#(IN THE SUN. THEY REFUSED TO GIVE US TENTS THIS YEAR

[un-pearable]

i was working the club table all day and the only thing that got me through it was the guy walking around with a flyer for a queer students of color club with this exact render of shadow the hedgehog on it . i still haven’t stopped smiling it was glorious

[toomanyideasandfandoms]

Can you do kaeya for death seeking creator please?

Oh I absolutely can! I apologize if how I characterize him is inaccurate. But I hope you enjoy it either way!!

Typical death warnings here, plus some possible psychological horror from Kaeya's perspective? Idk

News of imposters had been sprouting up frequently within the confines of the bar, it seems that's what most talk about lately. Kaeya never paid much mind to it as he felt the topic of such gruesome punishments that befell them were inappropriate to drink to. Though with a more hazy mind he would call himself a hypocrite, as he also would be in agreement for those who defiled the Primordial Mother's image to receive such punishments.

But as of now he had a clear mind, obversing everything he can as he looked down at the dirty individual before him. They're eyes were wide in fear, hands clutching onto the grass below as if ready to run any second. It was clear they were terrified, thinking their life was about to end. And while he would happily will it, he has a more...humane method in ridding the world of such heretics.

"My, you look a bit worn-out. Do you need any help?" He asked, pitching his voice to give off the false concern he wished to show. He reaches out his hand in help, his smile just barely there. He can see them hesitate, very much in disbelief at his 'kindness'. He couldn't blame them, no one would be kind to someone as disgusting as them. "Let's find some shelter you can use. I have some preserved slabs of meat to cook up, as I'm sure you're hungry."

A growl from their stomach answers him, causing him to laugh from the sheer predictability of these people. He gently guides them towards a safer area, ignoring the shine in their eyes as they followed. He sets up a tent and a cooking fire easily, refusing to let them help him.

As the meal cooks he asks the imposter before him what their situation was, only half listening as they prattled on about them not being at fault and they were just born that way. Something he has heard before from the recountings of others who have come across such vial people as this one. He responds with feigned sympathy, telling them how sorry he was for the tragedies they faced.

Once the food was finished he gave them a large helping, saying they needed all the food they could get if they wished to find another safe place somewhere else. He was able to hold in his expression when the dirty individual gave their thanks, looking at him as if he was some savior. In some way he was, he would delude to himself sometimes, for he would give then this false hope before they were to close their eyes for the final time.

As the sun was setting over the horizon, Kaeya grinned as the imposter yawned loudly. Their eyes drooped as a hazy look settled over, before falling over to snooze against the dirt below. The sleep potion had worked wonders, as he knew it would. Carefully picking them up, he gently placed them a few meters away from the campsite, as to not get blood on his equipment.

Taking his sword in hand, he presses it against their throat, watching them shiver in their sleep as the cool metal touched their skin. He studies their face, fascinated in how it was a one to one recreation of the god who not only gave him and everyone life, but that also guided him guided throughout his years.

"Apologies my friend." He says in a whisper, with only the wind to hear. "At least you got to go in peace."

And with a quick and precise movement, he turns away as to not watch their disgusting blood seep into the grass. He walked back over to his camp, not bothering to bury the dead creature. As he looked up at the stars twinkling in the sky, he couldn't help but wonder if the Primordial Mother above was watching.

-

News of the Primordial Mother's return spread faster than any other imposter rumor had ever done. It was all anyone could talk about these days, no matter the conversation their god was always brought up. The church was bustling as many patrons were quick to pray and give offerings for when the creator would appear in Mondstadt.

Even Kaeya himself was cheerier as he watched the people around him buzz in excitement. Though it seemed to be growing a bit too much for him, as he decides to patrol outside the city for the sake of some quietness.

As he strolled towards Windrise he could feel the strong breeze, as if even Barbatos himself was celebrating. Arriving at the tree that symbolizes the old hero of Mondstadt, he looks around to take in the sights. A bit further away he could see a small patch of flowers that bloomed brighter than any other he's seen, he recalls that area was familiar but decided to held no importance.

His thoughts are quick to stop as he hears the snap of a twig, alerting him to something nearby. He quickly materializes his sword and points it in the direction of where he heard the sound, surprised to find a dirty and unkempt individual. Their hair was overgrown and matted, covering their face fully from his view. Their clothes were ripped, barely covering their form and making their golden scars apparent.

His eyes narrowed as he takes in their form, dissecting them with his gaze. He doesn't feel anything threatening from them, but a knight must always be cautious. Keeping his sword at his side, he addresses them. "My, you look a bit worn-out. Need any help?"

The person doesn't respond, they only stood there. They swayed side to side a bit, causing him to worry to them being injured. He takes a step forward, still cautious as to what movement they could use. "Are you alright?"

They still don't respond, a sense of dread enters Kaeya as he slowly moves forward. Just as he reaches out to brush their hair out of their face, they jump forward. Surprised he quickly swings his sword, causing them to scream as they fall to the ground in pain. Every nerve in his body was on high alert, his instincts telling him something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

He attempts to calm himself down, not fully believing what just happened. But the person lunges at him again, making him swing his weapon once more to slice against them. They scream in agony, drops of shining gold landing onto the grass below.

This wasn't right, nothing in this situation was right. This person, this...thing, it couldn't be bleeding the blood of the Primordial Mother. They were supposed to be graceful, elegant, clean, purity itself. Yet the figure in front of them was screaming like a beast wishing for death, it was horrifying.

"Just do it?" He hears them mumble, confusing him even more.

"Wha-"

"Just do it! Kill me again like you've done before!" They raged, their fierce gaze keeping him frozen in place. "I know your methods! The one time I thought someone was on my side, you killed me in my sleep!"

He killed them? He killed the Primordial Mother before? Nothing they said made sense. He would never have killed them. Never!

That imposter he ended ages ago, that wasn't them! There's no way! No one should have the ability to kill a god! Less of all the one who created everything!

This can't be!

It just can't be!

They lunge once more, every thought in his body screamed at him to move. If they get him they'll hurt him! So with the scream of confusion, rage, sorrow, any emotion he couldn't decipher, he swings his blade down for the final time that day.

As he watches them writhe in pain, he realizes he wasn't breathing. He grips at his chest, feeling his heart try to burst out. He drops to the ground on his knees, watching as their body withers into ash and flies off into the wind.

What had he done?

[katelynnwrites]

Wondering If I Dodged A Bullet (Or Just Lost The Love Of My Life) | Laura Freigang

warnings: angst and my round and round in circles writing

word count: 2897

summary: laura leaves penn state for frankfurt, another way to put it would be that you and your girlfriend break up because she leaves penn state for frankfurt

a/n: i struggled so hard to complete this and it ended up being far from my best work but it is what it is 🙃

You are eighteen years old when your world changes forever.

It happens in the form of a blonde striker named Laura.

Her eyes captivate you the second you meet them. They’re the same colour as the ocean on a stormy day and possess the same ever shifting qualities.

She’s all confidence on the pitch and yet oh so shy when off it.

When your college coach introduces you to her, you know it is inevitable that you fall for her.

You have all your lucky stars to thank that she falls for you too.

******

It is one month into your relationship with Laura that you learn she loves back scratches.

You discover it entirely by accident, having mindlessly run your fingers across her shirt covered back while she was studying.

The happy sigh she let out had been a soft one but you’d picked up on it immediately.

It’s still early in your relationship but Laura has always been open about her body to you so it’s only with mild hesitation that you tentatively slide your hand up under her shirt, to gently scratch your nails on her bare skin.

The German girl groans immediately. It’s a sound of contentment and you adore the way she melts onto your bed.

She’d come over to study and you suspect, to complain about her upcoming psychology test.

Your girlfriend is awfully smart, being more than capable of keeping up her grades while still being a regular starter for your football team

You suppose that attaining a sports scholarship to study in Penn State should have given you an idea of just how driven she can be.

Laura’s a year older and thus, a year ahead of you. She has way more course material than you and her compromise for making sure she is able to finish her work and still spend time with you, is doing her work in your room. Often with her head in your lap.

You giggle at her protests the moment you stop giving her back scratches.

‘Schatz please don’t stop.’ She begs.

Her ocean coloured eyes have this beseeching look in them, the one that you are never able to refuse.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ You laugh, resuming your previous actions, much to the blonde’s delight.

******

One hundred and twenty one days into dating Laura, you learn that there is nothing she wouldn’t do for you.

Your girlfriend is a big all or nothing individual, that particular characteristic drawing you to her in the first place.

The German forward gives everything she has on the pitch, absolutely one hundred percent of herself regardless of the minute or the opponent.

It just didn’t occur to you that she would bring that into your relationship.

From using the little stove in the dormitory kitchen to make your favourite breakfast on game days, to carrying your bag for you after trainings, Laura is simply committed to you.

You don’t know how else to put it.

She is just an anything for my person kind of girl.

You’re beyond grateful to be her person.

The striker is stepping up her game now, video calling you from her hotel room in Germany, just so she can wish you good morning.

There is a significant time difference between Pennsylvania and Frankfurt but your girlfriend makes it work.

The blonde sets an alarm to wake up in the middle of the night, just to call you for a few minutes right when she knows you will be getting up for your classes.

‘Good morning schatz.’ She whispers, taking in the early morning sun that is lighting up your room when you pick up her call.

‘I’d say good morning too but I think wishing you goodnight makes more sense.’ You tease.

Your girlfriend giggles, ‘I’ll take anything you want to wish me. I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.’

You’re glad for the poor lighting because Laura’s words make your cheeks turn a bright red.

‘Lau? You did not have to wake up just to say good morning to me. Rest is important for you.’

‘I know. But I wanted to.’ She says softly, adoration filling her voice.

‘Lau?’ You ask again, staring hard at your phone screen to make her out in her hotel room.

It is dark but you manage to, the weak glow of her own phone screen helping you do so.

She is tucked into her sheets, messy blonde hair strewn all over her pillow as she giggles, ‘Yes schatz?’

‘I miss you.’

‘I miss you too.’ She breathes, a small smile playing on her lips.

Every time Germany has a training camp for their youth teams, Laura flies back to her home country to participate.

Each time, you miss her more.

Her absence is sorely felt and you’ve taken to dropping her off and picking her up at the airport just so you don’t have to miss her any longer than you have to.

‘I’ll see you at the airport in two days?’

‘Count on it.’ You promise and you blow each other a kiss before hanging up.

******

Six months into your relationship with the German player is when you find out that she has a penchant for stealing your clothes.

You have been wondering where certain items of your clothing have disappeared to and unbeknown to you, Laura has been hiding them away in her room.

Hoarding might actually be a more accurate term.

Despite how clingy you can be to your girlfriend and she to you, you don’t spend every night together.

When you do, it’s nearly always in your room because your bed is slightly bigger than hers.

It is a sore point with the blonde and she often jokingly complains that it is unfair of Penn State to give their star forward such a small bed.

Today is one of the few times you are in her room and the first time you are alone in it.

Laura’s late in meeting you and you know your girlfriend well enough to be sure that it’s because she has got a bunch of questions for her lecturer.

So you had used the spare key she had given you when you were just friends, before you’d even started dating, to let yourself into her room because standing outside it alone had been too awkward. You know she won’t mind anyway.

Tired from the day’s early morning practice, you flop down on her bed and dump your bag down at the side of it.

You absentmindedly shift her pillow to get more comfortable, only to find something beside it.

As you stare at the piece of clothing, you realise that it’s one of your missing shirts.

Lying back down, you find another of your missing shirts tucked under the other side of her pillow.

You are very confused now, beginning to wonder if you have been forgetful enough to leave not just one but two of your shirts behind, the last time you stayed over in her dorm room.

But if you were, then why hasn’t the blonde returned the shirts to you? Or said anything?

Thankfully, you hear Laura’s key in the door so you don’t have to worry about it for long.

‘Hey schatz.’ She greets cheerfully, flinging her bag onto the floor carelessly and sprawling herself on top of you.

‘Lau!’ You exclaim and she laughs.

Her hands cup your face gently and she presses a brief kiss onto your lips.

‘Hi.’ You giggle, after readily reciprocating her affectionate gesture.

‘Hi.’ She breathes.

Your girlfriend buries her face into the side of your neck, leaving more intimate kisses there.

You groan at the touch of her lips on your skin. It gives you butterflies inside but you can’t let it distract you now.

‘Laura…Laura?’

She makes a questioning noise but doesn’t slow.

‘Why have you got my shirts in your bed? Did I leave them here?’

The German girl freezes.

‘Lau?’ You prompt, reaching out to hold her hand reassuringly.

Her cheeks are rapidly turning a bright pink and she stammers, ‘I-I didn’t mean for you to find out about that…you’re going to think I’m so silly.’

You plant a little kiss on her forehead and gently tease, ‘I already think you’re silly, in the best of ways.’

Laura smiles and then shyly admits, ‘You didn’t leave them here. I kinda stole them from you because I love sleeping with your familiar smell. You always smell so good and something about it just calms me down.’

You stare at her in stunned silence.

Long enough that Laura begins to look uncertain.

Then you blurt out, ‘I love you.’

Your girlfriend lets out a small gasp, her pretty eyes shining as she whispers, ‘I love you too.’

It’s the first ‘I love you’ for the both of you and you cannot put into words how much it means.

Laura seems to be thinking along the same lines because she traces your cheekbone lightly, the action filled with adoration.

‘I love you. I love you. I love you.’ She murmurs, in between peppering your face with kisses.

‘Love you too Laura. So much, even if you do keep stealing my shirts.’

The blonde smiles and confesses, ‘Can’t help it. I bring a bunch with me to every national camp too.’

Before meeting the German girl, you didn’t know it was possible to feel this strongly for anyone.

But as it is with Laura, you discover so many firsts.

You hope that you discover many lasts too because you want what you have with her to be forever.

Fervently, you hope that Laura Freigang is the girl you have your last first kiss with.

******

Forty five weeks of dating Laura and you decide that she is the love of your life.

Maybe it’s the good morning and good night kisses, or the way she so obviously cherishes every moment she has with you. It could even be the way she smiles.

The corners of her lips tip upwards and her eyes light up each and every time she does so.

Your girlfriend’s brother says that Laura’s smile is different when it is directed at you. He claims that it is special and you are inclined to agree.

Laura herself is special to you. Boundlessly so.

She has a new found habit of sliding her hand up and under your shirt whenever you fall asleep together.

The blonde striker craves skin to skin contact with you, loves the peace it gives her.

After your girlfriend admits why she keeps your shirts beside her pillow, you offer her a better solution.

Instead of your shirts, she can have you.

Laura takes you up on that immediately and her assigned dorm room practically becomes a storage room for her belongings.

She is always in your room because she spends every night there now.

