave him. Every time their eyes slide his way Mordred remembered locking eyes with Arthur and sliding his sword through the king's gut. Arthur had been too stunned to see him he hadn't brought up his sword to defend. And Mordred, too stunned at actually running his old liege lord through, had similarly put up no defense with Arthur returned the favor.

Arthur might acknowledge the complicated situation that led them to Camlann, saw the path that led Morgana there, Mordred there, Arthur and all the knights, but it was Mordred that essentially prevented Arthur’s Golden Age. Worse, as Mordred watched Merlin serve them all lemonade, saw his flinch, learned that the other man had the same justification for violence as Mordred and didn't take it, Mordred knew he could have chosen not to wield that dragon-forged sword.

Even knighted, he was still a child, wasn't he? Acting on impulses, putting his needs and wants first despite the oath he'd taken. Once, he had sat at Arthur's Round Table. Had been so proud to be among such renowned men. Now, he felt ashamed. Unworthy.

Arthur sat tall in his seat, a man more understanding and compassionate than Mordred could ever be, completely unbothered by sharing a table with his killer.

And worse, behind him stood Merlin, Emrys, the man Mordred had wanted to impress above all others, the man who had faced the same trials and chose the opposite choice every single time.

I shouldn't be here, Mordred ran a finger along the edge of this new, modern table. Yet, he didn't know where else to go.

Mordred stayed close to the group, but out of the way for the rest of the day. The new knight, or new to him would be a better term for Lancelot, and Mordred absorbed the stories the other told, completing each other's histories. In explaining Camlann to Lancelot and Elyan, Arthur made no effort to hide the fact that he died on Mordred's sword. But the king – ex-king? – glossed over the event and Leon took over, explaining how an aggressive Essetir had forced the druids into Camelot, Camelot's alliance with the druids, and the ensuing war that united Essetir and Camelot into a single kingdom.

Leon spoke of Merlin fighting with the knights, of marrying Guinevere, and Percival took up the tale of Merlin's kingship and how Camelot flowered.

Guinevere, by that point, had disappeared, but Mordred could tell Arthur wished desperately to find her.

Mordred, for his part, sat silently on the floor of the room and listened to what sounded like a truly Golden Age for Albion. A sorcerer-king. Magic helping the kingdom grow. Acceptance, or progress toward it.

It wasn’t anything like the prophecies had led him to believe it would be like.

It was better.

He hated himself so much for having missed it and dreamed of how it could have been with the Once and Future King at the helm.

Mordred woke with the sun, the magic of the Earth waking in the light and stirring his own mind. He blinked, not understanding the ceiling above him before his memories caught up.

Arthur’s knights, Mordred included, had risen again to aid with an unknown threat.

Groaning, he sat up. His sleep hadn’t been peaceful between thoughts and dreams and the unfamiliar bed, but he was up and there was nothing for it. Might as well go outside and enjoy a bit of peace.

Merlin’s house was larger, a castle in its own right, though it seemed to be made of less sturdy material. No stone here, but he appreciated the smoothness of the walls and floor.

Downstairs, he wondered trying to find the door that opened to the garden with the table in it. Thankfully, the first floor was smaller than the second one. He found the strange clear door that let outside, but he found his attention caught by Merlin.

He stood in the strange modern kitchen, leaning against the center island and looking out the window into the nearby woods. His fingers played with a coin and it was obvious he wasn’t thinking about what he was doing, yet items move through the kitchen guided by his magic.

On the counter beside Merlin, a large bag of herbs was tipped into a small metal strainer. The strainer then gently inserted itself into the mouth of a teapot, which itself silently floated out of a cabinet to land on the center island.

It was such an effortless use of magic, maintaining several spells at once, and Merlin – no, Emrys, he really was Emrys in this moment – didn't seem to know he was doing it. How had he looked in Camelot, as its sorcerer-king? Even as Mordred thought it, a stray sunbeam brushed Merlin’s brow through the window, making his skin glow to match the steady glow in his eyes.

Instantly, Mordred dropped to his knee. The desire was instinctual, automatic. Before him was a warlock in command of more power than anyone else would have, who ruled Camelot for forty years. This man, with his sharp face, wise eyes, and deep magic, could rule the world if he wanted. And because he didn’t, people had loved and trusted him.

“I’m sorry,” Mordred choked out.

Emrys started, turning to see Mordred kneeling on the floor, kitchen items frozen where they were. Mordred couldn’t see his face, eyes on the floor.

“What are you sorry for?”

“For killing your king.”

“Are you really sorry for that? Would you have done anything different that day?” Emrys’s voice was dry, flat.

Mordred cast his mind back and found the answer. Yet even as he did, he knew it wouldn’t make a difference. For him, the murder of Arthur had been days ago. For Emrys, over a thousand years had passed.

Emrys seemed to think the same. He gave a deep sigh and Mordred looked up at him. He looked tired, worn. The pressure of figuring out what had called the knights back? The return of knights? The glances Arthur had sent his way all last night, watching Gwen and Emrys interact? Did he even sleep last night?

“You can stand, Mordred. You never did anything else in Camelot anyway, no need to change it. I was going to have tea outside. Join me?” As he said it, the magic in the room faded and the royal aura that had filled the kitchen drained away. Merlin physically moved around the space, pulling out mugs to place on a tray along with several other items. Mordred watched, the man before him now no more than a physician's assistant or servant preparing something for his master. It grated in a way seeing the same thing in Camelot never did.

Probably because, Mordred thought, he now knew how high Merlin could climb.

Mordred hurried to open the door to the back garden. Merlin nodded in thanks as he led the way, heading not to the large stone table he’d anchored his spell to but a small table surrounded by a bountiful herb garden. He took one chair, Mordred the other, and Mordred hurried to pour the tea before Merlin could. Merlin rolled his eyes, but let him.

“The answer is no, isn’t it?” Merlin asked, stirring honey in his mug.

“Yes. I... am sorry. I’m sorry I never got to see the Golden Age. I’m sorry things happened the way they did. But if I was thrust back to that day, I think I would still do it. I don’t... I don’t understand why you didn’t.”

“Didn’t do what?”

“Kill him yourself. Arthur killed Kara. And he killed someone you love too.”

Merlin stared into his tea, face blank. He’d been fairly easy to read in Camelot, but Mordred had also seen him pretend nothing was a miss more than once. His years as king must have given him a lot of opportunities to practice controlling his emotions and how to display them.

“Arthur was involved in the death of several people I loved, but as I love him too and understood his choices, I couldn’t hurt him in return. I was made aware of the prophecies soon after my arrival to Camelot, and it didn’t take me long to learn how strong those prophecies are.”

He sighed and locked eyes with Mordred. “I tried to stop several prophecies and failed each time. They can perhaps be delayed, but they will happen. I came to terms long ago that Camlann was supposed to happen, that nothing I could have done would have stopped that. You can’t apologize for that, Mordred. You would have always done it, whether you wanted to or not. Destiny is not something you can escape. Weirdly enough, that has given me a sense of comfort.”

"Because they said you’d see Arthur again,” Mordred guessed.

“Yes. While it didn’t happen the way anyone expected, Arthur shepherded in the Golden Age. He had stopped prosecuting magic, he’d set Camelot on the path to accept it again. He had allies, shaped Gwen and Leon and me into who we needed to be. We built Camelot with Arthur in mind, always imagining what he would want, what he would say or do. And -” here Merlin winced, “I don’t think that Golden Age would have happened if Arthur had lived. There are things Gwen and I did he would have not.

