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motleymoose · 5 years ago

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Homecoming Pt. 1: Astray, Ch. 1

Chapter 1

Stranded With Banthas

Fandom: The Mandalorian Characters: The Mandalorian (Din Djarin), Gender-neutral Reader Words: 2.8k+ Warnings: ??? Angst???

Summary:

Stranded on a bantha-filled, Imperial-controlled moon on the outer reaches of the galaxy, I would do anything to get off-world. But even the best-laid plans can go awry, and I have to settle for second-best, a living reminder of my childhood.

Notes:

***1ST CHAPTER HAS BEEN EDITED***

Hello! Thanks for stumbling upon my fic!! A few things before we get started: *I've never really been a fan of Star Wars (until the Mandalorian, that is) *I've only done a basic amount of research (please let me know if the stellar charts don't align or I've completely flub any major parts of the lore!) *If you're here for romance, this is probably not the fic you seek This fic is going to span several parts, so don't be disappointed if the chapter count is short. There is more, I promise! I have two more chapters in this part, plus half a dozen others waiting the wings for their time to shine. That being said, this is all lightly edited and more than likely contains several blaring mistakes I am currently blind to.

Thank you for hanging with me this far. I hope you enjoy it!

Homecoming Masterlist

I was hot, bored and out of credits.

Having been stranded on an Imperial-held outpost, stars away from almost any sort of proper civilization, it wasn’t exactly the worst thing that could’ve happened to me. I could’ve lost my hands or what little possessions I had, even been executed, but instead the captain and crew of the Momentum decided it was a fitting punishment to desert me on a moon positively crawling with Imps and bucketheads.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t luck that saved me. I was the unluckiest person in the galaxy. Having lost my family to a Rebel airstrike and then been abandoned by my caretaker at a young age, I’d had to fight tooth and claw for survival. I was a mechanic by trade, and a good one at that. My ability to fix things also gave me the knowledge to break them, and coupling that with my disregard to fighting fair, I could be one sticky situation to get rid of.

Not to say the crew hadn’t thought of ways to dispose of me. On more than one occasion, I’d had large, heavy objects barely miss my head as I puttered around below-decks or in the engineering pit. It was more often than I thought average for a mechanic to be almost killed by falling crates and crewmates, and after mentioning it to the captain, everyone agreed it was best if I just left the ship instead of continuing on as their blackthumb.

I’m not sure what exactly brought on their ire. There had been that bunkmate with whom I’d had a tumble or two, but as we both had agreed to part ways as distant friends. I didn’t see her as being a begrudging type, but there was a first for everything, and I wasn’t about to question the crew’s alliance when freedom seemed so close.

Maybe it would have been better to just poison everyone on the ship and abscond with the loot, but I wasn’t a pirate - or, actually, I wasn’t usually a pirate - and murdering everyone just because they pissed me off wasn’t on my list of fun activities.

Playing through the events that led me to the dusty rock I currently resided, I couldn’t help but kick myself for not getting the rest of my pay before being unceremoniously dumped in the dirt and bantha dung. I shifted uncomfortably on my perch of sweet-smelling hay bales in an attempt to not itch. It was impossible, as I had been settled on the bales since mid-afternoon, and there was hay in places I didn’t even want to think about.

I stared at the door of the single cantina, squashed between a rocky outcropping and the ruins of a Rebel-held base. Most of the regulars had found their way in, but I was more interested in the one that stood out from all the rest of the Imp sympathizers and bantha ranchers; a Mandalorian in full, shining beskar had landed in my neck of the woods, and I wanted to find out why.

If he was looking for me, well. I was going to have a hard time explaining the reasons I stole a slave ship from my boss and then let them loose on a newly-colonized moon on the Outer Rim. It wasn’t a good story, and I didn’t come out of it unscathed, but I did the best for those people with the tools I was given and I wouldn’t do anything to change the fact that I gave them freedom.

My boss didn’t look at it that way, and before I knew it, I was on all the wanted lists in the ruled galaxy. Which is why being on a no-named moon, surrounded by bantha pastures, was the least worst thing that could've happened.

Grumbling under my breath, I wriggled further into my little shelter. The sun was setting behind me, and the light cast an eerie rosy glow on the people closing up their shops for the night. The village was small compared to most, and smaller still for the amount of Stormtroopers and Imperial officials lurking about in groups of three or better. They patrolled the streets after dark in a guise of keeping peace and order, but everyone knew that they were planning something. No one knew what it was, but word had spread from neighboring moons that the Imps were flocking to the area. Nowhere was safe from the Empire’s reach, even when they were defeated and in shambles.

Once the sun went down all the way, the humid, oppressive heat would dissipate, leaving behind a damp chill that would last until the next dawn. Pulling a couple of loose flakes of hay on top of me for warmth, I propped my chin in my hands and waited impatiently for the Mandalorian to show himself again.

Near dawn, not long after many of the bantha ranchers had tramped from the warmth of their beds and to the ramshackle collection of barns and sheds out near the landing field - and thus downwind from the most of the community - the Mandalorian made his appearance.

Broad, square and sturdy, the warrior looked the part of the fearsome legends. His beskar was shiny, with barely a dent to be seen. The cloak he wore, although tattered and full of blaster holes, looked well-made, and the weapons he carried - a Westar-34 and an amban rifle - were clean and in good repair. Without a look back, he strode through the quiet thoroughfare and disappeared down an alley.

Well frag.

Other than just to quench my curiosity, what I wanted more than anything was a ride off this Imp haven. The Mandalorian would have a ship that could take me off-moon, and even if I was his quarry, it was better than rotting amongst the bantha kung. Stiffly vaulting from the stack of hay, I shook the kinks from my joints and sped after the Mandalorian.

Following the same route I saw him take, I trailed the warrior to a set of squat, ovoid huts. He’d disappeared inside, and once more I waited impatiently, but this time in the shadows of a woodshed. From time to time, I touched the amulet hanging from the thin silver chain at the base of my throat, reassuring myself the body-warmed pendant was still there. This Mando wasn’t the first one I’d ever laid eyes on, as my caretaker had been of the Way. He had taught me what he could before he left me, a solid, steady protector fleeing into the night. The thought of him still hurt, but it had been years ago, many parsecs in the past, and it was easier to push down and out of the way of more important emotions.

My nerves ticked upwards when I caught sight of the warrior in the window of the foremost hut. Heart fluttering and stomach in my throat, I took slow, smooth steps farther back into the shed until I was pressed up against a mouldering wood pile. I watched, caged and frozen as the Mandalorian stayed in the frame of the opening for a few more minutes. Head spinning, I released a hiss of a sigh and began to take slow, deep breaths to calm myself. I wasn’t going to do myself any favors by passing out before I could find out where the Mando was headed.

As the minutes dragged on, I continued my deep, even breath until the blanket covering the hut opening twitched and the Mandalorian stepped out. I took a few more breaths, biding my time to make sure he had a head start on me. ------ It was a long ambling walk to the outer reaches of the small farming village. My nose was clogged from the stench of moofs, and I’m pretty sure that was bantha droppings and not mud I’d stepped in a while back, but I kept my pace to a casual walk. From the looks of things, the Mandalorian was headed for the shipyard. Not a surprise, but I figured he’d’ve stayed a little longer. Either way, I was going to get a ride on his ship. Eagerness gnawed at my guts and my legs, but rushing would call attention to me, and I didn't really want to be noticed.

At the last set of farm buildings before the vast openness of the docking ports, I paused to watch a group of younglings chase an aired up moof bladder. There was a skirmish, a pile of small wriggling bodies, and then a shriek of triumph as a tiny Trandoshan Ingling held the dusty bladder above its broad scaly head. It hissed a shrill challenge at its companions, and they all fell about the place giggling and scrabbling for the champion.

I smiled at their innocence, watching for a minute longer as the group split into predetermined teams, and the game began again. Pivoting away from the revelry, I dodged between two outbuildings, bantha barns from the smell of them. Looking over my shoulder one last time, I turned to stroll down the empty alley.

That’s when I ran into the Mandalorian. Or, more correctly, his outstretched arm.

The breath knocked out of me, a bruise blooming across my chest, I lay in the dust with the trash and the dung at the feet of the Mandalorian. Staring up dazedly, I gasped painfully and brought a shaky hand up to rub the grime from my face. My other hand palmed the short dagger tucked into the straps of my cuisses. The plan was to stow away on the ship, but plans changed, and getting clotheslined in a dirty alleyway happened to change those plans for the worse.

