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amiedala · 3 years

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SOMETHING DEEPER (a mandalorian story)

CHAPTER 1: There's Always Three Things

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: sexual content, hints of voyeurism

SUMMARY: HELLLOOOOOOOOOOO AND HAPPY SOMETHING DEEPER SATURDAY MY LOVES!!! this is the first chapter in Something Deeper, the

second installment in the Something More series. in this one, Nova is her established character, they're still trying to save the galaxy, and the spice is racketed up even hotter ;) more notes at the end, as always, and until then, ENJOY!!!

If you're a newcomer, my fic "Something More" is the first installment of this story! <3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: HELLO MY LOVES HAPPY SOMETHING MORE SATURDAY!!!! this chapter is quite the whirlwind, i hope you love it! more notes at the end as always <3

Novalise Djarin is absolutely certain of three things. One, that the strongest thing in this galaxy is the green alien baby she calls her son; two, that her gorgeous, commanding bounty hunter husband is an excellent leader but a fantastically horrible diplomat; and three, that she is by far the most skilled person she knows at getting out of a particularly sticky situation.

Nova is excellent at getting out of things, period—her husband would argue that she’s an expert at getting the both of them out of their clothes and Mandalorian armor, respectively—but she excels at somehow, miraculously, wriggling herself free from between a rock and a hard place. And, right now, the asteroid belt that makes up Polis Massa is the abundance of rock, and the TIE fighters right on the tail of Kicker’s infamously sporadic power is the hard place.

They’re relentless. Nova squints her eyes, making the starry backdrop of the Outer Rim split and fractal into a thousand more glittering balls of light. There’s only three of them, this time, but this is the closest they’ve ever dared to follow her to Mandalore, and there’s something dangerous and electric kicking around somewhere inside of her chest. They keep shooting, jarring bolts of blasts that do their best to try and knock down Kicker’s very stubborn shields.

“Stupid,” Nova whispers, her breath low, the ghost of a smile stretching across her face, even in the crush of space. A year ago, she wouldn’t have recognized herself—this fearless, feisty pilot, the fully-formed reconstruction of the girl she used to be. On the ground, even with the Force on her side, she’s clumsy, an amateur. But up here? This is where Novalise shines. She has the upper hand out in the stars, and, besides, even if she were being chased by an artillery of a hundred more, there’s reinforcements on her old, lovable beater of a starship.

“Surrender,” one of the mechanical, ordered voices comes over the comm, and Nova giggles to herself in the darkness.

“Does that ever work?” she asks, flipping the right switches to make Kicker drop down and over itself, sending one of the fighters careening into the nearest asteroid. It doesn’t deter whoever’s in the cockpit for long, but it’s enough to utilize her infamous barrel roll to twist up and away from the other two fighters close in tow. “You know, asking impolitely for whoever you’re chasing to surrender?”

Silence. Nova smiles again, biting her teeth down against the fullness of her bottom lip. Her stomach grumbles. It was a sleepless night and a long day she spent back on Hoth before making the short trek back home—Mandalore, which isn’t the kindest of planets to call your own but is undoubtably better than some of the other alternatives—and the broth-based soups and dried legumes that frequent the base there are not nearly as filling or delicious as the feasts that being Mandalorian royalty entail. Still nothing from the other fighters, which is perfectly fine, because she’s about to feign dropping into warp and leading through a wormhole that’ll lead nowhere but the barrenness of the Mid Rim, but usually, they’re much more demanding.

“Surrender,” comes the voice again, and Nova sighs, cracking her neck, readjusting the familiar, worn helmet still stamped with the orange Rebel insignia. Kicker beeps angrily, and she lends a soft hand to the worn metal of her beloved ship’s dashboard, coaxing the metal to just go a tiny bit further.

“I’m just saying, you might have a stroke more of luck if you’re a little bit nicer. Less demanding, more asking. Who am I surrendering to?” she asks, and even though the TIE fighters are still volleying an array of blasts at the back end of the starfighter, they’re not quick to identify themselves. Nova squints again, catching a glimpse of one of them as she swoops to avoid a larger chunk of asteroid. It was stupid to come here, she admits internally to herself, even though it makes her heart drop a tiny bit inside of her chest. All she wanted for the hours she spent on Hoth was to get back to Din, to hold Grogu against her heartbeat for as long as she could before she reluctantly had to relinquish him to the one and only Luke Skywalker, but when Wedge called, it seemed urgent. “Hello?” she whispers, only to dare the strange, affected voice on the commlink to rattle back across the stars.

“Andromeda Maluev,” the comm blurts, and the sound of her name—her birth name, still heavy and pearlescent with the weight of losing her parents—makes Nova’s heart drop even further. Everyone left in this galaxy that Nova associates with—Din Djarin, Luke Skywalker, Wedge Antilles, Bo-Katan Kryze, Boba Fett, Cara Dune, Greef Karga, and every person she met along her trip with Din through the galaxy and back—knows that Andromeda Maluev is dead, and that Novalise Djarin rose from her ashes. But every single bounty Nova’s had on her head has slammed that full weight of her first identity back into her bones, like a brand, like something she can’t escape. It makes the force of people after her—the shadowy legion of the obscured First Order, and all of their cronies—feel just a bit more insidious.

“Not my name,” she volleys back, but the brace in Nova’s voice doesn’t sound like anything dangerous, anything sharp enough scare them off. “I’ve ran into enough of you by now for you to get it right.”

“We’ve got you surrounded. Surrender or be killed.”

Nova snorts. There’s three fighters on her tail, and they’re nowhere close to surrounding her. It’s so ludicrous, so unexpected, that the laugh catapults out of her mouth and echoes in the small hull of Kicker. She wishes Din and Grogu were here to equally share in her utter disbelief—she can practically see the helmet cocking and the baby’s giant, intuitive eyes crinkling—but she dodges another set of shots, which are almost completely aimless and hardly land on the tail end of the ship. “Be killed?” she repeats, swerving and ducking through another large chunk of asteroid, seamlessly, barely paying any attention to the terrain around her. She doesn’t need to. Even in a field this littered, space is Nova’s strongest suit. She could do this with her eyes closed. “As far as I can see, you’ve landed what, three shots? I don’t think you’ll be getting anywhere near close enough to even do damage to my ship. You’re three fighters strong, and one of you has a wounded wing. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“The First Order demands your services.”

Nova’s blood runs ice-cold. It’s a familiar request at this point, but still, the name sends a very real shiver all the way down her spine, rocking and rattling her vertebrae. She swallows, blinking furiously, avoiding the tailspin of a smaller asteroid as she lurches out of the chase. That wasn’t the lowly voice of some sorry stormtrooper that got the shitty job of trying to wrangle her out of the skies. It sounds evil. Dark. Mirthless. It wasn’t Moff Gideon’s voice, but it was something close to the memory of the dark timbre of it. Fear forms wet and cold on the back of her neck, curling up through the bottom of her hairline, seeping underneath the warmth of her standard, Rebel-orange jumpsuit. She swallows, but the air feels like it’s evaporating out of her mouth.

“The First Order,” she manages, finally, trying to detach the nervousness from her voice, “will not be getting my services. Not now, not ever.”

It’s only been two weeks since Din’s coronation. Two hectic, packed weeks in which her big, brave bounty hunter boyfriend got forcibly turned into a very reluctant diplomat under the watchful—and perhaps slightly resentful—eye of Bo-Katan Kryze. Din never seemed to really need sleep the way a normal human being did, but Nova watched as the bags under his eyes darkened and grew as he spent long hours in the war rooms, buried somewhere in the giant, stark palace they’d moved into, eyelids pressed into the warm hollow of her neck in the early hours of the morning when he made it to bed at all. In the meantime, Nova was spending every single precious second of her waking hours with Grogu, who she knows is on the verge of needing to go back to Jedi training, trying to absorb as much of his small, green light as she possibly can. When Wedge called the other day, though, he sounded desperate, which didn’t happen often, and she had wrenched herself away from her family on Mandalore to try and stop the impending doom of the First Order on Hoth, but it had been yet another dead end. Polis Massa was a pit stop—an impulsive, foolish one—because Nova ran furiously out of the library archives the last time she was here, and she wanted to pick up books on the history of Mandalore for Din and herself, and a small star of yearning in her chest was to spend a little more time in the shelves like her father used to before the Empire killed him.

And as much as Nova wants to put Andromeda Maluev to rest, longing for the days when she was tiny and growing up on Yavin with her parents alive and happy beside her outweighs the alternative. She swallows through the lump in her throat and closes her eyes to shake the starshine of her past lives away. The time to focus on getting the hell out of here is now, all yearning and ache can blossom fully formed when she’s away from the reaches of the First Order, safely back on Mandalore.

“Surrender,” the voice says again, only this time it is the timbre of some sorry stormtrooper and not the one that still haunts her nightmares, and Nova sighs, flipping all of the switches on Kicker’s dashboard to feint left and fake drop into hyperspace.

“I’ll ask you again. When,” she exhales, straightening up in the pilot’s chair, “has that line ever worked?”

“We are granted permission to obliterate your starfighter under Order Number—”

“Obliterate?” Nova interrupts, stifling another giggle. “Is the Order giving you vocabulary lessons? I’m impressed, trooper—”

“Andromeda Maluev,” the voice comes again, and Nova tries her absolute hardest to ignore the pulsing and aching in her heart that comes with the punch of her previous identity, “you are to surrender to the First Order. Failure to comply will result in termination. This is your final warning.”

Nova sighs, pulling Kicker to a temporary halt. If she stares, the ghostly outline of Mandalore, embedded forever in her memory, will flash in front of her vision, even out here in Polis Massa’s gigantic asteroid belt. She knows that the troopers, whoever they are, whoever they’re working for, will understand that she’s intending to go straight back to the strange palace she’s started calling home, but she also knows that any force in this galaxy, no matter how dark, no matter how strong, is smart enough to know they can’t take on a planet full of Mandalorian warriors without all the strength they’ve got. From the way Kicker is paused in the middle of space, she knows it looks like she’s about to surrender, or at least like she’s weighing her options heavily, and the satisfied, smug silence of the trooper on the other end of the commlink is enough to assure herself that her plan—hasty and rash as it may be—is working.

“Okay,” she whispers, feigning resignation, into the comm. “I understand I’m dealing with forces a lot stronger than I am. I don’t surrender, but I’ll come with you. But first,” she whispers, silencing the clicking that the switches to go into hyperdrive with the muffler of her right hand, “I need to tell you something.”

There’s a pause. “So be it. Reeling you in via tractor beam now.”

The unmistakable whirring of a ship forcibly being dragged onto another’s power starts up, and Nova swallows, pushing the second to last toggle into place, keeping a steady eye on the rocketing meter on her dashboard that indicates the ship is fully charged. Under the noise of Kicker being pulled into the largest TIE fighter’s proximity, the beeping goes unnoticed by the other party. Nova slips her hand off the switch and finds the necklace Din gifted her back before he accepted his role of Mand’alor, pressing hard enough that the symbol embosses itself into her thumbprint. “First of all,” she starts, trying her hardest to keep her voice level and even and not reveal a single ounce of the glee that she’s concealing, “my name hasn’t been Andromeda Maluev in a decade. You want me to answer to you, to answer to the Order? You’ll call me Novalise.”

The sigh from the trooper is short, clipped. “Noted.”

“Second,” Nova continues, leveling her jaw with the center of the dashboard, watching every single thruster lock itself into gear, “I am married to the galaxy’s most ruthless bounty hunter. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than the word surrender to scare me into submission.”

Kicker grinds to a halt in midair. Nova straps herself in tighter, just enough to ensure that she won’t be sent reeling across the perfectly aligned dashboard when she breaks free of the tractor beam and shoots Kicker straight into the stars, back to Mandalore, back to Din, back home, and steels herself.

“Stop,” another voice says, tinny and nervous over the speaker. “She’s—she’s screwing with us, sir—”

“I’m assuming,” the original trooper speaks, trying to intimidate Nova with the ice in his voice, “that there’s a third thing?”

“Oh, there’s always a third thing,” Nova volleys back, eyes catching the light of what’s been powering up the entire time the troopers thought she was weighing her options and deciding the First Order’s clutches sounded warm and delightful, after all. “Not only am I a commander in the New Rogue Squadron, not only am I the wife of the reigning Mand’alor, I contain multitudes.” She grins, her teeth bared and gleeful in the low light of space, knowing this is by far the most badass exit she’s ever attempted. “And do you know what that means?”

The trooper in the largest fighter sounds defeated. This was barely even a scratch compared to the narrow scrapes Nova’s been entangled with before. She bites down on her bottom lip, cracking her neck, taking advantage of Kicker’s stationary position to break free of the tractor beam, and as the angry clamor of the three troopers in the fighters trying to reel the ship in starts to filter across the commlink, Nova does what she does best.

She barrel rolls the entirety of Kicker, flipping downward and over so that she’s facing the three fighters, staring through her Rebel helmet at the floodlights drenching her whole ship in florescence that shouldn’t be possible in space, and shows every single one of her teeth, smile stretched so far across her face that it hurts, “My starfighter is Rebel-made, sure, but it’s gotten a few upgrades in the past few weeks. The only reason you got this far was because I was waiting to unload the artillery loaded up in the guns that are pointed at you right now. And you know what they’re made of?”

“All aim to kill—”

Nova can’t resist. She tries, but this whole royalty thing, the whole leading the New Rogue Squadron thing, this whole being a Jedi thing—well, all of it has been tallied up enough to recognize she can stand to be the tiniest bit cocky to the people trying to kill her or bring her in as a slave. She raises a single middle finger, making sure that the pilot of the largest fighter catches her elongated, elegant bird with the floodlights. “Same thing as my resolve is. Beskar, bitch.” And with that, she punches all the thrusters, Kicker dazzling and evaporating through hyperspace, gone before the first trigger even pulls.

Mandalore is quiet. There’s a strange serenity that lives on the horizon, pulsing and shifting, but never quite tangible from the planet’s surface. It’s hard to look at the place where the greatest warriors in the galaxy are born and bred and not see anything but a whetted, sharp arena, but so much of this planet is soft around the edges. The blue architecture in the capital, for one—something Nova knows is much newer than the ancient history of the land here—and there’s a silence here that teeters on eerie but mostly stays in a strange sense of tranquility.

It doesn’t hold the feeling of abandonment, like so many other planets do these days, but it seems like the rest of the world around the city is disconnected. Inhabitable. Nova parks Kicker in the nearest landing bay, watching the strange haze that hangs over the atmosphere, trying to find other places where lights are lit, where people live, but so much of the planet is quiet. It’s the same sort of stark contrast that Yavin had when her and Din got engaged all those months ago, or Hoth’s anesthetic brutality, but Mandalore’s environment feels different.

And, Nova reasons, as she disembarks off Kicker’s gangplank, running the tips of her fingers over the Rebel insignia hidden under the outermost coat of white and silver detailing, it’s likely because this isn’t home. Not yet, anyway, and it might never have that feeling of belonging that the Crest did, that Kicker does, that her and Din found on Naator and Kashyyyk and Nevarro. Nova climbs the marble steps to the palace, smiling at the stoic Mandalorians stationed outside as she slips up the stairs and through the main entrance, immediately cutting sideways up the hallways to the left, watching as her shadow traipses behind her in the blue dusk, trying to not stake stock of the silence that most of the building holds. In true Mandalorian fashion, their holding cells are built into the palace itself, alongside training arenas and the war room where Din spends most of his time. Nova moves as quietly as she can through the halls, up the other marble staircase, and when she bursts into the chambers twice the size of the starship that she and Din usually call home, a gurgle from Grogu on the floor makes the entire day turn around.

Nova grins, dropping to her knees. Grogu beams up at her, his big bug eyes full of nothing but love, and she scoops him up, pressing his tiny, warm body against her chest. It chases away all the chill of Hoth and the crush of space, and for a second, she just runs her fingers over the top of his fuzzy head, pressing kisses to his green skin, soaking in every second she can.

“I missed you, lovey,” she murmurs, and Grogu’s giant green ears perk up. “What did you do in your day here?”

Grogu pulls away from her chest, pressing a three-fingered hand against Nova’s temple. The visions that used to terrify her, the ones Grogu put into her head, filled with screaming and loss and desperation, fall away as he shows her the bath he took, the feast he got for dinner, sitting on Din’s lap while in the war room. As he drops his touch, Nova grins down at him, all teeth and excitement, all of the panic and isolation of the last few hours melting away.

“He terrorized Bo-Katan,” a familiar voice rings out from behind her, and Nova pushes herself up on the heels of her hands, her heart flipping over with the same butterfly menagerie Din’s always given her. “I didn’t have the heart to tell him to stop.”

“Hi,” Nova whispers, giddy, watching as Din steps forward out of the shadows. It doesn’t matter how many times she’s been lucky enough to gaze over his handsome face, it doesn’t matter that he’s been spending more time helmetless here on Mandalore, every time she sees him, it’s like the first time. In the moonlight, obscured by the permafrost of Mandalore’s blue twilight, Nova’s eyes roam over the valleys and mountains of her husband’s face. His hair is the length it was when he proposed, long enough for the ends to curl up gently. His mouth, even in the near darkness, is pink and gorgeous, his lips slightly parted in the unconscious way they do when Nova’s the only thing in his eyeline. His scruff is there, long enough to scratch her chin—or her thighs—up something terrible, and the ghost of the mustache she used to feel in the dark is strong, dark, manicured. His eyelashes are longer than the length of her thumbnails, and his eyes, his gorgeous brown eyes, soften around the edges the second Nova smiles.

“Hi,” Din echoes, bridging the gap between the two of them with two quick strides, and Nova feels her breath catch in her throat. Din’s hands, gloved in black and twice the size of her own, balance on the curve of her hips, his fingers digging into the loops of her orange jumpsuit, pulling Nova over her own feet, anchoring her body right up against hers. The way he kisses after only being separated overnight is desperate, longing, filled with words he doesn’t always know how to say. Nova leans into his embrace, head fuzzy, waterlogged, like everything else fades away. It does. She loses track of time, how many minutes pass, the stars behind her eyes dazzling, supernovae, regenerated.

When they break apart, Nova’s hand trails over the regalia Din’s wearing. It’s his familiar beskar, the armor he’s worn since they first met, but it’s been cleaned, and underneath, where his typical black undergarments used to cling to his build, he’s wearing Mandalore blue. It’s the color of the skyline at dusk, a faded azure that signals something more than warrior, something a shade closer to royalty. The material is lightweight, practical. It’s the same kind that every single one of her matching outfits are made out of—Mandalorians don’t have much use for aesthetic, it just gets in the way of practicality—but it seems more vibrant on Din. “How was today?” she whispers into the hollow of his mouth, and Din exhales, low and slow, tipping his bare forehead against hers.

“Long without you,” he admits, his voice barely anything. Nova’s eyes search his deep brown ones, trying to figure out where his exhaustion is hiding. “Come with me. I—I want to show you something.”

Nova nods, catching sight of the dirty orange jumpsuit stretched over her tan trousers, the black tank top she’d spent the past year replacing every time Din tore it off of her body. “I should change.”

Din’s eyes flick hungrily over her silhouette, and when he speaks again, his voice is husky. “No,” he says, finally, digging his thumb slightly into the flesh on her hip, “you shouldn’t.”

