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captzexx · 4 years

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Daily Writing Challenge

Day 4 - Broken

Oplisca stared into the darkness, waiting for the darkness to stare back. But there was nothing. There was always nothing. Truthfully that had always been the great goal of it all, to find peace in the nothing and embrace the void. Had they won? Or had they lost? She couldn't tell anymore and was slowly slipping into the ambivalence of not caring about either of them or anything for that matter. She knew what it was to win and to lose yet again, all that was the same was she felt nothing.

Her pale eyes slowly closed to embrace her own darkness, a kaleidoscope of black fog framing a sea of colored clouds. Pinks, purples, whites, and blues crossed her vision in a stream of unending speed into the blackness of her vision. She squeezed tight on her eyes as she felt her hands lift beyond the vision in hopes of finding something to grab onto. Her lord? Her brother? The empty prison she had been dragged out of by the Alliance magi as they delved into the shadow for answers they didn't want to hear. Oplisca used to think this was what being in the void really felt like to be surrounded by all colors and none. Hearing the pulsing of her heart and blood in her ears, resonating with heavy thuds against the sides of her skull as she danced into the wide open constriction of contradiction that played in the minds of those to far gone. She had been to far gone and now she couldn't get back.

Pale eyes parted again into the true darkness of her wondrous improbable prison she had built. Sadly it wasn't much of a metaphor and a reality as the dark iron grating she laid upon warmed to her bare back. Her vision adapted quickly to the darkness of the tower as it traced the electrum plating of the tower, her mind conjuring the gentle hum of the dark song of her master. No melody or rhyme was hidden within that gentle song, only the great growl of the expansive power that was the void. That comfort had been long since gone, only her own feeble attempts at remembering it echoed in her chest on long days and longer nights. Each rivet and carving had been chose specifically for this construction, wards of holding and despair crisscrossing each plate chosen to drive the prisoner mad with grief but not enough to death. As she followed these patterns she came at to the dark iron pedestal she had had installed in the center of the walkway she lay upon.

The pedestal was a simple design, a rough and worn looking sheath for a sword, a sword that sat as silent as the day she had placed in there. It was the focal point in her mind to keep the tower intact and in power, or rather at least was the plan. She had long suspected her lover's heirloom of being a magical tool and had counted on it to be when she had at last enacted her plan. Sadly, from the dull steel and lackluster emerald atop it's pommel, she had been wrong.

Zexx had escaped.

A soft sob of frustration escaped her as she brought her hands up to her face to trace the etched scarring upon her flesh, the crisscrossing of the eldritch symbols Kinowin had carved into her flesh when she had been chosen. So much pride had been in her brother's face as he helped her and guided the many pinpricks of the needles along it to weave the instructions of her love. The soft sob became louder as she let the despair creep over her again, her thin body twisting into a ball as she let the dried out tears pretend to slide across her face. Oplisca could hardly remember when she had last eaten or drank and felt that this was problem the best way to finally be done with it all. Damn the Grimorie. Damn Azeroth. Damn Candell.

Damn herself.

HEAR.

Oplisca's sobs ceased immediately as her eyes opened wide at the words.

HEAR.

Oplisca scrambled to her hands and knees, the thread bare rob billowing about her skeletal frame as she peered out into the darkness. Her sob ragged voice spoke softly out into the ether. "Who's there?"

No answer.

Resting on her knees she shook in her weakened state at the surprise of an unseen voice. Pale eyes dancing at unresponsive shadows, waiting for something to pour of the ether and finish her off. A dark place inside knew it's what she truly had wanted all this time. Again she croaked out a whisper, her dry lips cracking and bleeding from her initial call. "Show yourself."

SEE.

The half elf's hands flew to her head as her mind was overwhelmed with imagery and sensation, her mouth opening in a widening scream as it was far to much for her fragile state to bear. A black desert, a twisting sky, the screams of excruciating ecstasy from a faceless mass of twisted bodies dancing beneath the widening visage that was a great eye in sky. Fel green and pulsing with a steady drum beat, the tide of flesh below writhing and flailing under it's singular vision and paradoxical choices. Oplisca felt her body begin to quake and split at the seams as the very core of her being began to unravel before by the will of the entity, her voice howling to join the others in a primal noise that resembled no mortal language. Each strand of flesh and bone came free seeping and crocheting into a new being a her frail form undulated and reveled in the rebirth. And then it did it again. And again. And again.

Dry wretch came boiling from the shallow depths of Oplisca as she collapsed face first into the grate with a crash, hands still clutching her head as she jabbered at the vision she had seen. The green eye above having seen so focused on her, filling her body and mind with so much, familiarity. She wanted there to be tears but being as dehydrated as she was there none but the kind she imagined she would spill at the touch she had craved so long. Her master. Her love.

"C'thun."

Like a dramatic cue in the theatrical play of her life, the woman would lift herself to her hands and knees only to feel the first empty sickly green throbs of light coming from the center of the walkway. Shaking still her head would lift to follow the rays and pulse, with each dull thrum a shiver of hunger and heat would well from the depths of her body. Her shaky hands would run over her face and body as she relished in each pulse much like she had in the vision. But this way real. This was no dream. This was happening.

TOUCH.

Oplisca tottered up to her feet, freeing herself of the ragged fabric of her garb before stumbling naked and unafraid to the glowing pommel atop the sword. With each step closer, the pulse would grow stronger and deeper causing her to do something she never thought possible again. Bloody cracked lips parted in a smile as she finally fell to her knees before the erected blade. Her shaking purple hand coming to touch the metal of the blade, the one cold place in all of the tower. Pain would be sharp and welcoming as the sharp steel dug into her hand as she stroked it, her eyes wide in the face of her returned blinding all of her other senses.

With skinny arms wide open, they would wrap about the sword to embrace the blade and draw her body close. The crosspiece dug hard into the shallow space between her breasts and press into the thin skin that held her fragile skeleton together. Her head would lean forward, the same smile wide upon her ruined face as the pulse gem would touch her forehead gently like a long sought lover's kiss. They were here. She was not alone.

FEEL.

Her thin body began to pull at the sword, soft grunts drumming from her chest as she tugged to release the her master. To drag them away with her, to hold and bask in the energy of their will. Pain still flooded her body as the sword would nick flesh and bring blood with shallow cuts to her chest, thighs, and stomach. The great need was overwhelming all sense of herself as she tugged and puled at the metal, the emerald pulsing steadily and unending at the frenzied madness of the former cultist.

A howl of frustration would added to her as she let her mouth widen and scream into the nothing, bring a large blue hand to grasp the hilt of the sword as reality was sliced so easily to bring forth her servant. The wrathguard materialized above her instantly and without question, its thick fingers grasping the weapon tightly as it's great helmeted face would sit silent awaiting her command. No words were needed as she bared her bloody mouth and screamed as she pulled the sword. The demons strength did not fail in it's mistress's need as it pulled back on the sword.

One moment of weightlessness lead to a dash upon the grate as Oplisca landed on her back, the blade held tightly to her as they lay in a heap of flesh, steel, and blood. The elf would moan in a mixture of pain and joy as she wrapped her legs about the now broken blade, ankles crossing as she truly felt the weight of the weapon upon her. Above the wrathguard sat in silence as it's mistress finally had found peace and purpose.

She was not alone.

@daily-writing-challenge

@opliscadumere

#dwc #dwc2020 #day 4 #oplisca dumere #broken #late but not forgotten

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cuddlywritesthings · 4 years

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Declivity into Holy Fire

Genre: World of Warcraft

Characters: Guntharius Plaguespitter, Raustul Shadeshifter, Father Lanstarth Mourningsworn, Sunwalker Kagun Petalhoof (brief), Clayton Whatley (High Seer of the cult of the Gaze of N’zoth), Jendrick Camden (unnamed Paladin in this story; later named)

Characters mentioned: Taviast Duskwither

Timeline: N’zoth’s appearance and presence on Azeroth; Wrathion’s whole questline, and endgame of BFA.

Trigger warnings: Strong language, violence, prolonged suffering, gore, and the general description of an incredibly intense battle and the description of a character’s suffering

- - - - - - - - - -

“BRACE YOURSELVES!”

A whirlwind of fire buffeted the group, but a stalwart figure bared the brunt of the attack.

Sunwalker Kagun Petalhoof had kept his comrades unharmed by the use of his shield, blessed by the Earthmother’s grace and love. The maniac mage’s fire slammed into the wood and the metal, causing the shield to creak and moan in its abuse, but it yielded all the same. The human didn’t last, however, and before he could throw out another fireball, his chest caved in thanks to the Sunwalker’s axe.

“TO YOUR LEFT!”

The mighty Tauren spun, allowing the bluish blur to streak past him. The Death Knight and ex-Crusader, Father Lanstarth Mournsworn, had pinpointed his target and, with a mighty swing of his sword, the sharpened edge sliced through the Worgen rogue that had just manifested to their left. The cut was clean, letting the Worgen’s lower half collapse forward and his upper half to slide off to the side. As the bloodied chunks and visceral organs of the furred magician spilled unto the ground, another cry of warning erupted forth.

“ABOVE!”

A volley of arrows from two elven archers rained down on the group, but a demonic snarl caused the two to back up, alarmed. Raustul Shadeshifter, leaping through the air, slammed into the ground in front of them, felfire flames erupting at his cloven feet. With a sickening shllick-shliick of his warglaives, the two unfortunate Kaldorei collapsed into each other, blood streaming from the stumps where arms and legs had once been.

Guntharius Plaguspitter supervised it all. He had shouted the orders and the warnings, keeping his unit safe. As one of the higher ups within the Circle-- and as the head representing the Horde factions-- it was his sworn duty to keep his comrades safe at all costs.

He stood there resolutely, a hand clamped down tightly on the shoulder of the slumped form beside him. The human they had captured moaned softly in pain. His hood had fallen away from his face, and it no longer obscured the twin crimson rivers that trickled down from his hairline. The bastard was garbed in the unholy vestments of a cultist and, by the looks of it, he had employed many different kinds to his cause. Even two of the most ancient, noble races-- the Kaldorei-- had been perverted by this madman’s ramblings.

They had received information about an uprising in cultist activities. But how could that surprise anyone? Eldritch horrors were abound as Uldum became steadily overrun by blathering, mindless cultists. Many had become transformed in the wake of the Old Gods, spouting tentacles from their faces where tentacles should never, ever be. It was a disgusting affair that sickened the warlock to his very core.

Their information gathered had pointed to this man: a high cultist by the name of Clayton Whatley. Untransformed (for the time being), he had quickly amassed a following to further pervert and brainwash with the drivel of the Old Gods themselves.

Guntharius had to reflect on just how things had gotten so bad. From the plight of the Zandalari and the Kul’tirans clashing, to the affairs of the shebitch-- the Warchief, to the civil war within the Horde… now they had to contend with the Old Gods.

He never did like the Old Gods. Found the whole thing to be one giant nuisance.

The squelching of pierced flesh brought the warlock back to his senses. There they were, still in that decrepit building, routing out the hovel that had become this Cultist’s base. A blasphemous attempt at an Eldritch church, the warlock glanced repulsively at the signs of mental decay all around him. From the crumbling structure of the walls to the broken, wretched pews and the smeared, inky demonic runes smattered along torn tapestries and smudged on any space available… it was a travesty in the works. It was dark, dank, and it stunk of mildew. Pathetic. Disgusting. Inferior.

Whatley moaned again, and the warlock snarled in Eredun, threatening him with a fate worse than death if he didn’t shut up.

“OI! GUN!”

Guntharius looked up sharply to see Raustul, splattered with the gore of his enemies from horn to hoof, waving him down.

“It looks like we’re done here,” the mischievous Demon Hunter said with a satisfied grin.

“Yes,” the warlock conceded, blood staining the hem of his robes as well. “It would appear that we are.”

Indeed. The pathetic excuse for a maddened church seemed to now be vacant. Dismembered bodies lay strewn about the filthy cobblestone flooring in an array of chaos. A few gurgled out a plea or two for mercy, but a merciful death blow from the pious Death Knight himself put an end to their suffering.

“You’re too kind on them,” Guntharius snapped at the deceased Crusader, watching Lanstarth return to the rest of the regathered group. “They deserve a slow, agonizing death for what their kind has brought to Azeroth.”

“They have received their punishment,” the Death Knight coolly replied, his tone as flat and monotone as ever. Sword point resting against the ground, he stood there, like an ever vigilant guardian, awaiting his next orders. “The Gods and their Light will punish them now. I do not torture my enemies,” he continued after a moment’s pause. “I am more than a reanimated thrall of the Lich King. I am still a holy man at heart. I will not torture in the name of the Light.”

“Feh. You holy types. Self sacrificing martyrs with an egregious complex.”

Sunwalker Petalhoof looked worriedly at the two of them, listening to the conversation. His ears began to droop a little, and he rumbled out his deep, profound voice, “we have our target. We should return to the others, before they get worried. We’re already late on returning, and Mr. Duskwither wanted us back before it got too late...”

“True, true.” The half-blooded Demon Hunter waved a hand about as he rejoined the group, the warglaives sheathed back on his back dripping with blood, flecked with some skin and brain matter and perhaps a clump of hair. “I mean, er… all due respect t’ Kippen and the boys of intel, but, we were supposed t’ not have a big fight here. Our information an’ whatnot said that this guy wasn’t goin’ to have a sermon tonight, and we could’a just gone in, collected him, and popped out.”

As the Tauren nodded his shaggy head, the warlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

“You think things always go as planned, Shadeshifter?”

“Er--”

“You may be older than I am,” the warlock testily admonished, “but you are still a child as an elf is concerned. And it clearly shows.”

“Hey! Accordin’ to my age, I’m a fuckin’ adult! Thank you very much!”

Father Mourningsworn looked towards the Tauren as the two bickered. He gave the Sunwalker a look of slight concern, and with a tilt of his head he silently alluded to a question. A question to which the Tauren responded with a nervous snort and a tiny smile.

“HA! An adult? By what standards?”

“By my standards!”

“You two,” Kagun began, but his words were cut off by the harsh, almost crowing laugh of the Forsaken.

“Oh, really!” Guntharius took a few steps towards the Demon Hunter, causing their hapless captured cultist, one Mr. Whatley, to fall backwards and hit the ground with a dull, almost comical thud. A soft groan escaped him. “Is that all you could come up with for a retort?”

“--yes?”

Lanstarth patiently closed his eyes. Ever the polite knight, suffering through the asinine bullshit that seemed to crop up from time to time within his son’s order, he somehow, by some sort of miracle, retained his composure. He could endure. He would endure. He had sworn an oath to be the stalwart pillar of this organization, for better or for worse.

“YOU ACTUALLY ANSWERED THAT!”

“H--HEY! SHUT UP!”

Amidst the warlock’s cawing laughter, the Sunwalker uneasily moved over to the cultist. Picking the man up by the back of his hooded robe, he slung him over his shoulder. “Come on, you two,” he said, interrupting the two from further discussion. “We need to get him back for interrogation.”

“Yea,” Raustul grumbled, just a bit bitter from being shown up as much as he had been. Sulkily he jabbed his thumb in the warlock’s direction. “Let the good doctor here be a sick fuck an’ torture the poor sod for information.”

Hearing the vitriol in the Demon Hunter’s voice, the warlock flashed him a nauseatingly pleased smile. “I was hired for a job, Shadeshifter. And I am damn good at what I do. Admit it.” Moving up to the Demon Hunter, he waved a hand in his face. “Admit it: I’ve gotten us information in the past that has turned the tide in many of our endeavors.”

“I am going to bring him back,” the Tauren said, speaking primarily to Lanstarth. He saw how those two were at it again. Clearly they wouldn’t listen to reasoning. Seeing a nod of affirmation from the pious Knight, he quickly dug out the Circle’s hearthstone from his pouch, and rubbed his thumb over the curling peacock symbol, activating it. With a glowing spark of energy, the magic whirred softly to light. “I would advise you three do the same.”

Guntharius’s laughter crackled once more as the Demon Hunter went to grab him in an armlock. As the two tussled and fought, Lanstarth watched as the Tauren’s form dissipated in a soft haze of magic. The cultist, slung over the Sunwalker’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes, had moved. Right before he, too, disappeared along with the Tauren’s visage…

….he had weakly looked up towards the Death Knight and, in a pained daze, had smirked at him.

The image burned into the noble Knight’s mind, and he felt a chill scatter down his spine. This was not the chill of death but, rather, the chill of a trap. The chill of something gone horribly, horribly wrong.

“...you two...”

Raustul paused in grabbing a fistful of the warlock’s hair. He had turned to look towards the Death Knight, but his expression changed, all too suddenly, from an irritated expression to one of absolute surprise. Guntharius, upon seeing this change as well, let his gaze move up towards the Knight and past him, his attention directed towards the darkened back of the church.

They only had a second warning before the attack came. The air was suddenly electrified with energy. A great crackling was heard: a whirring that sounded like something large, and blunt, being spun at high speeds. The noise climbed up to a crescendo until, within those precious brief seconds, it became deafening all in its own right.

A flash of bright light lit up the darkened, derelict corner of the crumbling church, and it hurdled through the air towards them at top speeds.

“FUCKIN’ FEL!”

Raustul lunged forward, driving both of his comrades down to the ground. Heat sizzled overhead as the streak of light swung high above them before arcing, dangerous in its projected trajectory, before whirling right back towards the corner it had manifested from.

The three of them knew what had happened and, yet, their brains could not register the plain truth.

The streak of fiery light that had lashed out above them in that terrifying arc had been a holy hammer attack.

There was a paladin within this corrupt church.

----------

Guntharius felt a sickening sense of dread as that realization hit him. No, not just hit him. The acknowledgement of what they were facing had assaulted him like an avalanche of boulders crushing his indomitable will in one devastating move.

They were dealing with a holy madman.

Pressed to the floor and covered protectively by the Demon Hunter, the warlock could hear Raustul’s frightened exhalation of breath. Shaky and trembling, it revealed the spike of fear that had pierced the heart of his brave comrade. In that moment, Plaguespitter felt a surge of protectiveness. So close to the Demon Hunter and the Death Knight, he wanted to say some sort of encouragement, but his words were drowned out by the whirring of another hammer attack.

He rolled out of the way, just as the others scrambled to avoid the attack. A great crash signified that the hammer, this time around, had obliterated some once-sacred object, now perverted and twisted by all standards.

“Lanstarth! Raustul!”

A spitting flame of light licked out towards the warlock, and he managed to fling up a demonic spell of protection. He bared his teeth in a savage snarl as the glow burst against his darkened shield of sulfurous properties. It sizzled and popped against the writhing, twisting darkness, before fizzling out to a hissing whimper.

His resolve grew, as did his anger. With a vicious gesture he slashed at his own fading demonic shield, shattering it to pieces, along with what remained of the holy spell. It burst about him like a withering firework, its dying embers scattering to the grungy flooring.

He could see the paladin now. Robed and garbed in the same dreadful attire as the cultists, this particular madman bore pieces of plate armor to complete his garish assemble. His hooded face hid the twisted holiness of the man who stood before them, but it was obvious that this paladin had fallen. Not enough to lose touch with the light entirely, but on his way to falling from grace altogether.

A blur beside him became the lunging form of Raustul. The Demon Hunter swung his warglaives in a great frenzied flurry, his adrenaline backed by his fear. The warlock (thanks to his heightened undead feral senses) could smell it on him, musky and suffocating.

There was the spark of clashing metal, and the Demon Hunter skidded back a few feet. A patch of skin on his upper arm sizzled with holy energy, and he winced in agony at the burning sensation.

Thudding footfalls heralded the Death Knight’s charge. Father Mouringsworn, the pious knight from beyond the grave, threw himself into the bloodied jaws of battle. His sword was brought down in a valorous strike, but it was halted and stopped short from its perceived target by the sturdy Paladin’s shield. A spray of sparks lit up the dim atmosphere, and Lanstarth’s face was lit by the unholy, sinister glow.

They had to leave. They had to leave now.

Guntharius heard the deranged Paladin bellow out some inane, maddening babble. Half holy, half insane, the Paladin’s words were easily swallowed up in the flare of another out-of-control fiery attack. The Warlock shouted out to his comrades, but it was too late.

With a cry of pain, Raustul’s form crumpled to the floor. The Paladin had charged him with his shield, bashing him backwards. And as the Demon Hunter had stumbled over his own hooves due to lack of balance, a well aimed slam from the insane lightbearer’s hammer attempted to cave in the elf’s ribs.

Guntharius had heard a bone snap. He swore he had.

As the Paladin stood over Raustul, crying out his insane unholy mantra of purging, the warlock let loose an unrestrained blast of shadowy energy. It crashed into the Paladin’s breastplate, causing the human to reel back from the force as darkness licked at his robes. It gave them just enough time for the Death Knight to rise to his feet and take advantage of the distraction.

As Lanstarth’s blade met the hammer once more, Guntharius rushed over to the fallen Demon Hunter. Falling down to his knees beside his suffering comrade-- no, friend-- the Forsaken pressed his chilly fingers to the elf’s wrist.

His pulse was erratic… but strong enough.

“Raustul,” the warlock worriedly hissed under his breath. He cupped the Demon Hunter’s face. “Raustul! I need you to look at me!”

Dazed and shocked, with the wind knocked out of him, the Demon Hunter frantically looked around before letting his gaze settle on the Forsaken. He tried to sit up, but pain caused him to fall back to the floor, the back of his head bouncing uselessly against the stone.

“Don’t get up,” the Forsaken whispered softly. As the sounds of clashing metal and thrown attacks reverberated in his ears, the deceased doctor gently ran his hands up the elf’s sides. “Don’t move. Stay still, focus on breathing.”

“What are y--” Raustul winced.

“Fool! Stay still. Breathe deeply, slowly.”

The Demon Hunter did as he was told, even as he heard the struggling of the Death Knight. He swallowed thickly, feeling how gentle and kind the Forsaken’s touch was. “Gun, h--hey--if we don’t make it out--”

“I am your doctor, and your friend. I won’t have you speaking like that. Now, listen to me, and relax.” His fingers glided over the sides of the elf’s bare chest once more. He pressed them to a tender area, watching for any reaction. “What do you feel?” Flicking his gaze over to the elf’s face, his mouth set itself into a concerned scowl. “When you breathe… what is it like?”

“Soreness,” wheezed the elf.

“Intense pain? In your chest? Sides?”

“J--Just sore. M’ sides, mostly. Stings a fair fuckin’ bit, b--but I think I’m alrigh’.”

Retracting his hands, the Forsaken couldn’t determine if the hunter simply had the air knocked from him, or if a rib had, indeed, been broken. He’d have to get the elf back to headquarters in order to properly examine him.

Wait.

Headquarters.

Reinforcements!

In a fit of maddened passion, Guntharius began to dig through his medicinal pouches. Raustul tried to get his attention, but it was useless. As the sound of caustic, cadaverous magic clashed with unholy light blighted spells, the Forsaken found himself moving faster out of sheer desperation.

“What are you--”

Finding what he was seeking, the Forsaken grabbed the Demon Hunter’s hand and pushed into his palm his own personal hearthstone. “Take it.”

Confused, the Demon Hunter tried to give it back. “I-- I have my own,” he gasped out. “It’s s--somewhere on me. I can j--just---”

“There’s little time,” the warlock hissed. “I need you out of here, in case you’ve broken ribs. I can’t tell, Raustul. I need to examine you properly.”

“But I--”

“I won’t let you die here,” the Forsaken snapped urgently, hearing what sounded like a pew behind him splintering under the weight of plate-wearing bodies. Like the sound of snapping, fracturing bones. “I refuse to lose you to some feldammed holy man. I need you to go back to headquarters and alert the others. We need reinforcements if we are to--”

There was an audible bellow of pain, and the sound of sizzling holy fire. Guntharius turned to look just in time to see the Death Knight stumbling, his armor smoking and sizzling from a potent holy strike. The Paladin was before him, so overcome with maddening glory, his hammer raised high in the air.

