#razor of course is drawn with all of these sharp angles

[knockknockitsnickels]

Day 7, the Razor! She was the last route I got on my first playthrough, which was one hell of a way to end the game

[soulofapatrick]

I’ll keep you safe Darling - Ominus Gaunt x Female Reader

Summary: Ominus finds you in the common room after Sebastian used the Cruciatus Curse on you

Words: 1.4k

Warnings: reference to pain

Y/N’s POV 

I collapse into one of the armchairs facing the dwindling fire in the Slytherin common room, the pain almost unbearable as it still ricochets through me in spasms. The memory of Sebastian’s use of the Cruciatus Curse lingers, tormenting me even as I try to catch my breath. My vision blurs as I try to focus on the crackling flames before me, seeking solace in their dancing glow. The darkness threatens to consume me, both within and without. Each wave of agony serves as a reminder of the horrors lurking in the shadows, waiting to ensnare me once more. 

As I struggle to regain my composure, the sound of footsteps echoes through the room, drawing closer with each passing moment. A familiar presence fills the air, accompanied by the subtle scent of Elm wood and the faint rustle of robes. 

“Ominus,” I whisper, relief flooding through me at the thought of his arrival. Despite his sarcastic demeanour and guarded exterior, there’s a warmth in his presence that I find comforting, a flicker of light amidst the darkness. 

I hear him approach, his footsteps measured yet purposeful, as if navigating the world with a sense of certainty born from experience. His voice cuts through the silence like a blade, sharp yet tinged with concern. 

“Are you okay?” Ominus’ words are more a worry than a question as he was there, he saw Sebastian cast the curse and could do nothing to stop him unless he wanted us all to die down in the Slytherin Scriptorium. I wasn’t going to let Ominus go through the Cruciatus Curse again after his childhood. 

I can sense the tension in the air, the weight of unspoken truths between us like a veil. He wants to move closer but it’s as if he’s scared to get too close but before I can tell him it’s okay I feel another spasm of pain sweep through me. My hands grip the arms of the chair so tightly I think I bend a nail back and my whole body trembles, a whimper of pain escaping my lips. 

Ominus lets out a soft sound in response, a mixture of sympathy and frustration. Before I can process it, he’s kneeling in front of me, his hands gently prying mine from the arms of the chair and into his own. His touch is surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the harsh realities of our world. 

I can feel the warmth of his hands in mine, a comforting presence amidst the storm raging within me. His fingers intertwine with mine, a silent promise of support and understanding. And as he whispers soothing and sweet nothings, I find myself drawn to the sound of his voice, a beacon of hope in the darkness. 

The pain begins to subside, gradually fading into the background like a distant memory. I take a deep breath, willing myself to focus on the present moment, to find solace in Ominus's presence. For in his clouded blue eyes, I see a reflection of my own struggles, a shared bond forged in the fires of adversity. 

Ominus knelt before me, his clouded blue eyes reflecting the flickering flames of the fire. In this moment, he appears so open and vulnerable, a stark contrast to the guarded facade he often wares. His pale skin, dotted with moles, seems to glow in the dim light of the common room, accentuating the sharp angles of his jawline and cheekbones. His blond hair, starting to stray from his usual slicked back style, framing his face like a halo, adding to his air of mystery and intrigue. Dressed in black trousers, a matching button up shirt and a sleek waistcoat, he exudes an aura of elegance and sophistication, a vision of dark allure in the midst of chaos. 

As I gaze into his eyes, I feel a surge of emotions coursing through me, sending butterflies dancing in my stomach. I had always admired Ominus from afar, drawn to his enigmatic charm and razor-sharp wit. But I never dared to hope that he could ever feel the same way about me, that beneath his cynical exterior, there lay a heart capable of love. 

Yet here he is, kneeling in front of me with a tenderness that takes my breath away. In his presence, I feel seen and understood in a way that I have never experienced before. And as he reaches out to brush away a stray tear, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps there is more to our connection than mere friendship. 

Something in me seems to break, a dam bursting forth with emotions I can no longer contain. I’m sliding off the armchair and into Ominus's waiting arms, my face buried in the crook of his neck as he wraps me in his embrace. His arms not hesitating to encircle me like a fortress, offering solace and protection in the midst of the storm. 

I can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek, a comforting cadence that soothes the turmoil raging within me. His whispered words wash over me like a gentle tide, reassuring me that I am safe, that nothing can hurt me now. And in this moment, surrounded by darkness yet bathed in the warmth of his embrace, I know that I have found a sanctuary in Ominus's arms. For in his presence, I am no longer alone, no longer adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

I pull away just enough to search Ominus’ face for some sign, any hint of what lies beneath the surface. In the dim light of the common room, I catch a flicker of something in his clouded blue eyes, a spark of warmth amidst the shadows. It’s enough to embolden me, to give voice to the feelings that have long lain dormant within my heart. 

With trembling hands, I cup Ominus's face in mine, guiding his gaze to meet mine with an unspoken plea. His lips part slightly, a silent invitation that I cannot ignore. And in that moment, I lean forward, closing the distance between us with a soft, cautious kiss. 

As our lips meet in a soft, cautious kiss, I feel a surge of electricity coursing through my veins, igniting a fire within me that I never knew existed. Ominus' lips are warm and inviting, a tantalising promise of the unknown. His touch is gentle yet insistent, drawing me deeper into the embrace of our shared moment. 

For a heartbeat, the world falls away around us, leaving nothing but the intoxicating sensation of his presence. I can taste the faint hint of raspberry ice cream lingering on his lips, a lingering reminder of our shared meal earlier in the evening. It's a bittersweet symphony of flavours, a testament to the complexities of our connection. 

As we lose ourselves in the rhythm of our kiss, time seems to slow down, allowing me to savour every moment, every sensation. I feel the soft brush of Ominus's fingers against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. His lips, warm and tender, press against mine with a gentle urgency, igniting a fire within me that threatens to consume us both. 

But just as the kiss reaches its peak, Ominus breaks away, a rare smile gracing his tantalising lips. His eyes sparkle with a mixture of amusement and affection, a sight that takes my breath away. A chuckle escapes him as I try to follow his lips with mine, desperate to recapture the fleeting moment of intimacy. 

"You're eager, aren't you?" he teases, his voice laced with amusement. His fingers gently trace the contours of my cheek, sending waves of warmth cascading through me. "I've been wanting to do that since I first met you, you know," he admits, his tone soft yet filled with undeniable sincerity. 

His words hang in the air, a confession of longing and desire that takes me by surprise. In that moment, I realise that perhaps I'm not alone in my feelings, that Ominus harbours his own hidden depths of affection beneath his guarded exterior. 

And as I gaze into his clouded blue eyes, I see a reflection of my own desires, a shared bond that defies all logic and reason. In the warmth of his embrace, I find solace and strength, a sanctuary where love knows no boundaries.

“I’ll keep you safe Darling.” 

Harry Potter Masterlisr TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

[sugoi-writes]

First Time, First Deal - Alastor x Reader - Part Two

A/N: I'm back! As promised, a part two with some spice and a little angst towards the end. Because of COURSE. Please enjoy~

"O-Of course... make me yours, Alastor."

---

The Demon before you needed little encouragement. At your word, his lips pressed first to your ankles, snaking their way up your calves, your knees... His urge to bite and mark you were being held back, wanting to ensure that the first time spent together brought you no pain... At least, for now.

He was surprised by your voice, the way it rose and waned like your body's colors. The more he kissed, the more sturdy you felt in his grasp. You were soft, heavenly soft: like your body had been sculpted by hand. It was an intoxicating feeling, he had to admit... one that had the darker parts of his mind drifting.

He kept his resolve firm as his kisses reached the roundest part of your thighs, angling his gentle caresses inward towards your core. Your breath was held, unable to be let go as Alastor's face came closer and closer to your pulsing need.

Gentle, careful hands came around the sides of your hips, fingers hooking into the waistband of your undergarments. While pressing another kiss to your abdomen, his eyes flickered up to yours. Wordlessly, he asked for permission; a hasty nod was his only reply.

Alastor chuckled, instead leaning further inward," Dear, if you weren't my current muse and confidant..." he purred, teeth hooking onto the hem of your underwear.

Your heart nearly stopped as your undergarments were pulled down by Alastor's razor sharp teeth. Somehow, your body moved on its own, lifting your hips to assist him.

"I would have torn you apart just then... all too tempting to devour, even now~"

You trembled as your bare sex was exposed, making you stammer through a sigh. Eyes locked onto him, you whisper," Right now, I don't think I would mind... it'd be a-- interesting way to die again..."

Alastor's grin grew wickedly, as a long, wet stripe was drawn on your right inner thig.

"Tempting... but for you, I'll grant you a more satisfyingly 'quick death'..." Alastor rebukes, your head falling back. Your lips trembled as a tender kiss landed on the spot you needed most. His tongue runs along the length of your core, as if mapping you out... This, unlike the rest of your body, wasn't completely corporal yet. But as he coddled and teased, you became more solid, dangerously delicate to his sinful lips. He wished to corrupt you... to tear your apart, something FOUL... but that would have to come at a later date.

Alastor places his hands between your knees, forcing your legs to giving him more room. You wait with baited breath before Alastor begins anew with a lulling, pleasing tempo. His tongue was a hot, molten muscle... a sensation that made you burn and yearn for more.

Your hands shakily support your weight as you try not to fall backward, eyes peering down at the sight between your legs. As Alastor's eyes fluttered closed, a pleased groan reverberating through your cunt. You jolt, the sudden, intense sensation making you quake. Alastor chuckles, the sensation from his voice stirring you again.

"Wh-wha-- Oh my Go-- how???" Questions flooded your mind as your sentences came out in disjointed babbles. Your partner's minstrations made you shake with pleasure.

Alastor sends a knowing grin your way, humming as he swirls his tongue around your entrance. You panic and yelp, a hand flying up to stifle your wail. Can't get too carried away, lest a "wayward soul" catches you two in the act...

"My voice, I've found... has an interesting timbre to it... it can give someone quite a shock when it's close to their skin..." You practically sobbed, Alastor's voice vibrating your core more than any Earthly vibrator could. His mouth had made you feel as wet and slippery as a succubus in church... Your hand shakily moves up into your hair, pushing your fringe off of your forehead.

"O-oh my-- God, Alastor!! Y-You shouldve-- I might--!" Between the steady vibrations from Alastor's humming, and the length of time since you last got off... the knot twisting in your loins was growing dangerously tight. Alastor's grin becomes mischievous, a hand smoothing over your abdomen. With ease, he pushes you onto your back. You were just a rag doll under his guided, sensual touch. The Radio Demon pulls back momentarily with a wet pop, before licking his glistening lips.

"I find a meal more delectable when you don't have the full picture, dont you? Think of this as my secret ingredient... a trademark~" Alastor quips. Your neck cracks with how violently your head tosses back, Alastor having picked up the pace. You hear the filter in his voice grow thicker, as if cranking the volume on a toy to a higher output.

"One that- hah-- makes me want to lick my plate clean...~"

Alastor's unbashed, loose groans makes your core sing, your mind swimming through wades of white static at your impending orgasm. Your chest heaves, your toes curl in; it was sudden and with little warning. Alastor could feel you frantically tapping his cheek before you buck into his mouth, your essence soaking his lower jaw.

You quaked with relief as the sensation you hadn't felt in months washed over you, your eyes rolling back towards your skull. Alastor's skilled lips and tongue work you through your high, guiding you back to your body as your mind slows down. The both of you are panting, unsure of what should be said or done next. Was this all....? Was the contract satisfied?

You could barely see that Alastor's lips trembled, a pleased sigh rolling off his chest. Of course not.... how would you even think of being done, after seeing him like this?

You sat up on your elbows, Alastor still licking his saturated lips. You swallow thickly as you watch him try to regulate his breathing, smoothing the wrinkles in his suit. Suddenly, his legs buckle under his body, as if lightheaded. When he falls to his haunches, you spy a familiar outline in his pants... One that made your mouth dry: an outline of a hardened, WELL hung cock. You nearly moaned at the sight, sitting up fully.

"Do you... do you need some help with that? Or maybe-- maybe you would want to stop here..." Your nerves were getting the best of you, purple swirls flooding your near-pearlescent body (one that you had never witnessed before).

With an airy sigh, Alastor palms himself through his trousers, as if readjusting. He's quick to shake his head," The only condition was that you found your completion... I have no need for such things." You roll your eyes as you lean up, crawling forward. Your shaky legs burned as you finally closed the space between your lips and his, tasting yourself on his tongue. 

Alastor nearly stumbles backward, the call of a startled animal gracing your velvety lips. Alastor's mind lags, eyes blown wide. After a beat, something inside of his mind informs him to return the gesture; he did so heatedly. When you part, your eyes glisten with knowledge and desire.

"Contract be damned. If I can't add a clause... then this one is out of the goodness of my heart," you practically purred, pulling Alastor up by his blazer.

"Whatever's left of that, at least~"

Alastor's breath leaves him, as a familiar throb echoes through his body. That was a dangerous thing to say around a demon like him...

He had little time to stop you before you're both flung onto the bed, your back pressed firmly into the mattress below. Alastor searches your face for hesitation, as if looking for a way out, before he hisses from bliss. One or your warm, treacherous hands finds its place on his crotch, teasing his tense member.

"So what will it be, Alastor...? May I lay claim to you, too?" Alastor's face scrunches up momentarily. He?!? Be owned by YOU? Even in the metaphorical sense, this idea rattled him. Enraged him. He, the Radio Demon, should belong to NO ONE. And even then, he was already entangled in someone else's web...

But, your devilish little fingers were making his stance harder to uphold, his eyes fluttering as you begin to free his cock. His predicament be damned... you simply knew what buttons to press, as if your hand were hovering over them this whole time.

His precum was all that was needed to wet his member, your hand sliding along it with ease. The sensation urked him, but the dizzying pleasure he felt outshined his disdain for his own essence. He hadn't realized that your vulgar display had spurred his pleasure this much.

"You may be walking into a contract you may not be able to fulfill, my dear..." Alastor warns, his eyes wide and glowing from your teasing. His pupils flicker to dials briefly, as if to further illustrate the situation you're in. His voice oozed venom, but his body betrayed him. Your smile almost perfectly mimics his own, a heated kiss being pressed to his neck.

"Then make it a deal I can't possibly refuse...~"

---

You needed little preparation, most of which was drowned out by Alastors wide, hot mouth on yours. Like frenzied animals, you swallowed each other's moans and cries, dry humping and bumping into one another like your lives depended on it. Somehow, Alastor's hand still managed to tease and prepare you, while yours continued to bolster and engorge his member.

Alastor's face was flushed, lips swollen and puffy from your mutual assault when you parted. Clothes were not necessary, and so Alastor was rid of those moments before. As his cock glided between your petals, you again caught a glance, practically daring your to invite him in. And like a cunning vampire, he did not cross the heated ring of your threshold until your practically begged him.

Your head spun as you were speared by his cock, his length not the only impressive part of his manhood. Your eyes watered, a strangled cry hastily mangled by Alastor's lips once more. You heard the radio close by build in volume; perhaps a lackluster attempt to drown your sounds out. Alastor grips your chin tightly when he bottoms out in your silken cavern, his nose brushing yours.

"You are ONLY to make those sounds for me, and no one else... understood?" You gasped as Alastor began to move, your body shaking from the sensation. Old habits would never die, as he treated your mingling like a negotiation.

"Y-Yes sir, Alastor..." A strained groan leaves your partner as his next thrust comes faster, leaving you gapping like a fish out of water.

"I am the only one who may be graced with this ravenous display... understood?" the Demon grit out, his antlers growing in magnitude. You could barely think as you frantically nodded, your hips meeting his thrusts.

"Y-Yes, Al--ahh!! Alastor!" His teeth grazed across your neck cautiously, the location of your jugular so close to his tongue. It thrilled and frightened you to know that one bite would be all it took to end your afterlife. Alastor knew this too, his back arching as he continued to piston into you. He was surprised at how pliable your entrance was... maybe you weren't completely corporal, afterall?

No matter he thought... he would ensure that your body would become perfectly moulded to his cock, unable to stuff anything else within.

Alastor's grip on your hips began to leave marks as his pace became less careful, your breath coming out in quick, pleasured rasps. His name became an intoxicating matra to his ears.

"Yes... yes dear, just like that... Your voice may very well become the star of my next broadcast!!" You squealed as you felt his cock throb within you, arms flying up to wrap around his neck. Alastor rested his chin on the crown of your skull as he continued to seek both of your peaks.

"Y-Yes... yes, I think your shrills... your WAILS of pleasure would be--" Alastor's hips stutter as you clamp down on him. His mind was wavering, and your body cementing him back into the moment.

" N-No... no, you're right. I must have you... MINE, all mine...," he panted as his head lolled forward," How could I forget our arrangement, cher?!"

Your eyes fluttered open as Alastor's blissed out, manic laughter flooded your senses. The petname was not missed by you...

You clung for dear life as your orgasm continued to build,"I-Im yours, Al!!!"

You whined, tilting your head back before Alastor kisses your forehead," Pl-Please... please, make me cum...!" You could feel Alastor's grin strain and widen, a bemused moan leaving him.

"Only when I SAY you can cum, darling!!"

You wailed as Alastor's hips slowed, thrashing beneath the deer demon. Like wild game stuck in a bear trap, you became desperate. His eyes were malicious, tongue running across his teeth cheekily. You could feel his ego building, the control he has in this situation making him all the more hard.

"Pl-Please... fuck, Al-- I mean-- fuck me, Alastor!!"

Alastor's hips delivered a tantilizing thrust, hitting a spot that made you see the Heavens," What was that~? I can't hear you over those cute, pathetic mewls you're making~"

You could barely speak as Alastor continued the slow attack on your most sensitive spot, one that you had not felt in YEARS. You practically screamed for Alastor to fuck you silly, his laughter following a brutal revival in his pace.

" Well, well, well! That's what I like to hear~"

His cock was merciless, the grotesque sounds of flesh striking flesh drowning both of your senses. Your hands clung to anything they could grasp: his cheeks, his shoulders, his back, his hips... your hands explored him desperately. They were almost as desperate as Alastor's cock grew to be.

He was losing himself, he feared. His eyes were half lidded and focused on the way your lips parted, and the way your body recoiled and collided with his... It was almost too much, too much stimulus for him to focus on. He needed something to refocus him: one solid thing to ground him.

As Alastor panted like an animal in heat, you caught the distant look in his eyes. Your expression softened, hands shakily capturing his face. Alastor's eyes left your body, widening as they landed on your eyes again. Though lust and desire swirled in them, your underlying desire was still so pure, so genuine...

"L-Let's-- let's do it together? Okay???"

Alastor was about to retort, an attempt to take back control from the situation. To his horror, your lips were more convincing. He relented, his hips stuttering once more as he felt your walls closing deliciously around him. He could not see the heated way you collided again when you both peaked, his hips coming to a halt. He nearly winced, not meaning to cum inside of you. You didn't seem to mind, as you greedily swallowed up his grunts and fluids.

"Sh-Shit...!"

There were little movements, shaky thrusts and grinds, as the two of your spiraled back down. The room felt like it had melted into a deep void, the two of you being the only objects of interest inside. Alastor collapsed on top of you as the radio hummed quietly beside you, your eyes fluttering open.

"That was... Alastor, that was... perfect," you wheezed. Though Alastor wasn't heavy, his weight still felt suffocating after your intimate romp.

"Was it-- was it good for you, too?" You could not see the slight panic in his eyes, his face buried into your neck. His breath was still labored as his mind was racing.

"It... it was splendid, dear. Absolutely... splendid." You sigh with relief, unable to see the gears spinning in his twisted mind. You patted Alastor's back, signalling him to get up. Alastor squeezed you into a tight embrace, making you chuckle," O-Oh... didn't realize you uhh.... y-yeah, yeah we can cuddle too. I guess that's pretty normal after something like this."

Alastor could only hum in agreement as you rotated the both of you to your sides. You felt your face heat up as your felt Alastor' release slowly trickle out of you. The demon's face left your neck. Instead, he tucked you into his chest, a hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. The gesture was seen as a kind one to you... but to Alastor, it was to prevent you from seeing him like this.

You grew tired as you inhaled deeply, the smell of sex and pine mixing into your senses," I... I'll be honest, I'm not sure if I can walk, but... wake me up in a few minutes...? We can take a nap and clean up soon, 'kay?"

"Of course," Alastor replied, his characteristic filter comforting you," Take all the time you need, mon cher..." You hummed quietly, snuggling just a bit closer as you felt sleep take you.

Alastor huffed, a hand coming up to comb through his sweaty hair. This was MORE than just different... more than some deal or experiment. That felt real. TOO real. He looked down to your sleeping form, eye twitching. And how he relinquished control like that... even though you mutually wanted this... that was scary. Frightening. His shadows loomed higher over the two of you, its expression manic.

Surely he wasn't losing his edge, right? This was just a friend helping out another friend, right? You were a friend who was charming, sweet, and felt... MUCH too soft for her own good.

A taloned hand ran through your hair, surprisingly chaste... He nearly jumped out of his skin as you groaned in your sleep, relaxing into the touch. His shadow disapated. Perhaps he wasn't shaping you to his liking... Perhaps you were shaping each other?

Alastor held you close as he reflected on the experience. One that was most definitely fun and positive... but one that troubled him all the same. He MUST be careful. For both of your sakes. If he got too invested, there would be no telling what would happen to either of you. And, perhaps his most troubling thought...He realized there was, indeed, one demon in Hell that he had grown to care for.

Sleep did not wait long for Alastor... in fact, he fell victim to it swiftly, unable to wake until the next morning, to the subtle sound of your breathing...

[grimowled]

☄ (Only if you want to, of course! ;;>)

☽ morning after thoughts !!

SOFT.

that would be the first thing registered upon waking - not the usual chill of his sheets, nor the residual ache of indulgence left to fester in solitude --no. this would be supple and delicately warm.

(dangerously comfortable.)

his taloned fingers would flex, seeking the texture of silk sheets, only to meet something far more decadent - plush, yielding, DIVINE. he'd exhale, slow and savouring, allowing himself a moment to revel in the sensation - a body, large and cushioned, indulgently curved.

and there, nestled beside him, bathed in the weak glow of dawning light--

himself.

but not quite.

this version of him is softer, rounder --curvier; where the dark prince is all sharp angles, razor-edged poise and elegant severity, this one is unabashed, sumptuous and pillowy decadence, everything he is not - a warm, inviting thing, all gentle contours and sleepy contentment, round where he is sharp, warm where he is cool, draped in softness where he is only thin, aching NEED. and most tantalising of all? the drowsy, serene smile resting on his other self's beak.

(so, it has been a good night.)

a slow, sinful smirk would spread across stolas' expression as he'd let his ravenous gaze wander over his doppelgänger's luxuriant form, tracing the remnants of last night's conquest with unhurried appreciation; he had done this-- coaxed those dreamy sighs, drawn forth that pleased exhaustion, left his mark in the faint ruffles of feathers disturbed by the night's passions.

[sithapprenticemaul]

Hunter ; Hunted

summary: Din thought this would be a simple hunt, that he would succeed where others had failed - he was wrong. Din Djarin has met his match.

word count: 1.5k

pairing: Din Djarin x Sherrif!Reader

warnings: a brief fight, mentions of bruising and cuts

a/n: I was literally cuddling my cat when I got the inspiration for this. reader is so sassy and this is gonna be a slow burn. part one of four or five i think. also my first reader insert which i was so nervous to write bc I've never written like this before. please let me know what you think!