The trek downstairs is quiet. Both of them move in the shadows, lulled into an easy silence, their hands knitted together in between their two bodies. Nova watches as the low light of the corridor flickers as they cross over another staircase and down a side hallway, entering through the war room by the back entrance instead of the front, even though there’s no one left in here to try to hide from.

Nova’s been in here at least ten times, but the decoration steals the breath straight out of her mouth every time. A glittering holotable, top of the line, at least twenty years more advanced than the one on Hoth, sits in the direct center. The ceiling looks more like a cathedral than it does anything else, which is perfectly fitting for a group of people who treat fighting as their religion. Nova looks up through the sheer domed ceiling, watching as the moody dusk falls into a silent, quiet night. Stars dazzle and shine from above, and even though they’re not nearly as poignant and powerful down here as they are out in space, the direct line to the cosmos is bright enough to make her throat ache. “Wow,” Nova whispers, voice barely anything at all, staring straight upward, mapping constellations under her breath. Eventually, her eyes slide off of the ceiling, traveling over the careful architecture, the shrines in the corners, the murals painstakingly hand-painted across the circular walls, all of beskar and helmets and Mandalorian history. It feels so ancient, even though the palace was recently rebuilt, reconstructed from nothing during both of their lifetimes. She’s been in here a handful of times before, but never as night is on the horizon. There’s something transcendent about this place, this holy center of Mandalorian worship. Something deeper, something divine enough to make a Jedi believe in them, too.

Din’s standing across the other end of the holotable, fidgeting with the controls until a map of the galaxy sparkles to life in front of them. Through the light, Nova watches the peaks of her husband’s face getting caught in the reflections, letting everything except his face blur out to stardust. “Did you get anything from Wedge?” he asks, and Nova blinks her eyes to refocus on the map. “Anything new? Anything…useful?”

Quietly, Nova shakes her head. “He thought—he called me back to Hoth because of a prison break in one of the sectors Cara doesn’t have jurisdiction in, or I’d suspect she’d have already taken care of it. It was small, just a few criminals with nothing more than petty charges breaking out of a hold somewhere, but he thought it might be related to—”

“The First Order?”

“Me,” Nova finishes, quietly. Her eyes narrow just a fraction, refocusing on Din’s silhouette through the glitter of the galaxy between them. “Yeah, the Order. We couldn’t prove anything, but I—”

“You feel something is coming,” Din interrupts gently, stealing the words right out of her mouth, bracing his strong, gloved hands on the side of the holotable, and Nova nods, watching his grip, starting to get a little dizzy, with lust or with the reflections above them or both. “Don’t you?”

“I do,” she echoes, confirming his theory. “I—I took a detour coming back here. I went to Polis Massa, to try and return to the library archives so I could learn more about Mandalore and bring you back something other than a dead end.”

Din stares at her, his face partially hidden in the glow of the rotating image of the holotable. “You brought yourself back here,” he says, finally, and Nova’s knees buckle a little under the husk of his voice. “It’s hard to care about much else.”

Nova bites down on her lip, butterflies swirling up a storm inside her tummy. “Din,” she whispers, leaning forward on the table, cocking her head in the signature way he always does, lifting her chin slightly with the tilt, “we are tasked with the incredible privilege of saving the galaxy, you know—”

“Fuck the galaxy,” Din breathes, and despite the fact that what he’s wanting to shirk is their top priority, and really has been for months, it buzzes inside Nova, wet and hot. “Let someone else handle it for once. I don’t care.”

“You do care,” she protests, weakly, but his tongue slides out from the hollow of his mouth, and everything else seems to evaporate. “I know—fuck, I don’t know, I know you missed me when I left overnight, I know we’ve been apart more than we’ve been together, but it’s for good reason, and when we save, y’know, the whole galaxy and everything, it…it’ll be all the time in the world for the two of us.”

“I’m impatient,” Din counters, roughly, and then he’s around the table in three quick, determined strides. Nova sighs, letting her body crumple a little as Din moves forward, his hands on her hips, anchoring her pelvis against his. “Don’t make me wait any more for you, cyar’ika, I won’t be able to stand it.”

Nova inhales sharply, feeling him harden against her leg, and she lifts her chin a touch more, enough for their lips to only be an inch apart, enough to make eye contact, enough for all of this to let the rest of the world fade right out. “You know,” she whispers, finally, blood pumping furiously, “you’re the leader of this planet. You could order me to do anything, and I’d be helpless to do anything but comply.”

Din lets out a groan, low and desperate, a choked off, guttural one. “And if I told you I wanted you right here on this table?”

Nova grins, her teeth glittering against the quickening darkness, pulling away only to drape herself over the holotable, face down, letting the spots where her body occupies the space filter out of the reflection. The glow of the lights is disrupted by her figure, and she hears Din’s voice catch in the dark behind her as she arches her back, still fully clothed, an invitation for him to come closer, to take what’s rightfully his. “Then you’d have me right here on this table, Mand’alor.”

She feels Din press up against her, hard against the soft, voluptuous curve of her ass. He inhales, heavily, she can hear it whine through the darkness, not hidden under the evenness of the modulator built into his helmet. Nova knows she’s an expert at getting out of things—sticky situations, clothes, everything in between—but right now, she wants to make Din wait beg for it before she complies. Something to prove that even while he’s the one on the throne, her neck is holding up the crown. At least here. Especially here.

“And if I told you I wanted to fuck you on the floor?”

“Then you’d take me on the floor, Mand’alor. I quite like the floor, you know.”

“You—” Din’s breath cuts off again, and Nova lets the timbre of his voice soak into her. It turns her heart over, first, that excitement tangling up with the knowledge that she’ll let him do anything. It’s been over a week since the last time they fucked, because he’s been spending most of his time in this room, trying to prove to the rest of the planet that he’s worthy enough to hold the throne, and she’s been splitting her time between Grogu and saving the galaxy. All of them necessary evils, deserving distractions, but it’s nearly impossible to think about anything other than the feel of Din up against Nova, his mouth on her neck, his hands on her hips, concerned only with burying himself as deep into her as he possibly can. “I brought you down here to show you the stars. You’re distracting me.”

Nova smiles, then braces her palms on top of the holotable, pushing herself up, gliding her body backwards up against her husband’s. “What an honor,” she purrs, quiet, low, the same kind of voice Din always uses when he wants her so badly it hurts to breathe, “that the king of Mandalore thinks I am a suitable distraction.”

“Novalise.”

“Use me as a distraction, then,” Nova continues, taking hold of one of Din’s gloved hands, guiding them against the curve of her chest, making sure he feels how her nipples harden under his touch, a soft, mewling sound with her mouth completely indicative of the flush of warmth rushing between her legs. “Show me anything you want, oh worthy Mand’alor, please—”

Her breath is cut off as Din whirls her around by her throat. It’s sudden, desperate, the kind of electricity he used to greet her with whenever he finally tracked down the bounty he was hunting and could let loose with her on the Crest.

“Get on,” Din starts, voice raggedly, both hands clenching against Nova’s cheeks, puckering her lips, “the fucking throne, cyar’ika.”

“The—throne?” Nova repeats, breathless. “You want—”

“I want to fuck you on my throne,” Din interrupts, and stars above, she can feel the way that his cock is throbbing in his pants, through the regalia, through the beskar, all of it. “You said anything I want. I want to make you scream my name on the planet we rule while I’m seven inches inside of you. That work for you?”

Nothing but a strangled moan comes out.

Din nods. “Good. Get over there.”

Nova reels back as he releases her. It takes more than a few seconds to collect herself enough to move, and when she does, her legs feel like they’re made out of rubber, elastic and wobbly. She can feel his heavy gaze on her as she makes her way around the holotable, and when she takes the few steps that lead to the ironclad, menacing chair that sits atop the highest point in the room, Din’s voice rings out.

“Stop,” he commands, and she does, feeling her heart hammer. “Face me.”

Nova turns, her breath caught in her throat, staring down at Din. The few steps she’s scaled make her just a tad taller than Din is, and she watches as he slowly moves forward, crossing the tile of the floor with quiet, intentional steps.

“Take your clothes off,” Din manages, and Nova’s almost a hundred percent sure that he’s whispering, even though it might just be that she can’t hear anything over how loud her blood is pumping, over how hard her heart is hammering.

“Now?”

He raises a single dark eyebrow, and Nova nods, trying to peel off her shirt and her trousers as fast as she can. She kicks off her shoes, and they land at the bottom of the steps with a very incriminating thud, but Din just kicks them out of the way as he presses the soles of his beskar boots deliberately against the tile. Everything in here is blue and reflective, even after night has fallen on Mandalore, and Nova catches sight of her silhouette in the floor. Her breath stutters in her throat, suddenly very aware that she’s completely naked and Din, save for his forgotten helmet, is fully clothed, but with the way his eyes are roving over her body like he’s starving and she’s the only thing in this galaxy or the next that can satiate it, she forgets how to care.

“You,” he starts, trailing a single gloved finger down the curve of her body, “are so beautiful.”

“Stop,” she whispers, smiling, everything burning and in flames. It’s the opposite of what she means—she never wants Din to stop calling her beautiful, stop revering her, stop treating her like something holy—but when they’re in a public room that just about anyone left on this planet can walk on, and she’s the only one naked, the risk burns hotter than her desire. “Din, I—”

His finger is on her lips before Nova even realizes he’s moved. “Do you believe me?”

Nova blinks, stuttering over the dying words hidden somewhere between her teeth and the back of her throat. The answer is yes, because Din Djarin never utters a single word that he doesn’t mean, because he uses so few of them to begin with, and also because he’s seen every single inch of her body and worshipped it, but in this reflective room, usually full of figures so much more athletic, razor-sharp, warrior-grade, a tiny bead of insecurity spools down the back of her neck. Nervously, Nova’s gaze filters off of Din’s, flicking over to the ornate door on the other side of the room, and when she looks back, he’s staring at her.

“Nova?” he repeats, gently, and something about the way he’s saying it makes tears spring up in her eyes. “Here. Come here. Look at yourself.”

She lets him guide her over to the throne, which is made out of the shiniest, most reflective beskar she’s ever seen, polished so effortlessly it doubles as a mirror, and Din pulls curls of her dark hair away from her collarbone, fingers grazing the new necklace he gifted her, one hand curling around her jaw, the other sliding down the side of her body.

“Look at yourself,” Din repeats, his touch still so light, and when Nova doesn’t immediately obey, his grip tightens. Not hard, just filled with enough desire to snap her back to her senses—that he took her into this room to fuck her senseless, that his eyes don’t meet anyone else’s, that Din Djarin isn’t a pious man in any other capacity than his Creed and all the rules he broke to worship Nova instead. She relaxes under his touch, her eyes glazing as they travel over the valleys of her naked body. Her skin doesn’t glow in the darkness like it does during the daylight, but it’s a rich brown, three or so shades darker than Din’s. Her eyes, a deep sage green that dips into brown in the darkness, glitter as they flash against the beskar. Her eyelashes, dark and tangled up in the corners from where her laughter lines are. Her nose, not as prominent as Din’s hooked, curved one, but big, slightly upturned, and anchored in the center of her face. Her mouth, plump and perma-stained deep pink from where she bites hard on it in concentration. Her hair, so long now that it trails down to where her curved hipbones protrude, woven into a deeper curl than the natural wave of her hair from the braids it’s always tied back in. Din’s hand on her hip clenches gently at his knuckles, and she lets her gaze shift off of her face, down the stocky muscles of her upper arms, slightly sore from twirling Grogu around and from flying out of her skirmish with the TIE fighters. Her hands are long and elegant, princess fingers, her mother used to call them, dainty and slender, nails kept short to flip all the necessary switches on whatever vessel she’s flying, thumbs worn down with callouses from fighting and twirling Luke’s lightsaber around for the last two weeks, trying to conjure the power he radiates on her own. Down the left side of her tummy, which is rounded and collects weight around her bellybutton, is the scar that Jacterr Calican left in an attempt to rip her soul out of her body, and Din’s finger traces over the bump of it, gentle, endearing, protective. Her hips, which are wide, the curves of her upper legs, the muscles that pack on more weight in her calves. Nova looks at herself and sees, just for a glimpse, just for a split second, that sure, she’s not shaped like a Mandalorian, but she’s certainly desired by one. Din pulls her hair back from where it’s settled against her throat, pressing his lips to her skin.

“What do you see?” he murmurs, his voice deep and electric.

“The girl you love,” Nova whispers, grinning at him in their reflections. Din spins her back around, much gentler than he did a minute ago, all the fire gone, his eyes gentle like the oceans on Yavin.

“Damn right,” Din affirms, the timbre of his voice in her ear making goosebumps spark up across Nova’s bare arms. “Now get on the throne.”

She’s giddy. Her heart is, as usual, racing a thousand beats per minute, threatening to hammer right out of her chest. It’s cold—the throne—cool to the touch. As Nova slowly slides down onto the beskar, she watches Din’s brown eyes flash with lust and longing, and his look alone is enough to take away the chill against her bare skin. The beskar warms to her touch, and she crosses one thick thigh over the other, trying to quell the nervousness that’s still whining at the back of her mind.

“Don’t look at the door,” Din orders, his head cocked to the side. It’s been a few months now since Nova’s seen every single contour of his face, but every new expression not hidden behind the helmet makes her stomach lurch up into her throat. Right now, she can see the tenseness of his command in his clenched jaw, but his eyes soften as they roam over her body. “Look at me.”

“Din—”

“Look at me.”

Nervously, she does. The second her eyes meet his, everything else fades away. In the back of her mind, she’s aware that she’s completely naked, her skin up and against something divine, something not meant for her, this throne that she’s about to be desecrated on.

And sweet Maker above, she doesn’t even care. Din slowly canvasses the distance between the two of them, the intensity of his gaze never once wavering off of Nova’s face. The pure look of animalistic desire on his unmasked face makes her whimper under her breath. If she were weaker, she would cower away, avert her eyes, but by this point, she’s earned her brazenness. There are exactly two things in this galaxy that the ruler of Mandalore, the most ruthless bounty hunter, and the man in front of her would do anything for. Grogu and Nova.

He doesn’t make a noise. Everything is an electric wire as he finds his secure, silent footing on the first step, and Nova’s heart catches in her throat. She wants to say something, to make a silly comment, to cut through the tension, but she knows that whatever’s about to follow Din’s ascent will be worth her quiet. Instead, Nova bites down on her trembling lip, watching the rest of the throne room disappear as Din steps closer, still not making a single noise, pulling his body weight up the lip of each step, staring at her.

“What?” she manages, finally, the word all air.

Din moves closer. Nova’s seated against the throne, the beskar suddenly warm against her bare skin. Everything in her is burning. “What do you want?” Din asks, his voice deep, rumbling through her like a honeyed thunderstorm. He doesn’t even have the modulator to filter his words, and even though the deepness of his voice through the helmet runs rivers through her, Nova’s suddenly glad for the bareness of all of this. It makes it easier, dirtier, better.

“I want you,” Nova manages, hollowly, the words surrender out of her parted lips. “Just you.”

“You want me?” Din repeats, and a flash of lust sparks up behind his beautiful brown eyes. There’s something dangerous in his tone, something deeper, something electric. She stares at him, unwilling to break his gaze. If it were anyone else, Nova would think that the timbre of Din’s voice was teasing, but the edge to it suggests towards pleading.

“Yes,” Nova echoes, and Din moves forward, towering over her. She stares up at him as one gloved hand easily notches against her right cheek, eyelashes fluttering as the pad of Din’s fabric-laden thumb traces over the mountain of her cheekbone. “I want you, Mand’alor—”

“I’m not Mand’alor right now, cyar’ika,” Din interrupts, his voice low and ragged, sparking somewhere in his throat. “Look at who’s on the throne.”

Nova gulps. Air is suddenly impossible to come by. Everything in her is electric, alive. Everything else fades out except for Din’s touch. Her doubt, her insecurity—it’s all been chased away and zapped into obliteration by the way Din’s speaking, touching, breathing. “I—”

“Say my name,” Din says, hooking his free hand under Nova’s chin. She swallows, letting the roughness of his gesture manipulate her body in any way that he wants, pliable against Din’s weathered hands. “Say you want me.”

“Din,” Nova squeaks out, and a single one of his dark eyebrows quirks up against the celestial darkness of the throne room, daring her to speak. “Din Djarin,” Nova rectifies, her voice suddenly loud and clear. It booms out, fills the throne room with sound. For once, the buzzing in her head completely drowns out her fear of being discovered. This palace doesn’t exist. Anyone walking the strange, ornate, blue halls doesn’t exist. Stars above, Mandalore itself doesn’t exist at this point. She’s emboldened, as if her will has flooded back, full-force. “Three things. There’s always three things included in how I want you. I want you without armor. I want you without titles. I want you like I had you back on Dagobah.”

“And how,” Din whispers, his voice running through Nova like heat, “is that?”

She gasps as Din’s hand slowly slips down to her throat, bracing itself there. He barely squeezes, and without all of her senses screaming at her that Din’s hand is against her, she thinks his touch would feel like a ghost, like nothing there at all. “Like we belong to each other,” Nova manages, and Din’s grip intensifies. It’s a slip. She can tell, with the way that his eyes roll back, with the way that a moan slips out from the hollow of his open mouth. Stars blur through her vision—some refracted from the open sky up above, and some from the restriction to her airflow, and she leans into the pressure just as Din retracts his grip.

“Cyar’ika—”

“I belong to you,” Nova whispers, the words sounding like a confessional, deeper and darker than she intended. Her hands find Din’s, wordlessly pulling his hand back to rest like a vice against her throat. “Everything in me is yours. Remember?”

Din squeezes again, and the grin that was hiding slowly spreads across Nova’s face. She knows that in the darkness, her teeth glow white, framed by the plump pinkness of her mouth. Din’s standing, still fully clothed, but she can tell by the way his grip tightens against her throat that he’s rock hard under all that beskar.

“Din,” she manages, her voice high and thready through the pressure of his hand, “what do you want?”

“I want you,” he chokes out, guttural and dangerous, his voice coming from somewhere beyond the horizon. Immediately, he pulls Nova to her feet by her throat, eyes flickering carefully over her own gaze to double-check that what he’s doing isn’t too far. She smiles back at him, and when she’s fully standing, smile still plastered across her starstruck face, she drops her grip on Din’s wrist and immediately moves to unhook his armor. She could do it in the dark. She could do it blind. By now, Nova’s memorized every single inch of Din’s body, whether he’s armored in all of his beskar or not. Even the new additions to his regalia since becoming Mand’alor are burned into Nova’s memory, bright and gleaming. She doesn’t break Din’s gaze as she undresses him, pulling the pauldrons off, the chest plates, the silver V of covering that protects his lower stomach and his crotch. It’s over in what feels like seconds, and then the only thing covering Din is the soft fabric of his underclothes. Nova tugs at his trousers first, pulling them down to reveal the silky feeling of his boxers. She positions herself in between Din’s legs, grabbing his right hip to anchor his hardness against her, and he groans out again, the desperate, wet sound filling up the throne room. It's loud. Too loud. The kind of loud that Din never reaches, not unless they’re the only two people on a planet, not unless they’re lost out there in the crush of space. If his cheeks redden at the sound, though, Nova doesn’t catch it, because her touch is too focused, her vision still spinning off starry, impassioned, loud. Slowly, she reaches up through Din’s weakening grip to pull the shirt off of his torso, breath catching in her throat as she takes the King of Mandalore without armor, without clothes, without anything. Nova smiles up at Din, blinking away the small tears of pleasure that gathered in the corners of her eyes, and then she sinks back down on the throne, squaring her shoulders, tossing her loose hair out of her face, eyes full of allure and desire.

