wampadour

[wampadour]

Lutewell I (Test Drive 2)

A banging at the door startled Lutewell from his slumber. He took in a shuddering breath and forced his body to roll off the stack of folded blankets that were becoming a formalized bed of sorts the longer he stayed in King’s Landing. The wizard did not even make a thump as he landed on the stone floor of Commander Stokeworth’s manse. The woolen brown material stood a measly five inches tall, not much of a height to fall from. He did not mind for the shock of cool ground and the painless drop remedied the morning sluggishness that clung to him. It made battling the sleep from his limbs all the more easier. His twin, Ottell, would claim otherwise. Since his brother was not a morning person, Lutewell always discounted his opinion on the matter. The door a short distance across from him rattled some more as another heavy knock hit its wood. Lutewell hurriedly scrambled up from the ground in a bid to find something to make himself decent with. It would not do to meet the Commander of the City Watch bare as the day he was born. It could only be him that was knocking at the hour, him or his son, Martin, so Lutewell carried on looking around the room. His eyes passed over a pile of clothes strewn about where his brother would have made his bed, and the odor that clung to the mess dissuaded him from approaching. Then they looked towards the other side of the room where a rickety desk had been shoved into the farthest corner away from the door. On the chair before it a pair of breeches dangled from the backrest, and Lutewell’s eyes lit up with relief at the find. He swiped at the article of clothing, and the chair beneath it fell with a clatter to the floor when he pulled it off the piece of furniture. The only other person in the room let out a feminine groan as she rustled away from the noise, taking the burgundy covers that hung from his person like a cloak with her. Bare chest and footed and with only a pair of dark grey breeches to keep his modesty, Lutewell headed for the door. He caught glimpses of his disheveled form from the vibrating oval mirror that was nailed crookedly to mahogany. Wide-set eyes, the likes of which his eldest brother, Liett, once said their father claimed was a marker of their Lovegood heritage, dark lilac in coloring peeked through a mop of wavy ashen-white hair amidst the chipped glass. The hues that reflected off the mirror alongside his pale skin were the true reasons why his brother and he were in service to the City Watch as glorified messengers, or at least he still was. Ottell never did return from his accompanying trip with Prince Rhaegar to Harrenhal. A part of him wondered what had become of his living mirror copy, and another part of him mourned his disappearance. Then there was that other part of him that cursed his Travers’ blood despite the fact that it worked in his favor, their favor. Ottell would not have caught the Crowned Prince’s attention had they not been mistaken for King Aerys’ bastards. Taking a deep breathe, the young man steeled himself and opened the door. The grizzled face and cold hazel eyed stare of Manly Stokeworth greeted him on the other side. The Commander was already dressed in the titular black mail armor and chest plate of the City Watch, and a golden wool cloak was strapped to his shoulder guards. He took one look at Lutewell and glowered. “Get dressed. You got a royal delivery to make,” informed the Commander tersely before striding away. “At this hour?” asked Lutewell before he could think better of it. Stokeworth paused in his movements and shot him a nasty look over his shoulder, bared teeth and all. “Complain to me when you actually guard something! Now hurry it up and rear your ass into gear pretty boy! You’re gods damn lucky I can’t afford to lose anymore men! Remember that!” Lutewell flinched, took a step back, but still somehow managed to reply with a shaky, “Yes, Ser!��� Then he shut the door. “Who was it?” asked a sleepy voice. The voice was muffled but sweet, far sweeter and softer than Stokeworth’s would ever be. “The Commander of the City Watch,” he replied as he took stock of the room once more. Peeling plaster greeted him at every turn, and the smell coming from his brother’s abandoned corner was starting to give him a headache. The smell, the mess, and yet, none of it seemed to bother his bed partner nor did it deter her from last night’s activities. Were it that his mother were present, “…unbefitting of a wizard of your station! Rest elsewhere my son! Only the best for a son of mine!” he imagined her prattling. Such a place would be an affront to her Sigvardi sensibilities, but this girl was not of Sigvard. Neither was she of Llowell like he and Ottell were. She had the blood of the Forebears; that much was clear. Her brother