“I don’t want to have to kill you,” I finally hissed. My chest felt heavy and my breathing was short as I brought the palmed dagger up to my chest, next to the pendant. “But I will if you ever do that again.”

The helmeted head angled sideways and the Mandalorian took me in. “I am ordered by the Guild to bring you in,” he rasped, tossing a puck onto my stomach. A hologram image smiled goofily back at me, all of my identities, crimes and locations printed plainly underneath.

Raising my head up to look at it, I grimaced and fell back into the dirt. “Frag.”

The neat scroll under my beaming hologram face told anyone who knew how to read that I was a notorious pirate who’d stolen a cargo-full of indentured servants from an innocent merchant to sell on the slave market.

Not completely untrue, but just enough so that it made me angry.

“It’s kinda hard to be a pirate of any sort when I don’t even have a ship, much less one full of supposed indentured servants,” I muttered to no one in particular. “I’ll accept the charges of stealing that ship and rescuing the people on it, but I’m drawing a line at ‘pirate’ and ‘slaver’ and ‘innocent merchant’s indentured servants.’ My boss is anything but blameless, and the servants were innocents tricked into slavery. I couldn’t not help them.”

The Mandalorian grunted solemnly and bumped my shoulder with the steel toe of his boot.

“Alright, alright. I’m getting up,” I replied, deftly sliding the tiny dagger into the sleeve of my tunic before holding my hands up and getting to my knees. The law was not on my side, never had been. But there was a small chance I could talk, or fight, my way out of this. I bowed my head, wishing mightily that I knew a little more about hand-to-hand combat. I’m okay with knives, but when I only had a small dagger to start a fight with, even I knew that I was no match for a fully-geared Mando.

I took a bit longer than necessary, slumped on my knees with my head down, silently assessing the situation at hand. More than likely, my two-timing bantha fodder boss Mihcas put out a bounty. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d indicated he’d rather have me dead than alive; I’d freed a bunch of his cargo on a rebel-held moon, completely destroying both of our reputations and saving the lives of a dozen people destined for hard labor on one of the Imperial exo-planets. Half of them had been children, for Force’s sake. It didn’t sit right with me to send a bunch of younglings to their subsequent deaths when their biggest crime was existing. So when I had the chance to make a difference, I took it by the balls and jumped into hyperdrive right across the nose of my boss’s ship. It was reckless, but the scream of rage that came on the radio before I left him behind was priceless.

Any idea I had for escape flew from my head when the Mandalorian picked me up by the neck and shoved me into the mudbrick barn’s wall. My head banged painfully against the reddish yellow stone, and I felt the tiny dagger slip from my sleeve to clatter harmlessly to the ground. The hand crushing my windpipe flexed in irritation, and I found myself lifted off my feet. The newly-risen sun gleamed an angry red off the bounty hunter’s helmet. I couldn’t help but squint as I scrabbled for purchase against the wall, fingertips and knuckles bloodied and raw when I finally brought them around to grasp his wrist.

A blaster appeared suddenly, digging into my ribs, its quiet hum letting me know it was charged and loaded. Not that I could do anything about it. Black spots danced in my vision from the lack of oxygen going to my brain, so it was easy for me to ignore little things like a gun shoved in my belly in favor of more pressing issues. Like not losing consciousness.

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold,” the Mandalorian threatened, fingers tightening around my throat.

Opening my mouth, I tried to form words, but my brain had a difficult time remembering even the most basic tasks. The bounty hunter squeezed his fingers one more time before letting go. I landed on my knees, panting open mouthed. It took a moment for me to regain all the proper motor functions, allowing the oxygen stinging my damaged throat to resaturate my bloodstream and sharpen my addled brain. The Mandalorian stood a few feet away from me, left hand resting on his belt buckle while the other held the blaster at his side. He seemed relaxed under all that armor, but the fingers of his left hand tapped an impatient tattoo on his belt.

Sucking in all the air I could before it went out of style, I closed my eyes and concentrated on steadying my racing heart.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

The Mandalorian cleared his throat.

Right. That.

In a false attempt to stand, I stumbled against the barn wall and fell back to my hands and knees in the dust, landing hard and awkward so’s not to alert him to anything fishy. Like retrieving my knife. It was stealthily tucked into one of the many pockets on the leg of my jumpsuit before I actually tried to stand.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. This hunter had less patience than me, which was saying something. Straightening upright, I pushed off the wall one-handed until I was face-to-face with the bounty hunter. I pasted the most innocent grin on my face I could conjure up at the moment, spreading my hands wide in front of me, palms out to show that I harbored no ill-will or weapons.

“I am not the pirate you seek.” I widened my eyes in what I hoped was a trustful look.

“Hands. Now.”

“I guess you did take my breath away, but don’t you think it’s a little soon to walk out in public together?” I teased humorlessly before complying. Hands out, wrists together, don’t make any sudden moves or relax any muscles. “Would it help if I told you my evil twin made me do it?” Not exactly a lie, since half the things I did were under the influence in one form or the other. “I’m by no means innocent of some of the things you're accusing me of, but more than half of that is made up or exaggerated beyond belief.”

The cuffs were roughly locked into place, and I flexed my hands experimentally. They were tight, but not so much so that I’d lose feeling in my hands later. It’s a small thing to be glad that this bounty hunter showed a little kindness with my bonds.

“Move,” the bounty hunter said, jabbing me in the ribs again with the blaster.

The hot, boiling rage that had built up over the last few weeks bubbled up the back of my wounded throat. I swallowed it loudly. “I don’t know where you want me to go.” Not exactly the truth, but he didn’t need to know that.

Sighing heavily, the Mando put a gloved hand on my shoulder, shoving me none too gently in the direction of the docks.

Cursing my luck, I looked blankly at my original destination. “More than one way to skin a womp-rat, I guess,” I muttered under my breath, and began the uphill trek to a ship that would hopefully make good on its promise to get me the frag out of here.

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captain-beanage · 5 years ago

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Noob Tales : Chapter 5 : Ascension

The waves crashed against the side of the hull, throwing our new Brigantine from side to side. The sky a horrible murky grey. We were caught in the middle of what I imagine to be the worst storm I’ve seen in my days as a Pirate. The anchor creaked at the weight of the ship. We weren’t going anywhere in this.

Rain poured into the cabin, our feet soaked and our boots waterlogged. Quartermaster Abbott, our new crewmate peered through the gaps in the entryway, trying so desperately to keep dry...

And that is when he saw it.

The mighty fin heading our way... The Megaladon...

The decks rung with the clattering of arms and ammunition. Cannonballs being loaded into every cannon. I drew my trusty flintlock and gave the order to fire.

“Fire!”

Cannon-Shot rung through through the skies as the monster made way for the ship as it banged and scrapied at the sides of the hull. First Mate Bumble responding to each and every bit of damage that dared present itself. I stood at the entryway firing my flintlock into the beast, never relenting. Shot and powder flung from the weapon, meeting the beast dead-between the eyes, but it was going to take more than that to bring the one down.

The battle went on for quite some time, we were running low on cannon balls, wood and food. That was when the last shot hit and sent the beast sinking to the depths.

I brought the ship about, alligning the harpoons ready to get whatever loot there would be. And that is when it happened...

The worst thing that could happen...

The water blackened once more... The water began to swell...

The Kraken!

It was back, after we scared it away on our previous voyage it was back for more, and now we were in for it! With no wood and no cannon balls left we stood very little chance if we planned to take this on! But we’re pirates! Nobody sinks this ship! We all gathered in the entryway, each of us having a bucket in one hand, and a flintlock in the other.

We engaged the beast, tentacles slamming into the side of the ship, wrecking havoc with our rhythm. Shoot, bail, shoot bail. We were there for ages, fighting the beast until we could no longer. With no hope left and little in ammunition, Quartermaster Abbott leaped at the beast with his cutlass as First Mate Bumble and I sprayed the last of our ammunition into the gluttonous creature.

The creature screamed in pain or anger, who knows which. Tentacles slamming down into the ocean. As if by some miracle of the seas, the water cleared, the tentacles stopped, and we retrieved our loot.

We limped back home in what remained of our ship, with no wood it was non-stop bailing all the way to Dagger Tooth Outpost. But we made it.