It’s one of her favourite things to curl up beside you and rhythmically match her breaths to yours.

You are warm and oh so real, unlike the often cold material of your shirts.

The German girl can be possessive and it shows in how she holds you close, even as she sleeps.

Laura presses you into her, her palm resting flat on your back and you love it.

It has you feeling safe and wanted, two things that your girlfriend has never failed to make you feel.

You know that you are right, she is the love of your life.

******

Three hundred and sixty five days of being Laura’s and Laura being yours is when she gives you a necklace for your anniversary.

It is a simple piece of jewellery, a small heart shaped locket hanging on a delicate silver chain.

‘Do you like it?’ She anxiously asks, fidgeting with the rings on her fingers.

Admiring the gift, you breathe, ‘I love it.’

Gently, you kiss her to convey just how grateful you are. The blonde smiles into the kiss, her hands cupping your face instinctively.

When you pull away, you softly speak, ‘Thank you schatz. Will you help me put it on please?’

The striker grins brightly, ‘Of course.’

She makes quick work of clasping it around your neck as you hold your hair up.

Glancing at the mirror, you play with the locket and Laura prompts, ‘Open it.’

You feel a tiny latch you hadn’t noticed earlier just as she says so.

The locket opens when you press down on it and you gasp as you see the photo of your girlfriend sharing a kiss with you in it.

You pull Laura into a different kiss, deepening it to show her just how much you love her present.

‘Love you. Love you. Love you.’ You murmur, in between the kisses you keep pressing onto her lips.

Laura lets out a pleased sigh, intertwining her fingers with yours and promising, ‘I love you too.’

You squeeze her hand in yours but can’t take your eyes off the locket.

‘Schatz, this is really beautiful.’

Your girlfriend cheekily but honestly admits, ‘Like you.’

Then she laughs at the blush that rapidly appears on your cheeks, affectionately brushing her lips across your forehead.

******

Laura’s locket never leaves its place, around your neck.

Not even when you are nineteen and the blonde, twenty, the two of you unsure where your relationship is going.

The striker has got an offer from 1. FFC Frankfurt and she knows that taking it will be the best move for her career. You know it too.

It is just your fear of what happens now that makes you anxious.

You love your girlfriend, adore her so. She’s only been yours for slightly more than a year but she is the love of your life. You don’t know what you would do without her.

Your day starts with Laura’s good morning kisses, you eat breakfast together, walk each other to classes when able to, study together, go for training sessions with one another and share goodnight kisses when it is time to sleep.

For a lack of a better way to put it, you do not remember how to live your life without her. You don’t you if you can and that may be codependent of you but it is the truth.

From the way the blonde is fidgeting with her rings, you know the feeling is mutual.

‘I-I don’t want to leave you.’ She quietly admits.

‘I know.’

‘I love you.’

‘I know. And I love you too but you have to do this schatz.’

Laura’s voice is pained when she echoes your earlier words, ‘I know.’

Touching your necklace carefully, you begin to unlatch it.

The German girl inhales sharply.

‘Don’t.’

Her ocean coloured eyes are welling with tears when she covers your hands with hers.

‘Keep it. I gave it to you. It’s yours. Please, it’s meant for you.’

‘But Lau-’

Her words are fierce as she insists, ‘No! We’re not over, you and I.’

Your smile is wistful and cautious when you look up at her.

‘Laura you don’t know that. You don’t know if any club will want to take me, let alone one in Germany. The chances of me ending up in Frankfurt with you are slim if at all possible.’

The forward’s frown intensifies, ‘Don’t say that. You don’t know that.’

As much as you want it not to be, your tone is one of resignation, ‘Schatz…’

Your dorm room feels stifling in a way it never has before and even though Laura is sitting right beside you, on your bed, she feels so far away that she might as well already be in Frankfurt.

The blonde is staring at you speechlessly and you take her hand in yours.

Holding her hand is familiar and an intimate gesture…one that you know you will not have for much longer.

‘I love you. No matter how much time passes, part of me is always going to love you. But you need to stop thinking about me. About us…and move on. You are going to do so good with Frankfurt. You are brilliant Lau, please show them exactly how talented you are.’

Your words are barely audible but you mean it. You have never meant anything more. It’s with your whole heart, your breaking heart, that you tell them to the German girl.

Laura’s tears are spilling down her cheeks and she is shaking slightly when you break your heart for good with the next two sentences out of your mouth.

‘I’m your biggest fan. That’s never going to change, it will just have to be from a distance now.’

******

Maybe it was stupid of you to let the love of your life go. But you needed to, needed to learn how to live on your own and let her be a star, halfway around the world.

In a way, you dodge a bullet too because as painful as it is, you learn. Without the striker leaving, you never would have learnt.

And for Laura who has been looking sad in all the nicest places and wanting to call your name until you come back home, it pays off.

Because some years later, as crazy as it is, you are in a German cab and telling the driver where the blonde’s place is.

You’re on your way back home to her, with her locket still around your neck.

German Translation:

schatz - sweetheart

[pasta-in-the-pudding]

There is not enough gale x wizard!tav in the world (bonus points if they're a tiefling)

𝕀𝕥 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕤 𝕤𝕖𝕟𝕤𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕚𝕫𝕒𝕣𝕕 𝕗𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕝𝕠𝕧𝕖 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕒 𝕨𝕚𝕫𝕒𝕣𝕕 <𝟛𝟛

ℂ𝕣𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕥𝕤 𝕥𝕠 𝕕𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕕𝕖𝕣 𝕘𝕠𝕖𝕤 𝕥𝕠 @𝕒𝕟𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕𝕘𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕘𝕣𝕒𝕡𝕙𝕚𝕔𝕤-𝕟-𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖! 𝔾𝕠 𝕗𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕤𝕦𝕡𝕡𝕠𝕣𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜!!

𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕜 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕠 𝕞𝕦𝕔𝕙 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕣𝕖𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘!!

@gayaristocrat

Gale x Wizard!Reader

While there are plenty of wizards in Faerun, it was a treat to have the constant company of one for months on end for Gale

After being completely isolated from anyone (except Tara) for a year, and suddenly being surrounded by strangers the second he escapes, Gale doesn't exactly find himself adjusting good to his newfound freedom

So upon discovering that you also practice sorcery, it makes him feel a bit more at ease knowing he has someone he can relate to even in the smallest sense

And this is how your friendship begins, bonding over small magic tricks (and this time he doesnt just pull out his cock 😒), trading different useful spells, and different tips and tricks you have picked up on your journeys

This leads you to become good friends, almost always seen chattering about something or another

Most times it's gale doing the talking, because as we know he refuses to shut up, but that's ok we love him <333

Before he even realizes it, he's falling in love with you

It takes him a moment to even process these feelings, and it's a whole other thing trying to accept the feelings

But once he does come to terms with it, he kind of just dives in head first

He confesses to you with magic of course

He gives you a book full of love poems, and each poem is enchanted to display gorgeous visuals of the story

And at the end of the book is a neatly folded piece of paper wedged into the spine

You open it up, and it his very own love poem, describing all of the things he adores about you, the visuals being of you and how he sees you

It's a very surreal experience, seeing yourself through someone else's eyes

When you finally decide to close the book, you peek out of your tent to see if Gale is still out

He is not, he is in fact hiding from you in his own tent, too scared to see your reaction

You decide you will discuss it in the morning, and head back to your bedroll to sleep

The next morning, he is out by his tent reading when you approach him

"Having a bookish moment, are we?" You ask teasingly, placing a hand on your hip

He smiles shyly and averts his gaze "They're a good form of entertainment when one can't stay in once place for too long.."

You move to sit next to him and lay your head on his shoulder "And when the sun itself explodes into a million atoms, know that my love for you will still be brighter"

A blush creeps onto his face "That's from the poem...Did you like it?"

"I don't think I would be sitting here reciting it to you if I didn't" you say with a smile

You lean over to kiss his cheek, then stand up and walk off to preform your morning duties of checking in on every one else, leaving Gale wide eyed and a blushing mess

[tearsucry]

— °˖ ⊹ ꒰ 💿 ꒱ meet me halfway ; shin hati (ahsoka)

#.                   you knew better than to ask the stubborn sith about the place she had visited before, but you just couldn't shake off your curiosity about her

content warning;          18+ nsfw content minors dni, female-bodied reader, no pre-established relationship, kissing, making out, interrupted kissing, pining, implied previous make out/kissing | 1.5k words

a/n.                                        I was struggling so much with coming up with something coherent that was worth to be put out, so i hope this is enjoyable for us girlies :)

coming into the camp to live with the peridea bandits was proven less difficult than shin hati had first anticipated. many of the bandits living in the camp refused to talk to her and the rest had a distaste towards her trying to be their leader, but for the sake of partnership they followed her word. there were no conflicts between her and the people who took her in, she didn’t have to argue or reason to be helped with food, water, a ride, and a warm place to live. whenever she could she helped the others living in the camp by going on to forage and hunt by herself, to escape the commotion of the tight knit camp, and to strengthen her connection to the force alone.

“will there be a time for you to join us all to eat?” with the question walks in a bandit, a bowl and a cup in their hand as their get closer to the sith and sitting across her at the table. shin hati raised an eyebrow at the bandit settling down in front of her, getting comfortable on the pillow on the floor before pulling their helmet off and tossing it behind you.

of course, there were exceptions to a few crooks avoiding her, like yourself, one of the youngest riders out of the bandits who took care of the howlers. you often ran around the camp without your helmet, taking the howlers back to the fenced down areas for the night and asking their riders if there were any complaints from the animals. you didn’t mind her at all in the camp, rather you were intrigued by her and how she trained, how she was capable of protecting herself with a simple beam of a lightsaber.

“I reckon someone like you who spent years alone has a hard time accepting company.” you add as you take a sip of your drink, simultaneously throwing your gloves onto the table next to your bowl. the sith in front of you says nothing as she continues to dig through her food before lifting her spoon out of the bowl and stuffing it in her mouth.

you shake your head, feeling a tad bit pitiful because of your weak attempt at trying to get her to have a casual conversation failed. but even with the bitter taste in your mouth, you accept the defeat you must face, making this lunch of yours a short one by finish up fast and heading back to the camp square to see if there was any other work that had to be done before the next scavenger group was sent out.

but just as you were reaching for your helmet, standing up and heading out of the tent the blonde mercenary stopped you in your tracks with a firm grip on the gear that was hanging from your belt. “your assumption is correct,” she breaths as she lets go of your belt, turning out from the table and looking up at you.

“although I’m mostly clueless of what to talk about.” her words were sincere, the shimmer in her eyes was more than enough to confirm that to you. with a sigh, you nod and go to pull a pillow to take a seat next to her, helmet once again set behind you as you crouch down taking your place, the gear on your belt rattling as you settle.

“a tale about the galaxy would be a great start.” giving her an enthusiastic smile might have worked more against you than in favor of you as her eyes slim, her face contouring into a confused expression. the gears in shin hati’s brain were turning, but maybe not in the direction she wanted them to. all she could think about was how she got here, that was on her mind between the sun coming up and setting. she wasn’t sure of how she got here, she could barely rely on her memory and let alone recount about it to you with that stupid smile on your face and that low cheer in your voice when you mentioned it.

“we always talk about the galaxy, don’t you find it dull?” perhaps the first part of her statement was true- you always asked about the galaxy and never anything else, but what was never gonna be true is the second part. you will never grow bored hearing about the stars and planets that are outside your home.

“you have seen the space between the stars, been to so many places, and you think that there is no magic to it anymore.” you say, rolling your eyes as she shrugs, quietly scoffing at you words. the blonde’s reaction gives you a reason for a short laugh before continuing with your issue about hearing about the galaxy. “I have only known peridea my whole life, I wish to know the stories of the galaxies from someone who has been in more than one.” there was no way she could argue with your logic, not even with her knowledge that was probably far greater than yours.

shin hati nods, thinking that she may have found a compromise for you. the blond girl was certainly not easy to deal with, but she was also incredibly stubborn and determined to stick by her ways. shin hati thought that if she gave in and was ready to answer, hoping that the two of you could spend some time together during your next scavenger hunting trip she would be able to convince you to tag along, and talk about yourself rather than interrogating her.

“flattery will get you nowhere.” she says with a huff as she looks away from you with a pout. the comment makes you smile, despite her attempts to hide it. ‘she does seem cute with her pout.’

“I’m right where I wanna be.” you reply, leaning forward to rest a cheek on your palm with a playful smirk that made the blonde look over to you. the look in her blue eyes were intense yet soft, her lips parted slightly as she blinked slowly. it made the heat rise to your cheeks, making you wonder if she could read minds. the blonde looked at you for another moment before dropping her gaze back down to her bowl. you felt disappointed at the loss of eye contact, silence settling between the two of you for a while.

“so you wanna hear about the galaxy…” her voice trails off into a whisper, trying to catch her attention again by taking her hand in yours. the sith stiffens, her cheeks tinted a pink color but she doesn’t pull away or move to get away. her hands are cold but softer than you imagined them to be. after a moment of hesitation, you take her hand, intertwining your fingers. you give a gentle squeeze and watch her expression morph into a mix of confusion and surprise, her face flushed red. “or your interests are finally shifting?”

"you have anything else to do in mind?" you ask, a small grin on your lips as you look back up at her. the blonde takes a moment before she shakes her head, her hair swinging softly against her shoulders, her hand running up your arm and stopping on the back of your neck, pulling you in. the two of you meet halfway, your lips connecting in a sweet kiss, soft and sweet, almost like the way a lover kisses before bed. it's slow and full of affection, the warmth of both of your bodies pressed against each other. it feels perfect to you, like coming home after a long day of searching and adventuring.

for shin hati it felt like finding home after being so lost for so long, looking for purpose in the galaxy's most executive and dangerous parts, it seemed like something out of a fairytale when she found you at the end of the galaxy. the world around her was spinning, but she couldn't bring herself to care, all that mattered was the feeling of her lips on yours and the feeling of your hand in hers. she felt safe.

the kiss was interrupted when a whistle blows loudly throughout the camp. you break apart quickly, both of your faces flushing a bright red as you look anywhere but each other. with a loud groan, you push yourself up from your spot on the ground, the blonde doing the same. you put her helmet back on while shin hati pulls her cloak over her head as you walk towards the door, leaving her there, staring at your back, trying to come up with something to say. “i still owe you a story of the galaxy." she whispers into the quiet, her words falling heavy against her ears. you turn to look at her, your smile growing ever bigger as you look her directly in the eye, not that she can see that, and nod. she returns it before you step out of the tent, closing the flap behind you, leaving her alone to do whatever she pleased with the confusing thoughts that you have planted in her brain.