A burning smell pervaded the air. Guntharius looked down towards the feet of the Paladin, and he could see a burning holy ring of consecrated ground beginning to form. It was warped, of course, and had suffered mightily from the transgressions and sins of this sick man of the armored cloth, but it still retained enough holy energy that the Death Knight would surely collapse.

Death Knights. That was right.

The warlock remembered, vaguely, a conversation Taviast Duskwither had with him. About Death Knights, and their incredible sensitivity towards the Light. So profound were their weaknesses towards holy energy that even beneficial holy based healing could do more damage than good.

And this Death Knight… he was Taviast’s father.

Time seemed to slow down as the warlock rose to his feet. Taviast Duskwither. The thought of the elf brought back the recent memories he had with the Archmage. The chat at midnight, sparing the elf from drinking himself into a depressed state of oblivion. The conversation on the ship, where he tried, desperately, to get the elf to let out his repressed anger and emotions for once. Always had the elf played the part of a genial puppet: always bowing before the people and helping them, never allowing himself to mourn, or grieve, or speak out with his own set of formed opinions. Swallowing his negative emotions, letting them fester within him like a sickness, only to smile and laugh, and suffer on for the people of this corrupted world.

Behind him, Raustul wheezed as he got up on his hands and knees. The Demon Hunter was saying something to him, but the warlock didn’t hear him. Not over the words pouring from his own mouth. Not over the spell he heard uttered in his own voice.

A green demonic circle appeared beneath him.

This Death Knight, Lanstarth, was their noble guardian and knight. Pious to the end. There was something honorable about his patience and his silence. Something courageous, and admirable. The warlock had to admit he almost envied the Knight. There was once a time when he, too, had prayed to the Light. But unlike the Knight’s resolve, he had lost his faith in the Light far too long ago. And when he had been murdered, he had perished (beaten within an inch of his life, drowning after being unceremoniously chucked off that cliff) without a scrap of loyalty towards the divine concept.

Lanstarth was Taviast’s father. And the Archmage… he had already mourned his death once. For him to mourn again would be truly, awfully, wretched. And he didn’t deserve that. Lanstarth did not deserve that. Neither of them deserved this.

A green demonic circle appeared within the building ring of consecrated fire.

Again, Raustul’s voice. The urgency of his tone was dulled out by the roaring buzz in the warlock’s ears. Guntharius knew he should summon a demon, but he had dismissed them due to the cramped quarters of the derelict church. A foolish move, perhaps, but he couldn’t risk his demons causing harm to his comrades through friendly fire.

Besides… he knew how to fight without his demons just as well as he knew how to with his demons.

Taviast’s face appeared in his mind’s eye once more, and he recounted his own previous words. How he told the Archmage that they would talk about the elf’s problems later, in order to properly address them.

He had wanted to help him. He had wanted to help let out the elf’s anger, before it ate at him from the inside and devoured him whole.

He hoped, in the end, that the Archmage would reach out for help. To someone, anyone. After all, the old elf deserved a little peace of mind.

His attention returned to the present. Raustul’s vocal buzzing grew. The whistling increased. The world around Guntharius began to speed up. The roar of the crackling, growing flames overtook all of his senses. The voices of his demonic comrades shrieked in his head, forming a cacophonous waterfall of chaos and disorder.

The Paladin had become engulfed in a holy Light that, unsurprisingly, had garnered a tarnish of taint along its searing edges.

Time sped up. Guntharius felt his body rip apart and reassemble itself in the clutches of his felbased magic. The remaining vestiges of his form disappeared from Raustul’s sights, only to reappear within the consecrated circle. The warlock, facing Lanstarth, with his back towards the Paladin, allowed his body to become entangled with his own facet of fel. Wisps of shadow and greenish, putrid fel energy encircled his being. His single glowing eye burned brightly as he channeled all his energy into a single blast.

A blast that he aimed right at Lanstarth.

At such close quarters, the Death Knight was thrown back. He flew through the air, and crashed into the ground, skidding all the way until he was stopped by Raustul’s trembling hands.

The Death Knight laid there, his softly glowing blue eyes widening in shock as the Demon Hunter hastily searched him for injuries. The plate had absorbed most of his impact with the ground, and the blast that he had sustained from the warlock had been more for force, and less for actual damage. A decoy, more or less. It had been a spell used to push him out of the way, not to harm him.

Realizing what had happened, Lanstarth sat up just in time to witness the purging act of judgement upon unholy, blasphemous flesh.

----------

“There we are,” the Forsaken said, easing the elf into bed. “You just rest now.”

He had helped Taviast back to his room, making sure the old elf didn’t drink himself into a stressed out oblivion. He had gotten him into his sleeping gown, and had aided him in unbraiding his ridiculous hair out of that topknot.

The conversation from before had lingered with him. He had talked to the elf, hoping to snap him out of his grief and fear. He had brought some sense of clarity to him, and he had witnessed the beginning of his maturity and acceptance. For being several thousands of years old, Taviast Duskwither was still, very much, in quite a few aspects...

“I’m not a child,” Taviast sulkily huffed as the odd Forsaken made a poor attempt at tucking him in.

“I’ll stop treating you like one when you stop acting like one,” he had haughtily replied.

Taviast Duskwither had sighed as he situated his bedcover. He had taken the moment and studied the Forsaken’s face, and he had sworn he saw something familiar behind the deadman’s single glowing eye.

“You… are so incredibly kind,” the Archmage had murmured softly. His voice had been diminutive in his room, as if they had trespassed upon sacred ground and were not allowed to speak in the presence of unknown, hidden elders. “So… human. You’re human, Guntharius.”

The warlock had been folding the Archmage’s robes, putting them away in his dresser, when he heard the Archmage say that. It took him by surprise, and he momentarily lowered his guard. A small smile formed on his face as he looked over at the Archmage.

For all this time, since his rebirth as a damned walking corpse, he had protested and rebelled against his fate by declaring that he was not a Forsaken, but a human. He had known how preposterous it was. He was mad, but he wasn’t that insane. He had known he was a Forsaken now. He was once a human, but he would forever be classified as a Forsaken now. Still, by saying he was as such, it helped ease the turbulent emotions stirring within his deadened heart.

“You’re human,” the Sin’dorei had pressed. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“...Funny, hearing someone else say that for once.”

Moving over to the bed, Guntharius had sat down on its edge. Reaching over, he took the top of the cover and he brought it up, almost lovingly laying it against the elf’s breastbone. Just low enough that the elf wouldn’t feel choked by the thing.

“You’re fighting a war within yourself,” Taviast suggested. “Aren’t you? You are. I know you are. You fight this war daily. I see it in the way you hold yourself, the way you speak, the way you--”

“Yes,” Guntharius had softly replied, interrupting him without a sense of hostility. “I am.”

“You don’t need to fight this alone.”

“I don’t,” the warlock had confessed. “I have you all. I have my family.”

He had confessed to the elf that the entire Circle was his family, and that he truly did enjoy their company. He had explained, then and there, that he saw how Taviast treated himself, and how he knew that the elf was slowly poisoning himself with negativity.

“I once did the same,” he had whispered to the stunned elf. “Technically… I still do, Duskwither. I haven’t changed. And I doubt I will. Especially now that I am dead.” He had glanced towards the ceiling, imagining the broiling sky above the castle, heavy with an oncoming thunderstorm. Even Azeroth was weeping for Saurfang’s death. “I don’t want you to become me,” he had confessed honestly. “I want you to embrace your negative emotions, and deal with them. Don’t let them fester within you until they finally explode out, and you can no longer control your rage. If you let that happen, you’ll regret whatever it is you end up doing.”

“Guntharius--”

“No, Taviast. Listen to my words. One day you’ll have to make a choice. And you’ll have to choose what’s right, and what’s wrong. And when you do… I hope, to the Gods that don’t exist… you do what’s right. And you won’t hesitate to allow yourself to show your negative emotions. Do not hide them. Embrace them as much as you show off your happiness. You are allowed to show emotions other than happiness, you know. If you wear your mask for too long, you’ll forget what your face really looks like.”

They had sat in silence for a long time after this, each simply enjoying the sacred hush and the comfort of each other’s company. After some time, the Forsaken had bid the elf goodnight, and had returned to his own chambers.

The Forsaken had known that the elf had sobered up for the most part, but he also had known, at that point in time, that Taviast wouldn’t take his words to heart. Not just yet. In due time, he would. And in due time, he would have to apply the wisdom he had taken from the Forsaken.

Until then…

Guntharius had allowed himself time to rest that night, and he had dwelled over his new found family and the mere fact that he would try to help them and heal them, in any way possible, but Taviast’s own plight would be tricky to transverse.

He had come to the conclusion that night… that, perhaps, the reason he was often so harsh on the Archmage was that they were so much alike. They both cared too much, and felt passion too keenly, and strongly, to ever possibly ignore it.

They would also both protect the innocent.

Up until the very end.

----------

Guntharius had twisted expertly in order to meet the Paladin’s blow of finality, but he had misjudged the rabid fervor of the insane holyman. Throwing up his hands, the warlock attempted to conjure his demonic shield once more, but it was too late.

Holy flames erupted upwards from the circle, swallowing up his perpetually chilled flesh. His fel fueled demonic shield wavered and flickered within the holy assault, and within a matter of seconds it shattered under the unrelenting force.

The craggy, unholy scream that ripped out from the warlock’s mouth, as the holy heat licked at his flesh, raked through the air with a catastrophic effect.

Guntharius threw back his head and shrieked as he felt the fire sizzle and pop on his flesh. Wrapped up in the inferno, he could hear the long, whistling howl of the demonic entities connected to him. All of his demons yowled in agony.

Even Ka’jiros. Even his beloved demon-- his friend, his guardian. He swore he could hear Ka’jiros suffering alone in his agony, too, even though the entity was not there beside him.

Through the curtain of holy light and flames, he could see the hysterically mad smile of the twisted Paladin. The sheer torment of his holy judgement clouded his sense of being, and he felt everything, and nothing, all at the same time: sensation overload and total numbness.

He felt a ripping within him, and he knew that his soul was threatening to tear free from his physical form.

This was it. This was the end. Finally, it would all come to end. Situational irony, at its best. Basking aglow in the fires of holiness corrupted, he swore he could feel, at long last, his heart beginning to beat once more. One final beat, before the gaping grave welcomed him once more.

And then there was silence. His screams ceased, despite his jaw locked open in his fit of howling, the damaged skin on his cheek stretched taut from the action. His shrieking had abruptly ended in a crackling gurgle as everything left him, all at once.

The fire pulled away from him, and Guntharius vaguely saw the Paladin backpedal quickly out of surprise.

The burn of the fire still remained on his flesh as he felt his legs give out on him.

His gaze locked itself on the ceiling, as if waiting for some sign that a deity would land the final blow and smite his blasphemous soul from this world. He didn’t seem to pay any mind to the sounds of conquest, even as the ground itself blackened from the unholy sigil of a furious Death Knight.

In his disjointed, shattered mind came the names and faces of all the people he had befriended over the years. Members of The Circle. His adopted brother. His family. His father. His mother. All of his friends, and all of those who had impacted his life. Smiling faces and hearty laughs over dinners spent together in the castle’s dining halls. He thought of all the people he had met along the way, and the friends he had made: orcish, elven, and every other possible connection.

All the happiness he had shared with these cherished people, even when he tried hiding it, had been his most treasured gifts. The joy he had felt in the presence among those he considered to be family. He had celebrated accomplishments with them. He had aided them in their own battles-- personal, demonic or otherwise. People he had guided, nurtured and trained. People he had protected and given wisdom to, even if said wisdom was harsh at best. He had partook of a great ceremonial hunt, that had meant everything to him. He had enjoyed cookies with new friends-- a mercenary and a human, one who had the brightest inner 'little light' he had ever seen. He had met some rather interesting trolls, and had enjoyed learning about their culture. And he had even attended a wedding and played his role in it, witnessing the start of a new life and adventure.

These were people he had loved, and still loved. People he had cared about, and still cared about. Everything blurred together in a rush, escaping him like a runaway reel.

He had given life, and his uhlife, it all. And now, as the pain washed over him… he realized he didn’t regret a thing.

His skin tender and hot with the fever of a third degree magical burn, his body quaked and trembled with force as he was cradled close, tenderly and protectively, to the chest of a familiar Demon Hunter. He didn’t even take notice of the wavering, soothing words that were spoken to him, or the fingers lightly combing through his hair. And he didn’t seem to care about the teardrops plopping onto his cheek from above.

However, there was one thing Guntharius Plaguespitter was aware of.

And before he could solidify the conclusion he had come to, he felt a burst of clarity and peace within his body and soul... before his vision bled to black.

#Cuddly writes some things

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invitedeath · 5 years

Text

he was there, at the end of the world.

roars and shouts drowned out the silence which normally swept the world, each kingdom swarming onto the scene as chaos spread like wildfire along the streets and within the heavens. spirale was but a memory for the time being, but the war was incredibly real. amongst the madness, sephiroth wandered without concern, sword unsheathed and fantastical attire forgone. sometime during the booming sounds of the dark lord’s calls to war, sephiroth had lost the grassy scales and the antler crown had fallen. silver sparkled once more and leather squeaked as he walked. returned to his once noble uniform he stood out amongst the sea of robe-covered anons, their magic still inferior to the might he possessed.

“ sephiroth?!... “ a voice shouted. only a few turned their heads to see. the majority were pre-occupied, there being far more important things than the arrival of an angel. he ignored it also, choosing instead to stride on towards the depth of the violence, following the bloodied trails to the deepest pit of the dramatics. indeed, one of the dark lord’s minions lunged for him. although he was, as ever, quick to withdraw his blade and pierce the place their heart should be, it seemed to be an act in vain. for soon after, another sprouted in its place and ambled towards a nearby mage. an endless battle waged on, it seemed.

glancing around he saw few faces he recognised flickered amongst the ebbing and flowing tide of war. blood smeared across their cheeks, spines pressed against one another, there stood two he had met some time before, swords raised with apparent glee etched into their faces. whether it was the joy of combat, or the fact they fought together, sephiroth could not make out quick enough before they darted away.

some distance from himself atop a steep incline, a girl with books tumbling at her feet looked out across the sea of soldiers before turning and giving him a wave. her friendly gesture only paused once a fox-eared woman he had met prior to the battle aided her in climbing down, her many tails fanning behind her before she spun, sending several blue orbs in the direction of the incoming swarm.

another young woman with feline ears atop her head, this one clad in rose, hercat tail curling behind her as brandished a whip and sent several minions stumbling back in defeat. with the sun as his aid, the deity-like stranger he had encountered only a few hours prior shone like a beacon amongst the dirt of battle. though he spoke not a word, the deafening presence he held sent many creatures cowering in fear of the light.

a creature with blood dripping from its maw swiped suddenly at sephiroth, causing him to spring back into action; sword slashing before tearing through its open mouth. up through the lid of its jaw, the sword plunged deep and blood soaked the entirety of his arm before he ripped the blade free. once again, the death was only replaced with more. more and more. out they poured, those servants of the dark lord. sephiroth was almost impressed.

a calming voice broke out amongst the chaos and as he turned, sephiroth spied a winged nurse tending to the wounds of a fallen elf, his veins seemingly pulsating a bright ethereal glow. but the woman did not hesitate to pull the gun from her side and blast away a crawling, squirming creature as it made for them in their moment of peace.

but something familiar caused him to pause. a feeling of... intense power drew his gaze back, over his shoulder. he turned only to witness that charming and handsome elezen he had once invited home, his sword at his side as he seemingly hurried towards the centre of some mass of growing aether. he could not make much out from such a distance, but the curve of a grounded crescent moon caught his eye if only for a second. the feeling was reminiscent of something he had felt a few months ago, a power he had wanted to indulge in for himself. another time, perhaps, once the battle was won.

but it didn’t seem like enough. none of it did.

a horn sounded and something huge flew overhead, a creature with wings sprouting from its back emerging from the dark lord’s side of the field.

“ no. i have plans for this planet. you must wait your turn. “

if the world was destroyed, all of the lives upon it drained without purpose, what would happen to him? his goals... ruined, tatters of a right he had been promised and owed. no. he knew they would all have to be eliminated first, every creature in the dark lord’s army. lifting from the ground, sephiroth rose up into the sky as his single wing unfolded. a mass of black feathers spiralled off into the dust before he soared to meet with that dragon-like monster, its face a mimicking visage of the dark lord but its body a sea of scales and scorched flesh.

with a wave of his blade, several more copies appeared alongside the original and one by one they pierced into the belly of the creature, its wailing deafening across the skyline. several others had joined him in the aerial assault, one stranger punching the beast square in the jaw before another blew water magic across its spine. but it all in vain. the monster reared back, claws reeling back before it took to batting its attackers clean from the heavens. one two. three. sephiroth was caught in one of the heavy-weighted attacks and spiralled from the sky, swords falling parallel to their master.

but he would not be beaten. before he came close to the earth once more, he twisted and flew back up to meet the monster, masamune held tight within his grip as he lunged forth and sent forth a torrent of bright beams of pure, powerful energy. that small corner of the sky, seemingly unimportant in the grand scale of the massive ongoing siege, turned white for a moment, until returning to its dismal darkness one again.

#ir fantasia raid #isola event #「 EVENT ; FANTASIA WAR」#「 EVENT ; FANTASIA PART TWO」#「 EVENT ; FANTASIA RAID」#「 SOLDIER LOG ; DRABBLES 」#[ 976 WORDS! ]

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kindcstguardian · 5 years

Text

MISC.

i. / basics.

Name. Lynn Darcy. Nicknames. Troublemaker, sweetie, Candy Birthday. Age. 17-23 years old. Nationality. French. Languages. French, English &&. Spanish. Gender. Cis female. Sexuality. Bisexual. Status. Single. Occupation. Student &&. part-time worker in Cosy Bear Café. Speciality. Finding solutions to problems that aren’t hers and, instead, causing them in her own. Hobbies. Jogging, boxing, taking care of plants, ocasionally playing basketball.

ii. / physical.

Height. 160cm / 5′ 3″ Weight. 50kg / 110 lb Hair color. Brown. Eye color. Green. Blood type. O + Appearance. A petite female with a slightly built body ( at the moment due her newfound interesting in boxing ). Long hair naturally straight with chocolate brown pigment alongside green eyes.

VERSES.

Main verse. TAG. 「 MAIN ／ Lynn 」

Highschool student, 17 years old. As a transfer student, she is a bit clueless and lost at the beggining. However, she quickly got used to the institute and learnt every little secret of it. Still, this does not apply to actual people. Lynn does have a lot of friends, though, and is quite close to Kim due having her as lab partner in Chemistry. But she doesn’t get along with Amber, Capuccine, Li or Charlotte. Peggy is on thin ice. Ah but, ever so caring Lynn — she can’t help but always want to help everyone.

MCLUL verse. TAG. 「 SECOND MAIN ／ Lynn 」

College student, 23 years old. Canon divergent. Mostly based on what’s taking place in the canon of My Candy Love University Life — except that Lynn never cut ties with all friends and kept in touch with Kentin alone, she still has a hopeless crush on Nathaniel but hasn’t gotten herself involved with anyone, keeping everysingle friend at arm length. So, no route Lynn?

Third main verse. / A different outcome TAG. 「 THIRD MAIN ／ Lynn 」

College student, part-time worker in Kentin’s bakery, 23 year old. She didn’t want to be bossed around by her parents, neither leaving the city she grew to love. In fact, she wanted her freedom but Lynn wasn’t having it so easy. From a side, her parents had stood their ground but so she did, fully determinated to stay. They all bickered and argued, raising their tone than trying to find a solution — that was, until Aunt Agatha got in the middle and decided to take care of the situation. After much talking and convincing, she persuaded Lucia and Philip. Thus, leading Lynn to win only one obstacle from the many that would appear in her road. Happily that she got to stay rather than losing all connections, she first started to help Kentin before deciding what she wanted to do with her future.

Fourth main verse. / What if? TAG. 「 FOURTH MAIN ／ Lynn 」

Highschool student, 17 years old. So what if she could see the relationship stats that she had with other people? Like, a visual novel game? Well, that was about it! It was strange but she could not see options at all, she had free speech ( thankfully ) which allowed her faster to either improve or fuck up further her relationships.

Persona 5 verse. TAG. 「P5 ／ Lynn」

Highschool transfer student, Star, 17 years old. ‘ You have truly made me wait, I am known for being impatient, ma fille, but I will allow it this time ’ , the brunette fell to knees, holding her head while she screamed in utter pain, tears rolling down her cheeks while her eyes were shut, trying to somehow make the pain bereable. All background noise was blocked, overpowered by a female voice inside her mind. ’ You have always clenched your fists and withdrawn for the fight, doing little to nothing. Finally, you have grown tired; let us form a pact, shall we? ’. The voice was right, Lynn had enough. Taking blow after blow, being ridiculized, embarrassed and tossed aside — being the stepping stone others needed to feel superior while she put on a show, the happy pierrot that everyone relied onto but whom never spoke a single struggle. It was time for her to realize her own worth and speak her mind, yell to the four winds her heart’s desires; to defend and attack instead of being a mere broken shield. ’ I am thou, thou art I we cannot tear out a single page of our life, but we can throw the whole book in the fire! They can bind our body and tie our hands but nothing can be done nor can shatter our will! ’, the hands that once had been holding her head were now on the floor underneath her, helping her to push herself up slowly — green hues had turned yellow and filled with such aggresive determination that she had never felt before. Straightening her back, her right hand placed itself before the mask that had manifested to existence, gripping it hard, she pulled away at once — blood running down her eyes. “ We shall show them what we are made of, come to me Amantine! ”

Eldarya verse TAG. 「Eldarya ／ Lynn 」

College student, 23 years old. Absynthe Garde / Alchemist. As a descendant of a human, her father Philip, and a fairy, her mother Lucia, Lynn is a faerie. However, she was never told about the truth and because of her clueless nature, she never suspected anything weird ( not even when her aunt would show up in particular clothes which she lied that it was part of her job as a dentist not to scare children, including wings on her back as part of the costume ). Which is precisely how she stepped in the thin line of human world and magic world, the blindfold had been finally removed. Currently stuck in Eldarya and unable to return nor communicate with her parents, Lynn spends her days working to win the meal of the day alongside an elf named Ezarel as an assistant for the potions he needs to create, but mostly errand girl: running here and there to provide everything on time.

Mystic Messenger. / MC1. TAG. 「MysMe ／ Lynn 」

College student, 23 years old. Actually, Lynn isn’t sure how she found herself in Korea. Mostly, trying to be a good friend for Hyun and be his emotional support friend when he needed one given his grandfather had gotten terribly ill and chances were… No, no. She shouldn’t focus there. In fact, she should focus on finding the place her friend had indicated that both were staying at — yet, things rarely go as planned. Sometimes, the female felt that she was a magnet to problems. A message, an adress and a distressed person were the formula to lure her towards an unknown appartment in which she ended up locked. Stuck in a position of party hoster of sorts, Lynn Darcy chose not to fight her fate and assume her role. Kim Yoosung, Kang Jaehee, Hyun Ryu, Han Jumin and Choi Luciel needed her, after all. And God knows how big her heart is to leave without providing the needed help.

Shall we date? Destiny Ninja 2 + TAG. 「Destiny Ninja 2 +／ Lynn 」

Living in the Spring Village has been a wonderful experience since she can recall, to wake up everyday and see how flowers would blossom — new ones that would arrive because of the ocasional windy days and carry along new seeds for the view to change, take different shape and colors. Yet that lovely experience started to come to an end when the Yamato Island began to get corrupted. Was the story they told her as kids to make her fear true? All Lynn can do is pray and keep up with her training; she might not be an expert, but basic defense moves could safe her. Besides, her father had always taught her how to use a gun since possessing a sword was more of an honor, a lifestyle.

