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bitsandbobsofwriting · 4 years ago

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Merlin accidentally becomes Legolas/Katniss/Merida… you know the type;

He may be shitty at sword fighting, but Merlin begins to use a traditional bow and arrow and… actually becomes very good at it??

I imagine the first time he does it, it’s a complete fluke.

The five knights, The King, and Merlin are on their way back from yet another (frankly, ridiculous) quest.

They have been, of course, ambushed by a group of bandits, twenty to their six (six plus Merlin, though no one bar Lancelot knows about his magic, so he isn’t counted as a fighter). Though the knights outweigh them in skill, their sheer numbers makes it a… challenging, fight (meaning that they are winning, but far too slowly for their liking, and no one wants to admit it).

Now normally, Merlin hides behind a tree or in a ditch, and performs his spells quietly without being noticed, slowly helping and speeding up the fight. Except this time, the Gang was in the middle of a barren, open field, the bandits had disguised themselves with magic until the moment they attacked, and Merlin was right in the middle of all the action.

Everyone worried for his safety. There was nowhere for him to hide here, so they had to keep an eye on him, lest he get hurt (and Arthur sulked, or kicked off, depending on how badly he was hurt).

With nowhere to hide (and no branches to drop, or roots to trip people with), and one of the knights throwing a glance his way every ten seconds, he couldn’t use his magic.

He was currently on his hands and knees, Leon directly in front of him, Percival to his left, holding off four attackers between them (Merlin would marvel at how impressive that was if he weren’t otherwise preoccupied).

He keeps trying to get to Arthur, crawling between legs and over the groaning, injured bodies of bandits (he made a point to land sharp elbows and harsh knees into the more… sensitive areas), but with everyone moving around so rapidly, and the vicious swinging of swords and axes and maces inches above his head, he kept getting side-tracked and blocked and almost knocked out.

With a frustrated huff, he notices yet another bandit rounding on The King. Said huff turns into a pained gasp when he realises that Arthur hasn’t seen him yet.

The bandit raises his weapon in the air, seconds from bringing it down on Arthur’s back, but Leon is right there, and there are no branches to drop on him, and Arthur still hasn’t noticed!

The noise is too loud, grunts and yells and clashes of metal drowning out any sort of warning yell that Merlin could throw Arthur’s way, and he scrabbles around on the floor desperately; hands raking through sharp grass and over bloodied bodies as he stares in horror at the triumphant smirk on the future-King-killer’s face.

Time seems to slow (no magic, just adrenaline) as Merlin’s hands find purchase on a smooth, curved piece of wood. He picks it up without looking, at first intending to throw whatever it is as hard as he can in the bandits direction, before something (magic, instincts, periphery vision, who knows) tells him to look down.

He obeys, and widens his eyes as he sees the longbow gripped tightly in his right hand, and a stray arrow on the floor next to his left.

Merlin is no expert, only having actually hunted once or twice back home in Ealdor, when he was younger, but that was just enough knowledge for him to know roughly how to notch the arrow and fire. He pulls the two up quickly, a plan formulating in his head:

Step 1) Notch arrow.

Step 2) Close eyes.

Step 3) Magic? Hope?

Step 4) Come up with some sort of lie that explains how he managed to make the shot from sixty yards away, through a crowd.

Thankfully, it would appear that Merlin’s bad luck has given him a rest today; the first three steps go off without a hitch (the fourth will come a little later, when the battle is over), but he doesn’t have time to congratulate himself before he’s thrown into the fray, the bandits now obviously seeing him as some sort of threat.

Arthur finally defeats his own attackers, looking behind him in shock to see his unknown enemy lying on the floor, gurgling up blood and grasping weakly at the arrow through his neck. His head whips to the side, trying to find whoever had made the shot; his bewildered gaze meets Merlin’s for only a second before the servant is dragged to his feet, and promptly punched in the face.

He stumbles back and can just about hear Leon yell something from beside him but he pays it no mind, righting his balance once again and swinging his arm back, before bringing it down harshly on his newest attackers head. The resounding crack echoes over the field as the wood of the longbow splits in two on the bandit’s skull, and he drops like a sack of potatoes.

The fight doesn’t last much longer, each knight taking advantage of their enemies' fatigue, and Merlin using his now broken longbow to whack them in the shins or trip them up when they weren’t paying attention.

He was sad to see it broken, but two of his closest friends literally owned a blacksmith's, and he had easy access to the Castle’s armoury; he could get a hold of another one easily enough, as long as he survived the journey back home.

The battle finally came to a close. Everyone was exhausted, and each of them was sporting more than one hefty bruise, but they were all alive and there were no serious injuries, so they could be grateful for that. After Arthur had counted his men, and generally taken stock of things, he traipsed tiredly over to Merlin, who had abandoned his broken bow in favour of cleaning a still weeping cut on Elyan’s temple.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Merlin.”

The servant ignores him at first, biting his lip in concentration as he carefully wipes the grime away from the wound. It was small, so an infection wouldn’t be too worrying, but it wouldn’t be comfortable and would make the scarring worse, so best to avoid it if at all possible. He hums in satisfaction as he leans back on his heels, Elyan gives him a grateful smile, and Merlin finally throws a glance Arthur’s way, before focusing back on threading the needle in his hands; it would only need two or three stitches, thankfully:

“Hmm. I'm not fond of hunting, but we had to for food back in Ealdor. Except we didn’t have fancy crossbows or hunting dogs, so we had to make do with hand-whittled longbows.”

Arthur nods, frowning slightly:

“Still, if I’d known you were that good, I would’ve demanded you had a bow of your own; that way us lot wouldn’t have to spend so much time making sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Merlin smirked and quirked an eyebrow, but doesn’t look away from Elyan’s stitches, whispering an apology at the man’s wince before he speaks slowly, concentrating:

“Careful Sire, that almost sounded like a compliment.”

Elyan snorts out a laugh, but Merlin tuts and lightly slaps his leg disapprovingly, and he stills again. Arthur rolls his eyes with a huff:

“As if. Hurry up, I want to get moving as soon as possible.”

Arthur wasn’t the only one that noticed Merlin’s outstanding shot, and over the course of the next few day’s journey home, he received a multitude of compliments from the other knights.

Including an hour long excited infodump about the history and use of longbows from Leon, which Merlin eagerly hung onto every word of, a fond smile on his face (Leon was a noble, and had it practically beaten into him to not ramble, so Merlin always did his best not to discourage the man. That, and the fact that it was actually very interesting, and useful, if he were to keep up this charade that he was an expert marksman).

When Merlin finally had a moment alone with Lancelot, a few days after they had gotten back, he burst:

“Please please tell me you know how to use a longbow??”

Lancelot raises his eyebrow from where he was sat on the bed in Merlin’s room. Merlin was staring at him with unconcealed desperation, and the knight chuckled as he answered:

“Why? It’s not like you need any more training, that was a cracking shot.”

Merlin huffed loudly, running his hands through his hair as he looked back at the knight:

“I used magic!! I closed my eyes so no one would see and I guided the arrow with magic! Now everyone thinks I’m some master marksman! This is bad. What if next time I can’t use magic, or what if someone notices that I have my eyes closed when I fire?”

Lancelot clamps a hand over his mouth in a poor attempt to stop himself from giggling, but he gives up quickly, bursting into laughter at the younger man’s panic. Said younger man fumes, sputtering as he picks up one of the knight’s discarded boots and throws it at him:

“It’s not funny, Lance! I’m being serious, this is an actual issue!”

Lancelot calms himself, rubbing the mirth from his eyes as he takes a deep breath:

“Ok ok, sorry. Yes, I can teach you to use a longbow properly. Have you ever actually used one before, or was the hunting thing a cover?”

The red fades from Merlin’s face slightly as he realises the other man is intending to help him, his panic lessening:

“Sort of. Yeah, I went hunting with a bow a couple times, but not enough to be that good at it.”

Lancelot sighs fondly and nods his head:

“Well, that’s a start at least. Come on, I’ve not got patrol until after dinner, and Arthur thinks you’re busy helping Gaius, so we’ve got a few hours.”

So I imagine that’s how it goes for a while.

After their last big adventure, Arthur was reluctant to head out as a group again, wanting to give everyone time to recuperate and get back into the swing of things.

Merlin’s skills with a bow were bought up constantly by everyone, news had even reached Gwen (who gave him a proud smile and a cute little dance to congratulate him) and Gaius (who raised an eyebrow, and had much better skill than Lancelot at holding in his laughter).

Gwaine, Elyan, and even Percival were desperate to set up targets and watch him shoot shit (their words), Leon wanted to talk about the specifics of technique and crafting, and Arthur... well. Arthur sounded like he was taking the piss, but there was something else in his tone that Merlin couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Affection? Pride?

Probably not, probably jealousy and annoyance that Merlin is so effortlessly good at something that Arthur himself was average at at best.

Merlin manages to avoid it for a while, showing his “skills” off, but he and Lancelot are running out of excuses, and Arthur is starting to accuse him of being a fake who got lucky. Normally, things like that didn’t bother Merlin, and technically Arthur wasn’t wrong... he had got lucky, and cheated with magic, but that wasn’t the point. It was nice for Merlin, to be good at something, really good.

He was good at plenty of other things. Magic for starters, though not even Lancelot knew the full extent of his power in that area. But he cooked well (shown by the fact that the knights always scoffed the lot), he was a good physician (shown by the fact that the knights trusted him just as much as Gaius when it came to treating injuries and sickness), and he was a BRILLIANT servant, if he did say so himself.

But he never got any actual praise for that. Merlin hated to think badly of the knights, his friends, but they only complained when Merlin wasn’t there, never praised him when he was. Well, apart from Lancelot. And that had just started a bunch of rumours that they were... uh... boinking.

(False. Anyone with more than two braincells could see that Sir Lancelot was head over heals in love with the newly-promoted Housekeeper, Guinevere, and that The King’s Manservant had an affinity for certain a blond prat-King.)

ANYWAY

It was nice for Merlin to have a skill that others thought worth complimenting, and with Lancelot monitoring his practice sessions, correcting any mistakes and offering congratulations whenever he did well, he hoped it wouldn’t be too long before he no longer had to come up with excuses.

Luckily, Merlin picked it up very quickly.

Despite being clumsy by nature (though Lancelot is starting to suspect more and more that it’s all for show), the dark haired servant can consistently hit bullseyes from fifty yards within a month. The further away from the target he got, the less astounding his aim was, but that was to be expected, and another month later he could successfully hit a moving target from seventy feet.

A training session, around three months after he started properly practicing, he finally “gave in” to Gwaine’s begging. Lancelot helped him set up a bunch of targets, and fetched a bag of apples to throw.

Merlin put on quite the show, grinning at the uproarious applause he got from the knights when he hit every single bullseye, and every single thrown target. Thankfully the knowing, proud smiles between the servant and Sir Lancelot went unnoticed, and even Arthur gave him a clap on the back and an impressed nod.

The first time Merlin met the knights in the courtyard to find Leon holding a longbow and quiver of arrows out to him, he panicked slightly, but one reassuring smile from Lancelot boosted his confidence, and he took them with a quiet thank you.

(After the fifth time, Arthur huffed, and told him to just keep them. He was the only one that regularly signed them out of the armoury anyway, so it would just be easier if he just took possession of them.)

It settled everyone’s stomachs, knowing that not only did the group have a master marksmen, hiding in the trees and taking out enemies that they didn’t see coming, but that Merlin personally now had more than his frankly horrifying (or... horrifying as far as they were concerned) stealth skills to keep him safe.

And that (a master marksmen in the trees) is exactly what happened.

In the early days, it involved a lot of bruises; Merlin could fire well, but firing and balancing at the same time? Took some getting used to, and involved a lot of falling out of trees at inopportune times.

The knights, Gwaine and Arthur especially, laughed endlessly at that, but quickly stopped after a particularly tired and irate and bruised Merlin fired an arrow so close by Gwaine’s crotch, that it stuck his trousers fast into the tree just behind him.

At first, it was meant to be just as back-up; Merlin was no knight. He still refused to wear armour, and Arthur didn’t want his manservant to make himself a target... at least that was his excuse.

Really, it was because (as far as Arthur was aware) Merlin had never deliberately killed before. Even now, years into his Kingship, and even longer into his knighthood, Arthur hated killing; it made him sick, and took a lot of practice at compartmentalization before it no longer bothered him as much.

Merlin was his manservant, his (best) friend, the love of his life (secretly). He was not a warrior, he was not meant to kill, he was meant to be protected from that.

But alas, Merlin did not get the memo, and the first patrol he went on with his bow and quiver slung over his shoulder, he killed at least five bandits.

After the fight, it was Leon who approached him first, a concerned look on his face despite Merlin’s nonchalant expression as he checked over the string for wear and tear:

“Are you feeling alright, Merlin? You got a few good shots in there, you’re not feeling sick?”

Merlin looked up at the hand on his shoulder and the soft words, a confused look on his face:

“Why would being good make me feel sick?”

Leon tilts his head in sympathy, which just makes Merlin even more confused:

“The man you killed the other month was spur of the moment, protecting your King. But you... you killed a fair few men today, Merlin. I know that can be incredibly difficult at first, I just wanted to check in.”

The others had finally walked over to join them; Percival, Elyan, Gwaine, and Arthur looking equally concerned, whilst Lancelot hid his proud smile. Merlin just raised an eyebrow at them:

“You seem to be under the impression that I’ve never killed anyone before?”

Everyone (bar Lancelot) looks taken aback at that, and Arthur frowns whilst Leon drops his hand in shock. The King speaks slowly:

“Merlin, are you telling us you’ve killed people before?”

The manservant clenches his jaw at that and looks back down at his bow, resuming his checking of the string and its knots. He speaks lowly, and the knights can tell it’s not a topic he’s fond of:

“Hmm. It’s a tough world, Sire. I’ve done what I had to, to keep myself and the people I care about safe.”

At his dark reply, conversation stopped, and didn’t resume for the rest of the day as everyone contemplated Merlin’s words.

That is, until he was the first one to successfully catch dinner later that evening. At which he got an incredulous look from Arthur when he made it back to camp with his half of the patrol:

“I thought you despised hunting??”

Merlin didn’t look up from the hares he was skinning, and the rest of the knights tuned in, curious:

“No. I hate hunting for sport; it shows hubris and cruelty. Hunting for food is not only necessary and natural, but humbling, if you do it right and honour every part of the creature.”

Arthur, ever the eloquent one, stared at him blankly, and said, rather dumbly:

“...What?”

Merlin huffed, finally looking up:

“Going after helpless animals on horseback with crossbows and hunting dogs is like giving yourself a huge pat on the back for winning a tournament against an unarmoured, unarmed, unconscious opponent, and then calling yourself strong and brave for daring to fight in the first place. It’s an egotistical act of violence for no other reason than cruelty for the sake of cruelty.-”

The knights looks on him with shock, Percival and Leon at least having the decency to look a little ashamed. Merlin looks back down to the hares, and everyone notices the careful way he cuts at the fur:

“I’ve taken these lives to feed us as a necessity. The meat will be eaten, but that isn’t all. I’ll take the bones home for Gaius, the marrow is useful in a lot of medicine. The fur can be repurposed for winter gloves or socks. The organs and other bits that we won’t eat: I’ll take for the pigs in the farms, or the dogs up at the castle. In using every part of them we are... honouring them, in a way. As a thank-you for their... sacrifice.”

Arthur looks a little dumbfounded. As royalty, he of course had never really considered the waste that comes about with hunting, but Merlin, a farm-boy from a rural village who barely scraped by every winter? Of course he saw a deeper meaning in hunting. He would have to.

Elyan is the first to break the silence:

“You almost sound religious, Merlin.”

Merlin looks up at him, a strained smile on his face. As magic incarnate, he has a particularly strong, temperamental relationship with nature and her creatures, a bond that some might call faith. To be wasteful or cruel in any way hurts him in more ways than one:

“Not really, I just have respect for nature, is all.”

No one mentions the thinly-veiled insult, but everyone creeps closer, wanting to see the way he disassembles the creatures for future reference.

It’s been eight months since that first, perfect shot.

Merlin’s skills with a longbow had become a normal, expected part of The Gang’s experiences, but the knights never stopped praising and thanking him when he saved their lives (something that Merlin still hadn’t quite gotten used), and The King had apparently not stopped thinking about it for barely more than a second.

Yule was approaching quickly: Merlin, Gwen, and the Steward being constantly busy with preparations in the castle, the knights being run off their feet escorting emergency aid to the border villages for the harsh winter, and Arthur himself having every minute of the day taken up with speech writing, invite sending, and his other general King-during-Yule duties.

That however, was all to be expected, and of course did nothing to keep Arthur and Merlin from their annual traditions.

It wasn’t official, it wasn’t even spoken of, but the last evening of Yule, the night before the new year, the two of them always spent together.

The last feast of the year would finish, Arthur would stay to see his guests off, thank the staff for all of their hard work, and finally retire to his chambers, his tired manservant barely a hair’s breadth behind him. They would sit in front of the lit hearth (in comfy chairs that only they used), work their way through a jug or two of wine, exchange small gifts, and fall asleep in front of the fire. Their hands, dangling over the side of their chairs, seem to be creeping closer and closer with each passing year; though have yet to become entangled by morning.

This year was somehow no different, and very different, at the same time.

The King and his Manservant settled in their chairs, tired and already a little more than tipsy from the wine drunk during the feast. Arthur looked up at Merlin, the fond smile dropping from his face when he sees the other man’s features pulled into a contemplative frown:

“What’s on your mind, Merls? I don’t think I’ve seen you this serious since the start of the celebrations.”

Merlin looked up at him suddenly, his eyes wide, but he smiles and shakes his head:

“Nothing, nothing. Just thinking is all.”

Normally, Arthur would raise an eyebrow and let a scathing tease on the state of Merlin’s intelligence fall from his lips, but not tonight. This is the only night of the year that The King allows himself to entertain the idea that perhaps he and Merlin were more than friends, or at least could be. So instead he resumes his smiling, and looks back to the fire, taking another sip of his wine before responding softly:

“What about?”

Merlin hums, copying Arthur’s wine-sipping, before taking a deep breath:

“The future, mostly. You, me, Camelot. Secrets and truths, and when one might turn into the other. Soon, I think... yeah. Soon.”

Arthur huffs slightly in amusement. He knows that Merlin hides a great deal of himself, but he always becomes more cryptic after a few glasses of wine, like he desperately wants to say something and doesn’t have the power to stop himself from hinting at whatever it may be.

He asks his next question good-naturedly, a smile sweetened by wine gracing his face:

“The hell does that mean?”

Merlin lets out a short laugh, looking up at the other man:

“Oh, you know. Thinking about spilling all my deepest darkest secrets to you, at some point soon.”

Arthur snorts, saying, only for the sake of keeping up the charade they’ve built:

“You don’t have any secrets, Merlin. Certainly not any that are deep or dark.”

Once, Arthur would have believed that. Then, when he stopped believing it, he was angry about it, and now? Now, he finds he doesn’t mind so much. He is confident, he has faith, in both himself and in Merlin. He knows that those secrets are there, and Merlin knows that he knows, but that’s ok. Nothing either of them could reveal would tear them apart, at least not for long, so Arthur was happy to wait until Merlin was happy to share.

Merlin chuckled at Arthur’s response, shaking his head slightly before reaching down and picking up a small wrapped parcel that he’d stowed away before the feast:

“Come on, I’m a little nervous about your gift this year, so let’s get it over and done with.”

Arthur nodded, accepting the change in subject, and set his wine down so he could pick up the (much bigger) parcel by his own chair.

Merlin raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. After the first gift-exchange happened, Merlin had put his foot down and made Arthur swear to not go overboard on the expense side of things. Arthur may have been a prince, and now a King, but Merlin was still just a servant/physician; he could hardly afford anything worthy of a King.

He had a feeling that Arthur might’ve broken his word this year, but where Arthur had likely gone overboard with expense, Merlin had definitely gone overboard with sentimentality.

They swapped parcels, Merlin placing the large, heavy box carefully at his feet as he gestured Arthur to open his first. Arthur got to it, tearing the paper off without a second of hesitation, and Merlin allowed himself to smile fondly at the child-like excitement on the blonde’s face.

Arthur’s brow creased as he dropped the paper to the floor, stroking soft fingers over the worn leather of an old, well-loved book. Merlin took deep, fortifying breaths as Arthur carefully opened the first few pages, butterflies in his stomach as Arthur’s eyes wandered the yellowed paper in curiosity.

The King looked up at him, amused confusion on his face as he asked:

“Is this yours? I didn’t know you could draw, Merlin.”

Merlin gulped, and shook his head as memories of the exquisite sketches filled his mind; detail-perfect renditions of the castle, the town square, waterfalls and knights in action and people that Merlin didn’t recognise (for the most part. Arthur evidently hadn’t gotten to any of the pages with young Uther on them).

“No, not mine. This one requires a little explanation-”

Arthur nodded, carefully closing the book and holding it protectively in his lap as he gave Merlin his undivided attention:

“-I mentioned off-handedly to Leon a few months ago that I thought the lack of... of paintings of the late Queen in the castle was odd.-”

Arthur gulped at the mention of his mother, but nodded with a small smile when Merlin paused:

“-He said that when she passed, The King had everything to do with her moved to the vaults. He couldn’t force himself to destroy any of it, but looking at it, day in and day out, was too painful. We found the keys, with the help of Geoffrey, and went down to have a look, see what we could find. We didn’t tell you about it because we didn’t want to disappoint you, in case we couldn’t find anything.-”

Merlin once again looked a little nervous at this, and reached a hand out towards Arthur. When the man didn’t flinch away (if anything, he leaned into it), he moved to grip his shoulder blade, running his thumb over the exposed skin at the base of The King’s neck.

“-We found... a lot. Old clothes and paintings mainly, some jewellery. But then I found that;-”

He nodded at the book in Arthur’s lap, and tightened his grip on his shoulder. Merlin spoke his next words so quietly that Arthur almost doesn’t hear him, a soft smile on his face:

“-your mother was quite the artist, Arthur. I knew you had to have it.”

Arthur gasped softly, his eyes widening as he looked down at the book:

“You... you think my mother drew these?”

Merlin smiled at him, moving his hand to squeeze Arthur’s wrist slightly, before dropping it entirely:

“Check the back page.”

Arthur took a deep breath before doing what Merlin said, handling the book with even more care than he had before now that he knows who it belonged to. He turned to the very last page, to see an inscription written in beautiful cursive. Merlin recited it aloud, having memorised the words weeks ago:

“My dearest son, my silly sketches are able to hold only a fraction of our Kingdom’s beauty. I know one day that you will see what I see, treasure it just as much, and make it your own. You have my support, forever and always, your loving Mother.”

Arthur bites his lip harshly, lifting the book to press his forehead against the words as he shuts his eyes tightly, though that does nothing to stop the tears. Merlin replaces his hand on The King’s shoulder as the man shakes. He sniffles slightly, putting the book back in his lap, though keeping his hands wrapped around it securely, as he looks to Merlin:

“Merlin, I... I don’t even know what to say. This is... amazing. I... Thank you.”

Merlin smiles, shaking his head slightly:

“Technically, it wasn’t even mine to give, it’s always been yours. But I thought it might make a nice surprise. There’s plenty of other stuff down there, I’ll show you in the morning.”

Arthur nods his head, wiping his tears as he carefully places the book on his side table and gestures to the box at Merlin’s feet. He was itching to scour through the book, dedicating every single line to memory, but whilst Merlin had been nervous about Arthur’s gift, Arthur was buzzing about Merlin’s, and he was desperate to see the man’s reaction.

Merlin huffs out a laugh, but picks the box up, noting once again how heavy it is. He sets about removing the paper, much calmer and more methodical than Arthur had been, with his face pinched in concentration.

He frowns in curiosity as he sets eyes on the wooden box. It had a hinged lid, and a logo that he’s certain he recognises burned like a brand into the corner. He can feel Arthur bouncing in his chair slightly, and looks up at him in amusement, laughing once again when he nods excitedly back down at the box.

He lifts the lid, and takes in a shocked breath.

Inside was a beautifully crafted long bow; the wood smooth and varnished and carved, and a leather quiver. The patterns embossed in the leather and carved in to the metal at the base, match those carved into the wood of the bow, and Merlin traces soft fingers over the intricate swirls, stopping with a teary smile at the Pendragon crest, carved just next to a Merlin bird.

He lets out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding as he looks up at the excited King:

“Arthur this is beautiful. Gods I almost don’t want to touch it, I feel like it should be on display behind glass.”

Arthur lets out a laugh, obviously pleased with Merlin’s reaction:

“Nope. It will be going with you every time you leave the city, and considering how much trouble we always seem to attract, I have no doubt that it will see a lot of use.”

Merlin laughs, closing the lid carefully and setting the box back on the floor, before launching himself bodily at Arthur. The blonde laughs, wrapping his arms around Merlin’s middle with no hesitation as the other man mutters endless thank-yous in his ear.

The servant finally pulls back, settling in his own chair again, and the two of them hope that the other puts the flush on their face down to the wine, and nothing else. They look to each other with wide grins on their faces, and Arthur breaks the stare first, taking another gulp of his wine before laughing jovially and speaking:

“Well. Here’s to an amazing year, and hopefully an even better one, starting in a few minutes.”

Merlin nods, lifting his own goblet to tap it against Arthur’s:

“Here’s to the past, that guides us-”

He gestures to the book on Arthur’s table:

“-and the future, that calls to us.”

He gestures to his new bow, and they both finish their wine off, a healthy flush to their cheeks and fond smiles on their faces.

They fall asleep in their respective chairs, the same as every year.

In the morning, they wake with pounding headaches, a promise of a golden future, and hands intertwined.

THE END!!

We love a cutesy/hopeful ending😌

Like always lads, you wanna write it out in full, go for it, credit and tag me✌️

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filmsmakkari · 4 years ago

Text

Satisfied

Wordcount- 2.2k

Hamilton!Tom Holland x Angelica!Reader

Soldier!Tom x Princess!Reader

So this is the first part of a story based on Angelica and Alexander's dynamic in Hamilton :)

i would recommend listening to the song satisfied here

Full Series Masterlist

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I remember that night

I just might regret that night for the rest of my days

Being raised the crown princess of the small island nation of Larione had never been easy. Larione wasn’t particularly important to larger countries, only included on a few maps. Many of the citizens lived in poverty and only a powerful marriage alliance with a wealthy royal would solve it. Being born a girl only made things worse. No matter how people will deny it, boys are always favored over girls, especially in royal families. No one would ever take you seriously as a queen without a king by your side. It was imperative that you married a future king- preferably a wealthy one. You’d been raised with the responsibility of marrying for your country’s benefit, so the idea of marrying for love had never even crossed your mind.

I remember those soldier boys trippin’ over themselves to win our praise

It all started at your father’s Winter Ball. Plenty of the continent’s royals were in attendance, all trying to earn you and your sister’s favor. Though Larione’s royal family wasn’t the wealthiest, the (Y/L/N) Sisters were known to be quite beautiful, making you the envy of all. As you socialized with the guests, you noticed a few soldiers flirting with your ladies-in-waiting. You smiled at one of them, Lady Adannaya, as a way of encouraging her to continue their flirtation. That was when you first saw him.

But Alexander, I’ll never forget the first time I saw your face

Another soldier had joined his friends and your ladies. You knew from the moment your eyes landed on him that you would never be the same. He had silky brown hair and a hunger-pang-frame. You wondered if he ate regularly. And oh, good lord those eyes. They were a deep shade of brown, but they shone gold in the light of the candle he was near. They sparkled with intelligence, wit, and ambition. He must have felt your gaze on him because he suddenly turned to meet your gaze, smiling seductively at you. At that moment it felt as if your heart had been set aflame. He began to approach you. Then it felt as if your entire body had been set aflame.

You strike me as a woman who has never been satisfied

“Your highness,” he said, bowing and kissing your hand.

“Good evening, soldier. What is your name?”

“Thomas Holland, your grace,” he replied.

Thomas Holland, you thought. You knew him. Not personally, but you’d heard of him. He was essentially Major General Njeri’s right-hand man. A soldier with a marksman’s ability, and not too bad with a quill either. From your understanding, he wrote all of the general’s correspondences.

“Are you enjoying the ball, Thomas?”

“I am,” he looked you up and down “but you aren’t.”

“Pardon me?”

“All of these suitors, they don’t make you happy, do they?”

“Well, aren’t you perceptive?” you asked, a smirk painting your face.

“Oh, come on.” You made a surprised face, taken aback by his familiar tone. “Suitors, balls, court life, none of this satisfies you, does it, your grace?”

You chuckled in disbelief. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. You forget yourself, Thomas.”

You turned to walk away, but he grabbed a hold of your wrist. You looked down at your wrist, then back up at him, eyes wide in surprise as he spoke.

“I don’t think so, your grace. You see, you’re just like me, I’m never satisfied,” he said genuinely.

“Oh, is that right?” you questioned, forgetting not to show your intrigue. “Where is your family from, Thomas?”

I asked about his family, did you see his answer?

His hands started fidgeting, he looked askance

He’s penniless, he’s flying by the seat of his pants

You could see the reservation about the topic of his family in his eyes even before he spoke.

He shook his head nonchalantly, but his hands were fidgeting. “Doesn’t matter where my family’s from. I’m going places one day. Just you wait. You’ll see. Just you wait.” And with that, he was back with his soldier friends, leaving you fascinated and slightly lovestruck. You knew it was foolish to have feelings for someone you barely knew, especially being a princess, but you simply couldn’t help it. His boldness and lack of regard for your position ensnared you immediately, and before you’d even spoken much, you knew he had you.

Everything we said in total agreement

You spoke with the handsome soldier boy a few more times that night, always agreeing, constantly sharing the same opinions. It was as if you shared a mind. You never did get to dance with him, but you promised he would have a dance before the night was over. If you hadn’t been sure already, you were then. You were completely and utterly in love with him.

Handsome, boy, does he know it

Peach fuzz and he can’t even grow it

I wanna take him far away from this place

Then I turn and see my sister’s face and she’s

“Helpless,” your sister, Yelizaveta, whom you all affectionately called Eliza, said to you.

She had just pulled you to the side of the ballroom and told you that someone had her “helpless”.

“What do you mean? Who does?” you questioned.

“Him.” Eliza turned, and there he was.

Thomas. The one who had your younger sister so helpless was the very same young soldier who had stolen into your affections.

“He’s wonderful (Y/N/N)!” she turned back to you. “It’s Thomas Holland, General Njeri’s favorite soldier! He’s so handsome and brave.” Your sister was basically swooning by that point.

“Helpless? Eliza, it’s only been one night, are you sure?” You knew you were being hypocritical. You yourself felt deeply in love with Thomas and had also only met him that night. And anyway, you knew she wasn’t exaggerating. You knew your sister like you knew your own mind. All you had to do was look into her eyes and you knew she meant it when she said she was completely helpless for him.

“Yes, sister, I’m sure. He has me,” she replied.

And I realize

Three fundamental truths at the exact same time

You nodded, stroking her face and walking over to him. As you got closer to him, you realized three key truths that you had foolishly allowed yourself to forget.

Number One

I’m a girl in a world in which my only job is to marry rich

My father has no sons so I’m the one who has to social climb for one

You were the oldest of all your sisters, making you (Y/N), Crown Princess of Larione. The future ruler of your country. Crown princess, not prince. You would never be taken seriously as a ruler on your own. Your job was to marry a rich royal, preferably a king or crown prince. Thomas Holland was the furthest possible thing from that. A poor bastard orphan from the Caribbean, with no title or wealth. Simply a soldier favored by a revered general. As a woman, he could give you love, but as the future of the realm, there was nothing he offered you.

“How have I offended you now?” he asked jokingly.

“Not at all,” you said, smiling. “There’s actually someone I’d like you to meet.”

He raised his eyebrows as you grabbed his arm and led him in your sister’s direction.

“Where are you taking me?” he questioned.

“I’m about to change your life.”

“Well then, by all means, lead the way.”

As you approached your sister, she curtsied politely, saying “Princess Yelizaveta. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Princess?” Thomas turned to you in confusion, having thought this girl was one of your ladies.

“My sister!” you explained.

“Thank you for all you do, sir,” Eliza said.

“If it takes fighting a war for us to meet it will have been worth it.”

“I’ll leave you to it!” you said, smiling through the pain of your actions.

Number Two

He’s after me cause I’m a Schuyler Sister

That elevates his status

I’d have to be naive to set that aside,

Maybe that is why I introduced him to Eliza

Now that’s his bride,

Nice going, Angelica, he was right

You will never be satisfied

Thomas Holland was an ambitious man. A social climber, desperate to rise above his station. To marry a princess would make him a duke, one of the highest titles in Larione. His children would have royal blood, and so would his grandchildren after that. Perhaps that was the reason you had introduced him to your younger sister. A princess, but not one who would be queen. Someone a step above, but within reach. A decision you regretted almost immediately. You wished you had kept him to yourself. Ha, would you look at that, he was right. You will never be satisfied.

Number Three

I know my sister like I know my own mind,

You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind

If I tell her that I love him she’d be silently resigned

He’d be mine,

She would say “I’m fine”

She’d be lying

The week following the ball, Eliza and Thomas were writing back and forth constantly. Eliza’s eyes lit up with every letter that he wrote her. You played the role of the protective, prying older sister, saying to her in regards to the letters “I’m just saying If you really loved me you would share them!”, trying to playfully snatch one away.

Of course, it was all an act. You wished those letters were for you. You wished you were the one Thomas was so eager to write to. You wanted so badly to confess your feelings to Thomas and Eliza and to take him for yourself, but you could never do that to your kind, gentle sister. Realistically, if you were to confess, your sister would be happy for you. She would sway Thomas in your direction, just as you had done for her. She would tell you she was happy for you and that she was alright. She’d be lying. Eliza felt strongly for Thomas, anyone could see it. She’d be heartbroken, but she’d deny it. She would want nothing more than your happiness, the same way you wanted her’s. Your love for her triumphed over all, even your love for Thomas. You loved her more than anything in this life and would put her happiness over your own every time. So you bit your tongue, hiding away your true feelings.