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

if requests still opened can i have one where reader and arthur get into a huge fight then reader almost dies the next day and arthur says i love you for the first time >:)

Undoubtedly Deceived

Warnings: Violence, brief hints of SA (but not the act)

Word Count: 5,753

A/N: So this isn't the next day, per se...but otherwise I hope you enjoy! This one took me a while to plan out appropriately. Onto the next!

Arthur was gone by the time you arose. 

It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence; that man was often up with the sun, ready to take the day and accept whichever job needs done. He however did not skim on affection when it was warranted. Rainy mornings meant an extra hour of cuddling and sweet whispers exchanged in the comfort of your tent. 

Now, you were rewarded the privacy of your own room together in Shady Belle. A solid roof and thick walls, aside from the decrepit appearance, allowed what felt like was a scarcity: time. Time to enjoy each other’s company with rare interruption; freedom and peace even if it were short-lived. 

Normally you’d keep busy by helping around camp or journey out on your own devices to hunt or acquire money to contribute. It however had been a rough few weeks; between losing Sean, Jack’s kidnapping, and a myriad of other misfortunes, it was hard to keep from drowning in a sea of sorrow. You and Arthur kept each other afloat with the tiny spark of hope for greener pastures. 

After lacing your boots, you stood straight to stretch, forcing the remainder of your body to awaken regardless of the protest screaming from your joints. You hunted yesterday, taking it upon yourself to replenish Pearson’s stocks after having to listen to Bill’s and Uncle’s groaning complaints about the lack of stew, despite their refusal to lift a finger to offer a remedy. 

You’d brought back an impressive 6-pointed buck for the table, thus rustling the grumbles of certain gang members about having a woman do a man’s job. Though hoisting up upon Pearson’s butcher table proved easier said than done. You managed to do it, albeit rather clumsily, hiding the fact that you damn near dislocated your shoulder while performing the stunt. 

Nothing could be hidden from Arthur’s watchful eyes. 

Later that night he gave you a gentle massage while praising you of your hard work, whilst simultaneously chuckling over how you showed up their less useful counterparts. You’d smiled through your wince as his thumb dragged against a particularly tender spot in the groove of your shoulder. 

“Bill’s face was so damn red, you’d think he’d pop a gasket!” Arthur laughed as he eased his pressure. It amazed you how gentle he could be with you. 

You had relaxed into his grip, giving a content sigh as the pain slowly dissipated from your shoulder. “You’d think he’d go out and get a damn deer himself,” you’d said with a roll of your eyes. 

“Naw, ya know that’s too much work for him,” Arthur snorted. “We’re thankful you’re here to pick up the slack.” 

Your head turned to look at him, hand raised to cup his stubbled cheek. “Even you, Arthur?” you’d questioned with a cocked brow. “Sounds like I’m your maid!” you giggled. 

“’Course not,” he leaned into your palm. “You do ‘nough, ain’t fair of me to do that to ya.” 

“Good,” you murmured to him, drawing him for a quick kiss. 

The memory made you smile. You certainly didn’t mind keeping your living space tidy, and Arthur was careful to respect your cleanliness. He wasn’t a dirty person, but after spending years outdoors he sometimes forgot simple rules of domestication. 

You supposed you could tidy up before joining the others down below for some coffee. 

The first area capturing your attention was the desk. Fairly cluttered with old paper and a map as well as an assortment of bullets, you began by reaching for the nearest in your grasp. 

It was a letter. It wasn’t uncommon for Arthur to collect such mementos; traveling over the years meant he procured quite a few. More than once you’ve watched him dig out a thick stack of papers, dog-eared and frayed at the edges from being tucked away for too long. This one however was fresh; new and untouched by time. 

You weren’t surprised by the occasional arrival of mail. There were a few trusted outside who knew of the gang’s whereabouts. Connections and old friends alike, usually for business or otherwise just reminiscence.  

You gathered it up in your hand, paying no mind to the content as you moved to replace it towards a bare corner. As the page slid from your hand, something caught your eye. 

A simple name. A name of which you’ve heard a few times: Mary. 

Arthur told you about Mary before; a woman he nearly married in his youth. They hadn’t spoken to one another in years until she managed to reach out to him for help just a month or so prior. Knowing their history, you were naturally wary. Arthur assured you nothing had happened, and you believed him. 

So why was she reaching out again? 

You skimmed the letter, gathering she was once again asking his help—and she was in Saint Denis. How convenient. 

You chewed on your bottom lip, furrowing as your gaze ended on the signature. Carefully written with a flourish, an indication of a life far more comfortable than what was held behind these walls. 

Was Arthur on his way to see her, again? 

Arthur wasn’t the one to commit unfaithful acts, or so you’d hoped. 

Glancing outside through the halfway shattered window, your view of the horses showed that his was certainly not amongst the herd. 

You shouldn’t jump to conclusions. 

Taking a deep breath, you abandoned the cleanup in favor of something else to clear your mind. You made your way outside, forming a smile in hopes it would quell those roiling thoughts.  A few of the others were milling around quietly, either carrying a small conversation or beginning a routine morning task. Pearson walked away after setting down some freshly brewed coffee. You made a beeline toward it and helped yourself, immediately taking a sip and paying no mind to the scalding temperature. 

Tears and regret formed as the sting of the afterburn took hold. As you wiped your eyes, a voice calling your name caught your attention. 

“Good morning,” Abigail said as you turned to face her. The friendly smile on her face quickly disappeared when she saw you. “What’s wrong?” 

“Oh, nothing, just drank too quickly,” you answered with a gesture to your cup. “Good morning, Abigail.” 

“Oh, I thought Arthur might’ve done something,” Abigail jokingly responded as she helped herself to a cup of her own. “Though I’d be surprised, I swear that man dotes on you hand and foot,” she mumbled something about John afterward, though not loudly enough for you to catch. 

You didn’t respond to that. Your face tightened as you were reminded of your discovery upstairs, yet quickly hid it behind your coffee as Abigail straightened up to face you. 

But those eyes were quick, the small grimace wasn’t overlooked. The joking smile dissolved as she gazed at your face, her brow furrowing. “Unless something did happen?” 

Damn your slow reflexes. You sighed and lowered the cup. “I think he went to see Mary.” 

Once she realized what you meant, a look of knowing slowly formed. “And he didn’t tell you?” 

You shook your head. “I don’t know for sure if he did…but when I woke up, I found a letter from her, opened, in our room. She was asking for his help again.” 

Abigail listened, a thoughtful look crossing her young face. “Well, you know how Arthur is…always jumpin’ in to help folk even when he doesn’t like it,” she pointed out. “A good man he is, even if he doesn’t believe it. I don’t think you got anything to worry about.” 

Abigail was right. Arthur would moan and complain about helping people sometimes, but he still did so regardless of who they were (within reason). The previous time he and Mary spoke, he learned she was recently widowed, and he expressed his disdain for the way she lured him in to ask for his assistance. Even though he did help her in the form of rescuing her brother from a cult, he assured you he also made it clear that he was unavailable and that he had no interest in trying to pursue anything with her. 

So why didn’t this ease any of your concerns about this time? 

The coffee was suddenly less appealing. Spilling the rest of the liquid, you tossed the tin cup toward a pile of dirty dishes. “I know I shouldn’t worry, Abigail. But I still am. Once is fine, but twice…?” 

“He may not be even meeting her at all,” Abigail assured you, her free hand reaching to rest on your shoulder comfortingly. “You won’t know ‘til he comes back.” 

“That’s the part I’m afraid of,” you admitted with a frown. “What he’d tell me when he comes back.” 

Abigail’s dark eyes were soft and understanding. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, okay? If I know Arthur, I know he loves you more than anything in this world.” 

Love. That word hadn’t even been a topic of conversation yet, and you were unsure how to respond. Part of you wanted to believe Abigail and take the chance that he wasn’t in Saint Denis at all. Perhaps he was out, attempting to track down a new lead. 

Another part of you wanted to ride directly into Saint Denis. As vast as the city was, surely there would be some indication. Mary did say she was staying at one of the hotels… 

Abigail’s assurance did nothing to deter the dark cloud of thoughts gathering over your head. You only just feigned a smile to her and walked off aimlessly, chewing your lip and trying to ignore the knot of worry forming in your stomach. 

You ended up by the gazebo, which thankfully was unoccupied. You stepped onto the creaky, moisture-swollen wood and leaned against the railing, staring out across the swamp toward Saint Denis. The thick vegetation did not allow a clear view of the rooftops, but somehow you felt as if Arthur was there. An outlaw out of his element, wandering the cobblestone streets to meet a pretty woman… 

You straightened up immediately, your movement aggressive as you bounded your way from the gazebo toward the horses. Your mare popped her head up from grazing, ears perked toward you, almost as if understanding what was about to happen. 

Tossing the reins over her neck, you quickly mounted and steered her toward the worn path. Once past the gateway and bidding goodbye to whoever was on guard duty (you didn’t really care to check), you spurred your horse into a gallop. 

Dense treetops soon gave way to the azure expanse of sky, melding into the churning waters and the smoggy horizon of Saint Denis. The closer you drew, the more your heart pounded in the mere thought of even discovering Arthur in any proximity. You stopped along the path aligning the white fence of Caliga Hall, hoping that your search would leave you empty handed. 

Urging your mare into a smooth lope, you found yourself at the crossroads by the old slaughterhouse; turning right would take you straight into the city, while continuing your path forward would just drive you deeper into the swamps. The small voice in the back of your mind told you there was no real reason for you to be here, perhaps you were just wasting time and energy trying to prove something that may not even be true. 

But you had to be sure. 

At the last second you turned your horse to the right, narrowly missing a stagecoach traveling the opposite way. Surprised shouts and curses fell upon deaf ears as you and your mare galloped across the metal bridge. 

You were familiar with the hotel Mary mentioned in her letter, having stayed there a handful of times when it was too late to ride back to camp. You almost hated to admit you had these streets memorized by now, winding in between carriages and riders, paying no mind to your surroundings. 

The hotel soon loomed into view, and your eyes quickly scanned the posts in front for any familiar horses. To your surprise and relief, Arthur’s horse wasn’t parked in front. 

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding released, and the knot in your stomach dissipated. He wasn’t here. 

Unless he’d already come and gone. 

You shook your head, trying to banish those damned thoughts. He could be halfway across Lemoyne or even back at camp, wondering where you went off to. How silly of you to even come out this way to only— 

A familiar nicker caught your attention. Within seconds your sights settled onto a horse down the road, riderless, trotting along the road with its ears pricked. 

Heart dropping to your stomach, you urged your own horse into a lope to catch up. The closer you grew the more you began to recognize the strong, beautiful steed as Arthur’s. The stallion seemed to be focused on an alleyway. You stopped right next to him, frowning in confusion as your sweetheart’s steed turned his head down a narrow path between the brick buildings. 

Arthur’s horse was smart; always finding his whereabouts better than any hunting dog ever could. This must mean Arthur was nearby. 

The nerves fired up again, balling deep in your guts. Your inner voice urged you to venture inward, to see if he was lurking behind those walls. Or, just sit and wait out here. 

Before you knew it, you were on the ground, moving toward the entrance though it were as if another force was moving you entirely. Out from the open and into the narrow passage, journeying further in. 

At first there hadn’t been anything prominent. The smell of garbage and smog hanging in the damp, heavy air filled your nose. The ambience of the city muffled by brick and mortar. 

The further you ventured the less you heard the city around you, until there were footsteps ahead, other than your own. Your movement increased, running lightly on your toes. Thoughts buzzed in your head, unsure, unhopeful of what you’d might find. 

The footsteps stopped just ahead, around a corner. You pulled ahead, expecting to see either him or someone else entirely. 

As the picture before you unfolded, you were damned to be both right and wrong. 

You recognized Arthur’s thick frame, facing away from you, arms up and hands resting upon the building before him. It took you a second to see the smaller figure caged between his arms. 

Alarm shot through you like a bullet, forcing you to expel the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Anger was quick to follow, boiling through your veins like lava. 

“Arthur Morgan!” 

The way that man turned to face you, as if you’d stabbed him with your words alone. His blue eyes were wide with shock, spluttering your name out in a breathless gasp. 

“What’re you doin’ here?” 

“Finding out what YOU’RE up to,” you growled, stamping your foot. “Looks like I found my answer!” glancing over at the second person—you gathered quickly it was indeed Mary. You’d only seen her in an old photo once or twice, and the years hardly touched her. 

The other woman was just as surprised, leaning against the wall frozen against the wall. Her dainty lips shaped in an ‘O’ shape, staring at you. 

“Sweetheart, it ain’t what it—“ 

“Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me!” you hissed. “I can see clearly what was happening!” 

“It ain’t what you think!” Arthur nearly shouted back, stepping towards you. “I promise I— “ 

You reeled back from him, smacking his hand away as he reached out. “You said you were done!” 

The hurt in Arthur’s eyes flashed as he recoiled from your swipe, though recovering quickly. “I was—I am! We was jus’— “ 

“That don’t look like done to me, Arthur Morgan!” you nearly screamed. “I shoulda known better than to believe you, as soon as you went to help her the first time— “ 

“He was helping me,” Mary spoke up for the first time. Her voice was soft, timid, yet somehow enough to pierce through the predicament. 

You focused on her, gritting your teeth in anger. The memory of what was before you flashed vividly again. “Yeah right, I know what I saw!” 

“You don’t even know—“ 

“Save it!” 

“Let me explain!” 

You glared daggers back at him, nostrils flaring and breathing like a dragon. “Explain that you left without telling me, letting me find HER— “ your arm swung out towards Mary "—letter on our desk? After you said you weren’t involved with her anymore?” 

Arthur’s lips were agape, as if he were trying to search for words. But you could see the horror in his face; a look of knowing he made a grave mistake. He sighed heavily and once again tried to reach out to you. “It ain’t like that, you know me better than that. I’m sorry—“ 

“No, Arthur,” you stepped back out of his reach, your back grazing against the cold, rough surface of the behind you. “I thought I did. Turns out I didn’t.” 

The anger simmered, boiling down to complete heartache and disappointment. He had a reason to hide it from you, and damn you got even thinking to trust him that first time. You turned, swiftly, running back down the alley you came through. With footsteps echoing off the close walls, you had no idea if he was following you or not. Quite frankly, you didn’t care. 

The mouth of the alley opened up to the cobblestone street, where both horses were still waiting patiently. You stormed toward your mare and mounted quickly, turning her away from Arthur’s stallion and once again spurring her into a gallop. The mare didn’t hesitate to rocket forward. Shod hooves beat hard against the path, drowning out the urban ambience surrounding you. 

The faintest call of your name had been drowned out by your heavy sobbing. 

--- 

You didn’t stop until the tears did. 

