#Stone Cladding in Auburn

[jandtsmithstonemasons]

 Stone Cladding in Auburn

If you’re looking to add style, durability, and long-lasting value to your property, Stone Cladding Auburn is a smart investment. Whether you own a home, commercial building, or any type of structure, stone cladding offers both aesthetic appeal and functional benefits. In this blog, we explore why stone cladding is in high demand in Auburn and how it can enhance your space. Why Stone Cladding is…

[edenspoem]

ellie with a back or shoulder tattoo..❤️‍🔥

ct; blurb, sub!ellie with a tinge of attitude, beach day, massaging (ellie receiving), very suggestive, tattoo is mostly up for reader interpretation, slight pussy play (ellie receiving). period started in the middle of jotting this, so apologies if it became rushed! otherwise, HUZZAH! [ellie img from keaneq_ on pinterest]

for all nerd intents— it would maybe be a dragon. unsure what else would be on her back (perhaps something cosmic?), but all is up for interpretation! so particular with the placement, though; it would peak out from her tanks, buying her the reason to wear them more frequently. and of course— she does. if there's a way to keep your eyes on her, she most definitely will deploy that advantage. "see how sick my tat looks in this shirt, babe? damn, best decision ever." (starts flexing her arms like an idiot) anywho, a scenario, if you will: waves crashing near, seagulls squawking off ears, and the scent of damp sand everywhere— you're at the beach, secluded in secret. ellie suggested you find secrecy, and it was right off the bat that you located the perfect, boulder-walled cove. situating yourselves between those stone giants, you could talk, touch, tangle, and canoodle to your heart's fullest content. in seclusion, instead of wearing a tank, ellie had clad this black sports bra. intentionally; it flaunts her freckles, her lean shoulder muscles, her new tattoo— so deep and dense soaked in sunlight, glistening since you're giving her body quite the pat-down with sunscreen. goddess knows that pale girl depends on it.

right now, though, she need not wear anything on her torso at all. "fuck— that's the spot, oof," she rasps harshly, groans with pleasure into the netting of her beach chair. it just had to turn into a massage sesh. poor ellie works so hard to provide for you two. who's to say she doesn't need some tender touching care? you roll your thumbs along the sides of her nape, pushing and ruching her skin slow and sensual. ellie is convinced you were covertly trained for this. it feels like you are. "ah— babe, can you, uh, go lower?" her voice strains, and she reaches a hand back, nudging the band of her swim shorts downward. the tattoo's length is now revealed entirely, and it draws your pupils and fingertips to venture upon it. noticing where you two connect, you stare; her perky little butt had been pressed into your crotch for minutes now, and all the impulsive fibers in your brain wanted to do— was grope. but you palpate above it, acting unbothered. it serves for a bit, until ellie makes the usual sly and stupid remark about it, her tone clearer and louder, "enjoying the view? hmhm, 'can't say I let you do this too often." and you can feel the purpose hot on her flesh when she adjusts her hips, drives her ass a tad into your groin— so you grip one side. control filled that grip. it turns vice, and so does your question, "are you enjoying being touched here? seems like it." the top knuckles of your digits curling an inch under her pulled waistband. the auburn bun you shot gazes of daggers at just then, turns away so she can somewhat face you, given her position. playful eyes of green answer before her throat can, and they ring with the audacity to provoke you further. heavy-lidded, low-browed. "tchh— obviously. I did tell you to go lower," her tone laden in attitude, plastered with a shit-eating grin. now, ellie did tell you that, but her voice emphasized that you hadn't gone low enough. hadn't trailed past the tail of her tattoo.

pretty slick of her. it however, doesn't compete with the slickness you discovered leaking from her cunt. as one hand continued its caressing of her inked spine, the other ran fingertips over the fabric of her stygian shorts, slotting the damp material in-between her pussy lips, and stamping her clit down with your thumb. "mhh, huh, fuuck," through her whimpers, she freed a scoff; impatient-sounding, "is this all ur' gonna do? tease me?" the tight muscles of her thighs softly clench your wrist. you knit your brows at her, removing the pressure your thumb gave, "just admiring your back baby, be patient."

[missswritesalot]

Winter’s thorn

Summary: Lady Y/N Tyrell, the rose of Highgarden, had no intentions of marriage when she visited Winterfell. But with her honor on the line, she might have to reconsider.

Part two

“What about Lady Y/N Tyrell, the younger sister of Lady Margery Tyrell,” the maester suggested. “She is young and Lady Olenna is seeking an alliance. Her raven comes with certain peculiar ideas that need careful execution.”

Catelyn was delighted. After hours of pouring over letters from all the heads of the houses, she found Robb his ideal match. She ordered a feast to be held, and invited Lady Y/N Tyrell under the pretense of trade.

“Almost here, Y/N,” said your cousin Taena. You shivered and wrapped your cloak around you tighter. “You are aware this visit is not purely of trade?”

“Now, Taena, that’s enough.” The septa chided.

“Even Queen Daenerys wishes to see you married, cousin. Perhaps to-“

“No more, cousin. I tire of this, although you mean it in jest.” You said, exhausted by these rumors.

“It would mean strengthening our loyalty to the Targaryens. He is Jon Snow’s brother,” Taena said.

“Cousin,” you corrected. She took it as though you were chiding her, and unexpectedly fell silent.

You took two steps out of the carriage, unassisted. You tried holding your head high, like the wind wasn’t cutting into your skin.

You were astonished to find the people of House Stark assembled in the courtyard, waiting for your arrival.

Catelyn was the first to greet you.

“My son, the Lord of Winterfell, Robb Stark.” She said, motioning to him. You’d heard of him, they called him the young wolf. Honorable. Gentle and strong.

Robb had the most gorgeous blue eyes you’d ever seen, framed by thick auburn lashes. His hair was a signature Tully red, just like Sansa’s. You’d once thought she was the most comely maiden at court, and her brother had all of her good looks in his ruggedly handsome way.

You courtesied in greeting. He took your gloved hand in his bare one and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Your heart raced. He was so beautiful. You didn’t look up, and affixed your eyes on your boots instead.

“Lady Tyrell, we thank you for making the long journey up north. I hope it was not too difficult.” His voice could’ve melted the snow around you.

You nodded curtly: he should not see the blush on your face.

In your haste, you tripped on a stone hidden in the snow. A strong, leather clad arm wrapped around your waist to pull you up. You felt him stand you upright and the fingers of his other hand dug into your arm to steady you.

You gasped at the close contact, and turned to face him. He might be the lord of Winter but his arm felt like it might burn you. His fingers, where they touched the smallest silver of skin at your shoulder, were equally scalding. You didn’t want to step away from him into the cold.

“Forgive me, Lady Tyrell,” Robb said, his blue eyes still peering into yours. There was an instinct to lean into him, to step into his arms. But you resisted.

You turned your face away, and looked as angry as you could.

“Unhand me at once,” you said slowly. The Septa behind you gasped at your lack of courtesy.

“Lady Tyrell-“ Catelyn began, but you cut her off.

“Pardon me, Lady Stark, but the carriage journey was long and tiring. My companions and I would be obliged for a warm room.” You asked.

The walls of Winterfell were bare, the tapestries grey with little or no embroidery. The heat you had longed for suffocated you. Your mind still harbored thoughts of Robb and only Robb. No, you corrected, Lord Stark. You touched your shoulder where his fingers had rested, and giggles burst out of you. Thankfully, your cousins weren’t around to witness your shame.

You thought of how this was where Robb grew up, his childhood home that was now his.

You tugged on a new dress, one that stood out against the drab castle walls, with its golden roses and green leaves on a background of ivory and pale green.

You heard a loud sound outside. You opened the chamber door at once, and Robb Stark tumbled in.

“My lord, what does this mean?” You asked, horrified he was in your chambers.

“I only meant to escort you to the great hall, my Lady. But there has been an invasion into Winterfell and as my guest I must see to your safety myself.”

You only just noticed his armor. He bolted the doors and you backed away from him.

“My cousins?” You asked.

“They are safe, in the library. Do not fret, my Lady. You will be reunited as soon as the threat is stopped.”

You trusted Robb, you realized. It was a fool’s idea to put your trust in a strange man who you didn’t know, just because you found him attractive. But you trusted him.

“My Lord, it is most improper for a Lady to be in the presence of a man without companions.” You protested, just to save face.

“Proprietary will not restore your life when it has been taken by a criminal’s blade.” Robb said. You closed your eyes.

“I apologize you have not yet supped, my Lady.” Rob said softly. His concern endeared him to you even more.

“I’m not hungry,” you said. You went to sit on the edge of your bed.

“Do not mind me, Lady Tyrell. I cannot express the depth of my displeasure that Winterfell is inadequate on your first night here. Please rest until my men finish the task.” Robb said courteously.

You laid on the bed, the dress too uncomfortable to sleep in but fitful sleep did come.

It was in the early hours of the morn when the Septa found you curled on the furs in the chamber room. Robb was resting against your bed, his head lying on furs with his legs sprawled out across the floor.

“Taena,” you said, going into her embrace.

“Oh cousin,” she said, crying. More of your companions rushed in and fussed over you. You broke your fast with them, your voices and laughter could be heard across the hallways.

Your septa walked in just as soon as the servants cleared the room.

“Y/N, do not tell untruths when I ask you this,” she said. “And I place no blame on you. Was Lord Stark in your chambers during the attack?”

“Why, yes,” you confirmed, head nodding. “He was the most noble.”

“And you did not think of your honor?” The septa asked gently.

“Even the most noble ladies laid next to their knights with nay but a sword between them.” You protested.

“Robb Stark is neither your sworn protector nor a knight.” She said. “Lady Catelyn has written an apology to your grandmother, and suggested a proposal.”

“A proposal for what, septa?”

“A marriage between two great houses. You’ll be betrothed to Lord Stark.”

[ltash]

Operation Esclipse

Ch-1 "Dead Drop & Ghost"

"SimonRiley-CODxMI6x'femOC'reader"

“I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.”

The corridors of CIA headquarters were bathed in pale fluorescent light, clinical, sterile, and cold, much like the people who walked them. Simon "Ghost" Riley sat still in the briefing room, clad in his tactical blacks. His skull mask lay in his lap, his sharp eyes scanning the room from beneath the low brim of his cap.

The tension in his jaw was steel-forged. He didn’t like this place. Too many liars in tailored suits. Too much blood in the walls.

But he was here because Kate Laswell had summoned him. And when Laswell called, you came.

The door clicked open.

"Ghost," Laswell said, entering with a tablet in hand. "We’re waiting on two more."

Ghost gave a subtle nod. He didn’t need to ask who.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door swung again.

Rose entered first.