“I’m not offering you forgiveness, Mordred, if that’s what you’re looking for. This morning. But I don’t think I can blame you either, any more than I blame Arthur for a number of things. Especially considering you’re here. You hate it.”

Mordred grimaced. He did hate it. Hated knowing what he missed, knowing that Arthur had thought highly of him up to the end, hated that he didn’t deserve any of what the two kings of Camelot offered yet desired all the same.

“There are no prophecies now though,” Merlin continued. “I have heard nothing spoken of since before Camlann, and crystals or pools that might give me a vision have not. Do you know what that means?”

Mordred shook his head.

“It means Destiny is not guiding our actions. Your path might have been pre-ordained in Camelot, but they’re not in Britain. I will a hundred percent blame, judge, and punish you for things that happen from here on out."

“I understand, Emrys.”

“Good.”

“And Arthur?”

“What about him?”

“If Arthur was destined to die at Camlann, if he was never supposed to helm the Golden Age of his kingdom, never be a champion of magic, you can’t fully blame him for his actions then. But now that he knows things? Knows better? Are you going to hold him accountable?”

Merlin froze, mug an inch from his mouth, before setting it down on the table between them. “I’ll teach him, I suspect I won’t be the only one. But I’m not going to judge him until he makes a choice. I can’t hold him accountable for the past, Mordred. But yes, like you, his fresh start began yesterday.”

Mordred frowned, thinking of what he learned in Camelot, what he learned last night. “I can’t follow him, not like he used to. Maybe it was Destiny, maybe it wasn’t, but it still hurts. But Merlin, Emrys, knowing what you have done, knowing what you can do -”

“Arthur’s the Once and Future King, Mordred.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s why he rose.”

His tone was final, but Mordred had never heard the actual words of the prophecy. Had Arthur risen because of Albion’s need? Or had something else triggered Merlin’s spell? Was the one who rose the Once and Future King, or was that title separate from Arthur’s destiny? Was now even the ‘future’ of the Once and Future King? Maybe in another five hundred years, Merlin would wear another crown.

In his past life, Mordred had followed Arthur because of the hope he stood for, because he had Emrys at his back. In this life, why not follow Emrys himself? He had the track record Arthur lacked.

#bbc merlin #fic rec #summerofwhump #summerofwhump12 #death #add a seat to the table #my fanfiction #mordred #merlin emrys

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stickystarspectrumtroll-ocs · 3 years

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I made all my OCs in this amazingballztastical EGG PICREW

To start with, here’s Luna’s egg! I tried to give it a “mysterious mystical creature of the night” vibe, she’s kinda got that going on. The key is for how sneaky and devious she is, the way she’s always got tricks up her sleeve. The sinister-looking symbol branded front and center is more for the assumptions and judgements that were stuck on her ever since she was born. The black angel wings are kind of for both. The black and white feathers at the top are symbols of both her morally ambiguous nature and the vague fragments of her origin story I have rolling around in my head.

Jewel’s egg! I tried to give this as much of her and her island’s aesthetic as possible. The vibrant colors, the jewels, the flowers, the magic. Honestly, I think I nailed it! This egg absolutely SCREAMS “Jewel”.

Allets’s egg! Her whole life she’s been chained to the tight confines of stuffy upright royal life, her parents have tried their hardest to mold her into that and she’s tried her hardest to comply, but she can never quite suppress that spirit inside of her always bursting to get out. So, I made this egg show that spirit of who she really is finally breaking free! The egg’s all fancy lace and spiffy little angel wings with a big crown on top, the gilded cage she was raised in, but there’s a bit of vibrant and colorful detailing too, and the egg’s breaking wide open, releasing colorful butterflies and swirling rainbows. Simple and clear symbolism that I think came out great!

Here we have Eliote’s egg! It’s surrounded by darkness, as she’s been metaphorically for much of her life. It’s got this dark woodsy aesthetic, for all the time she’s spent out in the dark Endless Woods and just the general state of mind she’s been in. That white stem in the middle? It might look like a tree but it’s the stem of a black flower that’s supposed to represent her parents’ deaths. You can’t really see the flower though, ‘cause that’s (accidentally but rather fittingly) where the egg’s broken open, releasing blue butterflies and glowy petals! That’s to show her true colors shining through starting to heal from all that pain and trauma. Connecting with a few people who support and care for her and starting to feel happy again, also regaining her magical ability that she lost touch with after losing her parents.

This is Maddie T’s egg! I think those blue mushrooms at the top have kind of a Wonderland-ish vibe, don’t you? It’s got plenty of eye-popping brightly colored things here to show Maddie T’s off-the-wall personality. The actual egg that all of those are on has some cooler colors to balance that out a little, and I think that egg by itself might have more of a classical fantasy vibe, which I think goes to show that however outlandish and nonsensical Maddie T can be, she’s more than just a clown. There’s a lot going on in her head, her thoughts can be deep and interesting and outside-the-box in ways that can be a serious strength. She’s a ravenclaw in the Hogwarts AU for a reason!

Here’s Finley’s egg! I think it fits her general vibe and aesthetic pretty well! I made an envelope bursting out the middle and a plant growing out of the top, representing how she has this insatiable hunger for knowledge and learning, and tons of potential just kicking and screaming to be realized. That potential along with her fairy magic is also shown by the four sets of colorful wings.

Penny’s egg is bright, glowing yellow, like sunshine! It has colorful shapes that look like they could be painted or cut out of paper for an arts and crafts project. There’s a colorful (paint?) ring around it and big colorful (paint?) spots surrounding it too. All of which represent her personality and her love of bright colors and arts and crafts. The black flower front and center, the foggy black patch at the top with black and white ghostly mushrooms, and even the darkness around the whole thing are there to represent her being a vampire and the impact that it’s had on her. The cracks are there for that too--she’s been broken and is trying to pull the pieces back together and hold them together. Heck, she’s drawn these colorful little houses on the cracks, like they’re the roads of a little town, or the branches of a tree with a tiny bird or fairy town in it. She’s trying to make something good out of this, take her pain and make something out of it that brings a smile to her face. Overall, I feel like what I was going for here is that there’s a darkness that’s been planted inside her and threatens to consume her, and she’s trying her DANG hardest to draw up enough color and light from within herself to keep that from happening.

And finally, Twig’s egg! This one was a bit tricky. I was a little unsure about how simple it looked, but maybe it makes sense with her being the baby of the bunch? (She’s 11, the rest of the OC squad ranges from 13 to 15 and the canon Trolls characters she’s friends with are young adults.) The colorful shapes down there look like they could be cut out of paper for a craft project. They also kinda look like troll pods! The flower could be cut from felt and paper too maybe. She could’ve scrapbooked most of the designs on this egg. The base color is a pretty bright color and pretty nature-y, which fits the environment she’s from. The crack in the middle and the dark patch at the top where the egg's broken open are kind of like her gray arm-stripe and freckles, showing her less typical-troll-like traits and her insecurities about them. The branches (ha...Branch...es...) around it can also be for that side of her, as well as the slightly shadowed background casting just a little bit of darkness over it. The general brightness of the egg and the sun spots at the top could show how she really is more on the sunny and whimsical side by nature though.