would not have been capable of Wizardry otherwise, but she was muggle and not the kind that his forebears had lived hidden from before the Cataclysm, not of the Knownmen. Maybe that was a good thing? Going from a high standard of living to a lower one, his situation essentially, was something he would not wish on anyone. Ignorance is bliss. She lay tangled in the covers, sun-kissed skin peeking out every so often through the gaps in the cloth where her legs moved, another thing he needed to fix up, but she did so blissfully. “Are we in trouble?” she questioned, this time louder but still as gentle as before. The covers slid off her as she sat up on her knees, doe like celery-green eyes gazing up at him in worry. He idly wondered if her distant Wizarding ancestor may have been a Greengrass from the Duchie of Astonia. Weir Gods knew celery eyes ran rampant in that family, and from what he knew of Westeros, it was an odd feature to find on a Crownlander. He let his eyes travel downwards. The button-up shirt she wore did nothing to hide the slender form underneath. He longed to relieve her of it. Lutewell did not act on it, however. He sat himself behind her and began to massage her shoulders. The young woman let out a sigh and leant her back against him as he soothed a stubborn bruise situated where shoulder met neck. “No, but I won’t recommend staying here once I’m gone,” he told her. “I’ll have the kitchen staff prepare you a basket, three meals that you can eat through out the day, all nice and wrapped for your use, and should you wish to see me again, come by the West Barracks. I’m usually there by noon. Ask for me by name, or tell ’em you’re there to see one of the Salamander brothers. They’ll know whom you speak of.” The girl shuddered, and Lutewell felt tear drops hit his fingers. “Is something wrong?” he asked, pausing in his ministrations. “It’s just,” she breathed, “my brother. He-he won’t take this well.” “I’ll talk to him,” he promised, pecking her temple. He hoped beyond hope that her brother was not one of those muggle-borns, the kind that acted more pure-blood than even the current pure-bloods. *** “So, pretty boy, how’d your night with your lady friend go?” “Martin,” nodded Lutewell to a boy who was on the cuffs of adulthood, or at least the age which wizards acknowledged someone coming into their own, “I’m guessing everyone heard that then?” Martin slid his legs off the table they rested on, and his chair fell forward with a twak. “Are you kidding me?” he asked, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Who wouldn’t have heard with the number you were doing on her? I’ve always known it was the quiet ones, but gods, that was a melody you had going on there!” Lutewell felt his face heat up at the remark. Oh how he longed for a wand. If only he had not lost his at sea. He might have been able to gain some semblance of privacy hours previously. “Do you think I can have your wench as my first?” pondered Martin aloud, and Lutewell froze mid step to the wall hooks where his surcoat, cloak, and utility belt hung. Personalized throwing knives, a dirk, and a sword were attached to the leather via sheath loops. “Chances are you’ve knocked her, so there’s no risk of me fathering a bastard.” Lutewell heard him say. “That would surely appease my lord father if he were ever to find-” “She’s not my whore!” roared Lutewell, running at the table where Martin sat and slammed his open palms over it. The young Stokeworth’s eyes widen in surprise as he jumped out of his seat. A nonsensical apology followed, tumbling forth from the boy’s lips, but Lutewell could not hear him over the thrumming of his own blood. “And… she will most certainly not be fathering any bastards,” he added more softly, glaring down at the table. “Did-did you…” spluttered the boy, going apple red. “Did I what?” Without any probing the salamander leveled his hardened gaze at the young lamb. “You know…” “Spit it out,” he said eerily calm. “Did you shoot your seed up her cunt! ‘Cause if you did…” Stokeworth’s arms flapped around him fruitlessly as he trailed off, and Lutewell yanked a seat out and plopped himself on it before grabbing at his own head in frustration. “A woman’s womb quickens not at the first few seeds,” he argued weakly, repeating something his healer of an aunt had once said. “It takes several tries for a witc-” and then he stopped. Grycia was no witch. She was muggle. She had no inborn magic to subconsciously guard her womb and reject something not yet attuned. “Witc?” asked Martin in confusion. “Let’s speak of this no more,” insisted Lutewell as he stood up and moved towards the hooks. “We’ve got things to deliver.” “There’s a reason you’re the younger twin, Lutewell, and this is why,” whispered a voice at the back of his mind. It sounded suspiciously like Ottell.