What a crew.

#sea of thieves #noob #games #short story #chapter #fiction #literature #sea #pirates #ships #xbox #funny #doomed

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lookbluesoup · 6 years ago

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39 for deacon/sole on the kiss prompt!

**cracks knuckles** angst time.

… because time’s run out

Dark shadows lingered in every corner of the room. Rotting drywall and loose cables hung limp like dismembered ghosts against each black crevice. This was a bolthole for the dead and dying. You could tell by the smell alone, Nora and Deacon weren’t the first cornered rabbits to dig in.

He was heavier than her, but her veins throbbed with adrenaline and mortal fear, giving her the strength to prop him up as they shambled to the far end of the burrow.

“That cheap trick won’t distract them for long.” He groaned, bracing his thigh as she propped him against the wall.

“Dogmeat’s smarter than all three of those moon monkeys combined. We’ve got enough time for me to fix you up.”

“See, you really shoulda taken Des’s suggestion. Fixer would’ve been a great codename for you.”

Nora scoffed. “Too obvious.”

In the light of her Pip-Boy he was deathly pale. Deacon’s leg bent awkwardly, and though he wasn’t bleeding, the swelling spoke for itself. Fractured. Maybe broken. God, she had no clue how to reset a bone. Only enough experience to know that trying without the right training would probably just make it worse.

She hissed, worry eating at her heart like a worm. “You’re a damn idiot.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Deacon shifted uncomfortably. “But listen - that mutt can’t keep those Gen-1s distracted forever. They’ll be back. You need to be as far away from here as possible before then, kapeesh? You gotta leave me behind, Firefly.”

“Shut up.”

Deacon grimaced under a wave of pain, croaking bleakly, “Nice. Law school teach you that one?”

“Look, I’m gonna bind this and then you and I are walking out of here together.”

“Firefly-”

“There’s a Brotherhood outpost less than an hour from here, we can get to it and-”

“Nora.” Deacon’s voice cracked over her name, stopping her furious digging through the beat down rucksack she carried all her supplies in.

She fixed him with a stern frown. Gunshots echoed in the distance, setting her teeth on edge. Too often in the world before, she’d heard the static recording of these same sounds on the radio while news reporters spun tales of Anchorage’s carnage. And she, safe at home, could do nothing but pray Nate would come back in one piece. She’d lost one person to the Institute’s wrath already. She would never let herself be that helpless again.

“That holotape in your back pocket is what they’re after. You gotta get it to HQ or this entire op was for nothing. With me in tow you’ll be a sitting duck.” Deacon smiled, wide and white-toothed, “Listen, I’ll be fine.”

“You know what they did teach me in law school? How to tell when people are lying. To hell with the intel. I’m not leaving you.”

“Damnit, boss,” He let out a frustrated grunt, looking away, “You don’t have a choice. I can’t run. And you can’t let them get you. For the love of all things green and glowing, don’t make me watch you go down in flames. Not ag-”

Deacon checked himself sharply. The gunshots outside were closer. Or maybe it only sounded that way. Nora stared, willing him to meet her gaze. Begging him to finish what he’d started, and prove to her by saying aloud what she already knew in her heart. Honesty from him was a token she could take to her grave.

But the sound of a relay fired down the block, then, and she knew they were out of time. “Alright.” There was no room for hesitation. Her route was perfectly clear. An obvious strategy. And Deacon wouldn’t like it. Well, she was done playing liar with him.

He flinched automatically as her lips pressed hot against his, only for a moment. Just long enough.

Fear speared through her gut, and guilt, and desperation, but not regret. She was done with regrets, too. Nora dropped the holotape in Deacon’s lap, pulling away just as he overcame his shock and pitched forward in answer.

She smiled with brimming tears, “In case you had any ideas about trying to play the hero act. You’ve got your mission, and I’ve got mine”

Deacon understood immediately. Cold terror broke through his temperate facade. “Firefly-”

“Hold on to that tape. I’ll clear the way, and come back for you when it’s safe.” She explained anyway, already at the door, “I promise.” And then Nora bolted, out of Deacon’s reach and into the dagger’s edge of the night.

I will come back, She told herself, teeth gritting with determination. Deacon’s lips still burned where they touched in that brief moment of self-indulgence. It had been a flash of truth in the dark, however brief. And whatever it took to save him, it was a price she would pay.

#well I guess I have a Deacon/Nora ship now #write a kiss #fanfic #my fanfic #deacon #nora ronan #ask #fallout #fallout 4 #deacon's firefly #personal fav

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thecomicsnexus · 7 years ago

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Aquaman #1-5. June-October, 1989. By Keith Giggen, Robert Loren Fleming, Curt Swan and Al Vey.

After having been away for several months, Aquaman returns home to Atlantis. Nearing the capital city of Poseidonis, he finds several dead sentries at an outpost. He also discovers remains of a species of jellyfish that he has never encountered before.

Investigating further, Aquaman draws close to the domed city. He is horrified to find that some mysterious invasion force has taken control of the city and have been using Atlanteans as slave labor. He also discovers that these workers are also dismantling a salt processing plant - one of Atlantis' chief exports. Some nearby guards spot Aquaman and recognizing his costume as an old Atlantean prison uniform, mistake him for an escaped prisoner. They capture him and take him to the Aquarium prison facility.

There, Aquaman mingles with the other prisoners who tell him of the mysterious invaders that laid siege to the city when they were at their most vulnerable. Nobody has ever seen what these invaders look like, but the prisoners know that they have rounded up nomadic tribes of Atlanteans from the surrounding regions and pressed them into service. Even now, Atlantean loyalists are forming a resistance to take back the city.

At the Atlantean Royal Palace, members of the invasion force reveal their true visage: sentient giant jellyfish. Their plan is to insure the genetic purity of the sea by eradicating all Atlanteans.

Meanwhile, at the AHARD-1 hospice center, Mera, former queen of Atlantis, has been languishing away in a locked room reserved for mental patients. Some strange insight flashes into her mind, and she suddenly springs to the door and begins pounding her fists while shouting "He's back! He's back!"

Back at the Aquarium, one of the prisoners decides that if he were to kill Aquaman, then he would have bargaining power with the invaders. He ambushes Aquaman and the two begin fighting. One of the other prisoners, a resistance fighter named Jared, comes to Aquaman's aid just as he finishes off his attacker. Jared tells Aquaman their plans for the resistance.

From one of the parapets of the Aquarium Prison, Aquaman and a young resistance fighter secretly watch an Atlantean transport line going back and forth to the prison. After hearing an explosion in the distance, Aquaman takes to one of the secret channels that runs beneath the facility. He returns to the prison block just in time for a routine inspection. Later, the Atlantean, Jared, and he go over battle strategies and memorize a map of the entire prison layout.

Some time later, members of the outside resistance movement detonates a bomb near the Atlantean Royal Palace. The invaders, concealed in their metal shells question their guards about the explosion. Aquaman knows that the young boy he met earlier is involved in the attack and wants to help him. The other inmates restrain him, citing that he risks everything should he leave now.

The Jellyfish invaders meanwhile, track down the boy responsible for the attack and have him executed. To send a message to the resistance, they rig a prisoner transport ship to explode and send it to Aquarium. Aquaman tries to prevent the attack, but he is too late. The ship blows up, killing hundreds of prisoners.

After much consideration, Aquaman determines that the invading force is actually a species of sentient jellyfish. He withdraws the sample he collected earlier and analyzes it. Now knowing what he's up against, he knows how to combat it. He rallies the other inmates together and tells them that they are going to bring the fight directly to the invaders.

The Atlantean drones report in to their jellyfish masters. They indicate that there has been a substantial increase in resistance activity and there is definite cause for concern. There is also news that Mera has escaped confinement at the hospice center.

Meanwhile, Aquaman rallies the Atlantean prisoners together and they escape the Aquarium via secret aqueducts. They plant canisters of poison gas beneath and around the Atlantean Royal Palace and wait for the proper time to set them off.

As Aquaman inspects the target areas, he finally comes across his wife Mera. Mera is insane with rage, and still blames Aquaman for the death of their son. She creates hard-water daggers and begins hurling them at Aquaman. Aquaman has no desire to fight his wife, and goes to great length to avoid her attacks.