SAS. Codename: Rogue.

His partner. A sniper so precise she could split a matchstick from a mile out. She had her auburn-brown hair pulled back into a high tactical ponytail, sharp eyes beneath thick lashes, and that unreadable look she always wore when she was on duty.

Right behind her was August Walker, also known inside the CIA as Hammer. He wasn’t just an agent. He was Erica Sloane’s personal weapon. Built like a tank, always cocky, always watching. Ghost had seen men like him before. Men who smiled while they twisted the knife.

Walker leaned in toward Rose, muttering something Ghost couldn’t hear, and she laughed.

Ghost’s fingers twitched on his mask.

Walker glanced over and locked eyes with him. Held it. Smirked.

Smug bastard.

Ghost clenched his jaw.

Laswell interrupted the moment. "Take your seats. We’ve got a potential nuclear crisis. Berlin. You’ve been selected because of your... overlapping priorities."

She tapped the tablet, projecting a holographic image of a known Russian arms dealer.

"We believe Viktor Makarov is attempting to acquire plutonium from a defunct Soviet bunker outside Berlin. IMF intercepted chatter that matches Task Force 141's intel. This mission will be a joint operation with MI6 and the CIA. Ethan Hunt is already on the ground."

Rose’s eyes flicked to the screen, her face taut with focus.

"Ethan Hunt?" Ghost asked, voice low.

"Your father’s there," Laswell added, glancing at Rose.

Ghost didn’t miss the tiny flicker in her expression.

"Your mission," Laswell continued, "is to infiltrate a black-market auction Makarov is attending and recover intel on the location of the plutonium. Ghost, you’re on overwatch. Rogue, you’re embedded with surveillance. Hammer handles extraction."

Walker leaned back in his chair. "About time we worked together properly, huh, Ghost?"

Ghost said nothing. His silence was louder than gunfire.

---

Berlin – 48 Hours Later

Rain fell in needles. The wind howled down alleys like a living thing. Berlin was dark, dirty, and angry tonight.

Ghost adjusted the scope on his M14 from a rooftop three clicks from the objective. In his comms, static crackled.

"Rogue, eyes on target?" he muttered.

"Copy," Rose’s voice whispered back. "Target moving toward the south corridor. He’s got two guards. I’ve got a window in ten seconds."

Ghost scanned his angle. He could see the backs of the Russian convoy entering the old Bundestag ruins, converted now into a private auction house for war criminals.

He could also see Walker. And he didn’t like it.

"You shouldn’t be down there with him," he said.

"You don’t get to tell me where to be, Riley," she snapped, but softer than her tone should’ve been.

Ghost exhaled. "I don’t trust him."

"You don’t trust anyone."

"Exactly."

"Eyes forward, Simon," she whispered. He hated how good she sounded saying his name.

Flashback: Six Months Ago, Prague

Rain on cobblestones. A surveillance op gone hot. Rose crouched behind a stone wall, rifle smoking.

“Sniper team, fall back!” someone yelled over the radio.

She was bleeding, cornered, and out of options, until a shadow moved behind her.

August Walker.

He dropped two hostiles without blinking.

“Come on, Rogue,” he said, offering a hand. “You owe me a drink after this.”

She hated him instantly. And then he smiled.

-----

Inside the auction house, Rose moved with perfect control, dressed in tactical black under a server’s coat. Her eyes scanned faces, wealthy dealers, rogue generals, and warlords with cigars.

She spotted him.

Makarov.

He stood beside a tall steel case.

The plutonium core.

She murmured into her comms, "Visual on package. Confirming identity. I’ll need Hammer’s code to access the manifest."

"Where the bloody hell is he?" Ghost growled.

"Right behind me," she replied.

Walker appeared beside her like a shadow. He leaned close, far too close.

"Did you miss me, Rogue?"

"Just give me the code."

He smirked and tapped it into her device.

The screen lit up. Location coordinates. Shipment logs. One word blinked red: Kashmir.

"Ghost," she whispered. "The nukes, he’s moving them to Kashmir. We need to..."

Gunfire.

Suddenly, chaos exploded. The ceiling blew inward. Glass rained down. Someone had tipped them off.

"Extraction compromised!" Walker shouted into the comms. "Move now!"

Rose ducked behind a stone pillar as bullets ripped through the air. She returned fire, her SIG barking thunder.

Ghost was already off the rooftop, ziplining down, his rifle slung as he dropped into the rear alley.

"Rogue, I’m inbound!"

"I’ve got eyes on Makarov! He’s heading out the side..."

Gunfire cut her off.

Ghost found her behind an overturned table, bleeding from her arm.

"Rose!"

"I’m fine," she said through gritted teeth, reloading. "Go after Makarov!"

"You’re my bloody mission now," he snapped, pulling her up with one arm and covering them with suppressive fire.

Walker burst through the side, engaging two masked gunmen near the vault.

"He’s gone!" Walker shouted. "Makarov’s slipped out the back!"

Ghost gritted his teeth. He hated this. He hated everything about how close Walker stayed to Rose.

She stumbled. He caught her.

"You’re hit."

"It’s nothing."

"Bullshite."

------

Ghost POV

He hated watching her bleed. Hated watching him near her even more.

Walker acted like he owned the ground she walked on.

But she wasn’t his.

And if Ghost had anything to say about it, she never would be.

Sirens screamed in the distance.

Walker barked, "Chopper’s two clicks east. Let’s move!"

They exited through smoke and gunfire, with Ghost’s arm firmly around Rose, Walker flanking them like a shadow. The mission had failed. Makarov was gone. The nuke was headed to Kashmir.

But Ghost knew something more dangerous had just begun.

He saw it in the way Walker looked at Rose.

Possessive. Obsessive.

And in the way Rose didn’t see it at all.

--------

Later That Night ,

Safehouse Bravo, Berlin Outskirts

The safehouse was silent save for the low hum of fluorescent lights and the hiss of boiling water in the kettle. Rose sat on the edge of a steel-framed cot, arm wrapped in gauze, blood crusted on her sleeve.

Ghost leaned against the wall near the entrance, arms crossed.

"You should sleep," he said, voice like gravel.

"You should stop staring at me like I broke your favorite rifle," she muttered.

He didn’t smile. But something in his eyes flickered.

"I saw the way he looked at you."

She froze, not looking up. "I’m not yours to worry about, Ghost."

"I’m your partner. That makes it my job."

She stood. Walked past him. Paused at the door.

"You didn’t answer the question."

He didn’t.

And she didn’t look back.

In the corner, behind closed lips, Ghost whispered only to himself.

"That’s the problem."

Outside, thunder cracked across Berlin. And somewhere far east... in Kashmir... the clock had already started ticking.

[agentrouka-blog]

Do you think Sansa would mind that Robb disinherited her? I haven’t read all the books, but I recently saw a Sansa’ quote that she never thought to have a claim

Well, he didn't disinherit her. He placed Jon ahead of her in the line of succession in order to foil the Lannister plan of claiming Winterfell through her.

Ultimately, I think this move would hurt Sansa far less than the knowledge that he could have traded for her but chose not to. Though I doubt GRRM will take the time to explore that. Sansa connects no personal ambition to her claim, though she grows to connect it to her sense of home and belonging and return.

Sansa always had a place in the line of succession. The quote you refer to highlights how unlikely she considered it to become relevant:

But she had not forgotten his words, either. The heir to Winterfell, she would think as she lay abed at night. It's your claim they mean to wed. Sansa had grown up with three brothers. She never thought to have a claim, but with Bran and Rickon dead . . . It doesn't matter, there's still Robb, he's a man grown now, and soon he'll wed and have a son. Anyway, Willas Tyrell will have Highgarden, what would he want with Winterfell? (ASOS, Sansa II)

Later, she is well aware of what this claim means for her. It makes her a target of other people's ambitions.

Tyrell or Lannister, it makes no matter, it's not me they want, only my claim. (ASOS, Sansa III)

At least I am safe here. Joffrey is dead, he cannot hurt me anymore, and I am only a bastard girl now. Alayne Stone has no husband and no claim. And her aunt would soon be here as well. The long nightmare of King's Landing was behind her, and her mockery of a marriage as well. She could make herself a new home here, just as Petyr said. [...] The thought made Sansa weary. All she knew of Robert Arryn was that he was a little boy, and sickly. It is not me she wants her son to marry, it is my claim. No one will ever marry me for love. But lying came easy to her now.  (ASOS, Sansa VI)

GRRM begins the next chapter by having Sansa rebuild the entire castle from memory using snow. Which is pretty heavy-handed symbolism that depicts - without spelling it out - a growing sense of identification with her claim, with the role of bearing the legacy of House Stark and Winterfell. It is not ambition so much a responsibility and personal attachment that guides her.

The next books culminates with a re-emergance of her claim's importance:

 Jon Arryn's bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon . . . and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back . . . why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright. So those are your gifts from me, my sweet Sansa . . . Harry, the Eyrie, and Winterfell. That's worth another kiss now, don't you think?" (AFFC, Alayne II)

Regardless of the actual sincerity of this plan on Littlefinger's part, we are painted a credible image of what Sansa's claim means politically, and she accepts this function of her claim.

To find out that this claim is removed from her would always be ambiguous and depend on context. If she is displaced by Bran and Rickon, it means her beloved brothers are alive. She would be jubilant. If she is displaced by Jon Snow, she may feel more conflicted in knowing her brother Robb disposed of her relevance in this way and how her mother would have felt about it. This might also play into initial concerns on her part how Jon will deal with the competiton that her claim presents in a world where bastardy carries social stigma. It may well put her in danger from other people's politics again.

That is IF Robb's will even becomes public knowledge. GRRM may well keep its impact focused on what it means to Jon in tandem with the reveal of his parentage - giving him two optional identities to privately choose from that cancel out each other.

[jadegretz]

Elisa Maza: Vigilante of the Urban Jungle by Jade Gretz

The gargoyle bells of the Manhattan Clan echoed through the night, a mournful knell amidst the chaos. Elisa Maza, her face etched with a warrior's resolve, stood atop the Chrysler Building, the wind whipping at her auburn hair. Below, the city writhed in the throes of a nightmare.

Demona, the malevolent demon queen, had unleashed her most unholy forces upon New York. Grotesque gargoyles, twisted parodies of the Gothic protectors, swarmed the streets, their eyes burning with a malevolent red light. Packs of feral hellhounds, their slavering jaws dripping with demonic ichor, tore through the city like living nightmares.

Elisa, clad in her black and gray bodysuit, her stone skin shimmering in the moonlight, was a lone beacon of hope amidst the encroaching darkness. Goliath, her stone gargoyle mate, lay unconscious at her feet, his powerful body riddled with wounds inflicted by Demona's elite guard, the Pack.