Whoo! This was fun! I love this picrew and I love how the eggs came out. I’ve got one for C.C. too, but I think I’ll hold off adding that until I get Jasper’s right, and it’s getting late now. Hope y’all liked these!!

#personal favorite #all ocs #picrew

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owillofthewisps · 4 years

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a lantern’s lament - prologue

notes: i am a monster ahaha have another wip, one that’s been stirring for a bit. this is my last one though, i swear, because i can’t keep doing this to myself. also this will likely...stray a good deal from canon or at least introduce some things that are decidedly not there in the show. so it goes. give me a world with magic and mayhem and i’ll make my own. also yes i know i am really into the geralt and stone thing i can't help it. stone is tough but you can chip at it and erode at it and it has life in it, too.

rating: teen for now.

pairing: geralt of rivia/female reader

word count: 1k

there are rumors of fires that burn like starlight on the remote edge of the cindarian coast. that they burn white-blue, ocean and foam in the same licks of flame, bright enough to be seen even in skellige. the islanders won’t speak of them. if the rumors are true, the islanders say, then you should let the fires guide ships without interference.

geralt of rivia comes to the coast.

the fires burn brighter.

They say there’s someone new in town.

Ygritte says it’s a man built from stone, human skin stretched tight over the rocky expanse of him; she says that he moves like a mountain, something monumental and wild. He has eyes like a vein of gold ore, she says, glinting yellow in the sun and the moon alike.

Is he dangerous, you ask, and she shrugs one slim shoulder. Her freckles are like stars, scattered across the expanse of her skin.

Dangerously pretty, she says. She laughs at your glare, and she has always had a laugh like the tide, something eroding and beautiful, something that pulls you under, makes you drown in her joy.

Is he dangerous, you repeat. The town is a remote one, tucked into the wind-swept cliffs of the shore. Visitors are rare. The Islanders, sometimes, searching for a spouse, besotted by the sea salt that clings to the skin of the townspeople, by the whale song in their voices. What does he want, you ask.

Ygritte’s mischief melts away. We don’t know, she says, not yet.

You tap your fingers against the pitted wood of the table. We will soon, you say, mouth drawn into something grim. No one comes this far without a purpose.

The sun rises bleak behind fog the next morning, and you rise with it. You pack a small bag for the trip to town. The town is remote, but your cottage is more remote still, at the very edge of the Continent, where the sea breeze sings and strums its fingers across the seashells hung at your door until they chime like the waves.

The gulls are crying as you enter town, circling high above, their calls sharp and piercing. The fog has burned off beneath the sun’s heated touch. People shout greetings to you, and you shout back heartily. The smile sweeps across your lips like a wave.

You find the stone man by accident, hear the rumble of his voice before you spot his broad, broad frame. He is speaking to his horse. It is hard to keep your gaze from him, from the white of his hair, the color of the foam left behind on the shore, from his thick arms and his large hand, so gentle on his mare’s flank. He is good at seeming preoccupied, you think, for though his hand never stops moving, you can see his eyes roving. You watch as his keen gaze flickers about. He finds your siblings without err, picks all of them out in the bustle of the square, Kida, Yakob, even Gal, still small and tethered by her mother’s hand.

You step back into the shadows, let them consume you and shield you, before he can see you. His hand pauses. Those broad shoulders tense, the muscles bunching beneath his shirt. You already know that those torchlight eyes will turn to you.

You slink further back into the shadows before you pivot. If he sees you, the stone man doesn’t follow.

It is easy enough to avoid him as you wander town, tucking supplies into your bag and pressing the salt you’ve collected into open palms. His height betrays him, makes it easy to spot the snowfall of his hair any time he draws near.

Ygritte, you think, will ply him with her honeyed words, will draw his purpose out of him like nectar from a flower. That will have to be enough.

You leave town early, knowing that the sun sets quicker and quicker as true winter approaches. The nights have begun to cool, the salty air growing icy. Your cottage is a warm blanket in comparison, the banked fire spreading tendrils of heat throughout the room.

You put away your supplies, tidy your cottage, and think of the stone man’s eyes, like molten gold. You think you could spend hours trying to decipher his honed attention. But the sun is sinking on the horizon steadily.

The door to your cottage creaks as you close it, the sound almost swallowed by the crash of the waves and the sea breeze’s moan. The breeze pulls at your hair with teasing fingers, whips the strands against your face. You pay it little mind.

The path to the shore is well-trodden despite the ever-shifting sand. As you descend, the sounds of the ocean grow louder, sweeping through you and settling against you like bathwater, cocooning you in song.

You leave your shift on the shore, shrug out of it with ease, the simple garment coming undone with one pull at the ties. The night air bites at you, licks a path of chilled air across your nude form. It is of little consequence to you. The pillar rock has drawn your gaze, the slab of it obsidian dark in the setting sun.

The sand gives way to rock beneath your feet, slippery with algae and sharp-edged. Barnacles prick at you, their hard shells threatening to slice through your skin. You ignore the nip of them.

Climbing the pillar rock is second nature, now, feels as easy as breathing. It is cold and wet against your skin, smells of the salt tang of the sea and the vegetal whisper of the algae. You climb, and climb, and the first burst of light piercing the still darkening sky catches your eye just as you reach the flattened top of the stone. The light comes from the south, barely visible beyond the bend in the coast, and you think to yourself, Kida. Always early.

You pull yourself up onto the flat damp of the stone. The salt water sprays high as the ocean throws itself against the glistening black of the pillar stone, breaking open upon the spear of it. The shoreline is a toothy maw, all hungry mouth.

You gaze out into the vast expanse of the sea, time your breath with the rhythm of the waves, and wait.

True night begins to fall. The sun sinks below the horizon, all warm gold, and you think again of the stone man’s eyes. You wonder why he is here.

The last of the sun melts away, is consumed by the velvet of night. You push the stone man from your head and breathe the salt air deep. To the north, light blazes to life, white-blue and bright.

You push the breath from your lungs and heed your sibling’s call, let the tingle at the base of your spine weave through your bones.

The glow starts soft, shimmering just beneath your skin, before it flares like a wildfire, pours from you like torchlight, casting thick and bright over the shore’s treacherous mouth.

You close your eyes against the incandescence and settle in for the night.

The shine, you think, will not ensnare the stone man’s shrewd attention, not all the way from town.

You are wrong.

taglist: @fairytale07 @1950schick @nonamejustshame @sageandberries-png @stretchkingblog97 @alwayshave-faith

(if i missed you in a tag let me know, my organization system got a little screwy)

#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt imagine #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine #story: a lantern's lament

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stillness-in-green · 4 years

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Spinaraki Week, Day 1: Fantasy

I didn’t intend for this to get so D&D so fast, but then Mr. Compress started talking about different types of summoning spells and there was no going back.

League of Villains, D&D-style! Featuring a few other familiar faces as well.

———– ———– ———– ———–

It’s been a dozen hallways and more individual rooms of creeping around, checking their guesswork map, resting and recharging where they can. Between Toga’s shapeshifting, Sako’s near-endless bag of tricks, and Dabi’s ability to roast small fry to death before they can even scream a warning, they managed to sneak past almost all of the temple guardians—and then they hit the atrium.