Before you knew it, several months had passed. Thomas, through ambition, skill and, and hard work, had risen in station from a common soldier to Secretary of Larione’s Treasury- a position high enough to marry a member of the royal family.

So finally, the time had come to ask your father for his blessing to marry your sister. You, Eliza, and your youngest sister, Margaery, or “Peggy”, were sitting on a couch in the upstairs corridor leading to the stairs, listening for your father’s approval.

Your father stood up and walked towards Thomas slowly. You got nervous, fearing he was going to deny Thomas’s request for marriage. You truly wanted him to bless the marriage. All you wanted was for Eliza to be happy. Thankfully, your father shook Thomas’s hand saying “be true to each other”.

Thomas smiled brightly, looking up to Eliza. You all rushed downstairs. You and Peggy hugged your new brother-in-law tightly, welcoming him to the family. You smiled softly as Eliza kissed him. Though it would be a lie to say you didn’t feel a flash of sadness at the reminder that he wasn’t yours. But as usual, you hid your feelings.

Days passed as quickly as they came, eventually leading up to Thomas and Eliza’s wedding. To say it was bittersweet would be an understatement. On one hand, your sister’s happiness brought you great joy, on the other, the prospect of Thomas being out of your reach permanently brought you great despair.

You smiled as you walked down the aisle as your sister’s maid of honor, but anyone who looked close enough would have seen your eyes were crying.

You couldn’t stop the tears pooling in your eyes as Thomas’s close friend, Lieutenant Colonel Harrison Osterfield spoke loudly, “Everyone, give it up for the maid of honor! Princess (Y/N)!”

“A toast to the groom!” you said enthusiastically, looking at Thomas and Eliza.

“To the groom!” the guests toasted.

“To the lovely bride!”

The guests repeated it back to you.

“From your most adoring sister,” you said, wrapping your free arm around Peggy. “Who’s always by your side.”

“May your marriage be long and prosperous,” you turned to Thomas specifically. “And may you always be satisfied.”

The young man smiled knowingly at you.

The wedding came and went, and before you knew it, you were saying goodbye to Thomas and Eliza as they left for their honeymoon.

“Are you crying, sister? Oh, I love you ever so much!” Eliza said, wiping your tears and kissing your cheek. She thought you were crying tears of happiness for her. Oh, if only she knew. As she said her goodbyes to Peggy, you caught Thomas’s eye. In them was an expression of such deep longing it made your heart ache. Your gazes on each other lingered until Eliza’s sweet, lovestruck voice called out “Thomas?”. At the sound of her voice, he tore his gaze from you, stepping into the carriage and riding away with his wife. Eventually, Harrison, Jacob, and Tuwaine- Thomas’s fellow soldiers- alongside Peggy went back inside, leaving you standing alone, tears running down your face outside of the chapel where your dearest sister just married your one true love.

He will never be satisfied.

I will never be satisfied.

#tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x princess!reader #tom holland imagine #hamilton fanfic #hamilton #tom holland angst

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cyraclove · 4 years ago

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I wrote this lil’ Revalink oneshot for my friend @virgll as a part of our Discord server’s New Year Fic Exchange. Having never written these two precious idiots before, I had a really good time exploring their relationship.

I hope you enjoy!

Tell Me Where Your Heart Is, Tell Me Where You Keep It

It began with a look.

A stinging glare that lingered in his mind long after; a disdainful sneer that harbored something more than envy, something deeper than resentment. It had been enough to stun Revali into silence, for once, the way the young Hylian’s eyes bore into him from behind locks of sweat-drenched hair.

Link had looked up at the Rito champion from where he’d fallen on the Flight Range landing, a thin stream of crimson blooming from his lip and dripping off of his chin, icy flecks of snow lashing at his face. Something foreign stirred in Revali’s chest as a shiver flew up his spine that chilled him more than the frigid Tabantha air ever had.

Before he could open his beak to admonish Link for his poor form, to spit out yet another biting quip about his performance, Link wrested himself up from the ground. His blood painted the snow when he spoke, delicate pinpricks of red slowly sinking into the dense white.

“Again,” he’d rasped, and snatched his bow up as he stood on shaky legs.

As he watched the young man once again prepare to leap from the lofty landing with paraglider in hand, Revali suddenly and inexplicably found himself wondering what he might taste like in that moment, all iron and salt.

It was infuriating.

Read on AO3

In the weeks that followed, Revali attempted to keep his distance. Avoiding Link wasn’t too terrible a feat, as he was much too preoccupied with Zelda—as recalcitrant as she was royal. The Rito had even discovered her hiding around the village on numerous occasions, seeking a moment’s respite. Her emerald eyes would silently plead with him, and he would leave her be, feeling more akin to the princess than he would have thought possible.

Mastering Medoh needed to be his focus, he would remind himself, not this amateur —this pathetic excuse for a champion. While Revali had spent countless, grueling hours honing his skill, all Link had done was stumble upon a sword. That they both trained for the same battle was the only thing that united them. Had Link not been Hylia’s chosen , Revali thought, he’d be nothing more than a lowly farmhand playing at being a warrior.

In Revali’s mind, Link was still just that. He had to be. The alien ache in his chest from their interaction on the Flight Range would return if he allowed himself to consider otherwise.

Sunrises turned over and twisted into sunsets as Calamity Ganon’s ever-looming shadow spread across Hyrule, swallowing what little hope its people still clung to as time continued to slip away. Revali memorized Medoh’s every mechanism while Link tirelessly trained, both somehow existing together and apart simultaneously. Zelda continued to pray.

They all prayed.

The chill of evening in the village was beautiful, albeit bitter, for the night winds brought with them silence and the scent of the pines. It was the only time when Revali was awarded with some semblance of peace, though he endlessly warred with his own mind—a turbulent sky of relentless thoughts that denied him true rest. To his chagrin, he often found that his most tumultuous thoughts were of Link.

It enraged him, being plagued by a man so much lesser than he. One sleepless night after another, Revali had managed to convince himself that it was simply because of the injustice of the entire situation. So unfair was it that Link had been awarded a position that he did not deserve, and Revali was merely trying to make sense of it all. It had nothing to do with the way he had felt those many weeks ago when Link’s stormy eyes had locked with his; how his breath had caught in his throat when he heard him speak for the first time.

In fact, he’d all but forgotten about it.

When he heard him speak a second time, winter had settled in entirely, shrouding Tabantha in a shimmering blanket of blinding white. He knelt by the small hearth in the center of his roost, watching the embers softly flicker and die. After a failed attempt at sleep, he’d decided to get an early start rather than wasting more time. He waited in the pitch of early morning for the sunlight to creep above Hebra Peak, a whisper of a breeze gently rustling his feathers.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” a voice cut through the silence.

His heart seized with that unwelcome, startling twinge of something that he had yet to name. Though Revali felt Link’s presence, he did not raise his head, keeping his gaze trained on the dying flames.

“The hero can speak in complete sentences,” Revali drawled, his tone dry. Out of the corner of his eye, Revali saw Link’s jaw clench.

“I speak when I care to,” Link retorted, “and it’s not often that I do.”

Revali scoffed, a mirthless smirk on his face. “To what do I owe such an honor, then?”

“You’re supposed to be training me,” Link said, “but I’ve been trying to figure everything out on my own.”

He let out a squawking laugh this time, cocking his head as he finally looked up. “Are you not Hylia’s chosen champion? He who wields the sword that seals the darkness, protector of the crown and savior of us all, yes? Surely, you don’t need my help.”

“When we first arrived here, you said that you w—”

“When I said that I would show you how it’s done,” Revali snapped, making the end of Link’s sentence die in his throat, “I meant, of course, by besting you. Not by teaching you.”

Link inhaled deeply, eyes flashing beneath his knitted brow. The feathers adorning the shoulders of his Snowquill tunic fluttered slightly in the breeze as he took a seat on the stone floor opposite Revali, crossing his legs and resting his hands calmly on his knees. They regarded one another in silence from across the fire, their faces obscured by sparks of amber dancing above the flames.

“I don’t recall inviting you to join me.”

“Revali,” Link started, the very sound of his own name from the Hylian’s lips twisting the knot in his stomach, “I respect you. Your skill as a marksman is undeniably impressive…but I don’t have to tell you that. What I’m trying to say is that I want to learn from you.” He paused then, his eyes trailing downward. When he spoke, a hint of a tremor colored his voice.

“I need you to help me because I’m not ready. I’m…scared.”

As satisfying as the admission of fear should have been for Revali, it wasn’t at all. Why, out of everyone, had Link chosen him to confide in? Surely Daruk was more of a mentor to him; Urbosa more of a sage than he; Mipha, with her gentle words and kind demeanor, would have been a better choice. The walls of pretense came crumbling down around him and all he felt was shame. Despite the posturing and the honorifics, Link was merely a man —and he was frightened, just as anyone would be.

Just as he was, though he dare not say so.

Before he had a chance to even begin to register a response, he saw Link’s eyes grow wide as they flickered up towards the sky. Something had diverted his attention away from Revali entirely, his mouth parting slightly as he sat there, transfixed. Revali raised a brow at him.

“And here I was thinking that we were having an actual conversation. What could you possibly be staring at?”

“What is that?”

Turning to look, Revali saw familiar, beryl-green rivers of light weaving their way through the twilight. Like a gleaming veil concealing some otherworldly place, the ethereal light hung in the air as if by magic, an ancient mystery to all. Distant stars shone through, accenting the deeply hued sky with pinpricks of white.

“It’s just the aurora,” Revali said plainly, unwilling to admit that he was just as captivated now as he was the first time he’d witnessed it.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Link murmured, craning his neck to get a better view.

Revali watched him then, his face aglow with viridescent light. Never had he thought that a grown man could look at the sky with the wondrous eyes of a child, and for a fleeting moment, it was he who was envious of Link. The light that he saw in him was as bright and as brilliant as the light above them, the likes of which he’d not seen in anyone. Perhaps in himself, long ago.

Where had it gone?

“Your eyes,” Link said, the sudden comment causing Revali to startle.

He clucked his tongue. “ What? ”

The corner of Link’s mouth quirked up as he shifted to face him, his expression soft. Revali felt his breath hitch as his entire body tensed in anticipation of the other man’s response.

Link gazed back up at the aurora.

“They’re the same color.”

His damnable heart flew to his throat, any coherent thought evading him. Words were out of his reach now, language a distant memory. Revali’s mouth went dry as he turned away, trying desperately not to choke on his own tongue.

“What a ridiculous thing to say,” he stammered as he rose to his feet. He heard Link chuckle softly.

“Just an observation.”

“Well, in the future, do keep your observations to yourself. It’s nearly sunup; I need to train. And so do you.”

Revali turned to leave, longing to be anywhere else. He could have very easily taken to the skies right then, a powerful gust in his wake. He could be at the Flight Range in moments, his only focus his arrow and its target. Instead, he paused, cursing himself for what he was about to say.

“Flight Range in an hour. We can start with that atrocious form of yours.”

He took off, the force of his gale sending him soaring above the rooftops. Flying swiftly towards the mountains, an odd urge to look back nagged at him in the back of his mind. Relenting, he turned in enough time to catch a glimpse of Link standing at the railing of his roost, watching him.

He was smiling.

#revalink #loz botw #botw fanfiction #botw fic #revali x link #ao3 #archive of our own #breath of the wild #cyraclove #cyraclove writes

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spirit-of-vengeance · 4 years ago

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@spxcemuses @mr-mansnoozie @xxstar-bluesxx

Guess who gathered enough mind to finally write her full backstory of Western Verse. Her being a bounty hunter is set in the Wild West time period (1865-1895), there is no current year(s) to set her story in mainly because I don't want to make a mistake messing up the timeline.

Calm before the storm

Her father, Attila a lesser Hungarian noble whom supported the 1848-1849 revolutionary war but after the failure of it he escaped emigrated to America to avoid the Habsburg revenge, soon followed by his brother Gábor. He could save a small amount of his fortune along with his two most important horses: a purebred Lipizzan stallion and an extremely rare Akhal Teke mare. He had settled near a small town, due to his financial situation and education as a noble he established a school with the support and approval of the local church. To quieten his guilt for abandoning his country in its peril, he poured all of his heart into educating children; at least he is still useful in some way.

One day, a group of artists traveling artists, acrobats traveled through the town and the aristocrat fell in love at first sight. She was like the queen of fairy from the folk tales he'd heard in his childhood, she was tall, blue eyes sparkled like light sapphire, long golden brown hair floated ethereally with every twirl. The smitten lord shamelessly courted the the graceful acrobat, determined to know at least the name.

The group had stayed in the town for a few weeks, allowing Attila's and Myra's romance to blossom; after a month she ended up staying with him, just like in true fairytales.

My obsession with angst backstory strikes again

The lord was in love, deeper than poets could express it. Since the loss of his home and country he had found his place in the universe along with the perfect companion by his side. He paid less attention to the school, the church and other public affairs; it wasn't like he abandoned them but became more withdrawn to spend time with the love of his life, especially after the birth of their daughter. She was almost the perfect miniature of her mother, same beautiful hair glinting gold in the sunlight, only her eyes were the brightest emerald green he'd ever seen.

While Myra's heart and aura was as pure as a fairy's; the local church was beyond distressed. They claimed that Attila had completely abandoned helping those in need because of her wicked seduction. When they witnessed her performing for the amusement of the crowd, the 'temptress witch' brand couldn't be lifted. They gathered a few enthusiastic townsfolk whom shared their views and a few morally questionable men whom only wanted a piece of the lord's fortune.

10 year old Karma was awakened from her deep slumber by her frantic father; smoke and yelling blinding her senses as he carried her out of the burning house into the nearby forest so the mob won't find her. He promised her he will be back but he had to return into their home for Myra; he couldn't leave her inside. Karma watched her dad disappear into the flames, the air filled with suffocating smoke and religious shouts for god to smite the sinners. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the spot where her father was gone, waiting for her parents to stumble out of the half collapsed building; but that never had happened. She sat unmoving from her spot, struck staring into the flames then into the ashes as the sun has risen.

Birth of the marksman

Attila's brother, Gábor arrived the next day after hearing the news, he was the one whom found Karma still staring at the ruins in a catatonic state. He couldn't avenge his sibling as it meant endangering his niece and she has lost more than enough.

Gábor expected her to become a soft spoken, reserved lady once she overcame her trauma; that theory was soon abandoned when once he had awoken to his niece practicing with his rifle outside with frighteningly great accuracy. The young girl naturally had an extraordinary aim and after a few long talks, he'd seen the determination burning in her to avenge the murder of her parents. Given by her mother's dance lessons, she was also flexible and capable of many different acrobatic moves; this combined with her aim proven to be a very dangerous combination.

To not awaken suspicion he told his friends Karma was an orphan whose parents were killed by bandits and he had adopted her to give her a family and education. Karma was fascinated chasing greater heights of her skills, this involved reading every possible book about anatomy, marking, engraving the useful spots of the body. Karma knows where to shoot to disarm, to cause a slow death, to paralyze, to disable for life and when it is only a warning: an injury which will heal with time. Along with her accuracy, her drawing speed only can be compared to lightning. Although she prefers/most comfortable with her dual revolvers (model undecided yet), she is still a menace with shotguns, rifles, flintlocks and even bows due to Gàbor's 'A Hungarian is not a Hungarian if they can't use a bow' mindset.

The bounty hunter quicker than death

Karma had her first official gunfight at the age of 18 on the auction. for Vihar (Storm), the filly of her father's horses.

Detailed post about Vihar

She officially entered the bounty hunter business when she was 20 and Vihar was 2, aiming for the most dangerous criminals whom committed the worst acts possible. In her early years after the kill she slit open corpses she trying to find the bullet, surverying the damage it caused and adding filler information to her anatomy knowledge. Of course she didn’t bother burying the bodies, she knew as a woman she has to be extremely vicious above talented to be hired and mutilated dead bodies did send a great message & served as cement for building her reputation. The name Karma wasn't entirely her idea, many thankful family members claimed that karma has came for their loved ones' murderers. Her talent spread like wildfire among the men of law, glad to be rid of the dangerous scum; with careful planning, use of environment and Vihar as backup she had wiped out gangs, not solely focused on individuals.

Unfortunately her reputation summoned an unofficial grand price on her head as well in certain circles; they had tracked her back to her uncle's house. The battle claimed Gábor's life and nearly her sight as her right eye was almost slashed out. The new loss opened old wounds: her not being able to protect her loved ones. She couldn't look into a mirror, the scar a reminder how despite all years of training she wasn't untouchable; after burying her uncle plan to gain control over her psyche already formed.

She took a knife and carefully carved four half circles around her eye to form a crosshair with her pupil being the middle of it. She made sure she kept the wounds open for enough time to scar as visibly as the vertical cut; she wanted a symbol to add to her legend. Excuse my pathetic excuse of an edit, I'm not good in this, nor I can draw.

Now Karma is 25, Vihar is 6, both of them in their peak physical prime; the name Vihar is also symbolic a little, Karma is the lightning to her horse. She is dancing on the thin edge of bounty hunting and being an outlaw as she often takes...side jobs to help people who deserve it and usually that person doesn't have a bounty on their head, therefore it is technically murder.

Local antisocial feral monk & cocky gunslinger feral lady / addition of the AU with the amazing @mr-mansnoozie

Near her uncle's house, Karma had discovered a cave and a grumpy mute monk living in it along with his pet bear. The monk, Sandy eventually became a second uncle to the traumatized angry orphan, he taught her how to move & creep upon someone soundlessly, disappear without a trace, cover her stances and behavior patterns of various animals. Before and after returning from a job she always visits her uncle of choice for a chat; a silent way to prepare him to the possibility of her not coming back. But she always do. She considers Sandy as part of her tiny family, although his...copying mechanisms with his own traumas were a bit strange to get used to; she adapted quite fast, after all who is she to judge with a past like that?

I'm a dead man walking, Hell's at my door.

aka collection of small headcanons

🎯 Her dual revolvers are called Salvation and Damnation because she's dramatic

🎯 Karma has a small sketchbook filled with anatomy drawings for further practice.

🎯 She actually can sing, but rarely does, only to Vihar since she never received positive feedback on it. Her voice is gritty, rugged and deep; definitely not the usual and desired sounding from a woman.

🎯 If her target was an outstandingly cruel bastard and/or one of those whom killed her parents she uses a little psychological torture. After fatally wounding them she starts whistling (for the most terrifying experience wear headphones & close your eyes while listening) as they try to crawl away or beg for mercy. The first time the whistle gets shrill & more intense is when she lazily reloads, knowing she has both the time and the upper hand. The second pace shift is when she aims; she shoots during the last, long drawn out high note.

🎯 This is her only verse where Cindy is afraid, no terrified of fire; during her....26 AU's she's always been associated with fire despite dying in or being wounded by it. In this verse she is more tied to lightning, the scent of smoke is enough to send her into a silent panic attack and despite loathing the cold she will never sit close to the fireplace. Her other deep fears include injuring her hands & sight and losing Vihar. Her horse is the only remaining family member of hers, she can't fail her too.

🎯 Most of Karma's scars, injuries are a result of her standing between Vihar and a knife/bullet/ even a bullwhip when a criminal was smart enough to catch on their deep emotional bond.

🎯 She has recurring night terrors about the night her parents died, she always wakes up in cold sweat; she's sort of used to them. Though, sometimes she still cries but thankfully Vihar is there to comfort her.

🎯 Karma has a special morning stretch routine to keep her flexibility and warm up her hands & keep them steady and fast.

🎯 Due to her dad and uncle she received high quality education

🎯 For the untrained eye, the belt of her hat are simple crosses while in reality, they are inverted crosses to symbolize her stance with Christianity

🎯 Karma's middle name is Emerald, given by her father due to her eye color.

🎯 Karma was first inspired by League of Legends Miss Fortune because that name alone is great but unfortunately she is too pirate coded for a western so I abandoned the relation. Though when Karma is not being the 'Call me a slow reader but I only made it to the Dead part, the or Alive didn't register.' ; her personality is similar to hers.

🎯 Due to her dad, Karma is actually half aristocrat. Not like she cares about it the slightest; the only indication of noble blood is her idle stance. It is an unconscious mirror of how her father used to hold himself: back straightened to almost impossible point, left arm behind it, right hand resting on the grip of in her case, revolver instead of hilt of a sword.

🎯 If given the chance to live a normal life, she would've grown into a captivating, lively young woman, much like her mother but with the aristocrat elegance of her father; finding a suitor who lives up to her parents' and her standards would've been the challenge of the century.

🎯 Her special move is called Dance of Death. This is used as last resort when she's facing more opponents up to 12, as with her dual revolvers she has 12 bullets without reloading. She mentally marks the stances of all opponents, predicts their movement, firing order and possible way of their bullets before whirling out of her hiding place. Each pose minimizes the chance of getting shot, and with each change of movement two bullets are fired, two men drop dead.

🎯 Her accuracy isn't just 'gun goes boom >:D' but a combination of natural talent, endless practice, movement prediction, sharp, quick thinking & analytical skills and different techniques molten together to utilize them all at once

🎯 Her hair is now as long as her mother's, she always keeps it in a single tight braid to keep it out of the way; without her hat and hair down she actually loses some of her dangerous edge.

🎯 The only physical memory Karma has of her parents is her dad's hussar sword she found underneath the ruins of the house, it was protected by a very thick wooden box & a lock of her mother's hair is tied to the grip. She has hidden it in the nearby forest, her thoughts often wander to it along with the wish to wield it.

#🦂 western au🔥| one shot; one kill #🔥headcanons🔥 | secrets of the fire #I can't help myself with the little hungarian details can I?#it just makes me so happy because my country doesn't really get any recognition in media & it feels good to weave the history of my country #into a badass character #I also spent 2.5 hours typing this. my fingers ;-; though totally worth it 😄#🔥alright to reblog🔥| let the wind carry the cinders

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flowers-creativity · 5 years ago

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Whumptober alt. prompt 9: Memory loss

Fandom: The Musketeers

Characters: d’Artagnan, Athos,Porthos, Aramis

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, head injuries, blood, amnesia

Summary: Porthos forgets something important after getting injured in a fight.

Notes: Please do not look for medical accuracy in this fic XD (or any of my fics, especially during Whumptober, really).

AO3 link

“Shhh!” Aramis suddenly raised his hand, interrupting the banter between d'Artagnan and Porthos. Both of them turned around in the saddle to look at him, eyebrows raised questioningly. Behind Aramis, Athos was sitting very still on his horse, radiating concentration as he was listening for whatever Aramis might have heard.

It took another few heartbeats but then d'Artagnan heard it, too: Hoofbeats. Enough that even he could tell that it had to be several horses, and he was sure the others, with their superior experience, were also aware. They exchanged grim looks, and as one, they dug their heels into their horses' flanks to put some distance between themselves and the group of riders coming closer.

As they rode, d'Artagnan was aware that Aramis and Athos were hanging back a bit, turning around to watch for the approaching men. After a few tense minutes, a shot cracked through the air, and when d'Artagnan looked back, Aramis was stashing his spent pistol in the holder of his tack with a grimace. “They're still coming,” he called. It must have been a warning shot, d'Artagnan surmised, but it had obviously failed to deter them. He could see them now, if not clearly – five or six men, he guessed at a glance.

Athos gave a sharp whistle, and Porthos immediately reined his horse in, forcing d'Artagnan to slow down, too. “Let's greet these gentlemen properly, shall we?” their leader drawled with a wry glance when they had stopped and turned around. “It seems they are eager to make our acquaintance.”

d'Artagnan grinned, and at his side, Porthos' face lit up with eager anticipation. “We wouldn't want to be impolite,” he growled, loosening his schiavona in its sheath. Aramis was reloading the pistol he had used earlier with quick, practised movements, then drew the second from its holster. “Perish the thought,” he agreed.

They got into a line, pistols drawn and ready, and waited for their pursuers to appear. When they did, d'Artagnan let his gaze skip across them quickly, taking in as many details as possible. Six men – his initial estimate had been right – clad in dark clothes, hats pulled low, and there was the glint of metal in their hands. A moment later, it was revealed as pistols, and a first shot cracked, short and sharp like a whip. Immediately, Aramis returned fire, and the others followed him just another heartbeat later. d'Artagnan bit down hard on a scream, not allowing it past his lips, when fire streaked across his left biceps, and for a moment he swayed in the saddle. He caught himself, shaking his head sharply, and dropped his spent pistols, sliding from the horse's back and drawing his sword.

“d'Artagnan?” Aramis asked among the momentary lull, between the last echo of the shots fading away and the men crossing the last few metres to them while the Musketeers stood, ready to face them but letting them come towards them.

d'Artagnan shook his head. “A graze, I think,” he said breathlessly, pushing the pain into the back of his mind. “I'm fine.”

The medic did not argue – he knew as much as d'Artagnan that there was nothing to be done. And then the strangers were there, swords clashing, and d'Artagnan's focus narrowed to his blade, catching the oncoming man's and twisting away from his slash down towards the young Musketeer's thigh. He was vaguely aware of his brothers moving around him, of their opponents – five, one must have gone down with their shots – pressing them, at one point smoothly changing position with Aramis and taking his opponent on. The marksman's eyes sparkled with laughter as he sketched a quick bow, and d'Artagnan grinned back at him, his blood singing with the fight.

But the next moment, there was a loud thud, and at the same time, Athos called out: “Porthos!” d'Artagnan bit down on his lip, all mirth draining from his face. Suppressing the urge to look around, he redoubled his efforts, and two, three strikes later, his opponent went down with his blade buried in his chest.

He glanced back at the others and saw with horror that Porthos was down, crumbled on the ground and his face wet with blood streaming from his temple. It was mixed with relief when Aramis fell onto his knees next to his best friend and bent over him, touching his shoulder. d'Artagnan turned away and moved to help Athos finish off the last two bandits.

An hour later, they had set up camp since Aramis didn't want to move Porthos. The medic had cleaned and stitched the deep head wound, and they had made him comfortable, as much as possible on a thin bedroll on hard ground. His heart was beating strong, his breath steady and unaffected.

But he hadn't woken up yet.

d'Artagnan sat leaned back against his saddle, staring at the as of yet unlit fire they had built. His wound – actually only a shallow graze, like he had said – had been cleaned and bound by Athos while Aramis took care of Porthos, and there was nothing left to do. Nothing but wait for Porthos to wake up and try to swallow the lump of fear in his throat that rose every time he looked at his friend's unmoving form, at Aramis beside him in silent vigil, head bent and lips moving tonelessly, his crucifix held in clenched fingers. It was not the first time Porthos or any of them had had a head injury, and he remembered all those jokes about his thick skull, but he also knew that Aramis feared head wounds more than almost any other injury, saying that the brain was a most delicate organ, and if it took too much damage … He swallowed again and closed his eyes, trying to banish all those what-ifs.

When he opened his eyes again, Aramis had gotten up and was striding over towards him with determination in his step. He raised an eyebrow at him as the medic dropped down at his left and reached for the bandage around his arm. “Let me have another look at that wound,” Aramis said, his voice rough with some emotion d'Artagnan could not name.

“Athos took care of it, it's fine,” he protested. “He said it doesn't need stitches.”

Aramis pursed his lips. “Let me be the judge of that,” he replied while his nimble fingers were already unwinding the linen.

d'Artagnan threw a helpless look at Athos on the other side of the firepit. His mentor looked back, face unreadable, and just shook his head slightly. The Gascon frowned – sometimes he understood his brothers perfectly, even if he'd been with them so much shorter than the three of them had been at each other's side; and sometimes he still felt like they were speaking a language he had barely any grasp of. “Shouldn't you concentrate on taking care of Porthos?” he asked and immediately regretted it – Athos' face twitched into a grimace that told him this had been the wrong thing to say, as much as the hands on his arm suddenly stilling completely did.

He turned his head towards Aramis and opened his mouth to speak, to apologise or say something that would make it better, but Aramis shook his head sharply and continued removing the bandage, his gaze on his fingers and his face shadowed by the brim of his hat. “Let me do this much, at least,” he said softly, and this time d'Artagnan understood what wasn't being said, how helpless Aramis had to feel, with nothing more he could do to help his friend until he woke, and not knowing how he would wake, if at all. He covered Aramis' hand on his arm with his right and squeezed, giving him a nod of silent sympathy. A ghost of a smile flitted over Aramis' lips, and he turned back to checking the wound.

Movement had both their heads snapping up – Athos had surged to his feet and was at Porthos' side with a few strides. d'Artagnan held his breath as Athos knelt down and bent over the injured man, calling his name softly. There was no audible reply but they could see Porthos moving, a hand raised to reach for his head, intercepted by Athos who gently tugged it back down, murmuring something too soft to reach the other side of the small clearing.

Aramis jumped up, startling the young Musketeer, and went to join them, and d'Artagnan scrambled to follow. He knelt down a bit farther back, leaving the places directly at Porthos' side to his older brothers. He knew full well how disquieting it was to have too many faces looking down on you while you were laying on your back, so he didn't want to crowd Porthos while he was still adjusting.

“What--?” Porthos' voice was rough with pain and confusion, and he tugged again at the hand Athos was holding down.

Aramis smiled down at him and took his other hand, giving it a squeeze. “Welcome back among the living,” he said, and the teasing tone did nothing to cover the relief shining in his face.

Porthos frowned, then winced, his gaze flitting from Athos to Aramis, then meeting d'Artagnan's before it glided away, taking in their environment. “What 'appened?” he asked.

“Hit to the head,” Aramis supplied, leaning forward to peer into Porthos' eyes. “Bad enough to challenge even a skull as thick as yours.”

Porthos' gaze was skittering from one of them to the next still, and his face was screwed up in discomfort and no small amount of confusion. Then it landed on Aramis' pauldron, and he stilled, going rigid. Aramis frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Porthos spoke. “You're-you're soldiers.” He swallowed audibly. “Am I under arrest?”

And d'Artagnan felt his stomach drop into his feet.

Athos and Aramis exchanged alarmed looks. It was the medic who found his voice first, and he said gently: “No, you're not.” He withdrew his hand and motioned for Athos to do the same, straightening up and putting some distance between Porthos and him. It looked so wrong, Aramis willingly withdrawing from Porthos when he was injured, that d'Artagnan had to swallow against a new lump in his throat. Something was terribly wrong indeed …

Porthos relaxed minutely when they withdrew, but distrust was still predominant on his face. “Why're you botherin' with me, then?” he asked.

More looks were exchanged until Athos finally spoke. “Well, you got hurt, and someone had to take care of you,” he said mildly. “Do you remember what happened before you were injured?”

Porthos sat up laboriously – Aramis twitched with the need to assist him but held the careful distance – and scrunched up his face, then shook his head. “No,” he admitted.

“That can happen with head injuries,” Aramis said, his voice and face bright with an insincere nonchalance. “You'll remember in time.” He reached out as if to pat him on the shoulder but quickly held himself in check.

“What do you remember?” d'Artagnan asked, unable to be quiet any longer.

Porthos startled at the sound of his voice and took a moment to search him out, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I don' have to talk to you if I'm not arrested, soldier” he finally said, and it ached that there was no recognition in those dark eyes. d'Artagnan looked to Aramis and Athos, searching for an answer in their faces but seeing only helplessness and confusion reflected back at him.

“Do you know your name?” Athos asked. Again, Porthos' gaze went to the speaker distrustfully. “Yes,” he said after a moment of deliberation, then his frown deepened. “But … you knew it, too. You called me by it, earlier,” he said accusingly. Athos inclined his head in concession. “How do you know me?”

Aramis turned and picked up Porthos' pauldron where they had settled it on his doublet after taking them off to make him comfortable. He placed it in Porthos' lap. “Because of this,” he said simply. “You're a soldier, too, a Musketeer. You're our friend, our brother.”

Porthos stared down at the tooled leather piece with open confusion for a moment before the suspicious mask he had worn since he had woken up slid back into place. “That's a joke,” he finally said. “I'm no soldier.”

“Yes, you are,” Athos confirmed. “You've been a member of the regiment for five years now.”

“No!” Porthos jumped to his feet but stumbled, falling back down onto his backside and instead scrabbling to push himself away backwards with unsteady legs and arms. “Quit lyin' to me! I don't know you! And I'm not a soldier, or whatever a Musketeer is!”

The other three sat frozen, Aramis' arm extended towards him as he fought to suppress the urge to bridge the distance between them. He slowly lowered it in what seemed to be a Herculean effort. “It's not a lie,” he said. “But please... You're hurt. Don't move around so much, you'll make it worse.” How could it get any worse than Porthos not remembering them, not remembering who he was, d'Artagnan thought slightly hysterically.

“We'll leave you be if you rest for a little while,” Athos suggested. “We can talk again later when you're feeling better.”

Porthos looked around their circle, everything in his posture and expression speaking of his distrust. However, his abrupt movements had made the blood drain from his face; he was almost frighteningly pale and swaying slightly where he sat. After a seemingly endless stretch of time, he finally nodded begrudgingly. “Don't come near me,” he said.

“We won't until you say it's alright,” Athos promised solemnly. He looked around to the other two and nodded at them, then jerked his head towards the other side of the clearing. d'Artagnan frowned but got to his feet obediently to follow Athos' direction. When he noticed Aramis did not follow, he stopped and turned around.

The medic had stooped and picked up a blanket from Porthos' abandoned bedroll. The injured man had retreated a few steps away to a nearby tree where he sat with his back to it, his legs drawn in and arms wrapped around them in a tight ball. Carefully, Aramis approached him as he would a dangerous animal – not his best friend, his brother – and held out the blanket to him. “Please, at least take that,” he said, worry evident in his tone, at least for his other two brothers. “It'll be more comfortable than the blank floor.”

Porthos continued to glare at him but finally nodded, and Aramis let the blanket drop near him, then turned and hurried to join the other two.

A few steps away, they huddled together. Athos turned towards their medic and asked: “Do you---” He hesitated, then began again: “Have you seen or heard of something like this before? He knows his name but beyond that--” Again, he broke off, shooting a glance towards Porthos who had at least picked up the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. “What can we do?”