Grief threatened to consume Elisa, but she tamped it down, channeling it into a steely resolve. Goliath, her love, her protector, couldn't be dead. Not yet. Not when the city, their city, needed them most.

A guttural roar echoed from the surrounding skyscrapers. The Pack, hulking figures clad in crimson armor, descended upon her like a plague of locusts. Leader Xanatos, his eyes gleaming with a manic glint, stood amongst them, a cruel smile twisting his lips.

"Elisa," Xanatos rasped, his voice like nails scraping against stone. "Your little gargoyle friends have fallen. Now, it's your turn."

Elisa, her eyes blazing with defiance, brandished her katana, its blade glowing faintly with a magical light. "Never," she snarled. "Not as long as I draw breath."

The battle commenced in a whirlwind of steel and shadow. Elisa, a whirlwind of fury, danced around the Pack's brutal attacks. Her katana, imbued with ancient magic, cleaved through their armor with chilling ease.

But the Pack were relentless. Xanatos, a master tactician, used their numbers to his advantage. One by one, he wore Elisa down, her movements becoming sluggish, her bre …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

[llaberration]

Coyne's Chronicles: Shadow over Yfiria - Prologue and Masterlist

Coyne let out a tired little sigh, sneaking slowly along the road, his eyes firmly fixed on the two travellers heading along the path towards him. The damp crunching of their boots on the stone path leading him through the mist even when he drew far enough ahead that his sharp eyes lost sight of them.

The rain was coming down heavy now, concealing the stealthy rustle of the man's light footsteps on the soft ground. The heavy bout of storms darkening the skies over Yfiria were uncommon for this time of year, a land better known for much more moderate weather. Coyne had heard talk among the people that it was the gods, angry at the world's state of war and decay that had sent the uncharacteristic weather. Coyne himself thought that that this was unlikely. If sending storms was the worst thing the gods had to say in response to the situation, the people should really consider themselves fortunate.

He had been staying ahead of these two men for some time, a pair of merchants, waiting for them to make camp. It was getting late, and he had hoped that they would stop some time before this point so that he could rob them, but they were persistently walking on in defiance of both weather and good sense, and he was getting impatient.

Begging just wasn't doing the job any more.

He sighed a little, running a dirty hand along his side, feeling his ribs, how much they protruded from his flesh. He didn't have long left if he couldn't get just a few more coins.

A silver coin per day.

That was how it had always been.

The price of living for a monster like him. A monster born from the most unfortunate of circumstances; hybridised from a mage under a curse of undying, and a mimic that had taken it upon itself to eat that mage. The curse of undying had taken the two beings to become a new consciousness, neither man nor mimic, and yet both.

It didn't matter in what form the fee was paid. Whether it was twelve copper, one silver, or one gold which could cover six days. Gems, treasures and trinkets were all accepted, valued at 'what a man of reasonable means would pay for them.'

He remembered how the good times had been once, before the war. When he had been healthy and handsome, able to fool arrogant soldiers and drinkers into gambling against him, using his tricks to cheat and win bags of gold. To keep him young, to keep him healthy... to keep him alive.

Those times felt very distant now.

He was a shadow of a man. His skin greying and covered in scrapes, his once handsome face drawn and thin. Once he had possessed a healthy crop of curly auburn hair but now it was thin and the curls loose, badly conditioned. His bony form was clad in ragged brown clothes that had never properly fitted, and time had been most unkind to the harsh material. On his wrists lay two heavy iron bands, studded with smooth, rounded rivets, a souvenir from his mimic side, he could not remove them, as they were as much a part of him as his hands. Sometimes, they felt so heavy he could barely raise his arms, and the worn metal was pockmarked and uncomfortable to wear, showing the same poor condition as the rest of him.

War had torn the land for almost a century, and in its wake, at the hands of foolish men seeking a key to victory, had come disease, a terrible plague that tore the bodies of the dead from their rest and forced them to walk again, doing its bidding. The people of Yfiria, a once prosperous, if divided, land had grown poor, frightened and desperate, with no money to gamble, and less to spare for a skinny beggar such as he had now become. Coyne had quickly learned to be an adept thief, gifted with uncanny speed and the ability to detect gold and valuables from quite some distance through cloth, bags and containers. But finding anyone with anything actually worth stealing was increasingly difficult in these turbulent and dangerous days.

The two men now before the mimic hybrid were traders, and though their wares were basic, and of no immense value, he had heard the clinking of coins in a money pouch like the ringing of a dinner bell. Perhaps enough for another week if he was extremely fortunate.

He continued to move along the track, staying ahead of his target, staying hidden, waiting as darkness fell.

Eventually, their steps slowed on the worn ground, and he heard muttered voices that they should stop for the night. Their cart creaked in objection as they heaved it up onto the slightly more solid mud beside the track, and stopped. There were rustles as they settled in, unrolling bedding beneath the cart, and laying down back to back to rest.

Coyne continued to wait with the patience of a stone.

Only once he heard their breaths thicken with sleep did he move forwards.

He moved slow, maintaining absolute silence, drawing close to them before activating his limited magic, one of the few things inherited from his two part predecessors. One of his green eyes glittered in the darkness, then glowed golden as he used his treasure-seeking spell, glancing over them to spot the coin purse glowing on one man's belt.

He leaned closer, his tongue flicking across his lips as he reached out slowly, and with agonising delicacy, began to work the purse free. He held his breath as he did so, praying that the water dripping from his dark, rain drenched hair, would not fall on the men and wake them.

It must have taken him the best part of ten minutes to loosen the purse, but he was skilled at his art, and used his patience to get his prize safely before stealing away into the night, the object clasped tightly in his hand and rain filling his tracks as he went.

Once he was well away in the trees, he deftly clambered up one, and settled in the branches to tug open the small purse.

Inside was a meagre amount. Seven copper coins, two silver, and a small silver ring set with jade.

Nothing particularly valuable. But better than nothing and certainly worth the trouble.

Moving swiftly, he stuffed the coins into his mouth, swallowing them eagerly, feeling them clink together as they landed against each other in his empty belly.

He held the ring on his tongue for a while, tasting it, rolling it around, adoring the metal's flavour, before finally swallowing it, and settling down to sleep right where he was, wedged in the branches of the tree. That should give him a few more days leeway. He was down to a matter of weeks, so every day he finished with more than he woke up was a major win.

Still.

He was getting worried.

He still had his magic but it had faded to its dregs now. He had to use it sparingly.

If things did not improve soon. The price would be his life.

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Masterlist! (New chapters uploaded fortnightly!)

(not all chapters on Tumblr yet, I'm going a little at a time until they're all caught up! I'll keep updating this with tumblr links as they arrive so please be patient with me!)

Prologue <- You are here Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Epilogue

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Thirty-Five

As they followed Ser Criston down the corridor, Lord Jasper's voice filled with desperation as he thought out loud about various ways Maera could avoid the execution block, should the King allow it. He mentioned banishment as a governess to some distant Lord's children, training with the Silent Sisters in a motherhouse, or returning to Rain House to live, albeit, a disgraced life. Each option involved Maera begging for mercy before the King, something she adamantly refused to do.

Yet, Maera couldn't fully engage with her father's words. If she were to die, at least it would be as a result of her fight for her friend. She'd be reunited with her mother, Lady Gael, in death, rather than enduring more torture in King's Landing or being married off as a brood mare to some lord. In some strange way, death seemed like the better choice.

Reaching the imposing doors of the throne room, Lord Jasper glared at his daughter and sternly commanded her to beg for forgiveness, to claim her outburst was a momentary lapse of judgment, that her ‘womanly emotions’ had overwhelmed her. But Maera ignored him, her gaze fixed on the doors, ready to embrace whatever came next.

The castle guards then opened the doors and announced the arrival of the Master of Laws and his daughter, the Jewel of Rainwood, Lady Maera. Standing at the entrance to the great hall, it was evident that the room was brimming with spectators, all eager to bear witness to the Kings address to the Wylde’s. The courtiers, clad in a kaleidoscope of richly colored garments, created a sea of opulence that stretched from the throne to the entrance.

As Maera advanced down the central aisle with her father, towards the Iron Throne, she drank in the grand chamber of towering stone arches and polished marble floors, which exuded an aura of regal majesty. The room's vaulted ceiling seemed to stretch toward the heavens, and upon it hung giant firepit chandeliers, casting a warm, flickering light that danced upon the gold-and-black Targaryen banners that adorned the walls. There are worst places to be sentenced to death, she thought.

Reaching the front of the hall, Lord Jasper executed a deep bow before his king, and Maera reluctantly curtsied, her gaze reluctantly meeting Aegon's even though his judgment loomed over her.

The room buzzed with hushed whispers and the clinking of Kingsguard armor, creating an eerie and tense atmosphere. Aegon was seated on the formidable Iron Throne, an intimidating structure of twisted swords and jagged metal, standing out against the grand window of daylight behind it. The King’s head adorned with the conqueror's crown, which appeared to Maera as if a child were wearing a makeshift paper hat. His face, no longer swollen, bore shades of green and blue, with healing cuts on his lips now scabbed over.

The steps leading down from the imposing throne were adorned with the swords of fallen enemies, serving as a chilling reminder of the throne's power. Positioned at the base of these steps, on either side, stood the rest of Aegon's family, in a prime position to watch the unfolding drama.

To the left of the grand Iron Throne stood Queen Alicent, her auburn hair meticulously crafted into an intricate braided bun. Her dark green conservative gown, adorned with golden swirls, shimmered in the sunlight filtering through the windows. At her side was her youngest son, Daeron, donned in a doublet of earthy brown and deep green, complemented by black trousers and polished black boots. His vivid violet eyes swept across the room, while his unruly silver curls cascaded loosely.

On the right-hand side of the throne, the imposing figure of the Hand of the King, Lord Otto, commanded attention. A distinguished authority, his auburn hair bore the graceful threads of gray, reflecting his experience. The Hand of the King's broach was prominently displayed on his green waistcoat, and his golden chains adorned his broad shoulders.

Finally, stood next to his grandfather, was Aemond Targaryen, hands firmly clasped behind his back and stance unwavering. He wore a doublet of onyx black, adorned with intricate embroidery that depicted dragons in flight. The fabric was finely woven and tailored to perfection, emphasizing his tall and commanding figure. His trousers, black and well-fitted, flowed seamlessly into polished leather boots that gleamed with the sheen of nobility.

Maera rose from her curtsy and her gaze locked onto the one-eyed prince, his enigmatic violet eye betraying no hint of her impending fate. The hushed murmurs of the courtiers fell silent, and the room seemed to hold its breath as the King cleared his throat to speak.