Sunlight bathes the room, streaming in through a huge circular skylight in the roof. There might have been glass in it once, to keep out the elements, but if so, it’s long gone now, and nature’s well on its way to taking back the space. Vines spill across the floor and climb up every wall, dotted with bursts of flowers, their petals a vivid but not entirely natural shade of midnight blue. Little copses of fuller growth dot the room here and there, scrubby cypress trees and coastal pines spreading over islands of grass. Tumbled chunks of masonry dot the floor, gradually being overtaken by the expanding green. There’s a grandeur to it, though probably, Spinner thinks, slanting a glance over at Shigaraki, the original owner would disagree.

The League enters the room in a cautious, well-practiced formation. Toga takes point, clever eyes cataloging potential dangers ahead even as she turns in place, clearly admiring the view. Shigaraki’s right behind, stepping over the vines, an out of place black-clad figure amidst all the green. His head, still covered by his raised hood, turns this way and that, taking in the surroundings. Dabi and Sako keep close to each other in the middle, the former eyeing the plant life with his usual derision, the latter tipping back his hat to examine the skylight as he lets out a low whistle. Spinner keeps watch at the back, his sword out and ready.

“Sako, Toga—thoughts?” Shigaraki asks, voice pitched low.

“Vines could make spotting traps harder,” Toga opines, “but they could be choking some mechanisms, too. I don’t know; this feels like a fight-a-big-monster space to me, but I don’t see anything.”

“It’s likely intended as a place to address one’s followers,” Sako chips in. “I should think if it were going to be turned into an impromptu arena, the ‘big monsters’ would be summoned in from extra-planar regions. Though I suppose if All for One made a habit of mauling guests, we mustn’t rule out holding chambers attached to the room.”

“Harder to see those through the vines, too.”

“Would anything like that even be alive still?” Spinner ventures, eyes tracking along the long curve of the wall.

“If they were natural beasts, almost certainly not,” Sako answers. “But that’s a rather large ‘if’ to be betting on, given the circumstances, wouldn’t you say?”

“Summoned things,” Shigaraki says before Spinner can respond. He peels his hood back, revealing a pinched, narrow-eyed expression. “What good would those do with no one to give ‘em directions? Would they even fight us?”

“It would be fairly simple to imbue such prepared spells with basic directives like, ‘Defend the chamber’ or ‘Attack anyone who doesn’t meet such-and-such criteria,’ so likely so.” Sako rolls his focus stone from one nimble hand to the other, back and forth, the movement of clear blue glass near-silent on the rich—if somewhat faded and damp-stained—silk of his sleeves. “And definitely so when we consider the possibility of, oh, the sorts of binding spells that extract favors from higher agents that needn’t be immediately discharged.”

“Those don’t last forever,” Shigaraki says dismissively. He pauses, considers, then retracts with, “At least, not if they were cast before. But the guardians could be using their own, these days. They could just recast when they need to.”

“A somewhat resource-consuming process, but possible,” Sako allows.

“So what’s the verdict, Boss?” Dabi twirls a lick of his signature azure flame around his fingers. “Around the edges or straight through?”

Shigaraki considers it for another few seconds, glancing around the room and up to the ceiling again.

“We’ll skirt around the skylight, just in case,” he says finally, “but otherwise, straight through. If something’s gonna jump us in here, I wanna see it coming.”

“Still traumatized by that time with the living wall, Tomura?” Toga teases, ignoring the scowls she gets from Dabi and Spinner. Shigaraki just gives her an unimpressed look, at which she titters and sets out in front of the group, hopping lightly over the sprawls of roots and uneven stonework. The group falls in behind her.

Spinner brings up the rear, clenching and unclenching his grip around the hilts of his swords. They’ve been at this for hours now, and the casters are starting to run low—they’re got their standbys and a few more pull-out-all-the-stops type spells before they’re spent. With Magne and Jin both back at camp, he’s the closest thing to muscle this group’s got, and while it’s definitely a stealthier affair all around without Jin’s cross-grained rambling and Magne’s… Well, between the chainmail shirt, the shawm, and the lively banter, there’s a lot to miss about Magne, but right now, stepping away from the reassuring solidity of the wall and out into the open air, what Spinner definitely misses most is her strong arm. The back rank feels empty without her, and it’s got him nervy.

They progress across the room, gusts of a warm breeze soughing in from the skylight. Spinner—who spent most of his youth clambering around the woods—focuses on keeping an eye out, with the others distracted by keeping their footing. He doesn’t fully trust the flowers. Wild magic can have really weird effects on local plant life—you find that out quick enough, being in a party with Dabi—and by all accounts, the magic at the heart of this place is something else. Still, a room full to bursting with fragrant climbing not-quite-lilies in a color that would have a weaver’s guild breaking down the front doors is… It just wouldn’t have been his first guess for “expected outcome of long-term coexistence with a demonic arcane relic.”

Or whatever it is they’re here to secure. That’s what Spinner got out of Shigaraki’s explanation, and that much only after Sako helped their leader translate his latest dark-omens-and-portents dream courtesy of his “patron.” He’s pretty confident about it, anyway, and Shigaraki’s confidence is—well, infectious, if worth second-guessing him on from time to time.

The second-guessing is what he’s thinking about when the vines burst out of the ground at the head of the group.

Shigaraki and Toga jerk sideways with a grunt and a muffled shriek, wooden branches wrapping around their limbs, thickening with supernatural speed; between them, something like one of the cypress trees blooms out of the ground, a riot of prehensile limbs growing off of a central mass, dotted with those damn flowers. A helm-shaped head lifts out of the wood and twists around to face them, a yellow glow emanating from within hollowed out spaces where a normal creature would have eyes.

“It’s some sort of elemental!” Sako calls as Spinner bolts forward, to which Toga groans in frustration, “Ugh, I hate elementals!”

“Wait—a wood elemental? You’re kidding, right?” Dabi laughs around a leer and steps forward, fire blazing up in a leaping, living spiral from his hands. The tree thing’s gaze flashes over to him and it falls back in a hurry, dragging Toga and Shigaraki along with it. Its head cranes up towards the distant ceiling and it shouts something in Primordial.

Spinner’s heart sinks at what’s clearly a rally for backup, then drops even lower when a shadow falls over the room. A sound like the thrum of dragon’s wingbeat reverberates through the air from above as something huge eclipses across the skylight.

“It was a really nice day out,” a woman’s voice booms in complaint. “Why can’t we ever get tomb raiders on rainy days?”

“Scatter!” Shigaraki barks out just as the giantess drops through the skylight.

She cracks the floor when she lands, the weight of her rocking the whole room, even the echoes painfully loud. Sako sways wildly but keeps his feet, but Dabi goes over, flames guttering. Spinner throws himself into a sideways roll, jarring his shoulder but coming up back up clear of her reach. The wood elemental hasn’t noticed yet, but Toga catches his eyes and widely, exaggeratedly mouths, Door, at him before tossing her head towards the far wall.

Spinner follows her glance and sees it—there’s no visible sign of doors, but there, on the wall directly across from the entrance, vines have grown around something, a space of ordered, even lines amidst the natural misrule of the rest of the growth. He can guess at her train of thought: get the door open, regroup, fall back—the outline suggests the entrance is big, but not stone giant big, and the wood elemental won’t stand a chance once Dabi gets his act together. The big patches of grass everywhere offer pretty decent camouflage, if Spinner keeps his profile low—it wouldn’t be hard to slip over there while the flashier members of the group run distraction.