[wampadour]

Lutewell I .3 (Test Drive)

^|<-

He half expected the Watchman to be looming over him by the time he was done setting the dogged Knight aflame between the cracks of the man's armor, given that he had used magic, but the Watchman was no where to be seen. Had his gamble worked? He fearfully looked around and saw no one. The ever lingering presence he felt since the first day he stepped foot into the Red Keep was gone. Where did he go? Lutewell's eyes scanned the area around him, yet still, nothing happened. He let out sigh of relief and focused on the sword in his hand. The flames receded down to tiny flickers until all that was left was a mere heated blade. He had performed the trick several times outside the Red Keep's walls whilst in competition with Thoros of Myr, passing it off as Essosi mummery of the likes that must have inspired his distant ancestors to replicate the technique with magic. When yet again, the Watchman did not appear, Lutewell felt more assured that his gamble had worked. Or at least he thought it did. One never knew with the Watchmen. That was why he so desperately wanted to flee, but he could not. Not yet at least. He stepped away from the downed Knight and headed back towards the doorway of the Princess's quarters. The dust had yet to settle and some debris was still raining down from a space just above the doorway. A head shaped hole rested there, and it all started to make sense. The knight he had defeated was likely concussed. No wonder it was so easy. He tossed away the light feelings of remorse making its way down to his chest, and he stepped over the threshold where the sounds of rustling could be heard. Then he stopped, and like an angered salamander he bristled. He did not even have to give his actions a second thought as he stabbed his sword through the dogged Knight's foil. A fountain of red spluttered from the pigster's neck, and he could faintly smell the odor of burned flesh his sword left in its wake. The headless corpse hit the ground within minutes. Minutes of which he used to sheath his sword and lift the broken girl on the ground. His body shook as he held her. She was breathing but for how long? He didn't know the answer to that question, and it was here that he truly felt as though he had made himself useless.

[wampadour]

Lutewell I .2 (Test Drive)

<-|->

The suddenness of it all startled the Scamander and had him clutching hard at anything within his grasps in attempts to steady himself. That something happened to be the Princess Elia, who winced beneath him. Lutewell quickly released her and glanced down at her apologetically.

"Go," he told her, gently pushing her away from him. "I'll be right behind you." The Dornishwoman frowned, and anything she would have said on the matter was drowned out by the stomping of large feet. She scurried away upon hearing it, and Lutewell was glad the woman's sense of self-preservation overwrote the self-righteous need to be stubborn. Now was not the time for it. No, now was the time for war, for it had reached the sanctity of her home. With those thoughts in mind, Lutewell ducted as a humongous sword sailed overhead. He slipped a blade of his own out from the confines of its sheath and put all of his weight behind the swing. Unlike his larger opponent he was not aiming for a blow to the head. He knew he had no hopes of doing so, so instead, he focused on unsteadying his enemy. Steel blades were nothing without the backing of good footwork. His strike rang true, and the dogged Knight leaned heavily to the left. The heavy armor on the Knight's person finished the job for him by having the fighter succumb to the momentum that followed the wizard's attack, and gravity was no fickle master; that was for sure. It was far too easy. That unsettled the Scamander salamander more than the manner in which the Watchman had warned him. Said warning had some work around, at least for him, so he approached one of the dieing torches in the corridor and pressed his sword atop it. With controlled breathing he focused his magic on sword and embered wood end, and a flame roared to life on his blade. "Sorry, big guy. I can't rest easy so long as you breathe," he stated as he approached the fallen Knight.