Aramis shook his head and buried his hands in his curls, tugging at the roots, and d'Artagnan reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, hoping to lend some support. It was perhaps unfair to put all of this onto the medic's shoulders but then, he definitely had no clue how something like that could happen and how to fix it, and neither had Athos, it seemed.

“I've heard of it, yes,” Aramis finally said. He stared ahead blankly. “I've read some treatises on similar cases, where people woke up from a head injury and had lost part of their lives. Sometimes just a few hours before the injury, sometimes weeks, months.” His voice fell to a whisper as he finished: “Years.”

“If he doesn't remember being a Musketeer, doesn't remember us, even you two,” d'Artagnan said, fighting to keep his voice even. They were all reeling with this discovery. “--it really must be years. Is there anything that can be done?”

Aramis grimaced. “I-- one report on such a case said--” He shook his head and forced out: “It said that the man was hit over the head again, in the same spot. That cured it.”

Athos and d'Artagnan exchanged looks of equal dread. The image of Porthos still and pale on the ground, his face painted red by his life's blood pouring over it, was fresh in their mind, and who wanted to purposefully hurt someone they loved in that manner, even if it were to help? It was Athos who said: “And the other cases? You said you heard and read about several of them.”

The medic shrugged, shook his head, tugged at his hair again. “Some regained their memory later. By themselves, supposedly. But some … never did.” He glanced back at their injured brother, desolation in every line of his face. “If he never does--”

Athos grabbed his shoulder opposite of d'Artagnan who had not moved, had, for all intents and purposes, forgotten how to move. “Don't say that,” he said fiercely. “We don't deal in what-ifs.”

Aramis met and held his gaze for a few moments, then nodded and straightened up slightly. “You're right. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said. Thinking hard, he then added: “Well, not knowing what, exactly, we're dealing with, my advice as a medic would be to treat it like any head injury. Let him rest as much as possible, and I'd give him some of my herbs, protect him from bright lights, make sure he eats and drinks.” A flicker of doubt crossed his face. “If he lets us take care of him, that is.”

He did not.

Not really, at least – but Porthos, whether he was “their” Porthos, or this stranger Porthos who, judging from his behaviour and from what little he had said, most remembered his life in the Court of Miracles, was chief of all a survivor. No matter how little he believed them otherwise, he could not deny that he was injured and needed rest to heal. And so he conceded to his needs enough to take his bedroll when they offered it to him, accepted a water skin from them and took some soup and bread after he had seen them eat. He had found a spot as close to the fire and as far from them as possible, his back to some trees, and sat there on the bedroll, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a blank knife close at hand, and watched them as they went through the motions of their evening routine.

“He needs to sleep,” Aramis fretted, practically vibrating with the need to take care of Porthos, beyond the little he had accepted. “If he forces himself to stay awake on top of that head injury ...” The offer of the medic's herb tonic had been summarily refused.

“Aramis,” Athos said with a sigh, giving his shoulder a squeeze, “I know how hard this is, especially for you. But we cannot do anything right now. Let's give him time.”

Aramis let his shoulders slump. “I know,” he said. “But I hate this. So much.”

“I know,” Athos repeated. He put an arm around Aramis' shoulders and steered him towards his own bedroll. “Sleep. I'll wake you for second watch.”

Aramis looked as if he wanted to protest; though to what end, d'Artagnan didn't know, and he doubted Aramis knew, either. In the end, he opened his mouth, closed it again and nodded, taking off hat and doublet, wrapping a blanket around himself and bedding down. “Wake me immediately if anything happens,” he told Athos sternly before laying down his head and closing his eyes.

“You too. Third watch,” the eldest Musketeer told the youngest, and d'Artagnan nodded reluctantly. He knew Athos was right – there was nothing they could do. Still, it felt terrible to just go to sleep while across the fire, their friend was confused and alone.

He was torn from his sleep what felt like only a few minutes later. It took a few moments until he recognised Athos' grim face in the fire's low light, and he lowered the arm he had raised instinctively in self-defence. “Athos? What is it?” he asked anxiously – both Athos' expression and the fact that he had woken him when it should have been Aramis made him think it wasn't time for his watch after all.

“Porthos is gone,” Athos said, his voice a neutral tone that sent the warning bells in d'Artagnan's head into a frenzy.

“What? What do you mean, gone?” The Gascon scrambled to his feet, snatched up his doublet and weapon belt from the ground and quickly donned both of them.

“I mean that I just took my eyes off him for a second, and when I looked back, he wasn't there any more.” Athos looked up at him, and though his face was as controlled as ever, the icy blue eyes were full of anguish. “It was just a moment ...”

“You know how he is,” Aramis murmured as he stepped up to join them. “He's good at that. And maybe even more so right now, when his memories of the Court are the most recent he has.” d'Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief that the marksman was showing no sign of blaming Athos. He was so protective of Porthos – d'Artagnan vividly recalled an arm across his chest and wooden boards digging into his back when he had dared to question Porthos' role in the death he'd been accused of – that he wouldn't have been surprised if he'd done so. But Athos was quick enough to blame himself, most of the time, and was doing so already, obviously.

“He didn't take a horse,” Aramis continued. “Nor did he take anything else, other than the knife.”

Athos nodded and straightened, drawing his shoulders back. “Then let's go after him. He may not remember it but you don't run away from your brothers,” he said with grim determination.

d'Artagnan exchanged a look with Aramis that spoke of both their worry and hurt – that Porthos had done so was almost unbelievable. But there was nothing to be done but try and bring him back. Even if he did not remember it, maybe even if he never did, they would take care of their brother. They quickly fashioned torches from some branches, then kicked some earth over the fire to smother the flames but left the rest of the camp undisturbed. Spreading out in different directions, they set about looking for tracks.

d'Artagnan was almost despairing of finding anything when Athos called them over. “Here,” he said, pointing out several broken and bent branches. Aramis breathed an audible sigh of relief and nodded. “Let's go.”

It was slow going, following tracks in a dark, unfamiliar wood, but though they lost them a few times, they always managed to find them again. While Porthos was extraordinarily good at moving quietly for a man of his size, he was less so at leaving no trace. Still, the longer they were following him, the heavier the stone in d'Artagnan' stomach got. He had really wanted to get away from them … It was little comfort that he had done so because they were essentially strangers to him.

Aramis suddenly threw out his arm, halting d'Artagnan's step. “Slope,” he hissed, and d'Artagnan gave him a thankful smile. It quickly drained away when Athos knelt down and studied some skid marks before looking up and giving them a grave nod. Porthos had gone down there, in the dark, while unsteady from a head wound.

“Careful,” Athos told them, and they both gave their assent, though d'Artagnan could see that Aramis was struggling as much as he was. Athos took the lead, and slowly, carefully, they made their way down the slope in the flickering light of their torches which were half hindrance, half help, leaving them with only one free hand to support themselves on the ground or on some trees and casting dancing shadows over the uneven ground, but still lighting enough of the way so they made it to the bottom of the decline in one piece.

However, d'Artagnan had barely reached the ground when he heard Aramis gasp aloud: “Porthos!” The medic pushed past the young Gascon and towards a dark bundle laying a little bit to the side. Exchanging a look, Athos and d'Artagnan followed and watched with bated breath as Aramis bent over their friend and carefully turned him over. Porthos' face was slack, his eyes closed, and Aramis quickly pulled off his glove with his teeth and pressed two fingers against his neck. He sighed out a long breath and said shakily: “Alive.”

The other two Musketeers exhaled in shared relief. As always, with this fact established, they fell into the familiar practice of caring for an injured brother: Athos took the torch from Aramis and found a place to anchor all three torches in the soft forest earth so that the medic would have light to work, and d'Artagnan got down to his knees next to Aramis and watched with dark, alert eyes how he checked every bone and body part for injury, ready to help in any way Aramis might need. Silence reigned over the small group, only interrupted by a low mutter on Aramis' part now and then. Finally, he sat back and took a deep breath. “He's been lucky,” he told his two friends. “No broken bones, though I'm sure that right ankle is badly twisted. The rest is just scrapes and bruises.” Still, he frowned down at the unconscious man, his expression deeply troubled. “But I'm certain he hit his head again, and ...” He trailed off, biting his lip.

Athos placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “I understand,” he said. “But remember, no what-ifs.” With a sigh, he lowered himself to the ground and ran his hands over his face tiredly. Looking up the slope they had climbed down, he shook his head. “There is no way we can get him up the incline while he is unconscious, in the dark,” he remarked. “We'll stay here until he wakes or there is enough light to see what we are doing.”

Aramis nodded, and d'Artagnan hurried to follow suit. He was sure it looked about as defeated as he felt – they had been in much tighter spots in the time he had been with the Musketeers but he did not remember feeling so crushed and uncertain of what was about to happen since his father had died. What-if scenarios were clambering for his attention despite all of his efforts not to indulge in them.

He didn't know how much time had passed when a soft, low moan made three heads snap upwards. Aramis leaned forwards, dark eyes intently on Porthos' face as if he were able to will him awake, hale and hearty. When the sound repeated, he raised a hand and carefully placed it on Porthos' shoulder. “Porthos,” he called softly. “Can you hear me?”

For a moment it seemed as if Porthos had fallen back into unconsciousness, but then his eyelids twitched and finally rose, slowly and reluctantly, as he squinted in the torchlight. Aramis twisted to block the light, giving him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Come on,” he urged him on quietly.

A small frown flitted over Porthos' face, and his eyes travelled over the faces surrounding him until they found Aramis' gaze and held it. “Ar'mis?” he mumbled blearily.

d'Artagnan held his breath. Across from him, Aramis' face lit up. “Porthos,” he replied. “You-- you know who I am?”

Porthos' frown deepened. “What?” He looked from him to d'Artagnan and Athos and back at Aramis. “Course,” he mumbled. “What're you talkin' about?”

Aramis closed his eyes and raised his face heavenwards, lips moving in a silent prayer of thanks. Meanwhile, Athos leant forwards and took one of Porthos' hands in his. “You didn't, earlier,” he explained gravely. “You had lost your memory of the last few years, of your time with the Musketeers.”

Porthos' eyes blew wide open at that, and he attempted to sit up. d'Artagnan yelped and quickly pressed him down again. “Don't!” he scolded him. “You've given us enough of a fright tonight to last a lifetime!”

The injured Musketeer frowned up at him, then turned again towards his other two brothers who were hovering worriedly. “I did?” he asked. “Sorry. Didn't want to.”

Aramis smiled, and it seemed to wipe away the lines the events of the day had drawn on his face. “It's alright,” he said, leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss on Porthos' forehead. “As long as you remember who we are, and who you are, everything will be fine.”

Porthos nodded, his eyelids already fluttering with the effort it took him to keep them open. “Can't believe I've forgotten you,” he mumbled. “Can't forget part of my heart now, can I?”

d'Artagnan swallowed and saw that Aramis' and Athos' eyes were suspiciously bright, too, watching Porthos' eyes drift close and his face go slack as sleep, not unconsciousness, carried him away this time. The young Gascon took a deep breath and wiped his face, feeling wetness clinging to his fingertips. A hand found his shoulder and gave it a squeeze, and when he looked up, Athos gave him a solemn nod. He stretched out his other hand to Aramis, and the marksman accepted the invitation readily, slinging his arms around their shoulders and completing the circle over their sleeping brother, a part of their hearts returned to all of them.

#whumptober2020 #no.26 #memory loss #altprompt #the musketeers #fic #flower writes #athos #porthos #aramis #d'artagnan

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originaldanganronpascenarios · 5 years ago

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Could I request the dr2 girls plus Sayaka and Celeste with an ultimate marksman S/O who was deployed over seas finally coming home to surprise them, but its a bit of a bitter sweet reunion cause they find out hes half deaf cause him and his team were under seige and shelled multiple times by arillery and air strikes? Thank you! I love reading your work!

I'm not gonna lie I feel like I repeated myself in each one

SDR2 girls plus Sayaka and Celeste with an ultimate marksman male! S/O who was deployed overseas and ended up deaf

Ibuki Mioda

She was super impatient entire time you were away. She just wanted to hang out with you hug you close and basically do everything you usually do.

The worst part was that she didn't even knew when you were coming.

But she still was prepared each day for your arrival and yes that includes the first day of your departure.

She was just so excited to see you again and each time she opened the door to her apartment she hoped that the person on the other side was you.

When she opened the door her smile was so bright but you couldn't hear her voice wich was heartbreaking.

She was asking you questions a lot actually so when she didn't hear any response or any word from you really she was worried.

When you saw that look on her face you took out a piece of paper that you had previously prepared. It said that you had gone deaf.

She didn't knew how to react but she was more worried about how are with it.

As the time passed Ibuki didn't change but she definitely often forgot about this whole thing.

Obviously enough she learnt sign language with you and she also had this idea that you whould have special signs and it was pretty cute honestly.

Sonia Nevermind

She tried to think of something special for you once you head back but she didn't knew when you whould come back.

So she just waited. Of course she missed you but she tried to not think about it too much.

Considering that whenever she did she was worried. After all your talent was quite dangerous.

When you returned she was so glad you were okay... The thing is not everything was perfectly fine.

You gave her a small letter that described what happened. As she finished reading her expression was pretty sad.

She hugged you and you stayed in her embrace for a while.

After she pulled away she tried to cheer you up she went to get something to write with and you talked like this for a while.

As the time passed Sonia managed to get used to it she also taught you sign language (that is if you don't know it).

Akane Owari

She was pretty bored whenever she wasn't training or eating honestly.

She just couldn't wait for you to come back and she wanted to know everything you did out there too.

So she was pretty bothered that she had no idea when you are coming back.

But before she knew it you were back and she was too happy to see you. So obviously she was confused when she saw your mixed expression.

She asked if something happened and even though you couldn't hear it you knew what she said. You gave her the note that shortly explained what happened.

She was still just as confused but after she looked at it she couldn't belive her eyes.

Of course it was because she felt bad for you but she just wasn't sure what she should do.

It was obvious to her that she had to help you cheer up in any way possible.

Even if you were okay she still wanted to make you smile.

As the time passed she got used to it pretty quickly and she never let you feel down about the whole thing.

Peko Pekoyama

She was very patient and didn't worry too much about you. Still it doesn't mean that she didn't miss you.

Almost all the time she thought about you wich made her realize that she doesn't know when you will come back.

It was pretty inconvenient since she wanted to greet you properly.

Once you got back and met up with her she smiled at you brightly and asked how was it out there.

But she was met with silence it was pretty akward since you didn't hear her question. So you gave her the little note you prepared.

As she was reading what was on it her expression changed into serious one.

After she was finished with the note she looked down and you knew that by this point she was blaming herself for not protecting you back there even though she had no way of doing so.

You took her hand wich led her to look at you you said "Peko don't you dare blame yourself"... Well you almost shouted considering you had no idea how loud you were.

She shook her head just like she wanted to say "I'm not doing so" wich both of you knew was bullshit.

She knew that it wasn't her fault but if she went there with you it whouldn't happen. But now wasn't the time for blaming.

She quickly got used to it and the two of you were studying sign language together. In the meantime you had your own ways of communicating. But at this point you understand each other so well that sometimes you don't need to talk in order to communicate well.

Mikan Tsumiki

While you were away her anxiety was killing her she thought that in the end you might leave her and stay whenever you were.

On top of that she was dead worried about what might happen to you. After all your talent isn't the safest.

She knew you were okay she knew that you were more than capable to take care of yourself. But she couldn't get rid of those dark thoughts no matter how hard she tried.

Once you came back all her worries disappeared since she didn't see anything wrong with you so obviously she assumed you were alright.

She hugged you tightly and cried saying how worried she was... But you heard nothing.

After she pulled away you had this serious look on her face. Wich caused her to think that you met someone while you were out and that you were breaking up with her.

That is until you started looking in your pockets and took out a note. As you handed it to her she looked inside right away.

When she was done she dropped in on the ground but she picked it up right away. She started apologizing but she realized that you couldn't hear her and started apologizing for that...

Needless to say it took a while until she calmed down. When that happened she bowed as an apology for making such scenes.

Obviously enough her feelings were the same towards you.

She asked if you knew sign language cuz if you didn't she could teach you.

Chiaki Nanami

She missed your company but the time flied quickly for her. Before she knew it you were back and to her it didn't feel like it took long either. Still she was just as happy to see you.

Before she said anything you gave her a note and obviously she started reading it.

Her eyebrows rose slightly and her face expression was serious. She quickly took out her phone and typed "Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?"

Chiaki tried to be as supportive as possible but she didn't go too far. After all she didn't wanted to make you uncomfortable.

Mahiru Koizumi

She was happy that you had a chance to develop your talent even further but she still was worried about you.

Still entire time you were gone she just did what she usually did without you and time flied pretty fast for her.

She was super happy to see you again. But your expression made her worry. After passing her the note things were clear.

She acknowledged it and asked how we're you feeling about this.

If you wanted space she had not problem providing it if you wanted comfort she did just that and when you didn't wanted anything to change she respected your wish.

After all she didn't wanted to come off as insensitive. It was very important that she made sure you were feeling okay.

Hiyoko Saionji

She actually didn't wanted you to go but she couldn't stop you from doing so.

So she was a bit whiny on the day of your departure but it could be worse.

But she was mad at you for not saying when you whould come back. It just made her wonder every day if today was the day.

So she was prepared to yell at you for that... But when she saw you she completely forgot what she wanted to say- she still was mad but she just gave you a hug.

Afterwards she asked "Now tell me what you did out there that I had to wait so long to see you"

You sighed wich confused her. It was the time to bring the bad news... You gave her the note.

"WHAT!?" she said as she finished reading. "Please tell me it's a joke" she added as you didn't respond to her.

When she realized it was real she didn't knew what to do. There was so much on her mind.

She wanted some time to think about it but she assured you that she doesn't love you any less.

After that time passed you two spoke to one another finally. She was calm and you communicated well.

In the end she was back to normal and she did occasionally forget about your condition. But your relationship didn't change at all.

Sayaka Maizono

It just happened that when you announced that you were going to be deployed overseas she had a concert planned.

So she was just working as usual when you were developing your talent further. She was very focused but on each break she thought about you.

When you were back she was so happy to see you again but she figured you had to be exhausted after all of this traveling you did so she didn't bother you with any questions and warmly greeted you instead.

You felt quite stupid when her smile disappeared after she started reading the note.

She was allways prepared for everything... But this? She was speechless.

It was mainly because she didn't wanted to say anything out of place.

You and Sayaka were really close and you often didn't even need to speak in order to know what the other feels.

Thanks to that everything turned out good in the end but sometimes you could feel Sayaka being quite distant or lost in thought...

Celestia Ludenberg

She actually couldn't care less about your departure. Of course she whould rather you to stay but if you felt like you had to she had no complaints about it.

She found more or less things to kill time and to her time flew so fast she didn't even realize that you were back already.

Greeting you with a smile on her face she was unaware of little accident... But she found out about it the second she finished reading small note you gave her.

Her expression bearly changed as she gave you a response. She asked you for a pen wich you quickly took out.

She wrote there simply "I understand" she watched your expression closely in order to determine for herself what you think of this situation.

But in the end she didn't change her behavior at all. She very quickly adapted to your situation and when you needed her she was there for you.

~Mod Angie

#sdr2 ibuki #ibuki mioda #Sonia Nevermind #Akane Owari #Peko Pekoyama #Mikan Tsumiki #Chiaki Nanami #sdr2 mahiru #danganronpa mahiru #mahiru koizumi #hiyoko saionji #danganronpa hiyoko #sayaka maizono #celeste ludenberg #celestia ludenberg #taeko yasuhiro

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kumihao · 5 years ago

Note

🗝️

SINDAY. WHAT IS IT GOOD FOR?

🗝️ On my muse finding yours in a compromising position.

It was a mystery how the world worked, but fate had brought them together, and Ahri found herself assisting Aphelios with his task in establishing a point in one of the abandoned Lunari temples in Ionia. Though she still had a lot to learn about the cult and its followers, even more so of the true nature of the deity, he was bowing to, the Vastaya found her curiosity increasing with each passing day.

Though their communication was rather limited, the two succeeded in creating a link between them, thus pressing a start button on the blooming friendship.

Throughout the time they spent together, it became an established rule that Ahri would gather the herbs and fruits necessary for the rituals Aphelios performed in the name of his deity. And while she was away, dutifully assisting him, he was given an opportunity to reflect on the thoughts and process the upcoming events. Moreover, he spent quite an amount of time trying to figure out what exactly was the vixen that earned his friendship with such ease, and what was it about her that triggered a speck of fear in the back of his mind.

The way she sometimes looked at him was disturbing, her golden eyes either gleaming with a hunger he feared no one would ever sate or such tenderness he had never seen a human being express.

Aphelios stretched before he began undressing, barely paying any attention to the environment at this point. Only a relic, in the shape of a crescent, illuminated the small room he had chosen as his temporary quarters, but it was enough to offer him. There, standing in the silver, he looked just as pale as the moon itself; a life destined to be spent in the shadows… he did not even remember when was the last time he had felt the warm rays of sunshine caress his pale skin.

Golden, golden –

eyes.

And shivers down his spine.

The young marksman found himself startled when his brown eyes met the Vastaya’s equally surprised face. She had returned way too early from her trek, her hands still holding the flora of Ionia. Aphelios had been so deep in his own thoughts, far too tired to even register her approach (was it even possible to track Ahri’s steps?), and it took him a moment to realize he was not wearing a single fabric of cloth.

Quickly, he grabbed the azure cloak and pressed it against his body, concealing his toned body from view. Ahri, gathering herself just as well, gazed in the other direction. “I will leave these at the door,” she promised before backing out of the room.

#𝒯𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝑒 𝒶 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉... (ask)#moonguided

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lordmaddie · 3 months ago

Text

Enderal: Forgotten Stories — Ultimate Prophet Asklist

Thank you to jilljoycearts for working so hard to create this massive asklist! You can find the template here. Answering this for my Prophet OC, the Marksman 😌 Keeping things under a readmore, since it’s long!

[Some things that need to be clarified first! 1) The Marksman isn’t the “intended” Prophet; in his eventuality he caused so much shipping disruption that the Morning Dew would not have made it to Nehrim to pick up the “true” Prophet and Sirius. Hand forced, the Veiled Woman sunk his ship and made him the Prophet instead. 2) He does not have dreams of the Nehrim house/Daddy 3) He didn’t wash up in the same part of Enderal as other Prophets, and so didn’t go through the Abandoned Temple 4) He arrived in Enderal ~2 years before the “true” start of the game (where you meet Jespar in Riverville) 5) There’s a number of quests he's simply not done/even picked up! I have edited/removed some questions to reflect this!]

Basics: 1. Let’s start simple — what’s your Prophet/ess’s name, age, race, etc.? Name: ▮▮▮▮▮▮ [The Marksman] Age: ~25 Race: Kiléan (birth), Half-Kiléan (blood) (doesn’t know he’s only half-Kiléan; other half is something northern, maybe Enderalean) Height: Nice round 6’0” Weight: Heavy. Don’t ask me for specifics ^-^’’

2. Show us what they look like, or describe their appearance in detail. All his art is available on his Toyhouse page. The Marksman is tall and broad at the shoulder. He has black-ish hair, red eyes (unrelated to the Red Madness, I just think it’s cool), and pale skin (though the latter’s due to underexposure to the sun - he’d tan very quickly if he ever went out much in daylight). Years of repetitive use of a longbow has left him with osteophytes (bone spurs) in his shoulders and wrists that impede some of their movement (however their growth was halted when he was made Fleshless). One arm is also larger than the other (but I will never draw this).

Personality: 3. What’s their personality like? During his former occupation (assassin) and unpleasant upbringing (understatement) he got too used to learned helplessness and ignoring his own emotions. Even now as a free man this has left him numb and apathetic; unable to have an emotional response to most situations that call for it. If one occurs, he often finds it confusing or unparseable. Besides that, however, he is confident and fairly easygoing - after all, what could anyone possibly do to him? Complain to the guards? They don’t get paid enough to deal with him.

4. What do they usually wear — for fighting, traveling, being in the city, relaxing at home? Combat- Layer 1: Shirt, trousers, leather arm-sleeves. Layer 2: Leather torso+shoulder armour, leather armguard (right arm only), leather archery gloves, leather trousers, either soft leather shoes (for stealth) or hard leather boots. Layer 3: Cloth hood+collar+mantle, shoulder-belt (bow + quiver are sheathed/clipped to this), leather double-belt (dagger sheath is buckled to this), leather greaves. Travel- The above, his pack, and sometimes with the addition of a cloak. Non-combat (at home/in the city/etc): Shirt, belt, trousers, “walking about town” boots. Usually also his cloth hood+collar+mantle. All of his clothes and armour are dyed or stained black. If asked, he’d say because it’s practical and “hides stains”. In truth it’s because he’s a little vain, thinks he looks good in black, and likes that people find it intimidating. He owns six of the exact same shirt, which he purchased in bulk.

5. What’s in their travel bag? Varies depending on length of expedition, but usually: food+water rations (dried meat, oats or barley, dried fruit, salt), cooking/eating utensils, needle+thread, bandages, shaving mirror, shaving cup+brush, shaving razor, soap, flint+steel, tinderpouch, whetstone, spare bowstrings, string wax, oil (for his bow), small amount of woodstain (black), spare clothes.

6. Any pets or mounts? None - he’s a poor rider, and has no desire to be responsible for the welfare of an animal.

7. Do they have any treasured possessions? None - the Marksman’s failed to make any emotional connection to or gain any particular fondness for any objects - even his bow.

8. Do they drink/smoke/do drugs? He’s always up for a pint! (Or eight…). Prefers ale or other beers, but’ll drink almost anything. Absolutely refuses to smoke anything, finding the thought of smoke in his lungs incredibly off-putting. Has no desire to partake in any other drug.

9. Do they have any markings — scars, tattoos, birthmarks? No tattoos or birthmarks. Purposefully rubs salt into wounds he wants to keep the memory of, so they scar. Two major scars: bite scar on left side of neck/shoulder, cut scar on right leg.

10. How would you describe their combat style? The Marksman uses a heavy-draw longbow (warbow) and bodkin (non-barbed) arrows. This is capable of piercing even heavily armoured targets. Shoots targets from stealth or distance; excellent aim and marksmanship, usually only requires one arrow per target. Middling skill with a dagger, recently learned; agile on his feet but not particularly when striking. Dodges until an opportunity for a lethal blow presents itself, else seeks to disengage. Only engages in melee combat if out of arrows.

11. Have they ever killed before? Ha ha ha How do they handle combat emotionally? He feels absolutely nothing during combat, and nor in victory or retreat. He used to - he enjoyed fighting - but there’s nothing now. Sometimes he thinks that maybe he should have some kind of feeling about this, but…

12. How did they react to discovering their magical powers? Do they actually use them or hesitate to do so? Has a trick to ‘become precenceless’ - not literal invisibility, rather a confusion of the observer’s senses: in reality he is still visible, but the observer(s) brains do not accept the information from the eyes. If an observer witnesses him engage this trick they remain aware of his presence whilst they are still ‘looking’ at him and concentrating - if they look away or lose concentration, then he cannot be located again until he disengages the trick. This was originally a joke at how stealth works at very high levels in Skyrim et al, but I suppose in his ‘lore’ it’s a kind of Psionics he doesn’t realise he’s casting. Eventually he also learns how to Ghostwalk, but only does it very rarely. In the fanfic I wrote with him, he has a number of other powers pertaining to literally being the Main Character… But that’s just flavour for that story, and not truly part of his ‘lore’. Other than that, he has no magical talent or senses.

13. What’s their education level? How intelligent are they? He’s of no significant intelligence and only rudimentary education - though he did receive tutelage in Inal (Kiléan is his mother tongue). He has a knack for speaking languages, but learns best from exposure and immersion. He can’t read Inal for shit, though.

14. What are they proud of in themselves? What are they embarrassed about? The Marksman is proud of his strength, prowess with his bow… And though he’d never admit it to himself or others, his skill at killing. He’s good at it. He’s rather embarrassed about his awful skills at lying, though… It’s so easy to put fear in people, and yet the second he attempts to utter any untruth it seems everyone possesses a curious telepathy that clocks it immediately!

15. What, if any, aspects of their mother's culture influenced them growing up? He was not raised in traditional Kiléan culture, rather in an insular and cruel cult of assassins. The children of the cult were purposefully raised without cultural influence to keep them isolated.

16. How honest are they? Under what circumstances would they lie Well, since he can’t lie and the consequences of regular people are ineffectual to him, he generally always tells the truth. He’d attempt to lie if circumstances dictate it, or to attempt to spare the feelings of someone he cares about.

17. What’s their worst memory? How about their best? Worst: The various means employed by his family to turn the children of the cult into killers. He does not talk about it. He does not allow himself to think about it. Best: The dust of the Pit. The baying of the crowd. His bow in his hand. A black-armoured Rhalâim across from him, twin swords drawn. The first time he felt something real and true in years. Let’s see you dance, Marksman!

18. Fight, or flight? Fight, almost always. He doesn’t start them, but by god does he end them! That said, he’s not above a retreat. Honour is no use to a dead man.

19. What motivates them? What do they seek? Absolution. The guilt of his past weighs heavy and choking. The only thing that keeps him from putting himself out of his own misery is the fact that one meagre death - his own - would not right the scales against the sin he’s committed. He allowed himself continued life only so he could, even in part, make up for what he’s done.

20. How do they feel about death? Do they fear it? No. It’s what he deserves, after all. He only asks for a good death - either in pursuit of atonement, or at the hands of someone he trusts to judge him.

21. What (else) are they afraid of? The sea - He never learned to swim, and nearly (actually) drowning will certainly put a fear in a man. He’s likely never getting on a boat again. The Father and Brother Sorrow - At least, when he didn’t have backup. The Petrified - He’s very aware that he’s only ever been a cheap knockoff. Myrads - Yeah he’s never flying on one of those fucking things.

22. How do they act around people they like? People they dislike? And how do they behave when they’re alone? It might be difficult to tell the difference at first… But for someone he likes, he’s loyal; willing to help them, spare a thought for them, to back them up even unasked. An enemy of his friend is, well… A very dangerous position to be in. For someone he dislikes, he’s not willing to listen to them, or even be in their presence. If unable to leave, he makes his displeasure clear by being as difficult and/or as threatening as he can get away with being.

23. What do they do to lower their considerable stress? Describe their perfect day off. The Marksman’s got an awful habit of trying to ignore problems he can’t resolve. Stomp down on that stress, shoulder those burdens, plumb the ever-decreasing mines of ‘It Is What It Is’! A perfect day off, though: A nice breakfast (salted porridge, bacon, tea, an orange), going to see the minstrels capering or listening to the bards, getting some house-chores done, the evening spent with a loved one (😏).

24. List three of their favorite things and three things they hate. Favourite: Ale - bitter, for preference. What can I say, he’s a bit of a fiend. Oranges - the sweetness, the intense taste! Plus it keeps scurvy away. Eggs - eggs are truly the perfect foodstuff. Filling, nutritious, and so easy to cook! Hated: Bright sunlight - Hurts his fucking eyes, limits opportunities for stealth, usually means he’s awake long past he wants to be (naturally inclined to be nocturnal). Snow/slush - The cold night or even the chill of winter is fine, pleasant even, but snow? It sticks and melts and makes your clothes miserably wet. Impractical opulence - Sometimes opulence is practical, such as when some authority wants to show off how powerful it is by having a fancy building, or a merchant wants to advertise their business acumen by displaying their wealth. But most times? Why do you need to much stuff, especially when it doesn’t do anything? Oh, your family is rich? Literally who asked?

25. What makes them angry? And how do they act when they’re mad? Anger no longer comes easily to him - but when it does it takes him by surprise, making him lash out unthinkingly. Nailaq and Aixon made him angry, the former by saying that he reminded him of Qalian, and the latter by being super annoying.

26. What do they regret? All the murders he did as a former assassin, and the pride + professional satisfaction they took in it. Also: not pushing Arantheal off the Sun Temple when he had the opportunity.

27. In moments of despair, who or what do they turn to for guidance? Oh, he bottles that shit up big time. Even if he’s literally in the trenches of misery, won’t talk about it (unless someone he loves asks…).

28. Let’s talk about their nightmares. Have they always had them? Yes - most nights, he dreams something about his past in Kilé. It’s a product of his guilty mind, and he’s long resigned himself to it. The nightmares get worse/more frequent the more stressed he is.

29. How would they describe themselves, in their own words? Would most likely misunderstand the context of the question and answer in literal terms: “Kiléan. 25. I have a bow. You have eyes, why are you asking?”

30. Is your Prophet/ess inspired by any other characters? I fear greatly that my subconscious has produced them from some source that would embarrass me if intuited. The Marksman didn’t exist as a character until I’d finished the Rhalata questline in my recent Enderal playthrough - I accepted the consequences of my choice with Qalain, but I did have a niggling thought that I could come up with an argument that would’ve saved Tharael even with Qalain unspared. The Marksman was designed to be a mirror to Tharael - someone who’d done equally bad things, but importantly still thought himself capable of atonement for them.

31. Share a song (or a few) that remind you of them. LISTEN TO MY MARKSMAN PLAYLIST: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLZc5-Jlvqmo2zV4f3eHYgmdghoGWa-S6-&si=iL1aLHjcf0PtkK4s Carrion (Corpse) at the end… Because that’s how he leaves you >:)

32. On the topic of music — can they sing? What does their voice sound like? Can they play any instruments? The Marksman sings like a strangled cat, and only after he’s had a drink far too many. No musical talent whatsoever, and would struggle with the finesse required for a lot of instruments due to the loss of dexterity in his fingers.

The before: 33. What was their life like before coming to Enderal? Pretty shit! Of course there was the various unpleasant means that were employed by his cult to train the children into assassins. After, they’d be sent out on contracts: supervised at first, then on their own. They were started out with easy kills - people you’d want to kill, murderers and rapists, and you’d be told all about their crimes. The contracts would slowly, subtly transition into more and more ‘normal’ people, and increasingly vile murders.