"I'm certain you wonder, Lord Wylde, why you and your daughter have been summoned before this court," Aegon began, his tone controlled and authoritative.

Lord Jasper replied tersely, "Indeed, my King," his gaze skewering Maera, who faced his scrutiny with a determined jaw and no eye contact.

Aegon continued, addressing the assembled courtiers, "It has come to my attention that the Small Council has convened, without my knowledge, to discuss Lady Maera's recent acquisition of the seat of Morne, in the Straits of Tarth." Maera couldn't help but fight the urge to roll her eyes, anticipating that Aegon would try to leverage this issue for a more lenient sentence.

The King furrowed his brow as he looked around his room of subjects. "I'm aware that the Small Council asked you, Lord Jasper, to relinquish your daughter's rightful inheritance without providing substantial assurances from the crown. Despite Lord Jasper's concerns for his family's safety and the unrest it would cause upon the mainland of Tarth. Valid points as far as I can see.”

Lord Jasper kept his green-grey eyes on his King and Maera watched as her father attempted to hold himself together, despite his nerves causing shaking in his fists. The King then concluded his little speech with, "I can only offer my apologies for the way this matter was mishandled by my advisors on the Council.”

A puzzled expression danced across Maera's face. She couldn't quite fathom why the King was offering apologies to her father. Perhaps, she thought with a tinge of cynicism, he was prolonging this ordeal for his own amusement – a typical Aegon move.

As Aegon's eyes locked onto Maera's, an intense, unspoken exchange unfolded, a silent duel between emerald green and striking violet. Maera's mind raced with questions about the king's intentions. What game was he playing now?

Breaking their gaze, Aegon shifted his attention back to Lord Jasper. His voice carried an air of solemnity as he acknowledged, "I'm aware of House Wylde's unyielding devotion to its own." Aegon cast a meaningful glance toward Maera, his words heavy with implication. "I have experienced firsthand House Wylde's... fierce dedication when it comes to protecting the ones they love."

Maera's heart pounded loudly in her chest. This was it, she thought, bracing herself for Aegon to unveil her transgressions and deliver the inevitable sentence.

Aegon's voice resonated throughout the Throne Room, carrying an air of calculated diplomacy. "A House with such outstanding loyalty, a rare commodity in these troubled times, should be assured with more than just the word of a King who is already at war," he declared, his gaze briefly landing on Maera with a smirk. "I believe those were the words you used, Lady Maera," he added.

Maera clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing at the memory. "Yes, Your Grace," she managed to mutter, her tone reluctant.

The King's voice boomed with authority as he proposed, "I would like to discuss more favorable terms with you, my Lord, about securing the Straits of Tarth for our war effort."

Confusion enveloped Maera. What sort of terms could Aegon possibly offer? She cast a sidelong glance at Aemond, who seemed lost in thought, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Did he possess knowledge of these terms? And if so, what did they entail? The other nobles present also seemed to wonder what terms the King was presenting, the room buzzing with hushed conversations that ebbed and flowed like a gentle current, until the Kingsguard encouraged them to settle down.

Lord Jasper exchanged a perplexed glance with his daughter, both uncertain about the unexpected direction this conversation was taking. It seemed unusual for the King to avoid addressing Maera's recent transgressions, focusing instead on some sort of deal. Trying to maintain decorum, Lord Jasper replied, "Your grace, I am deeply honored by your words."

King Aegon's smile remained as he continued to speak, revealing his intentions. "To ensure House Wylde's family gains more assurance from the crown, we must join our houses," he declared.

“I would have offered your hand, my Lady, to my youngest brother. But unfortunately Daeron is not yet…able to produce heirs. Something I did not have a problem at his age, I can assure you,” Aegon snickered, provoking a chuckle from some of the courtiers in the room. Prince Daeron blushed intensely, trying to cover his embarrassment with a forced cough, while Queen Alicent shot a disapproving glare at her eldest son, Aegon.

The King proceeded, offering an alternative proposal. "I will provide the Lady Maera with a different husband, one who can ensure the swift production of heirs, which will be needed to quickly solidify their union. Her sons will inherit the seat of Morne and satisfy the mainlanders of Tarth, assuring them that the Straits will remain within their own blood."

Maera's heart raced, and her palms grew sweaty. The prospect of marriage, heirs, and the complexities of politics and war weighed heavily on her. It was all happening too fast, and the gravity of the situation left her feeling overwhelmed.

Aegon then interlaced his fingers and rested them beneath his chin, adopting a casual yet commanding posture. "I would like to propose an offer of marriage," he announced with a glint of mischief in his eye, "between my brother, Aemond, and Lady Maera, elevating her to the esteemed title of Princess of the Realm."

Gasps of surprise and intrigued murmurs rippled through the assembly like a gentle wave. Whispers of alliances and implications filled the air as the courtiers exchanged knowing glances and furtive gestures.

Maera's world seemed to crumble in that very instant. The weight of the proposal bore down on her like a mountain, emotions surging within her all at once - fear, anger, perhaps even a flicker of relief? The tumultuous mixture left her feeling queasy, and her stomach churned with uncertainty.

Lord Jasper was quick to respond, “My King, I would be deeply honored to accept such a proposition. However, House Wylde has sworn allegiance to House Baratheon, and the Prince is already betrothed to one of Lord Borros’s daughters. I would not wish to cause any-”

Aegon raised his hand in a commanding gesture, halting Lord Jasper's words mid-sentence. The King wasn't done yet.

Lord Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, took up the mantle of explanation. "We've already communicated this matter with Lord Borros via raven," he clarified. "Terms have been discussed, including offering Prince Daeron for one of his daughters and, should you consent, my Lord, one of your own sons to wed another of Lord Borros's daughters. House Baratheon is content with this agreement."

Aegon couldn't resist interjecting with a confident grin, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "You see, the stag will still have his share of the crown," he exclaimed, gesturing with his hand for emphasis. "One daughter to marry a prince of the blood, and the other to wed the brother of a princess of the realm. What more could he possibly desire?"

Maera's thoughts were a whirlwind, struggling to grasp the implications of this whirlwind proposal. Princess? Agreement? Brother? Aemond? Aemond! The realization hit her like a bolt of lightning. As she teetered on the verge of hyperventilation, she locked eyes with the One-Eyed Prince, who was now firmly fixated on her.

Violet met green, conveying the problems of the past and the weight of their shared future. The throne room, with its grandeur and history, seemed to fade into the background as they stood there, two figures bound by fate, their gazes an unbreakable connection that spoke of both the challenges and the possibilities that lay ahead.

As the courtiers whispered and exchanged curious glances, the hushed atmosphere seemed to hum with intrigue. Some leaned in to share their thoughts in furtive conversations, while others cast sidelong glances at the figures of importance in the room.

Amidst the bewildering turn of events, Maera could hear her father's breath quickening beside her. She stole a sidelong glance at him, her heart pounding with uncertainty. His face seemed to be a canvas splattered with conflicting emotions—was he about to cry, or perhaps laugh? The truth was elusive, but one feeling stood stark and undeniable upon his countenance: pure, unadulterated joy.

Aegon directed his attention back to Lord Jasper, pressing the issue at hand. "My Lord Wylde," he began, his voice carrying weight and anticipation, "I hope this gesture reassures you that the crown will protect the bride’s family. But one question remains; Do you agree to this match?"

In an instant, Maera felt her hand being tugged downward, her father's movements unmistakable as he descended to his knees. It sent Maera to the floor as well, drawn by the gravity of the moment. The throne room watched in hushed expectation.

Lord Jasper, now humbled before the crown, spoke with a reverence that seemed out of place considering the circumstances. "I graciously accept your offer for my daughter, your Grace," he declared, his voice unwavering with gratitude. "I thank the King and the Small Council with all my heart. I assure you, my daughter Maera will be a dutiful wife, and their union shall bear fruit in no time."

Maera found herself struck dumb by the unfolding events, her gaze fixed on the polished floor beneath her as an unsettling feeling of sickness churned within her. This moment had turned her world upside down, and it was hard to discern if her emotions leaned toward dread or something else entirely.

Then, like a jarring note in an otherwise surreal symphony, Aegon's voice pierced the silence. "Is there anything you wish to ask of me, dear sister?" he inquired, his tone saccharinely sweet, making her skin crawl. The notion of being referred to as the King's sister made her skin crawl, and only deepened her discomfort.

With a sense of desperation, Maera shifted her gaze to Aemond, the one person in the room who she thought might truly understand the turmoil she was experiencing. Her voice was unsteady as she addressed him directly, "Is this what you want, my Prince?"

Aemond, his response swift and measured, replied with a dutiful tone, "I shall do as my King commands, for the sake of the Realm."

Aegon chuckled at Aemond's response, his voice dripping with sly amusement. "Such concern for your feelings, Aemond," he remarked to Maera. "It's quite touching, and I believe it will serve you well in your marriage."

Maera stifled the urge to roll her eyes. Aegon continued, now addressing the practical aspects of the union. “Rest assured, Mayflower, even though my brother does not show it, he is thrilled with the match. Not only will Aemond gain the Jewel of Rainwood as his wife, and the Straits of Tarth as part of her dowry, but he would also ascend to the position of Master of Coin. How fortunate that the role that had been promised to your future husband, regardless, should now fall to my brother. I can think of no one better to handle the Crown’s financial matters.”

A sinking feeling gripped Maera as she absorbed the King's commentary. Of course Aemond would agree to this marriage- The agreement was not born of care or affection but a calculated move for power. With a mixture of resignation and bitterness, she could not help but acknowledge that he had played his cards well in this political game.

Queen Alicent, who had been observing the unfolding conversation, finally spoke, her question aimed directly at Maera. "Lady Maera," she inquired, "do you consent to this match?"

The question hung in the air, and the room was filled with a sense of anticipation, every whispered conversation and exchanged glance carrying the weight of the moment. Maera's mind raced as she considered her options, or rather, the lack thereof.

She couldn't very well decline this offer, not when it was the most advantageous alliance House Wylde could hope for. Yet, in accepting, she knew it would seal her fate in King's Landing. She grappled with the uncertainty of what her marriage to Aemond might bring—would he only become more bitter and twisted over the years, and would she have to navigate that? As his wife?

Maera swallowed the lump in her throat, her gaze shifting from her father, whose eyes bore a silent plea for her agreement, to the King who waited expectantly. She cleared her throat, her voice firm, "Your Grace, it would be an honor and a privilege to accept such an advantageous match, one I am not sure I am worthy of." She paused, her resolve unwavering, "If it pleases you, I shall continue to serve Queen Helaena faithfully, not merely as her lady-in-waiting, but as her devoted sister."