Shall we date? Blood in roses + TAG. 「Blood in roses ／ Lynn 」

It was a poor idea for a human to wander into a castle, but after having lost her family, the brunette found no better choice than try to find a temporal refugee. Much to her horror, it turned out to be the rumored Hotel Libra Sincera — unable to return nor escape because she had nowhere to go, she decided to step inside that place. Truthfully, Lynn never thought she would use a Humphrey’s bottle of False Mist that her mother had bought to her at age nine in case something bad would happen to them. It was easy to forget about it but Lucia has insisted for Lynn to carry it at all times; and now, she could finally use it.

Wizardess heart + TAG. 「Wizardess heart + ／ Lynn 」

Student &&. buddyless, 17 years old, spellsinger. TBA.

Ephemeral: Residents in the dark. TAG. 「Ephemeral ／ 010」

Student, 120 years old, half-breed. A lovechild from a vampire and a human, a horrible sin for all creatures that should have been killed hasn’t been that she was born with the strongest gen as expected, which is the single reason she had managed to survive thus far in the world were ranks meant everything. However, her mother had been murdered by other humans as soon as it was discovered that there were vampires within their world — Philippe had returned with shame and head hung low back to his family. Forced into a marriage with another woman, a mermaid that grew to terribly hate Lynn going as far as to dig her nails into Lynn’s wrists due being young and beautiful. To say Lynn was grateful to being accepted into that prestigious institution wasn’t enough, she decided to stay and live there. Refusing to return to a place where her stepmother wanted her head in a spike — yet, her secret keeps her awake at night, what would happen if she was discovered?

ANIMAL.

Main verse.

TAG.

23 years old. WIP.

Aggrestuko verse./ Publishing department. TAG.

Office lady, 24 years old. Lynn Darcy had studied art history, however, she did not find many jobs suitable for that and ended up undergoing trainment to become a ‘desk person'—work in an office and fall into a comfortable routine for another year and a half.

TAGS.

「 Lynn Darcy ／ 𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓭𝔂 ┊ swcctlcve 」

「 Lynn Darcy ／ INQUIRY」

「 Lynn Darcy ／ MUSINGS 」

「 Lynn Darcy ／ VISAGE 」

「 Lynn Darcy ／ MANNERISMS 」

「 Lynn Darcy ／ INTROSPECTION」

「 Lynn Darcy ／ ROMANCE 」

「 Lynn Darcy ／ CRACK 」

RELATIONSHIPS.

DISCLAIMER. I will not ship with the same character more than once unless my partner tells me they will no longer write said character and, therefore, the ship spot is free again. Please, do not force the issue. 001. Will you have exclusives? If my partner and I discuss it before hand, then yes. 002. Will you have mains? This will be more popular but yes, I will have limit of three mains.

KENTIN BRONSWORTH. ROMANTIC TAG. ✘ · Kentin Bronsworth ♡（ ᵒᵘʳ ʰᵉᵃʳᵗˢ ᵇᵉᵃᵗⁱⁿᵍ ᵃˢ ᵒⁿᵉ ᵃᵗ ˡᵃˢᵗ ⁻ ⁱ'ᵐ ˢᵒʳʳʸ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵃⁱᵗ ） FRIENDSHIP TAG. kcntin ; ʜᴏᴘᴇ（ φιλíα ） ABOUT.

RAVEN KENDALL. ROMANTIC TAG. ✘ · Raven Kendall ♡「 ᴵᶠ ᴵ ᶜᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵗᵉˡˡ ʰᵉʳ ʰᵒʷ ˢʰᵉ'ˢ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵉ ᵇᵘᵗ ʷᵉ'ʳᵉ ᵃ ᵐⁱˡˡⁱᵒⁿ ʷᵒʳˡᵈˢ ᵃᵖᵃʳᵗ」 FRIENDSHIP TAG. ABOUT.

HAIDA HYENA. ROMANTIC TAG. ✘ · Haida Hyena ♡「 ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ⁱᶠ ʸᵒᵘ ᶠᵃˡˡ ᴵ ʷⁱˡˡ ᵇᵉ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ ᵗᵒ ᶜᵃᵗᶜʰ ʸᵒᵘ ／ starryburglar 」 FRIENDSHIP TAG. ABOUT.

✘ · ♡（）

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brialavellan · 5 years

Text

Summary: It has been 20 years since Inquisitor ‘Manehn Lavellan defeated Corypheus, and 18 years since the Exalted Council. Solas is furthering his plans and so far, all efforts to stop him seem to be in vain….until the Well of Sorrows begins to speak to ‘Manehn once more. Led by ancient magics and beset by enemies from Ferelden and Orlais to Antiva and Tevinter, ‘Manehn must gather allies old and new in a race against time to defeat Solas - at any cost.

(NOW ON AO3)

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5

CH 6: On the Path

“Foolishness. Pure foolishness” Vivienne muttered while she paced back and forth across Cassandra’s office while Cassandra frowned deeply, her head buried in her hands, saying nothing except a long and painful sigh.

“You had to know this was coming,” she said, turning back towards her, arms folded, her face knotted into a severely disapproving frown. “She was always terrible at the Game, I’m surprised she ever got as far as she did.”

“Natalie has always been nothing but trouble.” Cassandra said, “She served Grand Cleric Victoire. She was one of the fiercest critics against the Inquisition for the start. And of the Herald.”

Vivienne sighed, a little louder than she would normally allow herself, but the office of the Divine was the only place in all of Orlais, and Cassandra was the only person in Thedas, where she could put down the burden of decades of practiced movements and the mask of graceful airs, if only for a moment. “You cannot let this go lightly, Cassandra. By trying to discredit your chosen instrument, she is trying to discredit you. This is a serious threat against the Chantry, one that our dear Herald has further agitated by allying herself with Briala.”

Vivienne’s frown and her voice softened as she pulled up a chair and sat next to Cassandra, placing a delicate hand on her shoulder. “You’ll do what’s right. I know you will. But what is always right is not what is always best. Your Chantry is still young, and you cannot squander what goodwill you’ve built up by a bad association. You need to remain a strong and powerful voice.”

“Maybe I should speak to her. Send a message that the Herald is off limits. And Briala…”

“One minor concession we have to make. Let her rant and rave about the Dales. We could save Halamshiral for the elves…at the cost of losing this war,” Vivienne said, her voice cool and matter-of-fact. “The elves can have Halamshiral back when this war is over.”

“She won’t be happy to hear that.”

“Her little infatuation with the Marquise sometimes prevents her from seeing sense.” Vivienne said with obvious distaste, “You know this. In war, we make sacrifices. And we are at war.”

“I will keep what you say in mind.”

Their conversation trailed off to a comfortable silence for a few moments, just two women enjoying the serenity of each other’s presence, when a harsh rapping at the door called their attention. Vivienne rushed to put her mask back on as Cassandra rose to open the door, obviously irked by this intrusion. She opened the heavy mahogany doors to find a young initiate, stammering and shaking in place as she clutched two small pieces of paper to her chest.

“Your Perfection,” she said with a hasty bow as she struggled to form words, shielding her eyes from Cassandra’s harsh visage. “I’m sorry, so so so sorry to interrupt. I received this missive from the Marquise Briala, and a raven came from Kirkwall addressed to you.”

Vivienne’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

“Thank you,” Cassandra said, taking the notes into her hands. “Now please leave until we call for you.”

The initiate handed the papers to her briskly and bolted out of view. Cassandra unfurled the first note, marked with the seal of Kirkwall’s Viscount, her eyes carefully scanning the page.

“Apparently, ‘Manehn has a lead in Kirkwall,” she told Vivienne as she read the rest of the note, “one of Varric’s…oh Maker….one of his former companions. The blood mage friend of Hawke’s.”

Vivienne laughed, a haughty laugh that presumed that this lead would be useless. “Yes, of course my dear, what could go wrong with that?”

Cassandra sat back in her chair and steepled her fingers. “Should we not use every tool necessary. The lead is a blood mage, yes, but I trust Varric.”

“And I do not.” Vivienne countered. “But you are right. We should use every tool necessary. I just think blood magic is a dangerous, useless tool.” She paused for a moment in silent contemplation. “It is as likely to produce demons as much as results. What about the other missive? Does the Marquise request we save her from her own nonsense?”

Cassandra broke the seal and unfurled the second missive. Her eyes widened in surprise and her lips tightened in anger.

“Natalie openly works against us now. And she has been spotted at Celene’s side.”

“Well that isn’t surprising,” Vivienne said coolly, “Celene would do anything to weaken the Dales short of open war, if only because Briala, I will admit, has built some connections through careful concessions. But it does mean we should expect a visit from the Empress herself, or one of her stronger allies. In the meantime, tell Briala to head directly back to the Dales. We need her there more than we need her here.”

Cassandra penned a quick missive and opened the door, spotting the young initiate at the end of the hall. A quick movement of her fingers summoned the young woman to her side. She handed the missive over.

“Seek the Marquise of the Dales and turn this over to her.”

“Of-of-of course!,” the young woman stammered as she took the note and rushed down the hall and turned the corner, running right into Katrina, who was twirling a small dagger in her hands.

“And what do you have there in your hand, little bird?” she asked her, her lips spreading into a cheshire grin.

“I-I-I have the missive to Marquis Briala….” She said, “It is is nothing of importance surely…is this what you wanted from me? Please tell me this is what you wanted…”

“Absolutely. You are exactly what I need.” Katrina said as she plucked the missive from the trembling girl’s hand. “Your debt is paid and the dues collected. Your secret is sealed.”

She clutched the dagger and with a quick swipe drew it across the girl’s jugular. She fell back, legs buckling underneath her, eyes wide and hands trembling, clutching her throat as blood spurted from the gash and gurgled from pastel pink lips. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes.

“With your death,” Katrina said with a scowl as she stood over the bleeding body of the initiate, calmly wiping the dagger clean with the hemline of the initiate’s vestments.

She chuckled as the initiate’s hands slackened and her eyes fell closed with the last of her lifeblood draining onto the marble tiles.

“Foolish girl thought she’d actually live after this,” she said to herself, shaking her head at the naivete, no, the audacity. These lives were meaningless. There would be greater sacrifices to come. The rivers of Thedas would run crimson with the blood of their enemies. Innocent elves died everyday, at the hands of humans far crueler than she could ever be. At least the death she granted was quick. She was just evening the scales of justice.

She retrieved a note from her satchel and dipped it in the crimson blood, then pressed it into the young woman’s fingers. A little misdirection that would lead to bigger payoffs, she hoped, if Fen’harel would stop dragging his heels.

“Capture the Herald. Kill the other two.”

One lunged forward towards Davhalla but fell with a quick lightning bolt to the chest, twitching and writhing in agony. Two came after Aveline, but both were expertly cut down with a parry and shield bash. Another rushed towards her side, sweeping upwards with his sword, but ‘Manehn cut him down with a quick swipe at his side and a dagger in the back.

The elf’s eyes widened as she saw them cut down one by one, followed quickly by a quick motion of her hands as she pooled mana around her, a fireball growing between her fingers.

“Move!” ‘Manehn shouted, eyes wide, at Aveline and Davhalla, and both barely darted out of the way of an incoming fireball, the air growing hot with magic and Aveline’s hair slightly singed from a near miss.

The elf smirked as she rushed for higher ground. All three turned and scrambled after her, ascending up a steep cliff face.

She turned to face them with a wicked grin, eyes glowing, the Fade warping and wrapping around her as she drew a blade and slashed her arm. The fresh blood glistened around her fingers before giving way to a small sundering, a tear in the Fade from which a demon sprang forth, bulbous and bloated with rotted abscesses for eyes and talons dripping with black ichor.

“For the glory of Fen’harel!” the agent shouted as the demon rushed forward until she stumbled back with a arrow firmly lodged in her chest.

‘Manehn turned to see, to her dismay, Varric and Mirwen perched above them, Varric obviously chasing after Mirwen, imploring her to get back.

More elves rushed to meet their blades, all coming from a single point, a cave carved into another rock face while the demon glided towards Varric and Mirwen, its unholy shriek ringing in their ears.

“There!” ‘Manehn yelled as she rushed forward to meet them. One charged forward and thrust his sword upward, which she parried. He turned to bring it down on her head. She parried it with a quick swipe of her blade up. He spun around but met the blade attached to her left arm. Blood spurted from his mouth as he fell.

Behind her, two approached Davhalla, charging at her with brandished blades. She uttered a few words and with a downward swing of her stave, turned the ground to frost and their legs to ice while their eyes widened in horror as they became encased. Aveline charged forth with her shield, shattering them into pieces.

A rain of arrows from the rock face where Varric stood made a few others flail and fall, clutching their chests, screaming in agony. Mirwen took off, tears streaming from her face and she reacted to the pooling and pulling of the Fade, bolting towards a nested spot above the cave, flinging fireballs at the demon and the few stragglers that remained. The demon trained its eyes and her and began to follow, ready to consume and possess his prey.

“Get away!” ‘Manehn screamed as she rushed the demon, lunging forth and driving a blade deep into the demon’s back. It screamed, clawing at the wound that spurted with ichor that seared ‘Manehn’s arm as she thrust the blade deeper still.

Mirwen froze, her hand still encased in flame, her eyes still wet with tears, heart wrenched by this most egregious of sins, the warping of the poor spirit into a monster. She raised a trembling hand towards ‘Manehn and the demon, spoke a strange incantation, and a sudden bright light burst forth, coating the battlefield in stinging brightness.

The demon was gone now, as well as the burns on ‘Manehn’s arm. Only an echo remained, a withered remnant that whispered a soft thanks in Elvhen before it dissipated.

Mirwen glanced back at ‘Manehn, mouthing a quick ‘sorry Mamae’ before she collapsed to the ground.

‘Manehn gasped as she rushed to her side, with Aveline, Davhalla and Varric quickly following behind. She fell to her knees by Mirwen’s side and lifted her head with great effort with her right arm. Mirwen’s eyes fluttered open as she stirred and steadied herself.

“Varric, you need to take her back,” she said, eyes flashing and skin reddening underneath her dark skin from obvious rage, “For real this time.”

“It’s not his fault, Mamae,” Mirwen pleaded, “You needed help, I turned back. He tried to stop me.”

‘Manehn took a deep breath, trying desperately to force down her anger. “I told you to leave for a reason.”

“You can’t find the eluvian without me,” Mirwen protested, “I had to help!”

“You mean the eluvian inside the cave that all these elves were trying to protect,” ‘Manehn retorted.

Mirwen gave a listless shrug. “At least let me see a real eluvian before you send me back.”

“It should be safe now,” Davhalla said, trying her best to be as diplomatic as possible.

‘Manehn shot a quick glare at her before acquiescing. “Well, we have no time to lose,” she muttered as the party entered the cave.

The cave where the eluvian hid was dark and damp, riddled with a multitude of foulness and fungus that settled into a miasma that left eyes watering and noses covered.

“Why would anyone even think to put a portal here?” Aveline said, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

“These eluvians were constructed thousands of years ago,” Davhalla helpfully mumbled through a cloth she had raised to her mouth and nose, “maybe the environment here was less….well, let’s be frank, fucking disgusting.”

“I hope these shiny brown deposits are mushrooms,” Varric unhelpfully added.

"Wait."

‘Manehn signaled the party to stop behind her at pointed at the floor. The fetid brown slickness gave way to smooth limestone and even hints of green moss. The miasma began to dissipate and the air bcame crisp and cool. An enormous mirror stood before them, flanked on both sides by halla statues, the mirrored surface rippling like small waves in a clear pond.

“Deactivated.” Mirwen added, crestfallen. “I had hoped the scrying worked because it was activated.”

“It was activated.” Davhalla said. “They could just as easily have closed it once they saw we were coming.”

‘Manehn closed her eyes, waiting for the unbidden whispers from the Well to coalesce into a signal, a sign, any sort of helpful indicator to get past the eluvian.

The discordance that normally plagued her began to warp and rearrange itself in her mind, to one resonance, one voice, speaking a few words.

Lasa ghilan revashiral

She repeated the words and the eluvian sprang to life, the dim reflection now glowing white hot, shimmering with streaks of blue warping and winding across the surface, lighting up the dim, dank cavern and forcing the three to avert their eyes to adjust.

“Fucking lies,” ‘Manehn said, looking back at the eluvian, “‘Guide me to freedom’. The fucking audacity….”

Davhalla clasped her shoulder. “And that’s why we’re gonna stop him.”

‘Manehn nodded and turned towards Davhalla. “You need to come with me. Mirwen, Varric will make sure you get back to the Cathedral. Aveline…you need to smash this mirror behind us.”

“Absolutely not.” Aveline said, shaking her head furiously.

“Well,” ‘Manehn pointed to the glowing eluvian, “we’ll get to wherever Merrill is a lot faster going this way.”

“You shouldn’t go this way. We don’t even know exactly where Merrill went.”

“She probably fled to Ferelden,” Varric said. “She told me that’s where all her trouble began. I’d go back there, if I was her.”

Aveline glared at Varric. “And what if you both get lost?”

“We won’t.”

“And how do you know that?”

‘Manehn closed her eyes again, trying to make sense of the discordance, the whispers that resumed in response. She could not make out their exact words, but felt an affirmation that she should proceed.

Her eyes fluttered back open.

“Just a feeling,” she said as she she took a deep breath and stepped into the eluvian.

#oc lavellan #cassandra pentaghast #vivienne de fer #varric tethras #da fic #brialavellan #fic by brialavellan

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bdo-pilarrp · 5 years

Text

The Arrival, Pt.1

Snow had come with the chill of winter, the land once a lush green forest now blanketed with a pristine blanket of pure, glimmering white. Crystalline snowflakes drifted lazily down from the heavens shrouded in thick clouds which dimmed the warm glow of the sun, the land still and peaceful, almost picturesque in its dream-like state. The only disturbance was the soft crunch of snow under light feet as a figure clad in a charcoal grey cloak trudged forward down the path that lay hidden beneath the snow, the hood pulled up to keep the falling flakes from their visage.

Wispy puffs of steam drifted upon the cold air from the figure's breaths, the dark fur lining the hood frosted from snowfall concealing the figure's features from view, the only other detail a large sword of elegant elvish design strapped to their back. The lone figure seemed to be on a mission, their destination a mystery to any onlooker but the strides made were surly with purpose as they made their way through the still surroundings, seeming frozen in time with the fall of the season's first heavy flurry.

Another figure, a lone elven male stood in the same path rummaging through one of his smaller bags taking out a few pieces of meat. The tall figure kneeled down draped in his white wolf- fur cloak. "Come here you two.", he called to his two wolves who eagerly rushed over for their snack. He gave each a playful rub before looking up at his surroundings. His ice blue eyes noticing his partner approaching on the path in the distance. "Are you ready to get out of this place?", he questioned as the figure got closer. "We have a lead in Calpheon."

Hands clad in silver gauntlets that gleamed in the radiance of the pristine white that surrounded them rose to draw back the hood, seafoam green eyes meeting frosty blue, cascading layers of hair, dark at the roots fading to silvery white at the tips, free to settle about her shoulders. She cocked a small grin at her companion, watching the wolves as they eagerly set to their treats. "More than ready. My legs need a good stretch and it's gotten rather boring around here as of late."

"Good to hear. Let's get moving then. Hopefully, we'll be able to escape some of this cold while we're at it.", the elf said with confidence; pushing some of his blonde locks aside as they blew in his face from the frosty winds. He stood up readjusting his large bow strapped across his body. Before grabbing his nearby bag and turning to continue down the path with his new companion. "We'll be traveling to the land of humans some Im sure you'll get more than your share of fun. They can't keep peace for two seconds.", he commented as they moved on.

Pilar chuckled, a gleam in her green eyes hinting that she was perhaps more than hoping for such a prospect. She adjusted her pack beneath her cloak, more than ready to set off on their way, a determined grin on her lips. "Oh, I'm certain of it. Humans are petty things, always squabbling and complaining. They do make a tasty Shepard's Pie, though." she mused. A gust of brisk air whipped past them and Pilar drew her hood up once again, the fur lining kissed with small flakes of freshly fallen snow. "It will be nice to be out on the open road again. I've missed this. My sword has been idle for too long." She joined Alboin and offered the pair of wolves a fond scritch behind the ears.

Alboin laughs a bit, "Why is it that I can sense you ready to make trouble? Well, I'm sure we'll encounter some bandits along the way.", he asked as he takes a look at his map and compass. "A lovely elven female out on the open roads is like nineshark bait to them.", he stated in amusement. "Alright, we head north from here. ", he mentioned putting the items away, his two wolves quickly following along as they see him move on.

Pilar easily keeps pace alongside her companion, her grin innocent. Ish. "I have no idea what you mean." she lied playfully. "But any chance I get to put some filth into their rightful place sounds like a good time to me." She huffed lightly, a puff of steam from her breath on the cold air escaping as she did so, "Humans. Always picking on those who they are incapable of understanding." The gentle rain of snowflakes soon ceased, the snowfall easing away for the time being as they trudged onwards, their light-footedness keeping them from sinking into the packed snow that coated the land. All was quiet, not even bird song greeted their ears, not a soul of a creature stirred the underbrush. It was almost like walking through a dream state but the two elves knew better. The land was simply at rest, soaking in the calm of the moment.

"That lack of understanding anything is what keeps their race from achieving more and being a pain in the butt for the rest of us." "Though in this case, I don't think it's a lack of understanding as much as it's a bunch of humans looking to defile our kind. Having laid with one of us is like an accomplishment or experience of some kind. Can't say I feel that way about the roles being reversed.",Alboin sighed. "No matter. Once all this business with the Kamasylvia tree and our traveling princess is solved we can all go back to our seperate domains.", the male elf dreamed. "The border to Trent shouldn't be too far from here. Then we'll figure out how to further proceed to Calpheon."

Pilar hummed in amusement, nodding as she crinkled her faintly freckled nose. "I honestly do not see the appeal of bedding a human. They smell, they are filthy, they are ignorant, and they have no stamina what so ever." she cringed slightly, "The thought of one sweating all over me while being rut upon is rather foul indeed." She offered a small shrug, " I do not see what the Princess finds so fetching about them. You would think someone of her impeccable breeding would prefer more intellectual and pleasant company."

"It's not them; just him.... She was most likely tricked by that beast of a man. Or some other underhanded methods no doubt; possibly tainted human booze!", he contemplated aloud to her as they walked. "300 years and not one of the more noble elves could have her virginity, and this human comes along and steals her most sacred treasure. I'll have none of this insult from a human any further.",Alboin breathed in an icy cold breathe calming himself. "We will find her and once she sees me she'll happily return home with us; her sister as well.

Pilar kept her bemused laugh well to herself, letting slip a hum of agreement instead. She knew how easily her companion could get so riled up at such a topic and although it was almost always entertaining, she felt it was best if he saved it for later. "The Princess will come along one way or another, Alboin, do not concern yourself about that. Her home beckons and she has responsibilities to see to as is her given right by birth. She has been away from home for too long."

"Yes and hopefully by then will have come to her senses and she will be over this getting along with the other races nonsense." Alboin huffed. "We have our own issues to deal with." , he commented as the pair crunched their way through the snow covered lands. The wolves eagerly keeping pace beside him; their snow white coats blinding them into the surroundings. "What do you plan to do once we head back home? It doesn't seem you'd be too pleased to be stuck there again.", the elven male asked Pilar.

Green eyes cast skyward in thought. She honestly hadn't thought that far ahead. "You know... I haven't even considered that yet," she replied honestly. "We both know my mother is insistent on me marrying- which isn't going to happen. I'm in my prime! Why should I get bogged down with marriage? And children would be a certain death sentence to my freedom." she frowned, brows knitting together in a pointed scowl. "All because I'm her only daughter and she wants grandchildren. Disgusting little noisemakers. If she wants more little ones running around why not pay a Piku or something to do it. Well... I mean I tried it already but for some reason, she was less than amused at the idea of me paying the creature to follow her around and annoy her. A child would do the same thing!" She threw her hands up in the air, frustrated. "I will never understand that woman's demands for the life of me. As a Royal Guard herself, you would think she would be happy I followed in her footsteps! Just because I wasn't born a son she changed her mind. Her problem, not mine by the way." she huffed, glowering at the snow that coated the path they walked.