[wampadour]

Lutewell I .1 (Test Drive)

->

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. No, adventuring and traveling did not equate to danger in his mind's eye. Maybe that's where it went wrong; where it all went wrong for his brother and he. Wizards were not muggle, but they weren't immortal either. Neither did they think themselves that like this muggle King. "Please! I beg of you, for the love you hold Rheagar and your grandchildren! Don't do this your grace!" shouted the Princess Elia as she held her second-born to her chest. Lutewell had to grit his teeth to keep from speaking out of turn, lest the Watchman in the farthest corner of the room find an excuse to erase him permanently like Watchmen were infamous for doing. That did not stop him from eyeing the silver plated knight that stood behind the King on the dias longer than was polite. Kingsguard, that's what the muggles were calling him. The blond man had a cocksure grin on his face, very aware that he was being eyed, and Lutewell loathed the gesture. This man was supposed to be a knight? "You! Gold cloak!" shouted the Mad King, and the Scamander teen jumped to attention the best he could. He did not fancy a dance with flames, and the flame-freezing charm would do him no good. It was something that could not be explained to the likes of muggles, and the Watchman hovering around would happily cancel the spell and let him roast alive than lift a hand to help him escape unnoticed. "Yes?" "Make yourself useless, and remove this girl from my sights!" He did as told, taking the Princess Elia's elbow in hand and guided her away from the Mad King. It was not until he was standing outside the Princess's quarters that he realized the sheer contradictory behind the King's request. How does one make themselves useless while carrying out an order to the letter? The answer came to him when a shout of sheer terror erupted from the Princess's throat. He had to lift his helm's visor up to get a good look, to really confirm what it was he was seeing. A Knight who rivaled the height of giants from Whiterun stood before him with a toddler dangling by the heel in his grip. His foil, a pigsty of a man several feet shorter, stood beside him holding a sword like it were a beater's bat. The piglet man had been moments away from wedging the sword into the child's neck, and Lutewell could not help wondering what would have been of the Princess Elia had she not taken to pestering him about news from the outside world beyond the Red Keep's walls. Would she be the one dangling from the giant Knight's hand? The mountain of a man slowly turned to look at them, spotted Elia, and dropped the child like a sack of spoiled goods. Somehow Lutewell knew, and it seemed the Weir Gods were looking upon him favorably, for he had thrown an arm upon the Princess's shoulders and steered her away from the chamber doors just as the three-dogged Knight began his charge. The doors slammed shut and then bursted off their hinges as the Knight rammed through. Splinters, dust, and brick flew as the Scamander pressed against the Princess, taking care not to harm the child that rested between thier bodies, and turned them away from the debris. As he did so, the Watchman decided that was the perfect opportunity to set foot beyond the shadows. No magic, the man, no, creature, mouthed before melding back into the walls.

[wampadour]

[Harry Potter AU] Of You Just Can’t Rest || Unfinished Snippet, Outsider’s Pov

Part of You Just Can't Rest, A Collection of Snippets

Daphne Myrlea Greengrass hated him. He and Tracey Davis represented everything she was not. They wore their ties proudly and mingled with those outside of Slytherin House with ease. Watching them roam free rubbed salt in her wounds. She was weighed down by Pansy and membership in the Parkinson girl's clique. Her parents insisted that her current situation was the epitone of greatness, but being with the right sort felt so lonely. It was so very tempting to just run from it all. She was bound to snap, and one day she did.

Daphne had been hiding out in the library when Tumult Kilgore walked in with Hannah Abbott of Hufflepuff at his heels. The Hufflepuff was gazing at him adoringly, and it made Daphne feel sick to her stomach. It was unbelievable how oblivious the orphan boy could be.

When the other girl left, Daphne struck. She darted across the aisle and slipped into Abbott's emptied chair right as Kilgore turned around to address her. He paused, realizing that she wasn't Hannah and frowned.