And then he looks back at Shigaraki, pitching and struggling in the wood elemental’s other arm, his writhing fingers unable to find purchase on the lacquered prison, and Spinner’s halfway to closing the distance before he even consciously makes the decision.

Toga makes a sound like a discontented puma, half-annoyed yowl and half-heavy sigh, wheezing from the grip of the snare. She twists like an eel, too fluid for something with the usual humanoid skeletal structure, and drops to the floor, free hand coming up fast with a vial of acid in her hands. The elemental makes another swipe at her, and, when she arches away from the rushing leaves, turns abruptly, glowing eyes landing on Spinner as he charges in.

Elementals don’t have the usual humanoid structure, either—because nothing in Spinner’s life can ever be easy—and that means pretty much any spot’s as good as the next with them. Still, something with a slashing edge seems a better bet than a sharp point, so Spinner sheathes his short sword in favor of tightening up a double-handed grip on his longsword. He brings it down with all the force he can muster on the wooden bough stretching out of the thing’s main mass and entangling Shigaraki. The sound of breaking glass heralds Toga striking true on the thing’s other side, and the elemental groans and creaks.

A whiff of smoke finds Spinner’s nose a split-second before the familiar thunderclap sound of flame blossoming into existence in previously empty air finds his ears. The whole battlefield changes hues as a column of fire erupts in the center of the room, so tall it clears the skylight. The giantess screams, in rage as much as pain, and for just a second, the wood elemental looks away, head angling backwards in concern.

Shigaraki finally gets an arm free and twists his fingers around a spell gesture. He spits out a snake-nest of a sentence, all tight cadence and sibilants, and on the last word, reaches back in to lock his hand around a branch holding him. The elemental cries out, louder this time, and shudders from trunk to tip; twigs snap loose, leaves brown and twist and fall in a sudden autumnal rain. In the gouge opened up by Spinner’s blade, wooden flesh dries from bright new green to splintering, sawdust yellow.

Been doing this long enough to know an opening when I see one, Spinner thinks, yanks his sword free, and drives it in again with an angry grunt. The branches spasm and Shigaraki squirms free at last, dropping into a crouch and scrambling backward.

“Get to the door,” he growls, and when Spinner starts to protest, overrides him with, “That giant’s making enough racket to wake the dead. We can handle these two—we can’t handle the whole damn temple’s-worth of backup. We need to get it open and get the hell out of here.”

“Loud and clear!” Toga chirps and taps one foot on the floor in a quick 2-1-1 pattern before sprinting away.

Spinner nods and falls back before the elemental can gather itself up for another one of those grapples—he doesn’t have Toga’s dexterity, or even Shigaraki’s. But the elemental draws back as well, casting its gaze across the three of them in quick succession before in folds in on itself and vanishes into the foliage littered across the floor.

“What’s it—”

“We’ll know when it does it. Door.”

“Right.” Spinner’s glances over to where Toga’s already nearly to the far wall, unhindered by the overgrowth. Navigating the plant life, that’s a simple enough thing for him, too, but Shigaraki…

“It’ll be faster this way,” he says aloud and, before Shigaraki can protest, scoops him up around the waist and clear off his feet.

Shigaraki snorts but doesn’t fight him, instead taking the opportunity to prop himself over Spinner’s shoulder and fire off a sizzling purple energy blast. There’s an indignant shriek from the giantess and Spinner redoubles his speed. Giants have a mean arm when provoked, and he’s got no interest in getting turned into a smear of plant food courtesy of a hurled chunk of masonry—and looking back on it, all the loose boulders around should probably have been a clue.

“Dabi, Sako—fall in!” Shigaraki yells at the kind of volume he hardly ever uses.

Seconds later, up ahead of them, Dabi and Sako blink into existence by the doors just as they shudder their way open, trailing vines like streamers, filling the hall with the scrape of stone on stone.

“Just charge through,” Shigaraki mutters to him, throwing off another round of attacks.

“I don’t think so!” the giantess thunders, and a boulder goes sailing past over Spinner’s head. He sees the trajectory of it—giants have a mean and accurate arm when provoked—and hisses in dismay.

“Hold on!” He tightens his grip on Shigaraki and hunkers down in his next two steps, propelling himself into a leap just as the boulder crashes into the wall above the doors.

The next few seconds are a blur of noise and billowing dust and Shigaraki’s face pressed against the side of Spinner’s neck, body tripwire-taut in his arms, and then pain dashed like sea spray across the back of his head, and he barely registers botching the landing as he tumbles into unconsciousness.

———–

He comes to in darkness so total he almost doesn’t expect his hand to move when he goes to pat at his eyes, anticipating bindings, a blindfold, anything but what actually happens, which is whacking himself in the face with a completely unrestrained hand.

“Good, you’re up,” comes Shigaraki’s voice. “Come on; we need to keep moving before that giant decides to start excavating.” His hands wrap unerringly around Spinner’s and tug; obediently, Spinner gets his feet under him and helps Shigaraki help him up.

Why the hell doesn’t someone have a torch lit yet? is his first thought, as he gingerly reaches up to prod at the lump behind one ear.

“Wait, wait; I can’t see an inch in front of my face,” he complains as Shigaraki tries to get them walking, stopping in place.

“Yeah. Magic darkness spells do that,” Shigaraki responds tartly.

“What, are we out of dispels already?” Spinner turns his head, and it finally penetrates, how quiet it is. No other voices but his own and Shigaraki’s—no Dabi with a cantrip and a sarcastic remark, no nattering from Toga or Sako. “Oh, hell, did we get split up?”

“Yeah. And before you ask, there’s wards up, so no one’s teleporting in here after us. We couldn’t even get a Sending through.”

“So we’re just—going on without them?” His voice sounds suddenly small in the dark; Shigaraki’s hands bob once around his.

“No choice,” he answers. “Situation’s the same as it was before—if they can’t come through with magic, they can’t wait around out there for the rest of the guard to show up. We’ll meet ‘em back at camp after I get what I’m after.”

“So we’re just—walking down this hallway in the dark.” Did you learn how to find traps when I wasn’t paying attention? Spinner can’t bring himself to say the last part out loud.

“You’re walking down this hallway in the dark. I can see just fine.” Shigaraki gives him another sharp jerk and this time, reluctantly, Spinner allows himself to be pulled along.

“Aren’t you worried about traps?” he manages. He pats at his waist, finding first his short sword, then his longsword, which Shigaraki must have resheathed while he was out. He draws it for the small comfort it affords him to have a weapon ready to hand.

A thoughtful silence follows the question. Shigaraki’s footsteps are even and measured; the floor underfoot, despite Spinner’s hindbrain screaming about deadfalls, remains solid and level.

“…Shigaraki?” he finally prompts. Of all the times for Shigaraki to get into one of his remote moods.

“No.” Shigaraki’s voice floats back at last. “This is a strong darkness. And the path branches a lot. I think it’s a test, not a trap, and I’ve been dreaming about the answers for months. We’ll get what we’re after or we won’t, but either way, we’re almost there.”

So they press on.

The farther along they get, the more Spinner’s skin crawls at the feel of the air—colder sometimes, then warmer, air currents that smell rank with rot caressing over his face and leaving him shuddering. Shigaraki pauses, now and again, to steer them around hazards he doesn’t explain. Once, Spinner steps on something that pops under his feet—for a second, his blood runs frigid and he nearly panics, waiting for a dart or a drop or something, and then his ear catches up with his brain and tells him, Just a bone, that’s all. As if that’s more reassuring.