Face stained with dust, clinging to your tear-streaked face. It seemed as if you weren’t going to stop, vision blurred and head-throbbing. An hour or two might’ve passed, your horse slowing becoming the navigator after passing the outskirts. You were deep in the swamps now, somewhere North or West of Saint Denis. The sun had been swallowed up by the thick canopy of trees ahead. The air was thick and smelled like damp wood and stagnant water. 

You hadn’t been this far out before. 

Aside from one or two people you’d passed a while ago, you were completely alone. 

You pulled your mare off from the main path to the side, favoring a small area that wasn’t half-drowned by the surrounding swamp. With a swift dismount and a wipe of your eyes, you dug a bottle of whiskey from your saddle bag and wiped the dirt from your face. It was a perfect spot for you to just collect your thoughts. 

A log you found was suitable enough to just sit down. Your body had been drained from crying. Your head was still pounding. The humidity hadn’t helped. The sting of the bitter liquid sliding past your lips was just enough to dull the pain. 

At least the physical pain. 

Thoughts raced in your head, far too quick to even focus on one. The filthy image of Arthur pinning Mary replayed in your head, over and over, further enticing the vice in your hand. 

More time was lost to you, sipping that whiskey and surrounded by nothing but the sounds of nature. Frogs croaking, birds calling, the occasional hiss of an alligator in the distance. The mosquitos were favoring you less with the more booze brewing in your system. Regardless of how busy nature was around you, you were none the wiser. 

Leaves of the dense brush rustled as a gentle breeze caressed your face. The smell of rain carried with it, just as the trees began to sway with an even stronger gust. A storm was beginning to settle in, an indication that you should be on your way. 

The rustle surrounding you grew louder as the wind only increased, bringing forth the first few droplets of rain, splattering against your cheeks. You sighed and moved to stand up. 

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” 

The voice sounded from behind you was too close for comfort. You didn’t recognize it, yet the tone in of itself made your hairs stand on end. You glanced over your shoulder to see a man stepping out from the thicket. The first thing you noticed was the ash gray coat and what appeared to be an old war cap in the same color. 

Your stomach formed into a knot immediately. A Lemoyne Raider. 

Releasing the whiskey, your hand flew to the revolver sitting at your hip. You drew on him within a millisecond of him retaliating, the barrel of his Cattleman pointed right at your head. 

“No need to get feisty, now,” the Raider chuckled, a wolfish grin forming on his lips. “We can play nice.” 

You opened your mouth to respond, when the bushes rustled once again. Two more Raiders appeared, stepping in on either side of the first, eyes alight with excitement and yellowed, toothy grins. 

“You’re outnumbered here, lil’ lady,” the first Raider purred. “So, I suggest you put that piece away.” 

You didn’t move, arm frozen in place as you glared hotly at them. It was immediately obvious what they wanted, and any sort of defense would mean a bullet between your eyes. 

It would be easy to shoot one and hoped that bought you enough time to run for it, at least mount your horse and gallop away. On the other hand, they might be quick to try and disarm you. 

“Ain’t got all day,” one of them drawled. Your eyes shot to him briefly, just enough to catch the bound-up rope in his hand. 

Thunder rolled in the distance, and the droplets became heavier. Your heart hammered so loud it may as well be thundering out of your chest. The longer you stood there the more vulnerable you became. How fast could you manage to shoot all three of them? The booze had taken a hold of you, but not yet quite enough to completely hinder your aim. 

Only one way to find out. 

Your finger was quick so squeeze the trigger. In a deafening split second, a bullet fired out and nailed the middle Raider right in the chest. A splatter of dark crimson and a choked gurgle, the filthy excuse of a man dropped to his knees. 

Without a second of hesitation, you turned and launched forward, boots nearly slipping on the muddy ground to scramble towards your horse. Shouts and jeers echoed behind you, soon drowned out by another thunderclap. Your mare was just a few yards away— 

Your ankle had been yanked out from underneath you, nearly flipping your entire body upside down as you fell, face-first, into the mud. The gun in your hand flung forward in favor of a failed attempt to catch yourself. The impact stole the breath from your lungs and introduced a mouthful of swamp. You coughed and spluttered, spitting out the earth, wriggling to roll onto your back. 

As you blinked the mud from your eyes, the remaining Raiders were soon descending, a rope snug around your ankle. 

Your heart plummeted into your stomach. The twisted grins on their faces were a vision of nightmares, as if the Devil himself had possessed them. 

“Now why you gotta play rough, lil’ missy?” the one holding the rope taunted, yanking the tether back and dragging you towward him. Your hands clambered and attempted to grasp something—anything—to fight his force. “We was gonna make it easy, now…” his free hand reached for his belt, where the glint of a knife shone as he freed it from its sheath. “I think we’ll have to get revenge.” 

Without your gun, the only other chance of defense was your own knife. Fingers twitched toward the sheath on your belt, gripping the dampened handle and yanking it free. Just as you swung it, however, a shot rang out and the knife flew out your hand. 

Eyes widened, you set your sights on the barrel of a smoking Cattleman and the snickering Raider on the opposite end. 

“Nice try!” 

Shit. 

Panic began to stir in your stomach as you frantically tried to think of any means of escape. The rope tightened as they dragged you closer. Your arms flailed, once again failing to find purchase in this god-forsaken soaked environment. Palms sunk into the mud, slowing you for half a second before their grimy hands were on your body. 

You struggled to free at least one of your legs, to land the toe of your boot into their smirking faces. The droplets soon turned into a sheet of heavy rain. Their maniacal laughter rang through the thunder and downpour. Your hands were yanked together and bound. 

A scream exploded from your throat, hoping that some passerby would hear. A fraction of a second only passed when a rag was shoved into your mouth, muffling you to just a pathetic whimper. 

You were truly trapped, surrounded by filth and wilderness, at the mercy of these...parasites...to have their way with you, or even worse. 

You were hoisted from the ground, the mud squelching as your body was freed from its slimy confinements before being unceremoniously tossed over a shoulder. Their guffaws rang incessantly in your ears. 

You closed your eyes, regretting having even woken up today. The tears you thought you’d shed all out earlier began to form once again. This may as well be the end. Lonely, soaked, and violated to no end. 

A single gunshot rang out. A pained gasp. The thud and splash of a body wrenched your eyes open. The Raider who carried you spun around so quickly he almost lost grip on you, the world spinning for a brief second before your vision cleared to the plain sight of the now fallen Raider, face down in a puddle, his gray suit rapidly turning crimson from the fresh bullet hole in his spine, the rain pooling the excess blood into the green swamp around him. 

The remaining Raider shifted to yank his gun out. 

“Let the lady go!” 

You knew that voice. 

A mixture of surprise and relief flooded over you. With the Raider distracted, this was your chance. With as much force as your body allowed, you threw your legs up and curled, wriggling like a fish out of water. The arm that was clamped around your waist loosened before disappearing altogether. 

The fall wasn’t ideal, or graceful. You landed on your side with a squelch next to the dead Raider, thankful for once it wasn’t solid ground beneath you. 

The second gunshot followed just as you managed to get a glimpse of Arthur on his horse, just a few yards away. The final Raider dropped to his knees and, like his companion, fell face first into the mud. This time, the hole went straight through his head. 

Heart pounding, stomach flipping, every nerve firing in every inch of your body. You watched as Arthur slowly holstered his gun, no doubt assessing the situation before completely lowering his guard. He hopped down from his stallion. 

Regardless of how relieved you felt, you were still on edge. 

You didn’t look at him as he stepped up to you, unsheathing his hunting knife to carefully release you from your binding. Once freed you rolled your ankles and wrists as he moved to the rag covering your mouth, making easy work of the flimsy fabric. You took a deep breath, welcoming the heavy, wet air to fill your lungs. 

His eyes were on you, looking for injury. His calloused fingers caressed the bare skin of your arms and neck. You still couldn’t meet his gaze. 

“They didn’t hurt you, did they?” 

“No,” you murmured, your voice trembling. 

“Good,” he sighed. “They didn’t...” He trailed off, having no need to specify. 

“No,” you repeated louder, though fighting to keep your voice level. “They didn’t get that far.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, Arthur nodded slowly, giving his own sigh of relief. “Then we should get outta here.” 

Every rational thought in your mind agreed with him, but the thought of riding alongside him right now was less than appealing. You shot up to your feet, stumbling slightly from the unstable ground beneath you. “I think I’ll ride back myself,” you said tartly, beginning to head back to your horse. 

You heard Arthur scramble to his feet. “Now hold on,” he called out. “May not be safe by yourself right now, don’t know how many more--” 

“I killed one before you even showed up,” you retorted. Your gun had thankfully landed in a somewhat less muddy patch of land. You swiped it up and wiped away the dirt with your skirt—only to realize your skirt was just as dirty. You huffed and holstered it. “Woulda had them if--” 

“If they didn’t tie you up,” Arthur finished. “Don’t be stupid. It’s pourin’ out, jus’ come back to camp with me.” 

“No!” you spat, having to raise your voice over the steadily increasing torrential downpour. “I’ll be just fine on my own!” 

“Not like this you ain’t!” Arthur argued, matching your stride to pace alongside you. “I almost lost ya--” 

“Hah!” you barked. “After you were acting all sweet on Mary? Seems like you don’t even care!” you finally looked at his face, shooting him a hot glare that nearly made him wither in the spot.  

Just as you were beginning to stomp away, you heard him speak again. “Don’t even care?” he repeated incredulously, speed walking to block your path. “I jus’ saved your life! I think you at least owe me the chance to explain!” 

You halted and stared at him, lips parting in the form of a protest. Those eyes, still ablaze from the fight, did not touch the desperation beneath. Those damn beautiful eyes like windows to his soul would catch you breathless every time. Finally, you folded your arms, took a deep breath and said, “Fine.” 

Arthur’s eyes darted to the ground, hidden beneath the brim of his hat. “Mary asked for my help. I know we’d discussed this, and I know you wasn’t happy with me doin’ it the first time. I’d gone to tell her I ain’t doin’ anymore favors for her.” 

“That doesn’t explain why I found you looking like you were about to kiss her,” you seethed. 

His head perked up, meeting your gaze evenly. There was a slight frown on his face. “I know what it looked like, but we wasn’t,” he shook his head and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Even though I wanted to refuse, she needed help gettin' back a broach that her father sold. It was her mother’s.” 

You were silent then, slowly absorbing the story. 

“It’s the only thing she had left of her mother, couldn’t let that one go. We was followin’ her father to see what we could find out. He almost caught us. Mary pulled me back, and...” he trailed off, arms in a half shrug to indicate what happened next. 

The image once again disgraced your brain, stoking the embers in your stomach. Your jaw clenched as you settled deep into thought, contemplating on whether you believed him. 

“Truth is, I couldn’t even continue after that. Seein’ your face then jus’ about broke me,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I told her that was it, can’t go askin’ me for no more favors.” 

“You said that last time,” you quietly pointed out. 

“I know,” he sighed. “My own fault for even goin’ over there. I shoulda ignored her letter altogether.” 

“So why even entertain the consideration?” 

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. 

A question teased the tip of your tongue. You were afraid to ask it in an even greater fear of what the answer might be. But there was only one way to find out. “Do you...still love her?” 

He looked at you again. “No, ‘course not,” he answered immediately. “What we had was long gone.” 

That didn’t ease your concern. “But you still went to see her. That don’t seem so convincing.” 

I know it don’t,” Arthur groaned. "I regretted it the firs’ time, shoulda listened to myself...to you...sweetheart.” 

The intimacy in his voice fluttered your heart. 

“I’m so sorry, I don’t expect ya to forgive me, but...” he raised his hands, hesitant at first, and placed his palms upon your cheeks. His gaze was soft and pleading. “I...love you.” 

Your eyes grew wide, your mouth agape. Your heart thumped wildly against your ribcage. Those three simple words you’d dreamed of hearing for years, finally come to fruition. There had been a few times where you were convinced Arthur was the one. Moments alone in fantasy, thinking of life along his side for much longer than you’d anticipated. 

He’d proven himself time and time again to be more than the front he masked himself with. More than just a brute, more than just an outlaw. A sweet, charming man who was willing to go to the ends of the Earth and back for you. 

Just as he did now, despite how angry and accusatory you’d been towards him. 

Water blurred your vision. Was it the rain, or your own tears? A mixture of both, perhaps—you breathed in with a shudder, dipping your head, overwhelmed with the onslaught of emotion. Happiness, sadness, elation and disappointment, all rolled into one big wave. 

He whispered your name, a tinge of concern in his voice. Somehow you’d heard it through the thunder, through the sheets of rain soaking you to the bone. You were almost afraid to look back up, until his fingers slipped beneath your chin. 

He didn’t force you to look up. Instead, you slowly lifted your head, your eyes last to follow until level with his gaze. There hasn’t been a tinge of expectancy in his face, just patience. 

There wasn’t even a question to how you felt. 

“I...” 

Your throat was dry. Swallowing hard, you wanted to form the words just right. “I...love you, too,” you finally managed to squeak, throwing your arms to wrap around his neck. He caught you with ease, drawing you into a sweet, albeit wet, kiss.

[i-was-bored-so-this-happened]

Greensleeves Chapter Six: Figure It Out

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Warnings: None Wordcount: 4.9k

Astarion tries to get the measure of Xaph. The party find a githyanki woman in a cage. Gale feels compelled to share important information. Shadowheart is unimpressed with the lot of them

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Astarion is early to rise, quick to wake, as always. A single delicious ray of sun slants yellow light across his white shirt. The novelty has yet to wear off. It would be on his face if he weren’t half-in-half-out of his new tent. This must be what snakes feel like when they emerge from their burrows, find a hot stone and refuse to move further until they’re practically burning. He cannot allow himself that sort of luxury. It could be suspicious. Roughly a third of the tieflings are still sleeping when he rises to his feet. Shadowheart is sitting in the same position he’d last seen her, as though she hasn’t moved all night, and Gale is stretched out almost starfish-style like he has all the space in the world. He’s lucky that the tiefling girl has already vacated her bedroll and packed it up. She strikes Astarion as a child who would have no qualms kicking a grown-up awake. While he’s thinking of the tieflings though, isn’t that where Xaph had slept? She’s nowhere to be seen. Nor is the Blade of Frontiers, or the children. Not his concern. His concern is that all these bodies being so close is getting to him. He picks his way through them, taking the shortest route. This puts him next to the ramshackle training ground where they’d found Wyll yesterday. And this is where he finds Wyll again. Wyll, Xaph, and the children. Xaph is standing behind a tiefling who looks to be around twenty human years. Her hands are on his shoulders as she assesses his stance,

“Your balance is off.” She knocks his feet further apart with one of her own. A well-practiced move, Astarion notes. He’ll have to remember that. She manoeuvres the tiefling into a better position that secures him to the ground and covers his ribs. “Try again.”