39. What led them to the decision to leave Nehrim Kilé? He didn’t want to be with his family anymore. Fleeing Kilé was a necessity; if he’d stayed on the islands he’d surely be tracked down. The Marksman chose to escape to Enderal as he knew some Inal.

40. What subtle cultural differences did they notice when they arrived on Enderal? What did they struggle with the most — unfamiliar food, strange traditions, or something else? The concept of the Paths was extremely confusing and nonsensical. He never bothered to wrap his head around it, since being foreign means he’s Pathless anyway.

Main quest: [Note: Tharael joins the Marksman for the entirety of his main quest journey]41. How did their journey begin? What were their feelings about being thrown into a major investigation right from the start? After completing the Rhalata questline and adventuring with Tharael for a number of months, the two decided to start taking on bounties. This sent them to Riverville, where Jespar found them at the bounty board and offered to buy them a drink - which is what convinced the Marksman to hear him out (even though it was like 9/10 in the morning…! They had small beer and breakfast, though, nothing major). Since Jespar’d paid, and they were there to make use of themselves anyway, they agreed to help him.

43. How did they react to meeting Tealor Arantheal and learning about the Cycle? Arantheal dangled the promise of absolution before the Marksman like keys jangled in front of a baby - claiming that all sins would be forgiven if the Cleansing was averted. The Marksman fell for it hook, line, and sinker - helping Tharael kill the Father was supposed to be adequate atonement, and in the wake of that failure he was desperate for another purpose.

44. The visions of the Echo of the Past and the true nature of the Prophet — how did they respond to those revelations? Honestly, the Marksman kind of didn’t listen to a lot of the stuff he was told - filing it away in his mind as “wizard nonsense I don’t understand”. He does not like experiencing the Echo - it makes all his muscles lock up, he sees a flash of bright light, the vision/voices are far too loud, and he gets a headache. Experiencing too many Echoes consecutively starts giving him heart issues.

45. What were their thoughts on joining the Order? Did they feel honored, wary, trapped? It was done on sufferance, only because Arantheal insisted it was needed, and he did not mean a single of the vows he uttered.

46. How long did they spend in Aixon’s realm, and what was that experience like for them? All of five minutes, probably - Aixon pissed him right off from the get-go. He couldn’t stand his whining, insults, and tiresome comments on the philosophy of reality (who spends time thinking about this shit? If reality is real? Who CARES if you can’t DO anything about it??). He lashed out, ending the dream.

47. How did their first encounter with the High Ones go? What was their reaction to facing such beings? Like Aixon, he didn’t listen. He was in no mood to pay attention to weird ghosts telling him how shit he was.

48. How hopeful were they after discovering the old Pyrean Beacon prototype in Old Dothulgrad? Cautiously hopeful… And yet it felt like looking at an hourglass and noticing how little sand was left in the top bulb. He never expressed this feeling to anyone.

49. What are their thoughts on the Aged Man? The Aged man had a lot to say to the Marksman, mostly about how he’d “fucked everything up” and “made too many changes” (he knew, of course, that one such as the Marksman was never supposed to be an Emmisary, knew the Marksman’d never successfully stop the Cleansing, and was resigning himself to yet another Cycle)... The Marksman’s thoughts on the matter are basically summed up as “Creepy house. Weird mannequins. Was quite rude.”

50. How did they process the news of an impending war with Nehrim — Taranor Coarek’s warships nearing Enderal’s shores? By not processing it at all. He had enough on his plate with the Cleansing! Besides, it’s not as if he has a particular love or loyalty for either Enderal or Nehrim.

51. Coming across their own dead body in the Living Temple must’ve been horrifying — how exactly did they react? He was going through an awful lot at the time (the cleansing, the suspicion that his own time was rapidly running out, having just killed his only true brother, having Firespark die so wretchedly…) so in all honesty he had a total breakdown. Afterwards, when his awful emotions had finally spent themselves, he shouldered his burdens again and tried to Get On With It. He felt a bit guilty about his outburst… Tharael was there to witness it - another lost soul inhabiting a false vessel. Thankfully, Tharael forgave him very easily. Later, once he’d gotten over the shock… Did it really matter, that his body was something fake, made by another? It was his now, belonging to him… And he’d carry on doing whatever he wanted with it.

52. What did they think of Coarek and his companions? How did they feel about the failed negotiations with Arantheal, and the mission's ultimate failure? He found the whole ordeal an utter pisstake and waste of time. Of course two men with egos that size would never agree on anything. He felt resentful that Arantheal managed to convince him on the fool’s errand.

53. Finding Lishari murdered was a major shock most likely — what was going through their head at that moment? Not a lot… “Damn, what a shame. Anyway.” It occurred to him only later that he probably should’ve had more of an opinion on the events.

54. How did they go about retrieving the three Black Stones? In what order, and why? What emotions came with each journey? They went for the Dal’Galar stone first, as they thought it was in the Undercity. Calia headed them off and set them on the right path. The discoveries in the castle were… Unpleasant, to say the least. As was being forced to listen impotently as the Kiléan mercenaries attempted to have their way with Calia… Then Calia shredding them to paste. The Marksman was greatly concerned for her well-being… But lacked any comfort to give, even though he tried his best. Second stone was Dal'Geyss’. It was easy enough to break in, easy enough to blackmail the man (not easy to be in the presence of a Petrified, though…). But Silvergrove… It hurt. It hurt to know the place was so twisted and wrong, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It hurt to have the child look at him so lovingly, the hope in his voice when he called the Marksman a brother. It hurt to be begged to give mercy, at the end. Not help. Not comfort. Everyone sees him for what he is: a killer. And death is all he has to give. Last stone was Dal’Varek’s. Jespar had received the courier’s package and found his sister’s notes… Fearing the worst, he asked for the Marksman and Tharael to accompany him as backup. Events transpired tragically. Looking upon Jespar’s corpse… He felt it, truly felt the grief of a friend lost. A slippery feeling that defied all attempts to wrangle it, yet thrashed and bit and clawed inside him. Then, of course, the Veiled Woman and Jespar’s resurrection. Again, the Marksman utterly failed to provide any comfort.

55. With Ark under siege and the Nehrimese in the harbor, everything falling apart — how do they take it all in? It made the world finally make sense again, for a brief time. Here were enemies to kill. He had his bow. He knew this dance.

56. What’s their impression of Kurmai and his starship, Gertrude? How did they feel about flying to Star City in search of answers? The starship felt much safer than a Myrad - he’d never seen Starling machinery go wrong, but beasts can be temperamental… He got to enjoy looking at the clouds and the world below. Although… When people said it was a STARship, he expected to go above the stars, and sail through them like a sea. Should’ve called it a cloudship, in his opinion.

57. Do they believe the Beacon can be lit safely using the consciousness of a High One? After all the betrayals, do they still trust Tealor? What’s keeping them going at this point? Well, yes. It was really rather too late in the game to start having doubts… The only thing keeping him going was the desire to finally be absolved… Even though he knew it’d take everything from him.

58. What was their experience like in the City of a Thousand Floods? Harrowing. The fighting was desperate and the Echoes felt like they were going to kill him.

59. When Yuslan makes his move and Tealor abandons them to trigger mass extinction — what goes through their mind? He hardly had time to react to Yuslan’s betrayal. He was unconscious for Tealor’s.

60. How do they react to the Black Guardian’s revelations? Didn’t listen to him either, lmao (and so was spared the 40 minutes of dialogue -_-). Pretty much just hung back, didn’t approach… And certainly didn’t press that button.

61. What’s their final choice — self-sacrifice to save the world, escaping with someone they’re close to to become the last people on Vyn, or… did they take the time to brew a certain special potion? What drove their decision? The Marksman was ready to sacrifice himself to stop the Cleansing - he truly thought he could manipulate things and still do it… But he knew it’d be his end. Tharael convinced him otherwise - the world didn’t deserve to be saved, and the Cleansing was a mercy upon it! They escaped to the Star City, vowing to prepare the way for the Final Prophet, and the true end of the Cleansing. However, if you’ll indulge me… I’ve been musing over a kind of AU, Everything Turns Out Ok in the End (working title). Together, to their end AND the Cleansing’s, Tharael and the Marksman sacrifice themselves into a rudimentary Numinos… The Prophet, a tool of the High Ones and the Cleansing - and a human soul, the source of High Ones… It works, just about. A blow is struck; not lethal, but enough to let this Cycle continue for a time unmanipulated as the High Ones nurse the wound. It takes everything from them. But… There stands the Veiled Woman. An easy task, for her, to subtly alter the terms of their sacrifice: The Prophet, yes… But just that part, not the whole man. And a false human vessel, so similar to how a High One is a false amalgam of human soul. Just similar enough to be adequate… And to allow the men’s souls to be unconsumed. She fashions them new bodies: Same as the old, but utterly mortal. Usual. No more prophetic powers, no more ‘Main Character’ abilities, no more relentless drive of the Fleshless nature. One last round in the arena of a world, yes? A hero’s reward… After all, they did such a service, did they not? And the Veiled Woman gets to take a holiday. She goes to the seaside - all of them, everywhere. With the defeat of the High Ones and the aversion of the Cleansing, everyone comes to their senses… It seems so obvious, in its absence, that events were being maliciously influenced by an outside force. So… Everyone downs arms. Sorts it out. Carves out what peace can be gained. Enderal becomes a vassal state of Nehrim, religion outlawed. But… What people really want is for tomorrow to be like today. Despite everything, everyone wants normalcy back. Those who worked under Arantheal are allowed to live if they swear service to the Free Order (working name; the Nehrimese government in Enderal). They’re allowed to work on seeding clues for the Final Prophet who will avert the Last Cleansing when the High Ones return (which, views on religion aside, everyone can agree is necessary… Plus it keeps Arantheal’s people out the way). They seed the message thusly, all over Vyn: I: IT ALL STARTS WITH THE DREAMS. REMEMBER. II: THE BEACON WILL DESTROY THE ENEMY. III: THE BEACON NEEDS A TARGET; USE THE ESSENCE OF THE ENEMY. IV: THE RULER WILL ABANDON THE PROPHET V: DO NOT ALLOW THE RULER TO BRING THE LIGHT They hope that it’ll be enough. And yet, for Tharael and the Marksman… It doesn’t need them. Oh, Calia and Jespar are useful, and the mages, but… No-one needs a pair of killers, or a former Prophet. Tharael joins the Free Order; the world still needs people like him… Especially to temper the idealists. The Marksman joins the Rhalata.

Characters: 62. What was their first impression of Jespar? First time they met, Jespar offered to buy him a drink so they could discuss Magister Yero… And the Marksman’d never turn that offer down. Initially didn’t have much of an opinion on the man, but found him amusing.

64. Does your Prophet/ess share Jespar’s views on life? Mostly. Living in the moment, for your own happiness… As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else (and, of course, as long your personal scales are fairly balanced…), why is that any worse a life than anything else?

65. What about his views on relationships — are those something they agree with or challenge? He’d agree, even if he does think that Jespar has an odd way of putting it. If you’re not going to be loyal to your partner, if there’s no love, why continue the appearances of a non-existent relationship?

66. How does your Prophet/ess feel about Jespar’s family history? And what are their thoughts on Adila in particular? Remembers to think sympathetically about it, because Jespar makes it clear that it’s something that affected him, but otherwise doesn’t have particularly strong opinions… Everyone has had something awful happen to them. As for Adila… Well, she’s dead now (and Jespar isn’t), so that’s the end of that.

67. Would your Prophet/ess consider escaping with Jespar before the Nehrimese invasion of Enderal? What about after everything is over? No. The end of the Cleansing will be his atonement. Nothing would’ve swayed him from that course. And afterwards…? He’s not getting on a fucking boat ever again, so that rules out leaving Enderal 😅.

68. What does the Prophet/ess like about Jespar? What do they dislike? He loves Jespar’s stories of his adventures and experiences, and always listens raptly. He finds his jokes funny, even if he doesn't get some of them (Jespar is FLIRTING WITH HIM and the Marksman is oblivious). Plus, the man's always down for a drink!

Seeing Jespar's sorry state in the Silver Cloud was difficult - he honestly thought better of him.

69. What was their first impression of Calia? Appreciated how she was at least polite, unlike the other novice.

70. How did learning about Calia’s childhood and the disturbing story from her past affect your Prophet/ess? He wishes he could be the kind of friend she needs.

71. What was it like meeting her “second soul” in Old Dothulgrad? How did they handle it? Gave her a little round of applause - didn't realise this wasn't something she was doing on purpose.

Forgave her the needless brutality of the kill - sometimes you just want to make sure the dead stay dead, you know?

72. How exactly did your Prophet/ess manage to grow closer with Calia? What are their common views and opinions? They both agree on attempting to make the world a better place (though of course for the Marksman, it's to atone for his misdeeds).

Calia thinks she sees some good in him… She might be right.

73. Was discovering the full truth about Calia’s past a shock? How did your Prophet/ess choose to support her? He can only settle for being a cautionary example for what happens if you fail to resist your own evils.

74. Does your Prophet/ess believe that embracing Calia’s demonic half is the right path forward? Or do they see it as a weapon to use — or something that needs to be purged permanently? It would be nice - fairytale, even - if it could be purged… But that's not how the word works.

Everyone has the capability of evil within them… Calia is no different, even if her’s is a separate entity placed there against her will.

He thinks her demonic half should always be resisted.

75. What does the Prophet/ess like about Calia? What do they dislike? The Marksman greatly admires Calia’s fortitude, bravery, and willpower for resisting her demon. He also recognises that she's genuinely a good person, and that she's managed to hold onto that despite everything she's been through.

He's found little to dislike her for.

76. If your Prophet/ess ends up in a romantic relationship, what is it like? How do they express love, and what’s their dynamic as a couple? The Marksman is loyal, unflinchingly, though often finds little opportunity to express it. He tries to show his care through little things - boiling enough water for two, remembering to pick up something needed from the Marketplace, taking on his partner’s chores or tasks to make things easier… He has no experience with romance, and his observation of other people's relationships seems to glean no useful pointers for his own with Tharael. If asked about love, he would describe it as someone who’ll bring you back from the cliff’s edge, if you can't come back yourself. Someone who'll take the blade you hold to your throat… Or tell you if you should cut. A loved one is someone who can judge you.

Lastly… He's a bit of a dog, ngl. Greedy with his desires, if the leash is allowed to slip.

Factions: Rhalata: 77. Has your Prophet/ess fought in the Dust Pit of the Undercity? What made them do that? Yes - it made him nostalgic for home, as his siblings-in-training would fight one another to keep their combat skills sharp. Earning a bit of gold was an afterthought.

78. What are their thoughts on Tharael’s ideas? And what do they think of him as a person? The Marksman desired him from the get-go, though never made a move at the time (and Tharael was far too concerned with his revenge to even notice). As the questline progressed, he saw a lot of himself in him and had great sympathy for the horrors he’d been forced to endure. He fully agrees with Tharael’s view of the world, though his views on relationships and the like… He did agree. Until he heard Tharael say it, at which point he had a major “is that what I sound like??” moment. He realised it was a sad and empty existence.

79. Do they believe Nailaq deserves to live? Absolutely not! Would’ve killed him himself, had Tharael not deserved the kill.

80. When it comes to Sister Pride — did your Prophet/ess choose to kill or spare her? Why? The Marksman would not compromise the mission. Even if she hadn’t begged for death, he would’ve killed her.

81. Tharael or the Father — who did they side with, and what was the reason behind their choice? Tharael, all the way, from the very beginning - their situations were so similar, after all. The Father’s arguments (“The children were sick and would’ve died anyway.” “I am a scientist.”) utterly failed to convince him… And he suspected the Father was lying about a lot of it to make himself look good, anyway.

82. What do they think about the Father's goals? And what about the methods he uses to pursue them? Utterly reviles them, and agrees with Tharael that the Father is evil incarnate. It was nothing but sensless torture and slaughter of children for personal gain!

83. If they chose Tharael, how did the ending of the questline go? Before fighting the Father, they vowed to each other: His end, or ours. The Marksman took that quite literally… He would not allow Tharael to go off that cliff alone. Thankfully, he convinced him to have a second chance at life.

84. If things went well — how is their life now with the new housemate? In the Refuge, the Marksman presumed Tharael utterly uninterested in anything besides perhaps friendship, so he politely locked away his feelings to mourn later. After the Rhalata questline, he dedicated himself to looking after Tharael - keeping them both busy to distract from… Everything that’d happened. Eventually they return to Ark and Tharael settles in the spare room. However, despite his promises of a path to atonement for them both, the Marksman has no idea how to actually move towards that goal… And a life of quiet domesticity was not for the likes of them. Eventually it was Tharael who suggested taking on bounties. Some time after the end of the Rhalata questline - maybe half a year or so? - The Marksman decides it’s time to open that lock in his mind, so he can move on from his unrequited feelings. This does not go as planned… His feelings are insistent, distracting, and he cannot dismiss them as he intended. Worse, he doesn’t know what to do with them and doesn’t know how to shoot his shot… He borrows a book on romance from the Ark library, but it’s all flowers and poetry and other useless advice. Tharael clocks him acting more and more strangely, quickly works out the reason, and gets increasingly fed up with it until he takes matters into his own hands.

Golden Sickle: 85. How did joining the Golden Sickle go for your Prophet/ess? He turned up, agreed to beat up the beggar for Rogash, was cursed out for it, and told to join the Rhalata. So he went to the Undercity to (attempt to) do just that. The Golden Sickle has since been ignored.

World, game and lore: 93. How is their story paced? How long does it take your Prophet/ess to complete the main quest? It goes by incredibly fast, I think - a matter of months, less than a year. Not enough time to question what’s going on.

94. Do they change over the course of the story? In what ways? Most of the Marksman’s personal growth occurs during and after the Rhalata questline. For the main quest… He is fully self-deluding himself and tunnel-visioned on the goal of stopping the Cleansing, so there’s little room for reflection.

95. How do they view the concept of fate versus free will in their journey? Do they believe they’re destined for something, or do they shape their own path? He believes he’s shaping his own path and doing what he wants…

96. What do they think of Enderal in general? Thinks it’s alright, strange religion opinions aside. He doesn’t want to go back to Kilé and doesn’t feel any desire to explore other countries, so…

97. What is their opinion of the gods (or lack thereof)? And what about Tealor Arantheal in particular? The Marksman was never a religious man… The gods never helped him, so he doesn’t dedicate any headspace to them. He finds Tealor pretty unlikeable - the man is far too used to giving orders and having them obeyed unquestioningly, which the Marksman finds grating.

99. If given the chance, would your Prophet/ess ever side with Coarek? Tell us more about their political views. No - thinks him exactly like and as bad as Arantheal. He considers politics (and laws) something that happen to other people. A fine enough system for society in general, to keep order (very important)... But personally, he only obeys laws he agrees with.

101. If they had one question to ask the Living Temple, what would it be? “Can you put Firespark back to normal, please.”

102. Is there good in the Black Libra’s activity? Can the Night of the Blind Daughters be justified by everything else they presumably did to punish sinners protected by their status? He was cautiously agreeable with their goals until Tharael revealed it was all based on the dreams/visions of some magic child. Plus he sees no value in the Night of the Blind Daughters - especially in the unnecessary and abhorrent way the killings were done.

103. How did it feel to witness Lishari’s final hours from within her mind? Do they find the Word of the Dead useful as a tool? Or do they feel like some lines should not be crossed? Bad - I headcanon that the Word of the Dead forces you to experience and feel the deceased’s entire death - and when it releases you, there’s a horrible moment where your own body thinks that it’s dead, too. He didn’t have a chance to develop any particular attachment to Lishari, though, so the fact that it was her death wasn’t significant to him. He wouldn’t consider it a line to be crossed - if he bothered to think on it, he’d consider the Word of the Dead as a tool that produces some kind of vision like the Echo, not some intrusion into another.

105. Speaking of, do they carry a shard of the Sigil Stone to protect themselves from the Red Madness? Why or why not? Yes, he believes what he’s told about it protecting him.

106. What do they think of Magister Yero — his ideas, his life story, and the conclusions he came to? He can’t read Inal very well at all, so he read none of the letters or diaries - they were given straight to Jespar.

107. Were they familiar with the concept of other eventualities? If they had full access to the Plainswalker, how would they use it? Any and all “wizard nonsense” is ignored… He doesn’t bother to even try to learn about magic. He wouldn’t use the Plainswalker… There’s nowhere he wants to go. He did not help Yuslan with this quest.

109. Any particular place they want to visit on Vyn? And on Enderal? Why? Nowhere else on Vyn, but in Enderal he’d like to spend more time exploring the Suncoast and Farmer’s Coast - the climate agrees with him, and he’s less likely to encounter annoying enemies such as Crystal Elementals.

110. How do they spend their time when staying in Ark? He doesn’t like spending much time idling about in Ark. When in the city, he deals with purchasing supplies, keeping his house, weight-lifting or sparring with Tharael, going drinking with Tharael, Jespar, and/or Calia (the latter when she’s not busy with her Keeper duties). If he wants to practice archery he goes off to the woods to shoot at deer or birds - he’s banned from the butts in the soldier’s barracks. He can’t butcher his kills, so he trades the carcasses with hunters for already butchered meat.

111. Do they enjoy the Ark theatre? Do they have a favorite play — or do they prefer bard songs? Or maybe they’re more drawn to the art gallery or museum? Tell us about their cultural and artistic tastes. The Marksman is a HUGE fan of jesters, minstrels, joculators, clowns, and magicians (the kind that use sleight-of-hand… actual magic is boring). He’s never before heard any of the jokes and always laughs. Loves to hear bardsong, too, since he hadn’t heard any of the songs before coming to Enderal. His favourites are “Wayward Wanderer”, “Wildmages”... And, of course, “Night of the Raven”, from the black-eyed bard in the Undercity.

112. Where do they stay while in Ark? How do they feel about owning a home? How did they manage to earn enough money for it — if they did? He stole as much money as he could carry from his family before he fled the cult that raised him… Though, in truth, as the cult’s best assassin, he’d earned most of the money himself in the first place. It miraculously washed up alongside him when he arrived in Enderal. Of course, it’s a terrible folly to be wandering about with a literal fortune. He purchased a house to have the gold tied up in property (where it can’t be stolen). Having a house is convenient. He has privacy when he wants it, and a place to store his things.

113. Do they enjoy city life, or do they prefer the countryside? Is there a specific region of Enderal they particularly like — or avoid? It’s nice to have many amenities so close, though sometimes it’s a bit too much to be surrounded by so many people… Especially when they keep making comments in passing.

114. What are their feelings and opinions about the Undercity? Honestly, the Marksman really likes the Undercity, and probably live there instead if it wasn’t for Tharael. The darkness suits him, he’s more familiar with the etiquette of such places rather than the nicer Ark, and people know not to ask inconvenient questions such as “why are you buying so many arrows” or “where did you get this from”.

115. If offered to join the Rhalata, would they consider it? If so, what would their new name be? He understands and even agrees with the need for the Rhalata - as loath as he is to admit it, the Father was right about one thing: without them, the resultant gangs and militias would only cause chaos and suffering. Even the Dust trade… People will always cook up foul shit to sell. At least the Rhalata has an incentive not to kill their users (too quickly), because they want the money and the shadow tax. He has no truck with the weird religion/cultish elements, however. In his eventuality, following the Father’s Transcendence and the death of the High Seer and most of the remaining Seers (by the Marksman’s hand, to stop them tracking down Tharael), the Rhalata goes through an upheaval and schism, resulting in the new Rhalata discarding their old religion. There’s no opportunity to interact with them further as he’s busy with the Cleansing, of course… But in Everything Turns Out Ok in the End AU (working title), feeling useless and directionless, he joins the Rhalata properly to help keep the Undercity in order. He trusts the new High Seer (who they call the High Speaker… Because he doesn’t). Mostly he’s their assassin… (Negative character growth, baybyyyy! You can never escape what you are!!!!!!!!)

116. How do they feel about the idea of leaving the human shell behind? Would they prefer Apotheosis or Transcendence? (The Marksman never did the Apotheosis questline) He’s a big fan of fleshly pleasures, so giving that up to… What? Be some kind of dreaming ghost? Seems utterly shit. Part of him hopes the Father and the others simply died horribly.

117. Speaking of, what does their moral compass tell them about Psionics, Sinistra magic arts in general and Phasmalism? Do they find it ethical enough to justify its use? Very much not a fan of these magics, especially when they’re aimed his way. The Father in particular has given him a very disparaging view of Psionics. He’s not encountered any Phasmalism.

119. What are their thoughts on the cult of the Veiled Woman? What do they think of her persona and what she does to people? (The Marksman did not do Esme’s questline. This is his opinion on the Veiled Woman herself) He tries not to think about her, to be honest. She’s obviously extremely powerful and not an entity he can affect at all… But she seemed to be an ally? Or, at least, he seemed to not be her enemy…

121. Do they take on bounty quests? If so, any particular ones that they remembered? Why? Yes - He views those with a bounty on their heads as wasting their chance to atone for whatever evil shit got them a bounty in the first place. If the guards could catch them, they’d be on the gallows already… So they could flee, change their names, repent. But they don’t. So he takes the opportunity to better his life by ending theirs. None stick in his memory as particularly notable - he’s not completed that many.

122. Have they heard of lycanthropes? Or could they be one themselves? How did that happen, or how did they discover it? The Marksman had heard of lycanthropes in passing, so was aware of their existence before he fought the one in the Dust Pit. He wouldn’t become one himself, but if he did… He’d be a terror. As a man, he seeks to atone for his past. As a beast? Aren’t you angry? The beast asks. Aren’t you tired of paying back a world that made you this way? It made you to kill, so kill! Kill! Wash away the glitter! Paint the world in it’s true colour: red! Red! (He’d have the Ravager affinity)

124. How do they feel about myrads, leors, or other creatures they aren’t used to? What about monsters or the undead? Are there any that they fear? He fears no creature, but he’s also not stupid enough to take on something like a Boneripper without a lot of range. Many enemy creatures annoy him greatly: mainly Crystal Elementals (because they break his arrows) and Fire Elementals (because they explode). He has no significant opinion on Leoran… But thinks Myrads are the height of stupidity. At least if you fall off a horse, you only might die…

125. Was there anyone — other than companions or major characters — that they were particularly close to or disliked? He’s friends with Uajaan, since they’re fellow Kiléans. Uajaan’s teaching him scamming tricks, and they’ve got a bit of a Game Penny back-and-forth.

Choices and reasons: 128. Do they spare or arrest Hallys, the farmer-turned-bandit in the quest Deus Ex Machina? Why? This decision was left to Calia, since she was the only one who would make a lawful decision. The Marksman would’ve killed him and been done with it.

Lastly… Thank you so much for reading this much about my silly man! As a reward, I’d like to talk about the Marksman’s name. He does have one - all the characters know it, and refer to him as it. The only time anyone calls him “Marksman” is in the Dust Pit, or if the Free Peoples of Nehrim refer to him at all (since he does not give them his real name), or maybe Tharael continues to use it as a nickname. But you? He’s not your friend, someone you know, someone you see in the Marketplace. He’s a character, a non-real thing… The Marksman :) I’ve seeded a number of clues about his real name for people to work out. As a little bonus for anyone who made it this far, I’ll collate most of the clues here: - His name is 6 characters in length - In some of his art, I’ve scribbled out his name… But not quite. See here and here. - In my fic Absolution, when he reveals his blood-brother’s name is “Jackdaw”, Tharael comments that it is similar to [The Marksman’s] own. - He also states that the cult “named them all like that, after birds and beasts”. - In my fic To Right the Scales, the Marksman reveals that his other siblings were named Wolven, Ox, Goshawk, and Rat. There’s a few more clues in the fics, but I can’t point them out without basically stating the answer ^-^’’

#enderal #vynblr #enderal: forgotten stories #enderal prophet ask #enderal prophet #prophet OC #Prophet OC: The Marksman #It was so fun filling this out! Felt a little guilty for removing so many questions though ^-^'' ...#I'm so excited to read this for other people's prophets!!#Tumblr threw a right wobbly when I was pasting this in from Google Docs so be careful with that #seems you can only have 4k words per “block”#so don't use too many shift-enters!

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arrows-and-cigars · 6 years ago

Text

Always A Soldier at Heart

Leaning on the rail of air ship’s deck Damerrek scanned the battlefield below, forced from both sides locked in a heated skirmish for the center of the field. Sounds of the raging battle were drowned out from the massive engines that kept them in the air, the second ship that had entered before them already entered a firefight with the Horde’s airship. It was a strange feeling, that of similarity and difference, the land having changed so much over the years, and to be so close and so far from home at the same time.

The smoldering cigar had reached it’s end, a cloud of smoke rolling from the man’s nostrils like a dragon as the stub was tossed over the side of the ship, the vessel beginning to lean west towards the time worn wall. Hands busied themselves, checking every buckle and latch to his armor and quiver, ensuring the twin blades were secured at his boot and waist.

“Just like old times, eh Kerridan?” The grizzled voice of the slightly shorter woman bringing back into the moment.

“Well, almost. Not as cold as a witches tit like Icecrown and it’s not quite the same without Calburn.” Turning just enough as he spoke to address the veteran dragoon, a woman he once served beside that was equally tested by time, her left eye now replaced with a solid brown patch. “I see Williams was able to talk just about everyone into this, aside from Shadeleaf, unless she’s hiding somewhere.”

Erin snorted, looking over the railing as she spoke. “Nah. She joined the Army of the Black Moon like all the other long ears. Can’t really blame her though, otherwise yeah. You, me, Partbew, Silverfall, and Williams all here. We all knew the battlefield would be our reunion though. Hope Calburn and Fredricks find their peace in the Light though, two good men gone too soon. Surprised you even agreed, Kerridan, last I knew you never re-enlisted.” The single hazel eye shifting to the Marksman with a raised brow.

“No. Though about it, but I found a different calling during the Legion’s invasion. Where Williams and I ran into each other again, and how he knew where to find me. We both went to Argus with the Path and somehow we both came back.”

The dragoon’s shoulders shook with a hearty laugh, opening her mouth to speak on the war against the Legion before they were interrupted with a loud bang.

“Enou’h chit-chat ladies, eryone below deck! It’s show time!” Sporting a wide grin the dwarf lifted his hammer from the metal plate it was slammed against. A meaty hand waving to beckon both the Marksman and Dragoon to follow his decent, even if they both gave him the finger.

Upon reaching the bottom both were met with parachutes tossed into their chest, Commander Williams smirking at the pair as the cargo door along the base of the air ship opened up, grabbing onto an overhead bar for support.

“Dropping in just past Newstead. Kerridan, Silverfall, you two loop around south and cover Tyre and I. Partbrew, trail behind us until we reach the objective. Retaking the farm and stables will cripple the Horde’s advance.”

Orders boomed out over the piercing sound of rushing air that filled the space, each member of the squad nodding as parachutes were fastened. A boisterous ‘for the Alliance’ shouted in unison before Williams took the first jump, the dwarf and Dragoon following shortly behind.

With a quick glance between them, the elven ranger jumped first of the two, Damerrek stepping out the cargo door a few seconds behind. Even after being away from the battlefield for so long it all came rushing back to him like a bad habit, perhaps what they say is true and the wars never leave the soldier. The sight of the skirmish below stirring a dormant instinct, eyes quickly skirting the approaching ground and making note of strategic positions to take up and possible places to flake the enemy.

Chutes sprung open as the dropzone got closer, the small pieces of cloth designed to only slow the approach to a safe speed rather than provide a comfortable landing. Legs bent as they met the earth, killing the remaining kinetic energy in a light jog as the parachute was unclasped from their bodies.

With a nod to the familiar elven face both took up their bows from their backs, the rubber stuffing removed from quivers that kept the arrows in place for the jump. Down here the sounds of war were clear as day; explosions, shouts, and screams all mixed into a near over whelming cacophony, the scent of powered and death so thick it could almost be tasted.

“Lets move.”

#IC #Battle for Arathi #prelude

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shimadatales · 8 years ago

Note

Hi can I request Hanzo taking his s/o on a honeymoon and him realizing how happy he and in love he is? Hanzo deserves happiness, he just does.

You certainly can! I’m always in the mood to give this man the happiness he deserves, so I had quite a bit of fun writing this. I did it in HC form as well, but if you wanted something different, please tell me. Enjoy!

- Thetwo of you would be visiting the yearly festival in Hanamura, as a climax ofyour honeymoon. You both thought it would make for a proper ending to yourjourney, for now at least, since there were already future plans in the makingfor possibly moving to Japan and start a new life there. However, Hanzoinsisted on showing you the beauty of his homeland and traditions beforehand,as he knew you would be just as fond of it as he is and you both were having agreat time so far. What the archer didn’t know yet though, was that you wereplanning on surprising him by wearing your own yukata, in honor of his culture.It was hard to sneak around him, trying to find the most suitable one,specifically one which had a dragon pattern adorning it, as you wanted it to bein harmony with his clan’s symbol at the same time.

- Youmanaged to have one custom made for you at a small shop in an alley nearby theryokan you were staying in during your honeymoon. It was a shop which held manytraditional Japanese items and tokens, all within a tiny space, making itscontents almost piling out of the store altogether. The owner looked to be notyounger than at least eighty, a friendly elderly man who just like Hanzo, heldstrongly onto his beliefs and the traditions of his country. He offered to workon a yukata for you, as the man did not only sell family heirlooms, but alsotraditional attire and while he was measuring you for the figure, he told youmany stories about his own clan and the deep affection he held for hishomeland, which was the initial goal for starting up this little store. Hefound that his culture could not go abolished and that its treasure should bepassed down at all costs, making it his purpose to educate the younger peopleand tourists that often pass by his boutique, telling them the wonders andsymbolic meanings behind all of the items he offered. You of course, were notleft out in that and you could only nod and smile bashfully as the mancontinued bombarding you with the ancient myths of Japan.