“I want you,” she echoes, and then her mouth is on his stomach. Din gasps out, the sound of it ringing out like infernal bells, and Nova hides her teeth as she grins against his stomach, tongue swirling up and down his belly, fingers grazing like butterfly wings across the bones of his hips. She can feel him growing harder and harder as she teases, parting some of the faint hair that trails down his stomach with the wetness of her mouth. Din’s hands find her shoulders, and his fingers clench down, leaving small half-moons imprinted on either side of her neck. “Can I taste you?”

“W—want you,” Din chokes out, his voice demanding and desperate, but the rocking of his hips against her chest betrays him, and before he can make good on his command, Nova’s already slid every inch of him down her throat. She moans in rhythm with him, as Din’s hands leave her shoulders in a frenzy and instead tangle in her hair, wanting. Quietly, Nova swirls her tongue around the base before she pulls off of his cock with a loud, slurping, sucking noise, and she doesn’t even have time to be embarrassed before she’s sinking her mouth all the way down over Din again, the tears that have returned at the corners of her eyes springing back to life. They feel like satisfaction. She can feel him trembling, and when she drops one of her hands between his legs, lightly cupping his balls, Din cries out again. “Nova—”

“Shh,” she interrupts, which is truly a feat, considering her mouth is full of him and her saliva and not much else, “let me finish you here.”

“No,” Din interrupts, and his voice is strangled, muddled. Immediately, Nova does, pulling her mouth off of him regrettably, blinking up at him, lower lip slowly jutted out. “I k—fuck, I know you wanted to finish me like this, but—but I need you to break in my throne.”

A jolt of lightning strikes through Nova’s body, and she shudders as Din’s shaking grip finds the small of her back and pulls her to her trembling feet. For a moment, everything else evaporates, just the two of them breathing and holding each other, Din’s forehead stooped low to press against hers, and then he whirls her around.

Nova’s used to Din’s manhandling, the expert way he spins and lifts her, like she’s made of nothing but air. This is much clumsier than his usual vigor, and when she’s done a complete 180 and is facing her husband, Mand’alor, the big brave bounty hunter, he’s seated on his throne like he owns it, and his hands are on Nova’s hips in the same place where she was sitting a second ago. There’s something deeper and more intense in his gaze right now, something beyond just lust. It’s power, Nova recognizes as Din pulls her hips down, her knees splaying to the sides of the beskar throne. The metal is unyielding against her bones, but still, she doesn’t feel the impact. Din has collapsed her on top of him, the only thing keeping her upward is his grip and her knees trying desperately to cling onto the straddling position that Din’s holding her in.

For a moment, she just stares at him. He looks like divinity, here, something deeper than just another human being in front of him. Nova doesn’t know if it’s the starry sky spinning through the throne room, or because this feels like a holy place of worship, or if it’s just been weeks since they’ve had longer than a handful of minutes at the end of the day before they both fall asleep, too exhausted and dizzied by their work to touch each other relentlessly, but she feels like she’s spinning. Like this has been months in the making, even though it’s only been a handful of days since Din pulled her down over his lap and anchored her hips to his. Her eyes are on his, desperate, searching. When a single hand trails up to brush against her throat, she eagerly leans into his touch, nodding before his outstretched hand makes contact with her neck, skin on skin.

“You want this?” Din breathes, eyes fixed on her open mouth, and Nova nods against his question, his touch, everything.

“More than anything,” she manages, voice throaty and high, stars spinning beyond her eyes. Din nods in assent, and then his hand is gone, a claw rounded around her hipbones, his fingernails sinking into the plushy flesh. The way he holds her as he grinds her down on top of him is enough to make the rest of the world—and every insecurity—trickle out of Nova. When he pushes inside her, slick and warm and so big from this position, she gasps, the sound of it wet and obscene, too loud for the silent room.

“Fuck,” Din hisses, and then Nova starts moving of her accord. She can’t really feel her knees as they dig into the smooth, impenetrable surface of the beskar throne, but it doesn’t even matter. This is worth never feeling either patella ever again. There’s something humming low and urgent in Din’s throat, his scratchy face buried in Nova’s neck, tongue licking and snapping at her most sensitive pulse point. She groans. “You—you’re perfect, cyar’ika.”

“Not perfect,” she murmurs, hands wrapping around Din’s neck and tangling in his dark hair, eyes fluttering open enough to catch a glimpse at it, her fingers long and beautiful as they tug at his hair.

“Listento yourself,” Din pleads, one of his strong, toned arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her down over and over. In any other situation it would be embarrassing, the sucking noise coming ceaselessly between her thighs, but she’s so wet and so close to the edge that she doesn’t try to obscure it, and doesn’t try to fight Din’s insistent, guttural words. “You’re perfect. Everything about you. Your hips, the—the way they move. Your eyes, rolling back into your skull as I fuck you. Shit, Nova, everything about your pussy, I—”

She can feel her cheeks burning. It’s not often that Din is this vocal, this unhinged, especially not in this situation. It’s dirty and forbidden, and as she bounces up and down on his cock, eyes rolled back like he loves, everything wet and slippery between her legs, she forgets all about the fact that they’re naked and desecrating the throne of Mandalore. It’s everything. It’s so much, and when she’s right on the edge of orgasm, Din grinds his hips up into her.

“Din—”

“I want to show you off,” he grits out, and before she can ask him what he means, he’s lifting her off of him like she weighs fucking nothing, pushing himself down to the hilt inside her as she watches the empty throne room, the empty seats around the holotable, watched by the lifeless warriors painted on the wall. She doesn’t try to hide any part of her body. Din’s still whispering every dirty sound he can think of in her ear, one broad arm wrapped around her waist, the other hand tangled up in Nova’s hair.

“To whom?” she asks, the words barely even air. She’s on the edge still, eyes blinking, torso trembling. She wants Din to let her cum so bad, she can barely hear what he’s saying over the pumping rush of blood in her ears.

Din lifts up a lock of hair, the same stubborn wave that always falls in her face, tucking it gently behind her year. For a second, she sees red, legs shaking, completely subject to whatever Din’s doing. “Everyone,” he whispers, and the shock of how guttural and feral his voice sounds sends Nova right over the edge she’d been teetering on. He makes her cum so hard that everything explodes out into the same number of stars shimmering above, divine and dangerous, white-hot, so, so alive. And before she has a chance to gain her senses back, Din’s dragging and rushing as deep into her as he can, every inch of him warm and desirable, and when he lets go to follow Nova over the edge of the cliff they’re both standing on, she gasps as he fills her, hot and thick. It’s so much harder than the last time they fucked, both of them devastated, exhausted, fulfilled.

Nova leans back against Din’s chest, heaving, spinning, trying to catch her breath. They’re both inhaling and exhaling intently, trying to return back to the planet they rule, to the throne they just fucked on. “Well,” she starts, pulling the long waves off her back, looking over her bare shoulder at Din, “wow.”

He laughs, and he’s still inside her, slowly softening as he comes back down from the high of it, pressing his pink lips against her exposed skin. “High praise.”

“It’s the truth,” she whispers, giggling, suddenly remembering where they are. “I—I can’t believe we just did that—”

“We’re newlyweds,” Din interrupts, his voice still rough from the aftermath of sex, and something sparks up low in Nova’s belly as he talks, “plus I’m the ruler of this planet, remember?”

She grins, tipping her shoulder back into his bare chest, trailing her fingers over his tan skin, tracing fault lines she’s never seen but knows are there. “I like power on you.”

“Nova—”

“No, seriously,” she continues. “It’s hot. Do you get a crown, maybe? Do I?”

“I think one of us will have to duel Bo-Katan for that one,” Din groans, and Nova laughs again, sliding off of his lap, slowly pulling together the pieces of armor she discarded earlier, tossing them through the dark air for Din to collect. The mention of Bo-Katan, though, sends a shiver of a reminder down Nova’s very exposed spine. She pulls her own underclothes on, quickly whipping her tank top back over her head, suddenly remembering how cold it is in here when she’s not writhing between the proverbial sheets with her husband. She bites down on her lip, hastily zipping her trousers up, the noise loud and discordant. “Nova,” Din continues, squinting at her, “what’s wrong?”

“Oh,” she says, dazed, tossing the last piece of armor back over to him, “you know, we—we just desecrated a holy part of Mandalore, we don’t know how the hell to fight off the First Order, and Bo-Katan is probably standing right outside that door, ready to kick both of our asses.”

“She,” Din answers, pushing against the heavy beskar doors, “is not here. We’re working on how to stop the Order. And this holy part of Mandalore,” he breathes, walking back towards her, one eyebrow raised, as if he’s questioning the way his face is displaying expression, “is ours to desecrate.”

“When you said,” Nova breathes, staring back at him, everything else fading out, “that you wanted to show me off to everyone—”

Din suddenly looks sheepish, and she giggles. “Nova, I didn’t—I was just into the moment, if you don’t want to—you never have to, I—”

She grins, smile glittering in the dark, sliding past him and into the empty hall, drifting in the general direction of their bedroom. “I didn’t say,” she whispers coyly, holding out one hand for Din’s gloved one, “that I didn’t want to.” She winks, pulling a still-stammering Din behind her. “I just can’t believe you want to share me with anyone.”

They’re up the stairs and back to the entrance to the master bedroom, and Din finally finds his words—or his grip—and grabs her, twirling Nova back into his arms with the force of the bounty hunter that he used to be. “You’re mine,” he whispers. “I won’t let a single person in this galaxy forget it.”

Nova grins, heart doing backflips in her chest. By the time they finally make their way into the suite, it’s dark across the whole wide expanse of sky, and Grogu is asleep in their bed, comically small compared to the king-size that takes up most of the room. “I know,” she whispers, looking back and forth from her husband to their son, a smile etched into her lips. “We should get to bed,” she murmurs, after a second, and Din nods, pulling off the armor and his underclothes in his silent Mandalorian way, Nova weaving her hair back into her usual braid, feeling the bruises from her knees banging forcefully into the beskar throne.

“What’s on your schedule for tomorrow?” Din asks, both of them gently pulling the pillows that line the bed onto the ground, until it’s empty except for their usual spread and the baby’s tiny body. His eyes drift down to Grogu, and so do Nova’s. He knows. She knows. Neither of them want to say it aloud. It’s time for Grogu to go back with Luke and resume his Jedi training, even though none of them want him gone. Nova swallows.

“You know,” she tries, halfheartedly trying to lift her voice into excitement, “Back to business.”

Din rolls over, facing Nova in the darkness. “You don’t have to,” he whispers, and she knows losing Grogu again, even though it’s to Luke Skywalker, even though they’ll be able to fix it, is wreaking havoc on him too. Nova settles down next to him, ears focused only on the miniscule snores of Grogu’s open mouth, her hand finding Din’s, her eyes falling over where Luke’s lightsaber is hanging ceremoniously by the door.

“But I do,” she answers, finally, closing her tired eyes. “We have a galaxy to save. And I,” she breathes, snuggling in closer to the baby, “have a Jedi to see.”

if you would like to be taken off the taglist or put on it, send me a message/ask/comment!! <3

I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!!!! whether you're a returning reader or a longtime lover, i m so happy you're here with Din, Nova, Grogu, and me. i just simply could not stay away from this story, and i cannot wait to go across the stars and back with the second fic in the series!! leave all your thoughts in the comments here, or find me over at tumblr @ amiedala, or scroll through my tiktok @ padmeamydala

CHAPTER 2 WILL BE UP SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11TH, @ 7:30 PM EST!

xoxo, amelie

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miraculan-draws · 3 years

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Big Boy Word Dump!

I am going to try to keep my thoughts organized, so bear with me and we will get through this as a team: I have some things to get off my chest about depictions of ~Achilles~! I have many Opinions! And these ARE largely opinions, there’s no one retelling or person I’m tryna rag on, just general stuff.

1. From what I understand, the Iliad starts at the end of the war. The conflict between Achilles and Agamemnon is recent at the intro. To my knowledge, Achilles did not sit in a tent playing the lyre for a decade. He was a regular ol general like the others, just a bit harder to kill. But he did fight. Even in Hades Game, which is like, a little TOO noble of an Achilles, there’s a line that Patroclus has to Zagreus to the effect of “Did he ever tell you about the war we fought in? The war that I fought in, I should say. He refused to take up arms.” And like yeah he did! For a petty reason! But only after near a decade of fighting. Achilles did not drag on the Trojan war for ten years.

2. He has the loyalty and the confidence of the Myrmidons. (In book 16 when they are under Patroclus’ command, part of his rallying speech asks the men to win glory in Achilles’ name, and to show Agamemnon that he was wrong not to honor him. They rally to that.) Both Achilles AND THE MYRMIDONS want to immediately go back into battle to avenge Patroclus. I feel like I see people portray this as a mad Achilles demanding too much of reluctant and weary soldiers, but if anything the only ill the Myrmidons speak of him is when he tells them no, they need to rest. They are mad at him only when he doesn’t let them keep fighting.

3. The other generals care for Achilles, at very least enough to feel sympathy for him in mourning. Food is brought to him, they try to persuade him to eat and to sleep. Someone sits with Achilles for an entire night holding his hands so he doesn’t try to hurt himself. He spoke harshly out of grief a few times, but even Agamemnon, whose conflict with him was literally the groundwork for the story, is one of the people trying to comfort him!! Like I only mention this because I feel like I see a lot of stories where Achilles is absolutely alone if not shunned as soon as Patroclus is dead.

4. This one is like, very outside-looking-in, but like those were very violent times, and the culture is steeped in it in a more honest way than the violence in our own stories. It’s brutal, and they don’t bother to hide carnage. I’m leading with that to say in the grand scheme of Greek Heroes, Achilles isn’t all that extreme? Like yes Homer goes out of his way to describe like legions slain, but given the context it reads to me as NOT “Achilles is a cold blooded monster” but as “Achilles was unstoppable.” (I would also like to point out that Hektor, on the field after killing Patroclus, talks of taking his head on a pike and feeding the body to dogs. He moved to do it! He doesn’t get to, because Greater Ajax [I believe it was him] approached him on the field.)(Later, at the death of Hektor, Achilles specifically spits out a line or two about leaving Hektor to the dogs.)

5. The tabboo of defiling a corpse in Greek Myth is directly tied to the Underworld. Funeral rites/pyre/being buried were required for a soul to pass on. If they were not, they would be trapped on the surface as a ghost. That being said: It seems like everybody fuckin does it anyway?? Like so MANY myths have someone decapitated and mounted on a pike, dismembered, left to rot on the field, refusing to allow someone ELSE to give funeral rites, etc. Did Achilles take it a lil TOO far...? Yah lol. But he wasn’t the only dude to have ever done something like that.

ALSO LOOK AT YOUR SOURCE!! IS IT GREEK OR ROMAN?? ROMANS MADE ACHILLES MORE AND MORE A VILLAIN IN ALMOST EVERY RETELLING!! The tone shift in descriptions of Achilles from The Iliad (Homer, Greek) to his mentions in The Aenead (Virgil, Roman), to The Achilleid (Statius, Roman) is like someone dumping cold water on your head.

This is SO MUCH, I am SORRY but !! Achilles is not a shining example of heroism, and I think collectively we all got tired of seeing him depicted as a knight in shining armor. So much so that it almost feels like everybody overshot it in the opposite direction. He’s a weird and fascinating gray-morality character to me, and I feel like he looses his OOMPH if you scrub him clean OR villainize him.

#the iliad #homer #achilles #hektor #hector of troy #patroclus #patroklos #i crave nuanced achilles #i crave achilles with motif

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dragons-bones · 3 years

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FFXIV Write Entry #17: When in Doubt, C-4

Prompt: destruct || Master Post || On AO3

I went with the obvious here. No regrets. :D Timeline note: somewhere between Deltascape and Sigmascape.

“So, at that point I had to dig around in Ivar’s programming to activate his aether grenade program while Aymeric was shooting down everything trying to divebomb us—”

“Wait wait wait, aether grenade program?” Nero said incredulously.

Synnove paused in her retelling of the (first) battle on the Steps of Faith, hands still frozen in the middle of gesticulating a vague approximation of swooping Dravanians, and blinked slowly. After a moment of staring at him, she turned her head towards to Garlond. “Did I,” she said, “not have Ivar use that program against any of Omega’s fucking nonsense?”

“You did not,” Garlond said with relish, the kind of maniacal grin that normally graced his own visage cracking through that gods-awful beard. (Honestly, what was he thinking, he looked like he was fifty.)

The Highlander swiveled her head back around to meet Nero’s gaze, her own mania shining in her green eyes. “The original idea belongs to Khebi,” she began, and he groaned loudly at the mention of the little Sun Seaker arcanist who was as responsible for a great many offenses to nature as Synnove was, possible more, “and don’t give me that look, it was either the grenade program or the particle beam.”

Nero and Garlond perked up at that.

“I want you to imagine what would happen if I allowed Ivar to have a particle beam cannon.”

Garlond cringed. Nero grimaced, slumping back in his chair, and flexed his right leg; he could still remember how that brat ruby carbuncle’s superheated teeth had melted through his outer armor layer and begun to slag the carbonweave.

“Anyway, it’s basically exactly what it sounds like: a carbuncle is a mass of highly compressed aether. Create a command line in the array that allows it all to be released at once, and…” She closed her hands into fists, and opened them again quickly, fingers spread wide. Her grin was faintly evil. “Boom.”

Nero glanced over at where Synnove’s three overgrown hamsters were in a pile, napping. Ivar was draped over Tyr’s back and snoring inelegantly. (Galette, meanwhile, was loafed on Tyr’s neck and head.) He attempted to do the math in his head for the energetic release of so much aether, but kept failing as he realized he didn’t quite know how much aether Ivar, or any of Synnove’s carbuncles, contained.

He glanced over at Synnove shrewdly. “How big?”

Her grin was now very evil.

The Ala Mhigan Resistance wasn’t using the Circles of Awakening for drills that today, and so Synnove shamelessly leveraged her credentials as a Warrior of Light to commandeer the Circles for a practical demonstration of the absolute lunacy of which arcanima was capable. (Nero did not fervently wish what few mage corps the Legions had had had made a greater effort to recruit arcanists rather than thaumaturges. He did not.) They ended up attracting a crowd—Synnove and Garlond conspiring was apparently an event, and adding himself, the mysterious new Ironworks engineer who riled the President’s otherwise even temper, to the mix had created coeurlnip for the gossipmongers—and had been followed out of Rhalgr’s Reach towards the Circles by off-duty Resistance soldiers and many of the adventurers who passed through the Reach and made use of Rowena’s services.

As Garlond called Castrum Oriens over a linkpearl to alert them about a high-yield ordnance test about to commence, Synnove hauled herself onto one of the large stone striking dummies, her carbuncles clustered around the base, and waved to the growing crowd. “G’afternoon, folks!” she said, pitching her voice to carry without needing to shout. (A handy trick, that; probably something the Mealvaan’s Gate assessors were taught. Garlean officers were taught the same one.) “I’m doing a demonstration today of an aetheric grenade function as utilized via carbuncle! This is a custom array that has received a lot of testing, so if you dabble in arcanima at all, please do not try this at home!”

“Spoilsport!” someone called out, garnering laughs.

“Are there any adventurers here who fought at the first Battle of the Steps of Faith? The one after Daniffen’s Collar was broken?”