"This isn't meant as an insult, but I can't quite picture you being a housewife. ", he commented to her. "Some people are just made for certain things. Some belong on a battlefield, some in books and scrolls, some in gardens and others at home.", Alboin further remarked. "Perhaps she wants to make up for you being the only child by having another child through you.", the elf commented with a shrug. "Meh, it's hard to tell what some people think sometimes.". Alboin's ice blue eyes scanned the distance. "I can see the border gates up head from here."

Pilar huffed once again, sending another puff of steam drifting through parted lips. A wind had picked up and the snow was beginning to grow harder on the land, packed from layers of snowfall freezing over and the path now churned up with slush and mud from the passing of horse drawn wagons as the gates came into view. "Being a housewife would be the death of me." she grumped. As they moved closer along the path, avoiding the muck and icy patches, Pilar's seafoam gaze roved their surroundings, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious or potentially threatening. The closer they drew, the more they could hear the folk of Trent going about their business, even in the frigid weather, the sound of saws and hammers at work as loggers brought in their loads from the surrounding woodland.

"We should probably get some horses . It's quite the distance from Trent to Calpheon when considering the snow.",Alboin suggested. "Not to mention that human is possibly partaking of our princess as we speak. We can't waste too much time getting there.", he added as they walked through the gates of the small labor town.

Pilar nodded as they passed through the gates, making a bee-line for the stables, her gauntlet clad hand resting casually upon the hilt of the sword she had at her hip, her stride confident and imposing as she marched up to the Stable Master first. She halted just in front of the Demi Beast, teal eyes piercing as she bluntly addressed him, "We require two of the finest horses you have for sale." She placed a hand upon her hip, adding, "I have coin."

Alboin soon followed, "My friend here may have been a bit forward with you, but she is correct.", Alboin gave a charming smile and whispered to Pilar. "Sometimes you have to use finesse with these locals or they'll make things harder for you.", he then turned back to the Stable Master with his smile. " We need them as soon as possible. We have important business in Calpheon and can't afford to waste a moment. You will be paid well for them and us elves will remember your aid in our task.". he then showed the demi beast a nice pouch of silver.

Pilar humphed, crossing her armored arms as she stared levelly at the Stable Master, long elven ears perked up expectantly, the left one flicking out of annoyance. She could never understand her charge's need for charm and diplomacy in regards to those of unimportance but she humored him all the same, even if she did feel it was a waste of time. She was always more action than words. Her seafoam gaze shifted to the row of stalls, regarding the mounts available and took a keen interest in a jet black stallion that pawed angrily at the ground, snorting. He was a magnificent creature, spirited and full of fire. A kindred spirit.

"Hmmm...", Alboin noticed his companions gaze. "You know what my friend here will take that black one there. There's no need to look further in her case.", the elven male called out to the stable master while pointing at the aggressive black horse. " I on the other require something with a bit of flair; something that demands the attention of a nobleman such as myself.", his eyes scanned the horses in the stalls and those grazing in the pin. That's where he saw her; the most elegant horse he's laid eyes upon with it's long flowing white mane and long silky tail. "Yes, that one. A creature that spectacular deserves to be with someone as equally magnificent as myself.", Alboin smiled as he pictured himself riding upon the horse in the most heroic pose one could imagine.

Pilar rolled her eyes at the rather sissy choice in steed her companion picked but realized it was to be expected. Keeping all that sparkling white, mane and tail clean was going to be a chore for sure. She tossed Alboin a playful smirk, lofting a brow, "Quite the pretty pony, my Lord. Good luck keeping her spotless in the muck." she snickered. She moved to the stall that held captive her new steed, the large stallion tossing his head as she neared, flaring his nostrils. His coat was like polished onyx, mane cropped short like a mohawk to keep it out of the way, tail equally docked, his form muscular and his legs strong. He was a war horse, she knew it instantly. He would serve her well. "Keelios." she nodded as the name came to her and found it suited him fine. She spoke to him in elvish under her breath and found her voice soothed the beast for the moment. "I'll take him." she agreed at length.

"My tall elegant beast will be just fine. Besides, that's what the stable keeps are for.", he smirked in thought. "The horse's job and mine are to look good riding into battle and put down the enemy in style while we do it.", he stated with a hint for arrogance when it came to his skills. "Just worry more about keeping your monster under control. I think it might kidnap you given the chance.", Alboin mentions as he looks at the horse with suspicion.

Pilar merely grinned, daring to open the stall door to take Keelios by the bridle and guide him out. He resisted at first but his eagerness to be out of the cramped confines of the stall, far too small for a horse of his size, soon overcame his initial distrust and he stepped out onto the road with Pilar leading him, heavy hooves leaving deep impressions in the frosted over mud of the street. "He's magnificent." she breathed in awe, studying him in the sunlight. Keelios seemed overly anxious to stretch his legs, shifting from side to side impatiently as a Shai approached, lugging a saddle far bigger than he for her new mount. At the sight of it, the horse tossed his head, pawing the mud once again to caution the little creature from coming closer, which worked as he halted, unsure. Pilar held firm her grip on the stallion's bridal, not letting him have an inch. She was equally stubborn with just as much fire in her spirit. They were well matched. "Leave the saddle, small one. I'll handle it."

Opposite of Pilar was Alboin all too eager to get his new steed saddled, "Yes get that saddle on my horse! ", he commented as they allowed it out of the pin area. It was well behaved trotting its way out and not going much further as it stopped; next to the stable handlers clearly used to this routine. Alboin watched the horses stride. "Hmm, she seems to possibly be of one of the speedier breeds.", he commented, half in thought. "The stable master nodded to Alboin in that his assumption was correct. "You have a good eye." the demi beast responded to Alboin. A chilly winter breeze then came through blowing the horses long mane. Alboin looked on in awe, "Yes I shall name her Sylvia after our awe inspiring tree and goddess.", he declared and nodded in self-approval.

Meanwhile, the armored she-elf wrangled her enthusiastic, if not bull-headed, mount into submission and saddled him before swinging herself up into the leather seat with protests from the other stable hands and the caution that the stallion disliked riders. The moment her weight fell onto his back, Keelios instantly tried to throw her but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of dismounting her. With a grin, she let him work it all out of his system, his large hooves stirring up mud as he bucked and spun in a sudden, wild frenzy, trying to dislodge her. But this wasn't her first rodeo sort to speak and she knew just what to do to show him she was boss, not the other way around. She held fast, reins tight as she forced him forward into open space and away from possible casualties, seizing control as he tried to bolt, unsuccessfully, and when that failed, he attempted to roll on her. Experience was in her favor as she moved with him, gripping tight with her legs and flattening her body against his, coming up uninjured if a little dirty back in the saddle at a full sit once he was up, seemingly spent, at last, his new rider victorious, leaving onlookers slack jawed in awe and respect. She hmphed triumphantly and stroked Keelios' neck, muscles quivering with a low whinny. "Well fought, Keel. Never let the fire die in you."

Alboin was finally upon his mount. His two massive white wolves following close by their elven pack leader. Someone shorter than him could possibly use one as a mount. Their bushy snow covered tails wagged eagerly as they looked up at the elf on his new horse. Alboin took off his bow a moment to readjust its position to ensure that the edges wouldn't poke his horse by accident. He watched on as Pilar fought with her horse until it finally came to its conclusion. She was still the same wild girl that he always remembered. The elf tossed his wolves a snack making sure they had fuel for the run they would make soon once Pilar finally seemed to be settled with the stallion. "At least he didn't kidnap you!", the man called over to Pilar with a grin.

A chortle was her response, offering the black stallion another fond pat to the neck which was rewarded with a harsh snort and a hoof stomp. She turned her attention to the dumbstruck stablemaster and tossed him a coin purse for his troubles. "Lead the way." she beckoned for Alboin to lead on, the pair of them now fully set for the road ahead of them. Pilar slipped her pack onto Keelios' back like a saddle bag and let her cloak cover it, replacing her fur trimmed hood back up to shield her skin from the biting cold, her breath still visible on the air. The further into Calpheon territory they go the warmer it would get.

"We appreciate your timely assistance," Alboin spoke to the Stable Master handing him his own pouch of silver as well. Before setting his horse into motion toward the town gate that would lead them to Calpheon. The wolves followed close by one at each side of Alboin as the horse picked up pace. The snow was still a bit heavy outside the town gate since it wasn't cleared from the path as it was in the town. Regardless it was still faster than either of them would be moving on foot. "Finally, we can make some decent progress. Once we hit warmer territory we should be able to run at full speed."

Pilar nodded, nudging Keelios forward which wasn't without his stubborn hesitation. "Lets be off then, I'm tired of the cold." Together, they set off down the road leading from Trent, hooves churning up mud and slush from snow in their wake as they settled into a gallop along the road that took them through the woodlands of towering pines and firs. The smell of evergreens were on the air, as invigorating as the nip of the chilled air against their faces as they made for Calpheon. "So what's the plan, Alboin?" she called to her companion, curious as to what his chosen plan of action would be, if he even had one.

"I think a wise choice would be to find a place to stay once we get there. " Alboin shouted back to Pilar. "I do not plan on sleeping in the cold wilds tonight. We may know the town she's in but we have no idea where exactly, or if the person mistook her for another elf. I doubt she'd be wearing her royal clothing if she's staying undercover.", said the elf as he explained his reasoning around the choice. His cloak, hair and the horse's mane all flowing majestically in the wind as they rode. The two wolves easily keeping pacing thanks to wolves being great endurance runners capable of running miles before needing a rest.

A firm nod signaled her affirmation of his plan, "Agreed! We will need to approach the Princess cautiously less we spook her away. It would be wise indeed to gather more intel whilst we recoup and a bed would be a welcome reprieve after our long journey." Keelios easily kept pace with Sylvia, his powerful strides keeping him alongside the more lithe of the two steeds. Ivory and ebony streaked down the road leading north to Calpheon with a rhythmic thunder of hooves.

"Exactly, it's as you say. This is the closest info we've had on her location in a while.", Alboin said over the sound of hooves meeting forest ground. "If she flees we have to start all over again.", as they traveled he noticed the snow getting thinner; noting them passing into warmer territory. "And it seems we've finally gotten closer to some better weather as well!", Alboin remarked pleased at the prospect of not freezing endless day and night.

Pilar grinned, raising a hand to draw her hood back from her face, long wavy lengths of her ombre grey hair now bellowing out behind her along with her cloak, finally free from the confines of her hood. The crisp bitter cold had faded and the sun seemed brighter, warmer as the clouds became thinner. Although still chill from winter's embrace, it was not as cold in the region of Calpheon, the snow mostly melted save for the denser patches that could be seen scattered about the forest floor, the path now damp from the melt but no where near as muddy as the roads of Trent were. "We're making good time!"

"Yes, we should make it there before the sun goes down." , the elf stated as they raced down the path ever closer to there destination. But just as everything seemed to be going smoothly Alboin noticed some figures in the distance beginning to block the path. "Looks like you get your wish Pilar.", Alboin called out to her when he realized the figures blocking the road was a group bandits and thieves. He slowed his horse down preparing to stop it a safe distance out of harms way.

A devilish grin lights up her face as she sees the group foolishly attempting to bar their path. She allowed Keelios to continue several paces past Sylvia to stop just short of the bandits, the intimidating stallion rearing up and lashing out with hooves with a whinny before coming down hard, large hooves leaving imprints in the dirt of the road. Pilar regarded the group cooly, "Step aside."

"Uuuh sure miss...just as soon as ya hand over all your silver, dos nice horses...", one of the bandits gestured. "...and possibly yourself as well.", one of the other ones suggested in a creepy manner; his comrades cheering in agreeing and amusement . "Now how about you hop off that horse like two good little elves so we don't have to get too rough with ya?"

Pilar flashed her most innocent of smiles, casually inching Keelios closer to the ring leader, inch bye inconspicuous inch. "Oh, but rough is so much more fun." Before the man could bat an eye, Pilar moved like lightning, rearing back and striking out with a powerful kick, her boot heel connecting ruthlessly with the man's jaw, an audible crunch of teeth and bone heard before vaulting off the saddle backwards and falling into a battlestance, ready for the next attacker with a wild grin on her face.

Alboin dismounted his horse but saw no need to get directly in the fight knowing Pilar could handle herself and wanted to have some fun. Instead, he drew his great bow and covered her from a distance watching her back. "Storm, Frost go play!", his two wolves went from passive to lethal in an instant; covering ground faster than the men could react before being pounced upon and attacked viciously by the large animals.

Keelios had reared up and struck out with a foreleg, catching another bandit in the chest and sending him reeling as the wolves leapt into the fray, Pilar streaking in like lightning aiming a strike to another bandit's throat, dropping him and whirling around to trip up the second with a leg sweep. She didn't draw her weapon just yet, after all, they were only humans standing in the way and there would be no sport in simply cutting them down for their stupidity. Unless one drew on her first, her sword would remain sheathed. A palm strike to another bandit's nose sent him staggering and Pilar leapfrogged over him to catch another by the wrist, spinning to throw him over a shoulder with a splintering snap of his wrist bone, sending him to the dirt with a heavy thud as he landed unpleasantly on his back squealing in pain.

"Satisfied now?", Alboin asked Pilar in amusement. He whistled for Frost and Storm to return, and the two wolves came jogging back over to him; bushy tails happily wagging as they came over to give Alboin licks. He gave them both treats and scratched their fluffy white necks as he watched Pilar making sure no one snuck up on her.

Pilar huffed, standing with her hands akimbo, surveying her handiwork with a disappointed scowl, "Too easy. They always make it too easy!" she complained, stepping over a prone figure groaning miserably in the mud. She collected Keelios' reins and returned to Alboin's side, looking bored all over again. "Well, at the very least I got a little bit of exercise in, I guess." She shrugged but he couldn't miss the pout on her face. She was hoping for a challenge and as usual, she was disappointed. "Waste of time. We should have just plowed through them." She swung back up in her saddle and turned Keelios about, "That was...what- two? Three?- minutes of daylight we won't get back."

"I almost doubt any battle would satisfy your thirst.", Alboin laughed as he was about to saddle up onto Sylvia again. He stopped a moment in thought and instead walked over to the bandits. He stepped over the leader and took the pouch of silver he had stolen from others that rode along this path earlier that day. Alboin then tossed the pouch to Pilar. "That is payment for wasting the ladies time.", he commented before heading back to his horse to actually saddle up this time. "Also let that be a reminder of how it feels to be beaten and have your money taken from you the next time you try a stunt like this, filth." , Alboin added as his horse and wolves walked by the group of laid out thieves."Someone move this trash out of the road!", Alboin called out to no one in particular. "How are decent folk expected to ride and travel in such conditions."

Pilar grinned at her companion, pocketing the coin pouch after deftly snatching it out of the air as it was tossed her way. "Hey, a girl can hope!" she chirruped jokingly. She brought Keelios up alongside Sylvia and nodded to the Archer with a dip of her chin, "Let's get going, no point wasting any more time on these morons." With a click of her tongue and a flick of the reins, she urged the massive stallion forward into another trot, soon accelerating into a gallop as they resumed their journey towards Calpheon city.

"Yes, thankfully they didn't waste too much of our time. After being out in this cold weather nothing would be more welcome than a nice warm bath.", he replied to Pilar as the rode off; leaving the injured criminals behind scattered on the road in varying degrees of pain. "At least they were kind enough to give us some money back for the horses we bought", Alboin smirked in delight. The elf noticed them quickly approaching a river up head and bridge that would allow them safe crossing. "We must be getting closer now. This area is very familiar.", he stated, eager to end his journey for the time being.

As they rode on towards their destination, Keelios and Sylvia kept up their pace with ease, hardly breathing hard, proof of the quality of their breeding in their endurance. The sound of their hooves hitting dirt with a muted thunk soon shifted into a rhythmic clack as the metal shoes struck stone of the bridge, drawing them closer towards their destination, evident by the increase in the presence of civilians of the city appearing on or along the road, some farming, some driving wagons, some simply strolling. "We should hit the gates any moment now!"

After a few more minutes they saw it, the southern entrance to Calpheon near the noble district and large cathedral. As they arrived in front of the stable Alboin got off his horse. "Take good care of her and make sure she's nice and clean.", the elven man addressed the stable workers. "She's worth the silver spent on her and I'd like to keep it that way." Alboin looked over awaiting Pilar who sat upon her massive black horse.

The Dark Knight blew a sigh of relief as they came up to the stables in a casual trot, able to feel the subtle shift in climate temperature with her acute elvish senses. It was a much-needed reprieve from the cold they just came from, the chill here in Calpheon far more bearable by far. She dismounted, landing lightly on her feet as another stable hand came out to collect her steed. Keelios reared up, whinnying in protest at strangers handling his reins, his sheer bulk and aggressive power forcing the stable hands to retreat, surprised and afraid. Pilar reined him in, calming him with some softly spoken words in elvish, her hands smoothing down his muzzle and once he appeared soothed, she beckoned the timid stable workers over, "Do not be afraid, horses can sense fear." She scolded, handing the reins over to a man that dared to come closer than the others, his expression wary, "Take good care of him. If you do not, I will know." She leveled a pointed look at all of them, one that showed she was deadly serious to which the stable hand nodded feverishly, "Y-yes'm!"

"Alright, lets go find our selves a good place to stay. It seems we are in the better part of town so this is a good place to start.", Alboin mentioned to his friend. "If we don't find a nice Inn we may as well just rent a place and make it worthy of us.", he then suggested upon further thought as the headed through the gates and into town.

Pilar nodded and followed Alboin, trusting him to lead the way. They passed numerous folk that crowded the streets of Calpheon, various races of all shapes, sizes, and genders going about their lives pedaling their wares or running errands. The diversity was surprising as they wove their way through the crowds, avoiding merchants attempting to get their attention and shady folk who would more than likely attempt to pick their pockets. "Have a place in mind?" she implored, looking to Alboin as they walked side by side, garnering many stares both curious and appreciative in their direction as they went.

"Unfortunately, no. But we are in the better part of town so the inn on this side is our only option unless we get a place of our own. " the elven man explained his reasoning to Pilar. "We will take a look at it and see if it meets your standards. If you can tolerate staying in it for a night we'll use it and find a better place for us early tomorrow.", he spoke as they walked. Alboin's eyes scanning the buildings looking for the sign above one of them that shows that it's an Inn.

Pilar shrugged absently as they walked, spotting the Inn looming ahead as they rounded a corner, "If it is suitable for you than it is for me." she reassured. As they neared, the sound of the tavern life began to increase, obnoxious laughter, drunken shouts, and off key singing mixed with the clank of mugs and other dishes and from what she could see through the fogged up windows, it was pretty crowded. Dutifully, Pilar moved ahead of Alboin protectively, opening the door first once close enough, her free hand on the hilt of her dagger, leading the way inside. The place reeked of booze, sweat, cheap perfume, cigarettes, and food. A cook prepared meals at a small kitchenette behind the bar where the barkeep hustled out drinks along the counter, the barmaids working double time with their trays overfilled and overflowing with orders they hurried out to crowded tables. Some folk were playing darts, some cards, others partaking in some form of merriment and even one or two were out cold in their seats. The upper floor, Pilar could spot a player or two, tempting the unsuspecting from their coin in exchange for carnal pleasures, a signaler helping a companion cheat at cards at a table below, and a few just observing the crowd from a higher and less crowded vantage point. At the moment, there seemed no immediate danger but even so, Pilar stuck close to Alboin's side like a protective watchdog as he sought out the innkeeper.

Alboin sighed, "I have a feeling this is already going to be a big fat NO. But I'll humor it anyway, maybe Ill get the rarest of surprises." His blue eyes moved to Pilar who was protectively walking ahead of him. She had always been that way and even if it was her duty he never fully understood it, but given some thought, he'd do the same for her. This is his oldest and possibly only real friend after all. "Pilar I think that may be him over there.", the elf pointed toward the man spoke some words to the bartender that they couldn't hear over the crowd but he then exited from behind the bar to continue on to whatever his next ask was. Not just anyone is allowed behind a bar of an establishment, so Alboin had a good hunch about this.

"I honestly would not be surprised if this was the best they had to offer," she commented dryly. It was certainly a far shot from the beautiful inns of Grana with their refined chefs, polished floors, glimmering walls, and soothing harp music. It was almost laughable how drastically different the two cultures were. Sad, but laughable. She just hoped the beds were at least clean otherwise they would be better off sleeping outside. As Alboin pointed out the man that exited from behind the bar, Pilar nodded, catching sight of the man. She waited for Alboin to take lead, once more knowing her weakness in diplomacy, following her companion through the crowded room. She noted they got more than a few curious stares, some lewder than others, but she was hardly bothered by them. She could take on every single person in the bar and hardly break a sweat with their poor state. Still, she hovered close, a hand on her dagger just in case as Alboin caught up with the Innkeeper.

"Excuse me.", Alboin put on his best face as he approached the man. "Is this your inn and tavern?", he then asked. The man turned to see who was asking."Yeah, this is my place...what can I do for you? If its a drink the barkeep over there can help you.", the innkeeper gestured. "No, no me and my friend here were looking to get a room for the night. The names Alboin by the way sorry for the late introduction.", Alboin explained after properly greeting the man. "The names Darren. And yeah...I think we can get a room for you, follow me.", the innkeeper waved an arm for them to follow as he leads them out of the bar area and through the door into the inn portion of the building. The man walked them upstairs and grabbed the ring of keys from his hip as they reached an empty room; unlocking it for the pair. As the door squeaked open it revealed a rather average room. Not the cleanest but not utterly filthy either. Alboin tried to contain his disgust and tried another approach.

"Hmmm, surely you have another room?", Alboin pulled the man aside a little. "I don't want to disappoint my date tonight Darren. Look at her. Is that the kind of elven beauty you'd want to disappoint on a special night?" , gave the man a charming smirk. Darren looked past Alboin's shoulder at Pilar; checking her from head to toe. He gave a nod of approval and suck of his teeth in thought as if trying to remove a piece of food from between them. "Look I'll tell you what. If you've got the silver I've got a room I usually only reserve for special VIP diplomats that show up here in town.", he stated as he looked back to Alboin who gave him a nod. "Come on.", the innkeeper leads them to the top floor. "On this floor, there are only 2 rooms. Mine and the special one I told you of." The man then went to one of the two special keys on his rings and opened the door once they walked over to it. Upon opening the door one could tell exactly what he meant. The room was decked out in fancy furniture, a hot tub, the finest of flooring, sheets, drapes. "Yes, this one will definitely do.", Alboin spoke up deeming the room fit enough for Pilar and himself. The elven male paid the man well for his trouble and was given the key. "Alright, you two uhhh...enjoy your special night.", the innkeeper said with a smile and a wink before heading back downstairs.

#ic happenings #short story #Alboin Trislee

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bladesingcr · 8 months

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Harley being pretty 1/?

#visage : the elf with a plan and a sword

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seilune · 6 years

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The Ascension

Seilune descended the spiral staircase, her fingertips trailing across the smooth golden railing. She elevated her head with poise, an air of regality wafting about her as she strode into the sitting room. Seated on the divan were her parents, Lord Ashtal and Lady Ysune Astrande. Their eyes were glued to the entryway, having awaited the arrival of their daughter. Moments prior, the heiress was sobbing, feeling emotionally exhausted after that evening’s mission with the Agents. They had seemingly defeated the Divine along with the Cradle, but it came at a price. Agents fell to their untimely deaths at the hand of the twisted being, only to be resurrected during the Director’s time of anguish. She paused before taking a seat on the divan seated across from her parents, using the moment to further compose herself. A heavy breath gushed through her nostrils, flooding her body with a still and steady calm.