The King's smirk was unmistakable as he nodded, "Very well, Lady Maera. We shall take your commitment into consideration, but rest assured, once Aemond has fulfilled his duty and you have provided him with an heir, you will have your hands full." This elicited laughter from some of the courtiers, their mirth echoing through the hall.

With a grand gesture, King Aegon stood and clapped his hands together, his voice booming, "Excellent news, indeed! A wedding to plan, and a war to win. If we're to secure victory swiftly, the Straits of Tarth must be in our hands sooner rather than later." His gaze shifted to his mother, Queen Alicent, and he declared, "I want the wedding to be arranged within six weeks' time."

Queen Alicent hesitated for a moment but eventually conceded, "As you wish, my son."

The die had been cast, and Maera's fate was sealed. The King's dismissal echoed in Maera's ears, and she and Lord Jasper hurriedly made their way out of the throne room. Her father seemed elated by the betrothal, his voice filled with excitement as he discussed practical matters and future plans. However, Maera's mind was a swirling tempest of emotions, and she could scarcely hear her father's words over the cacophony inside her head.

Finally, as they reached her chambers and her father cautioned her to maintain her composure and behave impeccably until the wedding, Maera closed the doors behind her and let out a long, shuddering breath.

Alone in her room, the weight of the day's events pressed down on her like a leaden shroud. She sank to the floor, her back against the door, her mind a tumult of thoughts and feelings. Relief coursed through her veins; she had narrowly escaped the executioner's blade. But with that reprieve came a profound sense of loss, for her freedom had been traded for a life predetermined by a marriage she had no say in.

Anger simmered beneath the surface, directed at Aegon for leading her to believe there would be consequences for her actions. And then there was the apprehension, the uncertainty of what it meant to be Aemond's wife. Would he despise her for a union forced upon him, an eternal reminder of the past? These thoughts overwhelmed her, and she gave in to the tears that had been building, allowing her emotions to flow freely. She cried and cried, as if purging herself of the tumultuous emotions that threatened to consume her, attempting to come to terms with the future that laid ahead of her

Notes: *mic drop*

Tags: @blue-serendipity @grungegrrrl @marvelescvpe @shesjustanothergeek

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[rmelster]

BOOK ONE: ISABELLE DE BOURBON, THE COURTIER.

The first gleam of the dawn tore apart the veil of mist, whilst two riders neared the town in silence.

The first of them was a rudy and placid man, clad in red cloth, with the bearing of a noble and the form of a man who in younger years had been warlike and vigorous, and in the older, merry and restful; dark and thick had once been his curls, now stricken with the silver of maturity, but his eyes were the same since he was just the Count of Clermont, a young lad wagging wars in the darkest days of his time: Raven eyes, small, dark and penetrating. The eyes of Bourbon.

Closely, his child followed; a young lady of the age of eight, who did not resembled her noble sire, but whose spirit already showed the virtues present in all of her kin. Her hair, braided and modestly dressed with a velvet hood, was a dark auburn, and the dark green dress she wore underneath her gray riding cloak made her face look fairer.

The shadows vanished, and Château de Chinon, legendary dwelling of Bourbons, appeared before their eyes. The young lady would never forget how the fortress stood in the distance, nestled on the high ground like a dragon of stone and history, as if its walls emerged from the entrails of that blessed land, and as she stared in awe from the saddle of her white palfrey, she would have swore upon her very soul, that Chinon stared her back too. At its stony feet, the Vienne river ran through the village, whispering undying legends of chivalry and war to all who listened.

“This shall be thy domain, my dear daughter” the man told his daughter, and his voice carried that accent that lives only the speak of those who dwell in the lands of Auvergne, “Upon my death, this land, that once was mine, shall become thine, and only thine.”

A flock of birds crossed the sky, and the child gripped the reins of her palfrey.

“Father, this place as always belonged to the blood of Bourbon…” she humbly said, “If I am to marry a man who shares not our bloodline, this domains…”

“… This domains shall still belong to thee and, once Death brings thee to their realm, it shall belong to thy heir too. And fear not, my child: Thy husband, Bourbon of name or not, shall not take thy name from you, nor thy claim, nor thy spirit” the father replied, and let out one last statement: “The blood of Bourbon never dies, my child: Royalty shall end, nobility shall end, our times shall past, but our name… It shall last.”

The child raised her head, and a faint smile of pride curved her lips: She would dearly remember that day, and that promise, until the very day it torn all apart.

“I will honour our name” she swore too, and her father smiled.

“Yes, thou shall” the noble man affirmed, “Now, let us go back to our path; Burgundy awaits thee, Isabelle.”

@catherinemybeloved / @nealsneen / @ricardian-werewolf

[alt-lucidifer]

Book-Wielder’s Normopathy

Chapter 5

“The Shan Yao city walls loomed behind them, great grey stones stacked high and kissed by pale light against the setting of spring morning's slow birth. Overhead, the sky was invigorated with the soft fire of the rising sun, its golden sheen slipping between scatterings of sleepy clouds, painting the world in hues of rose and vermillion.”

“Two figures leading a steed moved along the crumbling path beyond the city's edge, their steps swift but careful, heads kept low. They slipped through a crumbling gap in the brickwork where moss grew as if parasitic, sustaining its growth on the mineral. Beyond the threshold, the world opened — a sprawl of untamed ground.”

“One was clad in robes of deepest black hugging an undershirt of bright fuchsia, embroidered with bold flashes of gold and silver—dragons twisting through smoky veils, thunder splitting heavens. His hair, belting in waves, white as bone marrow, caught the morning light in gleaming strands, whipping about his sharp features. Obscuring the fine details in shadow was a large bamboo hat with a veil of black cloth sewn into , one recently found on his cinematic getaway. Beside him walked another, robed in plain marble-white, the cloth soft and unadorned save for the simple cut of its folds and its collection of clinking trinkets along the belt. His auburn hair framed a face serene, content and unreadable, his black eyes reflecting the waking world like still pools of ink.”

“They crossed fields littered with dew, where thin tendrils of mist clung stubbornly to the blades of grass. The air carried with it the scent of bamboo shoots and fresh blooms. The spring breeze fluttered their sleeves and set the tall grasses whispering. Ahead, the land split open into a gaping ravine, assortments of cliffs jutting like broken teeth toward the sky. As if they were snakes slithering their way up to swallow the sun in a single gulp, thin, steep paths consisting of blocky boulders, molten amber and overgrowths marked the way to climb. Cliffs towered on either side, their jagged faces veiled in creeping ivy and crowned with wind-bent pines. Shadows still pooled in the depths of the gorge, untouched by sunlight. The underside of clouds curled along the stone faces, swirling with the passing wind. Step by step, the city’s voices of anger fell away behind them: no more clatter of carts, no more barking vendors, no more chanting monks. Only the cry of a distant hawk and soft scuff of boots on stone.”

For as long as Yunzhuo could keep himself silent.

“I really didn't mean to cause any trouble when telling the locals about Rascal, I mean it, Daozhang… I might've been a bit worked up at that moment, but I hadn't thought that the old woman would rally the entire town to go hunt you down!” He kept his volume low enough to avoid drawing attention, but it came out in a kind of frantic whisper-shout. “Honestly, Daozhang, I was just a little… flustered. I didn’t think that old granny would get the whole damn town to form a mob and start hunting you down!”

Qiji didn’t respond immediately. His eyes drifted toward the horizon, scanning the overgrown road ahead, as if he were more interested in the half-faded signs that lined the exit from the city than anything Yunzhuo had to say.

“Hm,” he finally intoned. Not so much a reply as it was a vocal shrug.

Yunzhuo grimaced. He wasn’t sure if that meant Qiji didn’t care or if he was just choosing not to. Either way, it didn't make him feel any better. He quickened his step, circling around slightly to catch Qiji’s attention.

“I’m telling you the truth, I mean it! But really, shouldn’t I be the one who’s angry right now?” He gestured at himself in exasperation. “I’m not the one who stole a horse!”

That got a reaction.

Qiji stopped walking, just like that—an abrupt halt that made Yunzhuo nearly trip over his own feet. Slowly, Qiji turned his head, his gaze falling on Yunzhuo with the sharp, unreadable stillness of a predator just before it pounces. His eyes were shadowed beneath the brim of his hat except for a glaring red pupil, and for a moment, Yunzhuo felt a prickle of cold sweat form at the back of his neck.

Their eyes met, and Yunzhuo faltered. Something simmered behind Qiji’s gaze—something not quite anger, but certainly not approval. Yunzhuo quickly looked away, nerves jangling.

What is with this guy? Yunzhuo pondered to himself. He couldn't help but feel morbidly curious about him. He could get over being cheated, but if he'd left him behind in the city, the nagging at the back of his mind would never have quieted down. His cultivation was clearly high, but he couldn't tell if he was on par with a Master or not. He'd bet his money on the fact that they were on equal footing, which didn't bode well for Yunzhuo. There had to be some way to crack him that didn't equate to becoming the victim of a gruesome murder.

“...You said you're a Temple Master.” Qiji figured the title was something akin to a supervisor or manager in work terms, so he didn't feel too out of his element. No matter the time period, hierarchies will always reign supreme, Qiji annotated.

“You remember that?” Yunzhuo exclaimed in surprise. He had been almost fully convinced that his travel companion could not care less for his aimless ramblings. Could it be the case that the truth was not so? Then, what?

“Yes.” Qiji answered simply. You're like a treasure valve of information, and you're not even trying to hide it. Thanks to your blabbermouth, I've already become knowledgeable enough of this place to have a general layout down.

The wind tugged at the edges of his robe as they crested a bend in the path, dust curling up around their boots. The city behind them had nearly vanished into the mountain’s shadow, and the trees lining the old trail thickened, casting long silhouettes in the late afternoon light.

“Well…” Yunzhuo ran a hand through his wind-tousled hair, attempting a modest shrug that came off more sheepish than proud. “That is true. I am the Temple Master of Baifeng Peak.”

Qiji slowed to a near stop, his footsteps deliberately measured. His expression had cooled even further—if that were possible—like the surface of a lake right before it freezes. “Then why are you bothering to deal with me?”

“W–what?” Yunzhuo blinked, thrown off. He stumbled another step before catching up, gaze darting toward Qiji’s face.

“Allow me to rephrase. Why would a renowned cultivating genius spend his precious free time with a stranger of unknown origin?” Qiji's hand hovered over his hip, dangerously close to a hidden sword hilt hidden under his robes. “What do you want from me?”

“I- I only-”

“Cut the horseshit.” As if on cue, Rascal—trotting idly a few paces behind—let out a disgruntled snort, stamping a hoof against the rocky path.