“Step. Parry. Strike.” The tiefling’s hit lands true, sinking into the target dummy’s side, where the soft flesh of a waist would be. Xaph’s hands hit his shoulders again as she smiles. She keeps her mouth closed when she smiles, but her sharp eye-teeth push against her lip.

“Good! Good, Guex,” an unfortunate name with an unpleasant sound, “Word to the wise, don’t shout out your moves. Gives the game away.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you,” The young tiefling leans forward and reaches for something behind the dummy, “Here. I found this on the road. Suppose you’ll put it to better use than I would.” A battleaxe. The silly besotted thing is giving her a battleaxe for showing him how to hit an inanimate object. They really are strange creatures. Still, Xaph thanks him. Or at least, Astarion thinks she does. He doesn’t understand the word she says, but it seems grateful. Guex returns to his practice, and Xaph hops down from the wooden platform to put her new prize away. 

“Astarion!” She sounds…happy? “Good morning!” Not dwelling on her cool rebuff of him last night, clearly. Her shirt is too big for her, and the laces have come undone in the night. She has those ridges on her sternum that most tieflings do, he can see the first few disappearing beneath the fabric. She moves between the sleeping tieflings with none of Astarion’s careful care, but the several who do wake simply roll back over again. She sets the battleaxe by her pack and returns to his side. Her eyes search his, but only for a brief moment before she settles her gaze on the children. “They’re not fighters.”

“That’s abundantly clear, my dear.”

“Figured I should at least,” her shoulders shrug as she folds her arms, “Try to help prepare them, I guess.”

“And you’re a good fighter, would you say?” Astarion asks, mimicking the gesture. Mirroring is always a good tactic. Makes them feel in sync.

“Did we not kill goblins yesterday?” Xaph asks, wincing as a child trips.

“I recall I had to kill several for you.” Astarion points out, goading her. Her head turns to him with a snap. Just like he wanted.

“One. One goblin.” Xaph corrects. It’s a sore point. Good.

“Not to mention I had you on your back before I even knew your name.” He dares to edge just that little bit closer, without breaching the bubble of personal space enforced by horns. Xaph’s lips part in indignation, and her tongue is shockingly pink against navy-blue skin.

“What is it the patriars do, when they’re offended and they feel melodramatic?” Xaph asks, but he can sense she doesn’t really want an answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her arms unfolding. She’s wearing gloves, soft woollen ones with the fingers cut off, and she pulls one of these off. It smacks into his shoulder, not with any real noise or impact. A challenge. To a duel. He’s already won.

“Oh? Daggers or swords?” Both are readily available.

“Quarterstaffs.” Xaph decides, pulling two out of a nearby barrel that’s full of the stout pieces of wood.

“Sticks.” Astarion protests.

“And a sword is a pointy stick.” Xaph counters.

“Not my weapon.”

“Or mine,” with a flick of the wrist the quarterstaff turns smoothly in her hand before she offers it to Astarion, “Makes it fair.”

“You could fool me.” Astarion says, but he takes the stick. She turns her back on him. Draws a mark in the ground with her staff, then walks twenty paces and makes another mark. She connects the lines in a wide circle. Stands as far away from him as she can, and holds out the staff. It becomes an extension of her, perfectly lined up with her arm up until the slight bend of her elbow. Astarion mirrors the pose, and they begin to walk.

Gale wakes to a lot more sound. Wood against wood, insult against quip, the giggling of children. He’s almost entirely alone in the sleeping quarters of the tieflings, and picks himself up quickly in hopes that no one’s payed enough attention to him to notice. He’s in luck. Many of the tieflings have returned to the packing up of their lives. Another squad seems to have been sent to petition Kagha. A small group, mostly children and young adults, are clustered around the wooden training ground. Voices that are quickly becoming familiar to him rise above their heads. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he moves towards the sound and finds Shadowheart. She’s already in her armour, her hair meticulous - she must have redone it this morning.

“What’s happening?”

“I’m just glad they’ve stopped circling like jackals,” Shadowheart jerks her chin towards the sound of wood hitting flesh, “Though I’m not sure what the point of the exercise is.”

Xaph and Astarion are at the centre of a large circle drawn in the dirt, whacking each other with lengths of wood. No, wait, quarterstaffs, much like Gale’s own. Still simply pieces of wood, in most respects. Waiting more, he sees that it’s less them trying to brain each other and more something else. A tricky real-time puzzle each of them is trying to solve first. Wyll, standing with the children’s teacher, looks to be torn between refereeing the duel and pulling the pair apart. Xaph is barefoot and her sleeves are rolled so Gale can see every muscle in her arms as she moves with the staff. Her fingers twist one after another after another to keep the staff turning, turning, turning, fast enough to shield her from Astarion’s blows. Astarion, whose eyebrows keep pinching and his nose keeps twitching until he feints, side-steps, striking at just the opportune moment when Xaph switches hands and elbowing her side in that place that makes her double over.

“Cheat.”

“Stickler.”

Xaph recovers well and smacks her staff into Astarion’s back as soon as she has the opportunity, which makes him stumble and allows her to kick in his knees. Or at least try to. He’s got a good grip on his own staff, and uses it to bat her foot away as he turns. Before Gale can really process, they’re locked together, a knot of sticks and arms, until one of them kicks the other and they tip too far over for either of them to recover. The wooden planks shake underfoot at the impact of their combined body weight. Some of the tiefling children cheer, and some of them groan. A small girl with a strip of fabric tied around her head to obscure one of her eyes slinks through them collecting pieces of gold. Xaph rolls away from Astarion once she’s caught her breath and settles on her knees, chest heaving. She’s smiling. When she stands she offers Astarion a hand, but he gets to his feet on his own. He does however concede to a businesslike handshake.

The tieflings start to disperse, Xaph reaching out to ruffle a little boy’s hair as he passes. Astarion pushes his staff into Xaph’s hand with something of a smirk, as though he’d won. A child shouts to her and she obliges him, starting to spin the staffs. One in each hand. Much slower than she had been with one, but the movements are fluid enough that after a minute or so she can swap hands without too much of a hiccup. The child is herded back to his own target practice and Xaph deposits the quarterstaffs in their barrel. Her tail is moving again, and Gale can’t think of a better word for it than wagging, quick swipes back and forth. In dogs that indicates happiness, and it seems to be the same of tieflings.

“Are you quite done?” Shadowheart asks, eyebrows raised and arms folded.

“Can’t blame a girl for trying to grab some fun where she can, Shadowheart.” Xaph says, linking her hands and pushing them up into the air to stretch.

“Believe me, I can,” Shadowheart deadpans, “We need to move on.” She casts a sidelong glance at Gale, still in his sleep clothes. Everyone in the party is still in sleep clothes but her.

“You’re right.” Xaph nods, “Aradin and his mates left in the night, apparently. Pricks,” some of her knuckles crack and pop as she works her fingers, “But if we run into them, they can show us the way to the goblin camp,” her eyes slide away from Shadowheart when she sees Arabella picking up the battleaxe Guex had given her, “Muzz-”

***

Irritation is rankling Shadowheart’s features further than ever before. The party had managed to gather themselves quickly, that wasn’t the issue, but Wyll had been late to the gate and brought news that turned Shadowheart’s lips in disgust. A couple of tieflings had come across a githyanki caught in a goblin trap, and Xaph was convinced it was the woman who had helped them to crash the nautiloid. Even if it isn’t her, she’d pointed out, it’s hardly right to leave her there. Shadowheart and Astarion had been outvoted. The party, now with Wyll, were moving in the opposite direction from where they needed to go.

“It’s not far.” Wyll had assured them, and it wasn’t, but it wasn’t the distance that was the issue.

There she was. The gith woman. Suspended in a crude wooden cage with a face like thunder. If looks could kill, there would be no survivors.

“Zorru was right. Yellow as a toad, and twice as ugly.” There’s one of the tieflings, deep in conversation with another. Shadowheart vaguely recollects the name Zorru as someone she’d been introduced to last night. 

“The thing’s dangerous,” the other tiefling reasons, “Leave it for the goblins to kill.”

“Damays!” Wyll strides forward without hesitation. The woman startles, but the man rests a hand on her arm to calm her and waves at Wyll.

“The Blade of Frontiers,” he replies, though he doesn’t move to meet the party, “Have you ever killed a gith?” 

Shadowheart can’t keep her attention on the idle conversation Wyll entertains, not when Xaph’s head twitches violently and her horn rings against the blade of the battleaxe now strapped to her back. She’d managed to coax it out of Arabella’s sticky fingers with only minor bribery. The worm situated at the base of Shadowheart’s skull corkscrews, then pushes forward. Yearning for contact. She follows Xaph’s line of sight up to the cage, to where the githyanki has speared the ranger with her gaze.

Get me down. Speech. No, not quite. The githyanki’s lips haven’t moved, yet her words echo in Shadowheart’s skull. In Xaph’s. Their worms have connected again. They can recognise one another. Communicate. And the gith has already mastered the art. Xaph’s voice, as thin as thread, pushes through the mental link.

I will. Just wait.

“Remember how keen she was to leave me to die on that nautiloid? We can’t trust her.” Shadowheart doesn’t even try to test the mental link. She doesn’t want anyone in her head. Besides, from here it’s unlikely the gith will be able to hear what she’s saying.

“But she didn’t,” Xaph says firmly. She and Shadowheart have butted heads too many times to be entirely at ease with, but neither one of them risks escalating disagreements, “And she’s infected. Like us.” As if any of them need the reminder. Shadowheart has neither the time nor the space for sympathy. It’s not a muscle she has cause to exercise. When no one replies, Xaph moves forward to join Wyll and the tieflings.

“What did I tell you about rangers and strays?” Astarion asks, his words as light and carefree as a seed flying on the wind, “And there’s no accounting for taste. She did pick you and the wizard, after all.”

“Ours was a mutual agreement, unlike your death threats,” Shadowheart hisses back, “And she saved my life. I owe her.”

“As do I,” Gale adds. It’s perhaps the shortest sentence he’s uttered over the course of their acquaintance, “Though I think she’s a better judge of character than you give her credit for, Astarion.” Ah. He wasn’t done. 

“Nonsense. She’s been living up in the mountains for gods know how long and she talks to pigs.” Astarion waves a dismissive hand.

“Why linger, then? You seem confident in your ability to handle yourself out here in the wilds.”

“Oh, because I want to watch the shitshow, darling.”

Between them, Xaph and Wyll manage to convince the tieflings that the gith is no threat and to return to the grove. The party huddle together again, and Xaph cups her hands around her mouth to call to the woman in the cage,

“Are you alright?”

“Release me. Or enjoy a future as ghaik.” The word is harsh and guttural and she is very good at being threatening. 

“What…what’s that?” Xaph asks.

“Mind flayers. The atrocities we are becoming.”

“Ah. Right.”

It doesn’t take long to find the rope that is keeping the wooden cage suspended in the air, but the githyanki is less than grateful when she’s released.

“The tadpole hasn’t yet scrambled all your senses. Auspicious,” her voice is low and full of gravel, as it had been on the nautiloid, and Xaph suspects it must always sound like this, “But the longer we wait, the more it consumes.”

“You're welcome,” Xaph says, hands on hips, “Are you injured?”

“My people possess the cure for this infection. I must find a creche. You will join me.”

“A creche?” Xaph repeats. She knows the word, but she associates it with young animals being cared for by a community of elders. Probably not exactly what this woman means.

“Careful,” Shadowheart warns under her breath, “She obviously sees your kindness as weakness. Don’t let her take advantage.”

“A creche is many things. A hatchery. A training grounds. A shelter. Githyanki protocol is clear: when infected with a ghaik tadpole, we must report to a ghustil for purification.” Xaph has not met many githyanki before, and those she has come across have been watched from a distance rather than met, but she knows they’re a strictly militaristic people and that comes across in this gith’s choice of words.

“Alright. Journey with us. We can keep an eye out for a creche.” Xaph tells her.

“This isn’t wise.” Shadowheart says, but that is her only complaint. She can’t deny that the githyanki is a fierce warrior and a survivor, she had proved as much on the nautiloid, and she seems to know the most about mind flayers in the group. Besides Gale, maybe, but his knowledge is more theoretical whereas the githyanki have been battling illithid for centuries. 

“You have made an ally from Creche K’liir. Few know such fortune. Call me Lae’zel.”

“Xaph, of the Sunset Mountains. Gale of Waterdeep,” Xaph indicates each member of her group, “Astarion and Wyll of Baldur’s Gate, and you know Shadowhea-”

“It matters not what crevice of this place you crawled out of.”

“Well met indeed.” Wyll remarks, and the distinct indifference does not pass the party’s notice. It’s the furthest from jovial they’ve heard him yet.

“I’ll trust your judgement, but I won’t trust her,” Shadowheart tells Xaph. She agrees with Gale and does trust Xaph, to an extent, but that doesn’t mean she has to make friends, “Not until I get the measure of her.” Xaph nods to indicate her acceptance of this.

“You’ve a sharp tongue, elf. Would that your mind proved its equal.” Lae’zel pokes.

“Half-elf. I suppose the finer details are lost on a creature like you.” Shadowheat pokes back. No one steps in, not yet. Some of them aren’t sure about the githyanki either, some of them think it’s better to let Shadowheart get this out now rather than let it boil over. The gith lets it pass, at least.

“The horned ones mentioned a camp. One there - this Zorru - has seen githyanki,” Xaph glances at Wyll, because she recognizes the name Zorru and can see he does too, “A creche must be near. We will ask this Zorru where he has seen my kin.”

“Back to the grove then, I suppose.” Astarion sighs.

“Better to go now than have to travel back once further afield.” Gale tells him. Shadowheart can tell that the group has made up their mind without her, so she doesn’t protest when they turn back to the grove.

The tiefling on guard at the gate is a little confused when the party she’d let out only a few hours before return with an extra member.

“Couldn’t get enough of us, mad-meph?” she calls, leaning over the ramparts. She’d taken over for the young tiefling who’d died yesterday. Kanon. His sister had spent most of last night crying, and none of them had wanted to approach her. This tiefling woman seems in good spirits, if a little forced, “Or did you bring us more goblins?”

“Mragreshem,” Xaph calls back, “We found a githyanki, she wants to talk to Zorru.”

“Githyanki? One of them killed Yul.”

“She’s with us. She causes trouble, I’ll deal with it.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Lae’zel mutters, but the tiefling doesn’t hear this and cranks the mechanism that opens the gates with a shout that Zorru should be near the barn. That is where they find him, only minorly waylaid by concerned tieflings wondering why they’re back so soon and some casting wary glances at Lae’zel. She doesn’t notice this, or doesn’t care, and strides purposefully a half-step ahead of the others though she doesn’t know where she’s going. She could have found Zorru by herself, because the second he sees her he starts trembling.