“Mother, father,” the heiress addressed as she finally occupied the space, bowing her head to them in respect. “I apologize for the quick retreat to my bedroom, I am feeling rather fati—“

Lord Astrande lifted a hand, stopping her. “No, no. It is quite all right, Seilune. Your mother and I are aware that the work you do with the Agents can be tedious and tiring.”

Lady Astrande glanced to her husband, nodding in agreement. “And we find your work and you quite admirable,” she chimed in, smiling warmly to Seilune.

“Certainly,” Ashtal added. “What you have done and what you continue to do has been towards ensuring the betterment of Suramar, the Shal’dorei, and...House Astrande.”

The heiress found the exchange rather cryptic. What has brought on such a conversation? She shifted in her seat uncomfortably, crossing her legs and folding her hands neatly on a pointed knee.

“My Starflower,” Ashtal continued, his violet eyes peering into Seilune’s. “During your time as an Agent, you have endured so much. Abduction, injuries, ruined gowns…” He chuckled softly, shooting her a sly grin as he teased. “You have walked through fire and have only become more tempered.”

With the wave of his hand, Ashtal commanded a sword to materialize at his side. It was a sword Seilune rarely saw, a sword of legends. Kal’Serrar. He gripped his fingers tightly around the hilt, extending the blade horizontally to Seilune.

“You know the story of my father’s blade. It’s one you have heard all of your life,” he spoke as he tilted the weapon. “Please, tell it to me.”

A story she had heard all of her life—that was accurate. Seilune lost count millennia ago of the number of people who would told her of her grandfather’s immense sense of honor, and of the sacrifice he made for Suramar. She was always referred to as the “granddaughter of High Lord Astrande,” never allowed the privilege of having an identity of her own. No matter how diligently she worked to create her own legacy, she was always cheapened by her association with others. The heiress looked to her mother, who gave her a reassuring smile and nod. “Your father—my grandfather, Raveis Astrande, he was the first wielder of Kal’Serrar,” she began. “The blade was crafted from the finest of steels and enchanted with the waters of the Well of Eternity. It allowed him to unleash devastating attacks, serving him well as he fought against the Troll tribes who tried to hinder the expansion of the Night Elf empire. Kal’Serrar was at his side when he helped found Suramar City and when he built Aubade, and it remained at this side from then on. That is...until the Legion invaded during the War of the Ancients.”

She paused, searching her father’s visage. This part of the tale had always troubled him. Ashtal bore a somber expression, his gaze now trickled to the floor. He spoke no words, simply waving a hand to tell her to continue.

“He fought nobly in the war, cutting down demons left and right until he came face-to-face with a Felguard commander, Xarzinar. He managed to overpower grandfather, shattering his body and Kal’Serrar along with him. But you, father—you slayed the demon and retrieved the broken pieces of the blade. After the war and the erection of the barrier, you had it repaired and infused with the essence of the newly-formed Nightwell. Since then it has been kept safe, never allowed to leave the walls of our manor.”

“Until now,” the Lord added, trailing his gaze up to his daughter’s visage.

Seilune canted her head to the side in confusion. “Until now?” She questioned, repeating his words.

Ashtal reached across the coffee table that separated him and his daughter, taking her hand in his own. “Seilune, your mother and I are fully aware of what has transpired in Darkshore, as well as the burning of Teldrassil. We know that it is only a matter of time before the Alliance come looking for blood. In these dire times, our House needs to be led by someone who can persevere. Like Kal’Serrar, you have been broken. But you have come out more resilient because of it. With each trial you have faced—with each victory and loss, you have been retempered, your faith and focus never wavering. Which is why…”

He glanced to Ysune, who nodded curtly. “...I am passing the mantle on to you, Starflower,” he declared, squeezing Seilune’s hand gently.

Suddenly, it felt as though the entire weight of the world fell upon Seilune’s shoulders. She already bore immense responsibility as an Agent, weaving alliances and working to maintain peaceful relations. As an Arcanist, she thwarted the enemies of the Shal’dorei, either incapacitating them with her charm or breaking them beneath the might of her power. But lately, she questioned her own prowess. She was unable to prevent the outbreak of the War of the Thorns, and she was unable to protect her fellow Agents, whose lives had been snuffed out within the Divine’s grasp. Could she truly lead her House?

Seilune’s throat tightened as the anxiety took hold. In desperation, she reached to her hyoid bone, clawing at the invisible force that tried to strangle her. “F-Father...,” she managed to stammer. “Are you sure? You have lead our House for over 10,000 years. The distillery was founded by you, and it was you who made our wine so enjoyed by our people. This...this is all so sudden. I...I don’t think I am ready or even worthy to be.”

Sympathy was etched into Ashtal’s features as he listened to Seilune’s meanderings. Looking at his daughter was like looking at his own reflection, but not because she looked so much like him. Rather, because he was once in that very position. “I felt the same way when I became Lord,” he replied softly. “I was much younger than you, my father had just died, and your mother and I had been married only a short while—I didn’t think it was my time. But what you must learn to understand, my Starflower, is that things don’t always go according to plan. You can plan out your entire life and in an instant, it can be shattered. It is during times of immense pressure when one either bends or breaks and you, my dear, will adjust.”

“The…” He paused briefly, sighing heavily as he mustered the bravery to speak the words. “The shame I brought upon our House—I simply cannot be expected to lead it admirably no longer. My father did not found this House and build this estate for them to scatter like ashes in the wind. No, no. He wished for it to stand the test of time. But you, Seilune. You can. Your quick thinking is what saved us all. Your position as a diplomat and an ambassador, it has allowed us to bask in the limelight once more. We are prosperous again because of you and, because of you, we will continue to be.”

He lifted her hand to Kal’Serrar, gently wrapping her fingers around the hilt. “The days of Lord Raveis and Lord Ashtal Astrande are over. Now begins the era of Lady Seilune Astrande. With this blade, it is time for you to carve out your legacy.”

Seilune swallowed hard, apprehension riddling her to the bones. But she wasn’t about to abandon her responsibilities. The future of her House depended on her, and she knew what she must do to ensure its longevity. Her fingers settled into the grooves of the hilt and she gripped it tightly. With a touch of flair, she lifted the blade towards the heavens, the chandelier bathing the heirloom in a golden light. “Mother, father. I will make you both proud. I will lead our House to newer and better heights. We will stand upon the precipice of greatness, looking across the expanse from the loftiest of heights. The world will know our name and admire it, and our line will continue to flourish. Ru-shanna Astrande!”

#seilune astrande #ashtal astrande #ysune astrande #storytelling

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dashingndaring · 6 years

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Once Off That Island

Characters are from the main D&D campaign I play in, the Enigma Emblem Chronicles. Xorynth (PC) belongs to me, and Keynan (NPC) was created by me and belongs to @scatteringmyashes

Rating: Teen, for mention of abuse, violence, and death.

Words: 5,658

Summary: Xorynth, with the aid of the mysterious Keynan, has escaped from Skia island, but not without consequences. Will she be able to accept them and reclaim her freedom? Meanwhile, Keynan tries to reassure the struggling half-elf, but isn’t sure what he’s doing wrong.

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When she awoke to the taste of salt and the foreign feeling of being suspended, the half elf jumped with a start. This of course resulted in her ass hitting wood as her entire body crashed from a hammock to the ground.

Banished light on high that hurt more than it should have...

As quickly as the thought nestled in her brain, it flew away in a panic. Calm down. Think. She stared up, noting that the only light in the room came from an orange flame from beyond the door. It trickled in just enough through the door cracks to reveal wooden planks all around. On impulse she brushed her hand against the hardwood beneath. Rough, she noted, even against her calloused fingers. Slivers threatened to leave splinters, but she couldn't bring herself to care about the small pricks of pain. They were nothing compared to the emptiness quickly consuming her insides. Now that the shock of waking up in an unfamiliar room had worn off it was impossible to stay calm while every gruesome memory came flooding back.

She wasn't on the island anymore. She had run. Rhaina had tried to stop her. But what came next? Why couldn’t she remember what came ne--

Rhaina is dead.

Ice erupted in her lungs at the memory. No, Rhaina’s death wasn't as simple as that. It was far, far worse.

I killed Rhaina.

Xorynth froze, but time continued on. Seconds went by after the revelation. Then minutes. Then hours. Slowly, her mind found an eye in the storm of her raging thoughts, just long enough to grasp the situation at hand. She should probably figure out where she was and if the person who “saved’ her was also here. But when she did, how would she react to them? Thank them for her life? Beat them bloody for daring to interfere, for making her escape a thousand times worse?

Soon enough the wave of clarity passed, and she couldn't be bothered to deal with the questions posed. They were problems that required moving, and she never wanted to get up from her new resting place.

So she remained there. Back to wood in the darkness.

***

It didn't take long past daybreak for him to realize she was conscious again. He knocked, several times, greeted by only silence before attempting to slip inside. Bread in one hand, a lantern in the other, and a bottle under his arm, he quietly closed the door before turning around and nearly dropping everything with a frightened squeak.

He had expected her to be asleep, perhaps even nervously huddled in a corner from sea sickness or anxiety. What he hadn't expected was for the girl -- woman? -- to be laying on the floor, eerily calm as she steadied her unreadable gaze towards him in the dim light.

Pulling himself together with a trademarked smile he prayed. Please, let it be that she didn't hear that squeak or see my nerves. Because it certainly seemed that her steely eyes were trying to reach into his soul for… something. Maybe information?

Well, information he could give.

***

“Hello, my name is Keynan,” the figure offered, managing to recover enough from their initial fumble to gently place their items on the ground as they sat down to be closer to her level. The words were spoken so softly Xorynth couldn't help but wonder if they were afraid of breaking her.

She simply blinked in reply. It was them. The one who stopped a spear from piercing her heart. The one who forced her hand. The one who took her to this room to face her demons alone.

The bittersweet irony of the situation did not escape her. This Keynan seemed afraid to break her, when in reality it took all her years of patience training not to levy a killing strike to their throat at any moment. Logically, she knew she did what it took to leave the island alive. Reasonably, she also knew that she plunged the dagger into her partner's heart, not Keynan. The demons in her mind had been keen to remind her of those facts since she awoke.

But emotionally? She was irrationally angry at this stanger. Unhinged grief, sorrow, and anger had taken turns over the hours trying to beat her heart until it stopped. Swords had left scars, teachers had left bruises and broken bones, and even Rhaina - oh elders passed on high, Rhaina - had made her bleed with searing, hot white pain. Yet, none of those experiences were as excruciating as the phantom feeling currently tearing Xorynth apart. She felt the pain in the same spot where a metal spearhead should have been, where a polished wood pole, marked by a single purple ribbon tied above the handle, should be protruding from her chest..

She wanted to fight back against her grief. To scream at an invisible enemy and rip their last breath from their chest. There was nothing Xorynth wanted more than a physical manifestation - a scapegoat - to take her anger out on.

Despite the urges, the monk schooled her visage into the embodiment of cold. Her body still frozen to its resting place. This stranger, who she had yet to decide if she owed or was owed by, would not be submitted to her inner plots. Not yet. Instead she would remain here until she was ready for whatever was beyond that door. Once she quelled the storm inside she could learn more. Then she would decide if Keynan was worthy of her wrath.

***

She hadn't spoken that night.

Keynan introduced himself, hoping to gauge her reaction to him. Does she remember? She probably does, right? He tried detecting any trace of fear in those silver eyes, at the same time noting the left was both silver and hazel. That was all he got, however, from her piercing gaze. If he could just get to talk…

“May I ask what your name is?”

Silence. Fair enough.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, wondering if his voice was soft enough. “The journey off island was difficult, I'm sure you're famished.”

She didn't even glance at the bread he held out, let alone reach for it.

“Ah, of course. Silly me. You can’t eat with a dry mouth. Something to drink?” He tried again, replacing the food in his hand with the glass container of water.

Her reaction remained the same. She simply stared back: serene and guarded. Occasionally she would blink owlishly, something Keynan would have found humorous if the tense atmosphere wasn't thick enough to cut with his sword.

Nothing he said, no matter how much he turned on the charm, compelled her to react. Neither her body or mouth moved. Most concerning of all, her stare never faltered.

“If you're tired I can leave you to rest further. I don't fault you for not wanting to talk or eat. You've been through more than anyone should.” Keynan paused, hoping for a small glimpse of any emotion. But her stoic face and silence drew on.

After it became evident she wasn't going to answer, he continued with every ounce of sincerity he had. “The captain told the crew to treat you like a guest. I intend to see that order through and more, just so you know. Anything you need, I will do my best to give.”

With that he stood up, gave a farewell bow and left her to her own devices. For now.

***

Over the next two days, the pair settled into their pattern.

Xorynth would wallow and seeth and plan and meditate - all without moving. It took all of her concentration not to drown in the weight of her actions and all of her energy to remain in a facade of calm. If she had any water or food to relieve herself of, she wasn't sure she would have been able to get up.

Every few hours Keynan would come back with food and water. Each visit brought gentle attempts at conversation that always ended in one-sided sharing. However, by the third try the first day she wasn't sure if the words were to soothe him or her.

She assumed Keynan identified as him by this point, anyways. When she faded in and out of consciousness, Xorynth periodically heard the other sailors talk about the weather or each other. Surprisingly her visitor was a common conversation topic. She heard rumors that he never slept, that he had saved dozens from burning ships, and even one that he could glow bright gold, blinding his enemies in battle.

The monk almost rolled her eyes at the thought. Slinking in the shadows was one thing. Glowing? She wasn't a fool.

Still, the superfluous talk helped distract her from her plight. There had been no time or mercy for distractions in her past life. Now she was clinging to any and all whispers in the dark like a lifeline. But they weren’t enough to drown out the voice in her mind. She needed more to keep her busy, to prevent the plunge into pure self-deprecation long enough to think through her next steps.

So at the end of the second day she decided to actually look at Keynan when he arrived, instead of staring emptily at him. This visit would be about information, not intimidation. She was level headed enough to let her guard down for just a few moments of observation. It is just a basic perception exercise. You’ve done this hundreds of times. Yes, she could perform this simple task.

Finally convinced to follow through with her plan, she let her eyes wander, hardly straining with her darkvision despite the familiar low-orange light.

He had a lot of features she simply hadn't registered in their escape. First she noted his height. He was likely a few inches taller than her, which she was surprised by. The few humans she had known at the monastery were all shorter, though perhaps a faulty sample size. Being lower to the ground was an advantage in the acrobatic fighting styles they trained in.

Next, his skin. Judging by what little she saw illuminated in orange, aside from a few pale scars that peaked from the collar of his shirt, he was darker than her. Also something she was not used to. Wherever the new recruits came from, it didn't seem to be from wherever her ancestors did. She had been considered dark for their lot, although it had never been a problem. In fact, her brown tones made it easier to blend into the darkness, earning her favor early on. Now on a ship probably leagues away, Xorynth couldn't help but feel emptiness in the pointless praise she once held dear.

His hair was also dark, coiled neatly into locs that ran past his shoulders. He seemed to take care of it well, and the thought of him spending time to manicure them stood in contrast to both his simple clothes and the opinions she hadn't fully formed around his character. She assumed he worked hard, perhaps a favored shiphand based on the rumors and his freedom to make time for these visits. But making snap judgments was a dangerous path. Who was she to say whether this man was selfless or shallow? Rhaina had more ferocity and work ethic than Xorynth had known possible, and she liked to spend hours playing with both her own hair and Xorynth's curls.

The thought made her blood grow cold. Rhaina is dead. There would be no more secret morning rendez-vous just to play with hair. Gone. No more stolen moments to feel like normal girls for at least a precious few minutes. Because you killed her.

Xorynth had nothing left. Where would she go? The orphanage wasn’t an option; she was almost of age and she would rather die than risk falling into their incapable, corrupt hands again. If she stepped foot on the island again the Elders would have her blood or make her pay for her insubordination in some worse way. The only home she ever had was Rhaina. Reliving the realization that her home and partner were gone hit sharply in her abdomen. So sharp that Xorynth couldn’t handle the pain and finally moved.

Curling in on herself, she turned her back to Keynan. Perhaps if she didn't look, she wouldn't have to acknowledge anything outside of the darkness of this room and the dryness in her mouth.

***

Why?

Keynan could only pace outside of the now closed door to the girl's room as he tried to wrap his head around what had just happened.

For a moment it seemed like she was sizing him up. Quiet still, yes, but her normally cold eyes had melted into curiosity. He dared let a sliver of hope grow while he let her. Maybe she was finally warming up to him, he had thought. Getting her to eat and drink and stay alive could work. If she reached to meet Keynan just one step closer to halfway…

But fate had other ideas. Soon enough her curiosity died, replaced by a brief flash of pain so quick Keynan might have imagined it. Just like that her back was to him, closing herself off from him so assertively she chilled the room. Somehow the gap between them had grown farther apart than when he had started.

After all the attempts to make her feel welcome -- sharing what he could about the ship she was on, bringing her food (even if she rejected it), and giving her quiet company -- he had managed to do the opposite. His stomach sank.

Why is she so closed off?

Obviously, Keynan was missing something. All the visions of child slaves in the world couldn't tell him the whole story of this one girl's life. Which meant he had to work with what he knew. Alright, go over the facts.

Fact one: if his visions were time accurate she had to have been on the island for approximately 10 years. So there were a decade’s worth of memories, training, and potential horrors he didn't know about. Keynan frowned. He needed to be careful about what assumptions he made going forward.

Fact two: she had been trying to escape, seemingly on her own. When he stumbled onto the scene of her yelling at another monk, he had only caught snippets of the disagreement. The gist he got implied the red haired one currently on board had been trying to convince the other to join her “to escape from His control”. The plea seemed to fall on deaf ears. Keynan couldn't be sure whose “control” she was referring to, but he guessed it was one of the traffickers.

Fact three: the brown hair monk had tried to kill the other. That's when Keynan got involved. At first he had parried the blow, saving her from a lethally aimed spear. But he left himself open in checking to see if she was okay, and she had to turn around and save him. The spear wielder crumpled to the ground as Keynan watched the young half elf take a dagger out of their assailant’s chest. Keynan cringed at the memory. Despite a lifetime’s experience he had let his guard down. Perhaps she thought ill of him for his mistake? He tucked away the idea for later.

Fact four: she remained graceful on her feet after the fight, but her whole body was shaking as they maneuvered their way to his hidden boat. And she didn't stop until she was long into her fitful sleep. That night he wondered if the brown haired girl had been her first kill. She seemed fairly young after all The action seemed to come naturally, however, so maybe there was a different reason for her frightened reaction. Perhaps the more important question was who were the two monks to each other?

Keynan needed to reflect on this information, and quickly. The captain was gracious enough to pardon Keynan for getting involved on a simple reconnaissance mission and take in a survivor without questioning. But that patience would only last so long. She would have to do her part to gain trust and keep this ship afloat if she was going to stay. More urgently, if he couldn't get her to accept sustenance soon she was as good as dead even off the island.

***

On the third day he didn't come. Xorynth knew the moment the first replacement knocked -- two loud thumps compared to the soft pattern he used.

Apparently her outburst yesterday had cost her valuable time to learn more from Keynan. Even if he avoided speaking about himself and the circumstances of her “rescue”, every session carried important kernels of information on the ship and the outside world. For instance, knew she was on the second floor below deck, and outside her door lay the food storage, drink cellar, holding cells, weapon rooms, and the anchors. Upstairs were the living quarters, mess hall, and captain’s office. She also knew that the ship’s crew were contractors for hire, who take missions that aligned with their “cause”: defeat local pirates, smugglers, and thieves on the water in exchange for money and reputation. But she hadn’t heard anything about their current contract or why they had been at her island. Why Keynan had been there.

She sighed. The pirate seemed genuine, but Xorynth couldn’t take anything at face value. She thought her Elders, hard as they had been, genuinely cared for their charges. She had been wrong. She needed to figure out if Keynan was really friend or foe. But when the first knock of the day arrived, she got a sinking feeling that the opportunity had fallen out of her reach.

Instead of his overly positive attitude and gentle mannerisms, someone else came through the door. The figure was a short and lean gnome with pale skin and red hair, carrying the usual lantern, food, and water. Unlike him, they silently accepted her lack of acknowledgment. Whether they were too respectful or nervous or indifferent to introduce themselves, she didn’t know. They simply shrugged off her cold stare and left the items on the ground before closing the door once again.

After having a soothing voice to listen to so frequently, the long stretch of silence settling in filled Xorynth with dread. Soon enough her mind would turn against her. Don’t let the voices back in. Please, no.

Squeezing her eyes in concentration, the monk strained to hear the whispers from the outside, hoping to hear anything, even a weather report.

Boots shuffled. Wood planks creaked. Crates slid, creating soft crashed. For what felt like an eternity, the closest thing to company were rare, indistinguishable murmurs. Then she finally got lucky. A gruff voice carried down the hall just loudly enough for her to pick up the middle of a conversation.

“... about the girl?”

A second voice replied, slightly higher in pitch but too soft to hear clearly.

“Apparently she hasn’t spoken a word or lifted a finger, yet.” A pause. “Waste of rations in my opinion. We be carrying a bad omen on board, an fer what?”

Their companion murmured again, frustratingly too quiet again.

“Did you not hear? Got silver eyes, she does. An’ different shades. It’s like we’re asking for a tempest. Stranger still, I hear she has those old Eladrin markings ‘round her eyes and hair like burning coal.” The gruff voice waited again.

“If you don’ believe me ask Cain yerself! Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if she were a spy from you-know-who,” they exclaimed conspiratorially.

“Kyrin, not everyone is a spy,” someone else calmly replied.

“Until you get proof, I’ll be suspicious all I want,” Kyrin muttured.

“Given where we found her, she probably just needed time. She’ll earn her keep soon enough.”

Xorynth’s stomach sank, ever so slightly, while she waited for the next damning words. Useless. Burden. Failure. Her mind filled in the gaps, but the words never came -- only the heavy fall of boots reached her ears.

She was used to ignoring rumors; the gossip itself didn’t bother her. But hearing angry mutterings while at the mercy of an entire ship of strangers? With no real context for an escape route, the words made her feel trapped. Who knew how many others felt the same way as Kyrin? Just because some of the crew didn’t mind keeping dead weight on board for now, didn’t mean they would lift a finger if the Captain suddenly decided to change their mind about her current “guest” status.

She was running out of time.

Your time is already up. Without her, without them? You have no future.

Xorynth gritted her teeth, doubling over as the phantom pain returned with a vengeance. She gasped, struggling to breathe. No, no, no! She needed to clear her head, she needed a moment to think. To breathe.

There's no point. You have nothing. All you can do is hide in the shadows. Hide, hide, hide…

As the darkness took her again, she had one thought: Maybe it's right.

***

“You want my advice?”

The ebony skinned woman sitting across from Keynan posed her question without looking from the small wooden bird beginning taking form in her hands.

“Yes?” He returned the question with his own and a charming smile to boot, hoping she could see it in her periphery.

Keynan had spent most of the day in thought while going about his ship work. What was the best way to make a secluded victim feel ready to ease into the outside world? Keynan had helped countless others in his lifetime, including slave rings and indoctrinated children, but this particular situation was different. Messier. Over the course of the day rational thought and prayers blurred into an unintelligible headache that could only be cured by taking to another person. And who better than his only friend on the crew to have a similar disposition to the monk?

Lucia sighed, staring down the figurine in her hand. Keynan had explained the situation so far, including what he knew from the mission. After a few moments in thought she set the dagger and bird down on the table to focus on her companion. “What’s your goal?”

“Primarily for her not to starve or dehydrate.”

“A wise idea. And after that?”

“To learn her name.”

“And after that?”

Keynan scratched his head. “Well, I was she would want a tour of the ship. That stuffy room isn’t good for anyone after more than a day.”

Another sigh escaped the woman. “Long term Keynan.”

Placing his elbows on the table, Keynan laced his finger together and used them to support his chin. “I spoke with Captain Taffrin about her condition today. They were… frustrated and concerned to say the least. If I can’t get her to a stable condition and working for her keep soon, Captain is afraid of unrest. I managed to convince them to give me another day, and a promise that if she proves capable, a place onboard.”