Shigaraki hums under his breath, distracted, and tugs them onwards.

It’s not like it’s the first time Spinner’s had to deal with magical darkness. It’s not the first temple he’s gone through. Not the first time he had to follow someone on faith, either, though more often that’s been Toga, chipperly going on about pressure plates and sliding stones and false floors. But before, it’s only lasted for a few seconds. As long as it takes for Sako to dispel it, for Dabi to light up something stronger, for Shigaraki—who sees in the dark like he was born in it, and whose eyes glow brilliant red in even natural darkness—to pinpoint the caster and reel off one of his eldritch blasts that can knock the wind out of pretty much anyone.

It hasn’t been like this. Seconds stretching into minutes in sable air so thick it crawls against his scales, muffling the sound of their footsteps and all but swallowing the periodic mumble from Shigaraki, whose voice is so low Spinner can’t even tell if he’s speaking Common or that witchtongue he casts in.

It’s like being buried, he thinks, and has to swallow back bile, squeezing Shigaraki’s hand tighter. But the image doesn’t leave him as the air presses in: each breath another spadeful of dirt strewn over a grave. Each step another stone piled on a cairn.

“That’s starting to hurt, Spinner.” The voice crashes over him in a cold wave and he gasps at the shock of it despite himself. “You never said you were afraid of the dark.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Spinner chokes out, voice hoarse. “This isn’t regular dark and you know it.”

Does he, though? The thought arrives in his head like a stranger. Does he even know the difference between real dark and this?

With only Shigaraki’s hand to tether him to reality, Spinner almost can’t identify the thought as his own, wonders for a second if it might not be, but if there’s something in here with them projecting thoughts into his head, they’re in even more trouble than he guessed.

Shigaraki hums in an unconvinced—and really unhelpful—sort of way, and suddenly stops.

“Ah.”

Spinner gargles a questioning noise and Shigaraki’s voice returns, flat and affectless.

“Found it. Up ahead.” He walks forward purposefully and Spinner follows, teeth gritted, focusing on believing, really believing, in the existence of a level and unobstructed floor.

They walk for longer than Spinner would think it necessary for something in range of Shigaraki’s darkvision. He can see farther in the dark than he can in the light, Toga told him once, laughing, and seeing as Shigaraki was just a regular human and not some kind of nocturnal or subterranean creature, Spinner had written it off. Now the words come back with a mocking edge.

Finally, Shigaraki lifts their hands, bringing them to a stop. A pause, then his fingers rap across Spinner’s knuckles. “Need this back now.”

Spinner does not whine a protest—his throat’s way too locked up for that. Still, it takes a minute of internal browbeating to force himself to unclench his claws. They’re standing in front of something now; he can feel the nearness of it, maybe from how Shigaraki’s voice sounded bouncing off of it. A big new barrier that they have to figure out, and there’s no reason for them to split up now. No reason for Shigaraki to just disappear on him.

Shigaraki extricates his hand as soon as Spinner’s pried his fingers loose enough, and Spinner swallows, easing in closer and concentrating on the sound of Shigaraki’s clothes rustling, of his questing hands thumping lightly against stone and sliding stutter-rough over the surface.

After a minute of prodding, he falls still. Spinner waits for something to happen, but there’s just more silence, and then Shigaraki’s voice, just a thin whisper.

“Spinner.”

“Mm?”

“Whatever we find in here…”

“I’m not backing out on you,” Spinner says, as if that’s even an option right now, anyway.

“It’s not that.” A beat. “Thank you. For that. But what I meant was—whatever’s in here has been serving a devil for a long time. So don’t volunteer information you don’t have to.”

Something rocks back, a counterweight falling or a tumbler settling back in a casing, and a mumbled, “Oh,” is all Spinner can manage before the barrier cracks open.

After a longer time in total darkness than he ever wants to repeat, or preferably even think about again after today, the light dazzles his eyes, bright enough that Spinner winces back, bringing up his arm and trying to squint out from under it. Shigaraki huffs in annoyance but stalks forward anyway, leaving Spinner to stumble after him lest the door close between them.

Shigaraki stops once they’re over the threshold, giving Spinner time to blink rapidly until his eyes adjust. It doesn’t take long—as bright as it seemed at first, inside the room, the light is pale, watery green, an ambient marsh fire flickering that permeates thinly across yet another empty hall. This one’s much smaller than the atrium, a double line of pillars lining a path up to a raised dais set in a stone alcove. There’s—a throne up there, because of course there’s a throne up there, its surface glimmering a wet black. Writing marks the wall behind it, two curving arcs of even, scored-in letters. He doesn’t recognize the words, but the alphabet looks the same as the pair of runes carved into the insides of Shigaraki’s wrists, and it gives him the creeps there, too.

“So what now?”

He pulls his eyes away to shoot a glance at Shigaraki but even as he registers Shigaraki scratching at his wrist, his skin chalk-white, some instinct crawls up Spinner’s spine and keeps him turning. His eyes land on the temple guardian knight from the second layer, standing—impossibly—barely twenty feet away from them, just inside the door.

Spinner’s mouth opens on a sharp inhale and the guardian vanishes.

Short-range, Spinner’s brain gibbers. Line of sight. Four directions. One down because it’s the one the guardian approached from. One down because it’d put him right in Shigaraki’s path. So one of the sides, then, and Spinner draws his other sword, sweeping his arm out and stepping wide behind Shigaraki’s back, pushing him into a staggering step sideways just as the guardian reappears to Spinner’s right, taking one easy step in, right into range for both of them.

The man’s hands move in a blur of arcane gestures and gleaming steel; the frisson of magical energy accompanies the fleet sting of the guardian’s blade slicing a furrow down Spinner’s arm. Behind him, Shigaraki hisses in surprise and pain. Off-balance, Spinner all but trips into the Web spell as it lashes itself into existence around them, clinging fiercely to the walls, the pillars, and to Spinner and Shigaraki both.

“Again?!” Shigaraki rasps, indignant. “Spinner, tell me you dodged this bullshit child’s play spell!”

“He did something with his dagger!” Spinner snaps back, pulling for all he’s worth at the web—it is a pitifully low-level spell, but apparently that doesn’t matter when it’s being cast by goddamn temple guardians like the one easing back into position in front of Spinner.

He still hasn’t fully recovered from the number Dabi and Toga did on him before. His blue and red finery hangs charred and tattered, and a discolored stain marks the spot where Toga put a dagger between his ribs before he even saw her coming. He’s not much more than on his feet, but that’s bad enough, considering Spinner was pretty sure up to about fifteen seconds ago that he was dead.

“Good instincts,” the man tells him, voice soft. “But not quick enough, villain. We guardians have been trying to get into this chamber to purify it for years now, with no success. Thank you for opening it for us.”

Shigaraki goes still behind him, a dangerous stillness that would be more heartening if the eldritch knight hadn’t already locked down his movements and gotten out of Shigaraki’s line of sight.

“We don’t know what the demon king promised you, Shigaraki Tomura, but be assured that it was a lie. And Iguchi Shuuichi, please cease struggling.” The man reaches a hand down into a pouch at his belt. “A warlock’s promises are no more to be trusted than that of his master’s. You’re not the one who’s been dabbling in forbidden magic, so don’t make this worse for yourself and you might still walk away with a fairly light sentence.”