“My friend’s blood not enough? Come to split me open too?” He asks, trying to fake bravado and failing, a defensive hand already in front of him.

“In Creche K’liir, a formal greeting begins with a bow.” Lae’zel’s voice is level and firm. An order.

“Lae’zel!”

“I hate to say I told you so-” Shadowheart starts.

“No you don’t.” Astarion argues.

“-but I did tell you.”

“Show some sympathy, Lae’zel. These people are terrified of more than you.” Xaph tells her. 

“Has the tadpole ravaged your senses? Sympathy will not lead us to purity.” Lae’zel snaps, fists forming at her sides. 

“Enough,” Xaph’s voice is as tight as her bowstring. Lae’zel is about to learn the lesson of don’t badmouth tieflings that Shadowheart and Kagha had yesterday, “Stand down. I won’t tell you again. He owes you no such respect.” Lae’zel makes a harsh sound between her teeth, tchk, but she steps back. Outnumbered. “Zorru?” the tiefling is still watching the githyanki, his eyes fixed on the sword pommel he can see at her shoulder, “Zorru, look at me,” he does, the familiar sight of horns making him relax a bit. An argument breaks out somewhere to the left…is that a goblin?  “She won’t hurt you. I won’t let her. Damays told us you saw some githyanki. All we want to know is where,” she turns her head aside to ask Shadowheart for the map, “Can you show us?” Zorru nods, “Thank you. What’s going on in there?” Xaph points to where the distressed voices had come from.

“Arka caught a goblin.”

“Arka?”

“Kanon’s sister.” Zorru answers. Xaph says something in Infernal, and it seems to put him at ease. She presses a hand to his shoulder as she turns away from him to speak to her companions.

“Have him mark the location on the map,” she says, “And Shadowheart? Don’t let her hurt him. And don’t hurt her,” her eyes skip to Astarion, “No one hurt anyone, blanket statement. Wyll?”

“Got it.” Wyll nods. He seems the most trustworthy to keep the peace at the moment. Besides perhaps Gale, but Xaph asks him to accompany her so she isn’t going into this next situation both blind and alone. She leads him towards the angry voices, hidden behind a wooden fence and gate. Inside is a makeshift prison. An iron gate sealing off a crack in the rocks forms a cell, and a metal cage sits in the centre of the chamber. Sure enough, a goblin is jeering from behind those bars. Two tieflings stand outside the cage. One is holding a crossbow, and must be Arka.

“Y’aint gonna shoot me,” the goblin’s voice croaks, “Yer ‘ands are shaking.”

“Put it down,” the unarmed tiefling says, clearly repeating himself, “She can’t fight back.”

“That’s the point.” Arka growls, teeth bared as she readjusts the crossbow. Her stance is good, but her fingers are trembling. Her face still bears streaks from tears. “Get out of the way.”

“She didn’t kill your brother, Arka. You’re better than this.” Rage. Dangerous fuel for revenge.

“Shoot before you lose your nerve, tiefling,” the goblin taunts, “If you ever had it to begin with.” And she will. Xaph can see it in her eyes, burning gold against yellow skin. She passes Gale the bow she’s still holding, which he takes automatically, and she steps forward. Between the crossbow bolt and the goblin. The goblin sneers further, saying that an Absolute has sent her a protector. Xaph doesn’t pay attention to her. She isn’t the threat.

“Arka-”

“You. Out of the way!”

“I’m sorry about your brother. I’m sorry we couldn’t save him. But this is not the way to deal with it.”

“How dare you.” Arka’s tail whips to the side, sharp enough that Gale can imagine a snap noise, but he only sees it out of the corner of his eye as he watches Xaph. Her face is set, her feet rooted. Her own tail resolutely still.

“Would he want you to do this?” Xaph asks. For how hard and sharp she’d been with Lae’zel, for how firm her stance is now, her voice is soft. Sympathy. It may not lead them to purification from the tadpole, but perhaps to peace of mind and quieting of the heart. Gale could do with some of that. Xaph might be the best of his newfound companions to confide in. The one he knows the most, at least, not that he knows much. But she seems a good person, and that’s more than he can say for Astarion or Lae’zel. Arka has faltered. Her grip on the crossbow is loosening. Xaph holds out her hands, entreating the tiefling to surrender her weapon. 

“Damn you. Damn it.” Arka drops the crossbow into Xaph’s waiting hands and wraps her arms tight around herself as fresh tears fall down her face. The other tiefling puts an arm over her shoulders, and mouths something at Xaph that must be grateful. Gale has to learn more Infernal if he’s going to be travelling with tieflings. “Why do you care if a goblin lives or dies?”

“Because she’s not a practice target. She’s a person.” Compassion rolls of Xaph in waves, practically visible. Maybe Astarion was onto something when he was complaining about strays. Not many would stand in front of a crossbow for a goblin. 

“Can’t say I understand that. Not sure I want to.” Arka says, but her voice has shrunk. Rage within grief is possibly the strongest form of anger, but it tends to pass quickly. In flashes.

“Arka. Let’s go.” The other tiefling pulls at her shoulders until she turns and leaves with him. The stern expression on Xaph’s face flickers, but doesn’t drop. She looks to Gale, as though looking for approval of her decision to save the goblin.

“You did the right thing. Revenge has a habit of eating people alive.” He tells her. She sighs and swallows as she schools her expression and takes her bow back from him. Then, she faces the goblin.

“Ain’t sure why you protected me,” the goblin sniffs and wipes her nose on the length of her arm, “Don’t care, neither. It’s too late to make friends, worgmeat. My tribe’s coming. They’re gonna burn this pretty place for the glory of the Absolute,” that’s the second mention of Absolute, “And ‘ang ya by yer guts.” Well. Goblins aren’t exactly known for their charm. 

“Who is the Absolute you’re so fond of? Your god?” Xaph asks. The goblin has that tone to her voice, that of a fresh fanatic.

“Goddess. We’re burnin’ her name across the face of the world, we are. The Absolute is gold from the sky, she is. The blessin’ in the storm an’ the storm itself.” Yes, these words carry a cadence Gale is intimately familiar with. 

“I’ve no interest in blessings from gods,” Xaph’s arms fold with her words, “I’m interested in why your people are attacking this grove.”

“Get me out of ‘ere, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

“I saved your life. I think I’ve filled my quota of favours for you. You’re at the mercy of the druids now.” Xaph turns her back as the goblin starts to spit insults and slurs of such a derogatory nature that Gale has to commend her for how small a reaction she has, little more than a twitch of the tail. As they leave the makeshift prison, Gale recalls a particularly entertaining memory,

“Believe it or not, but I witnessed a similar back at the Yawning Portal. Of course, an establishment like that invites all sorts of outlandish entertainments.” He cuts himself off when Xaph holds up a hand.

“Forgive me, Gale, but perhaps we can save anecdotes for later. We have slightly more pressing issues.” She tells him, and she’s gentle enough that he only takes a slight offence. They do indeed have more pressing issues. He has more pressing issues, but their other companions are in sight. If he’s going to confide in Xaph he has to do it now or wait until they make camp.

“Xaph,” he stops, and she pauses a few steps later when she realises he isn’t following her anymore, “Spare me a moment, if you please. I’ve something to discuss with you,” she opens her mouth and he knows what she’s going to say, “Not the Yawning Portal story.” She drifts back to him, and he’s grateful they’re out of earshot of their other companions. “Ever since you were kind enough to free me from that stone, I’ve seen you demonstrate remarkable guile and courage.”

“You don’t need to-”

“Please.” Xaph closes her mouth. “You’re defending your people. You saved that child, Arabella. You just stood in front of a crossbow to prevent a murder. In short, I’ve grown to trust you.” Xaph’s eyes narrow, just a little, trying to discern any underlying meaning, and her head tilts to the side when she finds none.

“I appreciate the sentiment, and I return it, but the flattery’s more than enough.” She tells him. Compliments have a habit of making her squirm. 

“I was being quite sincere, I assure you. The reason I make a point of it is that there’s something, well, rather important I need to tell you,” he casts his eye about the grove, full of people, “Not here.” Xaph worries at her lip, at the corner where they join, for a moment.

“I understand,” she says slowly, deliberately, “We have to move on, but we can’t walk through the day. We’ll have to take a break. Find fresh water or boil some from the river. You could help me, see if you can find any more edible plants.” He understands the offer. A window of time out in the wilderness when the others are busy, tired, when it will be easy to separate themselves from the group. Privacy. Gale lets out a sigh of a breath and inclines his head in a mock bow,

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything I can do for you now?” Xaph asks, and he almost smiles. Compassion. Sympathy. For how much longer will she look at him with such softness?

“Your trust is more than enough, for the moment.”

[lewis42]

It’s been a long day (and all I’ve gotta say is make it strong)

Astarion x f!Tav. Ao3 link

Even after being allowed to drink from Tav, Astarion doesn’t feel safe in camp. When a battle goes badly, he braces for the worst.

Rating: Mature for topics discussed. No smut

Tags/TW: discussion of child death, aftermath of violence, Astarion needs a hug, Tav needs a drink, pre-relationship

Word count: 3.5k.

Chapter 1/1

A/N: I accidentally killed the goblin kids while freeing Halsin and I had Feelings about it.

——————-!

Astarion was packing

He didn’t want to be packing, he wanted to be having a nice, quiet little panic attack. In the fight to free the druid, one of the goblins had not only summoned a giant spider, but had cast blindness on Astarion. For ten agonizing minutes he’d been in a blackness no darkvison could penetrate. It had sent him right back to that year Cazador had locked him away, the hunger and the darkness and the maddening, maddening silence. Even now thinking about it made his hands shake.

He’d rather have been eaten by the spider.

All other things being equal, he should be curled up on his bedroll right now drinking sour wine and trying to forget. But things were never equal for him, because life couldn’t give him a godsdamned break. And if he was to be run out of camp, he’d take as much as he could with him.

“Astarion,” a voice sounded from outside his tent, the last voice he wanted to hear, and the only one he’d been expecting. “May I come in?”

Astarion shoved his pack into the corner with one foot and tried to look as indifferent as possible. “if you must.”

Tav pushed her way into the tent. She had taken her chest armor off, but still wore the light shirt and leg guards. There was blood in her pulled-back hair. “So eager to see me that you couldn’t stop to bathe?” Astarion asked, wrinkling his nose. “Or is it a religious requirement that clerics of Kelemvor smell like the dead?”

Tav just raised her eyebrows at him. As usual, any attempt at disdain rolled right off of her. “I’m checking on everyone before I get cleaned up and turn in for the night. That was a brutal fight.”

“Well, don’t worry about me darling,” Astarion said. “I enjoyed the carnage.”

“Did you?” Tav said, tilting her head. Astarion braced himself. Here it comes.

“Because I saw your face when that blindness spell hit you,” Tav went on. and gods that was her cleric voice, the one she surely used at funerals, a gentle, nonjudgmental tone meant to comfort the grieving and sooth the dying. “I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

Astarion refused to be soothed or comforted. How dare she pretend to care about him, especially now?

“Feel free to tell me to mind my business,” Tav said, “I just know you said you were a slave to Cazador, and I’ve met more than one slave with a justified fear of the dark.”

Astarion hated her in that moment with the power of a thousand suns. “You should mind your business,” he snapped viciously “I didn’t survive 200 years of torture to be pitied by an idealistic chit with no common sense and…and a snub nose!”

Tav froze, eyes wide as a fawn’s. More at his tone probably than his words, those hadn’t been his best insults. But the anger was real and he could see she knew it.

“Forgive me,” Tav said at last, “I will be more mindful of your privacy in the future.” Then she turned to leave the tent.

“Is that it?” Astarion said, incredulous. “You’re really going to make me wait for the hammer to drop? I knew you were pathetic, but I didn’t think you were cruel.”

“What?” Tav took a deep breath and rubbed her forehead. “Okay let’s start over, because I feel like we're having two different conversations. Why do you think I came in here?” She sounded so patient, and it flamed the deep rage in Astarion’s chest.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” he snarled. “We both know you came here to tell me to get out of camp, so drop the games and fucking do it already!”

“Why the fuck would I ask you to leave camp?” Tav said, clearly bewildered. Astarion wanted to shake her.

“Because I killed two kids today!”

The words hung in the air. Tav’s face crumpled, and it made something deep within Astarion hurt. But he couldn’t stop.

“I killed those goblin kids. And I know that you know it was me because I saw you praying over them before we left. I know how you feel about kids. All of us know how you feel about kids. ‘Children are what adults make them Astarion’ ‘We don’t charge for children Astarion.’ I still have their blood under my fingernails and between my teeth, so don’t stand there and tell me that you don’t care!”

There was a moment of silence.

“I do care,” Tav said at last. She rubbed her hand over her face. “Gods I’m tired. Can I sit down?”

“Ugh, fine,” Astarion gestured to the bedroll. He wanted to strike out again, make her get on with it, but Tav looked…broken. Broken in a way he hadn’t seen before. It was unsettling.

Tav sat down cross-legged on his bedroll and indicated one of the bottles nearby. “Is that blood or wine?”

“Wine,” Astarion said. “It’s terrible.”

“That’s fine, I don’t want it for the taste. May I?” He nodded and Tav reached for the bottle, giving it a healthy swig. “Ack, this one is nasty.” She took another drink. “And I know you took those kids down. I saw you do it.”

“Can’t keep your eyes off me, even in battle?” Astarion purred. “I’m flattered.”

“I was watching the kids,” Tav said, ignoring him. “They were running for help, and I was trying to figure out how to stop them. But you did it for me.”

Astarion said nothing.

Tav took another drink, then carefully set the bottle aside. “The truth is, it’s my fault. I thought I could bluff my way through like I always do, but things escalated and I lost control of the situation. I should have planned better, put Shadowheart near the exit maybe. And when I realized there were children involved, I should have backed off until I figured out how to knock them out or get them out of the way safely. But I didn’t do any of that, and now they’re dead. That’s on me, not you.”

Astarion hadn’t even considered using non-lethal options. The first kid had been pure adrenaline. He’d registered someone running for help and run to take care of the problem. The second one…. The second one had been instinct. He’d been blind and terrified and full of remembered hunger, and then something small and warm-blooded had run past him. Like a rat but larger. He hadn’t even fully realized what he’d done until the blindness spell wore off.

“Look, I promised you I’d never bite an innocent,” Astarion said, letting some of his anger drain away. “I broke that promise. You can take responsibility if you like, the gods know I don’t want it. But that doesn’t change the fact that I basically ate a child.”