- Youhad heard of many traditions and stories from Hanzo already, telling the mansuch and that you were planning on surprising him on your honeymoon with thislovely yukata. The shop owner was proud to know you had chosen his craftsmanshipfor the job and even gave you a special trinket to take with you out of appreciationand honor for your now husband, as the two shared similar occupations. Throughconversing with the man, you discovered he was once a noble samurai, just likeHanzo now and you took great pleasure in learning all about his own challengesand heroic battles. He had opened up this store after he retired due to severalinjuries and old age weighing down on him, damaging his sharp senses. He toldyou he was happy with his now peaceful lifestyle though and that he appreciatedhaving some rest after all of the intense combat through the years. You hopedthat Hanzo would someday settle down too, as he seemed so tired and stressedout sometimes and it was not always easy for you to bear. Perhaps, once the twoof you would start having your own family, he’ll decide to lessen the amount ofexcessive training a bit, but that would be a discussion for later.

- Youthanked the man with a deep bow before returning to your shared place with theintricate yukata, making sure to hide it until the festival, so Hanzo would notruin his own surprise. Luckily the marksman had decided to meditate in the zen gardenoutside your room, which was taking most of his attention and time during theday, so you did not have a hard time explaining your absence once you got back.He decided to call it done for the day and welcomed you back with a gentleembrace and kiss to your forehead, the new happiness over your marriage stillevident in his touches. After dinner, you told Hanzo to make his way over tothe festival before your arrival, telling him you needed more time to prepareyourself, which caused a frown to appear on the archer’s face and he couldn’thelp but question you on your decision. After all, he wanted to escort you tosuch a special occasion.

- Youtold him you insisted on it though and that you had a surprise for him, towhich he had to raise an eyebrow, although his face now resembled a more confusedexpression, rather than discontent. The man was not used to surprises and oftendid not understand the true meaning of them either. It was not that he didn’ttrust you, Hanzo just didn’t want you to possibly get hurt along the way, asnight was approaching and with that, potentially dangerous people could appearon the streets. You often found him to be a little exaggerating though, asJapan was deemed to be one of the safest countries in the world and the currentplace you resided in was often crowded with people as well, making it hard forcriminals to make their move on a single target. However, you often respectedhis decision to accompany you to wherever you went during nighttime, as youwere aware of the Yakuza being possibly active and his past with them. For nowthough, the archer would have to do without being your guard for a littlewhile, as you did not want this one surprise go ruined and told him it meant alot to you, doing something for him in return as he often spoiled you so much.

- Withgreat reluctance, Hanzo had sighed in defeat and told you he’d make his wayover to the festival and would wait for you at the shrine at the entrance,saying not to take too long and join him as soon as possible. You humored himand kept nodding as he warned you over and over again not to talk to anystrangers and follow the main street, seeming more like a worried fatherinstead of your husband, which made you feel a little weird and you told him asyou gently ushered him out of the door so you could finally prepare yourself.Putting on the yukata was still quite some work you found out, as you had neverworn any type of clothing like this before and you tried your hardest toremember the shop owner’s instructions as you tied the various bands together.Hanzo could always wear them so easily, often dressing himself in a flash andtying the parts with quick hands, making it nearly impossible for you to followhis movements with your eyes. You also wanted to do this by yourself, which wasthe core of the surprise, that you had learned an important part of thefestival by wearing its traditional attire. For your own dignity, you did notwant to ask your husband for any instructions and planned out everythingyourself.

- Afternearly forty minutes, you managed to dress yourself rather well and was proudof your handiwork. The yukata fitted you perfectly and you were once again mesmerizedby the skill and work of the elderly store owner, the man really did a terrificjob. The base of the attire was a deep blue and slightly grayish color,matching that of your lover’s battle garb while the heads of two long goldendragons rested upon the surface of both shoulders, their bodies intertwiningwith each other over the back of the silk. The whole picture looked beautifuland here and there, small clouds could be seen between the dragons as well,another symbol of its culture. The material was comfortable to wear too and wasnot too thick for this summer’s hot air, as it was currently quite warm in thecountry. With a smile, you finished up your last touches and went on your wayto the festival, hoping Hanzo would be happy with your efforts.

- Theman was already growing quite impatient, thinking about the worst casescenarios that could have been causing your delay, or actually, anything in hiseyes would be a delay as he did not like being apart from you in any form. Thearcher stood with his arms crossed, while pacing about absentmindedly as hekept looking ahead of him with a serious expression. Most people passing bywould have mistaken him for a statue by now, judging from his rigid posture.Once he finally spotted you though, all of his tension was suddenly gone and heneeded a moment to compose himself once he saw how beautiful you looked, almostnot recognizing you at first due to your different outfit. You couldn’t helpbut giggle slightly at his confused expression once he looked you over, tellinghim this was what you wanted to show him for a surprise and he became utterlyspeechless after listening to your story and the trouble you went through inarranging this surprise for him. Just when you wanted to apologize for takingso long, the archer swiftly took your head in the palm of his hand, bringing itto his chest as he held you almost uncomfortably close, not caring about thecurious glances thrown his way.

- You needed a moment to realize what he wasdoing, but quickly returned the embrace and softly rubbed his back as you closedyour eyes to his unique warmth. Hanzo murmured a soft thank you in your ear,telling you that you had brought him great honor and that he was deeplygrateful for your gift. The archer knew he always loved you, but he never couldhave foretold you would do such a selfless thing for him. His culture was asidefrom you, the most important thing in his life and only a small group of peoplestill hold respect for it and some would even mock him, as he had often feltalien amongst others, even in his own country after being exiled from his clanand not being able to follow his traditions any longer.

- Youalways made him feel at home by honoring his traditions, which was initially thereason for him to open up to you during your first stages of knowing eachother. You did not make him feel like an outcast or ridiculed him for hisdifferent choices and lifestyle. Your warm and understanding personality proveditself once again tonight and it touched the marksman greatly, which almostcaused him to tear up at your loyalty and devotion to him as he stared intoyour eyes with a loving expression, both of his hands resting on your cheeks.He was more than certain now, that you were the person destined to guide himthrough his newfound path and that he could finally find peace within yourbeing. Hanzo was smitten with you and he wholeheartedly accepted his love, by gentlyclaiming your lips next to the shrine, silently praying to the gods for them togive you both a bright future.

#hanzo x reader #hanzo shimada #hanzo #overwatch hanzo #hanzo imagine #hanzo headcanons #hanzo shimada x reader #overwatch #overwatch x reader #overwatch imagines #overwatch headcanons #oxxtail

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plutojones · 4 years ago

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Chapter Nine: Speaking with Silence

Upon arriving at the ruins, Andie spies a dead horse at a small campsite and then Mercer off in the distance. As she walks up to him he gives her a nod in her direction.

“Good, you're finally here. I've scouted the ruins and I'm certain Karliah is still inside.”

“You saw her?”

“No, I found her horse. Don't worry, I've taken care of it... she won't be using it to escape. Let's get moving, I want to catch her inside while she's distracted. Take the lead.”

“You want me to lead?”

“I'm sorry, I was under the impression I was in charge. You're leading and I'm following. Does that seem clear to you?”

“Crystal.”

“Now, anything else before we get moving?” He starts walking towards the ruins.

Andie follows after him. “How did Gallus die?”

“Twenty-five years ago I was standing outside these very same ruins. Gallus told me to meet here but he wouldn't say why. When I arrived, Gallus stepped from the shadows. Before he uttered a sound an arrow pierced his throat. Before I could even draw my blade, her second arrow found its mark in my chest.”

“So Karliah took you both on at once?”

“Karliah was a master marksman and her greatest weapon was the element of surprise. I was lucky... she missed my heart by mere inches. I staggered away from the ruins and my vision began to blur. It's then that I realized the bitch had poisoned her arrows.”

“And Gallus?”

“The last thing I saw was Karliah dumping his body into an opening atop the ruins; an unceremonious end for a remarkable man. To this day I've regretted allowing her to escape, even if it meant I had died trying. I owed Gallus that much.”

“What happened after he died?”

“The Guild was thrown into disarray. Several stepped up and tried to Gallus' former position as Guild Master. Sides quickly formed behind these men and the Ratway became a bloodbath.”

“And you were part of this?”

“I saw what they did to Gallus. I wanted to use the Guild's resources to hunt down Karliah. The others didn't even care he was gone. Fortunately, I persevered and the other groups were either killed or they left Skyrim.”

“What about Karliah?”

“The infighting had taken months to subside which gave her time to go into hiding and carefully cover her tracks. I spent thousands of septims and used every contact at my disposal, but it was as if she had simply vanished... like I said before, she was the best. She was a stubborn Dunmer... always had to do everything her way. But she was the best... bringing in more coin a month than some thieves heist in a year. Gallus trusted her too much and I let her get too close.”

“Did… did they have a relationship?”

“If you want to call it that, yes. Me? I think she was softening him for the kill. Gallus would call her his "little nightingale." He was absolutely smitten by her.”

Andie stops in her tracks for a moment. Nightingale. She had heard that before, from her Grandfather. Odd that she would hear it referenced again. And… did Mercer almost sound jealous? “Why did she kill him?” She starts walking after him again.

“Greed? Jealousy? Spite? Who can say what drove her to such an iniquitous act. One thing's certain. I intend to find out before she draws her last breath.”

“Isn't murder Dark Brotherhood territory?”

“I have a long-standing arrangement with the Dark Brotherhood. If I need someone in the Guild taken care of, we do it ourselves. We both agree it's best to keep these matters in house. Now is there anything else? I want her head on my mantle.”

Andie freezes again. The last time she heard something like that was from Sibbi Black-Briar about his fiance. It gave her stomach a twist, and as she watched Mercer continue to walk to the ruins, she couldn’t help but feel something was off. Why was she here? Why didn’t they bring Brynjolf? Delvin? Vex? Why her? Shaking her head, she chased after him, not wanting to upset him for falling behind. They approach the door to the ruins and as Andie looks over them she’s unable to find a conventional key-lock to work with. It was practically impossible it seemed.

“They say these ancient Nordic burial mounds are sometimes impenetrable. This one doesn't look too difficult. Quite simple really, I don't know what the fuss is about these locks.” He pushes her aside as he begins messing with the door. “ All it takes is a bit of know-how and a lot of skill. That should do it. After you.” The doors swing open as he motions for her to go in.

With her brow furrowed, Andie couldn’t help but feel even that was odd. She had never heard much of Mercer’s skills, but he just came off as the type who would leave her to the guards if it meant he could escape getting caught for a heist. Still, she didn’t have much choice now. Lowering herself to the ground, she stealthily entered the ruins and began going down the stairs.

As they sneak through the ruins, Andie has her bow and arrow at the ready. Various undead fill the chambers which she easily takes out one at a time. Mercer remains behind her, offering her nothing but annoying commentary. If he weren’t in charge, she’d have snapped at him.

“The stench in here... this place smells of death. Be on your guard.” Of course she’s on guard -they were hunting a murderer who wanted to destroy the Thieves’ Guild. What?’

“Pull the chain over there, and watch out for the spikes. Looks like Karliah reset all of the traps.” Andie pulls the chain and the spikes immediately hit her but not Mercer.

“Bone chimes... clever. Rigged to wake the draugr I'd bet. Don't blunder into any of them.” Andie successfully avoids them all. Mercer wakes up the Draugr. How the fuck was he guild master?

“We're on the right track. She's been through here as well.” Really? The trail of dead undead wasn’t obvious enough for her?

“That door up ahead... looks perfect for hiding an ambush. Be ready.” You think?

Andie was having to take deep breaths every time he spoke to keep from talking back. In one chamber, however, she heard chanting in a strange language. Following it, she say a strange stone wall with carvings in it. One of the carvings, perhaps a word in this strange language, was glowing, calling out to her. When she asked Mercer what it was, he said he didn’t know off the top of his head. Some ancient dragon carving. There were various ones across Skyrim.

Did they always chant like this?

He gave her a confused expression. What chanting?

Even more confused and curious by his response, Andie crept closer, reaching up to touch the glowing word. Power seemed to rush into her, and the chanting stopped, but she had no idea what she had absorbed. She looked back to Mercer who was waiting, annoyed, at the door to the next chamber.

Entering into a tunnel they approached a tall door with a lock that seemed to require the right sequence of animals from top to bottom, and some kind of claw as the key.

“Ah, it's one of the infamous Nordic puzzle doors. How quaint. Without the matching claw, they're normally impossible to open. And since I'm certain Karliah already did away with it, we're on our own. Fortunately, these doors have a weakness if you know how to exploit it. Quite simple, really.” Mercer moved up to the door and began messing with the locks where the claw would be inserted. Andie couldn’t quite tell what he was doing, but as before just felt that something didn’t add up. Wouldn’t he still need to know the correct sequence of animals to set it to? Perhaps he remembered and saw he didn’t need to change anything? Wouldn’t Karliah have reset it and changed the sequence?

After a moment there was a click and the sound of stone on stone as the entire structure of this door sunk beneath the floor. “Karliah's close. I'm certain of it. Now let's get moving.”

As Andie steps through the door, she feels something hit her, sinking into her chest. Her vision begins to blur and within an instant she falls to the ground unconscious.

Mere moments later, her eyes blink open again. She can see Mercer speaking to someone, but is unable to see who the figure is - probably Karliah.

“Do you honestly think your arrow will reach me before my blade finds your heart?”

“Give me a reason to try.”

“You're a clever girl, Karliah. Buying Goldenglow Estate and funding Honningbrew Meadery was inspired.”

“"To ensure an enemy's defeat, you must first undermine his allies." It was the first lesson Gallus taught us.”

“You always were a quick study.”

“Not quick enough, otherwise Gallus would still be alive.” Wait...what?

“Gallus had his wealth and he had you. All he had to do was look the other way.”

“Did you forget your oath we took as Nightingales? Did you expect him to simply ignore your methods?”

“Enough of all this mindless banter! Come on, Karliah. It's time for you and Gallus to become reunited!”

“I'm no fool, Mercer. Crossing blades with you would be a death sentence. But I can promise the next time we meet, it will be your undoing.” The sound of footsteps fading off reached Andie’s ears, but her head still reeled from whatever was on the arrow that hit her.

Mercer turns to walk to Andie’s form, still lying on the ground. “How interesting. It appears Gallus' history has repeated itself. Karliah has provided me with the means to be rid of you, and this ancient tomb becomes your final resting place. But do you know what intrigues me the most? The fact that this was all possible because of you. Farewell. I'll be certain to give Brynjolf your regards.” Raising his sword, he shoves it into her gut and then pulls it out just as quick, leaving her to bleed out and fall unconscious as she watches him walk away…

#company in shadows #skyrim fanfic #mercer #brynjolf #karliah #fanfiction #i knew this part was coming but it still took me off guard when i first played it #he's such a fucking dick man #holy shit

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creativeashproductions · 8 years ago

Text

Endless Search // Steve Rogers

Summary: Over centuries you’ve always been killed mere weeks at the most before meeting your soulmate causing endless pain. Having been at every social standing possible, from a princess to a servant, you can’t think of another you could be. The current life as a bestseller doesn’t allow the endless circle to stop but can your soulmate finally meet you?

Characters: Steve Rogers x Reader, and Avengers (implied)

Words:1249

Disclaimer: I do not own any Marvel characters of plots. Nor do own any gifs, images, songs, jokes or videos that may appear. I do however own anything original in this work and if this appears anywhere off Tumblr I didn’t post it.

Warnings: Death, angst and fluff.

Author: Caitsy

A/N: Dreamt of this without knowing which fandom I should put it in. I haven’t done anything other than Riverdale or Dolan Twins in the last few months therefore I decided to give Steve a little loving and pain.

Masterlist

Prompt List

ASK US A QUESTION LIST

If there was anything to be assured about it was the knowledge about soulmates being real. In the beginning of time, as stories have been passed down, people worshiped the ideal of having a soulmate, one would pray for the perfect one. Over the centuries mentalities formed on ‘forced love’ and the belief was cast aside.

When the world was starved of love the belief of soulmates returned with greater oomph. Historians brought it back into teachings along with recounts of centuries where, even when the ideal was welcomed, royals denied their issues soulmates in turn for more ‘suited’ ones on a social hierarchy base.

Being a published author with many novels under your belt you used your knowledge of your life’s experiences with heartbreak. Basing your main characters life on yours searching through many lifetimes for the almost always unattainable love. As a little girl you had always said you wanted to be a teacher until that first night you dreamt of your first past life.

You tugged at the stiff material holding your body in an uncomfortable and frankly unattractive hour glass figure. Marcie had an undeniable talent of tightening the corset up to the point of no return, you weren’t sure if your organs were in the right places but appearances were everything. Especially as a high ranking member of society.

“Miss. You’re needed in the throne room.” The meek voice of Marcie sounded from the hallway. In her hands of a freshly cleaned chamber pot, the one you had used only an hour ago.

“Thank you Marcie.” You smiled kindly at your servant before heading towards your father’s study. The large oak wood was polished to a perfection along with the doorknob that you could easily see your face on.

“Good afternoon Miss.” Carson said with a small smile on his face. One of your father’s royal guards Carson had grown from the boy you played with, albeit to your mother’s disdain. The difference between child Carson and adult was the crude yet tasteful arrowhead hanging on his neck.

Carson was an expert marksman with a bow and arrow handed down by his father. He was an exception to the rule all guards followed due to the fact that he had saved your mother and you when you were a little girl. The arrow pierced through the enemy with just enough time for Carson you catch you from the saddle of the now deceased man.

“How is he?” You murmured towards your oldest friend.

“It’s one of the worse days.” He returned.

Your father’s health declined when your little sister Winifred was killed on the annual family horseback tour. Something that was considered unsafe for the royal family but it was important to see Winnie smile when she was always sick. Born sick with ailments that were incurable despite the many trial treatments attempted.

Even in the present day you had managed to track down information about a European royal family back in the 1700s. The dream had caused a spiralling effect to research if it was true or simply a break in your mental state. You found out that the royal family was tragically assassinated on the family horseback tour a mere year after the youngest, Winifred, died fighting what appeared to be a number of illnesses.

Even know you vividly remember that painting of the entire family dressed impeccably where your face was easily recognized in it. You had been the oldest of the King’s children about to meet a neighbouring country’s Prince the following day. It was Prince Silas that eventually discovered your family’s bodies.

That dream during your pre-teen years opened your mind to having more dreams of past lives. You had lived many lives of heartbreak with only dying days before meeting a potential love interest. The second life you remembered was being the daughter of a tailor in the 1800s living around of area of Whitechapel in London. You were murdered by the later infamous serial killer Jack the Ripper.

The night was cold as you walked from your best friend’s home back to the apartment you lived in above your father’s business. You were on the notoriously known corner used by prostitutes when you were pulled into the alleyway by an unknown man. Above you was the man you knew you were going to be killed by.

“P’please don’t!” You screamed before the entire experience clouded as you slowly died thinking of the sweet son of the local baker. You were sure that Stanley was going to ask to court you.

Shaking your mind off the shocking dream you signed one of the books with a grin as the little girl spoke of how it made her feel.

“How did you come up with the idea!”

“I was drinking lemonade on my balcony when it come to mind how beautiful reincarnation sounded at the time.”

“Next please!” The security guard announced making the young girl shuffle along.

Even as the day went by you thought of all the past lives you had come to know over the years from being a princess, to the murdered daughter of a tailor, to being the heroic personal servant that sacrificed her life for her employer, to the young woman that died from cancer and to your current life as an author.

“Get down!” The guard shouted just as a bullet slammed into his forehead.

You screamed scrambling behind the bookshelf as many were injured and killed. You peeked out to see some man holding a strange weapon with a sadistic grin. You had never seen him but the way he was glaring at the cardboard cutout of you, you had a feeling he knew you.

“Come out, Y/N.” His gravelly voiced announced stalking the building with a fierce hatred.

You had always known that at any chance you could be physically assaulted by someone that took your work too seriously. Who painted themselves as your ever lost soulmate. You just ever really believed that you could be the cause of someone’s death.

To be honest you didn’t think the cops could stop this one seeing as the assailant had no problems killing anyone in his way. When the man placed the muzzle of the gun against your forehead you closed your eyes to accept another life where you didn’t meet your soulmate.

Almost like it was a story the muzzle of the gun fell from your forehead leaving no trace other than mental pain and blood splattered on your forehead. You were shaking when you felt hands on each side of your face shifting it to see for any injuries. The hands were gentle but rough at the same time.

“Sorry I took so long. I got a little caught up.” The voice replied. The familiarity of the voice caused you to open your eyes to expressive blue eyes.

Before you stood the one person you could recognize anywhere with his blonde hair that spoke of someone both neat and the epitome of the all American boy. The boy you were meant to meet in previous lives.

“That’s okay.” You mumbled breathlessly, “I had a couple things to do.”

He chuckled deeply before his gripped a handkerchief to wipe the blood from your forehead just so he could placed a kiss against your forehead.  “Steve Rogers.”

“I guess your soul loves names starting with s.” You giggled.

“I guess your soul always loved a scrawny man.” He laughed back.

Forever Tag List

@cityofsobbingfangirls @tas898 @barbidollash @trustnobodyshootfirst @winchesterfanfiction @deanwinchesterisamazing @oh-my-hecky-padalecki @padackles2010 @msimpala67 @deangirl5509 @heyitssilverwolf @therealme13posts @petlaufeyson @professionally-crazed @winterhurricane @tearsandbloodofmyenemies @blackwidow-romanoff @crazybarnes @marvelofcourse @takemetothefictionalworld @destiel67bellarke @ohmy-sammy @fightinthepain @vivabucky @waituntilthedustsettles @daydreaming1393 @cumonbucky @inhumans-of-shield @basicwhiskeyprincesss @soulfull-ofevans @spookass @glitterintheairblog @girl-with-wild-dreams @frickin-bats @darkestgrungeuniverse @shamvictoria11 @buckyappreciationsociety @sammysgirl1997 @fly-f0rever @archer-whovian-violinist @jenn0755 @anamarieswift2194 @unicornofdanger @ifyoudie @jealousbitxh @stormin-thru-glitter @sparklyaura @stilescstilinski @curlyxtomato @katshrev @its-sanaa-k @theoismydad @im-a-light-child @tmriddler @flirtswithdanger @divide-supermarketflowers @arkhamasylumpatient-blog1 @introverted-fandom-human @jennylj16 @potterandbucky

Marvel Taglist:

@bellastellaluna @crownie-sr @casismyguardianangel @kitschkylo @hollycornish @katiedreamy @scarlettsoldier

#marvel #marvel imagines #steve rogers imagines #chris evans imagines #soulmate au #mcu imagines #avengers #past lives #marvel fic #marvel cinematic universe #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #chris evans #avengers imagines #fluff #light angst #agentsofsupernaturalmarvel

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anonymous-hopeful · 8 years ago

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Hopestuck

A fanfic with Danganronpa characters in Homestuck

I'm just going to post it all in one go, then update as needed.

Like and reblog, all that fun stuff

ACT ONE: THE BEGINNING

A young adult male stands alone in his room. He dons his zip-up hoodie, t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and sneakers. At first glance, this teenaged boy seems normal, completely ordinary, however, this is not so. For you see, atop his head is an ahoge, passed down from generation to generation. They say it's a mark of destiny. This boy will be known in history. This boy is extremely special. This boy...this boy is...

==> Name The Boy.

NAEGG MACOOKEM

...

"Actually, you're not that far off."

==>

NAEGI MAKOTO

"See? You were pretty close."

==>

Your name is NAEGI MAKOTO. Inside your dorm is your VARIETY OF INTRESTS, or rather, LACK THEREOF. You don't really have much in your room, as every time you try to decorate it, IT PUTS OUT THE WRONG MESSAGE ABOUT YOU. The message being you're an INTRESTING GUY. The only reason you're even in HOPE'S PEAK ACADEMY anyway was because of the LOTTERY YOU WON. By winning said lottery, you were awarded the title of ULTIMATE LUCKY STUDENT, and the entrace into ONE OF THE MOST PRESTEGIOUS SCHOOLS IN JAPAN. While you try to FIT IN, you can't help but be intimidated by the other students who are TRULY TALENTED. Thankfully, someone connected you to CHAT-CHAN, a chat-room application that some students here use. You've made some friends under your CHANHANDLE, HopefulEgg. Unfortunately, you're too shy to talk to them in real life.

What will you do now?

==> Makoto: Examine your fetch modus.

Fetch modus? Oh yeah. That was the storage device you recieved when you came in on the first day. You look at your FETCH MODUS. It's the LUCK MODUS, of course. Once something goes in, whether or not comes out is up to sheer luck. You've avoided using the capchalouge cards for it. You don't need anything important getting stuck in the sylladex.

==> Makoto: Examine your strife specibus.

Strife specibus? Oh yeah. That was the weopon specializer you recieved when you came in the first day. You have the REVOLVERKIND, filled with a large supply of TRUTH BULLETS. You've avoided using that, too. Guns are dangerous, and you're no marksman.

==>

"Uwuu! Someone wants to chat with you!☆"

Looks like Chat-chan's alerting you.

==> Makoto: Chat.

MysteriousRamen [MR] began chatting with HopefulEgg [HE]

MR: Are you available at the moment?

HE: as of now, yes. whats up?

MR: I was wondering if you had taken notes from today's lesson.

HE: yeah, i always do that, why, do you need them?

MR: If we were able to meet up somewhere on campus, yes.

HE: oh, i see what this is! you're not making me fall for it, ramen -.-

MR: What is that at the end?

HE: it's a squinty face. it enforces that i'm not falling for the trick.

MR: Sure it does.

HE: :)

MR: I don't understand why you are so self conscious. Surely after our many chats, you will have become more confident.

HE: i have! a little...

MR: Would you at least tell me your name?

HE: eh...why don't you go first?

MR: I inquired first.

HE: still, i'm not ready!

MR: Then my identity shall remain hidden as well.

HE: fine by me.

MR: Seriously though, I do need the notes.

HE: don't worry, i'll send them via internet file.

HE: IMPORTANTNOTES.jpg

MR: Thank you. This will work tremendously in my investigation.

HE: what investigation?

MR: ...

MysteriousRamen [MR] ceased chatting with HopefulEgg [HE]

==>

You hope that investigation had good intentions behind it.

==>

*a knock at the door*

==> Makoto: Answer knock.

No one's on the other side, however, there are two envelopes left in their wake.

==> Makoto: Pick up envelopes.

You pick up the envelopes and look atbthe packaging. On each one, the logo for a game called SBURB in printed, but underneath, the text either says server or client. You have a vauge idea who left these at your dorm. After all, he's the only one that knows who you are.

==> Makoto: Chat with you-know-who.

HopefulEgg [HE] began chatting with CookiecutterPepsicola [CP]

HE: hey, did you leave these disks outside my dorm?

==>

You end up waiting a pretty long time. Eventually, you give up on the guy.

"SBURB...I wonder what it is..."

==> Makoto: Ask about SBURB.

You examine your chatmate list.

MysteriousRamen

WealthyLiterary

PsychoticLovestruck

CrystalClairvoyant

WaterloggedSprinkle

SeriouslyTalentless

OccultNobility

CookiecutterPepsicola

FamishedOlympian

HomicidalBabyface

Other than CookiecutterPepsicola, you're not sure who would have any idea about this game. You decide to take to the internet for this one.

==>

You find nothing. Literally nothing. Does this game even exist?!

==>

MysteriousRamen

WealthyLiterary

PsychoticLovestruck

CrystalClairvoyant

WaterloggedSprinkle

SeriouslyTalentless

OccultNobility

●CookiecutterPepsicola

FamishedOlympian

HomicidalBabyface

Looks like he's on now.

==>

HopefulEgg [HE] began chatting with CookiecutterPepsicola [CP]

HE: hey, did you leave these disks outside my dorm?

CP: Yeh. Cool, right?

HE: if i knew what it was, sure.

CP: Yer gonna find out soon enough. Along with the others.

HE: others?

CP: Mmhmm. It's all part of my plan.

HE: so you made this?

CP: Sorta. Some of th' stuff I got from this random guy that keeps botherin me.

HE: aw man. internet troll?

CP: Self proclaimed too.

HE: don't you know to just leave those guys alone?

CP: That's just it. He won't, and every time I block 'im, it seems ta override.

HE: :O

CP: I guess th' guy ain't that bad. Though, I guess I get some weird feelin's from 'im. Like...he's flirtin or somethin.

HE: :(

CP: Hold on. He's on now. I gotta get back ta ya.

CookiecutterPepsicola [CP] ceased chatting with HopefulEgg [HE]

==>

You're amazed. You can't believe that guy blew you off to indulge some internet troll. You almost feel offended. Actually, you do. Then again, you're not that surprised. He's a quirky guy.

==> Point of View: Switch.

Wait a minute! We're not done with this guy yet! There's so much more to...oh.

It appears the point of view switches anyway. Bummer.

ACT ONE: POINT OF VIEW SWAP

A serious, dignified, and one might even say stoic girl stands in the middle of her dorm. The lavender-haired lass is wearing her dark purple jacket, paired with a tie, black gloves, heeled boots, a skirt, and a small bow in a single braid. One look at this lady, and you know she means business, and even though her lips are sealed, she's examining, analyzing, studying, completely aware of her surroundings, and that you're looking at her. Maybe you should guess her name.

==> Guess her name.

CUP O' FANSERVICE NOODLES

...

"You couldn't possibly have done worse."

==>

KIRIGIRI KYOKO

Yeah. That's it. She wonders why you didn't get it sooner.

==>

Your name is KIRIGIRI KYOKO. You go to HOPE'S PEAK ACADEMY as the ULTIMATE DETECTIVE. As expected, you've got quite a bit of DETECTIVE MERCHANDICE in your room. A POSTER OF YOUR FAVORITE DETECTIVE here, a NANCY DREW BOOK there, and and old-timey DETECTIVE OUTFIT hanging in your closet. Your FATHER got that for you when you were accepted in. Your father, of course, is KIRIGIRI JIN, the HEADMASTER of Hope's Peak. He's a pretty good father, you think, when he's not being a total nerd. Quite recently, you took on another case, except instead of finding a MURDERER, you're trying to figure out who's on the end of each CHANHANDLE. Just saying, you all claim to go to Hope's Peak. The least you all could do is talk IN REAL LIFE. Still, you communicate with them under your own chanhandle, MysteriousRamen.

What will you do?

==> What are those notebooks on the floor?

Nothing. They're not important.

==> What's on that corkboard over there?

You sure are nosy.

==> What-

Before you can finish, she snaps up the item in her sylladex. Even if you wanted to see it, it'd only be a photo-copy. This is the CLUE MODUS. The only way to truly get the item would be to follow the clues on the back of the card. Only the wisest of detectives use this modus.

==> What about-

Once again cutting you off, she pulls out a SHIV, which was stored in her KNIFEKIND. She thinks it'll get you to stop. She's right.

==> Kyoko: Continue investigation.

You go on your computer and examine all of your files. You've managed to get majority of your chans to send over something with their handwriting on it. You just need two more submissions, then some difinitive answers can come up.

==> Kyoko: Have that conversation with HopefulEgg.

You have that conversation with HopefulEgg. The one where you asked for a picture of their notes. They were apprehensive at first, but the mission was a victory. The next nut got a tougher shell to crack...

==> Kyoko: Chat with WealthyLiterary.

MysteriousRamen [MR] began chatting with WealthyLiterary [WL]

MR: If it doesn't bother you, I'd like to ask you a favor.

WL: Fun fact: I don't do favors.

MR: Fun fact: this is important.

WL: ...

WL: Fine. Make it quick. I have better things to do.

MR: Of course. Could you send me a handwritten document via comupter?

WL: Excuse me?

MR: There is an extreme emergency within Hope's Peak.

WL: You're bluffing.

MR: I'm as serious as a heart attack.

WL: If you're being serious, you'll tell me what's happening.

MR: Gladly. It seems a thief in in this school, and they leave notes behind every time they steal. I'm examining everyone's handwriting.

WL: Either this is true, or you're the Ultimate Liar.

MR: I couldn't be. They graduated last year.

WL: ...

WL: You've barely convinced me.

MR: Funny. Everyone else submitted a document. You are the first to downright refuse. This could cut out inveatigation all together. You must be the culprit.

WL: What? Impossible. I'd never stoop so low as to resort to thievery.

MR: Tell it to the judge.

WL: You really are serious about this, aren't you?

MR: As a heart attack, like I said.

MR: Now, either send me a document, or face jail time. Your choice.

WL: Give me a moment.

MR: (Time Lapse)

WL: Very mature.

MR: ; :)

MR: I try.

WL: Writtendocument.jpg

WL: There. Are you satisfied?

MR: Quite.

WL: Thank goodness.

WealthyLiterary [WL] ceased chatting to MysteriousRamen [MR]

==>

"That guy's a total douche."

==>

What? He is!

==>

That also wasn't a lie. Technically, there is a theif.

==>

And they've stolen your heart.

==>

You enjoy chatting with them. Whoever they are...

==>

HopefulEgg...

==> Kyoko: Begin deeper investigation.

You pull up each file. You begin to try and decode each sample. To aid in this, you take out the (completed and graded) essays you've stolen from the classroom. The investigation is-

==> Knock knock.

Who's there? You decide to go check.

==> No one.

Of course. Practical jokery, ha ha. You're so mad about the jape you almost don't see the two envelopes on the ground.

==> Kyoko: Pick them up.

You pick them up, just like it says.

"SBURB, huh?"

==>

Looks like a game of some sort. One's marked Server, and the other is marked Client. You were never big on video games, but this one seems intresting. You decide to consult your local techie.

==> Kyoko: Consult your local techie.

MysteriousRamen [MR] began chatting with CookiecutterPepsicola [CP]

MR: SBURB, huh?

CP: What?

MR: Oh nothing. I would just like to know what's your aim in this game you've created.

CP: There ain't an aim in this. I just want everyone ta play it.

MR: It surprises me that you could purchace this for me.

CP: I didn't. I made it with the help of some internet troll.

MR: Oh?

CP: Now I know what yer thinkin, an' no, he ain't some creep.

MR: How does he describe himself?

CP: Um...it's weird.

MR: I'm sure I've heard weirder.