Lucia raised an eyebrow. The gesture was simple, almost vague, but Keynan knew her well enough to understand the implied question.

“Only if that’s what she wants, of course!” Keynan raised his hands in surrender. “Otherwise we can take her to the nearest port and set her up for a week or so. But I can’t imagine just leaving her there. After all she was victim too I’d like t--”

The woman interrupted, raising a hand. “Stop right there.”

“Wait, wh--”

“Shh.” Lucia waited for Keynan’s confused noises to cease before continuing. “That is your problem.”

It was Keynan’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“She isn’t simply a victim who needs saving. She has most likely experienced trauma, yes, but that is not what defines her. As long as you have boxed her as a victim, you will not be able to help her climb out of whatever slump she is in.” Lucia picked up her wooden bird and made a few key carving strokes. “She is a survivor. Perhaps, she needs a reminder of that.”

Keynan stared at the finished bird statue his companion set on the table between them as he mulled over her advice. The statuette depicted a great-horned owl, which Keynan vaguely recalled as a night time predator. Though it live in darkness, it may thrive. Hmmm.

A signature smile slowly grew on Keynan’s face. With a jolt of newly found optimism, he reached over to grab her face in his hands and placed a speedy kiss on her forehead.

“You are truly shining blessing my dear, dear friend!” He called out as he skipped from the table.

If he had bothered looking behind him, he would have seen Lucia shake her head knowingly at his familiar antics, a small smirk on her lips.

***

Dark. Twigs snapping. Panting. Foot steps.

She was running. Every muscle burned, but she couldn’t stop. They knew she had left. They were following. She had to keep going, to push through her bodies’ screaming.

Leaves rustling. Another twig, snapped. Sweat. Salt in her mouth.

Faster, or they’ll catch you. Faster or you’re dead. Faster, faster, fasterfasterfaster--

Whoosh.

Time slows to a crawl. Out of the corner of your right eye you watch a spear barely miss your ear. Silver eyes register purple ribbon.

She’s here.

Skid to a stop. Grasp the spear free from bark. Turn. Search for the familiar.

The face you find has her features, but not her eyes. Close them, it’ll go away. Shut it out, shut it out shutitoutshutitout shut--

Open. Panting, once more. Foot step. But not just yours.

They’re running, too. This connected body. Arms linking, shoulders supporting.

Together you run and run and run.

“Don’t give up.”

Warm voice. Who said that?

“Don’t. Give. Up.”

The burning is intense. It would be so easy to collapse, to rest…

“If you give up you lose. Trapped for eternity. Do you want your freedom or NOT?”

The voice booms like thunder.

Freedom. Sweet on your tongue. Heat turns to cold. Feet heavy, yet light.

Freedom. You choose freedom.

Suddenly, salt water. It crashes over, fills every pore. But you take a shaky breath. Air fills your lungs.

Dark. Peace. Finally.

***

Xorynth woke from the dream in a cold sweat. Most of the imagery faded instantly, but the swirl of emotions -- the fear, then confusion, followed by helplessness, and finally peace -- stayed and sat in her belly. She let herself cycle through them one at a time, again and again.

Freedom. Sweet on your tongue. She could almost taste it for a brief moment.

The half elf frowned. Was her freedom not what she wanted? What she craved and risked everything for? Why was she trapping herself in a desolate room after such sacrifice? She would not get to take this second chance at life if she withered away in the bottom of a ship.

For this first time in days, she sat up, fighting through the painful twinges of moving. It was a logical train of thought, a life line her mind began to wrap around. To get her freedom she simply needed to take control.

As soon as she thought the words, the voice inside chuckled, dangerously low. She realized now, almost like the dream had jogged her memory, that the voice reminded her of Elder Ru: patronizing and deep. Control? What control do you have? You have yet to properly taste freedom, and already it paralyzes you. The one thing you loved you destroyed.

NO! she tried to scream, but instead sharp pain erupting in her throat, taking the sound away.

You are a fool! A slave! A child! It taunted.

Closing her eyes as tightly as possible, Xorynth fought to clear her head. To meditate on the wood beneath her, the salt and sweet of her dream, on dreams of freedom. It was an uphill battle. The berating voice just had so much power. Only a few seconds into battle felt like an eternity at war.

You will never be free. You were groomed better than that.

No! No… she felt her fire dimming.

Submit to your fate. Accept your failure

I am tired...

Then stop wasting your energy. Rest. Submit.

Suddenly it felt so easy to submit to the storm. To the anger and fear and exhaustion. Why had she ever thought freedom would be attainable?

Knock-knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound of the familiar knock pulled Xorynth roughly out of her trance. Keynan was back. She felt like that was significant. Like she was supposed to remember something, but it escapes her, just out of reach. It takes all of her remaining energy to stay upright, eyes and ears open, though faced away from him. So she ignores the feeling of forgetting.

She heard glass and clay touch wood. Her stomach knotted and throat throbbed, in response. No, I -- I don’t deserve it.

He doesn’t speak right away. A true silence falls over the room for once, and she realizes that they’ve both held their breath.

“I do not pity you.”

Involuntarily, her back tenses. She doesn’t understand. What does he mean?

“A good friend reminded me today that pity isn’t always empathy. Sometimes it is a reflex that shackles those it means to help. So I do not pity you.” He sighs.

She remains silent, struggling to process his words with the fog of the voice and her dream heavy over her consciousness. But she keeps trying.

“We do not know each other yet. I can tell you need to grieve. By escaping captivity you’ve gained much, but I would be a fool not to acknowledge that you may have lost something else worth one hundred fold. You deserve to take as much time as you need to process this new life.”

He has no idea how much I have lost, she thought bitterly.

“But the woman I escaped that island with was strong and determined to reach freedom.” With every word his tone was shifting. The gentle lilt she was now accustomed to hearing took an assertive and passionate turn. “Though she shook with pain, she ran. Despite fear, she did not stumble. She was not a simple victim. She was a survivor. You are a survivor. Would she truly allow herself to starve, caged in this room?”

It was like he had dumped water over her head. The shock of his words rushed through her system, clearing the fog. Banishing the voice. She could finally take stock of the pieces her life had become.

Despite the fragments, she had survived. Despite all odds and every circumstance she. had. survived. For the first time since waking on this ship she allowed indignance to take over. Memories of every lashing, every night without sleep, every physical punishment, every mental test rushed through her mind’s eye. She had survived. Despite abuse and torture and an assassination attempt: she had survived.

So lost in her reverie, Xorynth almost missed what Keynan said next.

“I refuse to pity you, survivor. Lie there all you want, but know that every time I leave those doors I will come back until you decide to function again and earn your keep.” He paused, and the no doubt intentional dramatic effect creating enough tension to brandish the next sentence in her brain. “I am not giving up on you.”

It was too early for promises, but Xorynth pondered the significance of the offer nonetheless. If she could manage to not give up on herself, perhaps that would be enough. With enough time, maybe she could put the pieces back together and slowly learn to function in this new world.

Maybe it was time.

***

The man shook his head in disappointment, dreads gently swaying from the momentum. The deafening silence in the room, after all he had said, ached more than it had before. Standing in front of the door he couldn’t help but feel the disappointment spread, creeping up his neck. He had sincerely expected that speech to work. He reached for the door handle, plans already swimming in his mind. Perhaps tonight I ca-

“Xorynth,” rasped a mysterious voice.

Keynan’s hand hovered above the knob. Had she just--

Like lightning he spun around to face her again, taking in the scene before him.

Instead of facing the opposite wall, she now faced him in a meditation pose. Her legs bent at the knees and she held the flats of her feet together, making a shape of a butterfly. One hand was still, palm down her right knee, while the other held the bottle of water she was chugging in a surprisingly graceful manner.

He closed his dropped jaw and and simply stared, unsure how to react. Eventually, she finished drinking and placed the bottle gently by her side before boring her eyes into his in a now familiar fashion. Silver searching gold. But this time it was warmer, dare he say more relaxed.

Keynan didn’t dare breathe in fear that whatever this breakthrough was would end as abruptly as their last encounter.

Apparently, it was his lucky day.

Whatever thoughts she was processing ran their course, and whatever she was searching for in him she seemed to find. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed in the way one does when a burden is relieved. It was as if she had been single handedly holding a ship on her shoulders and just now let it fall. Or was it resignation? Keynan couldn’t be sure, but in that moment of vulnerability he swore to himself he would learn to tell the difference in her nuanced expressions with time.

Keynan only had a moment to be shocked at how strong his emotions were to invoke such a promise when her voice rose again. A murmur much smoother than the dry scratch from earlier carried across the room:

“My name is Xorynth Nailo.”

#Enigma Emblem Chronicles #EEC #my writing #my ocs #Xorynth Nailo #Keynan #Lucia

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lordrethandus · 6 years

Text

The Wayward Son Pt 4

On the third day in the final hours of the dwindling sunlight, they waited. Sir Sorlu and his platoon of armored guards stood silent and ready before the steady hum of the arcane prison, accompanied by several towering constructs for added measure; but they have waited all day, and despite their strict discipline, they were beginning to grow restless.

The Red Raven circled overhead, still bathed in the orange sunset while the Amber Glade beneath them was shrouded in the great shadow of Azeroth. Miriam swirled a glass of wine in her hand while she glared impatiently down at the scene through the observation window.

“We agreed to three days.” She started with an irritated huff. “Did he need more time?”

“I’m so sorry this is taking so long.” Syrahn gave Lady Kaevia a warm but nervous smile. “I should have planned this out better. In fact, we should have tried this months ago.”

“Better late than never at all.” Kaevia did her best to smile, but it wasn’t easy; this was the first she’d heard of her father in months. Many believed he was dead. She was ready to accept the fact that he was gone, yet now she had to struggle with those emotions all over again. Viridias ignored Miriam and her whining, instead choosing to keep Lady Covaya Sun’rael distracted from what surely was a trying time in her life. She seemed relaxed enough when they talked about their sons, Arden and Taen.

“Well I’m not prepared to sit here and wait all night.” Miriam sneered, turning her back to the observation window. “Two more hours and I’ll need something stronger than this swill to-”

“What… oh Gods!” Syrahn cut her sister off mid sentence and sprung to her feet. A bright flash of light flickered in the distance. “What is that? At the south entrance?!”

Covaya slowly rose to her feet and approached the window in silence. With the distant flames came a presence she hadn’t felt in months; the soft glow was unmistakable. The Lady of War pressed her hand against the glass as she fought back the swelling frustration and eagerness in the back of her throat. “Syrahn.” She spoke in a low whisper, but Syrahn heard her well enough. “Take me to my husband.”

A roaring pillar of blistering flame erupted at one of the side entrances of the Amber Glade. The guards were sent into a hysterical frenzy as they scrambled away from their posts to mobilize a sizeable defense; the alarms howled in the air over the shouting and cursing, catching the attention of the gatekeeper. The handful of defenders on the scene clutched their blessed weapons tightly, fearing the Burning Legion had come to lay waste to their secluded home at last. As reinforcements hurried out of breath to rally to their defense, they formed a phalanx against the impending onslaught of demons, but something wasn’t adding up.

Whitstan had escorted his beloved to the Glade hoping that some semblance of peace would be established; If not for the sake of the woman he held dear, for the sake of his child. The man slashed angrily at the earth before him showering the immediate vicinity with dirt and sand. He lifted his sword as its tip tore from the root and twine of the surface. The smell of the freshly unearthed soil permeated throughout his vicinity. Whitstan had hoped for a friendly and peaceful visit. He had been mistaken. He fell to a knee as if offering penance to some deity, yet he maintained his composure. “Grant me the strength needed to trudge through this trial.” the Knight pleaded. “Gods, angels, demons, beasts or… men… give me the strength to cut through all those would harm those I care for.” With that prayer, he took to his feet and brandished his blade. His faithful undead horse was summoned at his side with a mere stroke of his gauntlet. As he pulled himself onto the saddle, Whitstan turned to the pillar of smoke on the horizon, and began his approach at full gallop.

A figure stood in the blinding smoke of the ruined portcullis, alone and armed with only a radiating gladius and a large gilded shield. Confident it was some sort of fanatic instead of a demonic invasion, the guards broke formation and charged into the smoke to subdue this trespasser to bring him to justice. Yet the stranger moved like a demon all the same, seemingly unencumbered by the thick plate that covered him head to toe and undeterred by the smoke that surely blinded him. The stranger’s shield tasted teeth and blood, and one by one the guards were knocked unconscious with broken bones and shattered faces. The gatekeeper arrived on his hawkstrider at last, raising his hand and barking something incomprehensible to order his men still on their feet to retreat and regroup.

“Surround this intruder and wait for my-” The gatekeeper made the mistake of taking his eyes off the assailant for a moment too long. When he looked back the stranger was upon them with the familiar hum of Holy Magic coursing along his open palm. The unwary elf was snatched off his bird like a misbehaving child, lifted over the intruder’s shoulder and slammed face-first into the ground. Another explosion of searing flame expanded from his body, sending the other guards airborne and unconscious. The gatekeeper was incapacitated but still somewhat aware of his surroundings. All he could hear was the hissing of flame crackling along the ground, the faint wail of the Amber Glade sirens, and low, labored breathing; instead of finishing him off, the stranger decided to press forward. With the defense force completely overwhelmed, the southwestern gate was left in ruin, exposed, and compromised.

One at a time, soldiers were introduced to the ground. Whether they ended up on their knees, stomachs or faces, they all met the same fate; defeated by an overwhelming force but allowed the sanctity of their own lives. Nothing seemed to deter the stranger rampaging through the entrance of the Amber Glade. “... Syrahn…” the man uttered as his eyes burned with an unstable holy flame, finally facing one of the men who had fallen before him. “Where is she?”

The guard weakly looked up at him through his dented helmet; blood rushed from his nose and mouth, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Lady… Bloodfeather…?” He winced, struggling to sit upright. “Uuugh… go to hell. And take... your b-bloodlust… with you…”

“Bloodlust?” the strange assailant asked incredulously, “Bloodlust…? No. This isn’t bloodlust. This is justice.” A quick jerk introduced the guard’s helmet to the attacker’s own faceguard with full force. The man went limp in his grip as he allowed him to fall to the ground. Reinvigorated with the man’s reluctance and his own sense of justice, he stepped deeper into the territory of the Glade. In the distance stood the Amber Castle, a place he’d heard of before yet never seen himself; it was the largest and brightest building in the Glade, and most importantly, the best guarded.

The second line of defense remained hidden in the sparse trees, concealed in the darkness of the growing night. Archers let loose a flurry of arrows at their target in hopes of turning him into a pin cushion. A raised shield released a blinding reflection as he summoned an Aegis of Light around him while the man dashed forward. The arrows either found themselves a mere moment behind the location of their intended target or deflected altogether. A goal was in mind and the unrelenting force wasn’t going to stop before he reached it. The archers turned to fall back to the inner walls, clearly intimidated by the single man who managed to cut through the outer defenses effortlessly. The guards standing watch along the innermost defenses were much older and less swayed by this stranger’s actions, gripping their weathered blades with stalwart determination; five veterans dropped over the heavy iron gate and cautiously strode toward him, keeping their shields and swords handy.

“Trespasser! You have spilled blood on these sacred grounds, and now stand before Sorlu Bladefathom! What is it you want, intruder? Speak!” The grizzled old man shouted, slamming his lance against his shield.

“Syrahn.” he responded curtly without losing momentum. He still made his way toward the opponents in front of him, showing no sign of hesitance while he pressed forward. Eventually his feet slowed to a stop as he regarded the guardians before him. “Truth, and justice.” the Paladin responded. “That is what I want… And none of you can give me the solace I seek. You’re all only obstacles to what needs to be done. Move aside, or be purged by the Light. I won’t warn you again.”

Sorlu shrugged with a welcoming demeanor, and with a wave of his lance the others slowly retreated back to the gate to give them some room. “Being your obstacle is our job. If you seek audience with our Lady, I’m afraid you’re too late for today. She’s sleeping in these early hours… and she will not be disturbed.” The moment the guardian finished speaking a heavy shield was launched to his location. He raised his own in kind but vanished in the explosion of Holy Magic, rocking the nearby trees and sending a handful of the guards along the wall to their knees.

“I told you, I won’t warn you again.” the stranger responded grimly with an iron grip on his gladius.

“Then die on your feet with that sword in your hand!” The old man roared, standing up straight again while he let his dented shield fall useless to the ground beside him. The stranger dashed forward in a flurry of attacks and parries that lit up the night sky with the sparks from his tenacious onslaught. His lance shattered in half from a brutal overhead swing, forcing him to discard it with a curse beneath his breath. His curved khopesh came up in a flash, reaching around the intruder’s shield and biting into his shoulder.

The blade dug deeper into his flesh as he forced himself closer to his opponent without pause. Eyes burning brightly with a teal hue burned into the old man along with a stern visage consumed by tenacity, “You won’t defeat me. You don’t have the strength.” They held each other’s wrists tightly, preventing any more swings of their weapons; but the guard was trembling, and he wouldn’t be able to keep this up for much longer.

The old man coughed with a sly smile spread across his lips, but he couldn’t hide the forceful strain in his voice. “I'm not trying to defeat you.” What sounded like a roaring applause arose from behind the old knight; crested helms beyond counting shuffled toward the edge of the wall, wielding crossbows and rifles. Another surge of troops poured out of the portcullis like a golden wave of armor and shields; before long they were surrounded by the full might of the Amber Glade. “You've lost.” Sorlu continued, keeping his weary eyes fixed on Alucieus. “But it's not too late to surrender. Lay down your weapon… we can.... help you.” One of the guards at the edge of Alucieus’ vision began pacing back and forth.

“Father…!” He coughed out, causing Sorlu’s face to grimace.

“Stay back, boy!” The old man sounded more strained and exhausted by each passing moment. The gentle whistling of a portal echoed over the countless helmets of the Amber Glade’s might, revealing five elven women now standing on the edge of reinforced wall.

“Alucieus?!” Syrahn shouted out before covering her mouth. She wasn’t prepared to see him in such decrepit state; black circles hung under his sunken eyes, and it looked like he hadn't eaten since Dalaran. “Alucieus stop!”

“Stay back all of you…!” Sorlu forcefully grunted. “He must make... this… choice… him… self…!”

“Stand down, Justicar!” Miriam shouted with a commanding voice. “Don't do anything you'll regret!” Lord Augustus Sun’rael stepped into Alucieus’ line of sight behind the venerable elf. He said not a word, for the disapproving glare was more than enough to get his message across; being bested by an elf that was doomed to die sooner than later was a price Alucieus was not willing to pay. Sorlu saw the flash of fel corruption behind his eyes; it was still a foreign concept to him, but he knew madness when it stared him in the face. Out of options and out of time, Sorlu popped a serrated blade out of his knee and he brought it up as hard as he could, hoping to bury it into his opponent’s stomach. If defeating him was out of the question, gravely wounding him for safe capture was his best bet.

The Paladin released his grip on his enemy’s wrist, instead opting to drop his shield and grasp at the blade digging into his flesh. He instinctively swung his head backward to protect his vital functions, the helm dropping from his crown while he attempted to dodge the attack. Still, the unexpected weapon found itself lodged in its target’s stomach. A worn and weathered visage seemed to meet the old man, eyes laden with hatred as he felt the blade pierce his torso.

“I already told you… you won’t stop me.” the man coughed out with blood escaping his lips. He flipped the blade within his hand to shift from a slashing motion, to a stabbing one; he brought the tip of the gladius closer to the older man’s chest while it was resisted with all his strength. In an instant the old man’s strength failed him for the first time, for the last time. The blade punched through his chainmail and cut through flesh and bone, forcing a weak gasp from his dry lips.

“Nooo!” One of the guardsmen shrieked, stumbling forward until he collapsed on his hands and knees.

“Thank you… for your countless years of service… but your skills are no longer needed now...” a raspy voice whispered those final words to the gentleman, while simultaneously burying the blade deeper into his body. Sorlu stared into his eyes for one silent second before his legs gave out beneath him, causing the guard to collapse into a tangled heap of his armor and cloak.

“Now… it’s time to have a chat with my young and foolish friend, Syrahn.” Alucieus violently tore the sword from the man’s chest. “She owes me some answers. You served her well. Rest.”

“Alucieus!” the all-too familiar voice called above the roaring flames behind him; when his fel-scarred scowl rose to the wall, the maddening whispers of his surrounding ancestors became deafening. The other faces around her melted and blended together, forcing his burning eyes to focus on Syrahn as she glared down at him with nauseating fear. Her lips moved but he could barely hear her voice.

“Behold.” Augustus hissed with malice dripping from his lips. “The fruits of her treason have blossomed; she has turned your wife and daughter against you.” Seeing Covaya again after so long, only to be standing beside the enemy, encumbered Alucieus with a weight he had never known. He threatened to collapse to his knees, but the smoldering fire searing the inside of his head would not allow him to relent; what little reprieve he experienced seeing his wife and daughter was short lived, replaced with an irresistible urge for violence.

“What… happened to you…?!” Syrahn’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard against his ears; every moment that passed with breath in her lungs was an affront to everything he stood for.

Miriam wasn’t willing to stand around and wait for an answer. “With Sorlu’s death, Alucieus’ life is forfeit!” She commanded, raising one of her hands. “Prepare to fire on my command!”

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on him!” Covaya snapped out of her dreadful stupor at the threat on Alucieus’ safety. “Syrahn the fel corruption is compelling him! He’s innocent!”

“Belay that order!” Syrahn commanded, shooting a feral glare at her older sister before returning her gaze to Alucieus. “Alu… please! Lay down your weapon and turn yourself in! This isn’t you!”

A cruel grin unbecoming of Alucieus spread across his face. “Areus said those very words too, once. No… if I’m dying, it’s on my feet with my sword in my hand.” Kaevia flinched, staring down at her father with bewilderment. “What has he done to Uncle…? What is happening?”

“To hell with this.” Miriam hissed, glancing around at the crossbowmen at her command. “Sorlu is dead. The law is clear, this man must die for what he’s done!” Just before Syrahn, Viridias, and Covaya could interject, the crumbled heap of cloak and armor at Alucieus’ feet sputtered and twitched. Sir Sorlu coughed up a lungful of blood, and he was turning blue in the face with his chest cavity filling.

The Priestess wasted no time leaping off the side of the wall, and with a small whispered incantation she landed harmlessly in the grass with a gentle plop of her feet. “Alucieus…” she called out, fearful of the bloodsoaked gladius still firmly in his grip. “Let me save him. Please…! If he dies…!” Kaevia moved to join her former mentor, but her mother grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her back to her side. Covaya watched Alucieus like a hawk, studying his erratic twitches and the subtle shifting of his feet, yet she remained completely silent.

“Lower your weapons!” Miriam shouted, glaring hatefully down at the High Justicar. “I said lower your weapons! If any of you hit your commander I’ll kill you myself!”

“Our moment of triumph is upon us.” Alucieus’ father whispered in his ear, compelling him to take a step back as a token of goodwill. Syrahn drew closer with every second despite her sister’s warnings, keeping her eyes fixated on the bloodied gladius still in his grasp. The Holy Light fluttered from her fingertips the moment she was upon Sorlu. The fel corruption searing Alucieus’ mind flared the instant she took her eyes off him, compelling the High Justicar to act.

“Syrahn!” Viridias shouted at the top of her lungs at the sight of him lunging at her youngest sister. His injuries against Sir Sorlu belied his punishing strength, completely catching Syrahn off guard when her eyes snapped back up to his outstretched hand; instead of cutting her down with a single strike of his heavy blade as Miriam, Covaya, and Kaevia feared, he snatched her by the arm and yanked her to her feet.

“Order your men to lay down their weapons and retreat back through their portals!” Alucieus commanded, pressing his gladius beneath Syrahn’s chin. “Or I'll bleed her like livestock!” Syrahn remained silent while she struggled to breathe with such a sharp edge so close to her throat, as Miriam froze in place, glaring down at Alucieus with a hateful fear she had rarely known. “I will not tell you again!”