Qiji’s gaze didn’t waver. “Esteemed Lao Yunguang… What is it that you seek from me?”

There was a beat of silence. Then Yunzhuo laughed—a thin, wavering sound, meant to dismiss tension but failing miserably. He lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. “It seems you’re starting to doubt our noble companionship, Daozhang. But I assure you, it’s not what you’re thinking. I sincerely just—”

“What companionship?” Qiji’s interruption was immediate and icy, like a blade sliding from its sheath.

Yunzhuo flinched at the words, then dropped his smile. His brows knitted, and his stance subtly shifted—feet grounding themselves more firmly in the dirt. “...Fine. If that’s how it’s going to be.” Yunzhuo heightened his guard and widened his footing. One palm lowering toward his waist while the other hovered at chest level—classic preparation for a defensive draw. “If you don't believe me, consider it a way to pay me back for stealing my horse.”

“I already did.” Qiji insisted matter-of-factly. His stance hadn’t changed, but his gaze sharpened, glinting with scrutiny.

“For the dastardly action, yes. But you have not repaid your debt of emotional turmoil to me—I was left in disarray, abandoned…”

Qiji made a sound that might have been a laugh or a tsk—it was hard to tell. He looked away, brows pinched faintly.

Yunzhuo tilted his head. Maybe it wasn't going to be as easy as he thought… But then, he got an idea! A gleam of confidence snuck into his expression as he proudly declared, “Daozhang. There’s much you don’t know about our pugilistic world yet, isn’t there?”

Something flickered across Qiji’s face—barely there, but Yunzhuo caught it. A flinch, subtle and involuntary. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

How…? Qiji was unsure how to take that.

Got him, Yunzhuo thought.

“You are still in need of a guide. I can fill that role for you, in exchange for the simple promise of your camaraderie,” he continued, voice gentler now, persuasive. “It's not a bad trade. What do you care for what intentions I harbor? That's not why you're here, right?”

“What you're proposing sounds like a business deal to me.”

“You could call it that,” Yunzhuo said with a grin, shrugging again. “We're both getting something out of it, aren't we?”

Qiji was silent for a moment, gaze sliding toward the horizon, then back to Yunzhuo. The wind picked up again, rustling the branches overhead.

“In that case…” Qiji murmured, his voice low and unreadable.

A soft, mechanical chime pierced the stillness.

Without warning, a translucent panel flickered into existence in front of Qiji, hovering in midair like a summoned spirit. Its edges glowed faintly in a muted gold, casting a faint light across the shadows of the trees. The interface was minimalistic: just a simple line of text and two options displayed beneath it.

[Requirements have been met. Main Quest: GUIDED HAND has been unlocked.]

Would you like to begin?

[YES] — [NO]

The familiar calm voice of the Narrator echoed somewhere between thought and sound, neither entirely external nor internal—its presence as unnervingly natural as breath.

Qiji stared at the prompt for a moment, unmoved. Then, he exhaled softly—less a sigh and more a quiet acknowledgement to him, if he were to be listening, that he recognized he had no choice.

“...Sure,” he said, lips curling into a faint smirk betraying bemusement. “Why not.”

Proving it had taken that as an answer, the [YES] option made a faint clicking noise before the panel disappeared altogether with a gentle flicker. As if it had never been there at all.

Yunzhuo, however, didn’t seem reassured. He peered at Qiji with squinted eyes, suspicion creeping into his voice.

“That’s good and all, but…” He paused, chewing his words like they tasted strange in his mouth. “Something tells me, Daozhang… that your intentions might not be entirely pure.”

Qiji turned his head slowly, the full weight of his gaze settling on Yunzhuo. His expression was as composed as ever, but his eyes… sharp, glinting with something unknowable, something a little too still.

Yunzhuo faltered. “Maybe it’s your eyes,” he muttered. “They’re just so…”

Qiji’s voice dropped, smooth and cold as drawn steel. His eyes widened faintly, enough to warn. “Go on.”

The space between them seemed to tense, like a bow pulled taut. Yunzhuo chuckled nervously and awkwardly raised both hands in a placating gesture. “...Nevermind. Forget I said anything.”

Hahaha, please stop looking at me like a piece of meat… he thought, heart picking up speed.

Qiji’s gaze lingered a second longer, then turned away, as though deciding—for now—not to press further. It's been a while since someone commented on my looks like that. I can't believe I almost got mad—that would've been unnecessary. He probably didn't mean anything by it. I can't blame him for being curious. I probably look like something out of a storybook for him.

Anyway, this is for the best. I'm not sure how well I'd do trying to ride on a sword—if that is true, as I'd assumed—so I'll just settle for the second best option. I have no idea where I'll get a horse in the wild, so going with him might actually be good for quicker transportation.

“Ahem… That is to say, Daozhang…” Yunzhuo started.

Oh, here he goes again.

“...There will be a small fee.”

Qiji raised an eyebrow. Without as much as another moment to question him, he'd already begun to reach inside of his sleeve to retrieve his wallet for a second time.

“Ah- nonono, that was not what I was referring to! What I meant was that I'll require a small service from you. I currently have my hands full with something else, so I'll need Daozhang's guarantee that he'll lend me a helping hand in subduing any naughty creatures. You'll escort me back to Baifeng Peak and I'll tell you everything you want to know about both the mortal world and the cultivation world.”

"... Approximately how long is this trip?" Qiji's voice, though calm now, held a hint of weariness. He finally allowed the tension to drain from his body, his shoulders dropping with a soft rustle of fabric as he tucked his arms behind his back.

"Ehhhh… In any other person's shoes," Yunzhuo began, his gaze drifting towards the distant horizon as if calculating the miles, "I might've said about… two days, tops. A straightforward journey, assuming decent roads and fair weather. But…" A wry smile touched his lips, a self-deprecating humor glinting in his eyes. But…" He paused, a light breeze ruffling his hair. "Knowing my bad luck, the kind that attracts every obstacle and delay known to man… at least three."

A dry, unexpected scoff came from Qiji. It was a sound that cut through the quiet air. From the corner of his eye, Yunzhuo saw the subtle movement of Qiji's mouth, the corners twitching upwards as if suppressing a laugh. The sight was unexpected, keeping Yunzhuo’s impression of Qiji in mind.

"Hm?" Yunzhuo turned to face Qiji fully, his expression one of disbelief. What was so amusing about his misfortune?

Qiji's expression was unreadable at first, then a faint, almost sad smile touched his lips. "You have no idea what bad luck is," he stated grimly, "until you've gotten to know me."

The two gentlemen then set off for the mountains, commencing their trek through staggering terrain and past breathtaking views. Qiji, initially forbidden from riding, endured the first half of the trip on foot, finally earning a place on horseback after a welcome respite deep within a valley. In exchange for Qiji's guidance through the unfamiliar territory, there was an unspoken agreement that he would also provide a layer of "protection." Yunzhuo, a capable individual in his own right, didn't truly need Qiji's help in that regard. His primary motivation was to observe Qiji's abilities in a practical setting. He wanted to assess Qiji's capabilities without directly challenging him. Plus, he openly admitted to himself, he simply enjoyed not having to shoulder all the responsibility. He had no shame in "clinging" to others if it meant a less demanding experience, especially when he was confident he could match or even exceed their abilities if the situation demanded it.

"Any thoughts on where we should stay the night once we're out of the mountains?" Yunzhuo inquired, a casual question that led to a very one-sided discussion about potential inns and their amenities. Then, Yunzhuo shifted the topic slightly. "I'll need to send word home to my disciples once we're settled.”

It was during their passage through the farmlands that Qiji showcased a truly unexpected talent. Spotting a few stray goats wandering near their path, he produced a small, intricate contraption. With a flick of his wrist, a ball of crackling, bluish energy – a "plasma bullet" as he later called it – shot out, harmlessly stunning one of the goats. He caught another with similar ease. The invention, he explained after much deliberation and being pressured into it by Yunzhuo, was a recent development. He'd discovered its properties quite by accident, a comical incident involving a small explosion of plasma that had singed his eyebrows and left Yunzhuo momentarily wide-eyed. While the blasts weren't powerful enough to send them tumbling, they were useful in hunting from a distance. I guess firearm experience really does come in handy.

Finally, they reached the outskirts of the village they'd been looking for as the last rays of sunlight faded. Surprisingly enough, there had only been a few slip-ups and minor accidents on the way, none of them resulting in any worrisome injury. The air was filled with the scent of woodsmoke and cooking. They dragged their feet towards a homely looking inn, concluding that was where they’d rest up until morning after a short exchange. They entered between a pair of creaky wooden doors. Inside, the scent of alcohol wafted in the air as well as freshly grilled vegetables. Qiji, ever the responsible one, moved to pay for their lodging at the front counter, reaching for his coin purse inside of his sleeve yet again. "I'll pay," he offered. He had the means, after all.

"Nonsense," Yunzhuo interjected smoothly, stepping forward. "Let me treat you. Consider it a thank you for guiding me." Qiji, never one to turn down a free meal or bed, didn't object. It saved him a bit of money, and that was never something you could get enough of in these kinds of places.

However, a moment later, Yunzhuo returned from his conversation with the innkeeper, a look of mock dismay on his face. "Well," he announced, a suppressed laugh in his voice, "it seems they only had one room left. It appears we'll be getting very well acquainted tonight, Daozhang."

Qiji, who had been anticipating the luxury of his own space, blinked. Sharing a room? This was certainly not in his plan. But seeing the amusement in Yunzhuo's eyes, and feeling the exhaustion in his own limbs, he simply sighed inwardly and accepted their shared fate. He didn’t have the energy to make a scene about it.

The small inn room, sparsely furnished but clean, offered a welcome respite from the day's travel. The single window was latched against the cool night air, leaving the room feeling a touch stuffy, the scent of woodsmoke from the village hearths faintly lingering. The bed, surprisingly large for the room, was neatly made. Yunzhuo stretched, a low groan of relief escaping him at the sight of the white pillows.

"Well," he announced, turning back into the room with a wry smile and a sigh, "it seems fate, in its infinite wisdom, has decided we're to be bedfellows tonight." Yunzhuo gestured to the comfort of the futon mattress with a flourish, a playful glint in his eye. “It’s a done deal. No getting out of it now." He lightly probed Qiji with a jab in the side with his elbow. "So, esteemed and mysterious Daozhang, which side of this magnificent edifice do you deem worthy of your slumber? Left or right? Pick your poison.”

“C'mon,” he urged, entirely indifferent to the inappropriate undertones of the action. He circled around Qiji, a picture of deceiving innocence. Waiting for the inscrutable Qiji to offer a response, perhaps a pithy remark or a dismissive wave of his hand, he made several rounds in mere moments. But Qiji offered nothing, remaining phlegmatic as ever. He remained standing near the foot of the bed, his posture still, his expression unreadable in the dim light. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the crackling of the lamps and the distant sounds of the inn.