When Greef Karga slid the tracking puck across the table, he had warned Din of the challenge of this bounty. Brushing it off without a second thought, Din eagerly accepted, the staggering amount credits offered worth whatever trouble he could possibly get into. This was an Imperial bounty, and the money would greatly help The Tribe. The small village was out in the middle of nowhere, the nearest spaceport being a three-day journey away by speeder, even longer on foot. Din left the Razor Crest hidden safely in the nearby mountains and made the rest of the journey on foot to not be spotted. The element of surprise was key in his work. Humans and aliens of various races traversed the small village, going about their daily lives. Children played, vendors sold, creatures barked and brayed. None seemed fazed at the sudden appearance of an outsider, let alone one clad so heavily in armour. That should have been Din’s first clue that this hunt was not going to go the way he intended. Din approached the weathered tavern with annoyance and frustration in his stride. He was tired, sweat dripping down his back, the Tatooine twin suns baking him in his protective second skin. He stopped just outside the door, the thrum of the taverns patrons inside making its way to his ears. Taking a moment of respite in the shade of the awning, he readied himself for the challenge ahead of him. He swung the door open, and for one of the few times in his life as a bounty hunter, no one turned to look at him. No stares, no hushed whispers or folk scurrying out of his sight. Just lively chatter of folk enjoying food and drink and the whipping of the wind behind him. The Tavern was dark and dusty, just as one would expect from any building on Tatooine. Din’s target was sitting right in the middle of the bar. He could feel eyes watching him now, but no one made a move to stop him as he approached her. You sighed deeply as you heard the door swing open. You’d fought off many credit hungry hunters who had tried to drag you to your doom before - this would be no different. The floor creaked under Din as he stopped just a few steps behind his bounty, curious as to the events that would unfold. It wasn’t common for him to have bounties that wouldn’t put up at least a little bit of a fight. That should have been Din’s second clue. “At least let me finish my soup”, you said slowly, your voice not betraying the anxiety coursing through you. “This is the best that Kintara has made in a long time.” You winked at the bar tending Pa'lowick in front of you as you tipped your head back and slurped down the last of your lunch. Setting the bowl down in front of you gently and wiping your mouth with your sleeve, you lazily swung yourself around to look at whatever bounty hunting sleemo had come through your town this time. Leaning back casually, you took in the sight of the man before you. He was tall, armour in varying shades of brown covering most of his body, a shining silver helmet hiding away his face. His hand was gently trained on the blaster on his left hip. The Amban sniper rifle was still strapped to his back, indicating this was not meant to be a long and drawn out fight. He wanted this done quick. He made no move toward you - yet. The hubbub in the tavern continued as you and the Mandalorian stared each other down, neither of you giving an inch. And then he spoke. “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.” The corners of your mouth lifted ever so slightly at the vocoded words - typical bounty hunter, always assuming the oncoming struggle would be difficult on you. You, the poor helpless bounty that would help to line his pockets. “I’m not going anywhere, Hunter.” you spoke coolly. “I suggest,” you started as you rose from the barstool, “that you get going before you regret stepping foot in my town.” “Not going to happen. You’re coming with me, warm or cold.” he replied shortly, his voice betraying no hint of what emotion he was feeling. His body was tensed, rigid, awaiting your next move. Din couldn’t help but feel a little fascinated by his bounty and her sheer defiance in the face of danger. What had she seen in her life when a trained Mandalorian did not frighten her? Din frightened everyone. You smoothed out your tunic as you stood, subtly uncovering the blaster in its holster on your hip. You were just a few steps from the hunter. You stepped closer, taunting him into his next move, eyes unwavering. Din kept his eyes on you, suddenly becoming aware of the silence that filled the room but unable to tear his gaze from you. His third clue. He grasped his blaster in anticipation. Someone was about to get shot. You drew up to your full height at the sight of the hunter’s hand on his blaster, your eyes betraying the fury and irritation you now felt. You would not be intimidated by this outworlder on your planet, in your town and in your bar. Especially not during lunch. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you....” In a fraction of a second all hell broke loose. Tables and chairs were knocked over; glasses and plates smashed as the patrons of the bar drew their hidden weapons, taking aim at the Mandalorian from all around him. You knew better than anyone that at this close range he was going to hit you, you at least made sure the blaster bolt wasn’t going between your eyes. You twisted your body and dove to the floor as the bolt hit you in the right shoulder, stinging outrageously before you landed amongst the wreckage on the floor.

Din didn’t have a chance to fire again, his blaster falling from his hand as he held them up in helplessness as someone behind him kicked him to his knees. He was cornered, guns, knives, and other makeshift weapons at every angle around him. While his armour could protect him from a range of weapons, it would do nothing to save him from the knife dangerously close to piercing his body between his armour plating. Had he known the whole town was armed he would have brought more weapons. You hauled yourself up, hissing at the pain as you palm your injured shoulder to stem the bleeding. Another shirt ruined. You stagger back to the centre of the room to get a better look at your assailant. Din was doing his best not to panic, a task made increasing difficulty with all the sharp objects being pressed into his body. He could feel a makeshift blade digging in dangerously close to his rib cage. The bartender, Kintara, had a rifle aimed, not at his head, but at the unprotected flesh between his head and his shoulders, covered only by a few layers of fabric. “I say we kill him now and toss his body in the pit and be back before dinner,” grumbled a voice from behind him. He dared not say a thing, waiting for you to make the next move. He was a Mandalorian, a proud warrior, a fine bounty hunter and he would not resort to bargaining for his life...yet. “Easy Karma. Let’s find out what our trigger-happy friend here knows first,” you spoke clearly for all to hear. An order disguised as a suggestion. You were the law around here. He watched as you sauntered over to him, cradling your injured shoulder, equal parts furious, amused and intrigued at the events that had just unfolded. Din’s breath caught in his throat as you got the closest you had been, crouching down to his level. This was his first real chance to look at you, the woman he was to bring in.

You were beautiful, like a sunrise to be seen nowhere else in the galaxy, or so Din thought. Your hair was dishevelled, yet your face was girlishly aglow with accomplishment, despite the few cuts and bruises forming from your brief brawl.

Your eyes had a mischievous twinkle as you fluttered your eyelashes cheekily at the captive Mandalorian. Your mouth held that familiar small smile. He recognised that smile. It was one he wore many times after a successful hunt.  It was the smile of a predator who had cornered its prey.

“Knock him out and bring me Nebala. I’ll deal with this one myself,” you spoke calmly, standing to your full height and surveying the damage to your bar.

Din didn’t have a chance to protest before a dart hit him in the neck and he slumped with a thud to the floor.

[azure7539arts]

Sword

Pairing: Q/James Bond (00Q)

Prompt(s): Fantasy + Tradesman (for the AU prompt table)

Warning: None

Summary: Once upon a time, there was a prophecy of destruction and resurrection. But that would be a story for another time.

Or: Bond sought out a blacksmith for help. A duel ensued.

A/N: this was supposed to be a drabble... And here we are. Special thanks to @10kiaoi and @solarmorrigan because you two have been hearing me whine about this for days. I’m also very grateful to everyone who has given me words of praise and encouragement throughout my writing process! I hope you all enjoy this!

-

-

“Come back in a week, and pick out your champion.” His voice was deceptively soft for the ramrod iron spine behind those words. “Should your warrior prevail, I will consider giving you help.”

Suddenly, Bond felt his blood boil. “A week? Seclusion or not, surely you must be aware of the civil war that’s raging across the country even as we speak.” 

The blacksmith hummed, that blazing fire from the forge just off to the side casting a burning glow on his person. He seemed almost indifferent yet incredibly focused at the same time, and Bond didn’t understand—

“I’m highly aware. Just as much as I’m aware that you and your men have barely scraped through that last battle by the skin of your teeth.” Bond barely swallowed back an indignant hiss, battle-wearied and tormented. The sheer exhaustion and heavy casualty they’d suffered under the hands of the enemy were bleeding his patience dry. “Raging civil war or not, you can’t tell me you don’t need time to regroup. And I’m not so cruel as to strike you when you’re down in the mud and defenceless either.”

Bond’s hand tightened around the hilt of his broken sword.

And for the first time, the blacksmith smiled.

A sudden chill descended over the sweltering furnace heat of the workshop.

“One week from now at dawn break precise, Lord Bond of Skyfall. No more, no less.”

-

The promised day arrived overcast, windswept with the phantom stench of blood in the air, and the blacksmith stood a lone figure in the meadow, a sword seemingly too heavy held in the loose grip of his hand.

Whatever it was made out of, the blade shone like a bright beacon under this angle of light, pure and unblemished like fresh fallen snow, and Bond couldn’t keep his eyes off it.

“Are you serving as your own champion?” the blacksmith asked, his voice steady and slicing right through the hissing air currents. No pretense of pleasantries.

At least Bond could appreciate that.

Alec shifted warily behind him. He’d asked to fight in Bond’s stead before, many times over the course of last week, in fact, but Bond had turned him down every time. Not least because of the still healing gash in his side. 

Bond had come here to ask for a personal weapon, and a weapon he shall get for himself—through his own damn efforts and no one else’s. The troop’s eyes were on him, and he wouldn’t fail. Not right now.

Not like this.

“Yes,” Bond replied simply.

“Good.”

The fight began in an instant, absolutely without preamble, and by the time their weapons made impact with a loud screech of metal on metal, Bond could still hear the surprised cries of his men not too far away. He gritted his teeth and retaliated using brute force to thrust the blacksmith backward, the twang of that clash just now still traveling up his arm in an uncomfortable, numbing ache.

(He’d been skeptical at first, considering the near unbearable youthfulness that had been evident before his eyes, but now, Bond understood why this blacksmith was revered to be one of the legendary masters of the realm.)

Unsurprisingly, the man landed on his feet without trouble, already springing forth by the next breath drawn, and Bond flexed Alec’s borrowed sword, charging straight ahead also, never one to let himself fall into a state of disadvantage if he could help it.

From that point on, the fight progressed in an almost surreal manner.

The blacksmith engaged with a strange leisured fervor—languid but intense, razor sharp yet unhurried. It was as though he was watching—assessing—and the realization raised Bond’s hackles for the first time. He didn’t mind being watched; he’d grown up practically in the eyes of the public, but it was a different thing altogether when he couldn’t tell what he was being watched for.

At least the stormy depths of those cryptic eyes with their ever-changing colors didn’t seem to conceal any malicious intents. And Bond would know; he’d encountered too many backstabbers not to.

“James!”

Bond barely dodged the upward swing that had been close to slitting his throat clean open. Distantly, he wondered if he really had gotten lucky there, but whatever the answer was, the tip of the sword managed to nick him anyway, fresh blood spilling bright red and hot from the veins. He clutched at his neck with a sharp hiss now, eyes narrowed and chest slightly heaving with elevated breaths.

Annoyance flared a bright solar burst underneath the rapid beating of his heart, but Bond calmed down from the sole comfort that his challenger wasn’t doing too well, either. Bond smirked, all teeth and a little predatory.

He had landed a rather vicious kick himself, and judging from how the blacksmith was somewhat hunched over right then instead of reassuming his initial firm, unwavering stance, Bond must’ve caused a bit of damage, too.

Mutual points for both parties, so it would appear. 

Bond looked down to eye at those small indents that had started to chip off from the body of Alec’s once intact sword, and lowered his sticky hand.

“Let’s finish this.”

Despite the fact that the blacksmith’s techniques were a combination of oddities that Bond hadn’t really witnessed before, he still had his real-world experiences from being in and out of active combat for the last ten years or so. Still had all his knowledge from starting out on his courses for martial training twice longer. And Bond could see, with observation and a survival instinct honed through the countless storms of his youth, where the openings of his opponent lay.

That was more than enough.

Bond swung, then, with a turn of his arm, sharply twisted the motion upward. 

Alec’s blade fractured with a resounding clang, but in that singular moment in time, Bond couldn’t find it in himself to be concerned. He reached out and snatched the blacksmith’s flung sword from midair.

It settled into his palm a perfect, balanced weight.

“Impatient bastard,” came a whispered breath.

But Bond couldn’t quite hear it. The words, much like the subsequent clamoring of his men, morphed a jumbled mess in his ears as a whiplash of energy seized up the length of his arm in a shock of lightning from where he was gripping this sword. Glowing runes began materializing along its steel, and Bond sucked in a gulp of air through his teeth.

What felt like just a flawlessly crafted weapon a second ago now bore a sheer familiarity that rendered him incredulous. The sword felt right in his hand, as though itself a newly added extension of him, and its metal rang a vibration that burrowed deep like a blood covenant woven through his very flesh and bones, a humming song of satisfaction and protection.

When Bond realized to lift his head back up again, caught up in the tail end of a dizzying spell, it was to find both himself and the blacksmith encased in a ring of fire. From the looks of things, Alec and his troops were currently trying to find a way to get past the flames, with very little to no success.

The blacksmith stood before him, unbothered by the razing chaos all around, another smile tugging at the corner of his lips while specks of amber seared gilded brands of molten iron in the pools of those eyes.

He was far too calm. Too knowing.

“I won,” Bond said, voice low and unexpectedly hoarse.

“And the sword has chosen you as its first and final master.” He nodded, amused. “It was practically trying to leap out of my hand the second it tasted your blood.”

Bond frowned, storing away the casual implication that the sword—his sword—was at least partially sentient for later inspection.

He had more important matters to investigate at the moment.

“It’s yours to keep now. You can even give it a name—”

“Did you put a curse on this?”

The other man blinked, momentarily blindsided and flustered for the first time since they’d met. “What—A curse? Why would I do that?”

“Then, what is your play here, Battlemage?” Bond ground out, nearly spitting the word. “Posturing as a simple blacksmith.”

Said Battlemage stopped now, head tilting to the side, expression sharpening into a simmering stillness and lethality that sent a shiver up Bond’s spine. While Bond maintained that he was the one spearheading this interrogation, the immense presence of that unblinking stare still made him feel stripped bare and oddly vulnerable. Not unlike a pinned up specimen trapped under a cold and merciless gaze.

(He would quickly learn, after this, that he’d be better off not having this particular side of the battlemage directed at him and his men. For obvious safety reasons.)

“I didn’t posture as anything. I create weapons for my own pleasure,” he replied slowly. “I’ve never claimed to be a blacksmith, nor have I ever called myself one.”

Bond paused, mouth twisting. He recalled their last encounter, knew this to be true. Regardless, there were still too many questions left unanswered. And in a war of this calibre, he’d rather not needlessly risk his followers’ lives and well-being. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re trying to accomplish. Why are you doing this?”

“The opposition has taken to deploying sorcerers to decimate your troops and allies because your king has deprived his people of magic for so long, it’s now become a weakness to be exploited. By one of your very own.”

Such a blatant tone of derision jarred, and Bond clenched his jaws in an involuntary response. However, at the same time, only Alec had ever spoken to him in this kind of straightforward manner, but not really quite so, even then. Not quite like this.

“But you’re not your imbecilic king—you’re a pragmatic man. You understand that this situation requires a proper measure of counterattack,” the Battlemage carried on, that lilting quality to his speech belay the ripping knives behind every word. “I can be that counterattack.”

It was Bond’s turn to stare. To say that he was startled would be an understatement. True sorcerers were already few and far between, but actual battlemages were of a different breed altogether. 

Skilled in not just the arts of war and physical combat, they were also rumored to possess great enough magical capabilities to change even the tides of battles on the precipice of imminent defeat. The appearance of a battlemage had only been recorded throughout the known history for a handful of times, all of which were critical turning points that had marked either the end or the beginning of an era.

The most important thing? 

No side with the support of a battlemage had ever lost.

“Why?” Bond swallowed. Anyone else would call him a fool for being stubborn, for keeping on pressing. One shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and all that. But Bond didn’t do blind trust—he refused to. “We don’t know each other. There’s no reason for you to help me.”

The Battlemage looked a hair’s breadth away from rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Let me ask you this, then: what made you decide to seek out my help?”

“Because—” Briefly, Bond considered lying, but went against it in the end. “Because your reputation precedes you.”

The answer seemed to lend the Battlemage a gratified edge. “And the same goes for yours.” A fresh gust of wind blew, and Bond realized that the unnatural fire surrounding them was finally easing down to a manageable dwindle. “Besides, my weapons have never chosen wrong.”

The Battlemage extended a hand. “So, what do you say, O’ Lord Bond of Skyfall?”

His mind went blank, but somehow, Bond already knew what to do. As though right from the start, this had always been how it was meant to go.

Bond took the offered hand and felt the promised inevitability of it rest upon him undemanding, steadfast and strong.

He understood it now.

The outcome of the product would only ever be as good as the craftsman who created it.

“How should I address you?" he asked.

And the Battlemage smiled. "You can call me Q."

[techni-kolor]

Shards of the Self

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29855823

"Are you really gonna keep that up all night?"

Daisy's drawl shattered the silence of the office, the dull irritation in it more of a thud than a slice amidst the dusty air.

"Keep what up?" Jon raised his gaze slowly from the sheaf of papers. "Working?"

"No. Not sure you could stop that if you tried." Daisy huffed. "I meant the hair thing."

"The hair thing?"

"Yeah, the hair thing."

For a split second, Jon considered if predators had even developed the ability to communicate other than to most effectively kill their prey. "What specifically about my hair?"

"It's too long."

"Well, yes. I suppose– it has been a while since I've cut it. I'm not sure how that affects you though."

Daisy huffed out another breath. "You keep flicking it."

She carded a hand through her own pixie cut, mimicking the motion by shoving her meager curls away in a caricature that wasn't quite accurate with her short strands.

"And that's–"

"Annoying." Daisy cut him off sharply.

"Right." Jon let his own sigh deflate his chest. "I suppose there isn't a way to convince you to ignore my own actions with my own hair?"

"No."

Abruptly, an image of a pack of hyenas flashed through Jon's mind. Their uncoordinated efforts at conversing leading to no discernible outcome or benefit.

"What do you want me to even do then? A hair tie?"

Daisy's gray irises tracked down his face, lingering on the curls that framed his cheekbones.

Unconsciously, one of his hands rose up to cradle the edges of them.

"You've got scissors, right?"

"No." Jon said stiffly. "Well, er, yes. But, no. You're not cutting my hair."

Daisy huffed out another breath; her sigh total nearing the dozens for the night. "Just a trim. Not even a few inches. So it’ll be out of your face at least."

"I–" Jon broke off. Attempting to understand the infuriating nature of her vagueness, as always, as futile as scraping nails across a chalkboard when she wasn't in the mood to be open. "I don't want to cut my hair."

"You should."

"Not because you say so."

Daisy's lips curled up into a smirk. "So, it's about rebellion, then?"

"I don't need to justify why I don't want to alter my own body simply because you decided it's annoying." Jon muttered sharply, only a hint of the bitterness seeping into the words.

"Not just me though, right?" Daisy's canines flashed in the dim light. "You've got a reason for keeping it like that."

"Yes, sure, of course, I do. Not that we've been effectively trapped here for years." Jon stressed the sarcasm harshly.

"You get curries sometimes."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Jon huffed.

Daisy shrugged, her hand ruffling back through her sparse bangs. "You do leave for some things."

Jon fought to eke out a last bit of patience from where it was buried under years of tumultuous anxiety. "Yes, well. I do count food as more of a necessity than a haircut."

"But, you could if you'd like."

"But I don't want to." Jon scowled.

Daisy's sigh deepened into a breathy chuckle that felt a bit too similar to a cackle. "Then, there's a reason. Isn't that all of what your Watcher's stuff is about?"

Jon leaned back against the metal of the chair; ignoring the whisper of his thoughts that he was more exposed in a reclined position. "Maybe the reason is that I just like it."

"Since when do you like anything?"

"I like things."

"Name one."

"I like–" Jon wracked his thoughts for a suitable answer that wouldn't give her claws any purchase. "I like The Archers."

"You fucking hate The Archers."

Jon felt his lips twist into a frown, his eyebrows drawing in towards the edges of his corneas. "I listen to them."

"Doesn't mean you enjoy it." Daisy stretched upward, her joints creaking with the motion and the low quality of the chair she'd chosen to hunker in for the night, before her eyes pinned back onto him. "You don't like your hair."

"What if you are correct?" Jon asked. "What's your aim in all of this?"

"I was going to cut it for you."

Jon had an abrupt flash of a hyena's grin melded into a storming forest and a slit across his trachea. "I'm not exactly a fan of that idea."

Daisy sprawled back into the chair as far as her nature would allow. "You're not a fan of your hair either."

"If I recall." Jon said dryly. "You're the one who's not a fan of my hair."

Daisy scoffed. "You just admitted to not liking it."

"That doesn't mean that I'm going to let you hack it all off."

Daisy's eyes narrowed. "That's your problem in life."

"What? That I won't allow an unhinged fear avatar to slice off parts of my body? That's not exactly an irrational issue to have."

There was a terse silence as Daisy's jaw twitched, clearly chewing on the words, and Jon swallowed, his throat abruptly bone dry and his meager survival instincts screaming at him to gulp the admittance back.

"How about," Daisy's drawl broke the quiet in a strange deja vu. "You hold the scissors."

"What?"

"You hold them." Daisy's body rippled in a faux loose motion. "You cut it yourself and I'll hold the mirror or something else like that."

Jon debated the merits of arguing that regardless of who was doing the cutting; he wasn't in the market for a haircut, before hitting the sharp wall of acquisition. One that may have been painted the steel gray of Daisy's irises, but in all truth was adorned with all of his own picture frames. "Alright."

"Right." Daisy nodded briskly. "Let's get to it, then."

"Now?"

"Yes, now." Daisy huffed, irritated. "All you bloody watchers. All talk and no action."

Jon fought the impulse to snap out a few words about predators and lack of clear communication, but instead merely sighed.

"Would you–"

"They're in the top left underneath the book about indigenous tree species." Daisy drawled, clearly anticipating his request and foiling it.

"Yes, right." Jon shook off the intrinsic tinge of fear that her bland answer had sparked.

The faintest bit shakily, he jerked open the drawer and withdrew the thin desk shears. They were no replacement for the sharp razors a barber would have used, but they held an edge and the shape of them slotted neatly in his hand.

"You're gonna need a mirror." Daisy's voice broke through his reverie of the blade.

"Yes, of– of course."

"Here." Before he could rifle through the desk for something reflective, Daisy produced her cell phone with the camera reversed, holding it an arms length out from her so that it rested within an easy range for him.

"Right." Jon nodded, carefully arranging himself in front of the screen with the scissors held adjacent in one palm. "Let's– let's do this."

Without further preamble, he snipped at the edge of one lock.

It fluttered down in almost slow motion; the thick weight of it sinking almost instantly to the floor, but the weight of its emotional toll suspending it for what felt as though it was hours.

Jon watched it with a distant gaze. As if the neatly sliced curl wasn't a direct consequence of his own hand.

"Right, there." Daisy's smirk was audible. "You'll be cleaned up in no time."

Jon jerked his gaze up to her. The feathery bits of her own pixie cut laid flat against her scalp after being mussed earlier, and the glint in her eye was half predatory and half of what he wished wasn't understanding.

"Is it–" He broke off. "How short?"

Daisy shrugged, the camera angle bouncing with the motion. "S'up to you."

"Is any of this really up to me?"

There was another of their stiff silences; the weight of the question pressed down harshly against both of their chests.

"This is." Daisy said, her voice quiet but firm.

Jon slowly raised his eyes back to hers.

The same smirk as always tugged at the edge of her mouth and compounded by the dull bluntness of her voice, it almost appeared careless. Yet, deep underneath, he could feel the tug of sincerity in her steely expression and see just a hint of her reasoning in the animalistic dilation of her pupils. And possibly, there was just the faintest bit of empathy etched into the drawn lines of her face.

"Yes, I suppose it is."

Jon inhaled, feeling his chest expand free of the restraints that had been pushing on it since she had first spoken.

Slowly, he raised the scissors back and began to carefully prune back the wild edges of his curls. Carefully, snipping each one to a length that cleared his vision and brushed the coarseness of them back behind his cheeks to where they didn't form a curtain across his face.

As they fell, he didn't watch them.

Instead, he trained his gaze upon the mirror and behind it the flicker of approval in Daisy's irises and the soft glow of his own. Both removed from the realities of life for a simple second and both relishing the feeling of control within the tiny split they had cracked into reality.

When Jon was finished, his curls laid smoothly in their rings and the length of them wasn't scraping as much as it was grounding.

And, his view of Daisy's feather-light waves had abruptly twisted from utilitarian to a luxury; especially as the hints of sympathy in her eyes spoke more than articulation ever could.

[shardweavers]

Chapter 11 - Tense Negotiations

Emet-Selch awoke with a start, sweat on his brow, his golden eyes flashing open--and quickly recognized the room in the Pendants, felt the cooling pulse of his blood.

'Just a dream, then,' he thought to himself...perhaps it was silly to be relieved, but he felt so nonetheless. A quick glance downward confirmed for the Paragon that Shoto was still asleep in his arms...he let himself breathe out a soft sigh, his formerly racing heart returning to a normal and steady rhythm. He was glad, too, that his nightmare hadn't woken her, he found.