The resistance fighters activate the gas canisters and the poison fills the royal palace, killing the jellyfish present. This is their first true victory against the alien invaders, but there are many more to deal with. Hope grows within their hearts, for now at least, they stand a chance of fighting back.

Back at the palace, Mera continues her attack against Aquaman. Aquaman assumes a defensive posture and judo-flips Mera backwards, accidentally impaling her upon an sharpened piece of metal. He looks on in horror as his wife lies dead before him.

While the war rages on, Aquaman is tasked with the solemn duty of burying his wife, Mera. One of the hospital staff members tries to console him, but he just wants to be left alone. Staring down at his wife's coffin, he silently apologizes for everything that has happened. Suddenly, the coffin lid springs open and Mera emerges, angry and very much alive.

Meanwhile the jellyfish invaders have abandoned the city to escape the poison gas. They take up position outside the perimeter of the dome for all to sea. The leaders of the invasion instruct their Atlantean drones to completely seal the city off, blockading them from their food and supply lines. If they cannot defeat the insurrectionists by force, then they will starve them out.

Resistance fighters man battlements throughout the city. Now that they have taken back Poseidonis, they will fight tooth and nail to keep it.

At the Atlantean Royal Palace, Aquaman is startled to see Mera attacking him anew. She reveals that her physiology is different from that of an Atlantean, and as such, her vital organs are not located in the same areas as a normal person. She still blames Aquaman for the death of her son and states that if he had been sired by a real man, then he might still be alive. Having virtually torn Aquaman's heart out, Mera decides to leave this world forever. She opens a spatial aperture and returns to her native Dimension Aqua.

Aquaman has little time to grieve however, he still has a war to fight. He consults with the Atlantean general and receives an update on the current situation. After taking some time to reflect on the situation, Aquaman divines a plan to fight back.

The invaders' drone soldiers maintain the perimeter around Poseidonis, blockading the resistance from food and supplies. The resistance soldiers push the line, but are quickly repelled. The giant jellyfish send orders to take out the resistance fighters strongest warriors in order to lower morale.

The Atlantean general leading the resistance is determined to continue making surgical strikes to leave the city, even though such a strategy is veritable suicide. His officers question the man's judgment, but he retorts, citing that they have no alternative.

The AHARD-1 health facility has been turned into a triage unit. The walls are packed with wounded soldiers and there appears to be no end in sight. The hospital is severely understaffed and they do not have the resources to care for so many.

Aquaman swims to the uppermost spire of the Atlantean Royal Palace. He knows now that the Atlanteans cannot take back their lands on their own. Pushing himself harder than he ever has before, he broadcasts a telepathic summons to every fish, cephalopod and marine mammal that he can find. A gam of whales storms the perimeter and smashes into the opposing armies, overturning tanks and battleships.

Sharks and electric eels go directly after the soldiers and the seas turn into a cloud of red blood. Most of the jellyfish invaders are killed, but three of them choose discretion as the better part of valor and flee. Aquaman's telepathic commands overtax him and he collapses from the spire. The Atlantean loyalists catch him and praise his efforts. Their king has returned. When Aquaman comes to however, he tells them that he has no desire to resume his position as king. His duties are more broad than that, and that Atlantis now belongs to the Atlanteans.

Aquaman leaves and explores the depths of his true home - the oceans of Earth.

From DC Wikia

These mini-series spun off “the legend of Aquaman” special by the same creative team, so, if you are expecting an origin story, this is the wrong place. However, the story could be considered essential to understand the post-crisis version of Aquaman and what differentiates him from other heroes.

While Batman fights for Justice, Superman fights for hope and Wonder Woman fights for peace, Aquaman fights for his people, his ocean and its relations with the surface. At least in this version.

And what better way of explaining all this than using parallels to World War II and the colonization of (South) America.

The first issue felt like another “Aquaman comes home and finds a new dictator” kind of story, but on the second issue I really got into it. And the reason is that horrific moment when Aquaman realizes they are killing their own people, just for not being properly lead.

And that is why his role is important in this story. Atlanteans can go to war anytime, but they cannot win without someone to lead them.

Now, compared to the bronze age stories, this is a good one. Mera is not doing great here as she has gone a bit insane since the death of Aquababy. Despite this, her leaving our plane of existence inspires Aquaman to assume his responsibilities. (But not entirely). I think it was a mistake keeping Aquababy in continuity after Crisis.

The ending is flawed. Aquaman should have stayed in Atlantis as a king, after all, that is what Mera and all the deceased pretty much taught him through the series. So it makes little sense for him to abandon Atlantis again (Especially considering that he wasn’t involved in anything else in the DC Universe at the time, apart from random cameos here and there).

The art is stunning. Curt Swan’s art may look a bit dated, but it’s still very detailed and human. There are a couple of contribution that I think helped a lot. Giffen breakdowns (I am going to assume he did that), and Al Vey’s inks. At simple sight the issue looks like it is a pre-crisis story, but once you read it, you know it’s from the late eighties.

I give the mini-series a score of 7.73.

#dc #comics #review #aquaman #1989 #modern age #mera #aqualad #aquababy

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dunesofblack · 5 years ago

Text

Bunyip

I am really aggrivated at myself for putting this off but some time ago I commissioned several pieces for my Skyrim characters. Remember those? Back at the very beginning of this rather “interesting” tumblr page (okay, maybe half as interesting but still =b). I also wrote a short story that is supposed to prequel these two commissions. Both are done by the wonderful writer Scape. Funny, ‘chill’, and as of this post currently open for commissions.

This is my story. It is SFW and just a ‘get to know’ for characters. I just hope I did them justice.

“SKYRIM INN”

Drifts of snow warmed to a mist as it drifted off the sharp sides of High Hrothgar. Ides of a warm summer had bowed the chill of fall and now winter. Ivarstead sat as busy as the outpost town could. Between travelers seeking Riften Hold over the mountains and pilgrims seeking to journey the Thousand Steps, the locals kept business running along the riverside with logging as well. Wilhem, barkeep of the Vilemyr Inn, and barmaid Lynly Star-Sung, or Svidi to the Black-Briars, held up most of Ivarstead as the Vilemyr took in more business than most others.

Strangers came in the night, nine all together, from the corners of Skyrim. Each with their own rank and wear as an invitation of questionable origins drew each of them to the mountainside town. A few knew of the existence of one another, others heard only rumors, but the majority were ignorant.

The first to enter were punctual, a pair of Imperial soldiers who had remained garrisoned within Skyrim’s borders as the civil war ended. None paid them attention as they entered the Vilemyr Inn from the cooling night and strode to the reserved room with little more than the rasp of leather from their Imperial armor. The aged Breton Istndre Vaudik took the lead as he sat opened the door, pulled out a chair, and promptly sat without so much as a word. His stooge, fellow soldier, or whatever one might wish to call the brute that was Virales Wotrucia closed the door behind them before taking his own place.

While Virales was strong, hawk nosed, proud chin, and the epitome of Imperial strength, Istndre was a different sort. His greying hair was balding from the crown and framed his calm, round face nicely. Brown eyes passively took in his environment before settling calmly though his sharp brows continued to impress attentiveness. A pair of white marks decorated his cheeks like boar tusks and marked his High Rock heritage. The right one was marred slightly by a burn received in combat, promising a good tale should the Breton ever speak up about it.

Virales was less impressive. Tall and invoked the image of a standing bear with his broad muscles straining at his Imperial uniform. Virales’s hair greyed though less than his companions. Neither had to wait long before a third person arrived, opening the door to the minstrel’s music and shutting it before poor Lynly could ask if they required service.

A cold faced Nord woman took one of the seats next to Virales without glancing his way, leaning back so her Elven armor clinked faintly against the chair. Every aspect of the newcomer spoke a lifetime of violence and her mixture of Elven armor with Dwarven sword and glass shield enforced the though. When they asked her name she merely introduced herself as Vylkrin without saying a word further. Imperial soldiers though they were, Virales and Istndre knew better than to pry. Skyrim once again belonged to the Nords under the High King. This woman, with her cold blue eyes, lips a frost-bitten purple color, numerous scars dancing across her lower face, and apparent habitually shaved head was no different. Beneath her golden brows the skin around her eyes appeared bruised or sunken in. Whatever this Vylkrin had for secrets she could keep them.