Tav rubbed her forehead with two fingers. “No, no it doesn’t.” She looked up. “Was it good?”

Astarion frowned. “Was what good?”

“The goblin kid you drained. Was it tasty? Satisfying?”

“Are you seriously asking me this?”

“Yes,” Tav said, still calm, still watching him. “Was it good?”

“Well…” Astarion felt oddly lost. This conversation was so far from what he expected. “I guess? The blood wasn’t as robust as an adult’s and the flow wasn’t as strong, so I only got a couple swallows.”

“So if you had a choice, you’d pick an adult to bite? Or an animal?”

“I mean, animal blood is rather nasty,” Astarion said. “But no, on the whole it wouldn’t be worth the effort. Not if there was better prey available.” He pulled himself back to reality. “What the hells does it matter anyway? Even if you’re willing to let it go, it’s not like the others will. They already think I’m a bloodthirsty killer.”

“There’s more than one of those in camp,” Tav pointed out. “Although you’re more literally blood thirsty, and Lae’zel is more in line with the traditional sense. Besides the others don’t know.”

Astarion stared at her. “What do you mean they don’t know?”

“Just what I said.” Tav shrugged. “Halsin was dealing with the worgs, Karlach was fighting a giant spider, Shadowheart was trying to get across the grease that other goblin threw at us. I’m pretty sure no one saw you but me.” She eyed the wine bottle again. “And I did a little clothing adjustment when I said a prayer over them to cover the bite. As far as everyone else is concerned, you took down both those kids in your usual way. Considering it kept us from being overrun with goblins, I doubt anyone will hold it against you.”

“You covered for me?” Astarion couldn’t wrap his head around it.

“Yeah.” Tav shrugged. “Look, no one else was anywhere near that door. If you hadn’t stopped them from sounding the alarm, we’d probably be dead. And the tieflings and their children would be dead. And who the fuck knows what this Absolute cult would do to Faerun. I don’t like doing that calculation, and I don’t like that I screwed up. But the truth is, you saved us.”

“And you trust me not to do it again?” Astarion said. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Tav took back the bottle and took a swig.

“I can’t decide if you are suicidal or just a fool.” Astarion couldn’t keep the bitter bite out of his words. There were few things he despised more than naive heroism. The world was a desert of blood and power and whatever rivers of goodness or kindness there might be would never change that, never reach the people who needed them the most.

He should know, after all.

But Tav’s next words shocked him into silence.

"You mean for trusting you?” Tav said. “I don’t, really. Or I suppose you could say I trust you just as much as I trust most of the people in this camp, which is very little.” She waved the bottle. “What I trust is your sense of self preservation. You’re far too smart to risk being staked or run out for a bite-sized snack that you’ve admitted doesn’t even taste that good.”

It was certainly nothing compared to yours, Astarion thought, then refocused on Tav’s words. “You don’t trust anyone in camp? But you’re so.. so… nice.”

“Thank you!” Tav said brightly. “But kindness and wariness can co-exist you know. I trust Withers because we’re…well, we’re colleagues of a sort. And I trust Karlach for the most part. But not the rest of you. Not yet.” She peered at him, her eyes slightly unfocused. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that we’re basically one devil or deity’s command from being murdered in our beds.”

Astarion had not noticed that, and now that she’d pointed it out, he was miffed at himself. He’d only considered his companions in light of the direct threats they posed: Gale’s orb exploding, Lae’zel putting a stake through his heart, etc. He’d been more worried about being abandoned then being killed. But apparently there were other risks too, ones he’d missed.

Honestly the idea was rather fascinating.

Astarion plopped down on the ground, all his anger forgotten. “Walk me through it,” he said. “Lae’zel would absolutely stab us if that gith queen of hers told her to, that’s true. And Shadowheart’s a little too zealous for her dark goddess. But Gale? Wyll?”

“Gale’s a man who had love and power and doesn’t have it any more.” Tav said. “Plenty of people have done terrible things for less reason. And while I don’t doubt Wyll’s honor, I am a little wary of how easily Mizora was able to lie to him. He might be wiser now. Time will tell.”

“But you trust Karlach?”

“Karlach spent ten years doing nothing but killing on the orders of someone else. I’m sure she has a lever, because everyone does, but she’s the least likely to betray us in that way. She’d refuse on principle.”

“That’s probably true,” Astarion said. “As for me, we both know I’d sell the whole camp to Raphael for a ham sandwich.”

“You would not,” Tav said, and hells, she sounded almost affectionate. “But if you were offered freedom from the tadpole and Cazador, I don’t think you’d hesitate. Especially if you could keep the sun.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Astarion admitted. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for such an offer. “I like to think I’d hesitate a little though.”

“Awwww, that’s sweet. Maybe we’re all further along than I thought.” Tav sighed. “The point is, I trust all of you to have priorities and loyalties of your own, and I don’t trust a mere five days acquaintance to have much sway against those priorities. Hopefully we’ll get into actually trusting and valuing each other as we go, but I don’t think we’re there yet.”

“That’s…. incredibly astute. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“It’s the face,” Tav said. “I have permanent nice face. And a snub nose. It makes people underestimate you.” And then the chit actually winked at him.

Cheeky pup.

“So what’s your lever?” Astarion asked, trying to regain the upper hand in the conversation. “Especially regarding my good self. After all, Kelemvor condemns all undead, or so I’ve been told.”

Kelemvor was one of the only gods Astarion hadn’t bothered to pray to in his two hundred years of torment. He’d considered more than once begging the God of Death for a quick extinction, but in the end he’d been too stubborn--or too cowardly--to do it.

“Eh. It’s complicated. As long as you aren’t making more undead or actively preying on innocents, most clerics are happy to leave you alone and focus on the real problems.” Tav grew thoughtful. “Would I be willing to protect everyone if I had to kill another cleric of Kelemvor to do it? I honestly don’t know. Fortunately, that’s unlikely. Especially when you consider that Withers is helping us.”

“You know what he is?” Astarion said, leaning forward. “Do tell.”

Tav tapped him lightly on the nose. “Sorry, trade secrets,” she said with a grin. Then she sighed, putting down the bottle. “That’s more than enough for me, I’m afraid. It would be hard to lead with a massive hangover, and we still have three goblin leaders to kill. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I’ve mustered the will to stand up.”

For the first time since she’d entered his tent, Astarion actually looked at Tav. The tired slump of her shoulders, the lines around her eyes. There was a loneliness and a sadness to her that he’d not seen before. He wondered if it had always been there, hidden under her cheerful care.

“You can sleep here if you like,” Astarion said impulsively. “If you trust me not to drain you dry and run for the hills.”

“Please,” Tav scoffed. “Without the artifact, you wouldn’t make it a day before the Absolute got to you, and you value your freedom too much to let that happen.”

Now that he knew more of her mind, Astarion could read between the lines. I know you never want to be a slave again. He was grateful to her for not saying it out loud.

He could try and steal the artifact, but it might not allow itself to be stolen. Besides Shadowheart would hunt him down and Karlach and Wyll would help her just to avenge Tav.

Astarion would bet a full meal of bear’s blood that Tav knew all that already. That she’d known it when she offered him her neck on the day she discovered his secret. Tav didn’t trust him to be good, she trusted him to be smart enough and selfish enough to work with the group for his own--and everyone else’s--benefit.

She trusted him to be exactly who he was.

Being seen so clearly was uncomfortable. It made something coil in Astarion’s gut, a feeling that was something like fear and something like hunger. Instinctively he took refuge in the tools he’d always used.

“There are other dangers you know,” he said, moving closer to Tav and tracing the tip of one finger over her soft chin. “I could take advantage of you… carnally.”

Tav’s eyes were wide and open in the dim light, and her lips and cheeks were flushed with wine. He could smell the sweetness of her blood pumping as her heart rate picked up. Her chest rose and fell under the thin linen shirt, the plush breasts teasing him. Astarion had a sudden vision of his fingers digging into Tav’s hips, of burying himself inside all that soft, carefully guarded warmth. The wave of lust made him dizzy.

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t enjoy it,” Tav said. “Not tonight. Too many thoughts and too much wine.”

Not enjoy it? The nerve. Astarion cradled Tav’s jaw, tilting her head up. “Darling, you wound me. I could drive every thought out of that pretty little head and make sure you sleep better than you’ve ever slept in your life.” His lips were close enough to Tav’s for their breath to mingle. He could hear her heart pounding.

“Astarion,” she breathed.

“Yes, sweet one?”

“I don’t want to have sex while I smell like the dead.” She pulled back, a smile playing around her soft mouth.

Astarion chuckled, he couldn’t help it. The woman kept surprising him. “Touché, my dear.” He released her and sat back. “Genuinely though, you’re welcome to stay. I’m not planning on closing my eyes tonight, and we can’t have our fearless leader stumbling across camp. You might fall into the fire. Besides,” He reached out and tapped her nose in turn. “I don’t think you want to be alone tonight.”

Tav inclined her head, acknowledging the hit. “You sure you don’t mind?”

“Just don’t make it a habit,” Astarion said. “I don’t like dirty girls in my bed.”

Now it was Tav’s turn to laugh, but sadly she didn’t rise to the bait. “Goodnight Astarion.”

“Goodnight.” Astarion watched her snuggle in under his blanket, feeling oddly pleased. It was probably just relief. Tav wasn’t kicking him out and she wasn’t angry. He was safe for another day.

As quietly as he could, Astarion started to unpack his things, enjoying the richer silence that comes from having two people in a room instead of one. Then a noise caught his ear. The tiniest of choked sobs.

Tav was turned away from him, but he could hear her faintly ragged breaths, and smell the saltiness of tears. She was so quiet that Astarion doubted anyone without the senses of an elf or a vampire would have noticed. But he did, and he recognized it: the silent crying of someone long practiced in hiding their grief. Someone who couldn’t risk drawing attention.

Astarion had given up on the comfort of tears a hundred years ago or more, but he still remembered.

He didn’t stir, barely breathed until Tav’s own breath smoothed out and she sank into sleep. Then he crept over to look closer. There were tear marks on her face and on his pillowcase, and Tav herself had curled up so tightly it was like she was trying to make herself disappear.

Astarion remembered doing that too.

“What secrets are you hiding, darling?’ he whispered, lightly brushing some wayward hair from her forehead. Tav didn’t answer but he thought she relaxed a little under his touch. Astarion sat back, thinking hard.

He’d assumed--they’d all assumed--that Tav was a simple cleric: a decent fighter with a flair for creative strategy and an open heart. But she was so much more than that. Under that sweet, unruffled demeanor was the practical mind of a master tactician. In five days Tav had found everyone’s deepest emotional levers, and used that knowledge, not for manipulation or judgement, but for planning. For threat assessment.

She hid her hurt on instinct, she froze when she felt threatened, she was keenly aware of everyone around her. Astarion had been a predator for a long, long time and he recognized the signs. Sometime in the past, Tav had been prey.

And still…she was kind.

Astarion looked at the cleric sleeping peacefully in his bedroll and knew two things for absolute certain. One: in her own way, Tav was the most dangerous person in camp. And two: Astarion needed to become a priority to her, fast.

He needed a plan

[whiskeynwriting]

Aay'han

Din Djarin (no reader)

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Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI)

Mentions of death, recollections of trauma and violence. 

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A/N: Merry Christmas @mando-din-lorian ! I’m your secret Santa! (: I tried to make this heartfelt and sweet, and I really hope you love it! 

Participating in @pedrostories Secret Santa was so fun this year, I hope you guys make it a tradition! 

◆

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Where there once was darkness, there is now light… along with a tiny little whine. He’s thrown the flap to our tent open, brightness now shining in. We’re also no longer wrapped in the quiet comfort of darkness, thanks to him. Noises from the outside world flood in, chirps and songs from the harmless animals surrounding us. It’s not the first time he’s woken me from my sleep, and I know it won’t be the last. He’s… grumpy, especially in the morning. But I guess you could say I am, too. 

Groaning quietly, I tilt my head up. “Grogu?” 

That tiny little noise, his perplexed eyeballs staring down at me. 

“Shut the door.” It’s not really a door, but same-same.

And then, that tiny, angry face. His forehead crinkling more than it should be. 

“It’s too early.” I continue, trying to persuade him. But he’s having none of it. 

His persistent coos of discontentment win in the end, that happy squeal floating through the tent as I finally shimmy by body along my makeshift bed. Ducking, I make sure not to hit his fabricated cradle, one he’s grown quite comfortable with. 

Usually, he’ll hold his arms out to me; he likes being close to me. And I have to admit, I love holding him. But sometimes, he’s stubborn, refusing my help and insisting he get down himself. After waddling out of the tent, I stand, folding the flaps out completely and letting the sun shine in. Crouching with a grin, I wait for him, that small head snapping up at me when he hears my chuckle. 

“Well,” I shrug, gesturing out to him. “Go on, then.”

Amusement was a rare thing in my life before him. When I was on my own, I slept when I wanted, ate and worked when I wanted. But he’s thrown a wrench in all of that. And at first, it made me uncertain. I never knew how to provide for a child. Grogu didn’t let those thoughts linger in my head, though, not when he had so much love to give. 

“Can’t do it?” Gently questioning him, I tilt my head.

Genuinely, I like to see him try. I can’t teach him how to use his skills, but I can encourage him to use them. Either way, I try. 

“Come here, buddy.” Bending forward, I reach in, my hands held out in his direction. 

Snuggling them underneath his tiny armpits, I lift the little green menace, bringing him down from his cloth crib. His small sigh prompts my own, settling him into my arms once again. 

“Are you hungry?” Comes my next question, finger tapping the tiniest of noses. Turning, I look at the ship, reminded of our near non-existent amount of storage. “We have some… dried fruit left. I think.” I don’t have to meet his gaze to know he’s not amused by that. 

New Plympto doesn’t offer much when it comes to food. Though, I wasn’t looking for five-star restaurants when I found it. I chose this planet in an attempt to reconnect Grogu to his past. The Jedi once used the inhabitants of this world as recruits, and I was thinking, hoping, he’d… feel something. But it’s been no use. Since returning from Luke, using his powers has become a rare thing. 

“There’s not much around here.” Tapping the signal on my helmet, I scan for warm-blooded figures. The creatures near are small prey animals with no predator in sight. But there’s a distant rumble coming from above, prompting the kid’s own search. His eyes look to the sky, taking in the swirling clouds in the distance. He coos timidly at the darkness within them.

“I see it, too.” 

Considering the amount of pleasant-tempered animals in the area, I set him down, letting him explore on his own. But not out of my sight. This hasn’t been easy, giving him a sense of freedom. All I want is to keep him in my arms, to keep him safe. And when he’s wandering around on the ground, how can I do that? But I keep close, my eyes never leaving his tiny figure for long. 