CP: He says he's an amethyst blooded, sea dwelling troll with a love for lusi, whatever those are.

MR: Intresting.

CP: Also, as rude as he usually is, I think he's bein' flirty. Endin every statement with ♡♤.

MR: Oh really?

CP: Yeah. He says he's fanscinated wit me.

MR: Hmm. Now that I think about it, a random person has began messaging me as well. Though I never indulge them.

CP: I suggest it. The guy I got's not bad.

MR: I will consider.

MysteriousRamen [MR] ceased chatting with CookiecutterPepsicola [CP]

==>

"Uwaa! ☆"

Speaking of...

==>

treblemakingSongbird [TS] began trolling MysteriousRamen [MR]

TS: Are you on? <(^^)

TS: Please don't block me again. It took our tech troll over an hour to decode the system. <(UU)

MR: Not this time.

TS: >(' ')!

==> Random Douchebag: Appear out of nowhere.

Oh boy. Here we go again.

ACT ONE: Who's this douchebag?

A random douchbag appeared. You examine him a bit. Straight-laced green suit, perfecty styled blonde hair, expensive looking glasses, and a narssicistic scowl on his face. All doubt leaves your mind; this guy really is a douchebag. Textbook definition of the term. If you looked up that word in the dictionary, there would be no words, only this guy's photo. He looks at you and raises a disapproving eyebrow. He wants you to guess his name. Actually, he expects you to know it already. What a prick.

==> INSUFFERABLE DOUCHEPRICK.

He says he's not going to acknowledge the degrading name you gave him.

==> TOGAMI BYAKUYA.

He nods a bit in approval. You guess that's who he is.

==>

Your name is TOGAMI BYAKUYA. As Hope's Peak's ULTIMATE AFFLUENT PROGENCY, you plan on letting everyone know YOU'RE IN CHARGE, and that you're basically BETTER THAN EVERYONE. In your dorm, you have decorated with EXTREMELY EXPENSIVE STATUES, BOOKS, AND FURNATURE, and in your closet is a wide variety of EXTREMELY EXPENSIVE SUITS. That's how rich you are. Of course, such is expected of the next owner of the TOGAMI CONGLOMERATE, one of Japan's BIGGEST BUSINESSES. You admit, you spent a long time working up to that level, and there's NO WAY YOU'RE BACKING DOWN. You also admit that you only went to Hope's Peak to see if anyone was as COMPETENT AS YOU. The only one that came close was the ULTIMATE PRINCESS. Well, also that really quiet guy, but that's for an ENTIRELY DIFFERENT REASON. Still, you do frequently chat with these lowly classmates of yours on Chat-chan, via your Chanhandle, WealthyLiterary.

==>

Because he knew you were about to ask, he demonstrates his CREDIT CARD MODUS for you. When an item is captchalouged, the card must be swiped on order for the item to be freed. It's reserved for only the rich, he tells you. You don't particuallarly care.

==>

He now takes the time to show off his MEGAPHONEKIND. A pull of the trigger releases an electric blast. As much as you don't want to care, you have to agree it's pretty cool.

==>

"Uwuu! Someone wants to chat with you!☆"

==>

"If it's her, I swear...".

==> Byakuya: Is it her?

No it's not. It seems that MysteriousRamen wanted to chat.

==> Byakuya: Chat against your better judgement.

You chat against your better judgement. The conversation wasn't all that bad. Seems that there's a thief in the school. You hope they get caught. You don't need any of your precious items stolen.

==> *Knock knock*

You hope this isn't the set-up of an incredibly juvenile joke.

==> Byakuya: Check the door.

That doesn't seem to be the case. You do have mail, however.

==> Byakuya: Examine mail.

SBURB Beta. Sounds like a video game. You don't do video games.

==>

"Uwuu! ☆"

==>

OH GOD, IT'S HER.

==> Byakuya: Attempt to deter.

PsychoticLovestruck [PL] began chatting with WealthyLiterary [WL]

PL: Byakuya...

WL: Go away.

PL: I swear, I-I'm not hitting on you this time! O~O

WL: Leave me alone.

PL: I'm being s-serious! OnO

WL: Fine, but if you even attempt to make a pass at me, I will hit block user.

PL: I understand...

PL: Did you...happen to recieve any mail?

WL: Please don't tell me this is yours.

PL: W-what? No! Ò.Ó

WL: Then yes. I happened to recieve two envelopes today for SBURB Beta.

PL: Was there both a server and client disk?

WL: Yes. Why do you ask?

PL: I recieved one too...

WL: Odd. I don't remember anyone even mentioning this game.

PL: I can say for certain that this isn't your everyday game...

WL: Elaborate.

PL: I chatted with Cookiecutter earlier. He says he made it with some help.

WL: Oh, really?

PL: He plans on all of us playing it. H-he says it'll be fun O*O

WL: Are you sure he didn't send this to me on accident?

PL: He gave one to everybody. He seems passionate about it, so...m-maybe I'll give it a go.

WL: You? Playing a video game?

PL: I-it would help me socialize.

PL: Whether or not you play is up to you.

PsychoticLovestruck [PL] ceased chatting with WealthyLiterary [WL]

==>

Wow. You almost can't believe it. You actually had a normal conversation with her. As for this game, you're thinking about playing it, but you aren't quite sure.

==>

"Uwuu!☆"

==>

gothicSnakeeyes [GS] began trolling WealthyLiterary [WL]

GS: Play the game, douchebag ;3

gothicSnakeeyes [GS] ceased trolling WealthyLiterary [WL]

==>

Great. Now internet trolls are after you. You dismiss the person watching to deal with with the troll.

==> Person watching: Watch someone else.

...

OH GOD, IT'S HER.

ACT ONE: OH GOD, IT'S HER

OH GOD IT'S HER. Large round glasses, uneasy smirk, two neat braids, conservative clothing. Wait. Why are you so upset? This seems like a nice, civiliized lady. What could possibly be wrong with her? She says nothing, then looks away slightly. So shy...you'd be pretty surprised if this girl turned out to be a serial killer or something. She just says nothing. Hmm...

==> PROBABLY A SERIAL KILLER.

She cringes at the name.

==> FUKAWA TOUKO

She cringes at that one too, but slightly less.

==>

Your name is FUKAWA TOUKO. As Hope's Peak's ULTIMATE AUTHOR, you're expected to be SOCIABLE AND CHARISMATIC, but in reality, you're very SOCIALLY AWKWARD. You AVOID PEOPLE often, and REFUSE TO SPEAK UNLESS SPOKEN TO. In your dorm, you have BOOKS, PAPER, AND PENCILS scattered about, and posters of HOT GUYS hang on your walls. You're a bit of a PERVERT when it comes to some things, but you do speciallize in ROMANCE NOVELS, so you have a bit of an excuse. Those excuses don't help when you're caught STALKING YOUR CRUSHES, however, which, unfortunately happen often. The current guy you have your eyes on just happens to be HOT, but a HUGE DOUCHE, just the way you like them. In spite of not being able to socialize in real life, you tend to chat on Chat-chan, under the chanhandle PsychoticLovestruck.

==> Touko: Fetch Modus, please.

Your fetch modus is the LIBRARY MODUS. When an item is captured, it turns into a book, and is stored into the sylladex. In order to access it again, you have to read the book, which is essentally a novel about that item. It's actually some pretty good material.

==> Touko: How about that strife specibus?

That? It's equipped with SCISSORKIND, it seems. She doesn't seem to want to touch it...

==> *Knock*

You wonder why they only knocked once. You're a bit offended by this. It doesn't seem like they're there anymore, so you decide to do something else.

==> Touko: Feed your stinkbug.

You feed your stinkbug. You found her when you were young. Her name is Kameko. You keep her in your dorm because everyone complains of her stench, but you don't care. Aftet all, she understands you better than anyone. If anything, you and that stinkbug are in it for the long haul.

==> Touko: Who knocked?

It seems that whoever was there has left something behind. Two somethings actually. You pick them up and instantly know who left them.

==> Touko: Chat to who left them.

PsychoticLovestruck [PS] began chatting with CookiecutterPepsicola [CP]

PL: Is this...what you've been w-working on?

CP: Cool, right?

PL: What is it exactly?

CP: A game. Once I finish deliverin em, we're gonna play.

PL: Um...

CP: What's up?

PL: I don't...really d-do video games...ÕnÕ

CP: You'll enjoy this one. It'll be fun.

PL: ...what's i-it about?

CP: I don't fully know. I got some help from my troll friend.

PL: Ugh, I hate internet trolls. T-they make so much trouble.

CP: This one's good, don't worry. He's real helpful.

PL: S-so...the game?

CP: All I know is that we can like, manipulate out enviroments and shit. Plus, we need to use both the server an client disk.

PL: Manipulate environments? L-like a simulator, or...?

CP: I think the guy meant in reality.

PL: OõO

CP: Yeah, pretty awesome.

PL: I-i admit, I'm on board...

CP: I'm proud o ya! I'mma go make more deliveries.

PL: I guess I'll chat with you l-later...

PsychoticLovestruck [PL] ceased chatting with CookiecutterPepsicola [CP]

==>

You think you want to inform your crush about this...

==>

"Uwuu! ☆"

==>

...and here's a sidetracker.

==> Touko: Answer sidetracker.

CrystalClairvoyant [CC] began chatting with PsychoticLovestruck [PL]

CC: YOO, TOUKO!

CC: DID U JUST GET A GAME?

CC: PLZ SAY YES! (☆)

PL: Yes...

CC: GOOD, I'M SEEIN' THINGS RIGHT THEN.

PL: Huh?

CC: WE'RE ALL GONNA PLAY THIS GAME, RIGHT? BUT IT'S SO MUCH MORE, LIKE, I CAN'T EVEN.

PL: Really? Ø.Ø

CC: DON'T SLANTY EYE ME!

CC: DUDE, I SAW METEORS CRASHIN INTO THE SCHOOL!

CC: AND LIKE, THESE COOL PJS

CC: PJS, TOUKO

PL: Remind me why I'm on the recieving end of this?

CC: You sound like Kyoko, smh.

CC: You were the first one I saw on my dash.

PL: Even still...why w-would I care?

CC: I'm at least 33% correct...

PL: Chat with me when you're not acting like a lunatic.

CC: BUT

PsychoticLovestruck [PL] blocked CrystalClairvoyant [CC]

==>

You'll unblock the guy when you're done chatting with Byakuya.

==> Touko: Think about cool pjs.

What? You already know about the cool pjs. At least in your dreams. You've even chronicled your adventures in the dream world. You can't help it. The ominous purple aura really brings out your creative side. In fact, it's inspired a good chunk of your stories. You kinda wonder if that guy's there too. After all, you've seen Kyoko, Byakuya, and a few others there too. Sound asleep, but there. You wonder if they'll awaken soon. Maybe you'll tell this to the crazy guy. Well, after chatting with Byakuya.

==> Touko: Chat with Byakuya.

You chat with Byakuya. He doesn't block you, and actually, he seems to listen to you this time. Maybe there is a chance...

"Uwuu! ☆"

"Huh?"

==>

trippyPillpopper [TP] began trolling PsychoticLovestruck [PL]

TP: *please talk to me* ]:'(

trippyPillpopper [TP] was blocked by PsychoticLovestruck [PL]

==>

You don't need any of this troll mess. You just can't deal with it. Instead, you go to bathe. After all, if you're going to be social, you might as well smell nice.

==> Veiwer: Considerately view someone else.

You considerately view someone else. Touko appreciates it, but now a random wierdo seems to be freaking out at your sudden arrival.

ACT ONE: RANDOM WEIRDO

A random weirdo looks at you. You look at a random weirdo. His hair sticks up in all directictions, he has the slightest beard stubble, and he gives off a very strong hobo aura. He also looks too old to even be in this school...and you'd be right. Then again, he was never the brightest bulb.

==> TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER.

Okay, whoa. Calm down man, it was a joke. Just a joke...um...

It doesn't look like he's calming down anytime soon.

==> HAGAKURE YASUHIRO

" Huh?"

==>

Your name is HAGAKURE YASUHIRO. As Hope's Peak's ULTIMATE CLAIRVOYANT, you...don't really do much. Often, you'll offer to READ PALMS, and SEE INTO ONE'S FUTURE, but the STEEP PRICE usually turns others away. In your dorm, you have everything a shaman needs, CATCHY POSTERS, INTERESTING ARTIFACTS, and GIMMICKS GALORE. You would think that a BUSINESSMAN LIKE YOURSELF would stay out of SERIOUS TROUBLE, but it seems that a CERTAIN YAKUZA has a large TARGET ON YOUR BOUNTY. You haven't left your room since. Luckily, your classmates can supply you your work through Chat-chan, under the clever chanhandle CrystalClairvoyant.

==> Yasuhiro: Consult your fetch modus.

You have the CRYSTAL BALL MODUS. Rather than captchalouging spare items for later use, your modus captchalouges random items that you'll need for later use sometime in the future. Sometimes it's the near future, and others, practically months. It also doesn't help that you can't captchalouge immediately.

...looks like the crystal ball has sent a hamburger. Sweet!

==>

Whoops. It got stuck in that extra strife specibus card the crystal ball sent earlier. Now you have a FOODKIND to go along with your MAGICKIND. The MAGICKIND has a WAND inside. You haven't figured out how to work that yet, but when you do, all kinds of cool stuff's gonna happen.

==>

At least you have a use for the specibus portfolio you got months ago.

Hey, what's in the crystal ball now?

==> Yasuhiro: Look inside.

It looks like a copy of a game. Two copies of a game actually. Those had to be coming your way eventually. After all, the crystal ball modus knows all. Once you retrieve the card from the sylladex, you take the copies of the game and examine them. SBURB Beta, server and client copies. You haven't heard of this game before. It must be new on the market. You decide to see what it has in store via your clairvoyant powers.

==> Yasuhiro: See.

You take out the disks and hold them in your hands. Closing your eyes, you begin to see new, complex contraptions around your room. A hail of meteors rain outside, but then the scene shifts to a beautiful planet with little chameleons running around. At a moment, the scene blacks out, and you're on a planet of gold. You're wearing some pretty cool pjs.

==>Yasuhiro: Drop the disks.

You gently set the disks down. After that exclusive preview, you don't want those disks destroyed. Wait. It occurs to you...

"I GOTTA TELL SOMEONE ABOUT THIS!!"

==> Yasuhiro: Tell someone about this.

You tell someone about this! Unfortunately, they block you. Oh well. At least she listened to the majority of your spiel.

==>

"Uwuu!☆"

Oh boy.

==>

punkrockBallpark [PB] began trolling CrystalClairvoyant [CC]

PB: get hacked

CC: Nooo

PB: nice line driver t⊙ y⊙ur c⊙mputer

PB: tech tr⊙ll hit a h⊙me run

CC: Leave me be ;_;

PB: i've tr⊙lled y⊙u this l⊙ng, what makes y⊙u think i'm st⊙pping n⊙w?

CC: Why must you terrorize me so?

PB: eh, i'm b⊙red. my kismesis is ⊙ut d⊙ing whatever, s⊙ i'm just kinda here

CC: Kismesis?

PB: wh⊙⊙ps. i mean ⊙ne ⊙f y⊙ur human b⊙y/girlfriends

CC: In this case?

PB: b⊙yfriend

PB: Out there flying and shit

PB: y⊙u aren't dead, g⊙⊙d f⊙r y⊙u

PB: but it makes me hate him m⊙re, s⊙ i can't c⊙mplain

CC: Why do you want to hate your boyfriend ( ? )

PB: y⊙u're g⊙nna have t⊙ wait f⊙r that talk

CC: You realize I may be older than you...?

PB: i'm 9 sweeps

PB: translate it y⊙urself

punkrockBallpark [PB] ceased trolling CrystalClairvoyant [CC]

==>

You have no idea what sweeps are.

==> Yasuhiro: Ask someone what sweeps are.

CrystalClairvoyant [CC] began chatting with WaterloggedSprinkle [WS]

CC: Do you know what a sweep is?

WS: Something a broom does ~u~

CC: Haha! Nice. Seriously tho.

WS: No...I'll find out though.

==>

How rude. You came in just as she was about to find out.

ACT ONE: WELL, FIND OUT.

She looks around. She may have forgotten what she was doing already. Oh well, at least we can get on with the intro. A swirled ponytail, athletic clothing, and an inordinate amount of donut boxes? Certainly contradictory, but she seems to be in great shape, so you don't judge her. She offers you a donut. You would take it if you could reach through the screen. She apologizes, then eats the donut herself. You feel like you know this young lady's name...

==> DOUBLE D...ONUTS...

Nice save there.

==> ASAHINA AOI

"Hehe! Yeah!".

==>

Your name is ASAHINA AOI. You go to school at Hope's Peak Academy under the title of ULTIMATE SWIMMER. You do admit to feeling like a fish at times. Anyway, in your dorm is EVERYTHING YOU POSSIBLY NEED, including VARIOUS PLUSHIES, GIFTS FROM YOUR LITTLE BROTHER, AN AQUARIUM, A COMPUTER, and of course, DONUTS. LOTS OF THEM. You love donuts like crazy. Almost as much as you love swimming. You learned the hard way not to mix eating donuts and swimming. As much as you enjoy being at Hope's Peak, you miss having your old friends around, as NO ONE IS PASSIONATE AS SWIMMING AS YOU ARE. Maybe someday soon, you'll have a friend who ENJOYS A GOOD SWIM LIKE YOU DO. It would be nice. For now, at least, you chat with the friends you have on Chat-chan, under the chanhandle WaterloggedSprinkle.

==> Bzzz.

You look at an annoying fly and decide to use your BUBBLEKIND against it. A swift blow traps the fly in a large bubble. And they said that bubbles would be useless.

==>

You decide to captchalouge the bubbled fly in your HYDRATION MODUS. Basically, the cards in the sylladex are dehydrated, and in order to use an item, you need to put the card in some water. This usually backfires when you go for a swim in the school's pool.

==> Aoi: Isn't there supposed to be a knock now?

Nope. That happened a few minutes ago. At your door, you found two envelopes containing the game Sburb inside. You don't play video games often, but you think that this one's worth playing. At least it looks cool.

==> Aoi: Ahem?

What?

==> Aoi: Didn't you have a prior engagement?

Oh, that's right! You had to find out what the heck a sweep was. You think you may know someone who has that info.

==> Aoi: Chat with the troll.

WaterloggedSprinkle [WS] began chatting with muscularProtienshake [MP]

WS: Heey.

WS: Would you happen to know what a sweep is?

MP: J(`v')J "why, yes, i do.".

MP: f(`o')J " a sweep is a year in alternia."

MP: h('v~)h "though it takes about two of your human years"

WS: Ooh, thank you!

MP: y(~v~)y

WaterloggedSprinkle [WS] ceased chatting with muscularProteinshake [MP]

==>

WS: Hey, Yasuhiro?

WS: A sweep is about two human years.

CC: Good. Now I have to deal with this punk troll.

CrystalClairvoyant [CC] ceased chatting with WaterloggedSprinkle [WS]

==>

Well that's that-

"Uwuu!☆"

==>

CookiecutterPepsicola [CP] began chatting with WaterloggedSprinkle [WS]

CP: Hey Aoi. Pay attention. I have some instructions for ya.

WS: Go on.

CP: You need ta be the first server player.

WS: For Sburb?

CP: Yeh. You connect to Makoto, who'll connect to Kyoko, who'll connect to Byakuya, who'll connect to Touko, who'll connect to Yasuhiro, then he to you.

WS: Wait, why are we splitting up?

CP: From what I know, we're still gonna end up in the same session. By doin it like this, it should take a shorter time to get started.

CP: Essentially, I should be the last player in.

WS: I think I may understand. Should I communicate this to Makoto?

CP: I reccomend it. Also, start running your server copy. It takes a while for it to load.

WS: Got it! Thanks, Cookie!

CP: Ey, ain't nothin!

==>

You decide to keep him on in case you need help. After all, were doing this man. Were making this happen.

ACT ONE: WERE DOING THIS

==>

A young troll is travelling in the vast expanses of space. He has finished playing his session quite a while ago, and he was one of few in his session who went god teir...though he had to in order to live through his session, for he was on the brink of death when he entered his land. Assisting him is another troll who went god teir, as well as a consort from his land. The troll himself is the Page of Time, his assistant the Rouge of Life, and the consort so generously named Delegate Hornliza. At once, this troll stops what he's doing, and rushes back to home, or at least what he and many others call home now. The reason? Another session is about to start, and he swore to guard a certain player...

==> Aoi: Communicate with Makoto.

WaterloggedSprinkle [WS] began chatting with HopefulEgg [HE]

WS: Hey Makoto, good news!

HE: what is it?

WS: You get to be the first client player! How cool is that?

HE: pretty cool, i guess. cookiecutter tell you this?

WS: Yep, and I'm your server player!

HE: ah, sweet! do i enter in the disk or...

WS: Yeah, just put it in your computer. It should instantly hook you up to my server program.

==> Makoto: Insert the disk.

You put the disk in. Just like Aoi said, it connects to her server.

==>

HE: i have confirmation we're connnected.

WS: Oh cool, I can see you!

HE: wait what?

WS: You're the shy new guy? I would have never guessed!

HE: ...thanks.

WS: Okay...lets see. We start with a cruxtruder, alchemiter, totem lathe, and punch card designix, as well as some extra captchalouge cards.

WS: You may want to move some stuff out of the way.

HE: why?

==> Aoi: Deploy Cruxtruder.

*BANG*

==>

WS: That answer your question?

HE: i got it. so what's this do?

WS: It apparently deploys an unlimited amount of cruxite dowels according to this instruction pamplet Cookiecutter included. If you can get it opened.

HE: how am i gonna manage that? i'm kinda short...and weak.

WS: Wait, I have an idea!

==> Aoi: Act on your idea.

Using your cursor, you pick up Makoto's bed. He seems to be in protest of this idea, but you continue on nonetheless. After holding it directly over the Cruxtruder, you drop it on top. The bed almost breaks in half, but the Cruxtruder is now open. A small, flashy thing flies out as well.

==>

HE: um, aoi? any idea what that is?

WS: Consulting Cookiecutter's guide...it's a ...kernelsprite. try putting something in it.

==> Makoto: Put something in it.

You look around. There doesn't seem to be much you want to prototype in the Kernelsprite. A ton of stuff from the school shop, but...oh wait. You remember that pinned butterfly you got from a nature museum. Papillio xuthus, or something. You decide to grab the case, remove the lid, and toss the butterfly into the sprite.

*Swift Toss!*

The Kernelsprite and the dead butterfly fuse, creating the Butterflysprite.

==>

HE: okay, what was the significance of that?

WS: You'll see later. For now, get a cruxite dowel from the cruxtruder by operating the crank.

==> Makoto: Operate the crank.

You push the crank with all of your might...just a bit more strength ought to do it...and...nope. Nothing. Nice try, Macookem.

==> Aoi: Pity assist.

You pity assist Makoto. With the magic of the cursor, you push the crank and extract a cruxite dowel.

==>

HE: what's next?

WS: The...totem lathe. Clear some room, Makoto!

HE: alright, alright!

==> Makoto: Clear some room.

You remove some random items from the floor in order to make room for the Totem Lathe.

==>

WS: Whoops...

HE: what now?

WS: The totem lathe isn't going to do much without the punched capchalouge card.

HE: so we need the designix?

WS: Actually, there's a pre-punched card included.

HE: oh good. also...what's this countdown for?

WS: What's it set for?

HE: four hours and thirteen minutes now.

WS: I think we'll be fine. I'm dropping the punched card in now.

==> Makoto: Examine the pre-punched card.

Yep. That card's punched alright.

==>

WS: Now put the cruxite dowel into the lathe and slide the card into the scanner.

==> Makoto: Do what she said.

You do what she said. The Totem Lathe carves the dowel into an intricate totem. These things are appropriately named.

==> *CRASH*

WS: What was that??

HE: i...don't know :(

==> *CRASH*

WS: I think something's happening outside.

HE: should i check?

WS: No. I have to get you into the session so you can connect to Kyoko. I'll probably check it later though.

HE: okay. so i have the dowel carved. what do i do now?

WS: I need to put in the alchemiter. This will read the code on the totem and create an item that you'll need to utilize in order to enter your session.

HE: oh, okay. let me make more space.

==> Makoto: Make more space.

You scoot your bed over to the side of the room, then oush aside some random items. That should be enough.

==> Aoi: Deploy Alchemiter.

You place the Alchemiter in the area Makoto cleared.

==>

WS: Boom! Alchemiter!

HE: so just put the totem on the pedistal and press a few buttons?

WS: That's pretty much it!

==> Makoto: Use the Alchemiter.

It takes a moment, but the device eventually scans the dowel and makes...a flower. You think you know what to do...

==>

You pick up the flower by its pot and turn to face Butterflysprite. It slowly flies toward it, then sticks out it's proboscsis and drinks the nectar. As Butterflysprite drinks, a white light consumes Makoto. As he enters the session, the troll waits for the right time to communicate. After all, one slip up could make the difference.

==> ACT ONE: WITHIN THE MEDIUM

==>

A HALCYON EASTGOER travels upons the vast expanses of dry, deserted land. He doesn't know where he's going, or where he'll end up. All he knows is that he'll be there soon.

==> Makoto: Communicate with Aoi

HE: so...that happened.

WS: I can't believe this! You're literally in the game!

HE: yeah, so is my room...which is miss a couple walls.

WS: I'd be able to build on it if we had more build grist.

HE: build grist?

WS: The stuff you need to build on to your dorm. Looks like you're gonna need a lot.

HE: amazing. just perfect. how do i get grist?

WS: The pamphlet says you need to kill underlings and collect their spoils.

HE: underlings?

WS: Yep. They should be getting near you any moment.

HE: you realize i can't waste my time on this, right? i need to get whoever my client is into the session.

WS: I know. By the way, it's Kyoko.

HE: kyoko? oh...

WS: What?

HE: it's nothing.

WS: Mmhmm.

WS: The more you try to hide, the more obvious you are.

HE: :C

WS: Don't worry, I'll keep it a secret.

HE: what good is that gonna do? i like more than one person anyway.

WS: MAKOTO, BEHIND YOU!

==> Aoi: Squash the imp.

. . . *SQUISH*

"Did you have to use my Midnight Crew comics for that?!"

==> Makoto: Collect spoils.

Looks like you've gone up to six whole build grist. That's going to do absolutely nothing.

==>

WS: Okay, here's an idea. I'll fend off the imps while you connect to Kyoko.

HE: good idea.

WS: Team break!

==>

"E¥. ¥a jus up an' left me. \/\/hat the glub \/\/as that all about?"

"My 4p010g13s! 1 h4d a pr10r 3ng4g3m3n7 th4t c0u1d n0t b3 pu7 0n h01d!"

( My apologies! I had a prior engagement that could not be put on hold!)

"\/\/hat? I'm ¥er motherglubbin' matesprit, I am ¥er prior fingagement."

" Y3s, 1 4m w3ll 4w4r3 0f 0ur m4t3spr17sh1p, 8ut 7h1s c0u1d n0t w41t!"

(Yes, I am well aware of our matespritship, but this could not wait!)

"Bullshrimp."

"W47ch y0ur l4ngu4g3!"

(Watch your language!)

"Shell, if \/\/e \/\/ere still on Alternia, I'd be th' glubbin' emperor by no\/\/."

"Mmhmm, 4nd wh47 w0u1d b3c0m3 0f m3?"

(Mmhmm, and what would become of me?)

"¥a'd be my peasant-blooded matesprit, that's \/\/hat."

"Y0u kn0w 1 d0 n07 3nj0y 7h3 us3 0f 7h47 d3r0g4t0ry 73rm! 83s1d3s, 7h3 3n71r37y 0f 4173rn14 w0u1d r107! 4 fush14-b100d w1th 4 v3rm1111on! 1 c4n h34r 7the pr073s7s fr0m h3r3!"

(You know I do not enjoy the use of that derogatory term! Besides, the entirety of Alternia would riot! A fushia-blood with a vermillion! I can hear the protests from here!)

"The¥ couldn't do a glubbin' thing. ¥er the matesprit, not them."

"Y0u kn0w, H1s 1ns4n17y Crys7411ys4710n k1113d h1s H473m473. "

(You know, His Insanity Crystallization killed his Hatemate)

"His Insanity Crystallization also up and left the glubbin planet and...oh yeah, was a big, cod-suckin tyrant."

"7h47 1s n0 w4y 7o sp34k 0f H1s 1ns4n17y!"

(That is no way to speak of His Insanity!)

" ¥ou shoal about that?"

"...1 4dm17, 7h3y h4d 70 c411 h1m H1s 1ns4n17y f0r 4 r34s0n."

(I admit, they had to call him His Insanity for a reason.)

"Told ya."

"S7i11, 1 h4v3 4 k1sm3s1s b4ck 47 h0m3 7h47 1'v3 b4r31y p41d 4773nt710n 70, 4nd 7h3r3 1s s0me0n3 1 mus7 a773nd 70!"

(Still, I have a kismesis back at home that I've barely paid attention to, and there is someone I must attend to!)

"First of all, glub your kismesis, and second, \/\/e \/\/ere kinda in the middle of-"

"4s much 4s 1'd 11k3 70 dr4g 7h1s 0n, 1 mus7 134v3."

(As much as I'd like to drag this on, I must leave.)

"But-"

"W47ch 4f73r H0rn11z4 wh113 1'm 4w4y!"

(Watch after Hornliza while I'm away!)

"..."

".....fine...."

==> Makoto: Communicate with Kyoko

HopefulEgg [HE] began chatting with MysteriousRamen [MR]

HE: do you have your copies of the game ready?

MR: Yes. Yes I do.

HE: get ready for some intense instructions. when they you're going into the session, you're going into the session.

MR: Of course I will.

HE: alright, don't say i didn't warn you...

ACT ONE: SECOND PLAYER

==> Makoto: Run your server application.

==> Kyoko: Run your client application.

==>

HopefulEgg [HE] began chatting with MysteriousRamen [MR]

HE: alright, we should be connected now.

MR: Yes, I see the confirmation on the computer. What happens now?

HE: i have to put in some fancy techological junk into your room. by the way, i can see you

MR: ....

HE: anyway, you might want to clear some room, this stuff is pretty big

MR: Noted. You never told me who you were.

MR: By the way.

HE: oh yeah. um. later.

MR: Why am I not surprised?

HE: well, thats not important! what needs to happen now is that you successfully get into the session. right now, im going to put in this cruxtuder thing. when you open it, a kernelsprite will come out. it seems to like dead things, so put something dead in it.

MR: Will the bones of a desceased family member work?

MR: That being the example.

MR: I don't have any dead family member's bones...

HE: ...

HE: im just gonna put in these gizmos now...

==>

Meanwhile, years in the future, but not many, a Mindful Refuge finds herself roaming the expanses of a dry and sandy desert...

==>

In the same time, but different location, the Halcyon Eastgoer seems to have found some sort of shuttle. He messes around with it for a bit before finding a way to open the door. Curious, he wanders inside, only for the door to slam shut behind him. It seems that he will be stuck there for a while...

==> Page of Time: Is it time yet?

Oh, no no no. It's nowhere near time now! He hasn't even stepped foot on his land yet; how could it possibly be time yet? Besides, there's a specific system to this yet to happen chain of conversations...at least yet to happen for him. Man, you love these time shenanigans. Anyway, you decided that this would work like a clock; clockwise for him, counterclockwise for you. It's simple really; (12=1)(11=2)(10=3)(9=4)(8=5)(7=6)(6=7)(5=8)(4=9)(3=10)(2=11)(1=12). You're really looking forward to the 7=6 meetup. This meet, you two will talk in real life! At least, the one of you still on his timeline. Once again, thank you time shenanigans.

==> Rouge of Life: How's it hangin?

"Go glub ¥ourself."

Wow, rude.

==> Makoto and Kyoko: Any Progress?

Actually, yes. All Cruxtruder, Totem Lathe, and Alchemiter have been deployed, and the kernelsprite has been prototyped with a bee that had flown into it accidentally.

==> Kyoko: Add in a secret sauce.

What sauce? All you have is this box that may or may not have the bones of your father, the headmaster, who may or may not be dead.

==>

Swift toss!

==>

Beesprite is now Jinsprite.

==>

Makoto is now thouroughly weirded out.

==>

HE: uh...

MR: What?

HE: just...use the totem...

MR: You're judging me.

HE: yep

MR: At least you were honest.

==> Kyoko: Alchemize.

The carved totem creates...a box, with the word evidence engraved on the side. You've seen enough detective movies to know what to do with this.

==>

With a bit of effort, Kyoko lifts the box and carries it to her window. Staring outside, she notices that the weather has changed, and that there are a few craters in the distance. She decides to use this to her advantage, and toddes the box out of the window. Something comes outbof the sky and destroys it, maybe a meteor, but she does not see this happen, for as soon as the item was hot, she was transported into the session.

ACT ONE: Land of Snowstorms and Thought

==> Kyoko: Where are you?

She doesn't exactly know. Some of the walls on her room have vanished, and she is now quite cold. In the distance, she sees a whirl of flurries dance their way to the ground, and a group of shivering reptiles. One thing for sure; she isn't at Hope's Peak anymore.

==> Kyoko: Get in touch with the Egg.

MR: I'm cold.

HE: looks like you are.

MR: Is your place anything like this?

HE: nope. actually, it's called a medium. i think you may be on a specific land though.

MR: Interesting...perhaps you have yet to make it to your land?

HE: most likely. sprinkle's working on that though.

MR: Do you at least have walls?

HE: she's still on that. right now she's kinda protecting me from imps and stuff though so...

MR: Imps?

HE: oh yeah, stuff's going to try to attack you.

MR: Aren't I someone's server player?

HE: WL.

MR: That douche? Also, you could use names.

HE: i know, i'm just annoying you.

MR: Quite hilarious.

HE: :)

MR: It was a joke.

HE: :(

MR: So, what's your plan? Help WS get you to your land or keep back imps while I get WL in?

HE: which do you prefer?