Calls from outside drew the attention of the soldiers, but not the sword-maiden, to the door. Heavy knocks from high on the door rattled the wood portal on its hinges. When Istndre opened it out of etiquette he was greeted with a wall of muscled flesh and assorted heavy armor. The Breton would have thought the man was half-troll considering how tall he was, stooping to achieve access into the room, perhaps taller than the Altmer. When others thought of the Nords they pictured large, muscular men with flowing blond hair and piercing eyes as blue as the winter sky. This one fit the image. Just looking at him Istndre knew the man to be a warrior. An iron helmet with downward curved horns sat on his head and complimenting the long brown beard that hung over paldroned steel armor. His hands were clad in ebony gauntlets and feet shoed in Orchish boots. A glass battleax was slung over his shoulder and looked to be recently used. However, as he passed and took a seat, Istndre noticed the blank look in the man’s eyes. It was not the leagued stare of a veteran. More it seemed as the absent gaze of a fool.

Istndre closed the door and was almost to his seat before another knock came at the door. The veteran Imperial soldier gave a sigh but heeded the inquiry anyway. He was surprised further by an Orc woman looking to be in her middle years and wearing full steel armor favored by the Nords able to craft. Istndre quickly corrected his thoughts as he spotted a pair of gauntlets that appeared to be crafted out of large bone. The Orc introduced herself calmly in a deep but soothing voice as Jezveka Nehmwin. She was broad and thick, though not as large as some Orc, and had the impressive as well as obvious strength her kind was known for. However, it was perhaps her face the drew more attention. Her dark hair was bulled back to a sophisticated bun and kept in place by a pin, giving Jezveka an air of refinement that appeared almost completely out of context with the savage red war-paint on her face. It was reminiscent of the sharp-toothed maw of a beast slightly above her jaw, hooks beneath her eyes, and three blades holding the imaginary jaws together at her brow. Small, almost cutesy tusks poked out from otherwise enviously kissable and plump lips. As small button nose that seemed somewhat large in comparison rested above but had the ridges of feigned anger along its bridge, a thing most orcs could never be rid of it seemed. Last but not least were her distinctive yellow eyes outlined with red splashes of twilight. Jezveka’s eyes held a feral intensity yet also kindness and intelligence no mere beast could possibly imitate. She wore a dagger at the hip but also an ancient Nordic battleax at her back. An odd woman, especially an Orc considering she did not name a stronghold.

Entering, Istndre found himself staring at the alluring barbarian woman as he closed the door only to have it tap against something hard with a grunt. The same grunt earned the glances of everyone as a second Orc stood in the doorway. Grizzled, blocky face with accumulated scruff and medium length hair curled into a singular line of dark dreads front to back along his head. Scarlet warpaint framed his cheeks and enforces his brow, lined with Orc spikes along his forehead. The only scars he bore were three claw gashes along his face of a powerful animal that got the better of him. Istndre and Virales both gave the Orc a good looking over. What little armor he wore he had in a fur skirt kept around his waist and boots. Something told them that animal that had left its mark never got a second chance.

He was about to close the room to the hall when a slight cough caught his attention and the Imperial soldier turned to see a fellow Breton standing in the door with a disarming smile. Thin of body and light of skin, the man’s green eyes and red hair was a striking contrast to normal Bretons. It certainly made him stand out in Istndre’s eyes. The man’s smile widened, and he greeted Istndre with a silver tongue. Hinthaur Brobrok was his name, from Riften, and worked magic for entertaining travelers. The man’s hair was cropped and shot up in a singular backward spiked ridge with one long braid curling down his left side past his ear. His face had similarities with the noble busts of nobles with a proud nose, sharp brows, and pensive lips. If it were not for the green tattoos running up the sides of his neck to his lips and cheeks like roots of a sigil tree, Hinthaur could be considered less masculine. Toss an elegant dress on the man and most would think the Breton a woman. Istndre’s eyes narrowed as he allowed the man inside the room. His memory took him back to his time in Cyrodil and when he had seen the pretty men in gowns from the Summerset Isles. The Dominion and their damnable parties.

All sat around the table, seven in number. Between the three large warriors, Orc barbarian, Virales the Imperial, and the giant of a Nord, the remaining four spread themselves so as not to disrupt the lingering feeling of tension between the three. The barbarian Orc glanced in Jezveka’s direction and grunted, speaking something in their native tongue, but the woman ignored him. Instead, she sat next to Vylkrin who seemed as ambivalent to the male tension yet cautious. Then there was Hinthaur who was all smiles and Istndre who was deeply concerned about those smiles.

The door opened once more as the last of them stood in the doorway. Each of them eyed the stranger with interest as the woman, from what the keen-eared could discern of her velveteen voice, had Lynly bring a round of drinks, beef stew, and several apple dumplings. Waiting until the Nord barmaid had left, thanking her before closing the door, the stranger turned to the guests. A solemn grey mask of old design adorned her face, silted horizontally for the eyes and mouth, and a blocky stop at the chin. A gold-emerald ring adorned her left hand and a bone-hawk amulet around her neck. She wore hooded and fur lined robes that resembled a cross between regular mage attire and a triangular poncho draped across the front and back. The robe was obviously had crafted and of some special importance.

Instdre’s eyes widened as he recognized the make, bolting from his chair to stand straight with Virales following his example. “Greetings Archmage!”

A soft chuckle whispered from beneath the mask and grey-skinned hands, long fingered but not indelicate, pulled back the robe’s hood before removing the mask. “Thank you soldier, your attentiveness honors your legion and people. I am Azuhrunith Mezaref, Archmage of the College of Winterhold. It is a blessing to meet each one of you.”

Behind the mask a lithely thin but odd-looking Dunmer seemed to gaze back at them. Sharp of face, Azuhrunith had a complexion and build most unusual of her kind. A creamy grey skin like smoothed mountain rock, and set within were unnaturally milky pearls, the eyes of a blind man even though the Archmage seemed to look around as if capable of sight. Whether by magic or some other means, red pigment surrounded the lids of her milky eyes like flower petals in spring. Several small gashing scars marred the left side of her face from chin to cheek. Three slashing diagonally to her ear in a triangular pattern between mouth and lips, and a smaller fourth at the hollow of her cheek. Each revealed a tender pinkish flesh beneath the alluring grey visage. Silvery-pink cupid bow lips held a multitude of Azuhrunith’s subtle, and seemingly mischievous, expressions. Tribal, golden-yellow arrows dripped from the lower lip to chin just as others formed up and around from the corners of her eyes along the bridge of her nose. They stitched up across her brows before curling down like a ram’s horns along her cheeks and twisting just before reaching her jawline. Perhaps an attempt to hide the scars on her face with something a bit more striking though one may have predated the other. Hardened, prominent, and high-sitting cheekbones as well as chiseled brows without hair give her odd face an even more alluringly strange appearance. All of this, culminating with her naturally bald and rounded scalp, giving her an even stranger air of paradox and unwellness. Hairless save for the long lashes upon the lids of her eyes. The Archmage was less of stature than normal Dunmer, a full head shorter and most certainly smaller than all but the shortest of Bosmer.

When those lips opened to reveal oddly whitened teeth a voice issued forth as a divine matron speaking to her children. “Greetings, one and all; well met. As the good Istndre declared I am the Archmage though please call be Azuhrunith or Azuh as your tongues will allow.”

A click of the tongue before she continued. “Looks as if nine of us are present. Well then, shall we begin?”

“Pardonings Archmage,” The rough Nord man clad in armor rumbled in his thick accent. “But there be eight of us with you.”

“Mmm?” A ghost of a smirk tinged Azuhrunith’s pearly lips. “Two of them came in at the same time. The invisibility potion should be wearing off any moment now.”

“Throm not like mage elf.” The barbarian Orc spoke up this time, pointing a rough finger as he leaned in his seat. “Little head spells not work on Throm. Speak good or Throm take head of mage elf.”

Jezveka tensed next to a relaxed Vylkrin. The Nord man uncrossed his arms as both Imperial soldiers rose from their seats with eyes locked on the Orc. Only Hinthaur remained seated where he was, unconcerned by the imminent struggle which seemed fated to occur. But it never did. Just as the Archmage said, a figure became apparent in a false sunburst of dull gold and sunset purple. The last of the strangers was revealed to Throm’s great annoyance, the evidence of wanting to take his threat out on the newly appeared person evident on his face.

“Ladies,” Hinthaur stood next to the quickly visualized Dunmer. “Gentlemen. May I introduce Evinence Veel.