'...For convenience's sake, of course. She'd fuss if I woke her with a nightmare, and I'd grumble, and I'd be right to. Such things are beneath me.'

...The moment he thought it, he recognized that line of thought as complete rationalization. Convenience's sake, his foot. If anyone else had said something like that to him, he'd have laughed in their face, told them straightforwardly that they were deep in denial. The only grain of truth there was that he did resent the nightmare, because it was beneath him.

But he was glad he hadn't woken her because of the peaceful smile on her face, and the soft warmth of her body against his (her temperature had leveled out! It was nearly back to normal), and the desire to protect those things, to protect her , which was worming its way into his long-empty heart like a particularly pernicious flowering vine.

...He wanted to ask why. Shoto wasn't...

Hythlodaeus saw the color. So do you, his traitor mind whispered to him.

That didn't mean anything! Colors could be very similar, especially when one dealt with souls!

You started talking to her about the Bond of Eternity what, five minutes after your reunion?

It had been closer to three bells! And she'd asked! What was the harm in answering mortal questions?

You tell me, brilliant Angel of Truth.

Hades closed his eyes and growled wordlessly at himself to be silent--

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!!

The Ascian blinked in surprise.

'I didn't say anything! Or--'

The door made another helpful repetition of the sound of impact, accentuated by the sound of splintering and the glint of a blade piercing through the door. Ah. So this wasn't an errant accident of sorcery, or some problem presented by his newly sundered, newly limited form. No, this was because the door was under attack.

Now Shoto was stirring, although this was fairly natural given the circumstances. He gave the door a positively venomous glare as he began to extricate himself from the sleeping embrace he'd ended up in with her...

'Very well then, my old friend. You promised I could still make nations tremble,' he thought in Elidibus' general direction, a cruel smirk creasing his lips. 'Let's see how true that is.'

* * * Ice had tried the doorknob exactly once. It was locked and not willing to budge, which only contributed to his state of fury. After that, he decided not to bother with the door. He'd apologize to Shoto later. He'd even craft her a new door, a better door. This one had to go.

He slammed his axe into the door's latch mechanism, bringing it down like the knob and the lock were a gremlin in desperate need of smiting. The lock shuddered at the first several strikes, and then gave way completely--but the latch was still stuck. Snarling, Ice grit his teeth and violently slammed his foot into the door; the door creaked in protest, and he heard wood snapping.

With one more mighty blow of his axe, the door was shattered in two pieces, and Ice leapt into the room, his voice a roar. "EMET-SELCH!!! FACE ME, YOU COWARD!!!"

The object of his challenge... looked up from the bed, where he was bent like a vampire over Shoto's slowly stirring form. Like he'd...!!

Ice's anger hit a new fever pitch, one he hadn't known existed. Nothing could hold him back now. "Holmgang! " he invoked, the command word seething with magical power--golden chains, lined with an aura of fire, wrapped around Emet-Selch's arms, binding the Ascian in place, keeping him away from Ice's friend, though he was still far too close...

Ice could split the difference. He invoked the rite of Nascent Flash, his aether surging through the earth to flash a bright green, vaguely dome-like envelope of energy over Shoto's form momentarily. That'd protect her; now he could focus on Emet-Selch...!! His axe sparking along the floor, he charged.

Hades' eyes narrowed and flared with energy as his own aether surged with power; his dark lips moved, impossible words spilling from his lips, the ancient incantation finding form as tendrils of shadow that blasted outwards in a cone, slamming into the axe and stopping its mighty swing cold, several fulms from the Ascian's body. He cracked his neck and the golden chains snapped.

"I might've known it'd be you, little Warrior," the Paragon drawled, his voice dripping with contempt. "Careless, hotheaded, eager to please your accursed Mother. Tch. Perhaps you might try cooling your heels? Using your words?"

"SHUT UP!" Ice snarled. "I'll kill you all over again for what you've done to her...for how you used him...!!" He brought back the axe and an aura of aetheric power flared around his blade as he struck from another angle; the Ascian snapped his fingers, and sparks flew from the impact point as it met a barrier of violet shadows.

"Or, I suppose, you could spout nonsense at me, and we could be reduced to barbarism," Emet-Selch sighed, rolling his eyes. "I've done nothing to anyone, fool."

"LIAR!!!"

The aether around the axe-blade flared to a brilliant blue zenith, seared like a white-hot flame as it released in a single, violent cleaving motion that tore through the barrier of shadow; the swing had lost its momentum, though, and only nicked Emet-Selch's cheek, bringing a bright red line of blood from the Ascian's skin, dripping down his face.

The teeth of the Paragon ground together.

"...But if you are going to insist on being a violent cur," he hissed, "I'll gladly discipline you."

Shadows swam around the Ascian, and for a moment his form seemed massive, inhuman, horrifying--then they solidified around his right arm, burning black and red, forming the mighty claw of his Elder Form. With an effortless swipe, he slashed across Ice's chest, shearing through the thick leather, and sending the Warrior flying into the wall with an enormous crash. Bowls and plates left on a nearby table tumbled to the ground.

Ice's vision swam, and he coughed. His ears were ringing--he heard someone calling his name. Had to get up.

Shoto's awakening, if it could be called that, was both rude and violent, but it was also slow. She recognized the sounds of a fight before she was fully awake--it made her ears back and her hair stand on end. As her eyes opened, blinked through the cobwebs of sleep, she was already trying to scramble out of bed, fighting the covers...her mind spun as she tried to orient herself, figure out where she was and what was happening more fully.

It was the exchange of words between Emet-Selch and Ice that jogged her groggy memory--she'd overdone it, collapsed, fallen asleep against the Ascian; her face flushed at the realization, but adrenaline overpowered embarrassment or her emotional turmoil. She had no idea how Ice had gotten in here, but that wasn't important right now; scrambling to leave the bed, she made it instead to the floor, on one knee; raising her hands, she looked between Ice and the Ascian to try and calm the situation down.

"H-Hold! Both of you--Ice! Please, just listen--"

"Run, Shoto. Get away from this monster... I'll keep him occupied!"

The Warrior was too dazed and far too angry to turn his attention away from Emet-Selch; being thrown into the wall and the table had only solidified and redoubled his fury. He shook his head to clear it, then used his axe to stand up once more; his expression hardened with resolve. Emet-Selch had proven himself just as dangerous as he ever was, and Ice meant to answer him in kind.

"That's not..." Shoto began, but Ice charged forwards once again; a red, aetheric aura swirling around him as his eyes flickered red; he brought down his greataxe in a wide curve, merciless, towards Hades.

The Ascian sneered and snapped his fingers. A shield of dark violet energies, seething and hissing, met the greataxe's blade like a wall. Emet-Selch wasn't done; whipping up his other hand, he gestured sharply with two fingers, his dark-tinted aether surging around him as ornate circles of Amaurotine glyphs formed in mid-air...

Bolts of dark violet, almost crystallized energy were loosed from each circle like missiles, flying at Ice; they struck with explosive force when they hit, driving the Warrior back once more and turning the already damaged table and chairs into confetti. Shoto's ears were ringing, and her vision swam.

It was into this melee that Angel was thrust when he arrived, breathless and shaking; his husband's charge and the destruction of Shoto's door had drawn the attention of half the Pendants, and Angel had been forced to push past several valid, groggy inquiries from their neighbors. But like Ice, Angel's focus was razor-sharp; the White Mage had broken into a sprint when he saw the destroyed door, and he nearly tumbled over the threshold...his eyes snapped to his husband before he even registered Shoto or spoke a word. Before he could, however, Emet-Selch snapped his hand across in a savage chop, and a wall of shadowy projectiles seemed to form, thrumming in mid-air.

"Angel...No! GET DOWN!!" Ice shouted; leaping between Angel and the incoming bolts, he concentrated his aether into a sphere of crimson energy, golden thorns seeming to encircle him and crackle off his form as Hades' shadowy energy blasts slammed home. They hurt, especially now that he was taking the full force of the assault, but far less than they might have; he could simply shake this damage off. 

"Ice...! I-I've, I've got you!" Angel managed; with a gesture, his cane was in his hand, and magical words of healing left his lips, the soft blue light of his White Magic seeming to gently wash away Ice's wounds. The Warrior cracked his neck and gave a confident smirk to their opponent, whose eyes only narrowed in scorn.

Shoto coughed from the floor and struggled her way to a standing position, trying to wave away dust. She opened her mouth to demand they lis--

The glowing form of an Emerald Carbuncle soared through the room towards the Ascian's face, its tiny claws swiping across his cheek before the Paragon could counter, leaving him to stumble back and send a blind lash of shadowy power in its general direction. The nimble familiar dodged, weaved, and leapt back to the side of Yuki, the Summoner already unfurling her grimoire as she stepped through the ruined doorway; her violet-haired Dragoon compatriot rushed in after her, calling his spear out of the aether as his armor clicked into proper place.

"Not every day a nemesis comes back from the dead," the Viera quipped under her breath to Sumire, before her attentions were consumed with calling ruinous energies into her fingertips, her hand weaving arcanima patterns; a massive burst of the energies screamed towards Emet-Selch, who barely managed to stop it with a swipe of his left hand. His glare had shifted from scornful to murderous....

And as they watched, his lips curled into a cruel grin.

"Fine. All of you, then," the Ascian purred. 

He raised his right hand and languidly circled his wrist three times, cracking his neck. And then he snapped his fingers, sharply.

Panels of dark crystal, perfectly cut into squares, formed at his command, like doors in reality. A moonlight glow built in them all as they arranged themselves into a lethal array. Shoto's eyes went wide and she built her voice to scream, this was too much, they had to stop, everyone had to--

The array fired, beams of shadow screaming towards the assembled Warriors of Light and Darkness, save Shoto, and would've torn through armor and flesh had it not been for a brilliant sky-blue barrier of burning energy, a sanctuary amidst the storm, emanating from Angel's aether and the shining, beacon-like zenith of his cane, his White Magic redoubling to keep his companions safe from harm, though it only kept safe about a fulm's length all around them.

The bench to Angel's left hadn't been so lucky, the beams having carved it neatly into two pieces. Nor had Shoto's armoire--the same dresser that Shoto had fetched her sheets from and Emet-Selch's current attire was now full of smoldering holes. Nothing in the entryway was in decent shape by any stretch of the imagination, and the fight didn't seem to show many signs of letting up; indeed, Hades, his amber eyes glowing and a soft, almost soundless chuckle coming from his lips, had raised his fingers and snapped again.

Another array of arcane projectiles, forged from those same ornate gates of shadow in the air, beckoned to his call. Despite the sounds of armored boots in the hallway, and shouts of "Wicked White!" and "in the name of the Exarch!", Hades didn't stop--even as Crystarium guards piled into the room, he let the arcane arrows fly, leaving terrible wakes of violet destruction as they screamed down.

Angel squeaked and winced visibly in terror, but though his fear was evident, his willingness to stand fast and the magical asylum he was providing with his shield of light only redoubled, the field widening; he knew the only real course of action was to make sure the shield encompassed everyone and stayed solid, and though it meant he couldn't move, though he was staring death in the face, he didn't falter. Ice swung his axe to deflect an incoming bolt, and Sumire leapt into action, three of the projectiles ricocheting off his spinning spear as he moved acrobatically. Even the little carbuncle contributed, leaping up to deflect one of the arcane projectiles with a shield of its own, so that once more the primary casualty was Shoto's apartment, as the damaged armoire was now turned into a mess of wood splinters and cloth, and a ricochet nearly took off the headboard of the bed.

But what triumph they had was short-lived. Hades' fingers snapped again, and another volley cracked Angel's shield; the energies wavered. The White Mage's concentration held it in place, but he was clearly struggling; there was no way the barrier would survive another round of attacks. Ice bit his lip as he looked over his shoulder at his husband, then his gaze flicked back to Emet-Selch--there was no opening to attack the Ascian just yet, a fact he could tell Sumire was grimly aware of too. Yuki was tracing arcanima patterns to call a large burst of ruinous power from her hands, but the Ascian had noticed this well enough, and looked to be calling his shadowy aetheric shield back into form...

Shoto's voice, after the cavalcade of interruptions, finally rang out through the conflict. "STOP THIS!" she cried out, standing up shakily and on unsteady legs, her eyes pleading with Emet-Selch, begging him to listen. Surprisingly, the Paragon's attention turned to her, wavered--

In a misjudgment worthy of the Azure Dragoon himself, Sumire took the brief opening, leaping and diving for the Ascian's position; indeed, he'd been so quick to leap, that the Scholar hadn't had time to register that he'd even moved. 

But his weapon didn't strike true. Hades swung up his hand and focused the shield of darkness around the driving lance-point, his eyes filled with cold aggravation as they locked with Sumire; the hapless Dragoon tried to drive his weapon through the Ascian's dark shield, to no avail. The Paragon's other arm shot up as he directed dark tendrils from the ground, and the Dragoon tried to propel himself back, but only ended up taking the shadow-tendril square to the chest. Yuki growled loudly at the sight, then quickly fired her gathered blast of energy as her carbuncle jumped forwards and spun to slash the Ascian. The blast was swatted aside by the tendrils, into the privacy screen by the door, which was now more a series of privacy splinters, while the carbuncle herself was knocked into Angel's barrier with a surprised squeak.

Angel's barrier shattered on impact, and the carbuncle hit him in the chest. He fell back onto the broken bench, which couldn't catch him properly. The White Mage landed on his knees with the carbuncle in front of him.

"Angel!?" Ice turned, forgetting the Ascian for a moment, to check on his husband. Angel was out of breath as he knelt on the ground. Ice lowered his axe, put a hand on the White Mage's shoulder, and felt him shaking a bit from having maintained that barrier longer than he should have. "Are you alright...?!"

Angel's ears pinned back against his head with his eyes shut. He shook his head in response, "No... No more... stop." His voice was barely a whisper. 

The guards were trying not to panic; one of them fired a crossbow bolt at Emet-Selch, which was cast aside by another tendril of shadow as the Angel of Truth closed his eyes in grim concentration, calling his dark arrows to him again. Sumire was standing up, painfully, Yuki's carbuncle covering him as the Summoner ran forwards and tugged Shoto back, trying to get her away from the zone of destruction that was rapidly enveloping the entire room.

Anubis growled in Angel's head, begging the White Mage to let him try and settle this.

《 Angel! Please! I know I might not win... but you know I can give enough time to turn the tide in our favor! 》

"S-Stop... please," Angel begged quietly, as he clenched his eyes tighter. 

At the same time, Shoto spoke the same words; desperate and loud. Ice stood and turned towards the Ascian, snarling; and once more, the Ascian snapped his fingers, volleys of destruction shearing down. The Warrior deflected a few more arrows that had been aimed towards the guards beside him; which completely disintegrated the bench nearby them and the couch behind them. 

The White Mage's ears flicked at a soft ringing within them; a sound he'd long-since associated with Anubis... along with the itchy feeling around his neck. He didn't want to set the room ablaze, nor try to freeze someone into a block of ice. Those desires and impulses weren't his, they couldn't be...

Anubis growled louder in frustration, then snapped sharply and loudly in Angel's head. 

《 Let me fight this battle for you! 》

Angel took a sharp breath in at those words, and it caught in his throat; his eyes suddenly flew open. Another arcane spear clipped his cheek as it suddenly flew past him; he should have dodged in fear, but he knelt there frozen and wide-eyed.

Words instantly came to mind, the name 'Asopus' was whispered into his ears. Another word bubbled up... A name he felt he hadn't said in a long time, yet did not recall naming any of his strays such...

《 Angel! Answer me!! 》

"A..."

The White Mage hesitated, but his husband flew past him once more, back towards the wall, slapped by one of the shadowy tendrils Emet-Selch was wielding, as the Paragon simply focused his shield of darkness against the full-strength cleave that Ice had brought down. The Warrior angrily got right back up, but he paused as he looked over to Angel. 

One word was cried out, echoing over the fighting in a scared and desperate voice. 

"Ambrosia!!"

In the midst of calling his mirrors forth again, Emet-Selch paused, blinking, distracted for the second time this fight. His thoughts of vengeance, the high of reveling in his own power, were cut off...that name. He knew that name. How...?

A quick, chimed bell echoed; it was similar in sound to a carbuncle or a faerie when they were summoned, but... the tone was more unique. In front of Angel landed the glowing, orange cat that Ice had recognized last night as Tora. Sumire and Yuki had stopped short as well, since it looked like the phantom cat that had led them to Angel last night. Shoto's own voice was stopped as she noticed the glowing, orange cat in front of Angel... who had confessed to strange creatures appearing around him.

Sharp bells followed the creature's swift leaps; the first was from in front of the visibly stunned Angel, directly at Ice.

The Warrior had every intention to return to the fight, but the ghost cat tackled him in the chest and knocked him back onto his ass; he landed on the remnants of the couch. He reached up to rub at his chest; that had felt pretty solid to be a "ghost"...

The creature's next two leaps were from Ice to the floor, then tackled the Ascian right in the upper chest. It had tried to hit his throat, judging by its angle. Emet-Selch had been distracted enough to take the full, rolling tackle, and bounced onto the damaged bed; which broke it completely. Between Ice and Emet-Selch, the cat seemed to gain two new tails. Its final leap was to keep one of the younger guards from taking advantage of the Ascian's stun and attacking him with a sword strike; and it seemed to gain some fluff upon impact.

The creature then landed between the others and a silent, stunned Angel; a lean, fluffy, orange creature with three tails and tiny paws. On its head was a golden triangle that faded into the orange by the time it hit the back. The creature's eyes were glowing a bright gold. It twitched rhythmically, echoing a carbuncle... but it was not one itself. Soft, soothing bells rang gently as it looked to Angel and moved its mouth, who seemed to hear something.

Tears fell, unbidden, from the Miqo'te's emerald eyes; he still knelt there stunned, and wide-eyed. After a moment's pause, Angel nodded once; the creature bounded over to him, then leapt as if to tackle again.

"Ang--" Ice started, but his husband held out his arms to catch it. It moved swiftly, but Angel somehow did just that. The mage felt the creature happily nuzzle under his chin before it disappeared into a burst of soft bells. His breath hitched as he forced himself not to burst into tears. He didn't understand why he felt this way, nor what exactly had just happened. Ice hurried back to his side, and put an arm over his back.

Emet-Selch stood up and recovered from the tackle. He moved to seize the moment, but immediately felt Shoto's arms wrap around his waist from beside him. When had she moved over to him? He was unsure... but there were tears on her face, and her voice threatened to break as she looked up to him. 

...He was suddenly aware that, now that he wasn't indulging in the power of his arcana...he felt...very tired. That had been...That had been all he could do, right now, like this.

"Stop it..." She couldn't watch him harm her friends; this was entirely her fault. She dropped her forehead against his chest as she held on. She tried to hide her tears, her voice quieted to a whisper " ...please. "

Sumire looked to Yuki, who was focused on the Ascian, and growling; neither of them knew what to do. Angel was still trying to deal with the sudden, strange, new feelings and emotions he couldn't place, with Ice's support. The guards, of course, were terrified, confused, and understandably on the defensive.

There was a moment of silence and stillness after Shoto's plea... then the tendrils and aura of darkness died down and faded away, the shadows around him melting like they'd never been there. His touch was gentle and unexpected; fingers moved under her chin to get her to look up at him. His thumb then moved across her cheek to wipe away some of her tears; his voice quiet, and barely audible, even a little brittle. "There's no need to cry, hero."

Immediately after his defenses were gone, another word was sharply called from behind the Crystarium guards.

"Break!"

Emet-Selch hitched as his body's movement was severely slowed. Violet and black swirls of energy clung to his legs. Immediately after, a sharp clang of metal against tile bound the Ascian's wrists together with blue crystal. Shoto stumbled back away from the Paragon. Angel jumped at the sudden spell. The guards turned, then stepped aside for the Crystal Exarch.

His guard captain, Lyna, followed him, the Viis blinking at the devastation that had been wrought on Shoto's corner of the Pendants. She whispered a quiet, surprised "Wicked White" to the scene.

The Crystal Exarch focused solely on Emet-Selch despite the work to keep him controlled. His face was quite cold; his ruby eyes glared piercingly through the Ascian as he stood powerfully before him. He stood between this threat and his friends as well as the people of the Crystarium. Everything in his stance showed this without a word spoken.

Angel looked up, focused on G'raha. Ice gently hugged him, and he leaned into his husband's protective hold, but felt like he needed to watch his friend standing before them.

"Is all of this really necessary, dearest Exarch?" Hades tried for bravado, but found his own voice felt surprisingly...petulant, given the situation.

"Pray forgive the abundance of caution," the Exarch's face was still stern, but a slight growl underlaid the rest of his sentence. "But you shot me in the back once before, and I thought it best to make sure history did not repeat itself."

Ice felt his husband jerk against him with a hitched breath and a squeak at the mention. Angel clearly recalled seeing G'raha drop in front of him, and he remembered feeling suddenly very cold... and he knew he'd called out his name, but... he remembered nothing else. Ice; and the others; however would remember the momentary image of a Sin Eater that flickered over the White Mage's features. It hadn't been brought up again since it happened... The Warrior hugged the mage against him protectively, and whispered that it was okay. They weren't all on the edge of bursting with Primordial Light anymore, but Angel had just summoned a strange creature and could probably summon something else. Anubis would likely be very willing to set fire to the room; neither outcome was desirable at the moment. Ice tried to help calm him down while the Exarch dealt with the Ascian.

"...... Fair point," Emet-Selch replied flatly, after a moment's thought. He shrugged in an attempt to play it off a bit. He felt the exhaustion from pushing a bit too far with his powers at the moment--yet, he dare not show them any weakness in this moment.

Shoto spoke next, "This is my fault, Exarch," she turned to face him, "I never meant for things to spiral out of control like this." The female Miqo'te took a step forward, but faltered, and began to fall as she was still quite drained. 

Emet-Selch fought against his bindings in an attempt to catch her, but to no avail. Instead, the violet-haired Miqo'te, the Dragoon, managed to swiftly catch her before she could hit the ground.

"Careful, Shoto," Sumire said, his tone worried.

"Perhaps you should...erm...Yes, you should definitely sit down, Shoto," Yuki closed her grimoire, as her carbuncle moved to stand beside her. "You don't seem to be in any condition to argue," the Viera added sternly. 

Shoto frowned, but let Sumire help her stand for now. She stubbornly refused to sit on the only piece of furniture that seemed untouched; the desk chair.

"I would really, truly like to understand what in the actual Hells happened this morning," the Exarch looked over his friends as he sighed, bringing his crystalline arm up to rub his temples, and ignored the fact that his frustration had slipped through. He also forced himself to ignore that the door, and large portions of the room, were so completely destroyed they'd need to commission every Facet in the Crystalline Mean to repair the place.

It was enough that those he treasured were...alright. For a given value of alright.

Yuki and Sumire seemed okay, just a bit worn out from fighting. Ice looked injured, but no more so than from a normal battle. Shoto looked like she'd completely exhausted herself, but he had no idea why. The Exarch paused as he looked to Angel, who seemed almost completely frazzled just since yesterday.

"My lord," Lyna paused as she leaned a little towards the Exarch. Her voice was concerned, "I do believe we should continue this conversation elsewhere."

"I agree." He looked to Emet-Selch. "Lyna," she saluted at her name, "Take the prisoner into custody."

"Right away." The Viis gestured to two guards. Each guard moved to take hold of the bound Ascian's arms; she followed closely behind. Emet-Selch once more glanced over to Shoto in an attempt to observe the state of her condition. Their eyes met for but a moment; there was untold sorrow when she looked at him. Clearly, the Scholar truly blamed herself for this. He shook his head and simply smirked; for now, he would leave it up to her friends to care for her. 

The Crystal Exarch watched the Crystarium guards leave the room, then looked back to his friends. His voice softened a little, still clearly concerned. "Pray take your time to settle from all of this... but... there's much to discuss. I would have you all reconvene in the Ocular when you're ready. Our... guest shan't be going anywhere, if I have anything to say about it."

He waited just long enough for them to give a reply, then left to deal with the mess from this morning.