MR: Honestly, I can hold my own. Though I am cold.

HE: are you sure?

MR: Yes. Help WS. I'll get WL in.

HE: alright, but keep me on standby.

MR: Will do.

==> Kyoko: Talk to Jinsprite.

Kyoko: So...how's being a ghost thing?

Jinsprite: I admit, not the first time I thought about thiszz.

Kyoko: Also, the bee thing..?

Jinsprite: Eh, it doeszzn't bother me. Though...how did you have my remainszz on hand?

Kyoko: The police let me keep them. I know, so irresponsible.

Jinsprite: I mean, I szzuppose it was foolish of me to partake in a volunteer zzspace expedition.

Kyoko: Without telling me.

Jinsprite: Yeah...at least I know szzome szztuff about this game.

Kyoko: Oh really? Like?

Jinsprite: Your land izzs called the Land of Szznowstormzzs and Thought.

Kyoko: Hmm...anything important about that name?

Jinsprite: Don't you have szzomething to do?

Kyoko: Ah, if there was anything I missed, it was your ability to hold a secret.

==> Kyoko: Chat with the Wealthy.

MysteriousRamen [MR] began chatting with WealthyLiterary [WL]

MR: Put in your disks.

WL: Time already?

MR: Oh yeah. Hurry up, I'm freezing here.

WL: What?

MR: You'll find out why later.

WL: Fine. I'm running them now. What else do I need to do?

MR: Clear some space in your room.

WL: What did Cookiecutter do now?

MR: I can certainly say it's something.

WL: Okay, my room has some cleared spaces.

MR: I see. Ah, so you are Byakuya.

WL: You can see me?

MR: Yes, just like Egg saw me, and Sprinkle saw Egg.

WL: Wait, I'm not the first one in the game?

MR: Nope. That was Egg.

WL: I'm slightly offended.

MR: When are you not? Whatever, we need to get started.

==> Makoto: How's the imp slaying?

This was the first time he used his specibus...and surprisingly, it's going well. At least imps are dying quicker, and grist can be collected quicker. Though, there's something about these...

==>

HE: hey, have you ever noticed these guys looking a bit odd?

WS: Uh, yeah. I checked Cookie's pamphlet. You know that stuff you put inside your sprite? I think everyone's affect what the imps look like.

HE: that's why they look like late principal kirigiri.

WS: Mixed with a butterfly and a bee. Seems like after entry prototypes don't affect them though. Is that a picture of your sister?

HE: yeah, why?

WS: Prototype Butterflysprite with it.

HE: uh, okay.

==>

*Swift Toss*

==>

Butterflysprite is now Komarusprite.

"Uh..."

"Hey bro!"

==> Makoto: Talk to Komarusprite.

Makoto: Could you help me with these imps?

Komarusprite: Sure.

Makoto: Also, is this really you or..?

Komarusprite: It's actually me! Mixed with a butterfly.

Makoto: But what about Earth?

Komarusprite: Actually...I kinda died...

Makoto: Huh?!

Komarusprite: These meteors were barreling down on us at home and while mom and dad got out I didn't...

Makoto: You say that like that's normal...

Komarusprite: I didn't feel anything when it happened. It just did. And now I'm here with you, as a ghosty thing!

Makoto: I guess that's a plus, but what about mom and dad?

Komarusprite: Well, um...huh.

Makoto: ...

Komarusprite: ...

Makoto: Let's just.. fight these guys.

Komarusprite: Yeah...

==> Page?

Everything's going delightfully to plan! It shouldn't be long now...

==> Kyoko and Byakuya?

WL: I'm sorry, what?

MR: Take Shinobu's ashes and put them in the Cricketsprite.

WL: You think I'm going to desecrate my half sister by tossing her ashes into some bug/sprite abomination?

MR: ',:)

WL: You disturb me.

MR: Wasn't she your secretary anyway?

WL: Does it make a difference?

MR: No.

WL: ...

==>

*Swift Toss*

==> Byakuya: Talk to Shinobusprite.

Shinobusprite: Why me?

Byakuya: I respected you enough to keep your urn.

Shinobusprite: When I was told I would get another chance at life by some offbeat clairvoyant, this wasn't what I was thinking.

Byakuya: I missed you as well...

Shinobusprite: *chirp chirp*

Shinobusprite: Fused me with a cricket, huh?

Byakuya: It jumped in...

==>

MR: Fun, yes?

WL: She's resentful.

MR: You're surprised by this?

WL: Just give me my next instruction now.

MR: Use the carved totem with the Alchemiter.

==>

Shinobusprite: Already done...

==>

WL: Alright...a stack of cash? What am I going to do with that?

MR: You know. ;)

==> Byakuya: Make it rain.

You make it rain as a meteor crashes in the distance. Looks like it crashed into the Conclomerate. This is the least of your concerns, however, as a white light engulfs your room...

==> Years in the future, but not many...

A WISE LONER comes across a destroyed building. He looks around. No one is near him. Not even close. Suddenly, something begins to rise from the ground in the near distance. Curious, he gravitates toward it. Perhaps, there will be someone there, waiting for him...

ACT ONE: Land of Heatwaves and Fortune

==>Byakuya: How's the weather?

HOT. So hot that you feel the need to remove some of your clothes. But you don't because that's aginst your protocol. Seriously though, why the heck is it so hot out here?!

==>

You look out across the land you ended up in. You see towers of gold and silver, and even some of crystals. Across this sweltering place, you notice some sort of reptillian creatures seemingly unphased by the heat. Shinobusprite also looks unphased. Are you the only one roasting here?!

==> Byakuya: Consult Shinobusprite.

Byakuya: Well, any idea of where we are?

Shinobusprite: We are in your medium, more specifically, the Land of Heatwaves and Fortune.

Byakuya: I understand the heatwave part, but fortune?

Shinobusprite: That, too, will play a role in your session. I can't tell you yet, though.

Byakuya: You don't habe to act like a secretary anymore, Shinobu.

Shinobusprite: It's Shinobusprite now, Byakuya.

Shinobusprite: *chirp chirp*

Byakuya: Fine...who are they?

Shinobusprite: Those reptiles are desert tortises, and they will be your consorts, your loving helpers.

Byakuya: What does that make you?

Shinobusprite: As your sprite, I am your guide. Nowhere did it say I had to be loving.

Byakuya: ...

==> Byakuya: Let Ramen know their mistake.

WL: Let's see. My sprite hates me, and my land is as hot as Hell. What is this game again?

MR: SBURB. Wow, at least I could wrap myself in a blanket.

WL: Aside from my land, and my obvious issues with my sprite, what the heck am I supposed to do?

MR: You need to get the next player in. I'm sure Sprinkle or Cookiecutter know who it'll be.

WL: Why don't you find out?

MR: Yeah, okay.

==> Kyoko: Find out.

MysteriousRamen [MR] began chatting with WaterloggedSprinkle [WL]

MR: You're Egg's server, yes?

WS: Yep!

MR: Did Cookiecutter tell you the order we enter in?

WS: Yes! First was Makoto, then you, then Byakuya, then Touko, then Yasuhiro, then me.

MR: Hold on. That's just our class, or some of our class. What about the other class? Surely he's playing with them.

WS: Well, duh, but they won't start until we're all in.

MR: Ah, so once you're in whatever land you have, you'll tell him?

WS: That's the plan. Although...I am worried they may not make it in time.

MR: What's going on at Earth?

WS: Meteors are crashing all around. I'm surprised the internet hasn't been knocked out.

MR: Oh my. Stay safe, Aoi.

WS: You got it!

MysteriousRamen [MR] ceased chatting with WaterloggedSprinkle [WS]

==> Kyoko: Give Byakuya that sweet info.

MR: Guess what?

WL: Just tell me.

MR: You bring in Touko.

WL: PsychoticLovestruck?!

MR: I think that's her.

WL: As if my session couldn't get any worse...

WealthyLiterary [WL] ceased chatting with MysteriousRamen [MR]

==> Meanwhile...

The Mindful Refuge notices someone in the distance...but is he friend...or foe?

==> Byakuya: Let's get this over with.

WealthyLiterary [WL] began chatting with PsychoticLovestruck [PL]

WL: Who is it this time?

PL: You know who ♡□♡

WL: You know what? No. I'm not doing this with you.

PL: Oh, come on, ya know I'm more fun than she is ',8)

WL: I'm blocking.

PL: Ugh. You're soooo playing hard to get U♡Ó

WL: What even is that?!

PL: A winky face U3Ó

WL: Get her now.

PL: Fine...ÒnÓ

==> Touko: Where are you?

You're in your cool pajamas right now. It's a nice tradeoff. When...she...is out, you are here, and of course, the other way around. It's nice, being in this dream world. You dispose of your cares here. You fly without chains. Sometimes, you wonder what she does when she's here. Other times, you try to wake your friends. They're there too, but they're always asleep. You leave notes and letters every time you visit them, though. At least let them know you were there.

==>

She's trying to wake you up, but you don't want to go. Not yet...

==>

Seriously, stop. You aren't going back.

==>

PL: Okay, slight little problem.

WL: What...

PL: She's refusing to come to. Probably off on dream world again.

WL: Dream world? Now I've heard everything.

PL: I'm serious! It's like purple and dark, and there are people there, but they're like...covered in some black shell thing.

WL: A carapace?

PL: Yeah, we'll call it that. There's a golden one too. I've seen both. There's also these towers with everyone else in them, though I'm not sure why they won't wake up. It's like...you have to be conscious enough to wake up here...

WL: Alright, fine. I'll get you into the game then, and I guess I'll fill her in later.

PL: Yesss

WL: On one conditon.

WL: No flirting. At all.

PL: Hmmm.....

PL: Can I write them on a piece of paper?

WL: As long as you don't tell me.

PL: Deal! Now, tell me what to do.

==> Mindful Refuge: Inspect the loner.

It looks like he's heading toward the building rising out of the ground. You squint your eyes to see him better. It looks like he doesn't notice you at all. You aren't sure whether or not that's good. After all, you're seeking to find a place of your own. Slowly, you back away. As you do, your foot touches a hard surface, not at all like the sand you feel. You dust away the remaiming grains of sand to see some sort of symbol. Surprised, you jump up. This requires some investigation.

==>

As this happens, you fail to notice the PEASANT LIGHTHEARTED wandering in the distance...

==>

WL: I'll repeat this one more time. You can put whatever you want into the kernelsprite.

PL: Anything?

WL: Anything.

PL: In that case...

==>

You open your drawer to find your not-so-secret stash of model magazines. Cosmopolitan...Vogue...ah, Playboy! Slowly, you tear out a poster of a rather risque woman and toss it into the sprite, which becomes a...Modelsprite.

==>

SQUISH

==>

Huh? Kameko?! You should have seen this coming. She was always a sneaky one. Luckily, you were going to need her anyway.

==>

*Sprite Ex-Machina!*

This was used several times already.

==>

Modelsprite is now Kamekosprite.

==>

WL: I'm almost surprised you didn't prototype a photo of me.

PL: What?! I'm not THAT obsessive!

WL: Yet you put your stinkbug with a model...

PL: She wanted to be pretty. Did ya think I sat around and looked at that smut?

WL: You didn't?

PL: No, I do.

WL: Disgusting.

PL: You asked! Now what's next?

WL: Get one of those dowels of cruxite and carve it with the totem lathe.

==>

Kamekosprite: Ooh, what are you doing, Syo?

Syo: Trying to start some game.

Kamekosprite: Is that why you mixed me with the pretty lady?

Syo: Well yeah. You're joining the ride, too.

Kamekosprite: Aw, thank you...though did you have to do the one from Playboy?

Syo: It was the only one with a poster that didn't have an ad for cologne on the back.

Kamekosprite: But...I smell bad...

Syo: Nonsense, you smell amazing.

Kamekosprite: *w*

==>

WL: How nice. You and your sprite get along.

PL: Wait, can you see me?!

WL: I thought you knew.

PL: Damn, if I did, I...

PL: won't say what I'd do.

==>

*Noice Save!*

==>

WL: Totem?

PL: Lathed.

PL: What's up with your sprite?

WL: Let's just say Shinobu didn't like being my secretary as much as I thought.

PL: Eh, she'll come to realize that you love her, too.

WL: She's also part cricket, so...

PL: Like Kameko is half model?

WL: Correct.

WL: Syo.

PL: Yes?

WL: ...

WL: Put the totem on the Alchemiter. It'll make the item you need to enter your land.

PL: Okie.

==>

Kamekosprite: Allow me.

==>

PL: Seriously? A book? I read enough of those to get my stuff out of the fetch modus.

WL: Well, what would Genocider Syo do to the book?

PL: Ahh...

==> Syo: Do what you'd do to the book.

You get your scissors from your strife specibus and go to work cutting up the book. You feel Touko cringing within you as you desecrate the piece of literature, but personally, you couldn't care less...that is, until an unprompted sneeze switches you two. Gosh darn it, why doesn't she tell you this beforehand? Why couldn't she do the sneeze earlier? Still, she takes over as your room is covered in white...

#danganronpa #super dangan ronpa 2 #danganronpa fanfiction #homestuck #homestuck universe #makoto naegi #kyoko kirigiri #byakuya togami #touko fukawa #yasuhiro hagakure #aoi asahina #more tags

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flowers-creativity · 5 years ago

Text

Bad Luck (Chapter 14)

Fandom: The Musketeers Characters: Porthos du Vallon, Athos (Comte de la Fere), Aramis (René d’Herblay, d’Artagnan (Charles), Jean Tréville, Flea Warnings: Violence, whipping, racism, slavery, abduction, minor character death Summary: Porthos rarely had bad luck at the card table. But when he hit a streak of really bad luck, it was only the beginning …Soon, the other three Inseparables were desperately searching for their missing friend while he did his best to get back to them.

AO3 link

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 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20

The horses the Musketeers had acquired in Le Havre were excellent beasts, and by the end of the day leaving the port city, they reached the spot the captain had shown Athos. From there, it was easy enough to track the slavers – the fleeing men might not have left such easily visible tracks, but those pursuing them were a large group moving slowly. After a short rest to grab a few hours of sleep, it took them until midday until the group came into view.

D'Artagnan was seething, chomping at the bit to confront them, but Athos held him back. After all, they had not done anything that might have given the Musketeers cause to question them. Aramis was barely less impatient than the Gascon but knew that their leader was right – it was best to follow them until they found Porthos and the other men, even if it was hard.

Athos kept them at a walk behind the group, at a careful distance, and occasionally sent d'Artagnan as their best tracker – in Porthos' absence – ahead to veer off the path a bit to look for possible signs of the fugitives the slavers might have missed. The men riding ahead of them seemed relaxed enough, talking and cursing in rough tones. From what they could see, most of the men were some kind of hired fighters and thugs. There was one man in the midst of them who looked angry and focused, quite obviously the leader – Cernier, as the captain had called him. The group moved slowly, with one or two men periodically going off into the woods off the narrow road they were following. Athos' guess was that the fugitives were keeping off the road but were close enough that the men were more comfortable not moving through the underbrush in a group as large as theirs.

They'd been following them for a few hours when Aramis' sharp eyes were the first to spot a change in the group. Easy banter quieted down, postures straightened up, and hands strayed towards weapon belts when one of the men came back out of the woods and talked to their leader. “I think we're close,” Aramis told his brothers.

Athos scrutinised the group and nodded. “Stay sharp,” he told them. “And let's try to get ahead now. Maybe we can get there before they do.”

They guided their horses off the road and into the forest, speeding up so they could pull level with the group while keeping the lookout for signs of the fugitives.

The group of slavers reached them first, though. The sound of raised voices drew the Musketeers the rest of the way, and they found them at the edge of a small clearing, most of the men with their pistols drawn and pointed across the clearing at a pair of dark-skinned men.

Aramis' heart sank when he realised none of them was Porthos. One was older, with dark hair cropped close to the head and a slender build, the other a broad-shouldered young man with a halo of dark curls. Then the older man stepped forward, and Aramis realised he was standing in front of someone on the ground, shielding him protectively. And it was … Aramis felt a weight lift off his shoulders when he recognised the large frame of his brother, but it was quickly replaced by a different one when he saw that the man was struggling to sit up, and his upper body was swaddled in dirty and torn bandages.

“You have one chance.” The man that had to be Cernier was speaking. “If you come quietly, you will live, but I have no compunction to shoot you where you stand.”

The young man took a step forward. “Never,” he replied coolly. He held two pistols in his hands and levelled them at the leader. “We're done being quiet.”

Though the older man held a sword as if he only knew which end was the pointy one, his gaze was trained on the other men without wavering. Behind him, Porthos had made it to his knees but his head hung low, his arms limp at his sides. Aramis ached to get to him but forced himself to look away from him and to Athos.

Athos looked from Aramis to d'Artagnan and drew his pistols, silently nodding at them when they mirrored his action. Another round of silent communication passed between them, and then they shifted as one towards the group to take aim.

Before them, the leader was speaking again. Despite his threats, he seemed unwilling to slaughter the “goods” where they stood. Aramis blended out his voice and sighted along his pistol barrel. He loosed his shot first, immediately followed by the double crack of d'Artagnan and Athos' pistols. He switched his second pistol to his right and shot again, then holstered the empty pistols and drew his sword, spurring his horse forwards, trusting that his two friends, slightly slower in handling their pistols, would be right behind him.

The clearing had erupted into chaos at their shots. Several men lay beneath their horses, a few of them motionless, but the Musketeers concentrated on those still in the saddle and moving. Aramis' eyes could not find the leader at first glance, and he only allowed his eyes to stray to the small group of fugitives for a split second. The young man just loosed a shot from his pistol, then dropped it and drew a sword. The other man still stood in front of Porthos. Aramis prayed that they would be able to protect him and themselves until the three Musketeers had dealt with the group. Then the first of the slaver's hired men met his challenge, and he pushed all other thoughts aside.

Their initial volley had cut down the number of their adversaries enough that they could make short work of the rest. Soon enough, the last of the men surrendered with Athos' blade at his throat, and the Musketeers stood breathing heavily. Aramis looked around at the two others. “Are you alright?” he asked. Athos just nodded, while d'Artagnan answered: “I'm fine. And you?” Aramis gave him the ghost of a smile, as he replied: “I'm alright.” There were the usual little nicks and bruises, and his muscles were sore after the exertion, but those were all things they had become accustomed to. He looked at their leader, and Athos did not need to ask what he wanted. “Go to him,” he told the medic.

Aramis felt as if he was an arrow finally released from its bow, and he hurried across the clearing in long strides.

And stopped short when a blade was lifted, its tip against his chest. The younger of the two strangers had stepped forward and was glowering at him. “Who are you?” he demanded to know.

Aramis raised his hands in a placating gesture. “My name is Aramis,” he replied, as calmly as he could. “I'm a Musketeer,” he turned slightly to display his pauldron, “and I'm his brother.” He looked past the man and his blade to Porthos. “Please, let me go to him.”

Indecision and wariness warred on the young man's face until he finally lifted the sword from Aramis' chest and stepped aside. The older man had knelt down at Porthos' side and was supporting him. He looked up at Aramis with a painful mixture of hope and desperation in his eyes. “Can you help him?” he asked. “Please ...”

The medic swallowed. “I will,” he promised. He knelt down on Porthos' other side and reached out a hand to his face. He was almost surprised that it did not shake.

“Porthos?” he breathed. The heat his fingers encountered was shocking. Porthos' skin was dry to the touch, which was even worse – as was the fact that he barely reacted to his name, his gaze unfocused and clouded by pain and fever, even though he held himself up stubbornly as if his mind was still trying to react to the earlier threat but he was lacking the energy to do more than this failed attempt to rise.

Aramis took a deep breath. “Help me lay him down,” he asked the stranger. “Do you know where he is injured?” Over his shoulder, he called: “Athos, d'Artagnan, I need my kit!”

The older man looked down at Porthos sorrowfully as he carefully pushed him to the ground. Porthos made a short, distressed sound, trying to resist, but after only a moment, he yielded to the touch. “He was whipped a few days ago,” the stranger said, “and there's a long cut on his left side.”

Aramis nodded slightly, his hands moving with customary ease to loosen the filthy bandages around Porthos' torso. After the short moment of resistance, the large man was pliant beneath their hands, seemingly still dimly aware but too far gone with fever to react to his brother's presence or their manhandling. The medic shoved away his fear when the bandages fell away and revealed the wound on the front, red and puffy and weeping a cloudy fluid. He gestured to the other man to help him turn Porthos onto his side.

The sight and smell of Porthos' back almost made him gag. The wounds themselves had not been too bad originally, he supposed, but infection had set in deeply, and they were brimming with pus.

“I tried to clean them,” the older man told him, sounding apologetical, “after we went into the river. I don't think I did much good.”

Aramis flashed him a brittle smile. “You never know,” he replied. “It might have bought him some time, at the very least. No matter what, I'm thankful to you for helping him.”

d'Artagnan appeared at his side and handed him his kit. “What can I do?” the Gascon asked anxiously, his gaze on Porthos' wan face.

The marksman sent him back to their horses for their water skins and set to cleaning out the wounds with grim determination. The other black man – Fadil, he told him at some point – assisted him quietly. d'Artagnan came back a bit later, bringing their water skins, and then Athos joined them. His expression was dark as he took in Porthos' almost motionless form. “How is he?” he asked.

Aramis shook his head. “His fever is high, and he needs water desperately,” he replied. “I don't know--” he broke off and took a deep breath. “The infection is deep.” He met Athos' eyes and knew that his friend would understand from his bleak tone what he dared not voice. A quiet curse at his side showed that d'Artagnan had understood, too.

Athos nodded sharply. “Should we make camp? Or take him to an inn or village?” he asked, his tone clipped.

The medic took off his hat and buried a hand in his hair, tugging at the dark curls. He was loath to move the ill man more than necessary, but a place to stay in a more civilised area would mean access to more water than they had in their water skins, and possibly a physician who knew how to help Porthos better than he could. Making his decision, he said: “Let me finish this and make up a poultice, then we should find some place with plenty of water. That's what he'll need most.”

“Alright,” Athos said, “tell us what you need, and d'Artagnan and I will get some of the horses ready. Can you ride?” He directed the question to the two fugitives who were standing a bit apart from them, looking on apprehensively.

The young Mulatto simply nodded while Fadil answered: “Not well but I can stay in the saddle if you don't go too fast.”

“Good.” Athos gave them a nod. “We'll leave in one hour.”

Aramis focused back on Porthos' injuries, cleaning them as deeply as he could, dousing them with alcohol and trying not to let fear take over at how still Porthos was despite his rough treatment.

Fadil joined him again, and Aramis directed him to wet some cloths and wipe down Porthos' burning face and body while he crushed some herbs and mixed them into a thick paste with which he filled the wounds. He wrapped Porthos' torso again with fresh linen, then sat back and wiped his brow. It was not much but it was all he could do for his brother right now.

He looked around and found that Athos and d'Artagnan had been busy as well. In addition to their horses, they had readied two more who stood with empty saddles. Four of the slaver's men shared two horses between them, their arms and legs bound and showing different levels of awareness. Apparently, his two friends had bound their injuries, so there was no immediate threat of them passing away, and Aramis was happy to trust in their ability to do so, so they would not waste any more time on those men.

Athos and the young man whose name was Marcel hoisted Porthos up onto Aramis' horse, placing him in front of the marksman. He encircled Porthos' waist with his arms and picked up his reins. It was awkward to have him in front of him but there was no way Porthos would have stayed seated on the horse behind him. And when Athos had attempted to suggest a different arrangement, Aramis had just shot him a flat look that dissuaded him from any further discussion. Not that there were any real options – the difference in height between him and d'Artagnan was so slight as to not matter at all in these circumstances, and Athos was shorter than both of them, if a bit sturdier. As were the two fugitives, and even if not, Aramis would not have entrusted his brother to them now, no matter how thankful he was for what they had done for Porthos up to now. No, Porthos belonged in his arms, his care right now.

They set off at the fastest trot they could manage. Aramis let the horse choose its path, more or less, just steering it with a press of a thigh or a nudge of a boot here and there. His main focus was on the hot, silent presence in front of him that was Porthos. His lids were still open by a slit, showing a sliver of white, still seemingly unable to let go of his consciousness entirely because of some perceived danger, perhaps, even though the only danger was the fever raging ín his body. But the dark eyes were unseeing, only moving spasmodically now and then when a fever dream seemed to grip him momentarily. Aramis tried to rouse him a few times but without success, and finally, his words devolved into an almost meaningless litany, prayers mixing with him telling Porthos about their search, retelling some long-ago adventures, hardly aware what he was saying – he did not know why but it felt necessary to anchor his friend with his voice, to give him something he might use to pull himself back from the darkness threatening to swallow him. Because they had not found Porthos just to lose him anyway.

#flower writes #bad luck story #bad luck #the musketeers #porthos #athos #d'artagnan #aramis

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deecherrywolf · 8 years ago

Text

Okay, here’s idea number one that I rejected. Reasons I rejected it - too long, too complicated world building. It’s sitting at 9k and is only at the beginning. I want/wanted the bigbang to be more of an outlet - a fic I can write in a relaxing way. The fic, when finished, I would think would end up... 30k+, maybe?? idk anyways -

The fic idea is a Fae AU where Keith is part of the Unseelie Court and Lance is an Unseelie Hunter. For anyone who reads this - have fun reading through it, but if you do, let me know if there is any interest in me picking it up at a later date :)

warning: all of the fics i post are unfinished and do cut off abruptly, as i said - they were me experimenting with ideas and will have html stuff/typos abound

It was very cold out the night Lance hunted his very first Unseelie. It was cold and the rain felt like blades cutting into his flesh, icy droplets that were as relentless as the Unseelie. It had come through one of the many rifts that opened up on occasion, the portal between the human realm and the fae realm. From those portals, came the Unseelie Fae - ghastly creatures that caused havoc in their wake. Some were harmless aside from damaging property. Others, however, were a danger to society - eating human flesh, sucking out souls, torturing anyone and everyone - that was the way of the Unseelie.

Lance wasn’t sure what to expect when his Unseelie came through the rift. He was expecting a vile thing, something hideous - with a gaping mouth, dripping fangs, and oozing flesh. He had not been expecting the fuzzy thing he got. It was fast though, it jolted out of there, barely visible, but Lance had been trained to spot them. It landed on a tree trunk, its glowing yellow eyes on him, jaw opening in a hiss. It’s purple fur was immediately doused with rain, it’s big, cat-like ears flicking back as it sat up on all fours, it growled at Lance, those creepy eyes on him.

Shoot, Lance!

That was his father’s voice, calling inside of his head. But Lance found himself hesitating - which is one thing Hunter’s did not do. They did not hesitate. No, he did worse - he ran.

Ah, mijo, you weren’t cut out for the life of a Hunter, you are too kind, too soft.

Those words echoed in his mind as his legs pumped and his heart hammered. His mother was right, he wasn’t cut out for this - he never would be. He bit back the fear, as well as the shame, as he continued to run. He could hear the splashing of footsteps following him - four of them, specifically. It was the Unseelie - it wasn’t going to let him get away, shit! Lance could turn on it - raise his gun and shoot, but he knew he’d miss - even if he was the sharpest shooter in his family, he knew he’d end up missing somehow. Still, it was either him, or the Unseelie.

He fumbled with his gun, continuing to run - muddy water sloshing up, water sinking into his shoes. He grimaced at the feeling, but continued onward, pointing his gun towards the creature - the Unseelie fae he’d have to kill to prove himself amongst his Hunters. He was eighteen, no longer a boy, but a Hunter. He’d have to kill it and bring it back to his clan. He shot.

An unholy howl echoed in the night, he’d shot it. But not fatally. Lance had seen the shot, it had hit the fae’s thigh. Lance cursed, skidding to a halt, half slipping in the watery ground. He heard the ‘thump’ and ‘splash’ of the fae falling to the ground. The venom in the bullet was a paralyzing agent that worked only on unseelie fae, so Lance knew it would be unable to move now. It was lying over there, waiting for death. Lance reloaded his gun, approaching slowly to where it had fallen.

He pushed back bush after bush until he found his prey. The Unseelie was holding its leg, ears bent back. It looked a little different now - sitting more upright, as if it were more humanoid now. The fae looked at him, its pupil less eyes a reminder of how inhuman it was. Lance brought up his gun, pointing it at the Unseelie, watching it look away and down at the oozing wound on its leg and then back up at Lance.

It closed its eyes, face softening - accepting death, but still transforming in its weakened state - to its true form?

Lance watched, mesmerized, as the Unseelie became humanoid. No longer did it have bowed legs, but human ones, it still had claws, but the foot of it no longer was three toes but five. It’s face, which had a snout now was very human - too human for Lance to finish the job. Was this a trick? Or was this its true form? Lance wasn’t sure - he’d never encountered an Unseelie like this. He’d seen the ones his father hunted, the ones his brother slaughtered… they looked nothing like the purple thing he’d hunted, nor the thing it was transforming into. Once it was finished, it had a headful of black hair and an aristocratic face.

It turned to Lance now, reopening its eyes.

Lance lowered his gun completely, finding himself transfixed by those yellow eyes in a human face. He found himself unable to kill it. He knew he should, but his mother’s words continued to pulse in his ears. Maybe he was too soft, too kind, but that wasn’t his weakness. He liked to think those were his strengths and something, deep down, told him killing this particular Unseelie would be a mistake. He trusted his gut instinct. He placed his gun in its holster, approaching the Unseelie with open hands - showing that he was unarmed. The Unseelie snarled, ears flattening over its head, black hair bristling up like a scared cat.

“Hey,” said Lance, keeping his voice soft and soothing - nonthreatening. “It’s okay, Just… let me look at the wound, okay?”

Fat chance. The Unseelie hissed at him, swiping at him blindly, scared. Lance swallowed, watching the Unseelie. It’s humanoid form was about the same size as Lance himself, he’d think and it looked so fragile right now - dressed in nothing, shivering wet in the rain. Lance looked around before taking off his coat and tossing it onto the the Unseelie.

“The venom in your leg should wear off in a couple of hours, and I know Unseelie heal like, ridiculously fast. So uhm, if you keep yourself covered, you hopefully won’t get sick in the rain. If Unseelie get sick, I don’t know.”

The Unseelie growled at him, low pitched and very cat-like. It reminded Lance of his grandmother’s temperamental house cat, who howled like that at anyone approaching it, all except his grandmother. Lance held back a laugh, especially when he felt the rain soak into his shoulders. He should get out of the rain soon before he gets sick himself.

“Well, I’m uh… sorry for shooting you?”

Another growl.

“Take care.”

Lance left the Unseelie sitting there, its wet form growing smaller the further Lance walked. Lance felt a heavy weight fill his chest and he clenched his fists. He failed. He failed as a Hunter. He was supposed to kill that Unseelie. What if him doing this would cause his town destruction? What if the Unseelie he showed mercy to was actually a terrible one. Well, they were all terrible, but what if this one in particular was very terrible. What if, it held power that would bring about the world’s end?

But then Lance remembered the look on the Unseelie’s face. It had been scared and hurt, but not malicious, even when chasing Lance he could tell the Unseelie was only chasing at the thing that wanted to kill it. Not that it was murderous. Even so, Lance faltered on the way back. Had he done the right thing?

He’d like to think so.

---

Lance hung up his rifle, peeling his wet shirt over his head while the warm fire heated his skin. He looked down at the fire while his mother approached him with a drink.

“Here, drink this, mijo.”

“Thanks.”

He took a drink of the warm drink - a drink his mother had made to fight off colds and fevers, a simple precaution since Lance could very well develop such things. Hopefully not though. His mother sat beside him now, glancing at the fire first before looking at him.

“How did it go?”

Lance resisted the urge to wince because it had not gone well. He let the Unseelie go. He possibly could have sealed the fate of his small town until one of the Hunter’s that were unafraid to hunt would kill it. He bit his lip and his mother knew then. She sighed, placing a hand on his back.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Lance.”

“But mama, I… I let it go. What if it destroys our town, our home…”

Our family.

His mother shook her head, a smile on her face. “You have good instincts, Lance. You always have. If you let that one go, you did so for a reason. Have faith in yourself.”

Lance huffed, rubbing at the back of his neck. He liked to think that his mother was right, but he was a fledgling Hunter, he didn’t know anything about Unseelie - for all he knew, he just let the worst one go. He thought of his father - who had died mercilessly at the hands of an Unseelie when he was only a boy, echoes of his final words ringing in his head, he whimpered.

He watched his mother wash the dishes, wondering if she blamed him for his weakness. But who honestly expected a young boy to hold a gun and shoot when his father was being attacked? He sighed, looking at the mug in his hand, bringing the other down to cup it with both hands. The warm purple liquid inside the cup made him think of the Unseelie. It had been the same shade of purple. His brows pinched and he looked at his mother.

“Have you ever seen a purple Unseelie before, mama?”

“Well, I am not a Hunter, so I haven’t seen any besides that one.”

‘That One’ being the one who killed his father. Lance shuddered at the memory of it - it had been a hideous thing. This Unseelie though, had not been hideous - even in its monstrous form, it had been cat-like and graceful, but not hideous.

“But it isn’t unheard of?”

“Why don’t you ask your uncle these things? He is the Hunter, not me.”

Lance lowered his head. Honestly, he didn’t want to confront his uncle just yet nor his older siblings. His uncle was an amazing marksman and one of the best Hunters. He was the one who made the McClain name known once more amongst the Hunters. Lance’s older brother Michael, also bringing pride to the name. Lisa was also a promising Hunter. Lance seemed to be the dud so far. He bet even his younger brother Tomas would be a better Hunter when he becomes of age.

“Yeah, I will tomorrow.”

“As long as you aren’t sick. If you are with cold or fever come tomorrow, you must stay in quarantine - you know the rules.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Their town was small - as was most human villages. Lance was fortunate that he lived in a human village that was made mostly of Hunters though, they had perks of receiving income from the Seelie Court - who thanked them for their good deeds. The Seelie Court, that Lance always dreamed of impressing - especially their Princess, who was soon to be crowned Queen.