Unlike the Archmage, Evinence had the suspect traits of a Dark Elf. Sharp faced like most Dunmer, white haired spiked up like a bush while ivory sideburns fuzzed at his jowls, his compact body most certainly was taller than the Archmage while still short enough to sneak around. Dark grey skin looked as if it had been toughened over the years to provide a calloused weave to his taut muscles. The tribal imprinting of a red hand marked his forehead and the only sign of weakness he could not mask was the one scar, trailing down from the corner of his left eye. A reminder that not even the most skilled of vagabonds were always perfect. And Veel was most certainly one. Unlike Hinthaur who wore simple mage robes and expensive boots, Veel’s gauntlets and boots were of a dark material that seemed to blend into shadows while his body was covered in brownish armor covered in pockets and belts. But his face drew the most attention, not for his odd marks but for the iridescence of his orange eyes and the telltale red line that cut from his bottom lip.

“Lawful will not drink from same table as vampire.” The Nord rumbled as he rose, dull blue eyes becoming frightfully intense.

The one named Veel smiled as he reached for his crude looking Orc dagger, hissing in contest. But before either could touch their weapon, the Archmage clapped her hands together. They did not move but eyed the small Dark Elf with question.

“I did not spend resources and time to have you kill one another at this point.” Her voice was calm but with unwavering authority. “Please sit down. You are my guests here tonight, every one of you, and it is impolite for guests to maul one another before food or drink.”

Lawful the Nord grunted but sat down as his chair groaned in protest. “Still not drink from same table as filthy vampire.”

“I would expect no less of Lawful the Paladin.” Azuhrunith’s face never seemed to turn in address as if truly she was blind. “Now then, I am sure each of you is questioning why you have been summoned in such a manner and to such a remote location. Firstly, I have called all here for sharing something in common. Each of us has had dealings with the Dragonborn at some point.”

A round of breaths went around the table. Some gasping, some hissing, some calming, others easing. Each looked at one another with more interest than when they had first met.

The Archmage continued. “Yes, each of us had known the Laat Dovahkiin at some time and in some place. Allies, enemies, and opponents.” She stopped to give a pointed glare in Throm’s direction, which was starting to become a common occurrence. “We have aided the Dragonborn and his companions in their quests across Skyrim. It is for this reason that I specifically called upon each of you. Second, we each would have crossed paths sooner or later and I would have us know one another before having at it in the least.”

Virales was next to speak. “You wish us to acknowledge the Dragonborn, hero of Skyrim and the Nords, Slayer of Alduin, Ally of the Companions, Defender of the Empire and Champion High Queen Elisif, Draugr-bane, traded horn-cups with a vampire and expect us to as well?”

“Dragon, vampire, werewolf, giant, wispmother, hagraven, and Deadra.” Azahrunith spoke smoothly as she slipped into her chair. “Laat Dovahkiin considered all of us allies at one time or another. Here I amend we judge by no more than this.”

Though the Imperial let some of his tension pass, Evinence and his crony Hinthaur across the table only made the appearance of. He knew better than any of them, save perhaps the Orc Jezveka. Evinence had heard of her, the brawler, a blacksmith out of Markarth and trader in Falkreath. The Thieves Guild had gathered stray words on the wind for him and the vampire master thief so kept his throne underneath Riften. Hinthaur by his side, loyal and watchful, with silver tongue. Each one seated knew Evinence as a monster, it was to be expected as he was a vampire, but if they only knew how much more the Archmage was than he. He pondered how fearful they would become. Perhaps more afraid than he.

Evinence felt it though, those milky eyes upon him. Staring yet not staring. Without thinking he had reached for his dagger and caught himself. It was better not to cause trouble, not with her around. Evinence would play this game so long as both thieves left alive with a little something. His only worry was that they were already playing one of hers.

“Is the thought sound enough for everyone to take in?” Azuhrunith asked, face subtly shifting into a smile.

“It is fair.” Lawful the Paladin grumbled and Throm along side him.

The Imperial soldiers nodded, Vylkrin tilted her head, and Jezveka gave a slight bow from her waist.

“Very good then. As you know, Jarl Balgruff is superstitious after the civil war and the end of the dragon threat. I meant to reserve part of the Sleeping Giant in Riverwood. However, with the tripled guard and the nearby destruction of Helgen the townspeople have become inquisitive. An inquisitive mind and gossiping lips are to things I know some of you wish to avoid.” The Archmage allowed the corners of her mouth to widen a little. “Ivarstead provided a secluded location where people worry more about bears, bandits, or trolls rather than the odd stranger.”

“For us less than welcome persons?” Vylkrin’s voice bit at the end yet lacked Nord accent almost entirely.

The Archmage seemed to flinch at the comment, though it could have been a smirk. “Prying eyes and gossiping are what happen in most taverns. Nine strangers reserve a room. Two Orsimer, Two Breton, Two Nords, an invisible vampire, an Archmage wearing a mask for a disguise, and an Imperial built like a war horse. Care to guess how many enemies we have between us? No, I brought us here for privacy. Solitude in which to introduce ourselves, learn prospective boundaries, and perhaps for alliances if not neutralities.”

“Throm no care about privacy. No care about tavern. Why Throm not cut little mage head from shoulders?”

“Because then, my good Throm, you would not be able to hear what beasts and battles lie with your future.” The Archmage smiled as the barbarian quieted and leaned forward with interest. “Each of us has experienced many things in our travels with Laat Dovahkiin. And while I would enjoy nothing more than to spend all night and day listening to your tales, it would be best to simply introduce ourselves and give a brief account. In this way, we shall know one another and perhaps gain from this understanding.”

That is the witch’s game then? Evinence narrowed his glimmering eyes. Control the information and have a tight hold upon knowledge. With these two things one could topple dynasties. And she uses it to manipulate some of the most experienced persons in all of Skyrim simply by introducing them to one another and guiding conversation.

He did not appreciate being used but the Dunmer vampire knew better than to challenge the woman opposite of him, Archmage or not. But if I can strengthen my position as head of the Thieves Guild then all the more reason to participate. Perhaps a bit of lying is in order.

Evinence and Hinthaur exchanged a subtle look before the master thief turned back to the Archmage, consenting with a nod. Others around the table appeared interested at least in the prospect. The Orc barbarian most of all looked eager to have new fighting opponents, or at least companions who might tell him of powerful beasts to hunt.

“Very well then, I will begin.” The female Orc spoke with her soothing rumble. “I am Jezveka Nehmwin though some know me as ‘the brawler’ for beating my opponents without weapons. Falkreath is my home though not my hold. I declare no stronghold nor have I need of one. The Dragonborn and companion offered me a chance to end Silver-Blood and Foresworn rule in Markarth hold, I readily accepted as it was there I had settled to ply my trades at the time. I fought with them throughout the civil war and along side the Companions as well as the Circle.”

A few confused looks passed over the group, though only Azahrunith, Hinthaur, and Evinence knew the meaning. Only they were closely aware of the certain eccentricities of the Companions and their hunting behaviors.

“I abandoned Markarth after the Foresworn rebellion. The Dragonborn was able to introduce me to the Jarl of Falkreath and secure a position for me in the hold. I work there as an enchanter and blacksmith.” Jexveka finished and folded her arms.

“You craft and enchant as well?” Istndre asked.

Jezveka nodded and the Imperial soldier took the Archmage’s request of gathering in a new light. It was rare a blacksmith deviated from their trade. And one who could enchant anything, armor or weapons, that they themselves forged would be a prized asset. The Empire would be keenly interested in commissioning from this Orsimer woman.

“Let us be done with this then.” Vylkrin spoke up. “I am Vylkrin, sell-sword. Traveled with the Dragonborn over many paths and through many places. Little there is that I have not killed. While I am an enchanter and blacksmith as well, I prefer sword and shield to earn my coin.”

Hinthaur’s smile widened a little. Between these crusaders of the Dragonborn there was at least one who would do anything for coin. A blacksmith with enchantment skills none the less. Two for the price of one, even if this Vylkrin had not put her labored skills to practice in many seasons. Thieves used equipment just as hardily as warriors and enchantments were their lifeblood. It would be true that a good thief could do without, but an excellent thief understood to use every trick they might without compensating.

“Virales.” Rumbled the barrel-chested Imperial, scowling lips and jutting hawk nose giving the man a dower impression.