"Greengrass?"

"What are you playing at!" Daphne hissed. "Does Davis mean nothing to you!"

His eyes widened to the size of saucers as she continued on her tirade.

"Don't you realize how fragile a teenage girl's heart can be? Or do you take them for your little play things?"

Daphne's hissing forced Kilgore to lean his head back.

"Are you sure it's not you yourself that you're talking about and not Tracey?"

[wampadour]

[Harry Potter AU] See the Reign || Chapter One

Chapter One ∆ Till Death Do Us Apart

"You're not my brother, are you?" were the first words the boy spoke to the corpse as it roused from its slumber.

It didn't speak. Not for a long while. Crimson eyes stared unblinking as the boy picked up the narrow piece of driftwood resting on his lap.

"I won't tell," he added, as he poked at a nearby tin can with the stick in his hand. "Just know that- that- Colin's body you may have, but Colin you will never be."

The admission at the end sounded like it pained the boy to say. The corpse would've agreed had it been able to speak. Instead, it merely nodded its head and let what little conscious it possessed wonder elsewhere.

That was how the corpse spent its days. It contemplated life as the boy, Dennis, went about his day tending to it whenever he thought it needed him or scavenging food from dumpsters (or was it skips?) from other back alleys for his own sustenance.

The corpse, like any other creature, found such an existence maddening. It longed to move around, stretch, and feed itself. It envied Dennis for the strength, however fleeting, he possessed. It only knew peace whenever fits of unconsciousness struck it, and with every blackout it recovered more of itself. The more life flooded the corpse, the more it began to understand what outcome it was that Dennis desired. Alas, it wasn't meant to be.

"I risked my life for that thing!" retorted a furious Dennis as he pointed at the onyx orb resting in between the palms that sat over the corpse’s lap. It was then that the corpse became acutely aware of the power source behind its resurrection, all while Dennis cried, "I-I thought... Colin!"

The corpse shook its head, and Dennis, clouded by his anger, stormed off. The corpse thought it was for the best that Dennis abandon it. The sooner the boy moved on with his grief the sooner it could return to the tranquility that it had known in death. With that in mind, it embraced the cold wind that swept into the alley.

Dennis returned days later. The corpse had not known how long it had been. It had lost its ability to think to the snow that surrounded it. The boy shot it a guilt ridden look as he threw thick woolen blankets over its form.

“I’m sorry. I knew from the start... I miss Colin, but you’re not to blame for his death or- or that of mum and dad! You’re my responsibility now, and I brought you into this world without thinking!” sobbed Dennis.

The boy’s shoulders shook so much that he nearly tripped over the rotten snow shovel he held in his hand. The corpse could not bare to see him in such a state, so it did what any good person would do in that situation. It tried comforting the boy.  

“I-i-t k-ay,” it said simply.

That got the boy to look up, sorrow and guilt forgotten. In its place determination blossomed within his chest, and from thereon, Dennis promised himself he would right his wrongs.

[wampadour]

[Experimentals] Hogwarts Mystery AU || Cracks through the Looking Glass

Cracks through the Looking Glass Scenario Recap...

Now, this brings me to my next bout in bizarro land. Remember how I mentioned my monstrous dive into that rabbit hole earlier? Yeah? Well, here’s what I retrieved… An SI story during the HP:HM era where the SI isn’t the MC, Jacob’s sibling. Yeah, stupid, I know, but hear me out.

The SI is brought to the HP world via an unfinished ritual. The unfinished ritual in question is the modern version of the Bloody Mary Summoning Chant from our world. It’s hijacked by a botched ritual performed by someone in the Potterverse.

In this instance, Mary Tudor is an ascended being because of her immortalization as Bloody Mary across realms(think ascension fate/stay night style). She purposely cemented her ritual, which was a means to acquire a human sacrifice for the creation of a new uterus, into folklore. She dies in the Potterverse after her success at creating a magical test tube child in this storyline thus making her into the R.O.B (Random Omnipotent Being) of the story.