* * * It took a full bell before the whole group was settled into the Ocular. Most of them were now more alert and awake; Yuki and Sumire, specifically, had taken the time to get dressed, and now both sported their traveling attire. The Dragoon rubbed tiredly at his right eye as he stood beside the Summoner. Yuki's carbuncle bounced happily at Sumire's feet then moved over to Angel. 

The black-haired Keeper sat on the floor by the wall for the moment. The carbuncle hopped into his lap without pause, and Angel petted her gently. Ice stood beside Angel, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the wall. Shoto sat nearby on the floor of the Ocular trying to preserve her strength. After a few moments, the Crystal Exarch entered from the Umbilicus, then the door closed behind him. His staff was on his back, and he looked more thoughtful than usual as he moved over to his usual position before the mirror.

"I'm glad to see everyone is safe," he began. The Allagan Miqo'te flicked his ears as he once more looked over his friends; then sighed softly. "It is certainly unnecessary to speak of this morning's events. What I am puzzled about is the fact that a certain individual; slain only weeks ago by all of you; is now alive and well once more."

Nearly all eyes were suddenly on Shoto; she had loudly apologized and said this was her fault... but how was she going to explain this? The Scholar opened her mouth, but words wouldn't form. Instead, her mind was stuck on the Ascian; Emet-Selch. That same guilt gnawed at her, like a bile that wanted to come up into her throat. She'd chosen to heal his wounds, which had caused this whole situation. Emet-Selch had saved her, and he was now paying the price for her choice. Instead of continuing to fight the others, he stopped when she had pleaded and grabbed him. 

She looked around the Ocular, then words finally formed on her tongue, "...Wh-Where is... Emet-Selch...?"

The Crystal Exarch blinked at her question, taken aback. He actually looked to the others, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard her question correctly. Yuki frowned, as did Ice, neither of them were pleased about her first question. Sumire looked over to Angel, who was still half curled up with the carbuncle on his lap; he hadn't once looked up to the others since they settled in. The Exarch turned to look back to Shoto, but before he or any of the others could respond, the Scholar stood and used the wall to steady herself.

"I think it would be best if he were present for this, so we can all talk." She kept herself steady; her expression was serious.

The red-haired Miqo'te looked at her for a moment, as if he were still trying to gauge her or her request.

He sighed softly, then gave in, "Very well," He turned to look over to the Viis that stood guard over their meeting to make sure no one entered uninvited. "Lyna, if you would, please have your guards escort the prisoner here." Shoto visibly cringed a bit at the word 'prisoner', but the captain simply saluted, then left to give the orders. 

* * * Half a bell later, Lyna returned with Emet-Selch in tow. The Ascian gave no resistance; in fact, he walked almost casually behind her. Ice stood up straight, visibly tense, beside his husband--it took something of an effort not to call forth his axe, but he managed, focusing his gaze back to Angel and looking worried once more. The mage had been silent the whole time, and just petted the curled up carbuncle on his lap. 

The Angel of Truth, with an air of lofty dignity, ignored Ice--he ignored everyone in the room, for that matter--save for Shoto. His eyes looked directly to the Scholar; once his eyes fell upon her, he seemed clearly relieved, understanding at a glance that her condition was now much more stable. His smirk became genuinely softened for a moment, and some of the harshness went out of his demeanor.

The Exarch noted the exchange with interest, but he refrained from making a comment for the moment.

"That will be all, Lyna. Thank you." He nodded to the guard captain, who gave him a slight bow in response.

"Yes, my lord." The Viis turned, then stepped outside the Ocular to keep guard. Shoto eyed the restraints, still on his wrists; they looked to be some kind of enchantment. She frowned, then looked to the Exach in a silent plea for him to allow an exception in here. It seemed like the Crystal Exarch didn't understand her look at first. She looked back to the Ascian, almost apologetically.

G'raha grit his teeth, then tapped his cane on the ground, and the restraints around his wrists disappeared. Without looking back to the Ascian, the Exarch focused on Shoto, and spoke calmly and succinctly.

"Now, Shoto, pray, tell us what happened."

Shoto looked to her friends before her, then briefly wondered where she should even begin. "I guess... I should start... w-with the aftermath of our... struggle in the Tempest, at the Dying Gasp," she frowned, as she glanced to the Ascian. She looked immediately back to her friends as she took a breath, "Ever since then... I've felt... an emptiness; a guilt."

The Ascian raised an eyebrow at her words, sparing a glance to the Scholar. 

Guilt...? For my sake...? He then shifted quietly in his spot where he stood, and continued to listen; acting as if her comment hadn't piqued his interest.

Shoto turned to more properly face her friends and the Exarch. She ended up taking a few steps towards the Ascian before she continued, "Last night, I brought a badly injured shoebill back to my room to heal him so he could fly again... and--"

"That bird was an Ascian in disguise?" Yuki frowned, as she looked to Emet-Selch. He gestured nonchalantly with his hand, as Shoto just nodded in reply. Sumire looked over to Shoto, then reached up to rub at his right eye again; the tip of his tail flicked against Yuki's coat beside him. He seemed to find it hard to look over in that general direction.

"If you recall, both Angel and I noted how badly injured the bird was," she glanced over to Angel. Though he still hadn't looked up, he nodded once when she paused. "His injuries were just as bad, even in this form." Shoto looked up to Emet-Selch, then paused before she continued, "He was in a lot of pain, and... a-and I," she looked away from him, to the floor, "I couldn't sit back... and just watch someone else die in front of me."

Angel's breath caught in his throat as he winced at those words. He closed his eyes tightly and hugged the carbuncle against him. She wriggled a little at the sudden hug, then nuzzled under his chin.

G'raha noticed Angel's flinch, and frowned sadly. He briefly recalled all the times he had found Angel curled up on blankets in the corner of the library tent of Saint Coinach's Find... reading books about Allag. How many times he'd sat and shared his own stories and knowledge with him. The Exarch's expression softened, and he thought about how vulnerable the mage looked right now; curled up and hugging a carbuncle. He hadn't noticed it before... because he hadn't taken the time to look; hadn't allowed himself that moment of vulnerability.

For Ice's part, he was completely focused on Emet-Selch at the moment; he hadn't heard anything to draw his attention to his husband beside him on the floor. His sudden voice drew everyone's focus back to the present. 

"I'm a bit confused, though," he pointed at the Ascian as his eyes narrowed, suspicious, "How were you so injured that Shoto thought you'd die if she didn't heal you?"

Shoto just blinked at his question; she hadn't thought to ask that last night, she'd just acted instinctively. The Scholar looked to Emet-Selch with a curious expression. He looked back to her, then sighed and gestured languidly, dismissively, with his hand once more.

"All of you did work very hard to put a rather large hole directly through the core of my body, if you'll recall, dear little Warrior. The kind of hole that kills people."

"But... that injury was already a scar when I healed you," Shoto replied, quietly.

The Exarch frowned, then returned his attention to the Ascian. "If that was the damage they had sensed, then we all would have known it was you when you fell from the rafters yesterday." His ruby eyes narrowed a little, "And I most certainly wouldn't have let you leave."

The Ascian gave a cold look to the Exarch, his gold eyes flashing, though he didn't engage the taunt. After a thoughtful moment, he gave a dismissive sigh, "If you must know, Elidibus and I had a bit of a... shall we say... spirited discussion before I arrived in your fair city, dearest Exarch." The Crystal Exarch remained silent in response.

Ice still felt suspicious; he growled a little, then crossed his arms over his chest, "So you expect us to believe that you and Elidibus are no longer on good terms...?" 

The Ascian gave him another sort of shrug, "You asked how I was injured, hero, I merely answered your query."

Ice opened his mouth to respond, but Shoto held her hands up to try to refocus the conversation once more. "What matters... here... is that I healed him yesterday," Shoto took a breath, "I had healed him just the point where he'd have to naturally mend the rest of the way with time." She looked over to Angel once more, "That was before Angel arrived with the medicine and food."

"So," Yuki looked rather unamused, "...at what point did we get to Ice waking up our side of the Pendants in a rage this morning?" The Viera looked between the five Miqo'te and the Ascian in front of her. Her attention was drawn to the White Mage when he drew himself further into a ball.

"Th-That.... w-was... m-my fault," Angel mumbled into the carbuncle's back. Ice blushed a bit in embarrassment at having woken up so many people, but he cleared his throat, then turned his head to look back to the Viera.

"Despite what he says, that was not his fault," Ice immediately defended, "My husband simply told me that an Ascian had spent the night in Shoto's room and I rushed there to save our friend."

"So," Sumire rubbed at his right temple a bit, "Last night... Angel left Emet-Selch alone with Shoto, then passed out in the hall by their room." Shoto blinked, then looked to Angel, who still had his face buried in the carbuncle he was hugging. G'raha looked a little surprised, then also turned to look back over to Angel, but the Scholar beat him to speaking.

"Angel," Shoto's tone was very worried, "what do they mean you passed out in the hall?"

"I-I don't," he shifted the carbuncle so he could look up to Ice, then over to Shoto. The mage also noticed G'raha's worried look and felt even more apologetic. Ice turned to look down to his husband for a moment, then looked back to Shoto.

"He told me that he had a vision from the Echo in your room last night. It seemed to be a pretty intense one. On his way back, he just sat down to rest in the hall, and fell asleep." Ice sounded slightly defensive, then looked coldly at Emet-Selch, "What I didn't understand what had happened to trigger something bad enough to give him night--"

"I-Ice, please," Angel reached up to grasp Ice's hand; to interrupt his husband.

Shoto looked worriedly at her friend. G'raha's eyes widened a bit. Yuki closed her eyes with a frown, and Sumire frowned worriedly. Context had given them all a good idea what the word was that Angel had interrupted.

"Sh-Shoto, continue, i-if you don't mind...?" The White Mage gave them a weak smile when he looked over to the Scholar.

Shoto gave him a very concerned frown, but nodded and continued to explain. "After... After Angel got to the room, we had a conversation on the balcony. We started talking about the strange things we've both been noticing around us... and... about how we sort of felt stronger... ever since that fight," she paused, then glanced to Emet-Selch. "Well... we.... didn't have any other ideas... so," she looked back to her friends, "So we decided to ask him about the things we'd started to notice."

Ice looked back down to Angel. The mage nodded silently, then looked back down to Yuki's carbuncle. The Warrior finally understood what had brought up the topics Angel wanted to talk to him about last night... the topics that seemed to give him night terrors that he hadn't had in a long time.

Ice felt like now he knew why he'd had them... the Ascian that had caused him so much pain. The Warrior grit his teeth, but he felt his husband squeeze his hand more insistently in an attempt to calm him a bit.

Shoto noticed his expression. "Ice...?"

"So... what... did he say?" Ice asked; he barely kept himself from growling. He pointedly avoided asking Emet-Selch anything directly for the moment, and focused on Shoto. He felt the anger burning within once more. Shoto flicked her ears, worried about how Ice seemed ready to restart the fight that had happened earlier. 

"That... our souls... had gained... another shard... since that fight," she tilted her head a little, "probably during that fight." She gave Ice a small smile, "Do you remember during our talks afterward? When we all admitted we'd each seen one of the Warriors of Light from the First back then...?" She trailed slightly.

Angel then spoke up to try to help keep the conversation going. He still held Ice's hand, and could feel how tense the Warrior was. "Wh-When they... lent us... theirrr strrrength... to... surrrrvive," he looked down to the carbuncle in his arm, "i-it's possible... they werrre... o-ourrrr soul sharrrds... h-herrre... on the Firrrst." Shoto nodded immediately.

The Exarch blinked, then looked to each of his friends at that; they had told him about the phantom Ardbert that followed Shoto, but hadn't previously mentioned the other four Warriors of Light. Yet... these suggestions made a lot of sense. If their souls were fragmented the same as the worlds, then it stood to reason that fragments of them would exist on those worlds. He found that he didn't question any of it with everything he knew to be true. The Allagan Miqo'te looked down to the design on the floor of the Ocular, depicting the Source and its reflections.

Emet-Selch once more raised his eyebrow at their conversation. This was a bit more direct than they'd mentioned last night, and his suspicions felt validated. Those Warriors of the First must have been their soul fragments, that was the only explanation for what he saw before him at the moment: five glowing souls, eight times rejoined, without a Calamity on the Source. There was no longer any doubt; there was, however, concern.

Yuki wrinkled her nose a bit at the explanation, "Is that something he told you two?" She now also sounded more suspicious of the Ascian across from her.

The Paragon straightened his posture, then turned to face everyone else; he felt the attention in the room turn on him. Sumire once more looked over to Shoto and Emet-Selch, then made a face as he immediately rubbed at his eye again. Yuki finally turned to face him this time. 

"Are you quite alright, Sumire? You've been doing that since last night." Her question drew everyone's attention; everyone but Emet-Selch and Ice. The Warrior and the Ascian seemed to be staring at each other for the moment.

"I-It's fine, Yuki," Sumire moved his hand, then frowned at her, "My eye just needs time to adjust to the First's aether... It's just... acting up a little."

"Can you still see okay?" Yuki reached up to move his hair a bit so she could see his white eye. Shoto and Angel watched as Yuki aggressively doted on the Dragoon. 

"I can still see fine, I promise." Sumire reached up to gently push her hand away, "It'll settle by tonight, like always. It's just that everything seems oddly... brighter than usual."

"What are you doing to them?" Ice's deep, growled voice asked Emet-Selch. The Ascian cocked an eyebrow as he continued to look at the Warrior, rolling his eyes

"Not that you seem inclined to believe anything I say," he drawled, "but I meant what I said, and I said what I meant, my axe-wielding friend. I haven't done a thing to you or any of your friends outside of the lovely little skirmish--"

"You're the only thing different since yesterday." Ice replied as he stepped forward; his hand pulled free of his husband's grasp.

"You chopped down the door of the room I was sleeping in and attacked me. Like a primitive. I merely defended myself," the Ascian countered.

"You were-"

"Enough," the Exarch snapped sharply as his ears pinned back.

The Warrior and the Ascian both looked away from each other; Ice growled loudly in frustration, while Emet-Selch huffed almost primly. Angel stood up carefully and released Yuki's carbuncle. He then hugged his husband to try and calm him down.

The Allagan Miqo'te rubbed his forehead, then looked back to the Scholar. "Pray continue, Shoto..."

The female Seeker nodded, "Where was...? O-Oh right... Knowing... all of that, it's," Shoto paused for a moment, "it's likely that one added shard could have awakened some long-forgotten abilities in our souls," she gestured to herself, then Angel, "which explains the strange things we kept noticing around us." 

The Crystal Exarch brought a hand to his chin in thought, "In any other circumstance, I might be disinclined to believe you," he lowered his crystal hand, then looked at it for a moment. "But I find that I don't question anything you've said thus far. Perhaps it's a result of everything we've been trying to accomplish since..." He stopped, not wanting to say much more in front of the Ascian that he still wasn't sure what to do about. Aside from the fight he stopped this morning, he hadn't made any further efforts to cause trouble nor run off. Emet-Selch found himself being stared at by the Exarch, and just cocked an eyebrow in response.

Angel flicked his ears, then looked back to his friends after the silence. "I-I'm starting to worry... that i-it's just... m-me and... Shoto," he frowned, then looked to Sumire, then Yuki, then finally up to his husband that he still held onto, "Has... a-anyone else... noticed... a-anything?"

Ice looked over to Angel, then relaxed slightly as he hugged him back. "Sorry, love," he shook his head a little, "but aside from last night, nothing else has seemed odd. Just sort of feeling generally stronger, as I've answered you before." He looked back to Sumire and Yuki, wondering about their responses.

Yuki shook her head, "Nothing has been weird. Just noticing Shoto's moping about, mostly."

"H-Hey!" Shoto pouted, "I don't... mope." The Scholar argued the term, but it wasn't entirely inaccurate. She'd had days when the guilt and sadness just hit her like a load of bricks... she could see how that might have come across as moping to someone else. Yuki just made a face at her. It was sort of hard to read, but it felt worried to Shoto.

"Sumire...?" Ice asked, as he gently hugged Angel again, reassuringly. The Dragoon looked over to him in silence for a moment, then shook his head a little.

"I've felt... tired." He shrugged a bit, "Maybe a bit more than I used to, but it's probably nothing. I've tried to train harder, I'm probably just overdoing it."

"You overslept yesterday and were exhausted by the time we were finished speaking with the Exarch," Yuki frowned. Sumire took a breath, then sighed.

"Some days are just like that... If it's true that we all gained another fragment of our souls... maybe I just need time to adjust to it...?" He made a face, then looked over to Shoto and Emet-Selch again. With a wince, he reached up to completely cover his right eye with his hand. He mumbled to himself, but Yuki still heard him, "Maybe I'll just cover it until it adjusts... "

Angel wasn't sure what to say. Their friends would have surely mentioned odd manifestations if they'd have seen them. Much like the orange carbuncle-like creature; Ambrosia; that had appeared during the fight. It sounded like Ice, Yuki, and Sumire just felt a bit stronger, if anything, but nothing else notable had happened. He buried his face in Ice's chest with a quiet sound of frustration.

Shoto also seemed concerned about the updates, and bit her lip. "W-Well," she started, "I had... similar thoughts. I've felt stronger... s-so maybe... my magic is too, and," she trailed off as she blushed. Angel turned his head to look at her. Ice just frowned; Angel's words from this morning replayed in his mind--they had been strikingly similar to Shoto's.

("...I-I've felt stronger too... W-Well, specifically, I-I guess, my magic.")

Yuki's carbuncle hopped over to Shoto. The Scholar squatted down to pet her as Angel opened his mouth to speak, but Ice spoke first.

"...and you thought you'd test it out," he stated, then glanced back down to his husband. The White Mage blushed, then glanced away silently. Shoto looked surprised, but nodded as she focused on petting the carbuncle at her feet. An audible sigh drew attention to Yuki, who now had her arms crossed.

"Really, Shoto, that's irresponsible even by Ice's standards."

"Yeah," Ice agreed, as he looked back to Shoto, then paused, "Wait..." 

He turned to look back at Yuki to argue her wording, but the Ascian actually laughed, smirking widely, and spoke before the Warrior could. "Praise Zodiark, someone else understands~!" He moved to get a little closer to Shoto, but was stopped by a sharp, cold look from the Exarch. His expression said it would be unwise to move any closer than he already was; the Ascian remained where he was and just gave a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms.

Shoto stuttered to speak again, "I-I just thought... I'd see if... maybe... I could... mend the wound... to full?"

Angel jerked at the suggestion, he turned to look at her and spoke sharply, and in disbelief, "Sh-Shoto!?" Ice let go of Angel when he took a worried step towards his oldest friend. "That was far too much damage to heal alone and all at once!"

"But I did it!" She immediately argued. Eos popped up beside her in a swirl, and nodded fervently as if trying to back her up, then landed on the back of the carbuncle to sit. Angel made a concerned face, then looked to Emet-Selch; the Ascian paused, then nodded in response.

"She did," he crossed his arms with a quiet sigh, "Although, I tried to warn her not to push herself like that."

Shoto looked puzzled for a moment. Had he tried to warn her? As she thought for a moment, she recalled the voice she heard telling her to stop... A look of realization crossed her face and the Ascian near her frowned a little.

"You pushed yourself to the level of Aetheric Exhaustion. If you will recall how 'fine' you claimed to be before you collapsed on me."

"Ae...ther..." Angel's voice was faint, and didn't even finish the first word. The condition was one both Ice and Shoto knew he'd had personal experience with. The former through an explanation from the latter; she'd been around when he had pushed himself that far.

It wasn't just his experience right now, though; the term brought back the feelings of his nightmare from this morning. He heard a distant, quiet bell at the edge of his hearing. The mage's voice returned; quiet, a bit shaky, and full of concern, "Shoto, a-are you c-certain you're alright...? It... I-It normally takes... days t-to recover... from that..."

It was clear that the mage spoke from experience. The Exarch blinked, then looked worriedly to the White Mage. Emet-Selch also cocked an eyebrow. Yuki wanted to point out once more that these two were too much alike, and it was clear on her face as she gave a look to Shoto. The female Miqo'te nodded her head to Angel, then raised her hands to calm things down before they could escalate again.

"Yes, yes, I'm a bit tired, but I feel fine. I promise!" She blushed, then lowered her arms, "That's... That's why I said... h-he... saved me... last night," she trailed slightly, as she felt a bit embarrassed to admit that she'd so direly misjudged. 

"...Even if... he did help you," Angel's tail curled against his own leg as he took another step forward, "Are you... really okay enough to be up...? I'm amazed you're even conscious if..."

"I will be fine to travel," She interrupted him, giving another reassuring smile. "We're not planning on fighting, just traveling to Kholusia, right? There's a boat ride involved in that. I can rest on that." She smiled reassuringly, "I promise I'll take it easy, okay?"

"And what about him, Shoto?" Ice glared at Emet-Selch, "Are you suggesting we just let him... tag along?" Ice was clearly not pleased. He crossed his arms over his chest and continued to glare at the Ascian. Shoto didn't have a response, but her lack of immediate denial admitted she'd been thinking that.

Emet-Selch scoffed, a slow, smug grin creeping over his features, "I can do whatever I please, my dear friend," he replied, clearly pleased to continue needling Ice. "I daresay it's not your call to make." Ice growled in response, but the Ascian just continued to grin.

"You would be correct. It is not Ice's decision," the Exarch took a step forward, "But it is mine." 

The Ascian shrugged dramatically, shaking his head. "Yes, yes, render unto His Radiance what belongs to His Radiance and all that. Whatever, then, can I do to convince you of my sincerity, o wise Crystal Exarch?"

G'raha gave a soft sigh then put a finger to his chin, thoughtfully; he didn't reply immediately... but Shoto heard Emet-Selch speak again, soft and sibilant.

《 If you know anything I might use as leverage with our Allagan friend here, my dear hero, I'd be much obliged...I'm quite serious about traveling with you, this time. If nothing else, someone needs to protect you... 》

Shoto blinked and her head whipped towards Hades, her expression confused and her cheeks slightly pinker. She'd heard him speak, but the others hadn't reacted?

《 Well, that's because they can't hear me. They aren't connected, the way we seem to be, now are they? 》

"Wh--What's connected?! Connection?!" Shoto blurted out.

...Ice, Yuki, Sumire, Angel and the Exarch all looked over to the Scholar as she felt heat build in her face like a bonfire, and the Ascian rolled his eyes. Then the five looked at one another.

"Shoto..." Yuki began, the Viera cocking her head to the side. "No one...mentioned a connection? Except, maybe...going to Kholusia would count? ...Are you really sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," Shoto insisted, pursing her lips and crossing her arms. Ice glared suspiciously at Hades and fought down a snarl; this drew G'raha's attention, and the Exarch loudly cleared his throat, as if to officially interrupt.

"Here, then, is an opportunity to demonstrate your sincerity, in some small part, Emet-Selch," he intoned, flicking his ears as his crimson eyes fixed with Hades' golden ones. "Perhaps you'd be kind enough to explain the strange occurrences that have been troubling Shoto and Angel?"

Emet-Selch actually brightened, giving a wide shrug and a personable smirk. "Of course! Simplicity itself, in fact, since as they mentioned, they consulted me beforehand...but I'm digressing, admittedly. Now, then." He held up a finger. "This is somewhat theoretical, but I believe that they, as a result of their eighth rejoining, have accessed creation magic."

"Creation magic?" Sumire asked, looking over briefly towards the Ascian, then back to Yuki, confused, "Like they always talked about everywhere in Amaurot?"

"The very same!" Hades smirked. "Admirably attentive, young dragon-slayer." He folded down his finger and then steepled his hands, looking over them at the assembled group. "Before anyone asks something terribly, mind-shatteringly stupid, like 'what do the words creation magic mean', let me go on to say that they mean exactly what they sound like. They are the act of calling aether into a solidified, true form, of creating through the sheer and precise imposition of will." He cracked his knuckles. "If I might demonstrate? I promise, I'll create nothing harmful."

The Exarch shrugged lightly, and Emet-Selch closed his eyes, drawing on the well of his aether...by the great God, it was depleted after that battle, though at least it wasn't completely exhausted...still, drawing on the arm of his Elder Form in particular, and his Mirrors of Utterance, had been an effort. There was more than enough for what he intended, though; he would focus on one of the first things young Amaurotines learned, food.