“Do as he says…!” Syrahn fearfully stared at Miriam, Covaya and Kaevia when she managed to speak the words, causing the surrounding guardsmen to reluctantly drop their weapons and shields.

“She trembles like a leaf in your grasp.” Augustus sneered, running the back of his hand against her cheek. “Syrahn knows she is guilty. Her penance must be pain.”

“Father!” Kaevia finally snapped out of her stunned stupor and approached the edge of the wall. “You can't go through with this! I know you can still hear me… fight this corruption! You have overcome far worse! You are stronger than this… better than this!”

“Better? Better?!” Alucieus snapped back, tightening his grip on Syrahn’s arm. “Everything I have ever done, was for my house. For my family! To preserve House Sun’rael as my father did before me, and his father before him!” Syrahn furtively pointed her hand down at Sir Sorlu in a desperate attempt to heal his grievous wounds to stabilize him, hoping her deranged captor wouldn't notice. “You are willing to toss away our legacy… for what?! For him?!”

“Arden is growing taller and stronger every day.” Covaya assured, standing beside her daughter. “Our family legacy is secure. Light of my life… don't let this misguided hatred be the end of everything we have!”

Alucieus stared at his family in silence. They were his world, from dawn to dusk, to dawn again. The two people in this world he cherished the most, the two he would gladly trade the world for just to ensure their safety. He remembered the day he met Covaya all those years ago, addressing his wounds from a reckless duel in some forgotten tournament. That moment he looked into her shimmering blue eyes, he knew she was the one, and despite invoking his father's fury, he made her his. The day he held Kaevia in his arms, his world grinded to a screeching halt. How could a baby so small make so much noise? Sixteen grueling hours of childbirth left his beloved Sunlight exhausted, allowing him to clean his firstborn himself. That was the day every other man in this world became a threat; the day he knew he would raze Azeroth to the ground to protect her. But now, in his most trying of times, they forsake him.

“Misguided hatred…?” He repeated, while slowly sheathing his gladius; for a moment relief washed over their frightened faces. Only for a moment. “This is just the beginning.”

“AAAAAHHHH!” Syrahn’s sudden shrieking caused Viridias to clasp at her mouth. In an instant her arm shattered, twisting in directions it was never supposed to; with a surge of strength the High Justicar had snapped her bones like a child breaking apart a twig.

“See how easily she breaks.” Augustus tsked, slowly shaking his head in disapproval. “Pathetic.” Miriam and Viridias were stunned at the sight of Syrahn flailing and kicking in his grasp. Every time she moved the splintered bones in her arm jolted agony, but she was in too much pain and panic to stop. Alucieus’ other hand shot up at the zenith of her screaming and caught her by the throat, plummeting the surrounding field in silence.

“I want Whitstan’s head!” The High Justicar bellowed, as Syrahn feebly clawed at his gauntlet to free herself. “Do you hear me, Bloodfeathers?! Bring me his head or I will give you hers!” The color from Syrahn’s face was quickly fading, and in her current state she wouldn’t retain consciousness for much longer.

“Stop…” Viridias spoke in a frightened whisper. “Stop…! Stop we’ll give you whatever you want!”

“Father no! STOP!” Kaevia shouted, while a helpless weight threatened to flatten her against the railing. Covaya didn’t say a word, horrified at what her lover had become. Before anyone had the chance to move, a familiar neighing echoed along the wind of the open field.

Whitstan appeared atop his deathcharger, leaping clear over the wall in a single bound. The undead horse landed hard against the grass and almost buckled from the weight, but kept steady while it slowed to a halt. Alucieus’ surrounding ancestors began screeching in a deafening crescendo, filling the High Justicar with a deep-burning malice. “Whitstan…!” Kaevia thought out loud, breaking her gaze away from Syrahn only for a moment to look at her undead beloved.

“Alucieus.” Whitstan started, swinging a leg over his saddle before landing silently in the grass beside his horse. “Let Syrahn go.”

“Drop your blade, ghoul. Or I drop your traitorous savior.” The hatred dripping from his voice was almost tangible. Whitstan seemed unmoved at the sight of Syrahn’s unnaturally twisted arm, but he furrowed his brow at her ruthless strangling; if he didn’t quell this problem, a certain Hunter certainly would.

“You know that’s never going to happen.” Whitstan spoke in a calm voice, reaching over his shoulder to pull the sickeningly crimson greatsword off his back. “Killing her will force all of those guards to return. How many could you take down before you’re overwhelmed? Ten? A hundred? Your quarrel is with me… and if you want my head so badly, come and take it.” Viridias shrieked at the sight of Syrahn’s free arm falling limp against her side, and her eyes slowly rolling back before closing. A brief lapse in his building fury caused Alucieus to release Syrahn, letting her fall face first into the grass like a sack of grain. He then took a few steps calculated steps forward with the Holy Light forging something ominous in his open hands.

“Out of all your bad ideas, this one is certainly the worst.” Ellyria whispered from the hilt of Whitstan’s runeblade. “Your plaything is going to be disappointed no matter this outcome.”

“You fought a High Justicar before…” Whitstan huffed in response, pointing his blade at Alucieus; the Holy Light within his grasp took form, revealing a dazzling and elegant sword with a serrated edge and glimmering handguard.

“Yes. And if it weren’t for sacrificing all of my precious thralls I wouldn’t be here, trapped in your blade.” The attitude in her tone almost caused Whitstan to smirk, but given the current circumstances, it would have to wait.

“Any tips?”

“Don’t get killed.”

Collabuddies: @k-sunrael @whitstanwilhelm

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frozenfallenuniverse · 6 years

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Escort Mission

Its ya boy, back at it again with a cute story and currently fearing finals. Y’all know how it be! This story got @crowvn ‘s aja in it cause you guys love her

A mission on Ravnica is quite easy compared to other planes. Every inch of every building has a blueprint and with the right disguise, they were easily read in moments. Certain swaths of the plane had little to no authority or presence of the legion. The most irritating thing was that some places, such as this one, went through Golgari territory which meant many things that want to bite you as you run by. The latest person Meiyo’s employer wanted to make part of the Golgari cycle was Bradley Nethine, an annoying thorn who was trying to prevent her from rising in the ranks or attempted to kill her already. The reason matters little when you’re getting enough zinos to buy food for a week. He came here with seven guards and two elite guards, each should be wearing orzhovian armor as well. If greed could kill. Well, actually it does if you think about it.

The hovel they decided to hide away in was a sewer tunnel around a block away from the employer’s home, which explained the very light flowery scent that showed its face like a rose growing off the blood of soldiers. Two guards walked the perimeter of the ruins that could barely be called a base. A slitherhead could tell where they were since they were golden armored pillars pacing back and forth and dry heaving every few minutes. Thankfully, they only saw each other about once every five minutes. Seems as though Meiyo was incorrect, one was not dry heaving, just normal heaving. Great. Such a distraction makes it easy to walk up behind him, lightly force him to the ground, away from his lunch, and make sure he wasn’t getting up for a while. Well, that was easy.

“Mike?” A voice came from the other guard who was quickly approaching. Within moments, Meiyo threw a dagger from their wrist and lunged onto the poor guard, coating the sewer filth with a bit of blood. They seemed to be incorrect and now irritated.

“Well, I must say I like your work!” A softer more feminine voice came from behind them and Meiyo quickly turned, pinned them against a wall and held a dagger next to their neck. The scent of flowers and a very weak scent of irritation wafted from the hair of the speaker. They clicked their tongue and cursed.

“Aja…” The words dripped onto the ground like the acidic bile of a insectile predator. Irritated has evolved to anger at this point. Her normal extravagant clothing was replaced with clothing more suited to a widowed shopkeep but even in those rags, one could still easily tell from her presence that she was still a powerful royal. A single gloved finger pushed the dagger down with a bit of a struggle.

“Careful with that, Mei. You could have injured one of the wonders of Ravnica!” An aristocratic laugh came from her, somewhat silenced out of necessity.

“Don’t call me that. The only wonder here is mine as to why you’re here.” They momentarily tightened their grip before releasing and letting her away from the wall.

“Wordplay is new for you. I wanted to watch your work, is that so bad?” She placed her arms on the shoulders of the taller assassin, ensuring they were focused on her.

“You may stay if you pay me extra for protecting your body.” With a harrumph, she broke her touch, wiped her arms on Meiyo’s work wear and shifted her hands behind her back.

“I can protect myself, Mei! Believe me.” The slight glitter of her magic came from her lips and slowly floated its way to the ears of her brand new guard. It was unknown if it was due to the effects of her magic or merely their wish to finish the job as quickly as possible. They nodded and Aja responded in turn with a triumphant grin that could easily suit a lion about to devour its prey.

The second group of guards became much more annoying for a multitude of reasons. The new assistant was a majority of them but they finally decided to have a good order. One guard watches the entrance and the other two see them about every minute. Meiyo thought to themself for a few moments before turning back to….. Where did she go.

“Excuse me, mister! I’m lost, could you help?” In the time that Meiyo took to formulate a plan, she had already ran ahead and began speaking to a guard. A guard who was surprisingly fine with an attractive woman walking up to a dead end. A second guard came over to view the commotion and the last one was chubbier and slower than his friend. Meiyo pounced on them like a wolf and began to help with any poison removal the poor man needed. The leeches of this sewer were eating well tonight. A scream came from were Aja was. Wonderful. They quickly cleaned off the dagger they used, and will have to replace later this week, and ran back to Aja.

Much to Meiyo’s surprise, she was completely fine. The guards on the other hand were looking quite terrible. One had been impaled with his friend’s spear and the other had a hole where their heart was. Said heart was at Aja’s feet and she was cleaning off her hands of blood.

“I told you I could protect myself. What do you think now, Mei?” Meiyo offered her a small towel, what normally covered their meals but could also double as a blood rag, and looked over her work.

“I still dislike that name. Did you kill any on your way here?” The scent of her magic was still over the heartless, both literally and figuratively, guard and Meiyo knew from experience that it took a great deal of strength to do this kind of damage. Her beauty seemed to match her strength. They slowly stood up and realized that Aja was using their cloak as an additional blood rag. With a forceful pull of it, she let go of it.

“I might have. Only the vips are left but I trust you aren’t satisfied yet.” Her magic was still unconsciously coating her words and one of the few things preventing the full effect of hitting them was their severe disdain for having to do a mission with their boss. Without offering any words of response, they crept up the stairs of the ruins to a small warehouse. First up was Meiyo followed by Aja who decided that best course of action was complaining about how the front door would have been easier than sneaking up from the sewers. A patronizing slow clap came from the other side of the building. Bradley.

“Great that you could make it, Aja! I’m happy I could kill both you and your annoying assassin.” He was a human, dressed in the priestly garb of the orzhovian church, flanked by an elven male with shortsword to their sides, looking like a pompous selesyna knight and a massive mound of muscle that smelled of rot. Meiyo’s skin crawled and it took half a second to realize what it was.

“You hired a troll. So you know of me.” Any wound they could cut would take a second to regenerate it. A massively irritating monster to deal with.

“Of course! The Shifting Blade and his handler. An assassin who kills with one cut but the body comes back with scars that look like a behemoth used them as a chew toy. Kill them.”

The two guards charged and Meiyo took a step in front of Aja. Blades clashed against the only dagger that Meiyo could pull out in time. The troll broke the guard, and their dagger, along with most of the floor. Aja took a few steps forward and the troll immediately shifted its focus to her. Meiyo’s eyes could not leave the elf, however, least they’d lose some blood themselves.

The troll broke most of the building’s walls but each blow barely missed the dainty figure who seemed to be using the troll as a dance partner rather than an opponent. She never gave any blows back but the stress of missing was slowly breaking its mental fortitude. As strange as it could be, a bard began playing their music on the street outside and the fight began to shift from a one sided dance to a symphonic production. Each blow was percussion and each precise step and twirl let a small bubble of magic burst until the troll stopped and the dancer came close. Her face seemed more fitting towards an elder dragon playing with their pawns as her hand neared the poor troll’s skull.

The music was irritating, to say the least, to Meiyo. Each clash of weapons halted their thoughts, their flesh constantly tried to shift into a more elven form, insults from both the elf and priest were breaking their focus and Aja, the one who was going to pay them, could be dead any moment. Some swings of the short swords tore away at their clothing and each thrown dagger was deflected by the same blades. As the two fighters broke away from each other, Meiyo finally made a decision and drew the katana that normally rested at their side.

“Finally,” The elf spoke with a voice that sounded that a slightly out of tune violin that met the hands of a good musician years ago. “I was wondering when you’d get serious.”

The elf switched to a stance that seemed to mimic a praying mantis and jumped towards Meiyo. Each moment seemed like a century and was punctuated by a series of deep breaths. They slowly swung upwards with the sword… and let go with the downswing. As the elf was busy trying to deflect a katana that was haphazardly thrown at them while in midair, Meiyo took a step forward and shoved a throwing knife deep into his stomach. The elf fell and cursed out Meiyo in seven different languages. Meiyo’s response was simple.

“You did your best. I’ll be sure to remember you… your techniques.” Their hand was lightly placed across the small hole that the dagger made and, with a small push of their hand, it spread across the entirety of the poor warrior’s stomach. No matter how many times they see it, they hated the look of intestines. Their masked visage began to move towards Bradley, who at this point required new pants. His whimpering and bargains fell on deaf ears. One of the elf’s short swords made contact with his cheek and a light touch quickly made it seem as though a horror ate the priest’s poor face. The sound of a troll reducing the property value of the seemed to stop as well. Aja hummed a tune as she stepped up to the now deceased rival.

“I must say, Mei, your work is amazing! A fitting assassin for someone of my calibur.” She wiped the remains of troll brains and skull on the ruined robes in front of her and looked back at her assassin.

“Now, carry me home! I had to walk through those disgusting sewers because of you and I refuse to take another step.” Meiyo sighed and obliged solely because she was right, she didn’t need their protection.

#meiyo #aja #fanwalker #story #my writing

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dungeonmasterpoisonbite · 6 years

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The Veil, In Detail

Approximately thirty thousand years ago, powerful entities beyond even the Gods and princes of Hell created the Veil. As mortals grew in power and influence, these entities decided to partition the world, separating the humans from the mystical. Exactly how and why they did this is unknown, only that it was done and cannot be undone.

This barrier is called the Veil, and it protects the minds of humans and prevents them from processing monsters, magical weapons, and spells. A devastating fireball may instead be seen as a gas explosion. A magic, flaming sword may appear to be a spiked baseball bat and the fire part completely ignored. A longbow-wielding centaur may be someone on horseback holding a shotgun. Who knows what hiders see when the mystical world forces itself into their lives?

The Veil can be visualized as a quasi-sentient, highly-advanced computer algorithm that takes in the input from multiple sources and then outputs something that will fit seamlessly into the perception of someone under its protection. Most hiders are completely unfazed by the various demihuman races (halfelfs, elfs, halflings, dwarfs, orcs, halforcs, goblins, hobgoblins, gnomes, tieflings, aasimar, yuan-ti purebloods, and others) living in the world, as the Veil outputs an innocuous human visage, and if they are manifested this form is identical to their form pre-manifestation save a few minor changes that are often ignored (halforcs tend to manifest and put on lots of muscle very quickly but most people just assume the new halforc’s fitness regimen has miraculously started working). This primary function of the Veil is its most common interaction with hiders, and interactions with these creatures does not normally result in a hider piercing the veil. The races that are overtly monstrous or barely humanoid (Dragonborn, kobolds, lizardfolk, gnolls, tabaxi, aarakokra, yuan-ti halfbreeds, kenku, sahuagin, thri-kreen, and more) are often given a recognizable human form that is heavily disfigured, oddly proportioned, and hard to focus on, making it difficult for them to socialize with hiders in person. This aspect of the veil works most of the time, but prolonged exposure to these people can result in a pierced veil.

Often, encounters with demihumans, even ones that are violent or dangerous, do not cause any issues with a veil, while monstrous/barely humanoid encounters can often be ignored. Obvious magical creatures are usually ignored as well, unless they force an interaction. So, an angel standing atop a building, staring down at the humans, won’t even register in their consciousness. However if this entity leaps into a busy street and starts knocking things over, disrupting traffic, or communicating with hiders in a strange way, all hiders nearby and involved will have to formulate some sensible explanation for what they’ve seen. Enter the Veil.

Any creature that attempts harm or is even planning to harm someone under the effects of the Veil will appear as a suitably threatening or dangerous creature. A manticore may appear to be a rampaging lion of abnormal size. A dragon may register as some sort of tank while on the ground, and then a plane while flying. An orc wielding a great ax and hacking up hiders may appear to be a very large, angry person with a huge ax. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the easiest one, and a madman with archaic weapons is not a particularly far-fetched thing to happen to hiders.

Generally, underdwellers and edgers will ignore hiders in return. Not due to magical compulsion but because hiders are not worth the time to antagonize them in anyway outside of normal social interaction. While magical powers are potent and rather common among edgers, it is not worth the time and effort to use these powers against hiders who have no defense, and the punishment for such crimes are extremely severe.

Encounters with overt magical abilities (mind control, powerful spells, inhuman physical capabilities) and monstrous creatures (Giants, dragons, abominations, undead) make up almost every pierced Veil of every unhidden that has ever awakened and every manifested that has ever manifested. Interactions with these can result in a pierced Veil, a phenomena that causes magical energies to push through the gaps in the Veil and saturating the hider in question. These energies rip the Veil apart completely, often over a period of days or sometimes weeks. The more edgers and underdwellers that the hider lives in the vicinity of, the faster this process occurs.

This is when the Keepers come in, scoop up the hider, and ease the transition with slide shows, contacting friends who are edgers or underdwellers, and answering any questions they may have. This is detailed further below.

Wednesday Friendsday Setting Description part 4

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#wednesday friendsday #setting #campaign setting #5e d&d #modern fantasy #urban fantasy #fantasy

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complementme · 5 years

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The Art of Negotiation

She’s sitting on the wooden floor, legs straight out in front of her but crossed at the ankles, hands demurely folded in her lap. In front of her sits one of her former flames, holding her in this extra-dimensional space for her open defiance of his plan. Her plan, should she be able to pull it off, is to stall him long enough for her comrades to handle the business with the artifact he is desperately after. They don’t need to do anything but hand it to someone else, that’s all she needs them to do so he will turn away from them and bother someone else.

“It’s so lonely to be just the two of us, isn’t it Folys?” he asks, golden eyes stern. With a snap of his fingers, two Drow enter the room.

Her plan had been foolproof, until her lover was thrown down beside her and it became a hostage situation.

“Nell!” It’s an admission that she immediately knows is a mistake. Wylym, her former flame – true name Jarlaxle – has her and he knows it. She’s the type to try and save everyone that she can, and putting someone so important down next to her was making his life easier. Her eyes return to him, fearful but hardened. She doesn’t like the situation he’s created, and she doesn’t know how to fix it without giving in to his demand. She instinctively grabs for her left shoulder blade, brushing her fingertips over where her tribute tattoo to her father resided. Only two people in Waterdeep even knew she had additional tattoos outside of her familial markings, and they both happened to be in the room. She had promised to tell Nell what the intricate sword with flame inlay meant later, not wanting to interrupt their tryst with a somewhat sad story. But there might not be a later if Jarlaxle had anything to say about it.

“In the end, we are all just people who want something. I want to openly lead the city of Luskan as part of the Lord’s Alliance. I am tired of watching the people of my city suffer without support. I am tired of the image that the Drow still have on the surface world. You want Keegan McFadden gone. You want your lover returned to you safely. You want to run your tavern in peace. These are all things I can give to you, that I want to give to you. Please choose your lover, not some new-found commitment to the status quo and the corruption that exists within Waterdeep.”

She refocuses her hardened expression on the seated man, teal eyes burning with the emotions she can’t yet give name to. She’s never been in a hostage situation, let alone the one holding the hostage’s life in her hands. It’s unnerving, and she’s beginning to understand why her father quit the adventuring business. In her head she hears her familiar calling to her, promising to come to her aid. She tells him that everything is fine and he needs to stay with the others. He can act as a messenger between them, and keep their youngest safe. Jarlaxle doesn’t know she has a familiar, he’s the only secret she’s got left.

She looks back to Nell, who is trying to say something around the gag. She can’t make out what’s being said, but she doubts that Jarlaxle is going to let her take off the restraint and ask. She tightens her grip on her shoulder, taking a steadying breath. Her father could talk his way through anything, and though she’s the spitting image of her mother, she is her father’s daughter. She doesn’t know if he would have been conflicted about the situation, however, and for that she’s on her own.

“Please don’t hurt her,” she settles on, meeting his gaze.

“Trust me, Folys, I do not wish to hurt our dear Nell.” He bends over in the chair to stroke the top of Nell’s head much like an owner would to a beloved pet. It’s such a condescending gesture that Folys is simmering just under the surface though she can just tell that he knows exactly what reaction he’s eliciting. Her fingers twitch as she retrains herself from bodily removing Jarlaxle’s hand from Nell’s head. Folys is cursing her patron for not giving her the ability to read minds, because Nell is trying to say something again. “You are both truly so lovely, you should be happy together.” She’s got to keep him talking and get him to stop touching Nell. There’s a fury in her eyes that somehow doesn’t seep into her voice. She wants answers, not to antagonize him further.

“How long have you had her? How long have you been watching me?” It’s the question that’s worrying her most as she sits and thinks on it. He’s been so many people they’ve interacted with, who was to say that he wasn’t the person who set them up on this trajectory from the beginning?

“I happened upon Nell shortly after she visited you this morning at Trollskull Manor,” he states as he sits up. “You caught my attention shortly after your group acquired that manor.” Folys is trying to work out the logistics and is beginning to suspect she is in over her head. He had already demonstrated that he was a master of illusion, he could look like whoever he wanted. It was possible that he had been around since the beginning and she would be none the wiser.

“What good does threatening her here do? The others already agreed.” This was a question she asked out of genuine curiosity, she needed to know why he had resorted to this when he had what he wanted. He had already gotten the others to agree to help, she was the lone holdout. With her in this space, there was nothing she could do to impede their progress.

“I have two reasons for why I’ve kept you here. First, I need to know we’re all on the same team.” He’s smiling congenially at her as he waves his hand. His visage changes from a high-elf noble man to a charcoal-skinned Drow right before her eyes. This is his true form, and it is worlds more intimidating than the other personas she had encountered. “That team includes you. The Yuan-Ti fears for the exposure of his identity. The Bladesingers all cow to me when I push my thumb down, their weakness of character should be quite evident to the both of us. The samurai’s true demons lie with the Xanathar. The half-Drow can be bought with coin and power. But you, you are different, which brings me to my second reason.” He’s smirking at her, and all she can do is return a neutral stare. “I do not think lowly of you, Folys. There is a quality to your blatant defiance of me that I find nearly irresistible.” His wink has her biting her cheek.

“Oh, only nearly irresistible?” she queries, raising an eyebrow.

“Be careful with your charm, my old flame. I’m only flesh and blood. I have instincts.” He leans towards her, red eyes raking over her form suggestively. Folys finds herself both disgusted and flattered.

“How can I be an old flame if it was only one night, and if I look nothing like I did then?” she asks, sounding almost naïve—Jarlaxle probably knows her well enough from watching that he could read through that effortlessly. She was deliberately toeing the line to see what she could get away with, to buy time, to refocus her thoughts.

“You say that as though your beauty could be so easily hidden. It betrays you.” Something in his tone gives her pause, which he takes as an invitation to continue. “Do you have any other questions?” She is curious, of course, as to what he might mean that she specifically caught his interest, but the more pressing issue is the hostage he is currently holding over her. Nell’s safety has to be the first priority, even above her own. She has a small amount of magic still in reserve and her casting isn’t impeded in any way. If she can get Nell out, she can escape on her own power when the time is right.