A few shouts of assent drifted out over the crowd.

“This is what I used to blow off half of Vishap’s face!”

Raucous cheers went up from the same pockets in the crowd.

“It’s a wonder not all adventurers name Rhalgr as their patron,” Nero said, amused as excitement built in the air. “The lot of them have a notable affinity for wanton displays of pyrotechnics.”

“What, like the both of us?” Garlond said, coming to stand next to him with his arms crossed over his chest.

Nero sneered. “Oh, come now, one could make a valid argument that that was trained into us by the Academy. Certainly what garnered us the highest marks was anything that could be used for conquest.”

“Depressing,” Garlond said. After a moment, he grudgingly tipped his head to him. “Yet true.”

How odd it was to have a moment of understanding with Cid Garlond of all people.

Synnove was jumping down now, Ivar gleefully hopping next to her like a particular demented hare. Now, Mama? he said. Now?

(It was never not going to be strange to have that “aetheric harmonic,” or whatever absolute bullshite term it was Synnove used, resonate in his head and know a gods-damned oversized cat with too many tails was talking.)

Synnove’s grin was wide and mad, mad, mad. “Now!”

Ivar carby-cackled, an incongruously malicious sound that had the hairs on the back of Nero’s neck standing up in memory, and he leaped forward, charging towards another of the target dummies fifty yalms distant. As he galloped, tails a war banner behind him, he seemed to gl—no he was definitely glowing. His aether already beginning to combust?

“EARS!” Synnove roared, slapping her hands over her ears, as Galette ducked behind Tyr’s sturdy bulk. Garlond and Nero quickly followed suit, and all three automatically widened their stances and leaned forward, bracing themselves.

Ivar hit the target, and vanished in an explosion of light and stone and earth as the target disintegrated.

The shockwave hit first in mere moments, and Nero grunted: it felt like getting kicked by a chocobo. The sound followed a split-second after, pure cacophonic noise (and he swore he could hear the echoes of Ivar’s cackling), and it was a damn good thing his ears were covered because they were already ringing.

When the dust cleared, there was a hole in the ground five fulms deep where the target dummy had once been.

Garlond and Synnove and the amassed crowd were hooting and cheering and shrieking with glee. Nero’s mind, however, reeled as he did the mental calculations of how much aether had been expanded to disintegrate a stone target of that size, disintegrate or launch that much dirt into the air, and create a shockwave of that potency, and came with a number that made him wheeze. In shock (because that was obscene), in horror (because his battle with the Warriors of Light could have gone so much worse), in utter delight (because THAT WAS AWESOME).

“What,” he said with great feeling, “the fuck.”

Garlond had the gall to giggle. Synnove cackled, sounding exactly like her carbuncle, who re-manifested midair next to her and landed with an ecstatic chitter.

AGAIN, MAMA!

Synnove swooped the carbuncle up into her arms and planted a smacking kiss on the patch between his ears. “Give it a minute, firebug, your aether needs to stabilize a bit more for the next round.”

Booooooooooo, said Ivar, and drooped.

Garlond reached out to scratch Tyr’s head, and the big topaz carbuncle gave a happy boof. “Any chance you want to show off, big guy?” he said.

Nah, Tyr chattered. Feels funny, and ‘sides, Mama doesn’t need to use me for often for it.

Nero wheezed again. “TYR has the programming?!” Tyr was the size of the sheepdog that his uncle had used to protect his flock from bears. He frantically stopped himself from trying to calculate the explosion a carbuncle of that size would generate once all that energy was released at once.

“All right there, Scaeva?” Garlond said with a shite-eating grin.

“I’m seeing my life flash before my eyes,” Nero said flatly. “What the fuck are they putting in the drinking water in Limsa Lominsa?”

Synnove did that awful witch’s cackle of hers again, and turned her head over her shoulder to call out to the milling crowd, “Hey, can someone get one of the dhara up here? I want to show off the facehugger mode!”

A few people—adventurers and soldiers both, from what he could see—whooped, probably having seen the mode in question, and made for the twisting path that would lead down from the Circles and where the local golems congregated. Nero, meanwhile, stared at Synnove.

“What in the hells,” he said, enunciating clearly, “is ‘facehugger mode?’”

“Oh, just a little addition I added to the array,” the arcanist said, too cheerfully. Ivar giggled in her arms, and both Tyr and Galette rolled their eyes. “Ivar latches onto the targets face, digs into their aetheric reserves, and drains them to further fuel the grenade boom.”

Once more, Nero had to stop himself from doing the calculations, and he dragged his hands down his face. This woman was a lunatic. He knew for a fact at least two more of her three sisters-by-choice were just as stark-raving mad, if in very different ways. And he and Lord van Baelsar and the whole rest of the XIVth Legion had thought they were going to easily conquer Eorzea. Fucking hells, never had he been so glad to pull that kill-the-lights trick.

“Please tell me Tyr doesn’t have that functionality,” he finally managed to get out.

“Oh, gods no,” Synnove sniffed. “What’s the point? The vast majority of the time if Tyr pulls that trick on someone, he’s broken their neck, and poof! All that aether for siphoning is gone.”

Nero stared at her, and for a moment imagined what she would have been like had her family not managed to flee Ala Mhigo during the Fall. In the customized armor of a praefectus castrorum, potentially, and that thread of icy ruthlessness honed into a keen blade of no remorse; not in the XIVth, the Black Wolf had been fairly rigid adhering to the decree that conscripts should not serve in the land of their birth, but almost certainly the IVth with its large mage corps. Finally, he said, impressed despite himself, “Your occasional callous disregard for the lives of your enemies is both enlightening and awe-inspiring.”

“Thanks! I compartmentalize it all so I can have a panic attack about my collected trauma in private at a later time.”

He thought about that for a moment and ultimately shrugged in acknowledgment; he could be a hypocrite about many things, but on this there was no use deflecting. He did the same, after all, and tonight he was going to be enjoying a very large bottle of the local rotgut.

But for now, as he saw a dhara being carefully herded up onto the plateau, it was time for explosions disguised as legitimate science.

#ffxivwrite2021 #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #oc: synnove greywolfe #nero scaeva #cid garlond #synnove's carbuncles #dt's writing

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prfctparis · 3 years

Text

In a Sweet Sunshower

AO3 Link

summary: He Who Brings Rain and The One Who Shines Bright are siblings. It’s fitting that there’s a sunshower during one of the campaigns when their legions team up.

a/n: a few things about Tatooine Slave Culture in this is borrowed from fialleril here on tumblr, so all rights go to them for that. except for the sunshower thing, i came up with it while driving and wrote this as fast as i could and actually kind of proud of the concept ngl. fun fact! zariza’s name mean ‘gold, brilliantly bright’ in hebrew so obviously it means something similar here in this star wars universe.

There’s an old phenomenon, here on Tatooine – from thousands and thousands of years ago back when this place wasn’t all dirt and sand – where the suns shone high in the sky, and voluminous clouds did little to darken the earth below, and rain fell from them, soaking the life on the ground.

It never lasted long, a few or so minutes at most, but it always happened during the hottest season of the year. It was said to be a beautiful sight to behold. The down pouring rain and the bright shining suns, together. Apparently it looked like liquid gold.

Everyone called it a sunshower. All of the Depur took it as a sign for there to be tricksters coming their way. Some of the Amavikka said that it was a sign of hope from one of the ancient prophets – Ekkreth, or Maru, or Tena, or Ebra – or even Ar-Amu to the slaves.

But most said that during it was when slaves became Free for good.

…We haven’t had rain in ages.

Zariza huffs and grimaces. Every single part of her is sweaty and sticky, and the humidity of this planet’s region might actually end up being the death of her. No, not the droids they fought earlier, or the damn Separatists, or even a stray blaster bolt. But the humidity. She knows that hate isn’t a good thing for a Jedi to feel, but she hates it, through and through. The air feels suffocating – the exact opposite of what it should be – and makes the heat of the sun feel hotter than it actually is.

It’s horrible. She says as much to her Jedi Master.

“Yes, humidity does make what we’re doing harder. Unnecessarily so,” Mace agrees, sounding less annoyed and tired than his padawan but Zariza can hear the edge of the emotions in his voice. He isn’t fairing so well in this weather, either.

At least the battle is over. Now they just have to clean up everything.

The leaders of the planet had asked for clean up help once the fighting had ended and they had verbally agreed to officially join the Republic. Of course the 187th and 501st easily promised they would do so. Neither of the legions have somewhere important to be, except for maybe Coruscant or a High Council meeting, and so here they are. Sweating their asses off in the humid heat that somehow feels like a murder attempt.

“Take a break if you need it, Zariza – I don’t want you overworking yourself in this heat. It could be dangerous,” Mace says after a few more moments. Then to Commander Ponds, “Same goes for all of the one-eighty-seventh, Commander. Take as many breaks as you need.”

Zariza sees Ponds nod out of the corner of her eyes, followed by, “Yes sir, General. Lieutenant Spite and a medic squad are collecting bottles of water and setting up tents for shade. I’ve heard that the five-oh-first are doing the same as they work as well.”

“Good.”

Wiping her brow with the bare skin of her bicep, Zariza is glad that she had the foresight to leave her black cloak and outer tunic on the venator-ship. She now only wears the black boots, leggings, and the sleeveless white under tunic, which is now stained with dirt and a few specks of blood but she could hardly care. The troopers did earlier, though, especially at the beginning of the fight – lack of armor meant danger but Zariza wasn’t about to give herself a heatstroke. She at least still wore the braces for her forearms, and the chest plate that she has since taken off.

One of the troopers – Mayhem, she recognizes the armor – hands her a container of water hardly ten minutes later. She smiles gratefully at him and takes it, taking a few sips, and then hands it back. He caps the container, clips it on his belt, and they both get back to work cleaning broken droid parts and other various debris from the fight. Mayhem never strays too far from her. Zariza might have been annoyed by it if she didn’t know that he’s looking out for her.

On the other side of the large area that had been used a battle field against Seppie droids, are the 501st – her brother included. Like her, he has darker robes than the usual Jedi, and had also foregone the outer tunics because of the planet’s heat before battle started. Zariza won’t be surprised if he’s currently completely shirtless by now – a risk for a sunburn, no doubt, with skin much paler than her own, but that’s his problem. She also knows for a fact that Ahsoka is wearing the tube top outfit she wore constantly before Anakin corralled her into wearing something more covering, a few pieces of armor included, just a month ago.

Hell, even Master Mace Windu is shirtless right now, the weirdness of it be damned. Some troopers have started to disappear regularly, leaving in full gear, only to pop up again with the top half of their blacks and armor gone.

Yeah. Humidity karking sucks.

Needing a break, Zariza leans against a lone tree nearby. She can feel the Living Force flowing through it and focuses on that as she catches her breath. Mayhem spots her and brings her more water without question.

“Thanks,” she sighs, and takes another sip.

Mayhem nods, undoing a second bottle from his belt, right next to where his helmet it clipped. He’s shirtless just like many of his brothers, curly hair frizzy as hell. “You’re welcome, sir,” he says. Once he’s had a few sips of his own, he asks, “How much is left in there?”

She shakes it, and shrugs. “Half, maybe?”

He nods again. “I’ll go back to one of the tents and refill it for you soon.”

She smiles thankfully. “Don’t forget to get yourself some.”

Mayhem chuckles. “Of course not, sir.”

After taking another drink, she hands it back just like before. But she doesn’t move to get back to work just yet. Master Mace nudges her in their bond, asking if she’s okay, and she tiredly pokes back to confirm that she is, all the while eying what’s left of the field to clean up. They’re getting there, but it looks like it will take forever. At least Anakin, Ahsoka, and the 501st are tackling the other half; and they’re getting closer, slowly but surely.

Her eyes flit up to the sky, and she spots grey clouds nearby. But, ugh – they aren’t close enough for them to get rained on.

It causes a frown to tug on her lips. A pout, if she wants to be honest about it.

Mayhem chuckles for a second time, more amused than before. “Finally saw the clouds, huh, verd’ika?”

Another trooper nearby stops and looks as well. A wounded noise escape them. “It’s so close but so damn far,” they say, forlorn. What a Force-damned mood.

“This humidity will be the death of me,” Zariza mumbles.

“That’s not happening on our watch,” they say, firm yet exhausted, the sadness about the clouds suddenly gone.

“Damn straight,” Mayhem agrees.

She can only groan.

Once Zariza has rested for a good few minutes, she stands up straight again, but instead of getting to work, she unties the knot of the yellow bandana at the nape of her neck. The wild, dark waves of her hair are no doubt frizzy and wilder than ever; earlier she was positive that she felt the waves grow in size because of the friz and the humidity, and she honestly doesn’t want to know what she looks like because of it. Quickly, she works on putting her long hair into a nerftail and ties it with the bandana.

What feels like ages later, the planet’s sun is beginning to finally lower in the sky and the 187th has done most of their half of the battle field. Through the bond, Zariza can tell Anakin is close by yet she stays lying on the ground, taking yet another much needed break. The clouds are closer, too. Yet still no rain.

The sound of boots crunching the dry, summer grass as someone walks gets closer and louder, up until the person stops right at Zariza’s head, casting a shadow over her. She blinks and tilts her chin to get a better look at who it is despite already having a pretty good guess. Anakin stands over her, sweaty and shirtless, with red tinting his shoulders, chest, and nose. His dirty blond hair is matted with sweat and it sticks to his forehead and the nape of his neck, a few of the short curls frizzed up, and his face is contorted into a scowl.

“I cannot believe I’m saying this,” he says, “but I miss Tatooine’s dry heat.”

“Agreed,” she grunts.

Anakin huffs and steps to her side. He then sticks out his flesh hand, and Zariza forces herself to sit up so she can grab it. He pulls her to her feet and almost immediately lets go once he’s sure she’s balanced well. The humid heat has made the brother-sister who hug every time they see each other, want to not be touching another body in any way for the foreseeable future.

Anakin runs a hand through his hair, grimaces at the sweat, and wipes it on his pants. Disgusting. “Been drinking enough water?” he asks.

She sighs. “Yep. You?”

“Yep.”

“Ahsoka?”

“Yep.” A beat. “Master Windu?”

She almost says ‘yep’ again, but decides not to. “Yeah, him too. Don’t worry.” She smirks. It’s no secret that before Master Mace took her as his padawan, that Anakin couldn’t stand the man. The feeling might have been mutual, but honestly Zariza doesn’t know and doesn’t care to. For now.

Anakin just rolls his eyes and flips her off, walking off to help Captain Rex and a few more guys of Torrent Company.

Ahsoka comes up to her a second later. The younger teen doesn’t say anything, and neither does Zariza. Usually energetic and happy to get her to know her Master’s little sister better, the heat has zapped the togruta of most of her energy. So in silence, they work together on a particularly large piece of debris, and then immediately head to the nearest tent for some much needed shade. Breaks are becoming more frequent, and Zariza thinks that maybe she will have to stop helping if they don’t finish up cleaning soon.

Anakin is already in the tent, along with Master Mace, Captain Rex, and Commander Ponds by the time the girls get there, and the two padawans wave a short greeting to the men before beelining where other troopers are giving out fresh water.

It’s when one of the Boys In Blue (as the GAR has started calling the 501st) hands them both a fresh container when it happens.

The sound of rain pelting the top of the tent makes everyone freeze. It’s obviously still sunny, but that doesn’t stop Zariza or any of the others to turn to check for themselves. And it is – no clouds directly above them at all – yet the rain is falling down, gradually increasing to a steady downpour. She blinks a few times and inches closer to the edge of the tent, and hardly a second later Anakin is at her side, looking out as well, mouth parted in shock.

“A sunshower,” Anakin whispers.

Zariza numbly nods.

Her mind conjures up a faint memory of being told of a phenomenon from hundreds of thousands of years ago on Tatooine. Of sunshine and rain, together. Of liquid gold. Of tricksters visiting Depur. Of a sign of hope to slaves, or a celebration for the Freed.

It doesn’t look completely like liquid gold like Amu’s tales said, but it was close to it. It’s still beautiful. A stunning phenomenon that neither Anakin nor Zariza believed they would ever get to see.

“They don’t last long,” she finds herself saying.

The Skywalkers turn their heads in unison to look at one another. Matching grins of excitement and mischief form, and without any prompting Zariza is taking off into the rain almost as fast as a blaster bolt, Anakin hot on her heels.

Zariza jumps into an already formed puddle. It’s right next to one of the 501st troopers, Jesse, and it splashes him. Zariza may or may not have used to Froce to make the splash bigger, but that doesn’t exactly matter. Just that there’s a sunshower, that her and her brother are both Free, and there’s a fucking sunshower and it’s amazing!

Jesse lunges at her, wanting to retaliate for getting splashed at, but she slips away easily with loud laughter.

From him, anyway – Anakin catches her a second later with water from a puddle cupped in his hands. He promptly dumps it over her head with laughter of his own, then misses up her hair just for the heck of it.

“Wha– ugh, Anakin!”

“Tag, you’re it!” he shouts, as if they’re eight and twelve again in the Room of a Thousand Fountains instead of sixteen and twenty in the middle of a field post-battle.

Zariza gapes at him, but it quickly turns into grins and she chases after him without a second thought.

It doesn’t take long for Ahsoka to join, or even for the troopers. Within seconds, there’s a large game of tag, troopers splashing in puddles, and almost everyone running in the rain with the sun shining down on them, laughter ringing out into the open and so much Light seeping into the Force that Mace can’t help but shove his Commander into the rain as well.

…Yes, we haven’t had rain in thousands upon thousands of years.

But it is said that one day, when the twin suns shine hotly over Tatooine, that clouds will form once again yet they will not obscure the twins from sight, and a downpour of rain will wash over everyone.

All the slaves will be Free, and Depur will no longer have power over us.

We will have a sunshower once more.

#anakin skywalker #tatooine slave culture #star wars #star wars oc #star wars fanfiction #clone wars oc #mace windu #my writing #oc: zariza #take the fear that i don’t need

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hysterialevi · 3 years

Text

Hjarta | Chapter 21

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

THE NEXT DAY

THRYMR’S TOMB

“They’re here, my lord.” The messenger said from the doorway, awaiting his king’s response.

Kjotve chuckled and lounged in his chair, allowing his feet to rest on the war table before him.

“Of course they are. It was only a matter of time.” He went quiet for a moment, sliding a rock along the blade of his battle-axe. “...Is Gorm with them?”

The messenger’s gaze shifted to the floor. “N-No, my lord.”

The other man didn’t seem surprised. “I expected as much. That boy was dead the minute he allowed himself to fall into their hands. They’ve likely hammered his head on a pike already.” Kjotve sighed and set the rock down, leaning forward in his seat. “No matter. We’ll manage without him. How many people are we dealing with?”

“It’s an army, my lord. Both the Raven and Bear clans are here. They’re attacking the fort from the southern half of the island. Sigurd Styrbjornson is leading the charge. Dag is nowhere to be found though.”

Kjotve nodded to himself, quickly formulating a plan in his head. “He’s probably dead. I knew something was amiss when Dag’s reports came to a sudden halt.”

He rose from the chair and stretched his arms, resting the axe’s hilt on his shoulder. “Tell our men to prepare for war, and make sure everyone is ready. If Sigurd loses this battle, the power of the entire kingdom will shift, and his family will lose their claim to the throne. He won’t accept defeat easily. We’ll have to throw everything we have at him.”