He closed his eyes, and snapped his fingers with his usual theater.

Out of nothingness, out of thin air, a table seemed to write itself into being, and then a silvery tea tray. Set on it was a porcelain teapot, filled with hot, steaming tea, and a set of matching cups...arrayed around the tea set were small plates of cakes, cookies, and pastries. As a last flourish, he added a vessel of sugar and a vessel of cream...perhaps it wasn't strictly necessary, but there it was.

There were gasps of shock and interest, and he waited for them to die down before gesturing to the set. "And there you have it. This very same exercise, with...some tweaking, was a simple, elementary act of creation taught to aspiring will-workers as one of the first pieces of their training in the arcane arts. In the days of Amaurot, it was hard to find someone who had no aptitude for creation magic, though...typically everyone had one specialty in which they truly excelled. " He smiled, a little wistfully...and seemed to notice Angel staring at the cakes, though the dark-haired Miqo'te blushed and looked away, shaking his head. "Such as, for example, your creation just now, the one called...'Ambrosia'."

"Wait a minute," Ice demanded. "Angel created that? That was a living creature--"

"Which is quite within the purview of creation magic," Hades replied airily. "It's much more complex than the food and the tea, to which you're all welcome, as it's not static, but it's quite possible." He smirked as if expecting a rejoinder...

Shoto gasped. "...That's how you were able to recreate Amaurot, in the Tempest!" she said. "That's why...Twelve Above," she breathed, imagining the sheer amount of effort it must've taken to build the great city that lay far below the waters, even as a shallow replica.

Hades' look of happiness was genuine. "Ah, you can catch on quite quickly! Yes, just so. It wasn't the work of a single day, but right you are."

"...Wouldn't the work of creation magic fade with the death of its creator?" The Scholar chewed her lip and looked both pensive and worried, a reaction that made the Paragon's smile fade to a melancholy look.

"In time, yes; a large-scale creation like my Amaurot would take some moons to disappear, but in the end all that would be left would be...the foundation upon which I built," he said, breezing over the details.

《 Another time, perhaps. ...Please don't respond out loud. Yes, I can hear your thoughts, and vice versa, it's really as simple as that. Don't be too alarmed, dear hero. 》

Shoto frowned to herself--she wanted to press him on it, even mentally, but her thoughts were already a mess, and she decided to let it go for now, but remember it.

"Yet its aether shows no signs of dimming," G'raha mused, looking over to the Ascian.

"That," said Emet-Selch, more grimly than he quite meant, "is not my doing. My death should've ensured its slow decline, and I assure you, I did, most definitely, perish there. Its preservation is the doing of another...and yes, likely another Ascian. Elidibus could maintain its presence quite easily, if he deigned to do so himself; even one of the lesser rank wouldn't find it too hard. At any rate, that version of Amaurot is no longer mine to command." He shrugged widely, languidly. "I am, believe it or not, in a position rather similar to all of you."

"If you died once, then you can die again," Ice growled. "Right?"

"Yes. Indeed," said the Paragon, raising his hands as if to say 'I yield' even as he rolled his eyes. "Very well spotted. But, truth be told, I really would prefer not to engage in another long, drawn-out, destructive conflict, heroes. Instead, might I not help you...? These powers of creation, your newly recovered legacy, might become quite dangerous to all of you without guidance...and I must stress, you still are broken, sundered souls. Though to be rejoined eight times is unprecedented, it's nothing like being completed. So, I offer you the tutelage of one of Amaurot's greatest sorcerers, for no cost at all."

Shoto raised her brow, though she seemed quite interested. "...You'd train us in the arts of creation? All of us?"

"All of you," Emet-Selch affirmed, spreading his arms. 

Angel's ears pricked to attention, his gaze focused on the Ascian, and Shoto looked thoughtful; G'raha fought down a grimace. Sumire frowned, then looked over to Angel and Ice rather than at Emet-Selch and Shoto. Yuki wore a very flat look on her face, as did Ice.

"What a godsdamned farce." Ice clenched his fists. "You tried this before, Ascian. You offered us help, you pulled Y'shtola from the Lifestream in a grand gesture of 'good faith' . And then, when it pleased you, you turned the tables on us without a shred of remorse and tried to slaughter us all! How do you expect us to suddenly trust you?!"

Shoto looked like she wanted to reply, but the Warrior had a point...the last time the Ascian had offered his friendship, he'd just as quickly rescinded it and deemed himself their executioner. Yes, he'd had his reasons, but...

The silence hung heavy in the room, but it was broken by Angel's hesitant voice, as the White Mage crept forwards to take a look over the tea set.

"Y-You don't..."

"Eh?" Ice turned to his husband.

Angel moved over to the table; took one of the small cakes from the tray, and looked at it. His voice low, and his face still seemed hesitant on the topic. "H-He's kept his w-word... and... he t-trusted us... last night. So... it's only f-fair... to rrreturn the f-favor."

The Miqo'te bit the cake before anyone could ask what he was doing or what he meant. He'd stuttered through, desperately forcing back his purr. He was quite nervous about eating anything, but Emet-Selch had eaten the food he had brought, and drank the tea he had made last night. He felt it was only right to accept something from him in return...

Besides all that, he was quite weak around sweets...

The Ascian's expression was one of surprise when the dark-haired, male Miqo'te picked up one of the cakes and ate it. A small genuine smile formed on his face.

Ice, however, was shocked that Angel ate the cake. "Angel?! What are you-" He cut himself off, as he thought about what his husband had said. Emet-Selch had been truthful in their encounters before, just circumstances had put them at odds. He pinned his ears back and he gave a frustrated growl. Angel did not eat any more nor take any of the tea... the cake had only been eaten to make a point.

Shoto actually breathed a sigh of relief, and then drew herself up to try and seem more authoritative towards the Ascian; it wasn't quite successful, and mostly drew a flicker of amusement that she felt through their mental connection, but she pressed on. "...You told me that you still seek the restoration of the original world, the Rejoining, but you believe it can be accomplished without unnecessary deaths, without the mass murder your kind has used before. Did you mean that?"

Hades nodded and spread his hand in a conciliatory gesture. "Yes, of course I meant it."

"...Swear that you did," Shoto said firmly, crossing her arms. "Swear an oath, on the memory of Amaurot, that that's your goal. If you'll do that, I don't care about any other hidden agendas, or ulterior motives, or secret reasons. Because I know if you break that word, it'll mean something."

For a long, long moment, Hades just stared at her. 

She couldn't quite tell what all the emotions were, even through the link they shared, the strange tether of fate and heart and mind; there was fear, and shock, and some degree of anger, but also pride, and relief, and joy...

Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke.

"I swear by the memory of Amaurot," he said, gravely and solemnly, "and by the souls of the Convocation of Fourteen, that a Rejoining without death or calamity is my goal. If it is at all possible, I will seek it. Is that sufficient?"

His aggrieved air didn't touch his eyes...Shoto felt he was almost smiling, behind a dour mask.

"...Yes," she answered. "...And you're going to tutor us in creation magic, still, all of us, like you said before," she added hastily.

"Indeed, indeed, yes, yes, yes," said Emet-Selch, all dismissiveness and rolled eyes once more, though he didn't sound insincere. "I promise, too, I will teach you, each in turn, all I can. It will be quite limited, given your souls' continued broken state, but. It will be something no one else can do." 

Shoto couldn't help but beam at this--here was an opportunity to learn something no one else could, a lost magic from millennia ago! "Wonderful!"

* * * Another, drawn out awkward silence fell after that settled... and just as it stretched a moment too long, the Crystal Exarch sighed heavily.

"Very well. I suppose such an oath satisfies me, too...as much as I can be satisfied, Emet-Selch. I want you to know, I mislike all of this. I'm not quite of a mind with Ice, but I'm not that far from his position, either." G'raha crossed his arms and shook his head. "But I'm not foolish enough to mindlessly challenge Shoto when her mind's made up...and Angel had a persuasive argument. So, then, here is what we'll do."

He pointed decisively towards the Ascian. "You are to remain with Shoto, Yuki, and Sumire, and travel with them to Eulmore, where you'll rendezvous with Alphinaud and Y'shtola. I believe in a larger group, you're less likely to be tempted by even small transgressions of your oath...and, being very frank, I don't want you near Ice and Angel, at the moment." His brows furrowed. "If I learn you've done anything to interfere with their work..."

"Yes, yes, I'm full aware. I want no part of the full wrath of the Crystarium and her master," the Angel of Truth assured. 

G'raha ground his teeth a little; he hadn't been exaggerating. Everything about this idea seemed wrong. He didn't want to agree to any of this--he would prefer to throw the Ascian in an oubliette and call it a day; but it was what it was.

"Ice, Angel, you'll continue to Amh Araeng as per the assignment we previously discussed," he continued. He didn't share what theirs was, and once he'd made his decisions, he looked to his friends. "Please use the devices I gave you if an emergency should arise... they should have no trouble with range."

"Understood," Yuki replied, then turned to Shoto. "You're certain this is what you want?"

"Yes," Shoto nodded. She stood firm. "He gave his word, and I want to hold him to it.

Yuki nodded with a frown, "Alright. Well. We'd best go gather our bags and head out to our respective travel points. Y'shtola's new findings in the Tempest certainly interest me." 

"Ice, Angel," the Exarch turned to them, "head to the Amaro launch when you've collected your things. Cassard has a caravan to take to Mord Souq today and has the space to take you along." He turned to look at Shoto, "Your group can head out to Tessellation and find Dadfort in Knot. He's promised a boat to Kholusia," his red ears flicked out to the sides. "Unfortunately, we're still working on repairing relations between the Crystarium and Eulmore... so, I cannot promise you he'll take you the whole way to the city." He looked apologetic, but Shoto shook her head and smiled at him.

"I-I'm just glad to have a transport arranged! Thank you so much!" She then looked to her traveling companions, "I know... I will slow our process some, from being irresponsible, but... you're all right. I should take my time to recover, a-and Emet-Selch said I'd be fine in a few days!" Shoto smiled, as she tried to be encouraging to her friends. "Besides, while there's a boat crossing, using Amaro in between should make the process a little faster."

"Hn," Emet-Selch put in. "How much do you trust these oversized goat-birds? Do you not have even one airship?"

"The Amaro will be fine," Shoto sighed, giving him a long look. "This is a diplomatic mission, and diplomats don't demand airship flights."

"You and I have met very different diplomats," Hades quipped in reply.

"That's probably true," she said simply. "Now, come along. If we're getting ready, you're getting ready, too." Shoto brooked no argument...she merely linked her arm with his and pulled the Ascian along as the group began to leave the Ocular; Ice shot one last angry glare at the Paragon, but said nothing.

As they left, Emet-Selch considered things. Things that were likely to give him a headache, and sooner rather than later. First, what had that blind sorceress found out in the Tempest? He couldn't think of what she could have learned that was new, he'd practically given them a guided tour of the recreated city...Unless...

Secondly and more immediately, he hadn't set foot in Eulmore since the project with Vauthry had borne fruit. He grimaced a little at the thought. Vauthry. Now there was a work he wasn't particularly fond of or proud of. And one that people might remember, especially that Elezen boy who'd caused such a ruckus.

This was definitely going to be a pain, wasn't it?

And yet, looking to his side, seeing the genuine sparkle in Shoto's eye, made something in his long-cold heart spark back to life. Something he hadn't thought along the lines of for far, far too long.

It'll be a torturous road, no mistaking it. 

But...I think she's worth it. 

PERFECT TEATIME!!!

Next time: DIPLOMATIC INCIDENTS!!!!

[the--sad--hatter]

Game Of Survival - 6 (Bucky x Reader)

FANDOM - MARVEL

PAIRING - BUCKY X FEM!READER

WARNINGS - SMUT, VIOLENCE, ANGST, VERY GRAPHIC BLOOD AND GORE, SWEARING, DRUGS AND ALCOHOL

DESCRIPTION -

The Executioner - Killer of Killers, the monster that hunts monsters, the bad-guys bogeyman.

It’s a title you earned and one that you cherish. Your goals are justified, your methods are not. But when a simple murder turns into a suicide and you are left clutching a flash drive with a terrible secret on it, you find yourself caught up in a mystery that you can’t solve alone. You turn to the professionals, the experts, the heroes. The Avengers.

With the lives of everyone in the world suddenly at stake, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes have no choice but accept your help and Bucky Barnes quickly finds himself drawn in by you. He never much believed in love, let alone love at first sight so it figures he’d be proven wrong in such a spectacular way.

Masterlist

Chapter Six

“Why did we have to bring her?” Sam asked.

 “It was my lead, my idea, my plan.” You shot back, damn near pouting.

 “I can’t believe I got dragged out of bed in the middle of the night for this.” Sam grumbled.

 “I don’t think he likes me.” You stage whispered to Bucky.

“He doesn’t like me either, don’t take it personally.” Bucky assured you, smirking.

 “Stop bickering over the comm line. Please.” Steve begged.  

 You and Bucky were currently on the streets of Tokyo, sat at a café outside an office block. Steve and Sam were on the roof of the opposite building. Your target was Fumi Hagashi, Sora Kawashima’s mistress. Sam said he was more likely to have told his mistress any useful information than his wife, and Fumi was an easy target since she wasn’t able to publicly mourn.

 “We’ve got eyes on the target, she’s on the 14th floor at her desk.” Sam said.

 “Cool, shall we go and nab her now?” You asked.

 “We discussed this Ex.” Steve sighed.

 “I just don’t see how looking at her from afar is helpful at all.” You bitched.

 “I’ve got this.” Bucky said and switched his comm to one way so Steve and Sam couldn’t hear him.

 “It’s a precautionary measure. We don’t know that The Six haven’t come to the same conclusion we have and are watching her as well, perhaps making a move to take her out. Maybe she knows more than we think, maybe she knows nothing. Observing the target is our best and safest course of action. You can’t tell me you’ve never had to observe a mark?” Bucky asked you.

 “Of course I have, when I had to. She’s a secretary though, she doesn’t have a security detail I need to figure out how to get past. What she has is information I need and if The Six are waiting for me to make a move on her, that serves my purpose just as well.” You argued, sipping at your coffee.

 “We’re The Avengers, we can’t just storm in and drag her out. We need to play this smarter, we need to play by the rules.” Bucky tried to explain.

 “Oh.”

 “Yeah, so sit tight and observe.” He instructed.

 “Ok, got it.” You said.

 Bucky exhaled in relief that you’d finally stopped arguing and sat back in his seat to observe as well, but he was observing you. He had carefully watched you the whole day, picking up on every little detail. He noticed how you watched people walking past, your eyes always drawn to things he would have dismissed. A couple’s interlaced fingers, an old man laughing boisterously, a woman clutching flowers in her hands as she hurried down the street with a smile. He’d been amused by the way you perused the menu before ordering a fancy, flavoured coffee in flawless Japanese. When a small breeze drifted over you, your eyes had fluttered closed like you were savouring the sensation.

 It all painted a picture, of someone who was living vicariously, the way only someone who hadn’t always had that option would do.

 Because in contrast to the almost childlike excitement you displayed at little things, there was the way your training bled into every action. The way you angled your chair so the wall was at your back, the way your right hand rested close to the concealed holster on your hip, the rimrod straight spine, the way you’d taken the tiniest sip of your coffee and waited exactly ten minutes before actually drinking it.

 He couldn’t help but be fascinated by the way the sunlight streamed through your hair, creating a kaleidoscope of colours in the strands that couldn’t normally be seen in normal light. That observation served no real purpose, it was just for his own enjoyment. You truly were breathtakingly beautiful and even though he knew how stained with blood your hands were, it didn’t deter him at all. In a selfish way, it made him want you more. Because The Executioner wouldn’t be horrified by his past, wouldn’t run screaming from him.

 You stood up and he sat forward in alarm.

 “Relax, I’m going to the bathroom.” You assured him.

 “We’re on a stakeout.” He told you.

 “Yeah but there’s two of us. I have my comm if in the five minutes I’m gone, something happens.”

 “You still shouldn’t be wandering off.” He argued.

 “Bucky, I really need to pee.” Your eyes wide and pleading.

 “Hurry up.” He said, rolling his eyes.

 “Thank you.” You said, rushing away.

 He sat back and kept an eye on the building while he waited. Five minutes passed and you didn’t return. He glanced back into the café but he couldn’t see you.

 “Shit.” He swore under his breath.

 A woman who could unflinchingly work a punching bag for an hour while suffering a bullet wound wouldn’t leave in the middle of a stakeout because her bladder was bothering her. You’d batted your fucking eyelashes at him and he’d let you skip away like an idiot. He ran into the café, ignoring the workers babbling at him when he pushed the door to the womans bathroom open. They were empty and a quick glance into the trashbin revealed your discarded comm unit.

 “I lost Ex.” He said to Sam and Steve as he left the café and crossed the road.

 “Well the good news is, we just found her.” Sam snapped, sounding less than pleased.

 The elevator opened with a ding and you stepped onto the 14th floor, making sure to give a friendly wave out of the window towards the roof of the building parallel to the one you were in. You smiled politely at the people you walked past until you found Fumi Hagashi sitting at her desk. You sat next to her, ignoring her jolt of surprise.

 “Kon'nichiwa Fumi, issho ni sanpo shimasu ka?” You said sweetly, making sure she felt the barrel of your gun pressing into her side. (Hello Fumi, take a walk with me will you?)

 Fifteen minutes later, Steve and Sam met Bucky back in the lobby after they had combed through the building and failed to find a trace of you. You hadn’t taken her out of the back door, front entrance or gone to the roof.

 “How the hell did she walk out of a building in broad daylight with a hostage, past all of us?” Sam asked.

 “She didn’t.” Bucky whispered, kicking himself for missing the obvious.

 “What?”

 “She’s still in the building.” He said, running for the stairs.

 If it were him he’d go for the basement, a boiler room preferably. So that’s where he ran, Steve and Sam on his heels. He found the basement easily enough and stormed through it until he found a nondescript door that said ‘maintenance only’ in Japanese and pulled out his gun, kicking the door down.

 “You took forever.” You said, waving at him.

 “Ex, stand down!” Steve ordered.

 Your ‘hostage’ was tied to a chair and as far as Bucky could see, unharmed. The only worrying thing about the scene was the razor sharp knife you had pressed to the womans throat.

 “Relax Cap, Miss Hagashi was just about to tell me where her lover would holiday in June.” You said calmly.

 “I do not know. He said he was to reunite with old friends! I do not know where.��� She sobbed.

 “Think harder, your life really does depend on it.” You said lowly.

 “I… I picked him up from the airport last year, his flight arrived from London. That is all I know.” She said, her eyes pleading with Captain America to help her.

 “Alright, we have what we need Ex. Let her go.” Steve said to you.

 “Ex, she’s just a woman. She’s innocent.” Bucky added.

 “I know, I know.” You sighed.

 “Yes, Innocent! I never had anything to do with his business I swear!” The woman yelled, jumping to her own defence.

 The mood immediately shifted because all three Avengers knew she’d just screwed up.

 “You knew? You knew what he did and you let it happen?” You snarled.

 “Ex, we’ll hand her over to the authorities.” Sam said calmly, stepping forwards with his hands out.

 “I knew but it wasn’t me!” She cried.

 “Apathy isn’t a defence.” You told her.

 “Stand down.” Steve demanded loudly.

 The tension in the room was rising rapidly and Bucky could see the change in you. He didn’t know why but when he thought of you Executing someone, he imagined you did it with coldness and fury. He had been projecting, seeing a soldier doing what they perceived as their duty. There was nothing cold or detached about you in this moment, there was no calm. Your lips were curled in a sneer, your eyes were blazing with hatred.

 “She’s just as guilty as he was.” You snapped.

 “That’s not for you to decide.” Sam tried to reason.

 “The hell it’s not. I’m The Judge, The Jury and the fucking Executioner.” You declared and with an almost imperceptible flick of your wrist, a minute jerk of the hand, you slashed her throat open.

@keepcalmandsosayweall @shirukitsune @alina-barnes@musingpredilection @sexyvixen7 @dropthepizza346@nighmxre @chook007 @dragonrosegardens@brazen88brat@clockworkherondale @demonlover87 @life-wanderer @joe-mazzello-is-my-dad @sireennotsiren@rootbeerboogy @spnrvt  @musingsofafangirlblog

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @Sian265!

I wish you and your loved ones a wonderful holiday season and a healthy and prosperous new year! And I hope you enjoy your gift, dragons and all!

*****

a thousand miles from comfort

Dragons are supposed to be extinct. No shadowhunter had encountered one in almost a hundred years, and if any downworlders had met up with one recently, they sure as hell hadn’t shared that bit of information with the Nephilim. Even if dragons aren’t entirely extinct, they’re supposed to be extinct enough that Alec can reasonably expect not to run into one when he’s late picking up dinner from his and Magnus’ Tuesday shawarma place. 

But sometimes “supposed to” misses the mark on reality. 

He drops their lamb and falafel as soon as he sees the glimmer of scales reflected in a taxi mirror. A rat hisses at him as it scurries towards his discarded dinner. Alec stops mourning their fallen fattoush when he hears the dragon shriek.  

The only way he can describe it is awful. Once when Alec was a child, not more than ten or eleven, he was allowed to join his father and a few other shadowhunters on a patrol. The night was mostly quiet. They broke up a werewolf fight and charged a fairy dust dealer, but when they were ready to call it quits, they were ambushed. Alec watched helplessly as a horde of kuri demons ripped his rune tutor limb from limb. He still remembers her screams.

This dragon’s shriek is worse. 

It shoots up into the night sky like a bullet fired from a gun then flies towards the piers. Alec hears the slap of his combat boots against the pavement before he registers that he’s chasing after it, grateful that his instincts are always one step ahead of his consciousness. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, sending off a quick text to the Institute for backup. He wants to send this bastard back to edom before it hurts anyone—praying to the Angel that it hasn’t already. But he also doesn’t want a repeat of that patrol night.

The dragon swoops upwards and perches itself on top of an old furniture warehouse. Alec grabs for his bow (another ingrained instinct he’ll never overcome) and quiver. 

The metal string of his bow digs into Alec’s long since calloused fingers as he draws back. He sucks in a breath and holds it, biding his time as he aims for the perfect shot on his target. The arrow flies as he exhales, releasing his breath and his weapon into the crisp night air in perfect harmony. 

The arrow soars towards a soft spot on the demon’s underbelly, but it’s quickly shot off course when the demon flaps one of its aging leather wings. 

Alec has to jump and roll, just narrowly missing being speared at his own hand. “Dammit,” he curses, already digging into his quiver to set up another shot. 

His second and third arrows meet the same fate. Panting and breathless, Alec takes cover behind a tree. “Where the hell are they?” he asks, staring down at his phone. His backup is taking too long, and it’s only a matter of time before the dragon gets bored of him and finds a helpless group of mundanes to terrorize.

Alec heads southside, zigzagging towards the building so the dragon can’t track his movements, figuring there must be some kind of fire escape he can take up to the roof for a better vantage point. The rusty metal creaks as Alec hangs onto the bottom rung of the ladder like a mundane school child playing at recess. He tugs and the rickety old ladder slides down, so he can climb up to the next landing with expert precision. 

Another terrible shriek pierces the sky, and suddenly Alec feels sweat beading on the back of his neck. Running headfirst into the storm, Alec rolls up his sleeves, and climbs to the next landing. 

The roof is an ocean of flames. Waves of fire ebb and flow towards him, only fizzling out when they reach brick shore. Alec wades through the heat, trying to find cover on this desolate terrain. The dragon huffs out another burst of fire, shooting off flames into the night air as if they were fireworks on the Fourth of July. 

Alec hopes that’s what any passersby mistake the scene for. A bunch of drunk kids and some Roman candles. He prays to the Angel none of them try and investigate. 

Alec finds refuge behind a glass skylight, a moment to catch his breath and regroup. He fumbles for his arrows to fire off another shot before it gets too hot for him to focus. The scent of burnt sugar swirls through the air, mixing with the stink of burnt ichor, and Alec knows that his distress signal has been answered. 

“Sorry I told you dragons were extinct,” Jace shouts up to him as he steps through the portal with Clary. 

“Extinct?” Magnus questions, the portal closing behind him. “Where do you think I source the scales for my vitality elixirs?” 