“Let us form a partnership. Get me the stone, and I can get rid of Keegan McFadden for you, permanently. I know you are angry with me, but I can make very good things happen for you, Luskan, and all of the disenfranchised surface Drow.” He extends a slender, charcoal colored hand. “Please. Agree to this and I will give you Nell.”

Her expression shifts to one she wears often in her line of business—a demure smile with a hint of flirty promises. This is the mask she hides behind to compose herself when things begin to go south and she has to regain her footing. She must buy time to make sense of everything he’s said so far, to give her companions the time they need to figure out what to do. He seems to prefer her when she’s flirting, so she incorporates that more into her speech.

“For McFadden, well…” There’s a heavy hesitation and her smile falters to show her immense dislike. “I only want him locked up where he can’t hurt anyone anymore.” There’s a strain to her voice as she tries to keep things light, broadcasting her internal conflict. In the deepest part of her heart she knows she wants McFadden buried, but she had made a deal with her patron and the celestial powers-that-be to better the world and promote goodness. Killing McFadden would better the world (probably), but it wasn’t the right way to do it when he could be rehabilitated and serve out his sentence.

“A boorish brute such as that deserves worse, but I will respect your wishes, Folys, to not have him killed off. Provided we reach an agreement, Seronis Talwynd shall take good care of him.” He looks put off by the idea that she is requesting mercy, but she takes her opportunity to push for more.

“If I get you the stone, I want a guarantee of safety for Nell and the others.” She’s looking him in the eyes, showing him that she’s seriously considering it. He’s got such an intense focus on her that she feels she might be melting under his gaze. “That you and yours will not do anything to harm them.” She’d nearly run out of healing magic, so she had to ensure that neither herself nor Nell would be injured as she continued to make her demands. She takes a breath and sends a sad smile to Nell. She doesn’t want to buckle, but she’s out of options. If Nell wanted to avoid her after this, that was fine. She understood.

“And I want Nell to walk out of her first, on her own power. Untie her and let her go.” Her gaze returns to Jarlaxle, defiant but defeated. She knows she’s lost, and to prevent unnecessary bloodshed she has to agree. “These are my terms: Jail McFadden. Release Nell. Safety for Nell, myself, Tommi, and the others. You don’t tell anyone who got you the stupid stone. And you don’t interfere with my life, or anyone connected with me, ever again.” Her fists are clenched in her lap, nails biting into her palms. She has one more demand, but she doesn’t know if it will land. “Finally, I want a promise that you will not kill anyone else to get a seat with the Alliance. You wouldn’t want to lie to me again, would you?” She flashes him a winning smile, not offering her hand.

“Your last request is one I cannot meet,” he says flatly, retracting his hand. She’s crossed a line, she can see his expression darkening, but she maintains her smile as if he wasn’t a rapidly darkening stormcloud. “The road to politics and power is paved with blood and intrigue. I do not enjoy killing and consider it a last resort, but I cannot honestly take that last card off the table, you’ll have to forgive me. Everything else is completely reasonable, provided the stone is handed over.”

“Thank you for being so accommodating of my concerns,” Folys tells him, dipping her head in deference. “I should amend my final request, then, to ask that there is no unnecessary murder in your quest.” She’s backpedaling to appease him and is rewarded when his expression softens slightly. It’s not what she would personally want, and she also wasn’t sure where her patron stood on that particular issue, but she was in a bind and was making the best possible choices for the greatest amount of people possible. She looks up at him from under her lashes, biting her lower lip gently. It’s plainly a stall tactic and he’s enjoying the view, but Folys is certain he can see she’s more-or-less on his side. His goals are well-intentioned, and if this is truly the last resort, she can understand his desperation.

“My dear Folys, I loathe killing,” he tells her in an attempt at a reassuring tone. “If your Bladesinger and samurai companions had been dealing with the Xanathar, they would have been slain before they finished their first sentence. You can rest assured that any time I choose to take a life, I have a good reason.”

She isn’t reassured by his words, but he does have a point. He could have easily killed both her nad Nell within moments, but he had stopped to negotiate. Folys begins to stand, showing Jarlaxle her hands as she does. She doesn’t want him to think she’s going to attack, so she moves slowly, bending generously to give him a peek of cleavage. She notices his eyes immediately adjust course, and she’s got a fairly good idea that her stall tactic would have worked provided there wasn’t a hostage. She feels sick to her stomach, but she stands tall as if she has not a care in the world aside from the concern for the hostage’s safety. Her patron would forgive her. They would all forgive her. They would have to, they would hopefully make a similar choice. She hopes. There’s nowhere else to go—her back is to the wall and she’s running on empty.

“Okay.” There’s a defeated finality in the word. She can’t look at Nell, who is no doubt severely disappointed in her choice to partner with Jarlaxle and retrieve the stone. She can’t call to her familiar or her patron, both of whom will surely disown her for this decision. She’s got to handle this herself, like her father who raised her. “Now let her go.”

“As you wish.” He snaps his fingers and his Drow companions get Nell to her feet, untie her, and usher her out the door behind Folys. Nell calls out her name, but the slam of the door behind her cuts off whatever else she had been about to say.

“I must say, I admire your method of committing to a deal,” Jarlaxle drawls, red eyes raking over Foly’s form. She suppresses a shiver—though she isn’t sure if it’s from fear or excitement. “I did not expect to see you again this way, but you are a bouquet of surprises, my dear.” He’s walking in a slow counter-clockwise circle around her, scanning her. As he circles her, scrutinizing, Folys holds her gaze perfectly in front of her, body unmoving. She is used to these looks as well in her line of work, but never when she can’t defend herself. She understands that one hair out of line here and going forwards means that everything she’s bartered for is void. Still, she finds she has her voice, quieter when there’s nobody to impress.

“You could have just sent a letter, I believe that’s how things are typically done. I would have saved you a table.” She would have saved Wylym a table, if only because she knows – knew – he has a good reputation and a wealth of entertaining enough stories. Wylym hadn’t been as intriguing as Nell, nor had he shown as much interest in her history, but he was attractive and he was good with his hands. He would have been fun to have around, if only for the nights when she needed physical release.

He makes his way around to meet her eye-to-eye, expression dark. His scowl is almost as intense as his gaze, and Folys is forced to swallow down her fear.

“This is some game of yours, I am not foolish enough to miss that.” It is the longest three seconds of Folys’ life as all his attention is focused solely on her. The tightness in his lips gives way to a licentious smirk. “But I am foolish enough to play along. You have earned your title as entirely irresistible, my cunning little minx.” He caresses her cheek gently and he seems to enjoy her shuddered breath. Her emotions are swinging between fear and lust, and as he watches her she finds it harder to tell which is more powerful. “This is not a game I mind losing, but one that I assure you I intend to win.”

“This isn’t a game,” she tells him, voice quavering only the slightest bit. At least, it wasn’t a game anymore. It had been her plan initially to buy time from him and have the others handle it, but she’s realizing that she is out of her depth. She’d bartered for their safety in good faith to appease him, and she intended to do as he asked. She didn’t know why he still kept her when they had a verbal agreement.

“Your nerves are dancing under your skin.” He takes a step back, hand leaving her cheek. “I wish to let you know that you are safe here. If it would help, I should remind you that I am a master of illusions. Perhaps you would prefer to see someone less intimidating than myself. A familiar face?” With a few hand gestures his visage changes to Wylym. “Someone entirely new?” He changes into Laerel Silverhand, thick grey curls pillowing around his form. “It’s a mysterious and alluring power. I can be anyone you ask me to be,” he coos, form changing as he steps close once again. “I can even be you.”

He elicits a verbal response when he becomes her. It’s quiet, but the gasp escapes nonetheless from her unwilling lips. She’s looking herself over, checking for some detail that might be wrong as he backs her against the wall. He’s got the details right, and nobody would think to check for authenticity. Folys is stunned and scared of the power he wields, but a small part of her also wants to wield illusory magic.

“Are you admiring the craftsmanship?” Jarlaxle asks in her voice. “Normally with illusions you have to do the guesswork for what you haven’t seen, but I have studied you well.” The leer looks more menacing on her face than it would have on his.

“What do you want from me?” It comes out as a whisper as she meets her own eyes. “I’ve already agreed to the deal.” They hadn’t shaken on it, but Nell’s safety is explicitly tied to Folys’ obedience. She’s mad at herself for having allowed him to get so close before that he could imitate her perfectly. She’s certain that every tattoo and every freckle will be accounted for and in the correct place under the clothes where she can’t see. Study her he did, and she’s ashamed that she had so willingly handed herself over.

“I want many things, Folys. Some things I’ve already told you, and some things that are new. There are many things on the table provided the Stone of Golorr ends up in my possession. I would even offer you those griffin riding lessons Wylym promised.” He laughs, shaking his – her – head slightly. “Don’t worry, I did not steal an identity for him. He is my own fabrication. I had many more planned for you and your group, that was until you so graciously stopped to visit me.”

“Griffin riding?” she manages to get out, almost laughing at the absurdity. Here she is so vulnerable, so scared, and he’s reverting back to an off-handed comment he had made in an effort to bed her. She shakes her head slightly, closing her eyes to avoid looking at herself. “You practically invited me,” she reminds him, voice wavering. She’d only found him because she was chasing after a kidnapped companion. He ignores her statement and leans in closer, pressing his – her – body against her.

“Mainly, I want to know what you’re planning to do now.” He drops his – her – voice to a slowed hush, his left hand taking her right and pressing it against the cool wall. “If your scheme is to stay here, I don’t mind at all.” He’s cooing to her in the voice she uses on her bar patrons. It’s a mix of terrifying, teasing, and enthralling.

‘Is this how I sound?’ She’s not sure what to think of it all. She can certainly see where he might find appeal, watching herself, but it feels so strange. She’s feeling lightheaded as her emotions and thoughts tumble past each other, fogging her ability to think straight. He’s so close, hushed tones the only sound in the room. She can hear her heartbeat quicken over his soft words, ice in her stomach. She’s never been so scared with someone so close. But also, she’s never been so aggressively pursued, nor has she ever turned herself on quite like this before. ‘Now is not the time, body,’ she manages to think, trying to form a clever response to his queries. His right hand starts at her cheek and slowly trails down over the length of her body, resting on her hip. The gentle pressure he holds her with his both alluring and terrifying, exciting her nerves in ways she’s never known.

But she’s soon lost in her own eyes, feeling her mind begin to slip. ‘How is he able to maintain so man different personalities? Did he steal me? Am I being romanced by a past version of myself?’ Her thoughts are becoming more outrageous as she begins to question her own reality. He nips at her ear, breath hot against the sensitive skin. He’s so close it’s maddening, and he’s toying with her just enough to cause her breath to come in quick pants. She is about to spiral off the cliff when she feels a very familiar sensation pressing against her abdomen. They share twin looks of shock for a brief moment before Jarlaxle blushes redder than Folys thought she could turn. But the distraction, however brief, clears her mind enough. This image isn’t quite right. It’s pretty good – really good – but it’s not perfect. And she isn’t feeling like she’s going insane anymore. She’s still scared, still a few steps behind, but he’d given her an opening to try and close the gap.

“Ha-ha, there are some things that not even the most powerful illusions can hide,” he says with a sheepishness he hasn’t displayed in any of his numerous forms, snickering at himself. “I suppose you’ve seen my hand, then. Now don’t ask any more silly questions, Folys. You know what I want.” He’s pressed against her again, kissing her neck in a staccato that runs from just below her ear to her collarbone, hand resuming its trailing actions. He’d been playing her on the knife-edge between fear and lust, and though she’s furious about it, she knows what he wants. Weirdly it’s what she wants too, despite the fact that he is still clearly illusioned to look like her.

“If I’m not supposed to ask questions,” she forces out between stifled moans as he continues to plant kisses between whispered words of his desire, “how am I supposed to ask where you would like me?” This question is a dangerous gamble, if only because she doesn’t know how he’ll react. Especially when he realizes that she’s into it. All of it. He’s terrifying and got a grip on her that she can’t shake – he’s got Nell and the others – but she’s got his full attention, and that is a feeling she could easily become addicted to.

Her words stop him in his tracks, and Folys sees his eyes burn purple as the illusory teal eyes mix with his true ruby eyes. His expression is hungry as he steps back, looking her over once more.

“How bold of you to inquire, my little minx.” He looks away from her briefly, tightening his hold on her wrist. He pulls her to the other door in the room, away from her exit. “Let me show you just where I want you.” She stumbles slightly as she’s pulled along, unable to match his impatient pace.

He pulls her into a dim, candlelit room of faded purples, dark browns, and soft greys. There is a smell of charred darkwood, lavender, and citrus in the air. Warmth emanates from a hearth jutting out from the wall. Large, thick curtains hang in front of the large window, blocking her view of the outside world. The only door in is also the only door out, and Folys realizes just how preposterous this room is to be attached to the interrogation room outside—Jarlaxle must have some control over where the doors attached to the other room lead, but she can’t place the mechanism or magic behind it.

Her gawking at the room is cut short as Jarlaxle tosses her unceremoniously onto the large bed in the middle of the room. Her breath escapes her at the sudden change in location. The bed is soft and luxurious, leagues better than what she’d splurged on to furnish her room at Trollskull Manor.

“Here is where I shall ravish you,” he states. Folys can practically feel the desire rolling off him in waves as he steps up to the foot of the bed. She looks to him – still her mirror image – through her lashes, smiling playfully as he approaches. She pulls herself to a sitting position from the comfort of the mattress and blankets. She doesn’t need to beckon him closer, he’s waltzed right up to her, which means she’ll have to try a different opening move. It seems to Folys that he wants her to be enticing – minx is apparently her new pet name – so she turns the charm up to eleven to comply.

“I very much approve,” she purrs, taking his hand and gently tugging him closer to where she had landed on the bed. “You know just the right place to take a lady.” There’s still a hint of fear in her eyes (she’s essentially in a prison cell, nice as it may be), but it’s overshadowed by the lust mirrored in her reflection. When he is close enough, she grabs the collar of his shirt to pull him in for a kiss, rising to her knees to accommodate the height difference. The grip is firm but nonthreatening, as she has no intentions of leaving or attacking him for the time being. It’s a heated kiss, and Folys doesn’t know where the passion came from. If he had kissed her like this as Wylym, things might have turned out differently. The sting of betrayal might have been worse too, but that wasn’t something she needed to think on.

He’s worked her out of her cloak and tossed it away from the bed, and she’s taken the liberty to pull herself closer to him with his beltloops. He breaks the kiss to get her boots off, pushing her away only briefly. He’s aggressive, but gentle, in his desire to divest her of her clothing, finding different pathways to nip and kiss at her skin. She could almost forget that she is supposed to fear the dangerous man before her.

“Come to bed,” she whispers against his ear, nipping at the lobe. She crooks a finger, beckoning him closer as she lowers herself to the plush mattress. Folys laughs when he doesn’t hesitate to comply.

0 notes

ramblinganthropologist · 7 years

Note

Returned from the dead kiss - Cahel/Ali

Oh ho ho... the kiss we’ve all been waiting for!

---

Who knew saving the world would hurtso damn much?

Alistair was pretty sure he hadbroken a rib as he pushed off the chunk of wall that had landednearby where he had fallen minutes prior. The ground was slick withblood and pus left from the corpses the darkspawn had dragged off.His armor was stained with both his blood and the ichor of theArchdemon as it thrashed about in death throes just minutes prior.That was going to take forever to get out.

It had all happened so fast that hehadn't had time to think. Once they had reached the top of FortDrakon, there hadn't been any moment to spare. The Archdemon had beenright there, spewing purple flames and hissing at anything that gotclose. He had nearly been overcome by the smell of rotting flesh andputrid bone, but he had pressed forward in order to meet it on thefield.

The darkspawn were gone now; theywere either dead or had run off when the light split the sooty cloudsabove. Their allies were already counting there dead, a much smallernumber than he would've expected given what they had just beenthrough. Off to the side, he watched as Wynne tried to hold Chercheback in order to treat her injuries.

“No, let me go to him!”

There were tears in her eyes.Alistair's stomach dropped as he finally remembered what had happenedjust moments prior. It had been like a blur; Cahel had just boltedlike a scared deer with the sword in both his hands and that's whenit had all gone to hell.

Sweat beaded his brow as he scannedthe top of the broken tower, trying to find the blue armor or redhair that marked his fellow Warden. His knees threatened to give outa second time as he finally found him, lying not far from the therapidly disintegrating corpse of the Archdemon.

“No!”

The scream left his lips as pure willgot him over. Cahel was lying on his back, the sword still in hisleft hand. The leather and metal that covered his arms was badlyburned, and lines of angry purple snaked up the exposed flesh,pulsing and raw. His face was gray with grime and red with blood, butthe worst part was his chest. It didn't move at all as he lay there,looking to the world like he was sleeping.

Alistair skidded to a stop in frontof his fallen comrade, forgetting everything he had learned inTemplar training about handling those who had come into contact withthe darkspawn. He ripped off his one glove and placed it against theelf's filthy neck, trying to find some semblance of a pulse. His ownheart stopped when he realized there was none. The young man laycold, unmoving in his arms.

Tears began to stream down his faceas he held Cahel close to him, shoulders shaking from the sobs.Morrigan had said it was going to work. She had promised him aloophole the night before when they had laid there in the darknessafter the act. Nobody but the Archdemon was supposed to die that dayon the field.

She had lied. He should've expectedthat from her, but none of that mattered as he cradled the prone bodyclose. If only he could've been a little faster, maybe he could'vegotten the sword first. That was the only reason why he could thinkthat it hadn't worked, barring that the witch actually had set him upfor failure from the start.

“This wasn't supposed to happen.”His tears wet Cahel's face, washing away some of the grime.Underneath he was pallid; even his freckles looked milk white. A sobripped through Alistair's body as he held him close, squeezing withall his might.

There had been so much he had wantedto say. War preparations and coronation plans had kept the two apartfor so long that he hadn't been able to get to it the night beforethe battle. He had promised himself to tell the elf the truth when itwas all said and done. Now, he was left with a corpse and everythingthat had meant to be told dead with him.

“I'm so sorry, Cahel. This is myfault.” He looked down at the elf, still motionless. “You nevergot to know the truth.”

Alistair didn't know what possessedhim as he lowered his head, lips brushing briefly against Cahel's.They were chapped and slick with blood, and as cold as the rest ofhim. How many times had he wished to have done that when he wasalive? All he had needed to do was get over his fears and go for it.Now he was paying for his cowardice, and it stung worse than anywound.

Wynne's hand rested on his shoulder.She was leaning on her staff for support. Cherche was with her, tearsstreaming down her grimy face as she looked down at her adopted son.It was all too much, and she collapsed to her knees.

“You idiot... I was the one who wassupposed to do it! Not you!”

She bit her lip hard. “You were tooyoung for that.”

The healer's hand never left hispauldron. “Alistair, we need to give him to someone for burialpreparations.”

For a brief moment, his heart stoppeda second time. He had imagined flames and the boy's visage beingburned to cinders on some pyre miles away. The only thing thatstopped him from running was the reminder that he wasn't Andrastian.The Dalish buried their dead and planted trees over the corpses tosupport new life. There was a special seed in his pouch for it, onehe had been given as a child.

With shaking hands, he reached forCahel's belt. “They need the seed.”

It was easy to find, located in asmall bag that someone had taken a lot of time to embroider withsymbols that no doubt were very significant to the Dalish. It was alljust lines and swirls to him, and that was all it would ever be as heclosed the pouch with a click.

When he went to give it over,something stopped him. Maybe it was a trick of the light, or just hisfevered brain trying to ignore what was going on, but for a briefsecond he could've sworn the elf's lips had moved.

“Oww...”

A tiny, broken voice escaped frombetween cracked lips. The entire party stared, wide eyed with shock,as Cahel slowly opened his eyes. They were hazy and unfocused, butthey sought out Alistair as if he was the only thing in the world.

“Did... did we kill it?”

He coughed, spitting up blood thatdribbled over his armor. “Shit, probably broke a rib or something.”

The fact Alistair squeezed him into amassive hug was definitely not going to help matters much. In fact,both of them yelped as their much abused bodies came into contactwith each other. Frankly, at that moment he didn't care.

Cherche looked a mixed betweenoverjoyed and outraged as she finally managed to pull herself to herfeet. “I told you not to go for the Archdemon! That was my job!”

Alistair stood next, Cahel in hisarms. The elf offered what would have been his famous sheepish grin,but he didn't have the energy to make it all the way. Still, the facthe was moving at all could only be attested to as a miracle from theMaker himself.

“If you see the shot, take it.Didn't you teach me that?”

“Of all times, you choose now tolisten? Fen'Harel take your nonsense!” The fact tears had trackedthrough the dirt on her face meant nothing of course as she turned toface the healer. “Grandma, we need to fix him up!”

Wynne, good old company healer,looked like she might've needed some healing herself as they starteddown the stairs. “I do believe that we'll need someone not quite asworn down as myself to put him straight. I'm afraid I used up all mybottles of lyrium at the end of the battle.”

Right, a healer. Alistair was quickto hold Cahel close as he pounded down the blood-slick steps. Therewould be those at the bottle of the tower, working to sort throughthe wounded. One of them could put Cahel right. He had to have somepriority, being the one who stabbed the Archdemon. Right? At least hethought so.

The elf himself looked like he hadbeen woken up from a nap and was regretting opening his eyes at all.“I'll be fine, everyone. Just... let's check to make sure ourfriends made it.”

It was a bad lie, based on how tornup his arms were, but he had started doing that more; the whole beinga leader thing was settling onto him like a mantel. He'd sort of beenforced into it anyway through no small help on Alistair's behalf. Heconsidered it fitting payback for the Landsmeet. Spring kingship on aman, and he'll return the gesture in kind.

Still, there was something unreadablein Cahel's eyes as he gazed up at the warrior. “Was I imaginingthings, or did you kiss me back there?”

If not for his firm grip, Alistairwould have dropped the elf on the stone flagons like a sack of rottedpotatoes. Color bloomed on his face as he felt his heart race fasterthan it ever had before. Once, he had thought it could never gofaster than the time he had called his history professor 'mum' duringa lecture. Apparently, he had room for improvement in that area.

“Oh, well, strange things happenwhen you're fighting off the Archdemon. I thought I saw flying cheeseout there.”

His laughter rang hollow across thestones. Nobody was buying it, not even Sandal as they gave him alittle wave when they passed by. In fact, he was pretty sure he hadjust decreased the worth of Ferelden's currency with that one alone.Eamon would never let him hear the end of that one if he was stillalive.

Cahel, Maker bless him, was actuallypouting. “Really, cause I could've sworn your lips touched mine.Too bad, I kinda liked it. But, oh well, you're more interested inyour flying cheese than me. I understand, it's hard being king. Yourstomach needs attention too.”

That was downright criminal.

Alistair had long since learned toknow when he'd been beat. A sheepish grin crossed his features as hereached down, lips lightly brushing the elf's bloody forehead. Itwould serve for now, until he got stabilized and was out of harm'sway.

“You'll get plenty of attentionwhen you're healed up, I'll make sure of that.”

For once, it wasn't him that wasdoing the blushing. Despite having the living hell kicked out of him,Cahel still had enough blood to flush a brilliant scarlet as theyrounded the last flight of steps and exited into the courtyard. Fromthe shouts that met them, the rest of the party had been waiting.

It was good to see they had allsurvived, even though he was going to get hell for his antics on topof the tower later. Alistair was glad to rush out to meet them,carrying with him what had to be one of the most precious cargoes ofthe Blight thus far. What was to come was no doubt going to give himone hell of a headache, but he didn't mind. Someone was stuck sortingthrough it with him, and with his arms all bandaged up he was goingto be quite the captive audience.

Maybe being king wouldn't be so badafter all. At least he might have a cute prince to go with it.

#Cahel Mahariel #Alistair Theirin #Calister #Warden x Alistair #this is my OTP #ramblinganthropologist's writing #reallyfuckinggay

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