“And Istndre, of Cyrodiil. Legionaries both.” The aged Breton finished for his comrade in arms. “We served under General Tulius while the Dragonborn aided us through the civil war, of which we are indebted. I am a fire-mage from High Rock, though Cyrodiil and the Empire has been my home since I was a wee lad. Most recently our outfit is stationed near Marthal at the Hjaalmarch encampment.”

Evinence subtly perked. He had business in the Hhaalmarch hold. Black-Briars wished to expand their trades and it was easy to slip flat bottomed lugs through the inlets of the marsh. It was near the East Empire Company docks but that made it all the better for shifting things in and out through the mists. The vampire thief glanced up to see Azuhrunith give him a meaningful glance and ever so subtle smirking twitch of her lips before turning to Istndre.

“As a fire-mage used to battle you have also learned restoration magic as well?”

“Quite. Though not as well as yourself or the renown teachers at the College of Winterhold.” Istndre offered a bow, he was too old to blush at a young woman’s charms. “I am well learned with the flame branch of destruction magic, restoration for wards and basic healing taught by High Rock elders as well as the Imperial Legion instructors, and alteration for battle armor as time required though I have laxed and my alteration would barely be called competent.”

“Truly?” Azuhrunith’s eyelids shifted ever so slightly. “Never the less, few in the college ever experience combat lest they turn to less desirable studies or take up alternative activities with mercenaries hunting beasts as well as bandits. Though we at the college are knowledgeable more than not, most lack experience. Quite a few come to the college now to practice destruction magic even though that the civil war is over. It would no doubt encourage such students to learn from an instructor experienced in such matters. And also provide an important opportunity for Imperial Legions should they be provided incentives by the Empire.”

Istndre’s eyes widened. “You would invite me into the sacred halls of the college to instruct?”

“What do you take me for? A Mage Guild conspiracist?” The Archmage laughed, a lightly thing like birdsong among spring wind leaves. “No, the College of Winterhold will open its doors to all interested in the aspects of magic so long as they bear no harm. Under the past Archmage, Savos Aren, the College of Winterhold stood firmly influenced by its own council. However, in recent events I have found it necessary to lend a slightly open hand to the Jarls and to the High Queen. I still maintain Savos Aren’s point that whatever happens outside the college is of little importance to the students unless it affects their or the college’s interests. I also maintain that students do nothing to bring harm to the college, the hold, or the persons within the college reach. Anything beyond this is theirs to explore. Should they choose to join the Imperial Legion after being inspired by a particular part-time instructor, that is between their families and Cyrodiil.”

“I thank you Archmage.” Istndre bowed as best he could in his chair.

Azuhrunith waved his gratitude with a little concern. “Please do not be so formal. I can only promise a seasonal position and little coin at the college. There is a woman who runs an oddities trade post in Winterhold named Birna. She lost her brother to wraiths a few seasons ago and lives by herself. I might convince her to rent part of her home to a reliable High Rock man should he bring some business her way.”

The smooth transitions the Archmage wove caught Istndre by surprise. For the cost of making Winterhold a traveled and sought market for the local Imperial encampment even if it was closer to Dawnstar, taking only a temporary position at the famed College of Winterhold, and providing a place to spend his retirement the Archmage had steered the old Imperial soldier in to the stable with only words. And only a fool would discard the offer. There was a chance she knew of Istndre’s retirement from the Legion though that was a far-fetched thought. One could make an easier run of killing the Emperor.

Such transitions were not lost on Evinence nor Hinthaur either. Azuhrunith was fortifying her position in Winterhold. College students would receive knowledge of combative magic outside of personal experience, the Empire would take a great interest in the College and the Mage Guild would have competition from the north, and the students were able to transition from the college to the Legion if they so pleased. It was a fine web the Archmage wove.

Virales appeared bored rather than excited. He had served with Istndre since joining the Legion. From Cyrodiil and the Sunset Isles and back, the men had fought in battles without glory and skirmishes that could never be told. Both were near retiring, unable to gain more rank as their prime had passed them and with few coin the Empire gave as compensation to those who had made it through many years of service. Only to be stationed at the far north of Tamriel.

“And Falkreath is a wonderful hold as well.” The Archmage continued, drawing the Imperial’s attention back to the present. “Cold and damp through the seasons but quite beautiful. It is a small hold but quite needy as it serves as the gateway to Skyrim. Jezveka Nehmwin, does not Jarl Siddgeir have need of warriors now that the war and strife is over?”

“He moans like the winter winds about it.” The Orsimer woman let out a heavy sigh and gave a shrug. “At last I heard he is recruiting from the local Imperial encampment, offering the position of thane should any person step forward. He has pestered even me to take up the post, but seats in the hold make me uncomfortable as I have enough work to accomplish at the forge.”

With the sway of a hand, the Archmage turned the attention back to Virales. “Then should an Imperial veteran, say one experience in many battles as well as having known General Tulius and Laat Dovahkiin, should come forward to inquire about the position they would be received with as much joy as a Nord can offer. Doubly so, I would think, if he were an Imperial able to converse freely with the Falkreath Imperial encampment.”

Grunting, Virales swelled his chest a little. Perhaps retirement would not be so taxing as he had foreseen. A Nord hold far from Cyrodiil is an odd place for an old Imperial, but times were changing. Warmth in winter and food till he was old and feeble was all Virales could ask for. His frowning lips evened though never turned upward and he gave a nod to the Orc Jezveka. He would accept the position at Falkreath should it be open to him.

“The gods surely smiled upon this council.” Azuhrunith clasped her hands as if in thanks, though Veel knew it to be simply for show. “Surely those in Sovngarde, Sand beyond the Stars, and the Far Shores smile down on us.”

“Not care about shores or wheat-hair die-happy.” Throm grumbled.

He received a glare for his declaration, even from the Imperial.

“Well then,” Azuhrunith shifted a little in her chair and crisscrossed her legs in spite of the furniture, revealing to others surprise feet only clothed in wrappings. “It is my turn for introductions then, though I feel slightly expectant in front of you warriors.”

Throm rumbled in pride while the others merely gave a nod in acknowledgement.

“I am Azuhrunith Mezaref, Archmage of the College of Winterhold, Watcher of Spriggan Glades, Ally of Lady Valerica and Vampire Lord of the north wastes, Consort of Aedra and Daedra.” The Archmage made a slight bow, clasping her thin hands at her knees as she did so. “It is a blessing to finally meet all of you together.”

“Vampire Lord?”

“Yes?” Azuhrunith gave a sweet smile to the questioning Istndre.

The Breton quickly shook his head. “Nothing, apologies for interrupting Archmage.”

“I am Throm!” Throm banged his fist on the table, causing the stew and brew to stir in their containers, as he growled. “Throm will fight each of you and cut head off of half! Women he will take as mates to keep bed warm back at stronghold, but only if strong as Throm think. No little mage, Throm will use mage head for blood drink and piss in when Throm need leak.”

Unfazed, the Archmage simply gave the brutish barbarian a smirk. She held up a hand in which appeared a swirling orb of ghostly green energy before tossing the spell across the table to Throm. The barbarian made to punch the spell but it instead was absorbed into his being. A faint green in the same color as the orb flittered over his form as he fell back into his chair like a sack of potatoes.

“Well, I believe that answers you questions my good Throm.” The Archmage hummed, leaning back into her chair with legs crisscrossed. “Evinence I believe you are next?”

“Evinence Veel.” The Dunmer vampire hissed, interlocked fingers clasped in front of him, strange eyes almost glowing in the light. “I am master of the Thieves Guild, aid to the Black-Briars, ally of the Dark Brotherhood, and apprentice of the former Lord Harkon.”

At the mention of the last Jezveka’s face twitched ever so slightly. Odd orange and feral yellow eyes met meaningfully for a moment before Evinence split the contact with a smirk. The brawler remained stoic despite the subtle nudge.

“Plentiful talk from a leech and his thrall.” Virales rumbled.

“Court mage, actually.” Evinence corrected. “And a good one at that, brown nose.”

The large Imperial straightened and flexed in his chair, making it seem all the smaller. “At least I speak for myself leech, unlike your blood pet and spindle fingered cravens. Lingering about in the squalor of Riften.”