“You never told me,” Alec huffs. He ducks and rolls to dodge the dragon’s lunging talons. He hesitates a moment too long, and the dragon’s claws graze his side. “Fuck.”

“Alexander,” Magnus calls out, his voice unsteady and wavering. It twists the knife deeper into Alec’s bleeding side. But before Alec can get the chance to lie and tell Magnus that he’s fine, the demon charges towards him and swoops up into the air. With Alec hanging in its clutches. 

The world below grows smaller. His family’s voices grow softer. And all of his senses are filled with the crushing pain of the dragon’s grip tightening around his torso and the burning desire to be free. 

He tries to reach for the dagger strapped to his thigh, but the demon’s hold on him is to rigid. His arms are practically immobile. Cracks and pops fill the air, and Alec’s vision goes hazy. He tries desperately to suck in a breath, but his lungs don’t have the space to expand. 

The dragon glides downwards with Alec on the verge of passing out. “Drop him,” Jace commands, Seraph blade drawn and ready. And so the demon does. 

Alec has never minded heights. In his line of work, high up places offer cover, safety. “The view is always better from a rooftop,” Hodge used to say. One of the reasons Alec chose a bow and arrow as a child was the draw of tall, dark places during a battle. 

He had always found comfort high above the city, but falling was completely different. 

“Alec!” he hears Clary’s voice call out. She sounds distant, far away as wind rushes by his ears. 

His stomach does backflips as if he were riding a roller coaster at Coney Island, except it’s a thousand times less pleasant. He fights against gravity, desperately trying to angle his head and feeling the weight of a thousand pounds bearing down on him, because if this is it for Alec, he needs Magnus’ face to be the last thing he sees.

His beloved’s face flickers gold in the smoldering fire light, but Alec’s view of him is immediately obscured by Clary running forward, stele in hand and already drawing. She paints the sky the same way she fills a canvas, using her stele to reify the secrets whispered to her by the Angels themselves. Her swirling script produces a rune unlike Alec has ever seen before.

He braces for impact, trying to find peace in the reality that his life is ending the way he was always taught it would, but the crash never comes. Instead, Clary launches her rune and it collides directly with his chest, knocking him another twenty feet into the air. 

He starts to fall once again, but then he just stops. Suspended in air. Unmoving. For a moment, Alec thinks he’s hallucinating or that maybe he did pass on, because whatever this is, is just insane. A piercing pain shoots from his shoulder blade, and Alec realizes that he’s very much alive. 

A second pain mirrors the first, and his back feels like it’s on fire. He hears a popping sound and feels his bones rearranging beneath his skin. He claws at his back, trying to do something, anything to stop or soothe or heal whatever the hell is going on, but there’s nothing he can do. 

Two sweeping white wings sprout from his shoulder blades, and Alec understands Clary’s message from the angels. He flaps his new wings a few times, testing them out. They seem sturdy, able to hold his weight, and completely absurd. They’re exactly what he needs to take this bastard down.  

The dragon shoots up into the air and pirouettes towards Magnus, bearing its razor sharp teeth dripping with ichor, and Alec charges after it, blade unsheathed and ready to kill. Magnus leans back, charging up his power and unleashes an orange blast of energy. 

His magic connects with the dragon’s open mouth, and electricity sizzles throughout its demonic form, charring it alive. The demon shrieks and plummets to the ground, where it turns to ash in the night wind.  

Alec flutters to the ground. His wings sag, the weight of them throwing him off center. They’re going to take some getting used to. “Well done.”

“More like medium rare,” Magnus shrugs.

“Are these…” Alec turns to Clary. “Permanent?”

“I don’t actually know.”

“Well, I rather like them.” Magnus steps towards him and leans in close so only Alec can hear. “I have always thought of you as an angel.”

He takes Alec’s hand in his and gives it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Alec’s wings wrap around him reflexively, drawing Magnus in closer so Alec can hear his heartbeat. It sounds steady, content even, a much welcome contrast to the erratic pounding Alec put him through earlier.   

“I love you. No matter what.” 

[kitsunetsuki-miko]

Title: The Priestess who became a Fox Writor: riddelllee​ Commissioned by: Mother of all Monsters Summary: What are you, child of Inari? Rated: M Warnings: Violence, mentions of abuse Website: [Link] Disclaimer: Mother of all Monster owns this character and the story behind her

She heard their words drift aimless and unfocused, echoing off bamboo screen doors to settle like knives at her throat. Marriage. It’s the one thing Hatajinko Ai never imagined for herself—her parents, on the other hand, thought differently.

Do you not see how I tend the Shrine?

She had dedicated her life to the Hatajinko Inari Shrine, an act she had never decided but always known to be true in her heart. Ai looked up into the faces of her parents. Shouhei and his wife Hitomi had never known what to do with her. Her father may have been the Head Priest of the shrine, but Ai had done his duties for the last week. She had done everyone’s duties. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t inherit the shrine, but she had tried to make the best of it.

In her hand, she clutched the acceptance letter to Kannushi like a lifeline.

“We’ve arranged a meeting with the Minamoto family later this week. Perhaps that will give you enough time to make yourself presentable,” her father said as if her unbrushed hair would be a deal breaker.

Even if it was, she didn’t want the marriage anyway.

“I just finished my exams for Kannushi,” she stammered.

Her father went on as if she hadn’t spoken, talking of the conversation he’d had with Minamoto-san, the opportunity for her to begin her life, and how fulfilling she was sure to find marriage. It coiled in her stomach, a rippling shudder that pricked the hair along her arms. And then she was looking into Shouhei’s face and the words slipped past her lips before she could stop them.

“I can’t get married. I’m going to Kannushi and getting a degree.”

“Ai,” her mother chided, shaking her head impatiently. “You don’t need a degree. Minamoto-kun will take care of everything, he’s going to inherit his father’s shrine and—”

“No.”

The word rang imposing and unwelcome in the space as if she had uttered a disgusting swearword instead. Smack—her father backhanded her across the face. She stumbled back, hand rising to caress the stinging flesh, tears in her eyes as she looked up in fear at the figure of Shouhei.

He screamed red fury into her face, degrading disregard in every furious word. She was ungrateful. She should know her place. Her role would forever be subservient—Ai winced and pleaded, a supplication that he refused to answer. It didn’t matter what she thought. She was too young, too inexperienced, too stupid to understand. Her choices were stolen, her voice muted.

Am I not human, too?

He sent her to bed without dinner. She searched for her mother’s eyes in the distance—they remained fixed on a point just above the floor, unflinching resolution beneath weathered, tired eyes. Hatajinko Hitomi had accepted her fate in this world; she had no room in her heart for anyone except herself.

Ai curled up in bed, her ribcage vibrating as wracking sobs shook her bones. She squeezed her eyes shut, and lips trembling, asked for help. She didn’t want to marry someone picked out by her parents. She didn’t want the life they had shoved her into. All her life, they had treated her less like a daughter and instead like own property, the help, the maid. They had shoved a dustpan and a broom into her hands the moment she could stand, and Ai burned to think of her stolen childhood, her stolen happiness.

She was a fox in a trap. But what limb would she need to chew off to break herself free?

The following week she was a ghost, flitting in and out of rooms, avoiding the inevitable as much as possible. She couldn’t eat. She tossed and turned at night, sweat on her brow, and all the while, the fire burned. Like magma, it seeped through her veins until it scorched her skin.

Two days before she was supposed to meet her husband, she collapsed.

The physician found a fever raging and ordered immediate bed rest. The ceremony was postponed, and she breathed a little easier that night. At first. Drawn from sleep by the parched valley of her mouth, Ai rose and poured herself a glass in the cool night air.

“—This is just ridiculous. What a time for her to get sick.”

Her steps faltered as she passed by her parent’s bedroom.

“We shouldn’t have told her until the day of.”

“No use worrying about that now.”

“Well, the minute she’s well, we’ll hand her over to Minamoto-san, and finally we’ll have that girl out of our lives.”

She remained there a silent statue in the dark long after their breathing had stilled and snores filled the air. With a start, she stumbled back into her own bed, and pulling the covers around her neck, she buried her face in her hands and cried.

I’m sorry I’m such an inconvenience.

Why? Why was nothing she ever did good enough? She had done everything they had ever asked of her without question or complaint, the dutiful daughter as always, faithful to the family shrine, devout to Inari—and it wasn’t enough. She hadn’t earned their love. Her face shone with heat, sweat on her brow, her lips cracking in the desert of her fever. She had pushed herself to prove she was worthy. What a fool she was to think that love was earned. She should have realized—she had given to them every piece of her, sought to endear herself to them—but they had never given her any in return.

What had she done to deserve this? By what right did the world force her into weeping misery? She had nothing left to give, nothing left to bribe the fates to change her story. But she deserved more. She deserved more than the cold dismissive scoffs of her parents, the gloating smiles of her brother. The flames of injustice encircled her heart.

She could feel herself fading, feel the fire consuming away at her flesh. Her mind felt alive within the inferno. Where was the person to hold them accountable for these crimes? Didn’t she deserve a knight in shining armour to save her from the cruelty of the world? But there was no one coming, she had no freedom, and the taste was harsh and metallic in her mouth.

Maybe the fever would kill her—let nature take its course. But foxes would sooner chew off their paw then lie down and die.

What are you, child of Inari?

The heat burned behind her eyes. It was almost as if she could hear the God Inari echoing in the recesses of her mind.

What are you, devout priestess of the Inari shrine?

Pain blossomed, the clicking of bone scraping against bone, the long numbing ache of teeth shifting. Her blood burned, her fingernails sharpened and curled into claws. She buried her face into her pillow to drown her muffled cries as her body distorted. What was happening to her? Razor-sharp incisors grew past her gums and replaced her teeth; her sight took on a fevered haze.

What are you?

She took deep breaths, in and out—in and out, adjusting to the warmth still hovering just beneath her skin. She raised her hand; saw the curled clawed fingers, a growth of thick black hair travelling up her arms. A power she had never known before thrummed in her veins.

She emerged from her room, marvelling at the strength in her limbs. She felt like if she were to strike out with her hand she could blot the stars from the night sky. She could kick the mountains into the sea. In the darkened hallway came another sound of a door opening, and her brother stepped out.

“I thought I heard you. Feeling better then? Good, we can get rid of you tomorrow.”

He came to stand beside her, his eyes glazing over her in the dim, missing the sharpness of her teeth. He bent his head to whisper in her ear, “Just don’t cry on your wedding night. No one likes a weepy bride.”

She looked up at him, and he caught a glimpse of bloody red eyes where brown should have been. She didn’t give him a moment to wonder what it meant. In a second, she had knocked him off balance, stepping around behind him and kicking his leg out from under him. She bodily threw him down the stairs, and into the kitchen. He groaned, curling into a crumpled heap on the floor. She would come back for him later.

She pushed open the door to her parent’s bedroom.

“What’s happened?”

The noise had roused them. Shouhei turned on the lamp, and her mother screamed as she caught sight of the creature standing in the doorway. Ai saw the fear and panic in their faces and she feasted on it. She took a step toward them and relished the flinch her father gave as he stepped back.

Why don’t you love me? She wanted to scream at them, scream until the effort tore apart her throat and left her gurgling blood upon the floor. She wanted them to understand. “Why was it so hard to love me?” she cried instead, hot tears trailing down her muzzle. “Why must you control me? Why can’t you just leave me be?”

But they had no answers for her. Hitomi stared at her in unrecognizing terror. She could see her father trying to find a weapon without her notice. “You will never let me be,” she growled at them, teeth bared. “You poison everyone around you. You are dictators and fascist monsters. You want to play God. Then I guess I’ll have to play the devil.”

Her father’s warm blood drenched her fingers as she ripped out his throat. He gaped and floundered like a fish. Hitomi mumbled incoherently, frozen in fear. Ai caressed her face, leaving a stream of crimson in her wake.

“Please, Ai,” her mother begged, tears in her eyes.

“You let it happen.”

“I know—I didn’t mean to, I was just—” she trailed off as Ai hushed her softly, pressing her bloodied finger against her lips.

“You care only for your own life.”

“Please—”

“I decided to care about mine.”

Ai held onto her until the light faded from mother’s eyes. She rose from the bed and surveyed the lake of blood and body parts, breathing in the smell of death. She didn’t look back as she stepped back into the hallway, blood dripping from her claws. Black ears angled as she heard heavy breathing and straining pants—and she found her brother attempting to drag himself up the stairs. She watched his struggle for a moment, and then swooped down in a mass of black fur and crimson rain.

“Ai—” he choked as she grabbed his hair, pulling him up, a feat of strength impossible for a woman of her small stature. She slammed him back into the wall, cracking wood.

“Hello, little brother.” She stood on her tiptoes to reach his ear. “Beg me to spare your life.”

“Dad! Mom!”

“They can’t hear you anymore.”

He tried to pry off her hands, but though his nails dug into her skin until he drew blood, she didn’t let go. Instead, she slammed him against the wall again, knocking the air from his lungs.

“All you had to do was think for yourself,” she growled into his ear.

He began to scream, incoherent cries for help. It made her chuckle instead.

“I’m saving the woman you would marry,” she said with viciousness and spite in her coloured tone. And then she smashed him a third time against the wall, throwing back his head until a sickening crack reverberated from him and up her arms. He slumped to the ground, vibrant crimson blossoming across his head.

Drenched in blood, the Inari Shrine glowed in ruby fever. She had dragged the bloodied forms of her family, laid as offerings before it. She stared at their lifeless faces for a moment, at the river of red staining the stones before her. She looked up into the face of Inari, the eyes of the stone fox glowing crimson in the night.

Who are you?

She turned to look out the city lights of Kyoto, at the tall concrete buildings hiding other stories like her own. And as she descended the staircase, she decided she would paint this whole town red if she had to.

I am free.

[alyssa-ward]

Privacy

Alyssa pauses in front of her door in the hallway of the Blue Recluse.  It’s been two weeks now since she rented the room, not a long term solution, ultimately she’ll need real lodging.  Until then though, it’s becoming a bit more home than she planned.  A quick glance up and down the hallway, ensuring that no one else is about, before carefully squeezing through the door, locking it behind herself, and turning to survey her room.

In a very short time, it has become very very Alyssa.  That’s a bit of a risk really, in a rented room.  She’s already asked the staff to stay out of it, to avoid cleaning it, she’ll deal with all of those things.  There’s a bed of course, and a chest of drawers.  A rod hanging in one corner from which hang her library of fine dresses.  A writing desk piled high already with books, a mix of her own, and ones found at shops of various repute here in the city.

She casts hands into the air, whispering words as she enters the room, her eyes going green, palms flickering with washes of felfire as she conjures, bringing her protectors, her servants, into this plane of existence.  A faint smouldering smell in the room as rings of green light on the floor in predrawn sigils done in chalk on the wood grain.  One by one her imps come to her, each of the six circles drawn on the floor bringing another.  Her other demons she doesn’t need at the moment.

“Val, how’s the ring coming?”  She kneels down to inspect one of the imps, and it holds up a slim silver band with a diamond, neatly and carefully cut in the setting.  “Here, give it here.”  Alyssa holds out her hand impatiently and the imp sets the piece of jewelry in her palm.  A nudge of glasses, pulling them loose form her hair to settle on her nose again and she carefully inspects the ring up close, going over it for any sort of flaw.

“Good enough Val, you’re dismissed.”  A wave of her hand, and the imp with a squeal of frustration is cast back into the Twisting Nether.  The process repeats, going between her minions, checking over their work, seeing what they’ve made for her.  It’s not that she’s not really a jeweler, she is, she makes her own pieces.  It’s just, when one has extra help and limited time, it makes sense to put to use those who can.  She hardly needs their protection or firepower here in Stormwind.  Much though people warn her about parts of town, it’s no match for scrapping with the Forsaken day in and out at the border of Gilneas’ ruins.

She steps over to the window, pushing open the shutters, letting fresh air into the room, and the scent brought on from the summoning of her pets cast out, before moving to seat herself at the desk.  A long wooden box sits there, nearly the length of the desk itself, half buried beneath books.  They’re quickly pushed away, and she carefully opens the box, revealing a soft velvet lining inside, and in a neat row, small faintly glowing purple jewels.  Each of them has a small label below it, and she reaches to pluck one from the box, one labeled:

Ferdinand Mayers; Forsaken; Silverpine Forest; April 5

A flashback.  Alyssa stands over a crumpled figure, all bones and odd angles.  Her hair blowing back from the force of the magic in her hands before her.  A chain of sickly green running from her palms to the Forsaken creature’s chest.  At either side of the young redheaded woman, her two fel hounds sit, one gnawing away at a femur pulled from the man’s body.  The other nuzzling against her leg.  “Tell me your name.”

“No please, I don’t want to tell you anything, just finish it,” pale and drawn skin, bones sticking through, the scent of death, it’s hard to even remember he was ever human.  Alyssa doesn’t try.

“Tell me your name and this will end, I’ll let you live, you can be worth something.”  The Gilnean’s voice comes sharply.

The man looks confused, his face twisted in agony, finally he relents, “Ferdinand.  Ferdinand Mayers.”  He gasps out.  He starts to say more, but there’s nothing left.  A sharp twist of Alyssa’s hands, she jerks them together, ripping his soul free from his body.  The green energy wrangles what’s left of his essence, and drags it down between her palms, pressed together before coming out as a small purple jewel. 

“Good boys, let’s go home.”  She pats one of the Fel hounds before turning to stride back into the woods, back towards Hillsbrad and her cabin, the two red skinned creatures of razor and fire padding along at her side.

Alyssa closes the wooden box, holding Ferdinand’s soul gem up to the light, studying it through her glasses.  “Right then Mister Mayers.  Let’s see if we can’t make you worth something.”  She gently taps the surface of the gem, seeing the glow in it shift and twist.  “Kept my word, at least.”

[sbknews]

2022 Honda CRF450R

After a major evolutionary leap in 21YM the CRF450R receives further refinements for 22YM, offering smoother drivability from new ECU settings, plus a re-valve for the Showa suspension to improve damping balance between front and rear. The frame remains unchanged, and is the exact same frame used on the CRF450RW piloted to back-to-back MXGP World Championships by Tim Gajser in 2019 and 2020. - Introduction The Honda CRF450R has been the benchmark motocrosser since its introduction in 2002. Its package has always aimed to offer its rider – whether amateur enthusiast or pro-racer – total control through balance and agility. Plus, of course, it’s built with the quality, durability and longevity that Honda has long been famed for. And it’s a race bike that has constantly evolved. In 17YM, under a development concept of ‘ABSOLUTE HOLESHOT!’, Europe’s favourite open-class MX machine was given a ground-up redesign, with completely new chassis and a major top end power boost from a brand-new engine. Standard-fit electric start was a convenient addition in 18YM and, for 19YM, an HRC-developed cylinder head upped power and torque considerably; HRC launch control was also added. For 20YM the CRF450R gained Honda Selectable Torque Control (HSTC). Aside from the wheels and fundamental engine architecture, for 21YM the CRF450R was effectively a totally new machine, drawing heavily on developments from the 2019 MX GP championship-winning CRF450RW. And, while the 2020 MXGP championship was a challenge for a variety of reasons, Gajser and HRC secured the title for a second year in a row at the 18th round in Trentino, Italy in November 2020. Backed up by this continued proof of its top level racing pedigree, the 22YM CRF450R features further refinements to engine and suspension. And it remains, at its core, an HRC racer it is possible to buy.

2021 Honda CRF450R - Model Overview The redesigned 21YM CRF450R was based on the development theme of ‘RAZOR-SHARP CORNERING’, centred around stronger low/mid-range torque, ultra-accurate handling and rider-friendly ergonomics. The new (2kg lighter) frame and swingarm’s rigidity balance were combined with a tighter chassis geometry and heightened ground clearance to target peak cornering performance. HRC’s engine knowhow delivered strong low- to mid-range torque and the revised decompressor system gave more consistent off-the-bottom driveability. A new hydraulic clutch and comprehensive electronics package ensured that the new bike’s ergonomics made it easier for the rider to go consistently fast throughout a race – helping not only MXGP riders but also MX enthusiasts of all ability levels to constantly post optimal lap times. Building on these solid fundamentals from the new 21YM model, for 22YM the CRF450R receives an ECU update boosting drive plus extensive re-valve of the front and rear Showa suspension, elevating damping performance.

2021 Honda CRF450R - Key Features 3.1 Chassis - For 22YM, firmer suspension damping creates more balanced suspension performance - HRC input running through frame, swingarm, rigidity balance and geometry combines for outstanding cornering ability and ease of use, lap after lap - Compact narrow plastics aid rider freedom For 22YM the CRF450R’s chassis is unchanged aside from internal adjustments to the front and rear Showa suspension. The aim for the 22YM evolution is to deliver noticeably improved ‘hold up’ – raising the compression damping ride height of the stroke both front and rear in use – optimising balance between the front and rear of the machine. The Showa 49mm USD coil spring AF2 fork is based on the ‘factory’ unit supplied to MX race teams in the Japanese championship. Through the 21YM update the fork received 5mm more stroke, to 310mm, and increased rigidity for its axle clamps. For 22YM the low-speed shim-stack has been re-valved to generate firmer settings for both compression and rebound damping. Oil volume reduces 8cc to 380cc; there are now 13 adjustment positions (rather than 15) for rebound with 15 for compression, as before. A complete re-valve of the Showa MKE AF2 rear shock’s low-mid- and high-speed shim stack delivers a firmer overall setting for compression damping. There are now 11 adjustment positions for rebound (from the 8 of the previous iteration) and 6 for high and low-speed compression (from 12). Oil volume increases 1cc to 422cc. The 21YM evolutionary leap saw the cycle parts and ergonomics greatly improved. Thanks to narrower main spars the weight of the main frame was reduced by 700g, while the redesigned subframe also saved 320g. The chassis dynamic was also new; with torsional rigidity maintained, lateral rigidity reduced 20% to increase corner speed, traction and steering accuracy. Both top and bottom yokes were redesigned for greater flex, for quicker steering and improved feel, and the aluminium Pro-Link swingarm given a rigidity balance tuned to match the frame. To aid movement around the machine the seat was made shorter, lighter and 10mm lower at the rear compared to the previous design. It was also made easier to remove and install, and maintenance was simplified with only four 8mm bolts securing the bodywork each side. Designed with Computational Flow Dynamics (CFD) for maximum through-flow of air, the radiator shrouds are constructed from one piece of plastic and include a lower vent while the radiator grills are optimised for airflow. The titanium fuel tank holds 6.3L. Standard-fit, lightweight Renthal Fatbar flex for optimal comfort; the top yoke features two handlebar-holder locations for moving the handlebar rearward and forward by 26mm. When the holder is turned 180°, the handlebar can be moved an additional 10mm from the base position, resulting in four unique riding positions. Up front, the twin-piston brake caliper employs 30 and 27mm diameter pistons and 260mm wave-pattern disc; along with low-expansion rate brake hose it gives both a strong feel and consistent staying power. The single-piston rear caliper is matched to a 240mm wave-pattern disc. DID aluminium rims, with directly attached spoke pattern layout are finished in black; the front is a 21 x 1.6in, the rear a 19 x 2.15in. The rear wheel was made both stronger and lighter for 21YM and Dunlop’s MX33F/MX33 soft-terrain tyres are fitted as standard equipment. Rake and trail remain at 27.1°/114mm with 1481mm wheelbase and 336mm ground clearance. Dry weight is 105.8kg. The striking all-red graphic treatment complements the 22YM CRF450R’s aggressive lines.