The messenger bowed. “Of course, my lord.”

Kjotve began striding towards the door. “In the meantime, I think I should get a look at this ‘army’ for myself. I’ve never known The Raven Clan to be a formidable opponent, but they’re not an enemy to be underestimated. Keep your eyes sharp, and your axe at hand. This isn’t going to end smoothly.”

~~~~~~~~~~

MEANWHILE

THRYMR’S TOMB, SOUTHERN HALF

“Heave!” Sigurd bellowed, his voice towering over all the commotion.

The Raven Clan let out a unanimous shout and rushed forward with the battering ram, gripping the mechanism so tightly that their knuckles turned white. The wooden planks of the bridge groaned underneath their weight as they charged towards the fort, trembling from the footsteps of a hundred warriors.

Meanwhile, the Bear Clan marched alongside them and formed a shield wall around their allies, taking the brunt of any arrows that came raining down from the battlements. A series of thunderous war chants echoed from the sea of raiders flooding the gates, and within moments, they were already bashing it down.

“Heave!” Sigurd commanded once again, urging them to charge. The warriors took a few steps back and pulled the ram into position, holding it in place before letting it swing.

The front of the mechanism immediately broke free from their grasp and soared into the braces holding the gate together, causing an array of splinters to fly from the surface.

A few of the supports could be seen bending in the face of the ram’s power, and by now, a unit of Kjotve’s men had gathered on the other side, preparing to welcome the incoming horde of enemies.

Before Sigurd could carry out a final charge however, the shadows of multiple archers blotted the ground beneath his feet like phantoms emerging from the night, drawing his attention to the line of arrows growing above. He gazed upwards into the sun’s blinding light, and yelled another command.

“Shield wall!”

Upon hearing the order, the Bear Clan instantly got into formation and locked their shields together, creating a shimmering shell above their companions. A wave of arrows came bolting down soon after, and rapidly buried the army below under a hurricane of metal.

A number of Sigurd’s warriors were shot dead within seconds despite their attempt to deflect the attack, and much to his dismay, the battering ram suddenly found itself short of some men. The surviving raiders pushed on with any energy they had left and stepped over the handful of scattered corpses now littering the bridge, bringing the ram one step closer to success.

Taking advantage of the opening that followed the archers’ assault, the Raven Clan drew the ram back to its starting point and awaited their prince’s command, keeping the mechanism raised with a Herculean amount of strength.

“Heave!” Sigurd ordered one last time, signaling his men to rush forward. They tightened their grip and practically hurled the ram into the gate, shattering the remains of the barricade into pieces. Shards of wood violently erupted from the site of impact, and shortly after, the Raven Clan was storming the entrance.

“Find Kjotve!” The prince roared. “And send that argr dog into the jaws of Garmr himself!”

Barreling into the fort with a symphony of war cries, the Bear and Raven Clans began tearing through Kjotve’s men like a legion from Hel, cutting down anything in sight as if the spirit of Thor had possessed their very minds.

The sound of axes clashing rang across the battlefield like the shrill voice of a valravn and colored the air with mayhem, drowning out the agonized shrieks echoing from Kjotve’s army.

Meanwhile, Sigurd took hold of his longsword and jumped into the tempest swirling around him, butchering foes left and right in a haze of fury.

All of his bottled-up rage, grief, and pain came pouring out in every strike, and soon enough, he resembled the man who visited Ingrida in her dreams. His eyes practically glowed with the sparks of a vengeful flame, and it didn’t take long for the god of war to start shining through his actions.

He no longer felt any fear; any doubt. The only thing that guided Sigurd’s axe now was the desire to honor those who had fallen. Thora, Dag, Ulfar, Eirik -- this was for all of them. This was to ensure that their deaths wouldn’t be in vain. This... was for his clan.

“Aarrgh!” A familiar voice shouted, causing Sigurd to glance to his side.

In the distance, he spotted none other than Eivor himself burying an axe into the chest of an enemy raider, baring his teeth like a feral beast on the hunt. His eyes had been pried open by claws of adrenaline, and it was clear from the blood splatters staining his armor that he had already taken down his fair share of Kjotve’s men.

What the young warrior didn’t notice however, was the raider sneaking up from behind him.

“Eivor!” Sigurd exclaimed, dashing in his direction. “Behind you!”

The prince raised his sword in the air and slammed it downwards with an adamant amount of force, practically knocking the enemy’s head right off their shoulders. They dropped to the ground in an instant, and sank lifelessly into the mounds of snow.

Eivor took a moment to catch his breath, still processing the swift chain of events.

“...Thank you, Sigurd,” he said through labored breathing. The older man offered his hand and helped the blonde viking up to his feet, keeping an eye out for anymore men that may have been skulking in his blind spot.

“Don’t mention it.” He flicked his eyes around a bit. “Have you seen any sign of Kjotve?”

Eivor shook his head. “Not yet, and I doubt he’ll reveal himself anytime soon. He’s probably somewhere in the fort, using his men as a shield.”

“Then let’s make sure he has none to hide behind.” Sigurd stepped away from his lover, gesturing to the rest of the battlefield. “I’ll stay here and fight alongside our warriors. You focus on finding Kjotve. We cannot let him escape a second time.”

“Of course. Oh, and Sigurd?”

The prince paused. “Yes?”

Eivor’s expression softened with affection. “...Please, be careful.”

Sigurd returned the sentiment. “You as well, love. I’m not leaving this fort without you.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A WHILE LATER

Sprinting across the reddened snow like a madman, Eivor charged through the war-weathered fort as he searched for Kjotve, trying to ignore all the chaos surrounding him. Everywhere on the battlefield, the young man saw nothing but men and women from both sides falling to their knees in defeat, quivering in the presence of death.

Their anguished cries blurred together in Eivor’s ears, and their bodies began to topple over like trees being cut down. Not a shred of honor or bravery graced the morbid scene before him, and instead of finding glory, he found no more than a desperate desire to cling onto life.

It reminded him of when he was a child. Everything was identical to that horrid night when his parents died, and the sound of Kjotve’s name only enhanced the vividness of the awful memories he carried. He felt like the exact same boy who had fled from that ruined village -- only this time -- there was no one to save him.

He was alone... and so was Kjotve.

Taking a moment to gather his composure, Eivor strengthened his resolve and firmly held onto Varin’s axe, marching directly into the hellish atmosphere ahead. Foes of all sorts blocked his path with a multitude of threats -- including arrows and fire -- but none were enough to scare him off.

No matter how vicious their bite, or how large their shadow, Eivor refused to waver. He had spent so long trying to find Kjotve in this realm of ice and blood, that absolutely nothing would stop him anymore.

He came here to put an end to this war, and he would.

“Where are you, Kjotve?!” Eivor roared, prowling through the embers. “Come out and fight me! I know you’re there!”

Stomping through bedlam, the young warrior wildly swung his axe at the raiders standing in his way and struck them down one by one, stopping at nothing to find the man who had hunted him for all these years. His thoughts raced with the struggles he had endured to reach this point, and the voices of those he’d lost continued to sing in his head, urging him to keep going.

A primitive fear of death wracked the very core of his soul, but even then, Eivor couldn’t bring himself to retreat. A newfound defiance had been bred in his heart despite the dangers ahead, and in a strange way, his fear pushed him further.

“I will find you!” The Wolf-Kissed bellowed at the top of his lungs, lodging his axe into an enemy’s neck. “You think you can hide forever? You’ve taken my home, my parents, my sister, my honor! You no longer have any power over me!”

He carved his way through yet another group of foes and let out a ferocious shout, bashing his axe with so much force that sparks danced off the blade upon impact. By now, there was nothing but a trail of corpses lying in Eivor’s wake, and in the distance, he could see an all-too-familiar silhouette gazing down at him from the battlements above.

They didn’t move a muscle, nor did they say a word. They simply stood there in silence, watching as the tension in their kingdom finally reached a breaking point. The battle-axe on their shoulder was enough to tell Eivor who it was, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop when they made eye contact with each other.

They both knew why the Wolf-Kissed was there. They both knew what he wanted. Even though they had spent decades straying from the fire Kjotve sparked all those years ago, they had finally found their way back to one another, ready to guide this saga to a close.

Strolling away from the battlements, Kjotve turned on his heel and began heading down the stairs, beckoning Eivor to follow him outside the fort. It didn’t look like he had any additional men in his company, and for the first time since their initial encounter, the younger man didn’t get the impression that this was a trap.

They were both eager to bid farewell to this lifelong rivalry. The Nornir had planned for this day all along, and soon enough, the ending to their story would be scrawled in blood. The only question that remained -- was who would provide the ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

OUTSIDE THE FORT

THRYMR’S TOMB, NORTHERN HALF

Treading carefully through the gathering storm, Eivor approached Kjotve from behind as the older man awaited his arrival, quietly taking in the view of the crumbling fort. Despite being outside its walls, the two of them could still hear the sounds of battle seeping through the cracks of its weathered stone, howling from beyond the veil of snow.

It was like a different world out here. Not a single soul disturbed the barren landscape, and the merciless weather had almost wiped out the scene of the war entirely. Only Eivor and Kjotve stood on the icy plates of Thrymr’s Tomb, and if they listened hard enough, they could practically hear the gods calling out to them, whispering in a tongue that evaded their comprehension. They were alone in this place, and somehow, the idea of that brought comfort to Eivor’s nerves.

They had an arena all to themselves, and that was just the way Eivor liked it.

“Here I am.” He announced, stopping in his tracks. The island’s river lay not too far away from him, filling his ears with the sound of rushing water.

Kjotve turned around at the greeting, giving his opponent no more than a glance. “...Here you are.”

The Wolf-Kissed took a few steps closer, careful not to provoke him just yet. “You waited for the enemy with your back turned to them? I can’t tell if it’s courage or hubris that drives you.”

A chuckle fluttered from Kjotve’s lips. “For all your flaws, Eivor, I know how much you value honor. You wouldn’t attack a man from his back.”

Eivor’s brow furrowed in anger. “...But you would.”

“A trait of mine that many look down on, no doubt. And yet, here I am, one step away from conquering the entire kingdom. There is no honor to be found in war, so I don’t bother with it.”

Kjotve took hold of his weapon. “But enough. We didn’t come here for idle chatter. You’re here for one thing and one thing only. Aren’t you, Varinsson?”

Eivor felt something spur inside him at the sound of his father’s name. “...Let’s bring an end to this, Kjotve. Enough running. Enough fighting. Just you... and me.”

“Eager as always. So be it. You’ve been a thorn in my side for long enough. I’ll gladly send you to the Corpse Hall. It’s just a shame that you won’t be able to see your father again, isn’t it?” He displayed a small smirk. “The price of honor, I suppose.”

Gripping the hilt of his axe with both hands, Kjotve slowly readied his stance and locked eyes with Eivor, watching him like a beast studying its prey. Meanwhile, the younger man began circling his opponent and held his weapon out in front of him, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The world around them was still with a deathly silence.

It seemed as if the very heavens had come to a halt to witness the grand spectacle, and even the ocean itself had fallen into a trance-like serenity. There was nothing to distract them, or divert their senses, and the battle at the fort had long since departed from their minds.

The gods had finally granted Eivor his chance to reclaim Varin’s honor, and he didn’t intend to waste it.

Lunging forward with a sudden surge of vigor, the young warrior landed a number of blows on Kjotve’s armor before springing back and evading the counter-attack that followed, forcing him to roll across the ground.

He pushed himself off the ice and quickly returned to his feet, whirling around to face the giant striding towards him.

In the blink of an eye, Kjotve heaved his axe above his shoulders and slammed the bearded weapon down onto the snow, missing Eivor’s head by no more than a few centimeters.

The blonde viking jumped to the side and used the opening to swing his axe at Kjotve’s face, causing the blade to slice straight through the lobe of his ear. Blood instantly came pouring down from the wound and onto the fur of the king’s cape, painting the hairs with a vibrant layer of red. A handful of droplets also plummeted to the ground beneath, marking Kjotve’s every move with a fresh trail of blood.

As for Eivor, he carried on with his assault and relentlessly threw one attack after another, refusing to give his enemy the chance to breathe. Unfortunately for him, a man of Kjotve’s stature was not so easily bested, and the Wolf-Kissed soon found himself on the receiving end of a direct hit from the other man’s weapon.

The gargantuan axe bludgeoned Eivor in the stomach and sent him soaring backwards, causing the wind to be knocked out of his lungs. Thanks to his armor, the blade didn’t make contact with his flesh, but he had still been struck with enough force that his abdomen now writhed in pain.

He stumbled for a moment due to the sensation and attempted to regain his footing, only to be kicked back down when Kjotve jabbed the tip of his boot into his gut. The king then proceeded to bash Eivor’s axe out of his hand by punting it from his grasp, allowing it to slide across the frozen terrain.

“Heh,” Kjotve said with a laugh. “Is that the best Varin’s son has to offer? All these years of tracking me down, and you’ve already been rendered defenseless.” He tilted his head in a patronizing manner. “I almost pity you.”

In spite of the soreness now spreading throughout his body, Eivor simply responded to the taunt with a feral war cry and yanked a dagger from one of the sheathes on his back, plunging the blade into Kjotve’s foot.

The king instantly roared in agony and toppled to his knees, unable to ignore the newfound pain now clutching his leg. Eivor tackled him to the ground as soon as he was staggered and climbed on top of him, desperately trying to press the dagger into his throat.

Due to his lighter physique however, Kjotve easily shoved the weapon away from his neck and pushed Eivor off of him with a punch to the cheek, creating a small distance between them. Eivor took this opportunity to retrieve his axe and returned to his feet, assuming his original stance. Not too far away from him, Kjotve did the same -- only now -- he had been cursed with a limp.

“...You won’t kill me that easily.” Eivor panted out, his breath turning into mist. “I’ve fought for too long to let you walk away now. Even if I die for it, this war will end today. You won’t leave this island alive.”

Kjotve sighed and approached the wounded viking, using his axe as a support.

“Ah... just like your mother. Fighting til the very end. An admirable mindset to have, but one doomed to end in futility nonetheless.” He straightened his posture, clenching his jaw in pain. “You’ll fall, Eivor. You, your clan, your king... you’ll all join Varin and Rosta soon enough. And then, Norway will be united under one crown -- mine.”

Trudging in Eivor’s direction, Kjotve carried on with his pursuit despite the injury he had just sustained and prepared to finish the other man off, prowling towards him with bloodlust in his gaze.

Just as the two of them resumed the fight however, a sudden growl reached their ears, leading them to come to a pause. They diverted their attention to the blizzard surrounding them and fell silent, trying to peer through the wintry fog.

For a while, there was nothing. No footsteps, no figures, no movement. Not even a shadow.

The environment appeared just the same as before, and after a few moments of waiting, Eivor began to wonder if the disruptive sound had just been a trick of the mind.

Before his doubts could fully settle in though, the sound of a raven’s caw abruptly pierced through the air, echoing across the land like a summon from the gods. Synin herself emerged from the sky and started gliding down towards her companion, rescuing him just like she did when he was a child.

Perplexed by her arrival, Eivor stared at Synin in shock and watched as she soared over his head, vanishing into the storm beyond. At first, he didn’t understand the meaning behind her intervention or what she hoped to accomplish, but once she departed from the island, it all made sense.

Out of nowhere, a pack of white wolves leapt out from behind the fog and charged towards the barbarian king, allured by the scent of his blood. Their fangs glimmered viciously with ropes of saliva, and their eyes swelled at the sight of their next meal.

“What the--?!” Kjotve exclaimed in surprise, brandishing his axe at them. “Where’d you come from? Stay back!”

Pouncing on Kjotve, the wolves overwhelmed the colossal king in spite of his attempts to fend them off and immediately started tearing at his flesh, thrashing him around like a rag doll. The growing discomfort in his foot caused him to collapse to the ground, and before he knew it, the feral beasts were feasting on him without mercy.

Initially, Eivor felt a sense of relief upon seeing the wolves finish his job for him, but after a while, there was a certain emotion building up in his chest that he just couldn’t suppress. The sheer amount of agony behind Kjotve’s screams was enough to shake him to the core, and surprisingly, he found himself beginning to pity the man.

Eivor hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be attacked by a wolf. Despite the fact that he had carried his scar for over a decade, the terror of that night still remained vivid in his head.

He may have hated Kjotve with every fiber of his being, but even then, it was difficult for him to condemn someone to such a torturous death. Humanity was a trait often lost during war, and the last thing Eivor wanted was to lose his own.

He had come here to reclaim his father’s honor. To restore peace.

The suffering of others was something he wished to end -- and it all started now.

Rushing towards the wolves, Eivor waved his axe at the beasts and threatened them with a series of shouts, hoping to distract them from Kjotve. At first, they merely challenged his actions and growled in response, but were easily scared off once it became clear he wasn’t backing down.

Waiting for them to clear the area, Eivor guarded Kjotve until the wolves disappeared from his sight completely, and kept his eyes sharp for any other animals that may have been roaming around. The wolves didn’t show any signs of coming back to finish their meal, and for the time being, it was just the two of them again.

As for the fallen king, he had been transformed into nothing but the mauled scraps of an abandoned feast, and left in a pool of his own blood. Bits of bone could be seen peeking through his skin, and his hands trembled both out of shock and pain.

Eivor gazed down at the ghastly sight, unable to hide his disgust.

“Your breath hasn’t faltered yet.” He said, admittedly impressed by Kjotve’s survival.

The other man whimpered, croaking out a short reply. “...You... you saved me. Why? D-Didn’t want the wolves... to claim your prize...?”

The young warrior shook his head. “You mistake my mercy for malice. I may despise you for everything you’ve taken from me... but it is not my place to carry out your judgement.”

Kjotve scoffed. “...Then... whose is it?”

Eivor knelt beside his enemy, looking directly into his eyes. “Wherever you go from here, it is the gods who will determine your fate. The only thing I can do... is send you to them. You’ll die as you lived. Without honor.”

He positioned his axe under Kjotve’s chin, eager to finish this once and for all.

“Goodbye, Kjotve. This world will be better off without you.”

Yanking the blade across his throat, Eivor executed the king in one swift move and freed him from his suffering, watching as the life drained from his soul. His body fell limp soon after the killing blow, and a final breath escaped from his lips.

...Eivor could scarcely believe it.

Kjotve was dead.

Kjotve was actually dead.

After countless years of grief, loss, and sacrifice... the war had finally come to an end. Just like that.

There were no cheers of excitement, or horns of fanfare. There was only the deafening silence that had been left behind by the dead.

Was this truly what victory felt like, Eivor wondered? Was this that glorious moment that had been spun in so many tales, and sung by every bard?

He didn’t feel like a hero, nor did he feel any pride. All he felt was a blossom of relief like none other, and the crushing weight of endless regrets.

A beam of contentment was starting to shine in his heart now that Kjotve had officially been slain, and Eivor didn’t wish to spend anymore time on this forsaken island. The only thing he longed for was the warmth of Sigurd’s embrace... but he didn’t even know if the man still lived.

Wandering away from Kjotve’s corpse, Eivor left the king buried in the ice and allowed the gods to take him from Midgard, not even sparing a second glance. A wave of memories flooded his head as he drifted back to the fort, and for just a second, he could’ve sworn he saw his parents watching him from across the river.

Eivor had no doubt that their appearance was merely a result of the battle’s ordeals, but even in his dazed state, he was able to make out the faint figures of both his parents.

They were standing side-by-side, wrapped in each other’s arms and observing Eivor as he made his way back to the clan. They didn’t move, they didn’t speak -- all they did was gaze at him from behind the curtains of snow.

It was almost as if they wished to tell him that their spirits were finally at peace. They had endured a lifetime of torment trapped in Helheim’s depths thanks to Kjotve’s betrayal, and now, they could sleep, forever in each other’s company just as they were in life.