Rage bubbles up in Spinner’s throat, a taste of bile with a familiar acidic bite, boiling up the back of his throat for release. He should swallow it back like always, but—

Four years, and I never told them, he thinks, glaring at the guardian. I didn’t want to have to tell them like this, but—not here. Not when we’re this close!

He opens his jaw and breathes out all his fury and frustration in one long, hateful burst of poison gas.

It takes the guardian full in the face. The man reels backward, breath rattling in his lungs, arm raising to his suddenly streaming eyes. The web doesn’t dissipate on the spot—there’s not quite enough punch in Spinner’s ancestral breath weapon for that—but it sags away from the near wall and Spinner shrugs himself out of it with the ease of stripping off a shirt.

Blades still in hand, he’s going in for the follow-through, the guardian already recovering, when the light in the room—pulses. A heartbeat flicker dims and brightens the illumination, and suddenly there’s movement in the shadows between the pillars, the sea glass light thrown back in the same liquid gleam as the throne.

«How—unsightly. A champion of good, in this place?» A burbling laugh follows. «I’ll have you leave now, hero. The successor and I have work to do.»

The knight tries to leap past Spinner, eyes on the still-restrained Shigaraki. Spinner hisses defiance and lashes out, curving his short sword into the man’s path. The blow catches under the guardian’s arm and Spinner throws his weight into shoving him back, halting the advance.

And then the shadows are on them.

Gargoyles? Spinner thinks, but they’re way too big for that; he’s fought shorter ogres. And these things definitely aren’t ogres; their skin looks jet-hard, and though a few of them have the steel-bellied paunch for the thicker sort of giant-kin, the others are all sharp-hewn musculature. They all have the same eyes, though, fixed stares as unblinking as serpents’. Spinner falls back as close to Shigaraki as he can without chancing the web again, and two of the beasts circle around him in a way that he would peg as a hunting prowl if their gazes weren’t turned towards the guardian.

For his part, the hero takes one look around at the new developments and raises his free hand to cast—Expeditious Retreat; Spinner’s seen that one from Sako often enough, and then the man’s gone, bolting through the exit and into the darkness beyond.

The voices chuckles again, a reverberation in it that, given the mireland phosphorescence, tells Spinner with an unavoidable mortal dread, Undead.

«After him, my darlings. And one of you close the door after you.»

There’s a blackwater surge and the creatures streak out in an eerily silent rush. As requested, the one at the rear of the pack—one of the ones that had been circling Spinner—stops long enough to pull the door closed behind it, yellow eyes holding Spinner’s gaze until the slab cuts it out of sight.

He doesn’t exhale in relief just yet, but turns to Shigaraki, who’s regained his footing, brushing off fraying remnants of spiderweb in annoyance. Spinner steps up beside him, weapons lowered but still out.

Shigaraki glares around the room. “Well?”

The light flickers again and starts to coalesce, leeching out of the rest of the room as it draws inward toward the throne. A shape begins to form—not in the throne, but standing at its right hand—a short, round man with blank white eyes and a thick mustache, his skin glowing the same sickly shade the light had. The same runes Shigaraki bears on his wrists are carved right into his forehead, where they burn with a weird black light that gives Spinner the horrible feeling his brain’s trying to rebel against his eyeballs. The spirit’s dressed in tatters of white, a stark contrast to Shigaraki’s close-cut black.

«You’re an imperious one.» He laughs again, the pitch high and mad. «As it should be! Ahh, let me look at you.»

He blinks in out of existence, plunging the chamber into a locked-vault darkness that nearly has Spinner grabbing for Shigaraki’s hand again, but reappears just a few seconds later, right in front of them. From there, he circles around them, milky gaze combing up and down Shigaraki, his mouth moving weirdly out of sync with the torrent of words he lets loose.

«Red eyes, I see, and hair all gone white; I don’t suppose you were born that way. Those scars and abrasions—did you fight against it for so long? You’re a bit scrawny, but I suppose it can’t easy, getting this far. And ahh, you have the Tome! Marvelous, marvelous! I trust you have the ritual inscribed there? Your cicatrices, where are they?»

Shigaraki flicks up one wrist and doesn’t even flinch when the spirit wraps glowing fingers around it, leaning in close and peering at his scar, nodding rapidly. The touch leaves a livid mark, raised on his skin like a scald-wound.

“So you’re the guardian,” Shigaraki says when the ghost finally pulls away. “You’re supposed to help me take the next step.”

«Yes! I am called Garaki Kyudai, Rector of the Great Vault and Pedagogue of the Way.»

Garaki? Spinner mouths the name, not a whisper of voice in it, but still the spirit wheels on him, the gaze knotting Spinner’s stomach with the same revulsion the rotting air out in the hallway had.

«Garaki! A namesake of the great demon king, much as his successor bears, I’m sure.» Garaki circles Spinner now, regarding him as closely as he had Shigaraki moments before. «And you, dragon-kin?»

“Dragon-kin?” Spinner winces at the bite in Shigaraki’s tone. He’s the smartest person in their party, even smarter than their actual wizard. Of course he noticed something when Spinner breathed poison gas all over an enemy five feet behind his back. “Is that what that was before?”

«A perfectly-timed dose of noxious effluvium,» Garaki says approvingly. «He’s a rather fine specimen, successor.»

Shigaraki side-eyes Spinner, stare lingering on his mouth and his claws before finally moving up to meet his gaze. “He always told us he was a lizardman,” he says, the words accusing.

Garaki laughs, an explosion of incredulous delight. «A lizardman! He must be quite the convincing speaker. No, he’s an emerald-blooded cur if ever I’ve seen one. But I suppose if any wyrm-born were going to pass for the lizardfolk, it would be a green. They don’t have the horns the other breeds do, you know. In fact—»

“There was a crusade against dragonborn twenty years ago,” Spinner bites out at last, tired of being talked over and irked at the snort Shigaraki had made at the convincing speaker bit. “I don’t make a habit of telling people.”

Shigaraki’s eyebrows go up as the ghost tuts. After a second, his eyes narrow, a familiar measuring expression overtaking his face.

“…You’ve been with us this long and you never used a breath weapon?”

Spinner shifts in place. There’ve been a few times over their journeys when he’s been pushed to it. In Mydsos, when the air was full of so much stinking miasma anyway that he didn’t think anyone would notice. When everyone had gotten separated in the Cato labyrinths. When it was just him and Jin that time against that sahuagin chief, and Jin was such a shitty swimmer that he could barely keep facing in the same direction moment to moment. But this—it felt different.

But we were so close. I couldn’t let—

He coughs and forces himself to say, “Only as a last resort.”

Shigaraki looks—impressed. It’s not an expression Spinner’s seen on his face much, and recognizing it now sends a touch of warmth through him, despite the ghost’s chill presence. It lasts just a moment, then Shigaraki turns back to the rector.

“Are we done with the inspection now?” he demands. “I’ve got things to get back to.”

«Oh, “things.” I see, I see.» The spirit’s voice drops into a canny tone. «Well, you may wish to tell “things” that you’ll be here for a while yet. Taking the power of the demon king isn’t so simple as just planting yourself in his throne.»