Hinthaur smirked at the big man’s gruff, the soft lines of his face easing like a practiced courtesan. “Oh, I speak for myself. And I am no thrall to be sure, unlike an Imperial mutt and his camp father. Though I may be misinterpreting and you both are more intimate than that.”

“Blood-giving bitch.” Virales sneered.

Evinence leaned in as well. “Easy talk for a whore of the Dominion and Altmer bastard.”

Istndre opened his mouth, hands clenched even as his faithful comrade made to part the table as water, but the calming voice of the matron Archmage overrode the tension in the room. “Gentlemen, please. Manners. There will be no blood shed or foulness while you are my guests here.”

All calmed but Evinence visibly flinched at the rebuke. He could have taken them, every single one of them. The brawler and the barbarian would be the hardest, the destruction mage and his hulking pet the easiest, the sell-sword was experienced but not enough to give him difficulty, and the one stupidly named Lawful could have only been a true threat if he did not act the incompetent. With ease the pair of thieves could slip in, poisoned the food and drink, and slit the throats of those who could not be killed by concoction alone.

He turned back to gaze at the vampire lord. Azuhrunith stared back at him with those milky blind eyes, head cocked to the side, seeing him without seeing him. The fact that he still had yet to determine whether she was able to see or not still unnerved him. Hinthaur stood by his side and began his introduction but Evinence heard nothing. Then he caught the Archmage’s head tilting again, moving ever so in a sweeping motion toward the Legion bound Breton. Azuhrunith made a rolling motion with her hands. Evinence swallowed the lingering saliva in his mouth and his fear. He knew the Archmage had gathered them together and it appeared that she intended for everyone to leave with something that benefited the others. If the Breton named Istndre carried a scroll of importance, it would be of great value to the Thieves Guild and their allies.

“I am Hinthaur Brobrok of Riften, mage of the Thieves Guild and council to master Evinence Veel.” Hinthaur’s smooth voice seemed to fill in the gap left by the tension before. “Through the Rift and afield I maintain peace amongst the various factions. I form alliances where there were once enemies, and I assure travelers and merchants are able to find hospitality awaiting them in the Rift. The Archmage may have heard of my times of mischief at the college from that old Orsimer librarian, if he is still alive, but I pray you do not hold it against me.”

“Not at all. A student knowledgeable in the ancient Dwemer and dabbler of Nordic ruins such as yourself is quite renown in the halls of the college.” Azuhrunith’s head bent slightly in respect but not looking directly at the man. “However, I should warn you, if you choose to rejoin the college I will not be so lenient to your meddling.”

A grunt accompanied the large Nord standing as the comparably waifish Breton sitting back down. “I am Lawful of the winter lands. I quest across all lands and kill evil things, served with Dovahkiin in civil war and dragon fight.” He turned to Evinence with a dangerous glitter in his blue eyes. “Want to smite dark elf vampire, but good mage say no.”

He sat down with a thud before picking up a mug and draining it in one pull.

“Well then, let the sup commence.” Azuhrunith took up her own mug and raised it.

The others did the same as bowls were passed around to served portions of the inviting stew within. Whomever had prepared the meal knew what they were doing. Perhaps Ivarstead was the prime place to begin the Thousand Steps because it had the best vittles. Or the other way around. Either way, those who had come as strangers shared meal with one another. Speaking to the Archmage and sell-sword rather than the others, Lawful began a tale of his travels through High Rock’s hunting down a deadly werewolf cult dedicated to Malicath. He told of his search in the wintered forests of Wrothgar, trading the Reachmen and their trained harpies. Lawful finished off his story in a blood-filled battle against an aged werewolf priest across tenuous ruins of Old Orsinium.

Soon Hinthaur, Jezveka, and Virales were telling tales of their own to much laughter and gasps of imagined horror. Azuhrunith and Vylkrin, with hesitation, added their own with Istndre attempting to do his best though he was a bumbling storyteller. Though the night wore on and the brew continued to flow readily, none bothered to stop for rest. There was too much to tell and too little time. As their past travels lead far and wide, all were bound together by the powerful Dragonborn until they met tonight. The gates had been thrown open and the lives of one another came calling to each other. Long into the night they talked, past the time of slumber and served food, until each understood it was time to leave. Azuhrunith, ever the gracious host the Archmage should be, offered several rooms she paid for in advance but few took them.

Vylkrin was the first to leave with little more than a farewell. However, as Azuhrunith clasped her hand to tell her of a potential Jarl in need of a sword, Hinthaur slipped a note into Vylkrin’s sword belt. Each side had opportunities and a sell-sword worth their strength knew to pick up offers where they could. Lawful stood, grumbling about taking one of the beds, and bid the rest good travels blessed by Kyne. Veel and his mage Hinthaur left with much glaring from the Legion pair, but with enough distraction from Azuhrunith for Hinthaur to slip a hand into his fellow Breton’s pouch and retrieve a small scroll. A treat they would wait to replace when the Imperials exited.

Four remaining strangers lingered a bit long while Throm slept the night away in blissful ignorance. Jezveka eventually stood and bid the others good night, lingering near the Archmage as she traded words with the brawler. Virales and Istndre followed later with much thanks and expressed gratitude.

Azuhrunith alone remained in the room with the snoring Throm. She slipped out of the chair, lightly wrapped feet making no noise as they braced against the wood floor, and looked down upon the Orsimer. Her eyes, though milky white as a blind man, still saw clear as day or night. Not that the mysterious Archmage would ever let others come to the truth of the matter themselves. With a smile fitting for the likes of Azura herself, Azuhrunith cast a sleep spell upon the slumbering barbarian.

She turned to the door and listened intently, the sounds of fire flickers and hushed breaths fading away as she concentrated to perceive one being in particular. Veel’s figure huddled close to Hinthaur as they hurried off after the leaving Legionaries. The Archmage smiled to herself, picking up the mask formally belonging to dragon priest Morokei as she left the empty room. Lynly gave her a questioning look for the slumbering Orsimer but closed the door after Azuhrunith passed her a small bag of coin. The Archmage left the small inn and wove her way through the small town toward Shroud Hearth Barrow.

When the Archmage was hidden within the shadows of the barrow, she slowly began slowly slipping off her clothing and folding them neatly. All that was left were her wrappings and bone hawk amulet. Even mages toiled in their work and Azuhrunith was no exception with her lithe build amplified by her short stature. Her figure remained in youth, seemingly frozen in time, with bowstring muscles akin to hardened scales and small upturned breasts. The pair sloped slightly, peaking in the cold air, but were barely a handful. Never the less, the Archmage was pleased with them. She let a hand play over the smooth grey surface of her skin before letting it fall. There would be time for pleasure later.

Arching her back, Azuhrunith let a black mist overtake her body as she grew and shuddered under a terrible transformation. Twin newborn limbs snapped from her back as she hissed between sharpened teeth. Azuhrunith the vampire lord flexed her skinny bat wings experimentally, finding the appendages operating to her liking, and slipped back out into the night. Twin moons revealed her form.

Neither larger in height nor width, the Archmage’s skin also remained the same. But it was the fierce features that set her apart. Pointed Dunmer ears had elongated along her hairless skull. Her fingers had become clawed and talons curved from her feet. Ever muscle in her body seemed to stretch tight in anticipation. However, the most noticeable of all were the muscles around her neck and shoulders that had grown larger along with the addition of the faint wings reminiscent of a bat. She opened her mouth, throat echoing with a muffled click as the world became aglow before her. The guards were mingling about well out of eyesight and the townsfolk had tucked themselves in long ago.

With a fanged smile, Azuhrunith jumped and propelled herself into the air. Her wings would not fly but were enough to glide through the forests without trouble. She would make Windhelm by daylight before finishing her journey to Winterhold on foot. Perhaps she would enjoy a snack along the way, the bandits had become bolder in recent seasons.

Sorry for whatever typos you find.

Links to commissions. You have been warned Hentai Foundry is a +18 site. DO NOT GO IF YOU ARE UNDER 18.

Making the Rounds: https://www.hentai-foundry.com/stories/user/Scape/35147/Making-rounds

Bounty in Winterhold: https://www.hentai-foundry.com/stories/user/Scape/41121/Bounty-in-Winterhold

And also Scape’s e-book on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Byte-Paradise-Tales-Hotel-Succubus-ebook/dp/B019YR6AGM/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1479763411&sr=8-1&keywords=Byte+of+Paradise

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