Eivor’s job was done at last, and he could move on from the grief that had burdened him for so long.

“...I did it, father.” He whispered, watching as the mysterious figures faded from his vision.

“You’re free.”

#hjarta #assassin's creed valhalla #ac valhalla #eivor wolfsmal #eivor wolfkissed #male eivor #eivor varinsson #sigurd styrbjornson #sigurd x male eivor #ac valhalla fanfic

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ask-jaghatai-khan · 3 years

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The Host of the Lost Flame

//Another homebrew! This one features unaligned daemons - zealous mercenaries with a fetish for everyone’s favorite method of destruction: fire.

“To fire goes life. From fire comes power.”

History

Vast are the mysteries of Chaos, existing beyond mortal conceptions of time and space, and as fathomless and ancient as all that has ever been mirrored within the tides of the Warp. Though any who are familiar with the horrors of the Dark Realm might know the tales of the Four Great Gods, countless other entities exist within the Immaterium, of which even the most pitiful might rend a mortal’s soul to pieces as if formed of parchment. Princes scheme and daemons are birthed from concepts which exist between the cracks of the Four’s dominance, while enterprising daemon generals seek domains of their own, being granted greater autonomy only for the most loyal service to their masters.

None can say just when the Host of the Lost Flame came about, even if such concepts of time were not already futile within the Realm of Chaos. They are a strange legion beholden not to one god or the other, but who partake in cooperation with any daemonic forces who might agree to their pacts. Like the Soul Forge or the followers of Be’lakor, the Host seeks to further Chaos’ goals yet will not tie itself to one irrefutable deity. It is said that the Host was born during the conquest of the Rift by the daemon lord known as Aval’rakh’undai. The Rift of the Lost Flame was both a confluence and a wellspring within the Warp for the energies of fire – Aqshy as it is known in the language of magic. Long had it been warred over in forgotten reaches outside of time by various daemonic forces, such as the legions of Khorne, the followers of Tzeentch, independent daemons, and other mysterious entities. Yet it was Aval’rakh’undai, who would later be known as the Burning Lord, who would at last claim the powerful realm as his own. By playing the most significant factions of daemons against each other before moving in his own army upon the exhausted survivors, the Burning Lord conquered the Rift and built upon it Bar Udummu, the Molten Fortress.

Though the Gods resent those who seek power outside of their dominions, the Rift and the Host that now owned it became valuable allies for those wise enough to seek accord, much like the Soul Forge or other groups of “mercenary daemons” who roamed the Formless Wastes. For eons the Molten Fortress has been a centerpiece of daemonic “industry”, harvesting souls and converting and corrupting the raw Aqshyan energies to dark purposes. The Burning Lord is a shrewd creature, and has called many daemons to his cause, including greater daemons of the Great Four, all at the chance of profiting from the many pacts woven between the Warp and the realms of mortals. Few can guess at just what the Burning Lord’s true motivations are – if he seeks to rival the gods, or attain some uncertain and unexplored power, or simply grow fat upon the wealth of influence his realm has attained. Regardless, the flames of the Host hunger for souls of the damned and pure alike

Behavior

It seems as though the primary motivator for the Host is – according to both outside observation and their own battle-cries – to feed the Lost Flame. What this means exactly is indeterminate, but by the most straightforward assessment it appears that this refers to harvesting souls for the great forges of Bar Udummu. Daemons have many uses for mortal souls – food, a source of slaves, raw materials to work their dark crafts, or simple playthings. The forges of the Rift are said to be both fueled and maintained by countless harvested souls, in the Burning Lord’s endeavor to turn the great magical conflux’s power towards the production of fell works, daemon engines and grand ritual sorceries. For this reason, beyond even their love for destruction or corruption, it is hunger which fuels the fiends of the Host.

The most practical method of gathering souls is, of course, through the conquest of mortal domains. This is accomplished in much the same way as with other Chaotic forces – tempting burgeoning cults with promises of power, saving up enough energy until the time is right to strike, before these mortal servants tear open the veil and allow the holocaust of the Host to burst through in full might. Other times these harvests are more subtle. For how much the Host embodies the chaotic and violent nature of fire, a good many of their high command appear to possess strong senses of discipline, and conniving minds. Mortals hungry for power may be persuaded into various pacts, most of which benefit the daemons more in the end. Fell-smiths and Chaos sorcerers are both keen to gain the services of such powerful fire-daemons as make up the Host, and will promise great tithes of souls in exchange for the permission to bind such a creature to their service, or otherwise obtain their magics. Such pacts are always beneficial to the Host, as if they are fulfilled then it will mean a great harvest for them, while if the ambitious mortal fails, them and any acolytes who surround them can be consumed just as well, sending a grim message to any who would short-change the Burning Lord.

Creatures of paradox, as all Chaotic entities are, the daemons of the Host embody both the unbridled, boundless nature of warpfire, as well as a certain grim discipline and focus. They revel in the power the Rift grants them, and the fantastic heights blending flame-sorcery and Chaos energies might bring one to. Yet they also realize such power can be too much even for mighty daemonkind. Lesser or “younger” daemons within the Host tend towards the former, more wild behavior, as they seek nothing more than to spread destruction and reduce all they see to ash, or otherwise bend the powers of their flame to corrupt and torment their foes. Yet the greater daemons who lead the hordes are often more focused, their flames burning lower yet hotter, as a bright white flare compared to a crackling bonfire. These daemons have delved the other secrets of fire – how it might be used to craft even more dreadful creations when slaved to the forges, or imbue life into inanimate stone and iron, or even warm a lonely soul – the last power is especially deadly. Many a future cult-leader has started as but a cold, lonesome creature until they were warmed by a faint light that seemed to come from beyond the veil. It is always too late when such individuals realize that what they believed to be the touch of some heavenly realm was in fact just a pinprick hole to a vast Rift of fire and madness.

Notable Members

The Burning Lord, Aval’rakh’undai – Also known as the Burning Night, the Nightfire, the Prince of the Lost Flame, or the Furnace Lord. The Burning One was responsible for the conquest of the Rift of the Lost Flame, securing its immense power for his own fiery daemons and constructing a fortified Warp-citadel from which to defend his trove. It is a great mystery to occultists just where the Burning Lord originated from. Depictions by mortal acolytes have suggested to some that he was once a greater daemon of Khorne, since defected by some unknown means. Others posit him to be a ancient daemon prince due to his independence, though no one can provide proof that he was once mortal. Whatever he once was, the Burning Lord has since become something of a demigod or high king in his own right, as the secured power of the Rift and his own legions of enthralled souls has ensured him safety from full reprisal by the Ruinous Powers. He is known to be a bold and conniving creature, fearsome beyond reckoning those few times he – supposedly – has manifested within reality, though with a marked preference for pacts, deals, subtle rituals, and other means of securing the maximum amount of soul-currency for the least amount of personal risk. Though prone to rages not uncommon among daemons of the Blood God, it is the Burning Lord’s mastery of cunning tactics and dark magics which makes him unique.

Depictions of the Prince of Lost Flame tend to resemble Bloodthirsters in many ways, such as their overall shape and armament. However, like all Host daemons, the Burning Lord’s flesh is charred black and volcanic, and his entire form is wreathed in fire. Great bull-like horns crown his iron-helmed head, and burning wings leave a trail of desolation in his wake.

The Red Bane, Enaav-Khanakh – He whose other titles include the Brazen Hammer, the Burnt Reaper, and the Old King of Enaav. The Red Bane was once a mighty Bloodthirster of Khorne who turned his service to the Host in a bygone age as a part of some dark pact. Other servants of the Blood God speak of the traitor, the misguided Enaav-Khanakh, but the Red Bane’s servitude has had some distinct benefits. Undiminished is his primal fury, his fiery innate powers enhanced by the energies of the Rift, the daemon remains a horrific combatant. Yet in some ways the Red Bane’s mind has cooled – he is among the few “burnt” Bloodthirsters to rule over a foundry as well as a legion within the Host, having applied the martial discipline of Khorne towards the making of Chaos armor and daemon weapons. Still, while many a prospective champion might benefit from one of the Red Bane’s creations, far more prefer to summon him for the sheer destructive potential. His is the might to lay low entire armies, and the Bloodthirster’s chosen method of soul harvesting remains the simplest one – the bloody reaping.

Like all daemons of the Host, the Red Bane displays the unique mutations to his base form brought about by the energies of the Rift. Dark iron armor smothered in soot staples together a blackened form bursting with fiery magics. The Red Bane’s eyes and mouth shine like fissures in the earth from behind a heavy helm, and his charred muscles flake ash and burst with molten veins. Much like his master, the Red Bane’s wings are known to kick up storms of smoke and flame, blinding and searing any who come too close.

The Dark Seraph, Domonzet – The Pactmaker, the Chains of Smoke, the Fair Deceiver. One of the most devious and clever daemons within the host, Domonzet’s history is also among the most shrouded, next to her master’s alone. Some say the Dark Seraph was once a creature of Tzeentch – perhaps a greater daemon – while others posit Slaanesh, though by her “feminine” appearance alone. Others still claim the Dark Seraph is in fact an old daemon prince, though like with the Burning Lord nothing can be found as to the true origins of this being. Under the master of Bar Udummu, the Dark Seraph leads the Host in all manners relating to pact-making, dealings with other daemonic factions, clandestine corruption, and other more “subtle” means of gaining power. Afforded some of the greatest freedoms within the Rift, the Dark Seraph nonetheless seems to be chained to the will of the Burning Lord through unknown means – though the sole proof of Domonzet’s apparent enslavement is the fact that she has not yet sought to overthrow her master, despite appearing just as ingenious and near as powerful. The Dark Seraph acts as the most common medium through which the Host contacts other forces, as the daemon lord is able to affect a charismatic, almost angelic air, hence her title.

Indeed, Domonzet’s war-form appears as a great humanoid figure cloaked in flame and shadow, bearing wings of cinder-tipped feathers and numerous arms bearing blades and curses. Greatest sorcerer of the Host besides the Burning Lord himself, the Dark Seraph is a master of shadowflame Chaos magics, though may still display great proficiency in simple melee. Still, the Seraph’s preference is not for open combat, but corruption. In this, she may adopt a more conventional angelic form, which has led to the damnation of many pious human nations.

Kur Akul, Prince of the Hellforge – Once a mighty warlord of an ancient human civilization which fell to the predations of Chaos, Kur Akul has since become one of the greatest lieutenants of the Burning Lord, and a rare example of true mortal exceptionalism within the Host. Bursting with ambition, Kur Akul sacrificed his entire people in the name of power and continues to rail against the defiance of greater daemons at having to take orders from a once-mortal. Intelligent, bloodthirsty, ruthless – Kur Akul brooks no dissention, and is defined more by those few limitations he still faces within the Host as one who has not always been immortal and undying than by any “true” shortcomings. Save perhaps for a bad temper. Few details are known about his past or his mortal life, though he retains the honor guard he once had as a Champion of Chaos, preserved in the form of living suits of armor imbued with the flaming souls of his former comrades, who act as a vanguard during invasions not unlike Rubric Marines. While not “merciful” or “empathetic” in the slightest, he does have unique insights into how to seduce humans to his cause, and is not opposed to rewarding loyal servants – especially other daemon princes, given that he can play upon their shared resentment for the Neverborn.

Taking a form not unlike that he held in life, Kur Akul is as an animate suit of Chaos-imbued black iron armor flowing from within with molten Rift flame. He tends to take the field astride a mighty daemon engine of his own design, given as he takes pride in his status as Prince of the Hellforge – the largest forge within Bar Udummu. As opposed to his fellow lieutenants, Kur Akul favors daemon-engines and hordes of cultists for his army over pure daemonkin.

Organization

Like most daemonic forces, the Host of the Lost Flame holds to a kratocratic model, with the easiest way of determining standing being the sheer intimidating power of any given member. Neverborn daemons seem to have some privilege over princes, though “senior” daemons are considered superior to both – beings who have spent long millennia within the molten lands and so have assured loyalties, their black souls having turned to fire and their old colors burned away to ash. Higher ranking lieutenants of the Burning Lord may be granted dominion over sub-forges or armories within the sprawling, directionless halls of Bar Udummu, allowed to forge their own pacts and pursue their own crafts in service to the Host’s mission, so long as they remain under the gaze of their master.

While prowess in battle is of course valued due to the destructive nature of daemonkind, the Host is also known for valuing creativity and guile –traits which can be lacking in the denizens of the Warp, whose great power makes concepts such as “restraint” are alien to them. Those who can accrue the most souls are favored by the Burning Lord, and so those daemons who work the greatest crafts of metal, or enthrall the most mortals, or otherwise gain new wealth for the legions without squandering their reputation on pyrrhic victories tend to be exalted. For those who fail beyond acceptable parameters – the forges are not so discerning about what they consume.

Within the hierarchy, mortal thralls make up the very basest level. Most mortal souls harvested by the Host will be expended in short order as fuel for various dark arts, though others – especially those who pledged themselves to the daemons freely – will be kept as thralls whose lifeless vestiges are used to work the furnaces and otherwise perform the impossible “drudge work” which is ever present in a timeless and spaceless realm like the Rift. Above them are the lesser daemons, whose status relative to each other is in turn determined by power and seniority. A newly enslaved Fury will hold far less sway than an elder Horror, whose blues and pinks have long since turned to molten red and black. Above them are the heralds and lesser princes, and above them the greater daemons and princes. In particular, the Host is known for having an odd number of greater daemons within its ranks, as well as bizarre daemons who do not fall under typical classifications. Bloodthirsters are most common of all. This is perhaps due to how easy it is for a powerful daemonic faction with substantial cunning to enslave the rather guileless brutes. After a few centuries of soul-burning and mindshaping, any Bloodthirster might be turned into a suitable blunt instrument for the Host’s armies. Other converted greater daemons and princes tend to serve as “foremen” or actual leaders of foundries rather than military forces, having droves of lesser thralls to perform the actual work of their stations.

Common daemonic strains within the Host include the aforementioned Burnt Bloodthirsters, as well as Ashen Changelords, Keepers of Flame, Molten Horrors, Firedancers, Brandblades and Fireys, as well as Chained Ones, K’daai, Shadowflame Whisps, and Burnt Vestiges. Also of note are the many daemon engines held within the halls of Bar Udummu – the Host is quite fond of enslaving even the boundless fire from which they draw their strength, and some daemons even take it as a point of pride to be bound to a daemon engine, as they make for efficient means of harvesting souls and are believed to demonstrate a degree of mastery over one’s inner flame. At the same time, those who prove too reckless or otherwise show that they cannot be trusted to wreak destruction as according to the Burning Lord’s whims may also find themselves enchained to a mighty creation of iron.

Appearance

By the powerful Aqshyan energies that pour through the Rift of the Lost Flame, the daemons of the Host have their immaterial forms mutated even further than the already mutable nature of Chaos. Over time, through exposure and channeling, daemons of the Host take on a “burnt” appearance – their flesh charring and sloughing away, and their bodies glowing from within with infernal energies. More ancient and powerful daemons with demonstrate these to a greater affect, with their silhouettes becoming obscured in smoke and shadow, while their eyes burn out into glowing coals, and their veins run like cracks in the mantle of the earth. The exact ways these traits manifest are of course different from daemon to daemon, and those with powers over illusions and glamours may conceal them, but they mark that Neverborn as having become bound to the Host for eternity, bent to the whim of the Burning Lord.

Armor of black iron is most favored by both devotees and members of the Host, with things like brass and gold being rarer than on other high servants of Chaos. Banners tend to be carried by mortal servants alone, given that the standards of the Host itself are but braziers of flame. Red and black are common colors of Lost Flame cults, though the exact manner of their dress may vary. There can actually be found much diversity within the damned horde underneath their common colors – brazen jewelry draped around the ebon form of a former Keeper of Secrets, their bladed hair having turned to tendrils of fire; or the ever-smoldering feathers upon a Lord of Change’s back. Flamedancers, glamorous seducers made of fire, prance into battle alongside Horrors formed of magma and Bloodletters with blackened skin flaking from their exposed skulls. Though the flame touches all, the diversity of the Warp is still apparent.

Followers of the Host within the mortal realm are fond of the typical Chaotic mutilations, with branding being popular, along with adornments of cast iron. From backwoods tribals to high hierophants subverted from the holy faiths, fire tends to become a predictable fixation, ranging from a marked preference for candles to full pyromania. The Host does not maintain a high opinion of mortals, given their preference for enslaving, consuming, and exhausting the remnants of their valuable souls, but the Burning Lord is nothing if not pragmatic, and so those who distinguish themselves can expect a fair degree of free reign and chances at high status within Bar Udummu, raising their own cults in service to the Host and ruling like kings within their own brazen towers which branch off from the dark citadel itself. These rare and ever-so exceptional mortals could expect afterlives directing grand processions of forge-laborers in the crafting of dark armaments, from high balconies wreathed in flame and served by enthralling Flamedancers. Of course, such souls are one in a hundred thousand.

Notable Battles (The Dying Galaxy)

The Doom of Senath – The Imperial industrial world of Senath finds itself torn apart by a horrific plague of the Fly Lord’s making. Millions of mutagenic zombies scourge the surface of the planet of all life, from the lowest hive sewer to the highest peak. Putting up a valiant resistance, the native human citizens are nonetheless confined to the outskirts and backwaters as they fight to maintain control of their world and purge the taint – or at least survive long enough that some hope of evacuation might come. In a desperate gambit, a group of surviving operatives delves into the depths of a compromised Imperial facility looking for a rumored solution to the undead plague. What is discovered is the remains of a bizarre cult whose members seemed to have also been slain and devoured during the pandemic, leaving behind this fabled cleansing artifact of presumed xenos origin. With the war too far gone to assess the risks, the survivors find a way to activate the weapon, opening a Warp portal to Bar Udummu. Hordes of daemons from the Host of the Lost Flame pour out onto devastated Senath, exterminating the last of the humans and waging a colossal war with the monstrosities of Nurgle. The Plague God’s legions prove too vast, though they are disorganized. Scouring the dying planet for anything of value, the masters of the Host enact a ritual to exterminate Senath rather than let it be claimed by Nurgle, delighting in the sheer destruction.

The Great Pact of Eygil – A monumental slaughter perpetrated upon the planet of Ichorus-II, through a pact formed between the Dark Seraph and the fallen Mechanicus techpriest Eygil Iotan. Possessed of a terrible mania, enraged by the ideological limitations and endless power-struggles of his homeworld, Eygil’s fomenting madness was detected by Domonzet and before long the archmagos had agreed to a dark contract – half the souls upon all of Ichorus-II in exchange for a legion of undying war machines. This pact was achieved through the corruption of the Imperial Knight house Odynos, one of the chief chivalrous houses upon Ichorus, whose greater system was home to three minor knightly families as well as serving as a waystation specifically for Questoris warhosts. From the shells of Odynos were forged terrible daemon engines as not seen outside the Eye of Terror for a millennium or more, led by the Bloody Duchess Anatha Odyna. The war that followed near shattered the entire star system, and ended with the pact fulfilled – a rare thing, though much appreciated. Archmagos Eygil departed with House Odynos for greater reaving across the stars, spreading the word of the Host to ambitious “business partners”.

Notable Battles (The Mortal Realms)