He sighed, slumping back. Hopefully he didn’t catch cold and die, he wanted to meet the Princess before that.

---

That night, Lance could feel the begins of a fever. He cursed his rotten luck as he squirmed in his bed, thankful he had his own room - away from Tomas. He didn’t want his younger sibling catching sick. He groaned, his body sweating as he tossed and turned, his brow pinching. His window rattled open with the fierce wind, making him shudder and open his eyes. He had to go shut the window.

But instead of the moon light pouring in, he saw a shadow and glowing yellow eyes, peering down at him. Lance sucked in a breath. A flash of light showed purple skin. That Unseelie… was it here to kill him? More than that, how had it moved past the wards? Every town had Unseelie wards that blockaded most Unseelie out - all expect powerful ones… ones that needed to be killed by the Hunters.

Oh god. He should have killed it.

The Unseelie approached him, its humanoid form still in place. It was looking down at Lance with a curiosity that made Lance still. When it raised a clawed hand, Lance would have flinched if he wasn’t so weak right now. He watched the hand lower towards him, his breathing coming out in short stutters as it finally landed on his forehead, smoothing back his bangs and pressing flat on his head. It was… a comforting touch. Soft, and so very weird. Lance’s eyes closed and he breathed in, reopening his eyes when the touch left and… he didn’t feel sick anymore. He felt better, actually. The fever subsided and the cool sweat on his skin had stopped. He licked his dry lips.

“Uhm…”

He wasn’t sure what to say, what to think, of the Unseelie in his room. The thing didn’t make a sound, which was normal - Unseelie fae don’t talk, couldn’t talk unless they had a human host. But this one didn’t look parasitic, so it was unlikely it could talk at all. It was an animalistic one, a primal thing that probably fed of the blood of humans. Those cat-like ears slicked back and lips pulled back to reveal glinting fangs. Fear rose in Lance’s chest. Had it came to eat him? But he had to remove the sick first?

“I’m not going to eat you, stupid human.” Lance’s eyes widened. “You can talk.”

The Unseelie grew silent once more and Lance wondered if he had been hearing things, but more importantly, he knew he hadn’t spoken himself. Lance frowned. “You can read minds?”

The Unseelie’s eyes squinted before finally it spoke again. “Not exactly, I can read your body language, smell fear… I could tell only from that.”

“Oh… do all Unseelie talk like you? Because I don’t know many-”

“No. Most my brethren do no speak. Cannot speak.”

Lance licked his lips again, reaching for his glass of water. He noticed the Unseelie bristle at his sudden movement, but relaxed when it saw what he was doing. Lance drank his water in deep gulps, his dry throat working and feeling relief. He sighed, lowering his glass to look at the Unseelie.

“I guess we are even now, you saved my life.”

“I only cured a cold, you, on the other hand. Showed mercy, a thing unheard of in Hunters. I am forever grateful.”

“I shot you, that isn't something to be grateful for.”

“But your mercy is. Besides you didn't shoot with the intent to kill, but to protect yourself. It would be the same if I had lashed out when you approached, a defense mechanism.”

This Unseelie was smart, it had a conscience and reason. It was making Lance question everything he'd been told about Unseelie fae. It must have sensed Lance's impressed feelings, smirking at him now.

“Though I was tempted to kill you in your sleep, you were rather weak just now.”

Lance huffed, raising an eyebrow. The amusement laced in the Unseelie’s voice was surprising, but Lance was starting to realize things weren't as he had been told, but he also knew better than to actually be off guard completely. As if also sensing the shift in Lance, those yellow eyes flickered and it frowned,moving away from Lance and toward the open window. It shifted, looking more feline now - on all fours as it stalked to the open window, pawing it open more so, gathering its haunches to jump onto the sill and out the window.

“Wait. The name’s Lance, what's yours?”

The Unseelie looked at Lance, those cold yellow eyes not giving anything away and making Lance feel as if he were talking to a wild animal. Before this, he would have thought that. But now? He knew the fae was intelligent and could understand him. But he didn't get an answer. He figured that just meant that the fae had no intention of ever crossing paths with Lance again. Lance couldn't help but feel an odd sense of disappointment at the thought as he went back to sleep.

In the morning, Lance felt better than ever. He dressed in fresh clothes and left his room - finding his mother cooking breakfast while Tomas sat at the table, eating his own food. Lance felt relief at the sight, mostly because after last night, he was certain his act of mercy would not cause his family harm. The Unseelie wasn’t going to kill him or his family. Hopefully it left back to its realm and did nothing - it had acted like a rather smart fae, so Lance could only hope it wouldn’t cause havoc.

Lance approached Tomas, ruffling his younger brother’s hair before taking a seat himself. His mother approached, placing a bowl of breakfast down to Lance.

“Your uncle called this morning, he asked how you did last night.”

Lance paused mid spoon lift, he lowered it back into the hot food and looked at his mother, who wiped her hands on her apron, giving him a soft smile.

“I didn’t tell him everything, that’s for you to do, if you wish to. I just told him you came back alive, that’s all.”

Lance sighed, rotating his spoon in his bowl. “Yeah, but he’ll eventually learn and the sooner I say something, the better.”

If Lance didn’t, there was a chance others would assume he was a changeling. Changelings didn’t happen often, as most Hunters were keenly aware of how to gun down the fae, but it wasn’t unheard of - especially in towns without Hunters. Children were fae’d away and replaced with a hungry fae child that would feed off the family until it was broken, before moving back to the realm of the fae. Lance didn’t want his Uncle or anyone else of his clan to think he was a changeling.

Tomas blinked dark blue eyes at his brother, his face a mess with his breakfast. “Lance’s a hunner, now right?”

“Yes, mijito, your big brother is. Now you finish up your breakfast, you have school.”

“Yes mama.”

Lance ate in silence, watching his mother clean up and then clean up Tomas before sending his younger brother off. He couldn’t help but feel a poignant sense of thankfulness at the normalcy of it all. Normal, mundane things were a blessing, especially in the world of Hunters. He would take what he could get. But being an adult now, he’d have to eventually leave the comforts of his home and make a place for himself. If not as a Hunter, then some other trade. A teacher, a healer, something… but he was from a family of Hunters, so that was what everyone expected of him. Lance wasn’t so sure.

He swallowed the last bite, pushing himself up and out of his chair. “Okay, I’m going to go talk to uncle.”

His mother nodded, walking up to him. She got on her toes and tugged him slightly, kissing his forehead, smoothing back his hair. She smiled, her eyes shining bright at him. “Your uncle will understand.”

It was easy for his mother to say that, but Lance knew his uncle. Uncle Julius McClain was a man revered as one of the greatest Hunters of all time, he was a man who didn’t show mercy to Unseelie, but shot first and asked questions later. Lance knew his uncle would be disappointed in him, but Lance was used to being the disappointment. He breathed in deep as he grabbed his coat and gun, then left the house.

The trip to his uncle’s home wasn’t a long one - the town he lived in was small and everyone knew everyone. He could feel eyes on him as he walked - people knew Lance had been on his first hunt last night, and seeing him alive should mean he had been successful. But Lance also knew the Cleanse always made way after a Hunt. The Cleanse were a group of people who cleaned up after a hunt, disposing of the dead Unseelie body, but there had been no body last night. It was more than likely everyone, including Julius McClain, knew Lance had failed.

He knocked on his uncle’s door. He could hear the big man move from inside and then the door opened.

It almost hurt to see his uncle, who looked so much like his dad. The men shared the same shade of brown skin as well as the light, sun-kissed brown hair - much like Lance himself. His uncle had a full beard now, looking more lumberjack than swimmer than Lance - he was definitely beefier than Lance or his late father. But that made this all the more awkward. Lance swallowed back his nervousness.

“May I come in?”

Julius hesitated, but then let Lance in, closing the door after he entered. “What happened last night?”

Ah, he knew. Lance took in a deep breath.

“First, I have a question.”

Julius poured some coffee, holding out a cup to Lance, who took it. Lance looked at the brown liquid, his brows furrowing.

“Are Unseelie supposed to be able to talk?”

Julius raised an eyebrow at the question, bringing his mug close to his face as he observed Lance. “No. The only time there has ever been a talking Unseelie, it was using a human host - which are the worst kind of Unseelie, they eat human souls, after all.”

Lance nodded in agreement. Unseelie that were parasitic truly were the worst - they blended in, taking control of a person without anyone knowing and then destroyed their host from the inside out. It wasn’t until the person started to look hollow - skin sinking in, hair falling out, and more… that it was obvious it had happened. By the time the Unseelie would be taken care of, it usually was too late. The person was a shell now, nothing more than a corpse. And worse, with their soul taken, they’d never reach paradise after death.

Lance licked his lips. “The Unseelie I encountered for my Hunt… it could talk.”

Julius frowned, jaw clenching as he spoke in a strained voice. “And you didn’t kill it? Damn it, Lance!”

“Wait! Just listen, okay?”

“You are making it hard for me to listen, but okay. I will.”

“Another question. Unseelie are hideous, right? They look…”

Monstrous. All of the ones Lance had seen prior to last night had been all monstrous and hideous to the point you could throw up at not only they sight of them but the stench of them. They were often hairless, full of scales and puss. They would drool acid and blood and look like something out of a horrific nightmare, but last night…

Julius thumbed his beard. “Unseelie are monstrous because they can’t control their forms well, they are monsters.”

“Have…. Have you ever encountered a purple Unseelie? One that could maintain a human form?”

Julius placed his cup down, his eyes narrowing. “Where have you heard of such a thing?”

“I didn’t hear it from anywhere! The Unseelie I was supposed to hunt, it looked like that. It came out like a purple panther, but after I shot its leg and found it, it looked human.”

“It was tricking your eyes, boy. Why didn’t you finish it off? You had it down, Lance. It should have been an easy job if it was already paralyzed!”

“I didn’t know it could shift into a human form like that!”

Julius had a guard up, Lance could tell - it was then that he knew his uncle probably thought he was a changeling now… the whole village probably did. Shit.

“That was a glamour, you foolish boy! Fuck, Lance…” His uncle sighed, then leveled him with a look. “We have to take you to the Shaman for cleansing. If you… well, you know why.”

Lance nodded. It would probably be for the best. If anything were wrong, the Shaman would find out and take care of it. Lance wiped his palms on his pants and stood with his Uncle, who kept his distance. Lance gritted his teeth. He wasn’t a changeling! Right?

The walk to the Shaman’s hut was a longer one - as it was atop the hill and slightly away from everyone else. That was for the Shaman’s protection, as Unseelie attacked populated areas more often than not. Julius knocked on the door.

“I have been expecting you, McClain clan.”

Julius opened the door, Lance followed - his eyes meeting the Shaman’s form. The last time he’d seen the man had been when Tomas was born. The Shaman was old, frail-like, but wizened. His tired eyes looked cloudy with cataracts, which was a little distracting to Lance, but there was a sense of power from the Shaman that made Lance feel fear. Julius sat in front of the Shaman, instructing Lance to do the same. Lance folded his legs, peering at the Shaman.

“Shaman Powell, Lance had his first Hunt last night.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And he failed.”

The Shaman was silent at that, but Julius continued.

“We need you to do a cleansing, in case our Lance here… isn’t Lance.”

Shaman Powell was studying Lance, who fidgeted under those cloudy eyes, but he steeled himself. He had to know for sure, had to. Even if the truth brought about something he didn’t want to really know. Powell hummed as he reached forward with his boney hand - gripping Lance’s jaw and turning his head to the left and then to the right before standing up.The old man went to his shelf, pulling some salts down. He shook them and then came over, tossing them on Lance, who only blinked.

“He is no changeling.”

Julius relaxed, breathing out loudly. “Good… if we lost Lance too…”

Lance knew Julius was talking about Lance’s father now, and he felt a sense of regret at not killing the Unseelie once more. If he had, then none of this would be happening. He’d be having a celebratory lunch by now. Powell, pulled out another jar, this one filled with a purple-pink liquid. He dipped his fingers into the salve, gooping some out and approaching Lance once more.

“I fear it may be worse than that.”

Lance felt fear prickle at his spine and felt Julius stiffen beside him.

“Worse? Is he… does he have a parasite in him?”

“Oh heavens no. Not that devastating, more like… just life changing. Hold still, young McClain.”

Lance did as told as Powell rubbed the salve over his forehead and then across his cheeks, it was in a strange design and it was then he noticed Powell had his eyes closed - not that the Shaman could see very well with them open.

Powell’s eyes snapped open and he sighed. “It’s as I feared.”

“What? What is it?”

Powell capped the jar and placed it on the shelf. “Do you want good news or bad news first?”

Lance opened his mouth but Julius spoke before him. “It doesn’t matter, tell us how you’d like.”

“Very well, the good news is Lance will live. He isn’t a changeling nor is he inhabited by a parasitic Unseelie.”

“Okay, and the bad?”

“The bad news, is he was touched by an Unseelie princeling. Members of the Unseelie Royal Court haven’t been out of the fae realm in centuries and now that Lance has been touched by one, he will not be able to escape it, he will have to meet with the Seelie Queen to determine his fate.”

It explained why the Unseelie had been able to shift to human form. It was no ordinary Unseelie - it was a Prince.

“Young McClain, what did the Unseelie look like, might I ask?”

“Oh, uhm. It… er, He… was purple, furry at first until he transformed. Then he looked human except those big bat-cat ears and black hair.”

Powell rubbed his chin. “Fascinating. You are lucky. The only known princeling does not fit that description. So that is some more good news, now to continue on with the bad.”

“Gee, thanks.” muttered Lance, which earned him a scowl from Julius. Powell merely smiled.

“Hoo. Young McClain. You must go on a journey from here, you must go seek the Seelie Queen, for she can do one of two things. She can either reverse the touch the Unseelie Princeling had put on you, or, she will use it to her advantage.”

“Use to her advantage?”

“The Unseelie King and Seelie Queen have been at odds for years, you will be a magnet for that Princeling now - she may see you as a tool.”

“Then… should I really seek counsel from her?”

“That is why this is bad news, Young McClain. Ultimately, the choice is yours. But the bitter truth is, your choices all involve you being used to some extent. You either choose Seelie and be used for the demise of the Unseelie or… you fall into Unseelie hands.”

Lance swallowed, his heart racing. “I… don’t have much of a choice. As a Hunter, I was born to serve the Seelie Court. I’ll go to the Queen.”

“A wise choice.”

Lance fisted his hands, eyes falling to the flickering flames of the Shaman’s fire. He was going to have to leave his mother and Tomas… leave them vulnerable. It was unwise to leave a Hunter family without a Hunter to provide and protect the non-Hunter members. As if sensing his distress, Julius placed a hand on Lance’s shoulder.

“I’ll get in contact with Michael or Lisa. One of them can return home to watch over your mother and Tomas.”

Lance felt even worse now. He doubt Michael would be able to. His wife was pregnant and he would have to watch over her and the unborn babe. Lisa was more likely to do it, but she was a wanderer - no one knew where she was and she kept in very little contact - a letter arriving by hawk now and again, but nothing else. Lance groaned.

“This sucks.”

“Lance!”

Shaman Powell laughed. “Indeed, it does suck, Young McClain, but every action has a consequence, and you just happened to take the short stick in life. But who knows? You may find a bigger purpose with this. I may not be an oracle, but I sense great things for you, my dear boy - as long as you are willing to take those steps in order to achieve them.”

Lance nodded, following Julius out.

His uncle stopped outside of the Shaman’s hut, breathing in the air, closing his eyes. Lance watched his uncle - looking so much like his father right now, bringing a memory of his father just before his death to Lance’s mind. He bit his lip, fighting back the sadness that wormed its way into his gut.

“I think you should go now, Lance.”

“What!? But I’m not prepared, what about mama and Tomas-”

“I’ll watch over your mother and Tomas, until I can get ahold of Lisa. The longer you stay, the more likely that Unseelie will be back. I don’t know much about the Unseelie Court, but it’s too dangerous for you to stay any longer than necessary. You will come to my home and I’ll give you everything you need for now.”

Lance licked his lips, his heart hammering in his chest. He had wanted to tell his mother good bye, but Julius was right. There was no sense in prolonging his stay. He should get a move on before the Unseelie was back. Julius helped Lance pack the essentials - giving him a month’s rations of food, a cloak and of course - a better gun. Lance held the beauty in his hands, eyes softening at it.

“If I had a son…” began Julius, his voice cracking. “I would have given this to him, but you need it more than I do. There are three different shells. Normal ones, for hunting, I have plenty of those. These ones are for paralyzing Unseelie. There are only ten of them, so use them wisely. And these… these will kill an Unseelie on the spot. There are only two of them. They are to be used only in dire emergencies, do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“I’m trusting you with this weapon, Lance. Please take care of it.”

“What? And not take care of myself?”

Julius smiled at the teasing voice. “Of course take care of yourself… and good luck.”

Lance nodded, hilting the gun and then turning to the door, pulling the cloak close to him as he left. His journey beginning.

---

His first stop was a village on the outskirts of his own. It wasn’t a Hunter village, which meant it had a lot more wards than his did and it was hidden. The moment he was cleared inside, he could smell not only the grease of engineering, but the smell of heavenly food - this village was prosperous. He continued down the streets, looking from stall to stall, his stomach gurgling before he found a friendly face. He approached.

“Hello, I’m traveling right now and uh… do you know anything about the Seelie Queen?”

God, that had been stupid to ask, but luckily, the guy didn’t seem offput. His brows raised but he wasn’t telling Lance to beat it, so that was a good thing.

“The only thing I know about the Queen is that she is dying.”

“What!”

The merchant seemed to pout. “You didn’t hear? She’s been bedridden for days now, Princess Allura will be taking the throne soon.”

Ah, yes… Princess Allura - the beautiful fae princess. The one Lance had wanted to marry himself. He shivered when he felt a growl inside of his head and he panicked for a moment. Was that… the Unseelie Prince? A connection to him? He couldn’t stay here much longer.

“Oh, uh… thanks for the information! Here.”

Lance pulled out a coin, sliding it to the merchant, who looked at it, a smile now on his lips.

“I don’t need the money for something like that, man. Though, if you’d like to try one of my delicious meat pies, I’ll take it.”

“Now, I can’t refuse some sweet food.”

He took the pie in exchange for the coin, munching on it as he walked quickly away. Okay, so the Queen was dying. Great… hopefully the Princess could help, and maybe, the Princess would be more progressive than the Queen - and not use him.

He walked out of the village, feeling eyes on him as he did - not sure if it was the villagers or…

It was then he heard the unmistakable growl he’d heard in his head, but now… it was in person.

Lance stood stock still, his eyes flickering from tree to tree until, yes… there it was. The purple panther, the Unseelie Prince. It was tailless of course, but those yellow eyes were on him like a predator and those fangs gleamed. The Unseelie jumped down, landing on all fours. It stalked forward, its eyes on Lance and then - it spoke once more.

“Why can I sense you from home?”

Lance resisted the urge to grab his weapon. The Unseelie, while dangerous, hadn’t attacked him in his sleep, so why would it now? He swallowed, still tasting the delicious aftertaste of his meat pie.

“You touched me, that’s why.”

The Princeling snorted, fangs baring again. “Nonsense. I’ve touched plenty of others, never has this happened.”

“Guess I’m just special.”

Lance watched it shift into the he Lance was getting accustomed to think it as. He got a better look at the Prince now. His human form was shorter than Lance, just by a few centimeters. His dark black hair stopped close to his shoulders, his purple skin looked less furry when in human form, all except near his ears - which actually seemed to be a cross between his purple skin and black hair - it was interesting. And a new development happened - those yellow eyes were no longer yellow, but even more human looking - purple irises floated in whites, such dark, pretty eyes. Lance swallowed at the fact he just thought the Unseelie Prince as pretty. Even more, the Prince was dressed this time. A royal looking outfit made of dark purples and reds, bright purple lines at seams.

“What are you staring at.” snapped the Prince, his temper flaring.

“Uh, you, I guess.”

“Well, quit it.”

“What am I supposed to do while you transform in front of me? It’s kind of hard to ignore.”

“Whatever. You will come with me.”

Lance thought back to the warning Shaman Powell gave him and shook his head. “No way, I’m going to the Seelie Queen to get rid of this weird connection you fucked me with.”

The prince frowned. “The Seelie Queen is dying, she won’t be able to do shit.”

Oh, okay. So the Unseelie knew about the queen… was that why they were so active? The Prince sighed, eyes narrowing at the Hunter.

“You don’t know much about true Unseelie, do you?”

Lance flushed and scowled. “Excuse you, I am a Hunter. I know a lot about Unseelie.”

Okay, that wasn’t true - Lance was a fledgling Hunter that had failed his actual test. But still, he had learned about many Unseelie via the Hunter’s encyclopedia, so there!

The prince snorted. “Those are an embarrassment to true Unseelie. Nothing but cattle and impurities. The real Unseelie aren’t so foolish to breech into the human realm.”

“Then why did you come?”

The Unseelie frowned, his ears flickering. “Things must change. Like you, I am seeking counsel from the Princess.”

Lance pinched his lips together, unsure if he could trust the Unseelie prince… for all he knew, the guy could be lying to him, it could be all a ploy to take out the Princess. Still, Lance could amuse the Prince for a moment.

“Okay, let’s say I believe you, could you make yourself look more human?”

“A glamour? Of course. That is a simple thing for me to do.”

“Okay, then one more thing-”

The Unseelie rolled its eyes, narrowing them on Lance in a petulant ‘what else?’ look. Lance smirked.

“Your name? I’ve been calling you ‘unseelie’ in my head now and it would be nice to actually call you something, you know?”

“My name is Keith.”

“Keith? Just Keith? I thought fae had unique names. That’s a human name.”

“It is, my father was human.”

Lance’s mouth dropped at the information. This Unseelie, Keith, was half human? He blinked in shock, while Keith just shrugged.

“I don’t feel like going into the dynamics with you right now, but yes, human-fae couplings have existed for a millenia. You just don’t hear about them because they are either kept secret or the faeling itself has no idea.”

“Interesting. So wait, Is there an Unseelie Queen?”

“Several, actually. The King is the only one of importance.”

Lance hummed, taking all this new information in. Still, why was Keith looking for the Seelie Princess? How did he know that the Queen was dying - or maybe that was common knowledge. He eyed Keith before coming to a conclusion.

“Okay, but you are coming with me, not the other way around.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Do you even know where you are going?”

“Not particularly. But I figured if I went and asked around, I’d eventually find information where the Seelie Queen is right now.”

“The Seelie Queen is bedridden-”

“Princess, then! Jeez, specifics and all that.”

Keith snorted in amusement. Lance glowered at him before flicking his wrists at him. “Okay, human glamour yourself up. If we’re traveling together, people won’t want to see what you look like now.”

“Are you saying I’m hideous?”

Lance blinked at the tone. Honestly, there was no way Keith could be considered hideous - even in his Unseelie monster form. Regardless of his form, Keith had an air of lethal magnetism that Lance couldn’t ignore. He nibbled on his lip as he glowered at him.

“Yeah, you’re very hideous. Now, glamour!”

Keith rolled his eyes and in the blink of an eye, he had smooth, pale skin - rounded human ears, and looked… well, completely human. Lance was impressed. He almost wanted to clap but didn’t want to piss the Unseelie off. Keith straightened his back, his dark clothes still clutching to his form like a second skin. “Better?”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

Lance wasn’t sure what he’d accomplish with traveling with the Unseelie Prince, but if it… he… wasn’t lying, then perhaps there was some good inside of the Unseelie realm and Keith wanted to work on that. Besides, as an Unseelie Hunter he could shoot Keith down if he attempted to murder the Princess. But surely the Unseelie fae wasn’t that stupid to try that - given he’d have the entire Seelie Court and Lance himself to deal with if he tried.

He was suddenly aware of Keith’s intuitive capabilities and tried to stop his lines of thought - knowing the fae could sense them, but the more he tried to stop himself, the more he thought negatively until Keith sighed loudly, giving him a glare.

“Don’t hurt yourself over there.”

Lance scowled at him, his face turning pink. “Shut up! Do you know how hard it is to make yourself stop thinking?”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to stop thinking, just don’t think too loudly.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means, you think so loudly it's broadcasted on your face. Anyone, not just Unseelie, can tell what you’re thinking because you wear it on your face.”

Lance was about to protest this when Keith moved ahead of him, his cloak billowing behind him, Lance kept his eyes on the Unseelie as he moved with him. They were away from that village and began traveling to the next. The spaces between villages, depending on the kind of village, were often large - expanses of forest lay heavily between each one, which helped with keeping destruction of entire villages to a minimum but truly sucked when another village needed aid. But Lance understood it. The larger the gap between villages, the less likely a single unseelie could lay waste to multiple towns.

“Which town is next?”

“You don’t know?” asked Lance, raising an eyebrow at Keith. It was surprising to him because he assumed fae, regardless if they were seelie or unseelie, would know the world. They had unlimited power, after all - the ability to sift between realities was something Lance had assumed would grant them the power to go to every village if they wanted to. Keith’s nose wrinkled and he glowered at Lance.

“Do you think I care about your human world? Because I don’t. I don’t know your villages, they all look the same to me.”

Lance frowned. “You say you don’t care, yet here you are.”

“I can murder you at any time, need I remind you.”

“Whatever fluffy.”

“Fluffy?”

Lance almost bit his tongue at the insult that had tumbled out of his mouth. It hadn’t been his intention to tease or taunt the Unseelie, but it had just happened. Calling him fluffy wasn’t necessarily an insult, but it was close enough. Keith was looking at him with confusion so perhaps the insult hadn’t gotten across. Lance cleared his throat.

“Anyways, we should be approaching Menva, it’s a trade village, which is good news for you, a hunter village is something you probably don’t want to go through.”

Keith flicked his wrist. “I don’t care either way, in this form they won’t know I’m unseelie and Hunters do not bother me.”

Lance raised a brow. “They don’t?”

Keith paused at that before correcting himself. “Hunters are only dangerous when they are hunting. When they are at home, they are at ease. I will not be in danger.”

“I guess that makes sense… anyways, after Menva, we’ll have to pass St. Charles, which is a hunter city. I figured if anyone knows where to find Princess Allura, it would be in St. Charles.”

Lance felt a tremor of excitement each time he spoke of St. Charles. The Hunter city was the crown jewel for Hunters and as one himself, he’d always dreamed to go to it one day. This trip was becoming more and more of an amazing thing for him, especially since he’ll get to see the place. Still, he hoped that Keith would do okay in the hunter capital. He looked at Keith, gauging him for a reaction. The unseelie prince only nodded.

“Good, the more people, the easier it is to blend in.”

Oh.

That… made sense.

Lance nodded, focusing on the path now. There were two different kind of paths to each different village, a dirt road, wore by wagon marks and then - the walking paths. Walking paths were a little harder to see, some overgrown with grass, but they were safer to travel on - made you less visible and you didn’t risk getting run over by a wagon - not that that happened often, but it was still possible. He glanced up at the sky, frowning at the rainclouds above them, they rumbled in displeasure and Lance knew they’d have to find shelter soon. Lance looked at Keith, who was walking beside him, not even paying him any mind.

“Does your glamour melt off in the rain?”

It was a little unsettling how the unseelie glanced slowly over at him. Keith’s lips pursed for a moment before he shook his head.

“No, if I were of a weaker sort, perhaps, but I’m not a weak fae.”

Lance resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It wasn’t like he didn’t believe Keith, but the tone he had used… it sounded so haughty, like Keith truly was a spoiled fae child. And perhaps he was… in some sense of the word.

“Okay, good, because we’re going to get rained on until we either make it to Menva or find shelter. Which would you prefer?”

“How long until Menva?”

“On foot? About a day’s worth.”

Keith clicked his tongue. “If this were the fae realm, I’d transform and I’d be there in a blink.”

“Yeah, well, this isn’t the fae realm, buddy. So hoof it like a human.”

“That is a strange idiom, considering humans do not have hooves.”

Lance didn’t respond to that, merely took a different path. He was trying to remember the times his older brother had taken him to Menva, how it rained down on them until they found a bridge to make camp under or even better - a cave. But Lance would take what he could get at this point.

The first raindrop hit them and hundreds more followed until they made it under a bridge. Lance recognized the bridge as Thace bridge. It was based off an old tale of a fae loving a human. Now seeing Keith, Lance wondered if maybe the tales were true. He looked at Keith, wringing out part of his shirt.

“Did you know this is Thace bridge?”

“This is that bridge? I wondered why it had a feeling to it.”

“Feeling how?”

Keith's eyes darkened, mouth thinning out. “Magical and forbidden. Thace was a good man, he didn't deserve his fate. Did you know he was Unseelie?”

“No he wasn't, he was-”

“He was Unseelie, I knew him personally. He was part of the King’s court, and he was executed for his liaisons with a human.”

Lance's mouth was dry. That… wasn't the legend that been passed down. Legend had told of a Seelie fae that loved a human, they'd meet every night on this bridge and had planned to run away together until the woman stopped coming. Despair had forced the fae to kill himself on this very bridge. But perhaps that was just a lie the Seelie Court spoke of, glamouring humans into believing they were benevolent and romantic. But were they really?

Keith rolled his eyes. “Thace was an anomaly, most Unseelie aren't like that, so don't worry. Seelie fae are the “Good guys”, we just dislike the fact the only good example is used against us, so stop stewing so hard.”

Lance frowned at the air quotes, looking away from Keith to focus on the bridge, his hand sliding over it as he thought of the old tale and trying to imagine an unseelie fae falling in love with a human… it wasn’t a pretty sight. The only Unseelie he’d met that wasn’t a complete monster was Keith. Keith, who was half human anyways.

The rain pounding down over the bridge, water dripping off the bridge but keeping them dry. Keith settled onto the ground, sitting down - as if expecting this to a long wait and it might be, but rainfalls were always fickle - sometimes it rained for hours, sometimes only for a minute. Whatever the case may be, Lance decided it wouldn’t hurt to relax a bit. He took a seat beside Keith, reaching into his pack to pull out a ration. He broke a piece off and handed it to Keith.

“Here.”

“What’s this for?”

“To eat, you’re probably hungry, right?”

Keith stared at the ration before taking it, examining the little square food - it was bread-colored and was sure to be tasteless. Just something to eat when on journeys. He shoved the square in his mouth, chewing slowly, looking out into the rain.

“I’ve always loved the rain.”

Keith swallowed, eyes darting back to Lance, watching the human stretch out, a stupid smile on his face. Keith felt the opposite. He had always hated the rain. The rain made his fur wet when he was transformed, making it a bane to travel in rain. Rain also made it harder to run from Hunters and the thought of his brethren trying to run, being pelted by blades of water, made him frustrated with the rain. Still, Lance continued.

“The rain was always a source of comfort to me. The sound of it hitting my window as a child, lulling me to sleep. The sound of dad returning home, pulling off his rainboots while we all listened to his tales…”

Keith frowned, his eyes never leaving Lance, even while the human shuddered. “I am sorry.”

Lance snorted. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Oh, look, the rain is letting up.”

Keith’s mouth worked as Lance stood, holding a hand up to test for the raindrops before finally stepping out into the now clear air. He looked at Keith. “Coming?”

Keith pushed himself up and followed the human, his eyes flashing. Sometimes he forgot that humans often lost as often as the Unseelie did. The humans were often killed by the cattle that were known as his brethren and what the humans did was mostly self preservation rather than an intent to kill all Unseelie. Still, it was difficult to accept and excuse the slaughter of Unseelie fae. Especially of cognitive ones. Even when they weren’t some were intelligent and were only trying to live their lives, but they ended shortly because the humans deemed them a threat.

Lance clicked his tongue. “I think we’ll have to stop at Dartsbane first.”

“Dartsbane?”

“It’s a small village just before Menva. It won’t hold any information, but it looks like it will storm some more and we need shelter.”

Keith nodded. The closer they got to this Dartsbane though, the more Keith became aware of an uneasy feeling. Something wasn’t quite right with this Dartsbane place and he couldn’t put his finger on it. The entered the village and Keith got a big whiff of Unseelie. He felt his muscles twitch as he kept close to Lance. This village… was no longer a human village. Lance probably didn’t even know that. It was something only another Unseelie could tell. The place was probably overrun by parasitic Unseelie. But the worrying question would be what they would do with Lance once they scented him.

The more they moved into the village, the more Keith got a bad feeling about the place. He took hold of Lance’s arm, making the human jump slightly, but then scowl at him.

“What’s your deal?”

“We shouldn’t be here.”

Lance raised an eyebrow, shrugging his shoulder out of Keith’s hold. “Do you want to keep travellilng in the rain?”

“No, but-”

“Then let’s just get a place for the night, it will be okay. I use to visit Dartsbane when I was a kid.”

Keith bit his tongue, keeping close to Lance, his eyes darting about to try and spot any Unseelie. Surely Lance could tell something wasn’t right with the village. The human stepped to what was probably an inn. Keith clenched his jaw as they walked in. There was a human shell at the front desk, their glazed eyes looked at Lance first - a hungry look spreading through their face. The shell was becoming insufficient and the Unseelie would need a new host soon. Other Unseelie in the room merely grew silent - watching as the human walked in.

“I’d like a room for a night please.”

“Yes, of course-”

“It’s for two.” growled Keith, his eyes flashing at the parasite - making the Unseelie stiffen up before beginning to tremble in fear. The sight of a Prince would make any of them tremble. He was a threat to them, after all. And he made damn sure to make use of this - it was the only way to make sure Lance was safe. When the Unseelie gave the room free of charge and ushered Lance and Keith away, only then did Lance notice something was… off. He sat down on the bed, looking at Keith.

“You knew didn’t you?”

Keith removed his cloak, hanging it up while he worked on his boots. “Knew what?”

“That this place…”

Lance didn’t finish that sentence, finding it to much to voice. Keith pinched his lips. “Yes. The moment we stepped foot here I could tell something was… off.”

Lance breathed in a sigh, slouching down as sadness overtook him for a moment. “Dartsbane had been a good town, a little backward at times, but it was lively and had a few good food spots… it didn’t deserve this fate.”

#dee is silly #myfics #klancebbrejects

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