Unfazed by the lack of immediate engagement, Yunzhuo sauntered over to the bed. With a casual air, he swung his legs up and settled himself onto the left side, the thin padding giving a gentle sigh under his weight. He ran a hand along the smooth fabric of the duvet, appraising and assessing the quality with the gesture, before giving the mattress a firm pat. It yielded with a satisfying softness. He settled back, propping himself up on an elbow. "Surely even a Daozhang on par with your esteemed self needs a place to rest his head.”

Finally, Qiji reacted. In a matter of seconds, a small satchel was pulled out from Qiji's sleeve, as if conjured from thin air. Yunzhuo couldn't help but wonder, though not for the first and surely not the last time, at the seemingly impossible capacity of that simple garment. How much can he possibly fit in there? he mused, a flicker of genuine curiosity crossing his face.

By now, he was growing accustomed to the wondrous and often baffling phenomena that seemed to follow his traveling companion. Even as he watched Qiji retrieve a number of small stones from the satchel and reshape them in his hands, there was only mild amusement etched across his features. Soon, the materials began to overlap. Qiji began to shape the plasma he'd acquired into something like a thin quilt.

Yet, just as the form approached its intended state, a tremor ran through the transforming material. With a sudden, disheartening collapse, it crumpled in on itself, the ethereal substance solidifying into something akin to hardened, unusable clay. Another failure. A soft sigh escaped Qiji's lips.

Without a word, he snatched up one of the plush pillows from the bed. He slammed it down onto the floor under his head with a decisive motion and turned his back to Yunzhuo, facing the opposite side of the room. With a swift, almost petulant movement, he shoved his eyes shut with his arms wrapped around himself. And then, as if the previous events had never occurred, he was still, his breathing evening out almost immediately.

Yunzhuo could not claim that he was shocked at all, yet there was a sense of disappointment that arose from him. That, as well as a smidgen of laughter that rose from his chest.

Ensuring this time that the Daozhang was truly asleep—and not merely feigning slumber as he himself had done the previous night—Yunzhuo remained perfectly still, watching the steady rhythm of the younger man’s breath. He waited until he was absolutely certain, noting the subtle slackening of his features and the faint snore that finally escaped him. Only then did Yunzhuo move, his motion deliberate and silent. With great caution, he extended his hand toward Qiji, his fingers curling like a clawed shadow through the dimly lit room.

Then, in a swift and practiced motion, his wrist jutted forward. Two fingers struck with pinpoint precision, landing squarely on two of Qiji’s acupoints. The Daozhang’s body froze at once—locked in place by the sudden jolt of energy directed into his meridians. A soft exhale left Yunzhuo’s lips, a breath held too long. He straightened up and quietly rose to his feet, careful not to disturb the now-immobile figure beside him.

Turning his attention to the room, Yunzhuo decided it was time to reassess his surroundings. With a gentle motion, he slipped his hand inside the inner pocket of his lapel, fingers brushing against a familiar rolled parchment. Drawing it out, he carefully unrolled the scroll across the surface of the bed. The moonlight spilling through the window cast a silvery sheen across the page, illuminating the blank space that awaited his practiced hand.

Thanks to a measure of foresight, Yunzhuo had prepared for this moment. Earlier that evening, he had approached the innkeeper’s assistant—a kind, sharp-eyed young woman—and asked to borrow a small vial of ink. She had obliged him, offering a modest amount with a shy smile. He had also noticed a low, tray-like wooden table situated near the foot of the bed, likely placed there for meals. With an appreciative glance, he pulled it closer and used it to steady the scroll, ensuring his strokes would be smooth and deliberate.

Now properly equipped, Yunzhuo set to work. His brush moved swiftly, guided by a steady hand and a disciplined mind. The message flowed from his fingers with practiced ease, the characters sharp and clear. In less time than it would take for a single stick of incense to burn, he had completed his report. It contained a summary of his recent discoveries, carefully worded observations, and a proposed date for his return.

Once finished, he set the scroll aside, leaving it open to dry under the pale light of the moon. As the ink settled into the fibers of the paper, he began to tidy up, returning the borrowed items to their proper places and ensuring nothing would betray his activity during the night.

But before he returned to rest, there was one final task to complete.

He placed his thumb firmly against the bottom of the scroll. A faint hiss filled the room—a sound like heated metal meeting cool air—and a glow burst to life beneath his skin, searing bright red. Yet the paper did not burn. Instead of charring, it absorbed the energy, the surface beneath his thumb shimmering briefly. When he withdrew his hand, a sigil remained behind: his personal seal, etched deep into the parchment like an oath made in flame.

Only after everything had been done—each item packed away, the message secured, and the seal marked—did Yunzhuo allow himself to return to the bed. He lay down slowly, easing his body back beneath the covers, and finally, with all tasks complete and his mind at ease, sank once more into the stillness of the night.

Morning arrived in silence, sun hiding behind thin tendrils of clouds stretching across the sky, as if the dawn itself were hesitant to disturb the fragile calm of the room. Pale strands of sunlight filtered through the wooden slats of the inn’s shutters, casting soft, shifting patterns across the rumpled bedding. Yunzhuo stirred beneath the blanket, his consciousness rising slowly, like mist curling off a forest floor. For a brief moment, there was a quiet stillness—no movement, no sound, only the warmth of woven fabric and the faint scent of old wood and ink.

Then, instinct kicked in.

His eyes snapped open, and his gaze swept to the side.

The space where Qiji had lain the night before was empty. Neatly so. No indent in the pillow. No shift in the bedding to suggest a hasty departure. It was as if the Daozhang had never been there at all.

A quiet frown tugged at the corner of Yunzhuo’s mouth.

He rose from the bed with care, his figure similar to that of a leaf swaying as dew weighed it down with gravity. Swiftly, he moved through the practiced motions of dressing and gathering his belongings—belt, outer robes, scroll case, a dried lotus bead tied with string, and lastly, the grueling process of retying his boots. Everything was checked, tucked into place, and fastened with precision. Only once he was fully prepared did he approach the door, placing his hand upon the wooden frame for a moment, listening to conversations on the other side. Thanks to his martial arts, he was blessed with astute hearing.

From outside, a low murmur drifted in. Voices—many of them—gathered in tight proximity. Something was happening.

With a soft sigh, he slid the door open and took a step outside. He shut the door behind him whilst turning to face forward.

The sight that met him was immediate and chaotic. Just a few paces ahead, in the narrow courtyard before the inn, a sizable crowd had gathered, encircling a single figure in loose, rippling waves of motion. They pressed in, hands reaching, voices overlapping in a dissonant chorus of awe and fascination.

At the center of it all stood Qiji.

His expression was tight, mouth drawn into a thin, pale line, eyebrows knitted in a line of discomfort. He said nothing, but it was plain from his stillness that he was enduring the attention rather than engaging with it. Strangers clutched at his robes, ran eager fingers through the long white strands of his hair, whispering fragments of his name as if it were one of the Buddha's. He was hit with a barrage of questions by all kinds of people who clearly had nothing better to do with their time.

Yunzhuo’s eyes narrowed, but his smile remained as serene as an unmoved pond.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward, his presence alone cutting into the crowd like a blade sliding effortlessly through heavy rainfall. “Enough,” he called sharply, attempting to wedge himself between the strangers and Qiji’s clearly unwanted attention. “This here Daozhang appreciates your enthusiasm greatly, but he has a mellow bearing. Please do not take any offense.”

But if anything, his arrival caused the pressure to swell.

“Temple Master Yunguang!”

“It’s the Lord of Baifeng Peak!”

“Esteemed Master, to what do we owe the pleasure of hosting you today?!”

Recognition flickered like sparks among the faces—jaws fell in shock, fingers pointed, excitement reignited as a figure of renown appeared before them. The other, mysterious with silk-like features and snow white hair, like swan feathers, had been revealed to also be the Temple Master's companion. Clearly, someone also of esteemed personage.

Yunzhuo gritted his teeth, about to raise his voice again, when suddenly a faint crackle pierced the air.

Qiji had raised a hand after gathering something inside of his sleeve, fingers twisting and turning, and in the blink of an eye, two glowing shapes formed—clumps that soon shifted into the shape of earplugs, semi-translucent and alive with pulsing lines of plasma. With a steady, deliberate movement, he shoved them into his ears. Finally, his hands stopped shaking at his sides and he felt in control of reality again.

Then he spoke, voice sharp and edged with a clarity that silenced even the loudest among them.

“Move.”

The crowd, startled by the sudden change in tone, hesitated—then parted, a gap forming like a seam torn down the middle of a tapestry or the Yangtze* splitting off into several branches. Qiji walked through it without a second glance. Yunzhuo followed, though not without a final act of practicality: as they passed the low breakfast table still loaded with morning offerings, he deftly snatched two pieces of flatbread as well as a number of other sweet treats for the journey ahead and tucked them into his sleeve with practiced ease. “Thank you, thank you.” He nodded to the waitresses along the way out. “I deeply apologize for all of the trouble.”

Within minutes, they had reached the edge of the inn’s courtyard, where Rascal—yawning and flicking his tail—awaited them. Qiji nigh collapsed right outside of the door threshold. It had been a very long time since anyone had tried to pull at him like that, and yet, the moment it happened, memories surged back to him with startling clarity. He was a child again, small and squirming under the too-curious hands of relatives who never quite knew when to stop. They’d coo and marvel at his hair—its stark white hue, its oddly smooth, wiry texture—and then proceed to run their fingers through it without asking, kneading his scalp in a way that felt more like probing than affection. He’d sit frozen, enduring those so-called "massages," his skin crawling beneath their grasp. Even now, years later, the recollection made him shudder.

Yunzhuo came to a stop, squinting toward a nearby wagon where a pair of traders were offloading sacks of grains and tightly-bound parcels. One of them wore a vest marked with the symbol of the courier guild—a stylized crane in flight.

“Wait here for a moment,” Yunzhuo said, already stepping away. “I need to pass along the report. That man over there—he’s heading toward Bai Twin Peaks. I've seen him around. It’ll save my disciples much worry if it gets there fast.”

Qiji gave a noncommittal nod, eyes drifting as Yunzhuo strode toward the wagon with scroll in hand, exchanging a few polite words with the trader and a quick, practiced bow. The merchant nodded, pocketing the scroll with casual care before returning to his work.