The Desolation of Greenfort – Within the Realm of Light, in the provincia of Greenfort, a black pall falls over the land. By unknown means, the ever-present sun of Hysh one day is shrouded, as a great gloom is cast across the sky. In place of sun or moon there is just what the mad prophets called the “Burnt Sun”, unmoving and emitting a baleful red glow that is the sole light which pierces the clouds. For three days nothing occurs save for madness in the streets and across the countryside. The next eight days after that, disappearances begin to occur and former kin and comrades slay each other out of fear. After that, the Host came, swooping down from the red skies or crawling up from hidden places in the earth. Witch-hunters and knights errant who investigated the scene later found naught but the burnt remnants of the Greenfort, while all the crops in the fields were likewise withered, and not a soul remained save for a few insane doomsayers. Despite efforts by the devout of Sigmar to keep the incident under wraps, the Omen of the Burning Sky became known throughout all eight realms before long.

The Contest of the Three Gates – In Aqshy, in lands controlled by the mighty Everchosen, a duel is undertaken to secure the Gates of Gauthir, a grand nexus connecting the realms of Fire, Light, and Shadow. Once conquered by a great warlord of Khorne in ages past, it had since fallen to ruin and become infested with fell monsters. The Everchosen wished to reclaim the valuable territory, but none who had ever sought its conquest had ever returned. Seeking to preserve resources and grant an opportunity for potential inductees to distinguish themselves, Archaon proclaimed that whoever should capture the Gates in his name would be named a Lord of Chaos and their followers hosted and armed in the Varanspire. Three tribes sought this prize – the Pale Crows, the Blinded, and the Brazen Scions. Their battle lasted for months, as the three barbaric factions sought both victory and mere survival in the face of the Gate-city’s horrors. It was when Maghan Redeye managed to secure the Threefold Lodestones that victory came at last. Maghan remembered the old gods of his homeland, and used the power of the three controlling gems to summon forth the Host of the Lost Flame. Maghan’s tribe conquered the Gates for the price of all the souls within the city, and bought themselves a place by the Everchosen’s side.

#warhammer #40k #age of sigmar #homebrew #daemons #chaos

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vesperstalksclones · 4 years

Text

What will you do after Mandalore?

Rated teen

Ingredients: kissy kissy, pining, angst, oogling, heavy petting, Rex likes using the F word a lot and thinks plenty about his tool

Sketch by @i-got-no-bones

He spotted her across the sky plaza that they had commandeered as a landing platform. Arms crossed, feet spread, back arched into her posture; every inch of her shining with pride as she watched her men tend to their business.

Rex was content to merely stand and observe for a moment. Ahsoka Tano had disappeared over a year ago, radio silent. Furious and hurting, no doubt, after the Jedi council, men and women she had called family, had handed her over to the republic judiciary system to be tried on circumstantial evidence for a crime she didn't commit. Her name had been cleared and the culprit caught, but when the council invited her back sheepishly, after her humiliating excommunication, she graciously told them to shit in their hat, turned heel and walked away. He respected her for that, also envied her the freedom to be able to do so. If he stuck his birds to the GAR and turned his back, his parting gift would, at best, be a blaster shot to the shebs. Property didn't get to make choices like that.

He could have tracked her down, but she hadn't left him so much as a scribble in parting. He had not taken it well. First came panic - she was alone, who would have her back? Then anger - the 501st and Torrent squadron weren't good enough to stay for? Fuck her!!! The pain of abandonment - didn't the years fighting side by side mean anything, the men who had died protecting her life? Blind fury at the council that had driven her away - he had demolished several training druids to cope with that. Jealousy; that perhaps she had retreated somewhere… to someone… someone male... to lick her wounds and seek comfort. Like that litte Bonterri fuck stick.

"No, old man, you turned yourself pretty inside out over Ahsoka's nonexistent good bye", Rex mused, a wry smile spreading over his lips. After about four weeks of stewing in his own volatile pit of self-pity and rage, during a particularly long night of insomnia spiced with bourbon whiskey, he realized why he was so angry. Fuck the Jedi, they didn't return the loyalty she had always offered. Fuck the GAR. They would carry on fighting and killing and invading and dying with or without her.

Rex had realized, in those oppressive pre-dawn hours, that he agonized because she had left him. They had been companions for more than three years! She had grown from a bratty youngling, to a capable warrior, to a leader almost without match. They loved her, the 501st. Torrent, the battering ram of the esteemed legion, especially worshipped her. If General Skywalker was the spearpoint of the forces, the Troopers were the rigid staff,, and Ahsoka was the sinews and lead and nails that held the two together. They had adopted her as their blood sister, named her Vod'ika, and taught her their words. The squadron had cracked a little from their loss. The center of the chasm had been their CO. Rex was drowning in despair when he had heard his own voice quietly wimper…

"Why did you leave me?"

It hurt, to hear it out loud. It made the pain more real somehow. He had curled inward on himself, hating that he desperately needed his friend to help him cope, and yet she was the one he was mourning.

By the time he had crawled from his bunk, all vestiges of anger had burned away. Left behind was only depression, and empty bitterness. Everything became harder after that. Skywalker also suffered her loss, and he and Rex began to severely grate on each other's nerves. Rex flung himself into work and training for the distraction, earning a multitude of grumbles from his Vod as he expected them to keep up his grueling pace.

And then… Skywalker commed him. The General spoke as nonchalantly as if he was discussing the soy loaf at dinner. There was a mission to be had, to Mandalore. Bo Katan Kryze was in need of assistance, unseating the Sith lord Maul who had claimed the planet for his own. She would be meeting them in roughly 72 hours, with her comrade at arms. A certain Lady Tano.

Rex had leapt from his desk, pacing a circle for nearly an hour. Skywalker said that they would accompany her, Rex in command of as many men as she needed. His stomach was clawing inside him like a trapped loth cat, with anticipation, excitement, and anxiety.

He needed to tell his boys. Her boys. Their girl was coming home. He had stood there smiling like an idiot, loving the feel of those words in his weary brain.

He called Torrent to attention in their barracks, briefly explaining the mission. They were going to fight for their father's home. Serve the warrior people that had created all that the Vode held dear. He could see the energy beginning to rise from them, the promise of a fight that really did belong to them in some way.

He savored a pause, keeping her his precious secret for a second longer, before he flung her name to his troops like fresh meat to hungry dogs. The resulting roar was deafening, with a string of particularly loud expletives from Jesse, who had become his de-facto Captain, as Rex had taken on the Command of the 501st in purpose if not in official name. It warmed his tired heart to the core.

Excusing himself he strode away to his quarters. The energy that the mere mention of her name generated had put the spring back in his strut. He didn't sleep that night either, for the boyish excitement inside.

By the following evening, several hundred men were sporting orange blazes on their helmets, and the indoctrinated eye would recognize the white jagged stripes that swept down over their visors. The men had shined every inch of their armor, oiled and cleaned every gun, sharpened every blade. He allowed them to fight it out for their spots at review. A few black eyes were given over the choicest front row positions.

Then came the day of her arrival . General skywalker commed him for assembly. The men jogged to the meeting point, a large liaison space on the 3rd level. He had counted the length of his breaths carefully, willing himself to be calm and composed, as if this was really any other inspection. He was screaming inside. He felt like his stomach was trying to fall out of his ass.

The door chimed and slid open. And there she was. But she wasn't the girl he remembered. She seemed to have grown over the past year. Taller yes, he noted the distinct curve taking shape in her Montrails. Not just vertical growth either; she had expanded in all directions. Her hips were no longer angular, but smoothly bowed outward. Her waist tapered in and climbed upward to... what used to be pert little breasts - polite things that barely moved when she vaulted across the training mats. Now… well… they weren't polite anymore. In her absence Little'un had become a woman. How the hell did all this happen in a year?

He called the men to attention, unable to suppress the absolute shit eating grin of joy that had plastered itself there. She had traded the skirts and tights of her padawan youth for the dignified garb of a warrior. Smart armored combat boots covered tight breeches, and disappeared under a slim fitting, high collared shirt which proved both modest and profoundly flattering at the same time. Having discarded her Akul tooth headdress when she left the temple, Ahsoka now wore a variety of tiara that looked like hand hammered durasteel. Numerous arm bands and leg holsters carried her various kit. Best of all, he noticed, she had outfitted herself almost entirely in the cobalt blue of the 501st.

Ahsoka stepped towards him. Hesitantly, uncertain of her place in the scheme of things, her eyes searching his face for a cue. He was positively giddy at her approach, glad that his full body armour could dampen the sight of the tremors that ran through him.

"Beautiful, fierce, brave girl… don't look at me like that. You'll always belong with us" he didn't say the words, they shone from his eyes. Her gaze landed on the helmet clutched in his hand, and he was certain they moistened as the orange and white design drove its message home. They were hers and she was theirs.

Moments later, things got complicated, as they were wont to do when Skywalker was involved. He had loaded about three thousand odd men on to another venator. Anakin had named him official CO of the 501st (could've done that a fucking year ago) and they left with their Lady. A jedi no longer, now only a civilian advisor. Whatever, she was still their angel.

Now, about 48 hours later, they had Maul's forces on the run, and had taken a few hours to regroup, gather sit-reps, and organize the city wide hunt for the criminal. His duties were tended for the moment so Rex had gone on the search, hungry to see her face again. He spied her by the transports, wearing her pride of possession, as she watched her Vod do what they did best.

He jogged across the pavement and slowed to a swaggering stroll as he neared her. She beamed at him, blue eyes reflecting the city lights.

"All right there, Lil?"

"Rex, this has gone off smoother than I had hoped. The citizens are disgusted, but at least things didn't de-evolve in to violence."

Gah, her voice! It was like a cool breeze on a shitty hot day.

She retreated a little way between the LAATs

and retrieved a canteen of water, drinking deeply. He took the opportunity to appreciate what nature had wrought upon the Togrutan.

He couldn't pretend to be an expert on her race's anatomy, but he could definitely see that the physical changes in her had stopped being about adding physical size, and began to be about physical allure. The hard muscles of her youthful form had gained some softness via artistically placed plump cushions. Her rump… hips… bosom. Her face had exchanged youthful roundness for a pointed chin and angled jaw, and instead focused the fullness in to her plum colored lips.

It wasn't until after the initial excitement of the reunion when they were en route to Mandalore that he could privately reflect upon her changes. As she bent over to adjust her boot straps he was certain the thirty or so Vod in the room must have heard his cock slam against his cod piece as he reacted to the sight of her peach shaped rear offered up like a feast before him. Since that moment he had remained at nothing less than half mast, his member ready and waiting for the off chance that he might need it, while his brain begged it to behave itself and not act a fool..

How the hell had he come to this? His sweet friend had become a veritable sex pot, her body shedding the trappings of youth and preparing her to recieve a male. The notion that had began to grow in his mind that night in his lonely bed so many months ago, had born fruit and ripened in that moment.

He Loved her and not as a lad should love his dear friend.. He had pined away for months, struggling to function through the void created by her absence. Moments of privacy had tormented him either with loneliness for her presence or aching for her touch. Often his mind wandered too far in her direction and he was forced to take matters in to his own hands… well hand…. And release brought guilt as well as relief.

When he closed the gap between them she offered the drink, and he happily chugged some just to taste her on the rim. He was so desperate, he thought. So fucking pathetic, but he couldn't help himself… and frankly didn't want to. As he regarded her, Ahsoka fidgeted nervously and her face fell, a mask of anxiety appearing. He knit his brow at the change, capping the canteen and setting it aside.

"Rex… I'm sorry."

He frowned. This was happening now, she was ready to explain to him her actions. In the middle of a mission. Fucking hell. He continued to watch her, his face calm and professional.

"Im sorry I didn't say goodbye. It was a shitty thing to do to you. It was cowardly and I was wrong, and I've regretted it every single day." Her sapphire gems stared in to his amber ones, searching them for his reply.

Rex sighed heavily. He had a few things to tell her, and he'd be damned if she was going to run away this time before he heard each and every one of them clearly.

"Ahsoka…" he reached for her, and with only a little hesitation she snaked her arms around his waist and leaned against his armored chest. Resting her cheek near his pauldron. He wrapped her up in his embrace and stole a moment to sniff deeply of her scent. Spice, and something herbal - like tea. Leather. And her own subtle musk, which reminded him of the sun warmed straw field he had walked through on Naboo. How he had missed that smell.

"I wont lie Lil. I hated you for about a week. When I got over that, I stayed pissed off for at least another month."

She trembled a little, her face hidden from view.

"Then, during my fifth week of insomnia and self loathing, I realized why I was so angry, and that it definitely wasn't because I hated you."

He tilted his head down, seeking her eyes, but she was still hiding them on his shoulder.

He nudged her lekk with his nose, gently demanding her attention. She shyly met his gaze, the blazing blue stars beginning to blur behind tears. Stop this at once Lil, you're not the crying type, and especially not over me.

He dipped his face to hers, capturing her lips. She was rigid with shock for a moment, but then relaxed against his touch. He barely broke away, only to come back for a second helping, kissing her with more force in order to drive his message home. She tasted like honey, hints of cinnamon, and the poor quality caf they all survived off of on the Venators. The feel of her petal soft lips against his was enough to make his knees shake, and his heart pound, and, thinking back on every fantasy he had entertained about her, he would come to realize what a poor imagination he had.

Pulling away, she dashed at her eyes with the heels of her hands.

"The truth is that… I didn't dare come to see you that day. I knew that it would upset you and I couldn't cope with that. I wouldn't have been able to go make myself leave, even though it was the right thing for me. Its ok that you hated me for a while.. I hated myself."

She sucked in a shaky breath, regarding him silently for a moment as if she was trying to choose her next words carefully. Apparently, her voice had left her, so she framed his face with her sienna colored hands and returned to his kiss almost violently. He spanned her waist with his hands, pulling her closer to him, all the while cursing his protective armor that denied him the pressure of her firm body.

"I wouldn't have let you go" he growled, biting at her lip for punctuation. With a breathy whimper she opened her mouth to his caress. He tasted her lips, and her tongue, twisting his head for a better angle. His gloved hands groped their way blindly up her back, and then back downward to her waist, one daring to sneak to her rump, palming the cheek boldly, but hell she could shatter his bones with her mind if she objected and he wouldn't be upset. She answered by chasing his tongue with hers, uttering a low moan of approval.

Rex pushed her backward against the cold side of the transport, pinning her there with his bodyweight. His mind spun with surprise and delight that not only had she not broken his face, but was mouthing and pawing at him with equal desire. He sucked in a quick breath and claimed her mouth again, leading the charge with a velvet tongue. He was determined to display for her every ounce of frustration she had left him in for the past year. To convince her that she should not leave him again.

He nipped at her chin, scraped his teeth along her jawline, and caught a hitch in his breath as he tasted the salty skin at her neck. She rolled her head away, crooning gently, and he surprised himself at how quickly he one handed the top few frogs of her shirt. Bearing her neck down to the shoulder, he sucked and kissed at her offering, cherishing her closeness, his mind racing at the willingness with which she came to him. His right hand had found its way to her breast, caressing the sleek fabric covered mound and searching the telltale hardened peak he found there. She was arched backward over his opposite arm, her legs astride his armoured thigh, all the while he was inwardly cursing the confines of his pelvic armor; his member had sprung to full solute at the attentions of his Lady Commander. When she rolled her hips he dared to arch to his boot toe, giving her a hard surface to press herself against.

She stiffened under his touch, suddenly going quiet and still.

"Kriff." she whispered.

His eyes snapped open, alarmed by the sudden change in her demeanor. He was about to speak when…

"OORAH! COMMANDER!"

A chorus of hoots and howls joined the first voice, and Rex dropped his forehead to Ahsoka's shoulder, hand still splayed across her chest, thigh pressed to her besh… his index finger tracing the crease of her perfect ass….

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jesse. Kriffing Jesse, and about fifty of his men. Standing there watching him grind on Ahsoka like they were a live action porn holo.

"Fuck my life" he growled in disgust.

"GET SOME VOD! OWWWWW!!!"

Dammit Jesse.

The fondling hand shot to his hip and raised the blaster just in time for his head to snap up and choose his target. The bolt screamed by Jesse, missing his temple by the length of a finger.

Wide eyed, he screamed and cackled and ducked, the other troops reacting similarly.

Rex contemplated shooting them all, and was choosing his next target when….

"FUCKING JESSE! QUIT COCK BLOCKING ME, YOU STUPID PENIS WRINKLE!" Ahsoka roared at the clone, and with a violent sweep of her arm she flung the entire corps out of sight further down the plaza. Rex couldn't help but grin at the satisfying shouts of pain and the clatter of armored bodies bouncing on the cement.

They both sighed as he returned his DC to its home, and met each other's gaze.

"Is that what he was doing, Commander? Cock-blocking you?" He teased.

Ahsoka's blue chevrons darkened in the Togrutan equivalent of a blush.

"Im not your Commander, Rex, not GAR, nor am I a Jedi. I'd prefer if you'd address me properly."

"And how's that?" He cocked his head, smirking at her.

"Anything but. You decide, cyare."

She pushed her forehead against his. He flushed from the thrill. She had used his "native" tongue, never before had anyone called him "beloved", and the forehead "kiss" was a touch of the purest loving affection among Vod.

"Do you mean that? "Cyare"? Rex's head was spinning. The delicious heavy petting could have allowed him to die happily, but she had done something far more wonderful to him. Cyare was not a name for a piece of meat used to scratch an itch with.. did she understand that? "Are you sure, Lil?"

"Yes, I mean that. I want you, Rex. I think I have for a long time, but I was afraid to call it what it was. I didn't think you'd ever look at me the same way."

"What? Why wouldn't I?"

"Because your a grown man!... Who happens to be younger than me… and I've always just been this idiot kid." She frowned, the dusky colored pout did terrible things to him.

"I don't think you've been a kid for a while now Sokka." To emphasize his statement, he kissed her like she was a woman. His woman. "What happens…" he didn't know if he dared to hope… "What will you do after we are done here?"

"I haven't really thought about it. I guess it depends on our success."

They heard shouts. Troopers were gathering on the plaza, getting ready to depart for their search.

"Than let's find the hut'uun quickly."

He gave her a final kiss and a squeeze, and backed away step by step until her hand dropped away.

#rexsoka #captainrex #captainaccidentlysexy #ahsokatano #seige of mandalore #clone wars fanfic

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empty-dream · 3 years

Text

So I read 86 LN vol 1

S1 anime covers the entire Vol 1 except for the latter's epilogue, so full anime spoiler here.

And as of this writing, I'm still on Vol 2 so the things I mention here are solely those that happen in Vol 1. Idk if a thing happens in the latter volume, gotta dodge spoiler so I don't browse about it.

There was an interview with a person inside the anime industry that basically said "The point of an anime adaptation is not to be an exact replica of the original material, but to shine as its own medium for a story." I forgot who it was and I can't find the interview anywhere for the life of me, but that statement opened my eyes. I agree with it, that's why I can appreciate the differences between LN/manga and anime, especially if they turn out good and/or interesting.

And that's exactly what happens in 86. I'll start with this: I watched the anime first, and after I read the Vol1 novel, I actually like the anime more. Because there are a lot of meaningful original scenes in it