“Then I need to get a message out. We can make one of your weird pets do it when they get back.”

«Weird pets! They’re wonderful creations, I’ll have you know. Loyal beyond death—you might have a need for such loyalty yourself one day.»

Shigaraki steps between Spinner and Garaki even as the ghost’s attention turns. “Don’t look at my dragonborn,” he says, a piercing command. “Look at me.”

Garaki and Spinner both do, Garaki chuckling, Spinner’s heartbeat a stuttered pulse in his throat. And as Shigaraki starts to lay out a plan, they both listen.

———– ———– ———– ———–

Shigaraki: Warlock with a Fiend patron (AFO) Spinner: Ranger, Hunter archetype (sorry about your class sucking so hard in 5E, Spin) Toga: Rogue, Assassin archetype Dabi: Sorcerer, Wild Magic origin (frequently at odds with Tomura over efficient use of one’s spell slots) Mr. Compress: Wizard, Conjuration school Magne: Fighter/Bard, Champion archetype and College of Valor, respectively Twice: Cleric, Life domain (also two levels of Paladin, shhhh; he never broke any oaths if he never advanced far enough to make any)

#spinarakiweek2020 #shigaraki tomura #iguchi shuuichi #spinner bnha #ujiko daruma #boku no hero academia #bnha #my writing #ficcing #my hero academia #gaming

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corinthbayrpg · 3 years

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NAME. Eurydice Kouris AGE & BIRTH DATE. 3000+ & May 29th, Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Dryad OCCUPATION. Jewellery Maker on Agia Paraskevi Street FACE CLAIM. Sofia Carson

BIOGRAPHY

Before the mortals came, the morning breeze felt like a breath over her stiff branches and then it’s a slow but pleasant process that started at the tiniest twig and ended at her roots. Outstretched branches become hands and smooth down to strong but slender arms. Her dark hair brushes her back, bark gives way to skin that’s been sunkissed for centuries. Eyes closed, her face is the picture of serenity as she stretches, hands outstretched towards the sun as if she’s praising it, and then in a fluid motion, she’s sat on her knees in the dirt, fingers combing through her ever unruly hair, braiding a few sections here and there.

She is of the Earth and yet they forget she was forged from blood and despite all her grace, she is a wild thing and she wants it known. Part of the forest long before mortals lopped it down for their cities, she lives among those like her. It was so different before them, the mortals. The Dryads were powerful protectors of the earth long before Eos tasked the phoenixes with such a thing, their skills matching the Titans among them. She is called Acacia, ‘thorny tree’ and it is fitting. They were free and she remembers how it felt to move through the forests at peace, hear it’s whispers, hear the sounds of her kind and relish in their bond to the world around them.

That was until Cronus swallowed his children.

Rhea’s cleverness saved Zeus and then came the Olympians and she could feel it in the air, the winds of change. The Dryads showed fondness for these children of the Titans they’d shared the earth with for so long, became their teachers in the ways of the land and magic.

But Acacia could feel it all the way down to her roots, that something else was coming.

And so she was not so surprised when Zeus and his siblings waged war against what felt like the whole world.

They were all caught in the crossfire of Olympian and Titan, and when it was over and the Titans lost and as their power weakened, so did that of the Dryads and she grew frustrated. Was this some sort of punishment for their neutrality?

It was something to ponder on as the world changed. She would sit upon the earth, sometimes she places flowers in her hair as the flora around her whispers the morning’s secrets and she listens intently, nods when appropriate. The Titans are imprisoned but Oceanus is free, as is Helios and she watches him set the sun in the sky and she feels like she’s waiting. For what, she’s not sure, but she feels as if she is simmering, brimming with untapped potential, like she’s waiting for an opportunity.

The Titans are imprisoned in Tartarus but their goddesses are not, for the most part and news reaches that Leto has borne a child of Zeus. But not just a child, her womb was occupied by twins and Hera could not have that. It was the most gossip they’d ever received and even the plants seemed to wait with baited breath. And then the news broke that on the island of Delos, Artemis and Apollo were born.

But the Dryads had problems to worry about that dwarfed their celebrations for the new godlings. Man had been created and the mortals found their way into the forests and she would rather fend off hundreds of satyrs than deal with one of them. At first they are thoughtful, live among the gods, but still she and her siblings hide at the mere sight. It’s infuriating and there is a certain thrill to letting them see her.

She is beautiful to them and there’s something in seeing their awe of her. Among the rest of the forest, she considers herself plain. Acacia is a tree of thorns, she is wild and brambly, she has never seen herself as beautiful, she doesn’t think she’s cared much for such a thing. Most often she is dirty and she can’t get her hair to look as silky as those of the olive trees, her stature is lean but short. So perhaps she starts looking a little differently at herself in pools, lingers in her form a bit longer before these mortals. It’s unwise, but she is curious and the creatures are new and amusing.

Until she meets her.

Artemis, the mighty hunter, reminds her again that she is wild. She is their companion, she seems to prefer their way of life to Mount Olympus. They hunt alongside her, they emerge from the trees at the mere sound of her hounds, for they do not need to fear man or satyr or lustful god when she is near.

Festivities among the trees are attended solely because she longs for the stories they bring, the music. There is much more she wants from this life, the forest is her home, she is a part of it, and yet it contains her. A satyr brings them the tale of Orpheus and she is surprised to find herself so taken by such a thing. She did not trust mortals, none of them did, they still hid from their sight or ran from them, went from flesh and blood to bark just to escape them. And yet this mortal had fallen for a nymph and had gone to the underworld for her. It had her casting a less critical and more curious eye towards those who ventured into the forest.

Though man has changed and what were once thoughtful creatures now cut down their trees, they chased nymphs and took them for wives in hopes they’d bear them sons. They seemed to spend most of their time fighting with one another and Acacia’s curiosity towards them turned to rage and confusion. One day, thinking she had heard the bark of Artemis’s hounds, she ventures just a little too far from her tree, a little past the outskirts of the forest, and she is crept upon by a man.

About to turn and flee at the sight of him, he pleaded with her to stay, his hands raised in surrender. And she paused only to realize he was no man at all and he claims he is Aristaeus, son of Apollo and one of Artemis’s companions, Cyrene. She’s never seen him before, but he wishes to hunt in the forest, waxs on wishing to hunt like his aunt, with the companionship of the Dryads. In exchange, he tells her that he will tell her of his time out in the world and who is she to refuse a child born of one of her sister’s? And so they hunt and he teaches her of art, how to work metal and clay and she grows fond of him.

But his visits grow less frequent and the earth bears the scars of man and she finds herself simmering once more. She is chased through what’s left of the forests by men who wish to possess something divine and in turn she leads them deeper into the woods with hope they never return.

Some don’t.

Lovers no longer bring her joy, nor the flowers, or her fellow Dryads as mortals continue to pillage and pollute the earth and so she weeps. She doesn’t know for how long, only that it is the last thing she remembers before falling into what she thought was an eternal rest. Acacia sleeps, but Eurydice awakes at the sound of this new world. Festooned with a name taken from her fellow nymph, one who died after being chased by her dear Aristaeus no less, she awaits what the gods have in store for Corinth.

PERSONALITY

+ compassionate, determined, mystified - vain, defiant, jealous

PLAYED BY M. CST. She/Her.

#dryad #taken #female #eurydice kouris #sofia carson

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