I swear, my exposure to SpaceBattles has not been counterintuitive. I have no regrets. I only know about the R.O.B because of replies made at the start of the What’s Her Name in Hufflepuff SpaceBattles thread post chapter one.

Sidenote, maybe my mind channelled Hungry Marie despite only hearing about it like four times? Three of which were post-cancellation in Jump. (Reflecting on this just now and am mind blown. I kinda forgot it existed until now).

Anyways, as the R.O.B Mary grants the botched ritual maker their wish without informing them about what the deal fully entails. This is where the SI appears in the Potterverse for the first time, and the botched ritualist really begins to feel the toll of their actions. Two souls cohabiting a new vessel made from dismembered body parts goes against the natural order. As a result, both souls feel an immense pain when they don’t work in tandem with each other.

Before disappearing into the void, Bloody Mary issues a challenge. They must scour Brittian in search of her creations. Their only time limit, each other.

As you can guess, the vaults are supposed to tie into their quest. (Not in the way you’re thinking though).

Quote [source]

If Jacob were the ritual botcher…

Hogwarts was magical. Yes, while that was true, the shining, glinting surfaces were plentiful there like in any other environment. You weren’t pleased about it then, and you’re not about to start being pleased about it now. A single reflection always brings you face to face with him. He’s the reason why you’re in this situation to begin with.

You scrub the soap on your hands long and hard as you dutifully ignore the mirror before you. It also helps that you’re not particular fond of staring at the new face that the Queen of Blood herself has gifted you both. You’re not particularly enamored of the vessel you cohabit either. It’s not because of what you are now but the how it came to be that bothers you.

You can hear Jacob sigh at the back of your mind. He fights for control less and less these days. Though, you assume that’s more out of pity than out of a right sense of what to do. You grit your teeth at the thought. You’ve never been good with pity. It’s ten times more confounding when it revolves around how your and your cousins’s lives were cut tragically short.

The flash of anger you feel at the reminder is enough to have you looking up at the mirror. With just a glare of focus the vessel’s visage is stripped away from the reflective glass. Jacob’s form takes it place. The frown on his pale face is more pronounced than usual, and you think that makes sense. You did just refuse a request out of spite, but that has more to do with Jacob’s terrible timing than your own vindictiveness. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

“Ida please listen to reason,” he begs. 

[wampadour]

[Year 7∆H4] Where’s Saeko When You Need Her?

Part of Road to Winging It, V4…

This draft is part of a long line of back log that I never got to. It came to me in my sleep one night, and I got up to write it out on the tumblr app. I might still use it. Who knows?

“Those two still aren’t talking,” muttered a concerned Ashley Weir from her spot on the window seat.

Beside her, Helena Grey peered over her aged tome to take a good look, and sure enough, Silouan Goddard and Daniel Fairbanks were on opposite ends of the Ravenclaw common room. As was frequent with Silouan whenever something was amiss with him, he’d taken back the occupation of his little piece of the common room with a self imposed isolatory shield. Daniel on the other hand, had garbed himself with the skins of a conspicuous social butterfly. Or as Patrick Walsh liked to call it, channeling an O'Shea. Caitlin would certainly weep with pride if she knew.

“Not my problem,” muttered Helena as her eyes returned to her book.

“Oh, come on!” piped Ashley. The action had her jumping to her feet. Facing the blonde she asked, “Aren’t you going to do something? Oh, where’s Saeko when you need her?”

“Probably dealing with her own troubles in paradise, Ash. And as I said before, not my problem. If Silouan wants to antagonize everyone, then he shouldn’t be surprised when he finds himself alone,” replied Helena frostily.

“What makes you think it was Silouan? It could’ve just as easily been Daniel!” 

Helena set down her book at that and gave her a bland look. One that Ashley backing down in minutes.