And because the Vol1 novel turns out exactly what I fear when I first watched the anime: that I won't care much about the squadron aside from the main 5. (Look, the anime promotional materials mostly only have Lena and those 5 only. As shocked as I was in the anime, I did have an idea where the story would go from those alone). The rest are barely mentioned. Not even the girls are named in the novel, even though they do talk and Lecca is even prominent in anime.

For example, the second half of the first episode, the one that shows Spearhead squadron's daily life right before Lena contacts them, is anime original scenes. Kujo already dies the moment the novel starts focusing on the squadron. Simply put, a lot of the squadron members that aren't the main 5 or Kaie get a *lot* more focus in the anime, like Daiya, Haruto (For characters who appear on the introduction page, their novel screen time is less than I'd expect), Kujo and Lecca. While the other members often appear in the background and actually behave like equal members instead of glue-them-on figurines.

(Idk if those other members are named and/or designed in the light novel before the anime is a thing or when the anime becomes a thing.)

The anime also adds relevant information in the Raiden's talk with Lena in EP7, like Kaie receiving racial abuse from 86 (in fact in both versions, she is the first one to get highlighted about this) and Haruto also having prominent Giadian Empire blood like Anju and Shin. These weren't in the novel.

I might be just nitpicking here because I love Kaie and Haruto, but see, this scene is amazing on its own. This is where Raiden and the squad reveal the weight of their motivation all along, that they *each* have different backgrounds and different kinds of sufferings, yet they are all sentenced to die, and they all choose to fight because they know no side is saintly but some things are still worth fighting for.

The prominent characters' deaths (besides Kaie's) are often mentioned with only one or two dry lines. I expected at least Daiya's to be detailed more, but it's just that so matter-of-fact-ly. Well I came from the anime, so I guess it's normal if I expected something as heartbreaking.

I broke down HARD at the last half of EP10 and that is nowhere in the Vol 1 novel. (Having Hands Up to the Sky playing in the background is also an advantage for being an anime. Fuck that song, I now play it 24/7 in despair)

Having a lot of original anime scenes really complement the story's nature. That there are two different sides of life here, it's not just Lena's or 86's only. And those couldn't have intertwined if not for their willingness to listen and communicate.

I know I mentioned this some days ago but really, I can't get over how many of the merch are Lena (and Annette) being cute doing cute stuff while the story itself is actually depressing. Merch staffs know the market lol.

- Novel side -

That said, the novel does have an advantage that the anime/visual media doesn't: Internal explorations and explanations.

It's obvious from the get-go, but Asato confirms that the inspiration of Republic of San Magnolia and its racial discrimination and genocide is taken from Nazi Germany in WW2. The Republic who favors the white/silver haired-eyed Alba drives Colorata out of the 85 sectors, overtakes their properties, and forcibly sends the now-called-86 to either fight their war and die, or work on the wall and die.

The life inside the Republic is also elaborated on. Class always exists, even inside one race only. The center of the republic is for the elites, Lena and Annette's families included. The farther a sector is from the center, the lower the education and economy there is. Most of the military come from these areas, which explains why Lena herself is in difficult situation. Since no one in the military is either capable or willing to bring change.

It's *insane* how easily the Republic could create such vile lies, and how easily the majority of the citizens go along with it.

Gotta admit, Asato does a good job at foreshadowing the fate of the 86, the truth that we can only see after Ep7 of anime. It is mentioned that supposedly, 86 soldiers will be welcomed back once their 5-years term is up. Lena once wonders about it, but ultimately she buys it thinking that surely they must have come back to another sector. She only realizes it's utter bullshit after Annette points out how, 9 years later, they have never seen even one Colorata inside the Republic when they should have seen at least some. This also shows that Lena has never ventured to the other sectors to find out more, probably due to work or maybe she's still a sheltered noblewoman in the end.

And the mentality of the majority of Alba is shown differently. Whereas the anime uses the academy classroom to show how deeply rooted the racism against 86 is, the novel uses Lena's mother who a) more or less does the same as the classroom, and b) presses Lena to get married and preserve their pure noble bloodline. This, when the nobility doesn't actually mean anything anymore. This version shows not only Alba's racism but also Lena's strained family life.

There is a scene of an Alba high school valedictorian who, during his graduating speech, says “My friends died fighting the Legion.” I’m not sure this will make it to the anime, and it’s just a minor scene in the novel, but the weight of that scene is heavy.

The science of Para-Raid is explained, which has something to do with tapping the collective consciousness of humanity and connecting it to one another. A bit far-etched but I guess that works, science fiction and all. But I like the part where despite (or maybe because?) of connecting via hearing only, the other senses are faintly receptive as well. For example, one can sense that the other side is biting their lips in frustration, something like that. Of course, actual real life things like sensing the hidden bitterness or elation in a talking partner's words are present, this being a story where listening matters.

The novel elaborates on Raiden's stay with the Alba old woman. He calls her Old Hag, but it's clear he greatly respects her. The part where she screams and curses in the middle of the road at the Republic soldiers who take Raiden and the other children away stays in Raiden's mind forever, and so it does to me. Ngl it is quite a chilling scene.

Same with the story of the previous Laughing Fox, Theo's Alba commander. It turns out, the entirety of Theo's first squadron didn't like him at all and bet on how fast he'd tuck tail and run back to the Republic. When he faced his death the way Theo explained, he sent a message to Theo revealing he knew about it and knew his place to not ask for acknowledgment or forgiveness. This made Theo regret why he didn't try to talk more with his commander and he keeps thinking about it forever. Now it makes even more sense why Theo, blunt as he is, is willing to listen to Lena and when he snaps, he wonders if his late commander would do the same.

What actually happens in Kurena's backstory is also touched upon. While in the anime some viewers could think "Man, I get where you're coming from but chill out." The novel graphically shows her parents being toyed on by the Alba soldiers while her sister protected her, the two could only watch, and then the same sister got sent to the battlefield to die. Now at that, anyone would think "Man, no wonder she can't chill out. Not with all that trauma."

I also like the addition that Lena can sense Kurena is the one who dislikes her the most.

The novel describes greatly that it isn't just Alba and Non-Alba. Essentially speaking, Non-Alba is called Colorata, and they consist of different race groups as well. Just as Alba is associated with the color silver/white, the other race have their associated colors as well. Asato assigns races to the named members in Vol1 and what their distinguished color features are. This also explains why Anju is exiled despite looking like an Alba.

It's a question that I pondered on when I first saw Shin's armor plates, and that I pondered harder on when Chise died: What happens if there is no armor plate to carve its processor's name's on? So it turns out Shin would substitute it with anything; piece of wood or some random piece of metal. For Chise's case, Raiden, Chise's leader, suggested using the wing of Chise's in-progress airplane model. Which did my heart so bad because I'm strangely fond of Chise and finding out that in his spare time in his limited lifespan, he was working on an airplane model made me sob.

I'm not particularly into mecha, and could care less about how it moves. But Asato did a good job describing the fight between a glorified suicide car and a line of brand-new solid A-grade tanks. Special mention to I-IV because wow the concept arts for all the mechas are so cool, even though I don't really understand. (Asato even said to I-IV "Go draw a tank so horrible it's stupid for the Juggernaut" and I-IV came up with the current Juggernaut)

You know how the Republic greeting is "Glory to San Magnolia and the five-colored flag"? I won't disclose who says this in what situation, but there is someone of Colorata saying "If you hate colors so much, you should have just colored your flag white" AND OOOH THE BURN SO HOT HOT HOT

Tl;dr: Bottom line is, I personally enjoy Vol 1 because I already watched the anime and got attached to it. If I were to read the vol 1 first, most likely I wouldn't fall this hard for the series. Hell, maybe I wouldn't even pick it up in the first place because I knew it'd be depressing. But this is not to say that the LN is bad. It’s very good, it just does not really touch the lives of other soldiers whereas that’s the very thing that I love from the anime.

#86 #eighty six #random saying #not sure if i have put all my thoughts here so maybe ill edit sometime later

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sleepysailorjunko · 3 years

Text

The Mojave chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel had been out of contact for quite some time. If records were accurate, years even. Attempts to restablish communications via radio had not been successful.

Still, the Mojave was a very long distance from the Commonwealth. It would have made more sense to organize a team from another closer chapter. Maxson had denied that. Tracey couldn't really imagine any benefit to his decision. Walking there alone would take many weeks, not to mention the preparation that would be needed. She couldn't even take her power armor as there was "too great a risk of it having to be destroyed".

The whole assignment reeked of punishment to her. This was how he was punishing her for not executing Danse. Either that, or he couldn't stand to look at her because of his guilt towards what he had done.

The only real up side to the trip was that the Mojave chapter wouldn't know about Danse's exile-he was free to accompany her. It was a minor thing, but it was very nice to be able to spend time with her husband without worrying about it. And there was plenty of time. After all, the Mojave was almost on the other side of the wastes.

There was months of walking and collecting rations and scouting out locations. Plenty of danger. No one had warned them about the Cazadores.

Things were very different in the west. Even the supermutants they came across seemed strange, skin an unnatural blue color. Tracey swore she saw one activate a stealthboy, but she couldn't find any proof of it. Certainly, something to be noted.

A voice on the radio even talked about some sort of...supermutant refuge? Mr. New Vegas, as he called himself, spoke of all sorts of things, both bizarre events and what seemed to be local news.

There were a lot of soldiers around, belonging to the ruling power in the area, the New California Republic. Tracey was not personally familiar with them, but she did have some knowlege of them. After she had combed through Kellogg's memories, she had done some research on them. They were enemies with the Brotherhood-if the Brotherhood had allies in other factions, Tracey had never heard of them.

The New California Republic seemed fairly decent to her. In a lot of ways, it was like the old world government. Maybe a little too much like it even. Apparently the Republic hadn't controlled the area long, having protected it from an opposing force from Arizona known as the Legion. The more she hears about them, the more she is glad they hadn't passed through Arizona.

The last recorded message from the Mojave chapter had been around five years ago. Tracey doesn't imagine they are still alive after all this time, but it isn't impossible. Maybe a few knights are still left. Perhaps the Brotherhood soldeirs stationed here became caught up in the fighting at Hoover Dam and were wiped out. The timeline certainly lines up if that were the case.

Reportedly, the soldiers had been stationed in a pre-war bunker in an area called "Hidden Valley". The door to the bunker opens easily, not even locked. Walking in, she tries the intercom. There's no answer.

No answer could mean that no one is around to answer. Then she tries the door, which pops open easily thanks to a practiced hand and a bobby pin.

Then there are power-armored hands grabbing at her, locking a collar around her neck. A voice demands that she drop all of her weapons. She acquieses. She's seen these types of collars before. They're explosive collars.

The man in the power armor-a paladin if she's reading the paint correctly (which is difficult to do when you're being restrained)- demands that she identirfy herself.

While all of this only takes a few seconds, Danse has his lazer rifle on them in an instant.

"Let her go. Now. I won't ask again." His voice is unflinching, a hint of a threatening growl.

Danse, in full and pristine X-01 power armor, despite their long and arduos treck across the desert, is an intimidating sight.

"Don't be foolish. That's a slave collar, and we'll have it detonated in seconds if you try anything."

"If that happens, there wouldn't be a force in the world strong enough to prevent your deaths. That woman is a Brotherhood Sentinel, and I'll kill you if anything happens to her. Check her holotags if you must."

"Anyone can wear holotags. That doesn't prove anything."

"We were sent by Elder Maxson of the-" The man who wasn't holding her slaps her across the face, cutting the skin with his power armor gauntlet.

"You were not asked to speak!" he shouts, but the Paladin interrupts. Danse aims his rifle at the man who had struck his wife, but knows that if he wants Tracey to live, he can't attack.

"Elder Maxson? You're from the Capital chapter?" The Paladin asked.

"We were stationed in the Commonweal-" Tracey's knees buckle and she spits blood onto the floor. The Paladin's grip on her arms are the only thing keeping her standing. "ugh"

People weren't meant to be hit with power armor. They're fleshy and soft. They've got a lot of bones that break if pressure is applied to them. Even a heavily armored foe can be badly injured if hit by an opponent using power armor.

"She needs medical attention. Now." Danse said, unable to keep concern from trickling into his voice.

"Yes." The paladin holding her agreed, lifting her into a fireman's carry. "You may accompany her into our base while she recieves treatment for her injuries. Keep in mind the slave collar. If you attack anyone here, we'll have it detonated. I'm sure you wouldn't want that."

Danse bit his tongue to keep from saying anything.

Her injuries aren't life threatening. Still fairly severe for a slap, but she'll pull through. Danse had waited by his brothers and sisters bedside before, but it was never as distressing as it was to wait at Tracey's.

He can't help but think about a young man he saw after the purifiyer was turned on a decade ago. He was waiting for his friend to wake up and unsure if they were ever going to. Of course, this was much less significant than that, but he can't help but feel that he can relate to that young man.

When she wakes up, she is clearly in pain. Her speech is a little slurred due to the bruising and swelling in her cheek, and they'll have to wait out the concussion that knight gave her. It would be foolish for them to endanger themselves by leaving with a concussion, even if he wants to leave this place as soon as possible.

"Hey," he says softly.

"I hate this place." she responds, voice raspy.

"Me too." He takes one of her hands. "I'm glad you made it."

"They put a slave collar on me." she says numbly. "Could have gone off. I'm sorry I brought you here."

After a while, the paladin who carried Tracey to the bunker's clinic returned.

"We ran the Sentinel's holotags and DNA in our system. We have confirmed that you are Sentinel Tracey Love, ma'am. I would like to apollogize for my actions and those of Knight Lewinski."

Tracey's face was bitter and pinched.

"Take me to your elder. I have some things I need to discuss regarding not only your conduct but the lack of communication." She didn't say she forgave him because she didn't. He was clearly remorseful, but it was remorse for having attacked a higher up rather than recognition that what he did was wrong.

"Yes, of course ma'am. Please allow me to escort you."

"Take the collar off first."Danse said, and the glare he directed towards the Paladin was hot enough to scald.

"Greetings, Elder." Tracey said, as though she hadn't been assaulted by one of his men and didn't have a bruise the size of Texas on her face. "I am Sentinel Love of the Commonwealth chapter of the Brotherhood. I am under the command of Elder Maxson, who sent me to investigate why this chapter hasn't been heard from in the last five years."

"Ah yes, Sentinel Ly-oh, excuse me. Sentinel Love. I was informed of your arrival."

"Yes, and we'll discuss that in a minute. Do you care to explain the chapter's radio silence?"

"The generator for our system failed-"

"And it's taken five years for you to repair it?"

"No, not exactly. Rather, we need specific pieces to repair it. Parts that are unavailable to us."

Tracey didn't believe him. There was something oily, something wrong about this man.

"I'll take a look at it once we've finished our discussion. Is that all on your lack of communication? Do you have a record of what has happened?"

"Yes, I'll have one of the scribes allow you access. Now, you wanted to discuss your arrival to our base of operations?" He smiled like this was some sort of minor incident, a late package instead of what it had been. "As I understand, you picked the door open?"

"Yes, as there wasn't any other option. No one responded when I tried the intercom."

"Well, that would be because you need the password."

"Uh-huh. Yeah, sure. Say, do you collar all your visitors or am I just lucky? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm fairly sure that goes against the Brotherhood's law, as outlined in the Codex." Danse chimed in with the exact location of the clause at this point. Tracey's anger was a hot thing, but subtle. It was dry and ate away at anything around it and it was shining in her eyes.

"We were concerned that you-"

"Were you concerned that two people could wipe out your fort? Were you concerned that the security of your base would be compromised?"

"Sentinel Lyons, if I may, you simply don't know what it's like out here. I am the second elder of this chapter, and we have already lost many men in order to establish it. Our last elder fled after he led our men to failure. We had to cooperate with the NCR to prevent them from wiping us out entirely!"

That was it. He had prevented communication with the other chapters because of his alliance with the NCR.

"Why did you use a slave collar?" Tracey asked, not bothering to sugarcoat the issue. The whole issue squicked her out, and it was entirely immoral to force someone into slavery. Honestly, if she was less restrained, less in control of her actions, she might have killed him for this alone. She didn't mind that the NCR had allied themselves with this chapter. It "Why, in god's name, was that necessary?"

MacNamara sneered at her.

"How did you become a sentinel if you're so soft? I did what was necessary in order to preserve this base. An explosive collar is just a tool, at the end of the day. We did not force you to do anything. It is unfortunate that you came to harm, and Knight Lewinski will be punished accordingly."

"He could have killed her. Are you taking that into account?" Danse sneered. He did not like MacNamara either, he wasn't the sort of leader that Maxson was, even if he wanted Danse dead. Maxson made morally dubious decisions on the occasion, but he was a skilled leader. Didn't that count for something? Maxson would have never allowed the use of slave collars on anyone...Wouldn't he?

MacNamara looked at Danse now. He was still wearing his helmet because it prevented identification.

"And who are you?"

"I destroyed the terror of the east. That's how I became a sentinel."

"I hardly think you killed Legate Lanius." MacNamara said flatly. "Was that all you wanted? To complain about how we treated you and lie? If so, leave. I have to get back to work."

"Yes, I'll be leaving shortly. After I repair the generator, of course and ensure that communications have been restored. Don't worry; I'll be sure to tell Elder Maxson all about it. And I'm looking forward to reading your report, every month."

The generator turned out to be repairable. It wasn't an easy fix necessarily, but between Tracey and Danse's practiced hands and a satchel full of junk parts, it was doable. It took most of an afternoon before they could reach the Commonwealth via signal.

Near the Boston Airport, on one of the Prydwen's consoles, a light that had been dormant for several years flipped on. Confusion, and then understanding greeted it. Captain Kells was summoned, as was Elder Maxson, both curious to see how the new Sentinel had fared on her long distance mission.

"This is Sentinel Tracey Love, reporting in from the Hidden Valley base."

"We're reading you, Sentinel. This is the Prydwen, Captain Kells speaking."

"Hello, Captain. The mission was successful. Communications have been reestablished, and the base is fine order."

"Excellent work, Sentinel. I expect to read all about it in your report."He paused for a second, then continued. "Will you begin journey back today?"

"No, I sustained a concussion and it would be foolish to brave the wastes in this condition."

Arthur Maxson thought it over for a second. Concussions weren't rare in the wasteland, but Sentinel Love wasn't the type to fight up close. Besides, he knew Danse had gone with her. He was young, not stupid.

"Sentinel, how did that happen?" He asked, taking the microphone from Kells.

"A power armored opponent struck me."

Arthur hadn't heard of any other groups in the Mojave using power armor.

"Where did this opponent come from, Sentinel?"

"Hidden Valley. He was a Brotherhood Knight."

Oh, it was like that.

"You were injured during a sparr, Sentinel? I must admit, I expected more from you."

"No, that's not it at all. When I entered the Hidden Valley Bunker, I was caught and an explosives collar was put on me. When I tried to explain who I was and why I was there, the Knight struck me."

Maxson's mouth tastes like ash. He's heard of these collars, has heard of their use on slaves.

"They did WHAT?"

#injury tw #violence tw #slavery mention #arthur maxson #brotherhood of steel #mojave brotherhood #look I just wanted to yell at macnamara #spirtual succesor to three cheers for sweet revenge #(in that yelling at elders)#Tracey love #fallout new vegas #fallout 4 #paladin danse #protectiveness #elder maxson #elder macnamara

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