21YM HONDA CRF450R 3.2 Engine - Revised ECU mapping for 22YM enhances smoother power delivery - Hydraulic clutch gives consistent and light lever feel - Decompressor system delivers improved stall resistance 22YM sees the 449.7cc four-valve Unicam engine unchanged, except for updated ECU mapping further promotes linear throttle control enhancing the boost that it received in 21YM. Those changes for 21YM were very significant. An increase (up to 0.6kW) in peak power above 5,000rpm – accompanied by a stronger low-rpm torque feel – was the result of an extra 1.8L volume (to 4.1L) on the ‘clean’ side. The injector angle, too went from 30° to 60°, spraying fuel all the way back to the butterfly to improve intake efficiency, cooling of the charge and all-important throttle feel. The decompression system was also new: its counterweight moved from the right of the camshaft to the left, giving more stable operation at low rpm with increased stall-resistance. The biggest change was to the twin exhaust ports: like the CBR1000RR-R Fireblade their exit became oval rather than round in shape for improved efficiency. The downpipe was also tucked in 74mm closer to the centre line while the single muffler featured twin resonators to reduce noise while boosting power. Drawn directly from Gajser’s bike was the 8-plate hydraulic clutch. This gives outstanding control and feel at the lever as well as delivering consistent lever clearance under arduous riding conditions. Slippage was also reduced by 85% at peak power. Bore and stroke is set at 96 x 62.1mm with compression ratio of 13.5:1. A gear position sensor allows the use of three specific ignition maps for 1st and 2nd, 3rd and 4th, and 5th. Rock-solid reliability has always been a big factor in the CRF450R’s success and a 5-hole piston oil jet and dual 12mm drum scavenge pump manage all-important lubrication.

21YM HONDA CRF450R 3.3 Electronics - Honda Selectable Torque Control (HSTC) with 3 riding modes (plus OFF) - HRC Launch Control offers 3 start options - Engine Mode Select Button (EMSB) features 3 maps to adjust output character - HRC Setting tool tailors Aggressive and Smooth modes The CRF450R’s HSTC works to minimise rear wheel spin (thus wasted forward drive) and maximise traction. It doesn’t use a wheel speed sensor, and critically maintains feel at the throttle while managing power; ignition timing is retarded and the PGM-FI controlled when the rate of change of rpm is detected to have gone over a set amount. The three Modes differ in drive management level for different riding conditions: Mode 1 intervenes most lightly, and after the longest time ­– useful for reducing wheelspin and maintaining control in tight corners. Mode 3 has the system intervene more quickly and strongly, and is therefore useful in more slippery, muddy conditions. Mode 2 naturally offers a mid-point between 1 and 3 in terms of speed and strength of intervention. The Launch Control indicator, EFI warning, HSTC and EMSB mode button, and LED indicator are sited on the left handlebar. Pressing and holding the HSTC button for 0.5s will cycle the system to the next mode, with a green LED indication – 1 blink for Mode 1, 2 for Mode 2 and 3 for Mode 3 – to confirm selection. The HSTC system can also be switched off completely. When the engine is turned on, the system uses the last-selected setting. HRC Launch Control gives any rider the best option for a strong start and also has 3 modes to choose from: Level 3 – 8,250rpm, muddy conditions/novice. Level 2 – 8,500rpm, dry conditions/standard. Level 1 – 9,500rpm, dry conditions/expert. Activating HRC Launch Control is easy: to turn on, pull in the clutch and push the Start button on the right. The purple LED will blink once for Level 1 selection. Push the Start button again, for 0.5s or longer, and the LED will blink twice for Level 2. Repeat the process and the LED will blink 3 times, indicating that Level 3 has been chosen. The Engine Mode Select Button (EMSB) alters the engine’s character and three maps are available to suit riding conditions or rider preference: Mode 1 – Standard. Mode 2 – Smooth. Mode 3 – Aggressive. The LED also displays mode selected, but with a blue light. The HRC Setting Tool can deliver an ECU map with a much more easy-going Smooth mode, with gentler throttle response for less experienced riders. It can also inject Aggressive mode with a hyper-sensitive throttle reaction and engine response for race conditions.

21YM HONDA CRF450R - Technical Specifications ENGINE Type Liquid-cooled 4-stroke single cylinder uni-cam Displacement 449.7cc Bore ´ Stroke 96.0mm x 62.1mm Compression Ratio 13.5 : 1 FUEL SYSTEM Carburation Fuel injection Fuel Tank Capacity 6.3 litres ELECTRICAL SYSTEM Ignition Digital CDI Starter Self-Starter DRIVETRAIN Clutch Type Wet type multi-plate Transmission Type Constant mesh, 5-speed,manual Final Drive Chain FRAME Type Aluminium twin tube CHASSIS Dimensions (L´W´H) 2,182 x 827 x 1,267mm Wheelbase 1,481mm Caster Angle 27.1° Trail 114mm Seat Height 965mm Ground Clearance 336mm Weight Dry 105.8kg – wet 110.6kg SUSPENSION Type Front Showa 49mm USD fork Type Rear Showa monoshock using Honda Pro-Link WHEELS Type Front Aluminium, spoke Type Rear Aluminium,  spoke Tyres Front 80/100-21-51M Dunlop MX33F Tyres Rear 120/80-19-63M Dunlop MX33 BRAKES Front Single 260mm disk Rear Single 240mm disk All specifications are provisional and subject to change without notice Please note that the figures provided are results obtained by Honda under standardised testing conditions prescribed by WMTC. Tests are conducted on a rolling road using a standard version of the vehicle with only one rider and no additional optional equipment. Actual fuel consumption may vary depending on how you ride, how you maintain your vehicle, weather, road conditions, tire pressure, installation of accessories, cargo, rider and passenger weight, and other factors. For more Honda Motorcycles UK news check out our dedicated page Honda Motorcycles UK News or head to the official Honda Motorcycles UK website honda.co.uk/motorcycles.html

21YM HONDA CRF450R

If you would like to receive our headlines daily to your email inbox then sign up to our newsletter: Here Subscribe to our news channels: Here

Read the full article

[laurabelle2930]

Summer House ~Chapter One: Changing Writers

Okay so.... @diggo26 is the only person whose read this story or what I managed to write during the month of April during the camp that @green-arrows-of-karamel allowed me to take part in. She’s certain this is a great story and I’m still unsure. I’m posting the first chapter because again a certain friend desperately wants me to share...

Summary: Oliver Queen has been missing for two years. On the eve of his 2nd anniversary the local paper with the families consent has decided to run a memorial article since one was never done when he first went missing. Sara Lance was assigned the story at first but know the paper’s hotshot reporter Felicity Smoak has been assigned the story. Felicity must now put her personal feelings aside as she searches for the truth to Oliver Queen’s disappearance.  

FYI I suck at summaries so please give it a shot. 

Read it here or on AO3

Preamble:

Red tapestries, faded hardwood and, broken glass surrounded his tall, angular form. He pushed his fingers along the white marble window sill; the dust fell over the beveled edge with ease as his cold blue eyes peered through the scratched up window panes.

The empty branches scratched along the battered, abandoned glass; the windows now were simply a broken reflection of a place that once felt like his true home. He shifted his gaze and, let the rhythmic pace of the wind along the glass ease the growing loneliness within his hardened heart. The clock along the stone mantel clanged, the windows rattled and, the shutters snapped along the home’s stone exterior.

His sharp inhale seemed silent when the wind once more howled, “Two years tomorrow,” he groaned to the creaking walls. “Two years and no one’s come…” he bemoaned as the lone flicker of light finally went out...

Chapter One: Changing Writers

The room around her was filled with the sounds of tapping fingers and thudding brains. Her brightly painted fingernails tapped along the faded black keys of her worn office keyboard. She tapped at the edge of the archaic machine and, let her furrowed brow fade into a frustrated one.

“Every life has a story, every journey has a reason and, every life has to find its ultimate purpose.”

Once she read the line aloud she immediately pressed her eager pinkie over the fairly worn backspace key. She watched with anticipated annoyance while each word slowly began to simply fade away.

She heard the sharp scowl of her thoroughly overworked officemate. “Please explain to me how that cow expects us to produce miracles from absolutely nothing!”

Felicity grumbled in sour agreement, “I take it you’ve been given the memorial story from hell?”

She heard Sara’s feet ramming along the thin barrier between their two small, corner side desks. Felicity moved her feet back instinctively when the points of Sara’s three inch pumps came inching through the cardboard like barrier. “Maude’s lost her damn mind! The witch won’t talk, her brat tells nothing more than fabricated lies and don’t get me started on the other one…” she rambled before Felicity heard her forehead slamming over her desk’s edge.

She groaned in pain when Felicity gently argued, “Ummm the other one is your sister is she not?”

“What’s your point Smoak?” Sara would have glowered had it not been for the corkboard divider between their frustrated faces.

“My point,” Felicity nearly stammered while her fingers knotted in her lap, “Is that Maude gave you the headline because of your connection to the family. Perhaps it would be prudent…”

“Don’t finish that thought my former best friend. I’m not and I repeat not asking my sniveling, gold digging sister for a way to con a story out of a grieving mother!” Sara nearly screamed before Felicity heard her small fists slamming along the divider.

Felicity winced when her thumbtacked papers fell soundlessly through the space between the tables edge and the divider. “Well if you’re so uncomfortable then approach it from a different angle?” she suggested with an audible gulp. “I mean let’s be honest other than his police record you know next to nothing about him,” she added with trepidation.

Sara’s razor edged voice seemed to fade, “Or perhaps my sweet, almost doormat like best friend could just take the assignment instead?”

“Doormat?” Felicity growled towards Sara’s condescending suggestion.

She heard the wheels of her desk chair rolling slowly over the faded hardwood floors. “Lissy…” she began to beg, “Laurel likes you, Thea actually knows your name and Moira finds you pleasant..” she began to argue as she slowly sauntered around the invisible corner of their joined desks.

Felicity’s annoyed, crystal, blue eyes fell over Sara’s strong yet still petie form. “Yeah because he intervened in my relationship with Tommy…” she chirped in aggravation.

Her sad eyes fell towards the floor. Felicity watched with interest as she folded her form into the small spare chair near the edge of the storage closet sized office. She lifted one slim, tanned leg until the tip of her red colored heel was over the edge of her black rimmed desk. Her red pencil skirt slid up to almost mid-thigh when she slowly scooted down along the green plastic veneer. Felicity crossed her legs and placed her joined fingers over her raised kneecap. She gazed over her solid black frames and cocked her interested brow. Sara smiled lightly while she placed her joined fingers over her cream colored blouse. “Yeah and that means you’ll tell the truth of his life and not just the facts of his death,” she sighed as Felicity fell quiet.

She cocked her head before she felt her neck cracking from stress, “How far have you gotten?” she breathed before her straight back slumped into a defeated line.

Sara let her dirty blonde hair fall over the back of the uncomfortable chair when she uttered, “I have the interviews, the statements and of course the files but…”

It was the elongated but that made Felicity frown, “For christ sakes Sara the house isn’t haunted!”

“Yeah but it’s where  he was last seen!” she argued almost instantly while her body remained completely relaxed.

Felicity let out an empty laugh, “So you can’t finish because you’re afraid of a “supposedly” haunted house?”

She knew Sara didn’t miss her air quotations when she tried to kick the edge of her worn keyboard. Felicity rolled her bright eyes and tapped her brightly painted fingernails along her tweed colored blazer. “I’m right aren’t I?” she giggled almost too happily.

Sara grunted seconds later, “I’m telling Maude we’ve switched, you’re taking the billionaire gone too soon tribute and, I’m taking the tired poet’s last work was timeless piece.”

Felicity knew Sara was scared but it wasn’t of the house, she was scared of the reliving the night her sister lost a boyfriend and, Felicity lost someone she once foolishly considered to be her soulmate.

Maude agreed to the switch of course; she was about making a profit and, with Felicity writing this piece the papers would fly off the stands. Felicity tapped the bottom of her red pen along the edge of the coiled phone cord while the dial tone filled her left ear. The office around her was quiet, the lights were low and, the blinds over the one lone window were drawn leaving her alone in the dark, isolated room. She tapped her fingers over the receiver while it continued to ring endlessly along the edges of her eardrum. Her small huff of exasperation was muted when a sleepy voice croaked, “Hello?”

Her lips curved involuntarily, “I take it someone took a sleeping pill or two with her evening Brandy,” she laughed slowly if not awkwardly while her pale pink lips grew into a tight smile.

“Hmmmm hello sweetheart,” came her tired if not slightly drunken reply. “I’m assuming you’re calling to set up another dreadful interview?” she nearly slurred before Felicity heard a loud thump.

She bit back a tight laugh, “Moria did you just stumble into the couch?”

“Well…” she stammered before she let out a drunken hiccup, “That is why you called isn’t?”

Felicity let the pen fall over the warped desk surface, her fingers itched for useful employment when she quietly replied, “How did you know?”

The other end went silent, all she could hear for endless seconds was the sound of branches along the ageless glass of the stained window panes. She swallowed roughly and, nearly broke the silence when Moira hiccuped drunkenly, “Maude called of course. She wanted to ensure that a change in writer wouldn’t upset Thea or myself. I assured her that you were preferred to begin with so I’ve been awaiting your call..”

Felicity placed her fingers over her trembling lips, “Preferred?” she gulped before segwaying into her next question. “Are you sure that you’re up for another interview?”

She heard the clink of a shot glass as Moira poured herself another tumbler of aged whiskey. “I can’t pretend the anniversary of his disappearance isn’t upon us nor can I” Felicity heard her gnarled swallow through the phone. Her drunken voice made her already fractured heart break when she finally let out a mumbled “you know ignore my lost sex appeal, my lost youth, or Robert’s affair…” Felicity moved her tapping pen to her lower lip, she swept her shoulder length blonde hair over her shoulder and, inwardly groaned at what she had to do. .

“Okay you’ve been drinking since noon haven’t you?” she finally concluded when Moira’s words became nothing more than slurred grunts.

“You used to date my son what do you think?” she nearly choked as Felicity listened to her swallow another glass of the vile liquid.

“Tommy was your adoptive son,” Felicity meagerly pointed out before she finally added, “and he’s been with Laurel for what two years now?”

Moira’s glass must have fallen because seconds later the sound of cracked glass filled her already bruised ears. “Moira do you need me to come over?” she finally asked once her subconscious was about to eat her alive.

She heard a grunt, then she heard another glass shatter before Moira’s booze laden voice filled her shuddering soul, “I’ll see you at eight sweetheart…”

Felicity didn’t need to respond she knew her silence would say more than her words ever could. She let the receiver fall over the aging phone cradle then placed her fingers upon her aching temples. The wind howled for the third night in a row, the moon was nearly full in the cloud heavy sky and, the walls seemed to ache with age and, crumbling drywall. Felicity mumbled as her eyes fell, “Tomorrow should be fun…” before she glanced at the black page before her.

Memories for some people meant stories of fond times and happy moments but, for her they often led to lost moments and broken trust. Felicity peered through narrow eyes at the oval shaped mirror before her. The surface was scratched, the rim was rusted and, the entire upper frame was littered with dozens of candid snapshots from many years before. At one corner was the Sara corner. She had shots of her smiling, shots of her frowning and even some of her flipping her off. Through it all her bright smile betrayed the truth of her good natured heart.

The other corner held pictures of the family she’d once hoped to be apart of. Felicity brushed her fingers over Moira’s striking profile before her red nails fell over a ten year old Thea. She furrowed her brows in curiosity when her fingertips brushed over the edge of another hidden photo. She pushed the corner of the front one down and, gasped when his bright, blue eyes were revealed. The hidden candid was one she’d nearly forgotten about since she’d taken great care to conceal it from view. She carefully ran her fingers down the image of his innocent looking face. He’d been about eighteen when this shot was captured. The summer house was behind them looking old, damaged and, nearly destroyed from a violent storm. Felicity groaned at the camera angle but kept her lips shut while she continued to marvel at the way his eyes seemed to dance in an old, wrinkled photograph. Her eyes fell once more on the picture of Thea, her heart constricted and, her stomach rolled when an unwelcome thought breezed through her mind; she sighed quietly as her hand fell, “If you only knew how sweet he could be…” She let the moment float through her like the waves upon the dry sand knowing soon she would once more be at the precipice of the beast’s lair.

She finally laughed at her sappy sentiment when the waves of endless emotion finally began to abate. How sweet he could be, she laughed lowly, “Perhaps I’m letting my own emotions cloud my judgement…” she marveled through the bitter sounding laughter of her own twisted heart.

As with most mirrors your image follows you perfectly. She contemplated this simple fact while gazing critically as her reflection that mirrored her movements instead of offering any sage words of much needed wisdom; once she’d decided to veer away from memory lane. She stared wordlessly at her pale, drawn face. Her bright blue eyes seemed colder, perhaps even detached as they scanned along the lines of her hidden figure. She swept her fingers over her collar and, smoothed out the rumpled edges of the white shirt. She rubbed her full lips together while pushing a few stray strands of hair behind the shells of her ears. Her fingers brushed over the piercing near the edge of her right ear’s upper shell, her smile grew momentarily before it once more faded into a stiff frown. Some memories were better left buried she mentally groaned while she gazed over her stiff 5’6 form.

Her tweed jacket was in place, her three inch black pumps were securely over her feet, her black pencil skirt fit over her curved hips perfectly while, her white blouse highlighted the creamy texture of her pale skin. She muttered, “I should have chosen contacts....” when her glasses continued to slide down the slim bridge of her button nose. She mentally threw the objection aside because, she knew if she wanted help she’d need sympathy and, the glasses generally aided in that endeavour.

Deciding that she was ready she sauntered towards the small kitchen off the cramped living space that was filled with Sara’s array of both clean and dirty clothes. Felicity smiled at her messy housemate while bending down to pick up a discarded skirt. “Ummm Sarbear did you happen to make coffee when you tornado’d through the family room this morning?” she called out tiredly.

“Yeah Lissy and I’ve left you a shot of whiskey just in case you feel the need to down some liquid courage!” Sara yelled from her cramped bathroom.

Felicity threw the skirt over the bar stool along the island counter then moved around the cramped corner. She picked up the nearly full mug and took a long sip, she smiled warmly when the burn of the alcohol swam through her belly, “I see you decided I’d need more than the shot glass?” Felicity accused with a smile before she downed another long gulp.

Sara muttered but didn’t appear, “Well Lissy she’s not called the Dragon Lady for nothing.”

Felicity hated to agree but, knew deep down in her soul she was right. Knocking back the remnants of the mug she gulped as the liquid slid down her throat, “I’ll text you when I’m on the way home Sarbear!”

“Okay, I’ll pick up some pasta for dinner,” she replied before Felicity heard another item of clothing hit her already covered floor. Felicity rolled her blue eyes, grabbed her purse and, muttered beneath her coffee laced breath, “Oh I’m sure that means I will…” before quietly leaving through the front door.

Most homes were simply four walls, some windows and a front door with a garage for two cars. This was no home this was a living, breathing statement of opulence on high. The building itself consisted of thirteen corners, two towers and, around six doors near the front and sides. Leroy the front gate attendant gave her a cocky grin when she maneuvered her compact SUV up to the sensor locked gates. “Hey there sweetheart! I didn’t think we’d see your bright smile ever again after you and Mr. Queen parted ways!”

Her head swam, if Leroy wasn’t aware of her appointment with Moira then that would mean she’d need another way in. Her head spiraled for a mere second before she realized her reason for being there was already resting along the tip of her tongue.

Felicity pursed her lips and, grunted very rudely, “Leroy just open the gate so I can see if Moira’s even able to move after last night’s bender.”

The balding, aging man’s kind brown eyes fell in dismay, “She’s been drinking again then?”

Felicity choked back her gasp of shock then managed to nod sadly, “Yeah so I wanted to check on her if that’s okay?” His saddened voice and, dismayed eyes made her skin prickle with intense feelings of guilt. Leroy was an older man whose family chose to leave after his own battle with alcohol led to multiple DUI’s and, the mandatory counseling that came as a parting gift. He of course felt for his employer and, soon Felicity felt waves of shame rolling through her once she realized she’d crossed an invisible line.

Leroy of course pushed in the same 1245 code, Felicity grinned gratefully before reaching down into the small open compartment along her door. Smiles were good and all but, she knew token’s of genuine affection were better for easing one’s guilt after they’d accidentally stepped on an active emotional landmine.  She stubbed her index finger when she reached for the small, worn out copy of “Moby Dick”. Her eyes flickered in slight pain when she mumbled, “Oh here’s the book I promised to bring you if you ever saw me again!”

Leroy took the aged binding and, the frayed pages like it was a gift from God. Felicity smiled in earnest as she slowly moved through the opening gates. Leroy nearly wept, “Thank you sweetheart,” as his oversized fingers clamped down gratefully around the worn books cover.

Felicity nodded then mouthed “You’re welcome,” before his grateful face vanished from sight. She glanced at his reflection once more before her eyes fell upon the castle that was Queen Manor. Her car bobbed and rocked over the cobble stone path, she felt her fingers tighten over the leather steering wheel as her greedy eyes fell over the castle before her. The structure itself was built in 1884, the home was remodeled in 1904 and then again in 1970 before the final update in 2012. Felicity gulped when the front fountains came into view. The grass was cut, the stone angel wings were wet from the flowing water and, the gardeners were about with fresh flowers for the coming summer season. Felicity muttered, “She still loves to replant…” as she passed a line of unplanted red orchids.

Her staff was diligent as usual. Murphy her butler was already standing by the door since Leroy buzzed him once he’d opened the gates, Craig her driver had his hand over her door handle before she’d managed to undo her seatbelt. Felicity smiled then tilted her head so her words couldn’t be read by Murphy’s careful eye. “She’s replanting the front beds again?”

Craig stood at 5’7 with red, curly hair and a small rounded stomach. He smiled gently making his freckled nose appear almost bright red. “She’s just trying to keep busy Ms. Felicity,” he finally remarked once she stepped out of the car.

Felicity’s small smile faltered but, she didn’t let that affect her overall manners. She placed a friendly hand over his slumped shoulder and gave it tight squeeze. “I think we all miss him in our own unique ways,” she commented dryly before the younger man’s lips curled.

“He had a kinder side Felicity,” the once bullied man mentioned as Felicity began to move toward the open front door.

She sighed regretfully knowing just how kind Oliver could truly be, “Yes I suppose that’s true,” she offered before giving him a quick goodbye. Curtis waved his fair skinned hand before closing the door of her red SUV and moving quickly down the narrow drive to aid one of the various gardeners.

Murphy of course was stern as usual with his almost procedural like greeting. “Miss. Smoak, the lady of the house has been expecting you.”

She hid her taken aback emotions by nodding curtly. He smiled dryly and, began appraising her with his judgement green eyes.

Felicity glared at his graying hair, before her wrinkled eyes fell upon his liver spotted face, “You know you could pretend not to hate me just to shake things up Murphy,” she scolded with anger and a bit of repressed sadness.

His old voice made her stomach rattle nervously, “I hate why you’re here not you Felicity, never once did I hate you.”

Felicity while taken aback by his honest confession couldn’t help but, be both unnerved and touched by his words. She glanced over his worn black clothes. His suit was wrinkled, his collar was undone and his eyes no longer twinkled like the midmorning sun; now they simply stared at her emptily. “How bad is she?” Felicity croaked when his eyes shifted to the men working behind her.

“She’s no longer sober at all Miss Felicity.  Miss Thea’s with Robert in the city while Mrs. Queen wonders around the endless estate with a bottle of booze strapped to her side,” he admitted once he was sure no prying ears were wandering about.

Felicity pushed her purse along her shoulder, “I’m just here about Oliver’s disappearance Murphy. I won’t tell the world she’s lost herself in grief and booze,” she assured him with a gentle whisper.

He moved his aging hand toward the foyer and cocked his angular chin toward the main floor’s library. “Just remember she’s fragile,” he quietly warned as Felicity walked carefully along the marble floors.   

She heard the door close behind her back. His black shoes tapped along the black, white and, gray marble floors with quiet ease as she slowly stepped through the familiar halls. Her crystal blue eyes danced along the dark wooden railings of the twin staircases around her. She walked past the hallways that led to the formal sitting area and, then past the swinging door that led to the galley kitchen. Felicity noted with somber realization that some of the paintings had been removed and, replaced with cheap knockoffs that wouldn’t fool even the most uneducated eye.

She kept her hands folded over her purse as she stepped off the marble floors and, onto the soft area rugs that littered the original hardwood floors of the only section of the home that had been left untouched since its construction. The library had two french doors that when opened allowed the light from the overhead window of the foyer to pour into the first few feet of the untouched room. Once inside you either were awestruck by the two floors of books that rose from the floor to the ceiling or by the wall of stained glass windows; either way your senses were left frenzied.  

“You once stated that the writers of Beauty and the Beast must have stolen the idea for the library from this very room,” a very sober sounding woman noted from the antique off white couches near the first row of stained glass windows.