Left in rare solitude, Qiji exhaled slowly and turned his attention back to the state of his own affairs. The mission details on the screen that had flashed by earlier had been written in fine brush script in contrast to the robotic tones he'd seen earlier, formal and bureaucratic in tone. Right as he'd started considering asking his personal “guardian deity” for advice on how to access it, it, a bit too conveniently, reappeared right in front of him.

[Quest: GUIDED HAND]

[Requirements: Be escorted to Location: Baifeng Peak.

Reward: 5 silver taels upon verification. (Equivalent to 500 bronze coins.)

Deadline: Before the third moonrise (3 days from issue).

Failure Penalty: Docked reputation with Yunzhuo (Cast Character). Possible fine for breach of main Quest.]

[Additional Notes:]

[You will be observed.]

Qiji raised both of his eyebrows with clear intrigue. “Observed?”

He gave a short, acerbic huff and tilted his head, letting the wind tousle a few strands of his hair. Then, after a moment of thought, he glanced upward as if looking for someone. He decided not to question it. “Narrator,” he said aloud, dryly. “How do I see the rest of my quests?”

A beat of silence. Then the now-familiar voice drifted into his awareness, smooth and disembodied, yet somehow always slightly amused.

“You think it,” the Narrator replied, tone light and matter-of-fact. “Just like opening a door. No need to speak aloud unless you enjoy sounding strange.”

Qiji narrowed his eyes. “Helpful as ever, I see,” he muttered.

“I do try~”

Still, he gave it a go.

He closed his eyes, letting the world fall quiet around him, and focused inward—his mind brushing against the intangible presence he’d been aware of since his arrival in this realm. Show me my quests.

Almost immediately, a faint shimmer bloomed behind his closed eyelids, and when he opened them again, a translucent panel hovered in front of him, just above his line of sight. The screen was clean and minimal, its text suspended in the air like calligraphy drawn from starlight.

[Active Quests]

1. GUIDED HAND

2. ??? (⅓ Requirements met.)

3. ???

[Tracking Enabled

Auto-Update: ON]

He blinked once. “Huh,” he said flatly. “It actually worked.”

Just then, frolicking steps cavorted over in his direction. Yunzhuo returned, brushing off his sleeves. “All set,” he said, a slight smile touching his cherry pink lips. “He’ll get it there on time. I made sure he understands its priority.”

Qiji gave a small nod but said nothing, letting the screen dissolve as naturally as it had appeared, like the wind lifting away humid morning air. Without a word, he strode forward, falling into step with Yunzhuo’s pace just as the younger man motioned toward the winding path he'd selected to lead them out of town and toward the waiting mountain.

After half a day or so's walk, they reached a small plateau just shy of the final incline, where the dirt path gave way to scattered brush and pale, crumbling stone. The afternoon sun had lifted high into the sky by then, bathing the landscape in warm gold, and the distant cries of cranes circled overhead. Together, they approached the foot of the mountain—its slope rising steep and green ahead of them, the trail cutting a path into mist-wrapped cliffs.

“The real climb starts here.”

Author's notes:

*A li is about half a kilometre.

*The Yangtze is the largest river in China.

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[xasha777]

In the distant future, the remnants of humanity dwelt in grand arcologies, massive structures that served as self-contained cities. One such arcology, known as Elysium, was renowned for its breathtaking architecture, a blend of gothic and futuristic designs. The heart of Elysium housed the Sanctum of Luminescence, an awe-inspiring chamber adorned with intricate stained-glass windows that depicted the history of Earth and its ecosystems.

Evelyn had always felt a strange connection to the Sanctum. As a researcher specializing in the preservation of aquatic ecosystems, she often found herself drawn to the tranquil beauty of the chamber. Today, she stood in the center of the Sanctum, her auburn hair catching the soft light streaming through the stained glass. Clad in her signature red leather coat and black boots, Evelyn exuded a sense of purpose and determination.

Elysium faced a dire crisis. The aquatic ecosystems within its biodomes were failing, and the once-thriving habitats teeming with marine life were now on the brink of collapse. Despite the advanced technology available, the cause of the decline remained elusive. Evelyn's research team had been working tirelessly to uncover the root of the problem, but time was running out.

As Evelyn gazed at the vivid depictions of oceans and rivers on the stained-glass windows, she recalled the legends of the Elemental Core, a mythical artifact said to hold the power to restore balance to nature. Most considered it a mere fairy tale, but Evelyn's instincts told her otherwise. Driven by an unshakable belief in the Core's existence, she had spent years studying ancient texts and maps, piecing together clues that pointed to its location.

Her latest findings suggested that the Core was hidden in the submerged ruins of an ancient city, deep beneath the ocean floor. With the approval of the Elysium Council, Evelyn prepared to embark on a perilous journey to retrieve the Core and save the aquatic ecosystems. She would not be alone; a team of skilled divers and engineers would accompany her on this daring expedition.

The mission began with the team descending into the depths of the ocean, their advanced submersibles cutting through the dark, cold waters. As they ventured deeper, the ruins of the ancient city gradually came into view, a hauntingly beautiful sight bathed in the eerie glow of bioluminescent flora and fauna. Evelyn's heart raced with anticipation as they navigated through the labyrinthine structures, following the faint signals emitted by the Core.

After hours of searching, they finally arrived at a grand chamber, its walls adorned with intricate carvings that mirrored the stained-glass windows of the Sanctum. At the center of the chamber, resting on a pedestal of coral and stone, was the Elemental Core. It pulsed with a soft, ethereal light, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

As Evelyn approached the Core, she felt a surge of energy coursing through her. She carefully retrieved the artifact, its cool surface humming with ancient power. The return journey to Elysium was fraught with challenges, but Evelyn's resolve never wavered. Upon their arrival, the Core was immediately integrated into the arcology's ecosystem management systems.

The transformation was instantaneous. The failing aquatic habitats began to rejuvenate, vibrant life returning to the waters as if by magic. The once-dying ecosystems flourished anew, a testament to the power of the Elemental Core and the perseverance of those who believed in its legend.

Evelyn stood in the Sanctum of Luminescence, the Core now enshrined as a symbol of hope and renewal. The stained-glass windows seemed to glow with renewed brilliance, reflecting the restored vitality of Elysium's aquatic worlds. As she looked out at the thriving biodomes, Evelyn knew that this was just the beginning. With the knowledge and power of the Elemental Core, humanity could continue to safeguard the delicate balance of nature, ensuring a future where both technology and the natural world could coexist in harmony.

[myristicisms]

Much could be said about the current state he'd been in since his escape from ShinRa, the degradation being an obvious sign that something was wrong with the once proud swordsman but there was a dullness in his gaze that hadn't been there originally, the initial flush of his once lively skin having faded into a pallid hue reminiscent of a stone. Perhaps the fight he'd once had would still be there had he not resigned himself to his fate, Hollander was as useless as anyone else in his fight against his body and Genesis had long since given up hope that he'd ever be able to have back his normalcy.

Angeal's death hadn't helped with his condition either, funny how heartache can lead to the worsening of his body's stability and while Genesis has always been something of a vain man, he's come to loathe catching glances at his reflection as of late. Perhaps death would be a kindness, though it certainly wouldn't be one he deserves. Exhaustion has quite the odd ways of displaying itself, taking a toll on the auburn haired man's ability to focus and really think, impulses and instinct were far easier to follow than listen to whatever it was his foolish heart commanded and in turn he's made choices that he knows he must live with, has to repent for in some way.

Death is too good for a man like Genesis.

“ Perhaps not, but I don't want this to be solely about me either. ” The evasion isn't lost upon the sage eyed man, he knows they're both hurting and to some degree he's aware it's his fault for that. Many nights he'd sit and wonder what this very conversation would look like, expected it to be filled with more anger, more rage, instead it's nothing but resignation and grief. ( What an awful reunion. ) A long leg slowly slides into an upwards position, bent knee resting just shy of his own chest while Genesis tries to bask in the fact that there's some sort of familiarity in their positions, it's not as warm and light-hearted but he appreciates what he can get.

“ I don't think I'll ever have a suitable one for you. ” There was no explanation he could give that he'd deem as satisfactory enough, his motives were purely selfish and driven by a desire to live and the fear of knowing far too much. Hollander had doomed him to this, a game of cat and mouse where no matter where he went he'd be in danger and in a way it's deserved even if the crimson clad man had so desperately wanted to make things right. Everything spiraled far too quickly, too intensely, the bitterness towards his constantly aching body having turned to irritation until he'd lashed out and every poor decision he'd ever thought of making swiftly had been made. “ I'm beyond helping now, I'm afraid. There's nothing to be done about the degradation, it's only a matter of time until I succumb to it. ”

That's what Hollander had shown him anyways, there was no fixing his condition and all he'd done to achieve that goal had been for nothing.

“ Don't be. What could you have done that hasn't already been done? Aside from the obvious, that is. I... I'm sorry for leaving you without a word, I suppose I was afraid if I told you anything it would only further complicate my convictions, or perhaps ShinRa would have caught on and foiled my plans. Foolish, isn't it? ”

The comparison was not lost on Sephiroth. How often had he seen it in the laboratories of Professor Hojo, those poor specimen pushed too far that they cowered away in the corners of their cages to await their slow and inevitable death? How often had he been sent with sword or gun to put short their suffering? And as he looked down at Genesis, he wonders if he shouldn't do the same thing. Should he put an end to his suffering? Should he give him the mercy of a quick death, instead of playing these games of pretending to chase after him by sending Zack on his heels, always letting him slip away because everyone knew Zack couldn't hold a candle to Genesis?

But he is tired of it all, and through these last months, he has grown ever more jaded. The caged bird sees now beyond its cage, and the chained dog is so close to biting the hands that feed it and tell it to heel. His masters are rotten and, by virtue of having followed them so faithfully for so long, he is also rotten.

"This isn't about me." How easy it is to brush that question aside, but the indifference and stoicism finally cracks. He cracks because the facade of distance can only be held up for so long and they are alone now. He has made sure of it. There is no one but his dying friend to witness his sorrow as he slips his sword from his back then lowers himself to sit with legs crossed before Genesis, the sword on the floor next to him.

There will be no fighting. Even if his friend were to take up a weapon against him, Sephiroth had no plans to even defend himself. It won't reflect well on him if he returns to ShinRa. He knows this. He understands this.

But he is so tired.

"I've only ever wanted an explanation." Such a simple thing, isn't it? An explanation as to what was going on when he'd been left in the dark in the absence of his two closest friends, a wedge driven between them by what he'd found to be someone's stupid and pathetic rivalry that they had no part in. "And I've only ever wanted to help." But Hollander had refused his help, had refused any offer of help, and only now did Sephiroth realize that he should have just gone to the source.

Better late than never, but is it too late now? Possibly.

"I'm sorry for not stepping up sooner."