Felicity let her dancing eyes drift along the the various ladders and, shelves before she replied with whimsy, “And I stand by that statement Mrs. Queen.”

Moira’s face brightened as she tipped her tea cup back along her parted lips. “I’d say Moira would be just fine Felicity,” she gently scolded before the lukewarm tea passed her eager lips.

Felicity smirked, “Okay so if we’re playing the old friends game let’s talk about the contents of that tea cup Moira.”

She placed the lightly painted flowered tea cup over the saucer on the faded, wooden table top. Her slim fingers brushed along her temples as she pursed her thin, undecorated lips inward, “My son’s missing, Tommy’s taken up with a vile golddigger, Thea’s living with Robert and, he’s still sleeping with his assistant so I’d say some rum at 8 am is not exactly unexpected,” she proclaimed with stern words and, a slightly flared temper.

Felicity held up her thin hands in surrender. “I’m not here to argue about your choices Moira I’m just here to find out what happened at that damn house the night Oliver disappeared,” she prattled nervously while she remained frozen in the center of the book lined room.

Moira’s fingers fell to her perfectly coiffed hair, Felicity’s heart stammered as the older woman’s thin fingers pushed the thick strands back behind her delicate hair. “Come here sweetheart, I know you have a deadline and, I know you’ll be kind with the details,” Moira finally breathed in muted acceptance.

Felicity stepped forward and cringed when her heels slipped along the small stretches of exposed flooring. “So he went to the Summer house…” Felicity started quietly while Moira leaned back along the faded flowers of the old Victorian couch.

“He was upset that much I recall but, over what he wouldn’t tell me,” Moira started tonelessly.

“Wasn’t he working for Robert on the election campaign?” Felicity asked cautiously knowing that while she wanted to be gentle she was still a reporter who had a story with a very close deadline looming before her.

Moira’s laugh wasn’t one of humor, it was one of veiled torment. “Yes he was as a matter of fact. He’d been spending hours with his vile father and, that skeletal bore whom he settled for when someone better didn’t come along…”

Felicity let her purse fall off her shoulder then placed it gently on the table before her. She picked up Moira’s abandoned cup and took a small...well perhaps a large sip before choking over the burn of the spiced rum, “Someone better?”

Moira’s eyes always felt ageless so it startled her when her age was reflected in her once bright brown orbs. She crossed her legs and, placed her now joined hands over her surprisingly flat stomach, “Let’s just say once upon a time he had a tutor who made him act like a genuine human being…and, let’s just say I rather liked the person he became,” she explained almost emotionlessly.

Felicity of course stammered like a drunken fool, “He had a tutor?”

“Yes he was failing a math course I believe so he used the Summer house to meet her in secret…” Moira again explained but, this time it was with a flicker of curiosity.

Felicity bypassed the topic and, moved back towards the original reason for their meeting, “Right so anyways he went to the Summer house after seeing something at work that aggravated him?”

Moira cocked her quizzical brow but let the subject drop. “Yes he left a message for his father on the answering machine. He sounded frantic and, bit concerned over some strange equations along the borders of some old book he’d found in the safe behind the Monet in his office,” she continued again with no emotion in her tone.

Felicity by now had downed the rest of Moira’s morning cocktail and, was sitting on the antique chair that matched the gold rimming of Moira’s couch. “You think Robert was up to something illegal and Oliver found the evidence?”

Moira took Felicity’s conclusion and, took it one step forward, “I think that Robert has plans for this city. I think he’s intending to play God with the population of this city and, I think our son was planning on both confronting him and, I hope stopping him.”

Felicity paled, “You think Robert heard the message and, what followed him up there to silence him for good?”

Moira’s eyes flashed coldly, “I know that once Oliver reached the summer house he found Laurel and Tommy together in his bed.” Felicity’s stomach rolled for personal reasons as Moira’s voice continued to weave around the room. “I know that he ran back out into the balmy summer night with a shattered heart and a wounded soul. I also know that Robert didn’t come home till 4 am that night…”

Felicity’s brows arched as her eyes widened, “Is that why Sara wouldn’t go to the house?”

Moira nodded painfully, “She thinks we’ll find Oliver’s body buried in hole out back,” she wept with pain and torment. “She also thinks that’s why Laurel and Tommy won’t go there either, she thinks they saw Robert kill his own son but…”

Felicity’s heart oddly enough stopped at that uttered but, “You think he might be alive don’t you?” she finally whispered with her own heart now racing with unexpressed hope for the mourning woman before her.

Moira sniffed back a gnarled sob then managed to whimper tonelessly, “I think that my son’s story needs to be told and, I think you’re the one to tell it.”

Felicity eyed the tea pot eagerly before she managed to babble, “I’ll need the keys…”

She heard the sound of shifting metal clanging together over the rough wooden surface between them. “Robert visits the house every few weeks…” Moira warned as her slim fingers pushed the keys forward. “You’ll have four days to search the grounds so I recommend you use the time wisely.”

Felicity’s trembling fingers brushed along the golden keys, “I’ll find out what happened to your son Moira,” she breathed as her fingers folded around the gold keys. “I’ll find him…” she whispered once more as she slowly drew the keys towards her lap.

Tagging: @emmaamelia95 @pleasantfanandstudent @coal000 @memcjo @lesanchea @mrsbubblelee @olicitylovemaking @miriam1779 @love2luvyyou @almondblossomme @diggo26 @rivaroma @vaelisamaza @befitandchase @pimsiepim @andjustforthismoment @anonymiss118 @thelockpickingvictorian @yet-i-remain-quiet @lexi9515 @kathrynelizabeth89 @marniforolicity @marytagus @myhauntedblacksoul @myuntetheredsoul @blondiegrl00 @independent-fics @felicity-said--yes @relativelyobsessedfangirl @i-m-a-fan-world @mel-loves-all @danski15 @green-arrows-of-karamel @malafle @emilyp05 @oliverfel4 @alempa74 @vicky-vale @charlinert @hope-for-olicity @missafairy @arrows-4ever @jaspertown @sweetzcupcake @captainolicitysbedroom @nalla-madness @smoakingarrow19 @bwangangelic @ccdimples88 @lalawo1 @ireland1733 @quiveringbunny @scu11y22 @detbensonsvu1 @tdgal1 @cinfos @xxliveyourlife @onceuponarrow @supersillyanddorky06 @wherethereismoak @olicityinmyheart @all-things-olicity @bitchwithwifi 

[plugrick]

🌓Rickacurring Nightmare

@tusoypendejo

Dont think about it. Whatever you do, don’t think about it.

Don’t stop running, don’t aid too much attention to the situation at hand, and don’t let thoughts wander back to the nauseating image of the thing following only yards behind. Keep going.

Stay cool. Take the chaos and break it down into digestible, bite-sized pieces. Hone the senses on heaving stuttered breath in, forcing it back out doubletime. Huff! Huff!

Don’t glance over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of the ever encroaching thing that clattered down the catwalk only yards behind, catching up too fast–

Oh god, he looked. “F-fffuck!” Through the layer of blur induced by movement over the split second flash he caught, the sight of massive rippling muscle and rows of finger length, inwardly hooked teeth parted in a snarl was enough to seize his next step and nearly make him stumble.

Don’t think about it.

As long as Rick abided by this internal mantra, filled the blank spaces in his harried brain with repetiveness reminiscent of a broken record, he could get through this. Dont think, it reiterated on a constant loop against the merciless encroach of visceral fear; But it skipped, the needle hit a snag in the worn grooves, and the message became dischordant, whittling away at already weak resolve until it inevitably became a baseline scream signalling imminent danger.

BANG SCCCCRRRHH BANGBANG

Oh sweet fuck, it was gaining ground. The heartbeat pounding in his ears sounded faraway yet deafening, like thunder rumbling underwater. Tendons and sinewy muscle strained hard enough to threaten a snapping of ligaments under the stress put upon them by the full-tilt sprint that he was struggling to maintain. God damn, why hadn’t he worked on his cardio more? All the accumulation of age and unchecked drug abuse had really worn his body down to a shell of his former athleticism. He was too out of shape for this.

Rick felt like he was going to start falling apart at the seams. He knew damn well that he couldn’t keep this up. Hell, it was only by the grace of the adrenaline coursing through his overworked circulatory system that prevented an entangling weight of unpleasant memories and engrained dread to encumber his whirling legs. With each and every impact his feet made with ground, the jarring connection hitched his air intake, which didn’t assist the creeping sense of panic clotting his windpipe. Perspiration beaded down the slope of his forehead from sheer effort, momentum derived only from prey animal escapism. Don’t let it catch you again.

SCRITCCCHBANG BANG SCRRRRH

The pursuants’ long claws scraping like nails on a chalkboard had his wits at their frayed ends. All he could think about was how he didn’t want to feel them curl around his side.

“Fuck, fuck - hhhuh - sh-shit!“

He’d really fucked up the game plan this time. How had he managed to end up here, trying to outpace this thing in its’ own advantageous environment?

The elevated bridge in the hull of this abandoned mothership wasn’t exactly the most ideal place for a chase scene with already disproportionate odds. He’d wanted this thing to feel like it had the upper hand, but maybe that’d worked a little too well. The dim emergency lights rendered the hallway too dark to gauge exactly how much distance he was putting between himself and the unnerving sound of something unquestionably sharp scraping against the studded metal floor, but Rick knew it sure as hell wasn’t far enough behind to provide leeway for even the barest room for error. This choice of location was arguably a poorer decision than using himself as a lure.

“RRRRRRHHHHHHHHHIIIIIICK ”

Oh, hell to the motherfucking no. “Ohhh sweet jesus! Ohhh mother of fucking shit! Ohhhh god–!“

He took it back. Carrying out a performance as live bait was /definitely/ the worst idea he’d ever formulated in his entire pointless life. What kind of shit had he been smoking that made him think this was a solid course of action? Oh yeah, just put yourself on a silver platter in front the giant shape-shifting space lizard hellbent on wrapping jaws around you - how could it go wrong? Fucking dumbass.

Maybe this was over before it ever started.

No! No - this was going to work. It was non optional. Yeah, this - this orchestrated scheme was going to pan out just fine, even if it had only gone about half right thus far. He had the coordinates. He was a Rick. He could do this. And if he truly wanted to be rid of this problem, this waking nightmare terrorizing his life, he just - He just couldn’t afford to spare a single second to hesitate.

Sweat slickened fingers struggled to find traction on the smooth dial on the back of his portal gun amidst jostled steps, the knob softly clicking as he searched for the correct dimensional sequence. C-132. C-137. There it was! “H-hah!”

This glowing number displayed upon a tiny LED screen represented salvation. It encompassed freedom, a chance to leave the past behind and move on. It meant no more watching over his shoulder in paranoia in case he was inevitably found again, no more waking up in cold paralysis with the ghost of claws sinking into his flesh;

He was going to take this abomination somewhere it belonged, leave it to rot in some fucked up dimension full of monstrous things just like it.

C-138. A place as shitty as bottom-barrel, hopelessly ruined earthscapes came, complete with an equally shitty old Rick for this thing to chase around instead. He doubted that the difference with it there would be noticeable at all. Or maybe that was just what he was telling himself to justify pussying out on his own problems and throwing one of his alternates under the goddamn bus. Whatever. Sorry, Rick, it’s not personal.

Focus! It was now or never. He squeezed one eye shut and aimed the nose of his gun as true as he could manage, shooting out a beam of green light that became a swirling green mass of eddying energy projected upon the wall ahead.

This was where things got fucky. The plan was a simple enough concept in theory, but in action? It bordered on madness. He’d figured, hey, if this thing would ram through walls just to get to him, why wouldn’t it dive through a portal for a meager chance at a taste?

Right. Now that it had his trail, lighted up on it like a bloodhound made of cold skin drawn taut over spinal ridges and a widely set skull, it’d follow him through a goddamn wood chipper. Just keep eyes trained forward. Ignore the way air raggedly released from convulsing lungs in sharp gasps, the sound distinctly desperate and unhinged. Push through the agonizing burn taking root in the center of a knotted diaphragm, the cramps from unoxygenated muscles that formed stitches just under the rib cage. Close the distance between here and that portal. Just a few more steps, almost there–!

It all came down to this ballsy leap of faith, legs cartwheeling through the air on a direct trajectory with the warping portal. As he passes through the threshold, he swears he can hear the whistle of claws whipping through empty space just behind the curvature of his spine. He thinks he can feel the slightest tug as slender fingers ripped through the fabric of his flowing overcoat with the ease of a knife passing through butter, effortlessly as though the phalanges were made of razor blades. He grits his teeth. If he glanced over, he was afraid that he might catch sight of massive five-fingered hands swinging from peripheral view to wrap completely around his torso–

And then it hit him: The outstretched hand and the crushing realization of failure.

He hadn’t made it far enough.

The strength behind a singular backhanded strike was equal to the brute force of a dozen people, like a bear on steroids. The sheer force of oversized knuckles colliding with the square of his lumbar snapped his head back, made the tightly curled grip around the portal gun release. All it took was one blow to knock the air clean out of Ricks’ lungs and send him skittering at alarming velocity over wide swaths of broken asphalt blocks and rusted rebar sticking up like grave markers out of dismally grey ruins. They snagged at his clothes and engraved fine cuts in flesh, but ultimately didn’t hinder his path as Rick tumbled like a ragdoll, head over heels –

Until something made of uncomfortable bony angles stopped him mid-flight, giving way with the ease of paper mache under the force of momentum. The two bodies met at an abrupt halfway point, catching each other with an effective gut check that sent Rick sputtering for air all over again. “Hurgh-!” He could only dimly register that he’d collided with someone made of lanky limbs that were now inexplicably entangled with his own, all decked out in shredded clothes and stupid sunglasses and telltale blue hair that he’d recognize anywhere.

“Hhhuuhhh-g-gettoffa m-me,” Rick wheezed incoherently, despite the fact that he was the one in the wrong, offering an unappreciative shove to a shoulder that seemed strangely metallic under his fingertips. He struggled to swiftly separate himself from a heap of entwined limbs to little avail as the dawning realization came over him that he’d been unceremoniously thrown down a mountain of rubble, and subsequently felt the part. His knees were sore from agitated old injuries, bruises blossoming along ribs, palms scraped raw and empty.

Wait - his hands were empty. The portal gun! “W-where is it?!” It must’ve skittered away, bouncing out of his hand upon the moment that he was swiped out of midair suspension like an insect. His flat hands swept over the ground, searching thoughtlessly for the only hope he had at getting out of this in one relative piece. “W-w-where’s the gun?!”

Oh, fuck no. It wasn’t going down like this. He’d spent too long evading, living with the lines carved into his sides for it to happen like this.

“RHHHHHIIIICK”

The release of half-speech, half lungful of breath containing too much volume to belong to anything /remotely human/ hissed out, piercing and predatory. It immediately drew Ricks’ gaze up at the hill of debris that he’d taken the express route down from, wherein he could make out the dark silhouette of reptilian features set on an intimidating frame;

It rose eight feet tall on bipedal legs the thickness of tree trunks, staring down unblinkingly with slitted pupils widened with interest. The parting of hinged jaw exposed rows of snakelike fangs meant to sink deep into anything unlucky enough to find itself sandwiched between them,

Like the glow of the portal gun sitting atop a long tongue.

The very last hope of escape slid down its’ gullet with finality, lost forever. Rick could feel his heart sink to his stomach.

It was as good as over. “Fuck.” The only chance to escape lied within the very alternate dimensional version of himself that he’d been planning on screwing over, who he turned to with the utmost urgency. “F-f-fucking portal us out b-before that thing comes down h-here, asshole!”

[erstwhile25]

Skin of the Teeth Part 4: Picking Your Poison.

(( We’re coming up on the end folks...well not THE END, but the end of Skin of the Teeth at the very least.  I’d originally intended for this post to be the last...but some stories have a habit of getting away from you, and this is one of them.))

Mazie fought hard to keep her hands from shaking as she laced up the side of her jerkin.  There was a strange sort of haze between her whirring mind and her fingers, a fog she had to swim through to get anything done ever since word had gone round the ship.  They were going to fight.   That hadn't been the plan of course to begin with, but they way she’d heard it, this hadn't been a day for plans.  When the slight hyur girl had heard the captain call for a retreat, Mazie had been relieved.  Let the others mutter about the captain’s cowardice all they liked, the Ashen Rook was a beautiful ship to be sure, but she didn't have the guns to stand up to a Garlean warcraft.  Mazie wasn't even sure the Rook had any guns at all.   Sure they had a fully stocked armory, bristling with blades, bows, even a few pistols, but she had been over every inch of the ship and hadn't seen a single cannon aboard.  She'd been able to make out the rows of guns aboard the Garlean ship as it closed the distance steadily for the past hour.  So as it became readily apparent that running simply wasn't an option, the Captain ordered them all below decks to ready for battle.  That had been well over half an hour ago.  Somehow she still found herself fiddling with the laces of her chemically treated leather jerkin, staring at the weapons hanging on the armory wall, and wondering if she could bring herself to use them on someone

She hadn't boarded the Ashen Rook back in Lominsa keen on the idea of fighting and dying, though the way you heard the sailors shout and sing in the Drowning Maiden, you'd think that's all there was to the sea.  No she had knocked on the captain’s door looking for work, and because in some well guarded corner of her heart, she loved the Ashen Rook.  Mazie had heard somewhere that it was important to love the ship that carried you, and for her the Rook had been love at first sight.   That fated month she had been turned away from a handful of merchant sloops, and a pair of fishing junks that never even left sight of the coast. Each and every captain had gruffly told her there was no room on their deck for a mousey haired slip of a girl with no sailing experience. This to her had always seemed a criminal paradox.  Didn’t you need to have a job to get the experience for which they wanted you for?   She had nearly given up hope of working on a ship, which was the only work worth having in the city of sails.  Then as she sat with her fishing pole in hand on the docks, the chain barriers of the harbor gates lowered into the sea, and hope floated in on stretched sail.   Mazie had never seen her like before, lean, sleek, freshly tarred, and held together with pitted darksteel.  The Rook wasn’t the size of the feared Limsan four masted Destroyers, but looking at her you could tell she didn’t need to be.  She was grace given form to fly on cool sea breezes and cut through waves of salt with the speed of angels.  Her ashen sails didn’t trail down her middle as was the custom, rather they angled out and back from her sides, like the spread wings of some great beetle.  She reminded Mazie of some strange and exotic bird of prey taking roost among pigeons. Mazie found herself fixed by the steel eyes of the figure head, the imperious robed woman somehow challenged the young girl from where she hung on the bowsprit.  Who were those scruffy fish herders to deny her a life a sea?  It was with that question in mind that Mazie slung her pole to her shoulder and marched up the gangway of the Ashen Rook, wholly unaware as to how unprepared she was for the life that followed.   Mazie snapped out of her mind as she realized she wasn't alone in the armory, someone had sat down next to her on the bench without so much as a sound.  She hazarded a glance in that direction, and with the blood freezing her in veins she saw that it was the captain himself, hunched forward and staring at the wall of weapons across from them.  Her fingers panicked with the knots of her jerkin, and suddenly it was as though she’d never tied a knot in her life. “Sir...ah...I'm sorry, I'll be right…” “Twould be nice iffin they waited fer us wouldn’t it?” He muttered over his fingers, his one yellow eye fixed ahead.  Something in his tone made Mazie unsure if he was talking to her.  She blinked and looked around, everyone else it seemed was on deck, they were alone down here. “Um...iffen who waited fer us?” “The Garleans, they’ll be along our side soon enough.  Think iffin we called a timeout they’d honor it?” The absurdity of the statement struck her like a glassful of cold water, and before she had any control of her mouth a laugh belted out from deep in her guts.  She slapped a hand over her lips and felt the color in her cheeks rise.  Kail wasn't frowning though, rather there was a small curl of amusement to the corner of his mouth. “'Tis best t’laugh, right now while ye can.” The statement was small, and he hadn't even raised his voice, but it served to sober Mazie up, and her eyes were drawn back to the wall of weapons.  It was such a strange sight to her, all those razor sharp edges, all those needle points, all those barrels with the last flash you'd ever see stuffed down them.  So many ways to kill, so many ways to die.   “I’d...I'd..like t’admit something.” She found words tumbling from her lips, for the life of her she didn't know why she sounded so guilty about it. “Ye’ve never killed anyone afore.” The weight on her chest seemed to ease at the sound of it there in the open, numbly she nodded.  “How long have ye known?” He laughed, a deep and leathery chuckle that spoke of many days with smoke and drink as companions.  She knew it wasn't a laugh meant to make her feel small, but suddenly she felt as though she were standing on her tip toes, asking to drink with the adults. “Killin marks the soul t’not put too fine a spin on it, ye could no more hide that mark than ye could the nose on yer face.  We spotted ye for what ye were the moment ye set foot on deck.” Well there it was, out in the open.  Her little secret that she had held onto during her time on the Rook.  It had seemed at the moment all she could do to keep her calm around the other crew, from the deranged Syf to even the babe gentle giant Noyra, they all projected a sense of violence waiting to happen.  Looking back she felt stupid for having clung to it for so long, a ship full of killers and she thought that simply puffing out her chest and glaring could earn herself a place among them.   “Iffin..” she said “...iffin we get out of this, ye don't need t’worry about me pay..I’ll make due.” “Make due?  What are ye talkin about?” “Fer when ye throw me off the ship.” “...Fer not havin killed anyone?” She blinked, and the statement hung in the air between them dangling like an apple waiting to drop. “Well…” she said “...it sounds kinda tits up silly when ye put it like that.” “Especially looking down the barrels of a Garlean gunship.” He said soberly, which he went about fixing with a swallow from a flask that looked as dented and worn as it's owner.  He glanced towards her as though he just seemed to realize she was watching him, and offered her the flask.  Mazie took it, glancing from the flask to the captain. “So what now?” “Now...” he said as he rose to his feet.  “...ye either stay down here and look after the wounded, or head t’the deck.” “But what about..” He cut her off with a quick wave of his hand. “Ent a one oh the crew gonna call ye a coward, and ye’ll still have a place on this ship no matter what ye do.”   Moving to her back the captain seized the lacing of her jerkin and tugged it tight before quickly and concisely knotting the end.  For a moment she felt relief at her choice being made so simple, but he kept talking.

“Know this though...iffin they take this ship t’will only be the hangman’s noose fer Norah and I. They’ll sort the rest oh the crew accordin t’who they think they can break, the rest they’ll shoot on the shoreline so that the tide will carry away the bodies fer them.  Those oh ye left twill be branded and divvied up among the army dependin on yer skills.  There ye'll fight or labor till ye drop, and ye will drop.  Ye'll drop cause ye'll allus be among the last mouths they feed, the last of the wounded they tend iffin they ever see fit to, the first they force down the throat oh t'the enemy, and the first they blame when things go wrong.  Twill be slavery, short and simple.  Oh they'll give it a fancy name like "Helot" or "Serfdom", they'll even fill yer ear with shite about how leal service will earn yerself a place in the glorious empire, but 'tis jest another collar they'll be slappin around yer neck."

Mazie found her hands shaking anew, she brought up the flask to her lips, barely tasting the fiery liquid as it burned her tongue and throat on the way down, and gathered in her stomach like a leaden weight.  If he seemed to notice her distress, that didn't stop him from speaking on.   "Now a gunship is crewed by about fifty men, to our twenty.  That's fifty men who say we all aught t'be dead or in chains.  They're asking a question, and yer answer comes next.  Do ye sit down here and wait fer life t'be kind, or d'ye go grab life by the the throat and squeeze?"

Gently he took the flask from her hands, then gave her a pat on the shoulder that she barely felt.  As he disappeared deeper into the ship, Mazie chewed on what he had offered.  When she was young, she had waited for a father who never returned.  Growing up she had waited as her mother drowned herself in spirits, hoping time would see her sober.  She had waited on the docks for her time on the sea to come...and it had only happened once she'd done something about it.  Mazie let her eyes wander up to the wall of weapons once more.

     In the lower right corner there was an oddity among the weapons, not quite a weapon at all really, more of a tool.  Crouching down next to it, she hefted the crowbar in her hands.  It was a little heavier than she expected, but the weight was reassuring, solid, and it felt oddly comfortable in her hands. She let out a soft fragile breath, then shouldered the crowbar, and walked up the stairs, into the sunshine and salt air.