Almost every single skill Grogu learned before coming to me is, for lack of better wording, useless. He doesn’t really need any of it. It’s almost as if that was never even his life. Like blips of another timeline somehow, and for some reason, spilled into his world. War, conflict, trauma, none of it was ever meant for him. But truthfully, I wasn’t, either. I’m not fit to care for him. The way our paths crossed is evidence of that. 

“We should probably find some food, don’t you thi-”

Turning, I witness the sad sight of a frog lodged in the kid’s throat. He gurgles, before ultimately swallowing it whole. And then, he burps. Little menace. 

“O…kay.” But that makes things easier, I’m fine with dried fruit. 

The storm isn’t too bad, starting shortly after we retreat to the tent. Securing the flaps shut, I prepare to keep us in for the night. The extra coin spent on the waterproofed roof was worth it. 

Before we went back into our quaint fortress, I grabbed a few things from the ship. Dried fruit for me, and some coloring tools for him. Back on the Crest, I had quite a few things that interested him. Most of them came from Naboo, their educational systems grand in every sense of the word. I bought picture books about animals and planets, puzzles and toy speeders, games of both strategy and chance. And every time I brought something back, it would interest him. He played with everything I got him. But all of that was destroyed on the Crest. Since that, I’ve been able to get him some crayons and a notepad. 

Breaking open the bag, I lift the edge of my mask to eat a few pieces, Grogu’s back facing me. He’s sitting on the floor, resting on my bed of blankets. He’s coloring, and it’s incredibly cute, watching him create things. 

His tiny coos bring me out of my head, lowering my helmet again. They’re not happy noises, they're… sad. Immediately, I lean forward, peering over his head to see what’s making him so blue. It’s a simple act, doing nothing to prepare me for what I see. 

Clear as day, I see clone troopers, their blasters drawn. And then those… laser swords, some different colors than Luke’s. There’s blue and even a purple one, too. The people holding them look… scared, terrified, actually. And in the background he’s drawn some pretty intricate details, appearing to be stained glass windows on the walls and ceiling. 

“Is…” Scooching closer, I continue to analyze the drawing. The distant rumble of thunder makes the moment feel dark, intense. “Are those Jedi?” 

At that word, Grogu looks at me, wide eyes searching for answers, but receiving only silence. And not just from me, but from everywhere he’s looked in life. He doesn’t know why… why did this happen? 

The sadness radiating from him is powerful, knocking the breath from my chest. Gently, he waddles over to me, climbing into my lap. Sightlessly, my hands find him, palms cradling his frame as he settles against my legs. 

It angers me greatly, knowing this happened to him, knowing he’s felt the same pain as me. Having to witness your caregivers, your parents, be brutally massacred, is something a child should never have to see. Experiencing that kind of violence and trauma at such a young age… it scars you. It scarred me. How has he not let this affect him? How has he not turned sour from this? How does he not feel anger, and the intense desire for revenge? 

Something strange wraps around me, around my emotions and thoughts. And then, that tiny hand, folding gently over my thumb. Looking down, I see him; he’s staring up at me. I don’t know what to call it exactly, his… energy? It reaches out to me, touches me, comforts me. Those hateful thoughts leave my body, and quite easily. 

Oftentimes, I think Grogu does more for me than I’ll ever be able to do for him. I’ll never be able to teach him the ways of the Jedi. But… I have considered The Way. He’s my foundling, after all. It’s my right to do so, and his right to learn it, or at least have the opportunity to. He’s no longer the child, he’s my child. 

“I’m so sorry, Grogu.” It’s already happened, I can’t take away his hurt. But I can be here to comfort him. 

Before I realize what he’s doing, he’s popping up and out of my arms, scurrying across the ground and through the hole at the bottom tent flaps. 

“Grogu!” Rolling up onto my knees, I undo the opening, lunging out to find him.

Immediately, the forceful and repeated taps of rain echo around my head. It’s storming out, the ground beneath my feet now made of mud. Looking every which way for him, I end up finding him only a few feet away. 

“What’re you…” 

The closer I get, the more prominent his giggles become. He’s reaching up, welcoming the downpour. And he’s smiling, too. Those little feet jump into the puddles, those bright eyes finding me. 

“This is fun for you?” I ask while smiling, amused. 

All he does is laugh, that joyous noise floating into my ears. With a small sigh, I decide to sit, knowing I’ll regret it later but right now, I can’t bring myself to care. His robe is completely muddy and he’ll need a bath when the weather clears up, and so will I. But it’s alright, we’re due for it, anyway. 

The loud boom of thunder makes him shriek, now ducking and running to me. Laughing quietly, I hold him, whispering it’s okay. Reaching out, I then put my fingers in a nearby puddle, splashing some water at him. And that brings back his happiness all over again. 

Part of me thinks this way of life is too chaotic for him; I don’t think the way we live is anything close to his life before. Maybe he needs more structure, more balance. And I… I don’t know if I can give him that. 

But inside Grogu’s head, all he’s thinking about is how he never got to do this before finding his dad. He never got to meet new people, see new places, he never got to have fun. The Jedi were detached, too, and Din is just the opposite of that. Grogu has never felt more attached to someone in his entire life. He may not have one place to call home, but he doesn’t need to when home becomes a person. Whether Din knows it or not, he’s everything Grogu will ever need. 

Aay’han

(AY-ye-haan)

Bittersweet. Perfect moment of mourning and joy - remembering and celebrating.

[hazelroses1]

Barbarian Katsuki Wants to Take Over Chief Eijirou’s Lands but Falls in Love Instead

Barbarian Katsuki wants to take over the Kirishima Clan lands, but they’re peaceful and refuse to battle. He can’t defeat people who won’t fight! So, every few days, he storms into their chief Eijirou’s tent, demanding he meet him on the battlefield. Eijirou is a giant man, his long red hair cascading down his back in intricate braids. His black tribal tattoos swirl down his chiseled arms from his shoulder to his wrists. Eijirou stands a head taller than Katsuki, but that never perturbed him.  Eijirou smiles and stands. 

“Hey, Katsuki! Good to see you! How were your travels?” 

“Don’t give me that shit!” Katsuki snaps. “You know what I’m here for, so pick up your goddamn axe and fight me!” 

“How about dinner instead?” 

Katsuki can’t believe this fucker. 

“You have what I want,” Katsuki growls. “You’re gonna give it to me.” 

“My river, right?” Eijirou replies, crossing his arms over his chest. “You know, we could just share it. In exchange for its use, you could trade your grains.”

Katsuki blinks. Well, yeah, that makes sense, but where’s the fun in that? He wants the screams and bloodshed of war, the pride in defeating an enemy to overtake their livelihood. His clan is made for it. He opens his mouth to protest, but Eijirou hooking an arm around his shoulders short-circuits his thoughts. 

 “Let’s eat, then we can fight.”

Katsuki’s stomach grumbles in agreement, staining his cheeks red. Eijirou laughs, his chuckle rich and comforting. Katsuki and his crew eat with the Kirishima Clan, animosity falling to the wayside as the sun dips behind the horizon, leaving the dancing fire flickering light over the dense forest surrounding them. The flames are as warm as Eijirou’s personality. No matter what scathing remarks Katsuki throws at him, he hasn’t stopped smiling. When they fight, and Katsuki surprisingly ends up on his back with an axe to his neck, their relationship morphs into something different. Katsuki begrudgingly agrees to share resources, which turns into shared hunting, shared clothing, and shared relationships. Katsuki’s right hand, TetsuTetsu, falls for Eijirou’s sassy younger sister, Mina. As the years pass, she becomes his wife.

The happiness and prosperity that intermingling their clans bring rattles Katsuki’s brain. With each moment spent with Eijirou, Katsuki finds his thoughts can’t focus on anything but that infectious smile, sun-kissed skin, and wild red hair. He’s smitten and can’t imagine his life with Eijirou. His heart pounds in his chest. His breath catches in his throat when they spar. One evening, when Eijirou pins him, the late autumn air frosting their mingling breaths, Katsuki stares into crimson eyes, and the rest of the world disappears. Eijirou leans forward until their lips are mere centimeters apart, and Katsuki surges forward to press their mouths together. Despite his days of bloodshed and conquering, this simple life, this simple love with Eijirou, is what his heart truly desires.

[END]

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

#100 cylene and laventon or surveyfam as a whole? I think it would work well with your take on the survey corps?

(101 ways to say i love you with actions 100: believing in them when everyone else doesn't)

OUGH YEAH IT DOES ... so here's 3 times sinensis cyllene did things because she felt like them and for no other reason aka: You're Not Fooling Anyone, Cyllene. also in case people forgot/have not heard (very likely) i write laventon's first name as everett

---

"So. You wanted to discuss something?"

Cyllene nods, meeting Kamado's gaze steadily. "I would like to revisit the recent discussion of the formation of a new corps, as proposed by Professor Laventon."

He pauses, and looks at her with something like disbelief. "You're already well aware of my reasons for refusal, Captain. The pitch may sound in theory—but without someone competent to supervise the whole thing, it's just an elaborate way to send our people to their deaths. Unless you've got some way around that—"

"I do. I would like to volunteer for the position of captain. Zisu can take my place as head of Security."

His eyes narrow. "You think she can replace you? Competent though Zisu may be, she isn't you."

"She's not," she agrees easily. "Which is why I need to supervise this. Consider it, commander. Think of how much we have to gain."

He considers her for a moment.

Then he inclines his head slightly. "What exactly do you see in his endeavor? It must be something, if you're staking this on it."

How is she meant to explain it to him? That Everett's passion is infectious? That when he goes off on his elaborate tangents, forgetting to check if she's still listening, when she should feel exasperated, she instead feels that inexplicable pull, that specific version of which she hasn't felt in years if not decades, telling her that this is something worth guarding?

She can't; she'd sound biased at best, and mad at worst. So she goes with the straightforward.

"I believe that our team will never be fully safe in Hisui until we properly understand our surroundings. Learning to coexist with the Pokémon around us is key to our survival. The Draconids achieved it through brute force and harsh selectivity, and," she gestures vaguely, like she can point to the empire that so many of them came from, "even if we had the manpower for that approach—we've all seen how that turns out. I think the professor's approach is worth trying."

"Hmm." He closes his eyes, reviewing her argument for a moment, and then says, "...well, I suppose you would know best about that. If you're overseeing the project, I'm willing to tentatively approve it. But I'll expect it to prove its worth quickly, or we'll have to reevaluate."

She gives a sharp nod. "Understood, commander."

When she delivers the news to Laventon, he's predictably overjoyed, even with the stipulations it necessarily comes with. She tells him the same thing she'd told Kamado, when he thanks her profusely—that she just sees the possible upsides of the project, nothing more—but he accepts that with a conspiratorial smile that she's not entirely sure she likes.

---

The sun is going down, and they're both sweaty and tired and probably not going to achieve much more, so Cyllene decides to call the training session there. Rei doesn't protest as he gets to cleaning his sword and putting things away, but he's terrible at hiding, and even she can tell something's eating at him.

"Sit down," she orders, pointing at the bench next to her without looking at him.

"I'm- fine," he grinds out the answer.

"I didn't ask if you were fine. I told you to sit." Her tone makes it clear that this is an order, and doesn't leave room for argument.

So, reluctantly, he drops down next to her. She hands him the water, and they sit in silence for a while, Rei glaring out at the darkening field like the scattered pieces of wood have said something to offend him.

Cyllene doesn't say anything. She knows she can just wait long enough to outlast him.

And sure enough, finally,

"Why am I even still doing this?"

He continues, without needing to be prompted, "I mean, if I'm moving to the Survey Corps, it's not like I need to be an amazing fighter. I mean it's not–" he glances over and rephrases. "It's not like it'll be useless, there'll still be wild Pokémon and everything but—I'm not—not... defending everyone. It's not like I'm going to be competing in any contests."

"You never know," she says, dryly enough that he's not sure whether or not she's joking. And then, more seriously, "You're a fully fledged Galaxy Team member. You can't be forced into anything. Stop being my apprentice if you hate it that much."

"But I don't hate it!" he protests, because he doesn't. It feels good. It's been a routine for almost half his life.

She gives him a sidelong glance. "I don't see what the issue is, then."

"I don't feel like I'm getting any better at it. I just keep throwing myself at the same things without improving, and it's not..." he kicks the dirt, glaring at it again. "Nobody actually expects me to be any good at it. They only stuck me here to get me out of the way."

A beat.

"Do you think I pitied your family? Or that they bribed me? Do you think either of those would get me to take you on as an apprentice?" She stands up, and turns so that she's looking down at him.

"Um."

"I do not waste my time on—frivolity. I have trained you for these years because I thought it was worth my time." She jabs a finger at him. "You are allowed to doubt your worth as a swordsman if and when I say you do, and absolutely no sooner. Understand me?"

"Yes, sir," he says, blinking up at her wide-eyed.

"Good. Now finish getting cleaned up. Next time I hear anything about quitting, it better be because you're sick and tired to death of doing the same five drills every time."

She doesn't want to think to hard about the softness in his voice when he says, "thanks."

---

"She had nothing to do with this!"

Cyllene's arm is out to the side, creating a physical barrier. Akari is behind her, and she really shouldn't be raising her voice because lack of composure is the first threat to victory, but fuck it, she's angry.

"I'm not going to stand idly by and watch as your baseless paranoia spills innocent blood," she continues, shouting only thinly reined in. "This is absurd and completely unacceptable."

"You'd take her side no matter what. She's got you completely fooled," says the person across from her, and Cyllene hears Akari's breath hitch unsteadily.

"I am the captain of the Survey Corps, and I have a duty to my people," she growls. She's not sure how obvious it is that the definition of her people is rapidly narrowing to a group of about three or four. "I assure you, I know Akari far better than you do, and I know that even if she had done what you're accusing her of—which, again, is ridiculous—this would still not be an appropriate response. Leave. Now. I won't warn you again."

Predictably, they don't take the order. The second they move another step forward, she's unsheathing her sword.

I don't care what she did, she wants to roar. I don't care if she fucking killed someone. I don't care if she doomed this entire skies-damned region. I'd gladly throw the rest of this trash into the fire before I let you lay a single hand on her.

"If you're so certain of this," she says instead, "then prove it. Come and get her." She levels her blade with the tip pointing at them. "But you'll have to go through me, first."

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: The Windblown (Quentyn II) [Chapter 25]

She is coming. Her host is on the march. She is racing south to Yunkai, to put the city to the torch and its people to the sword, and we are going north to meet her.

Frog had it from Dick Straw who had it from Old Bill Bone who had it from a Pentoshi named Myrio Myrakis, who had a cousin who served as cupbearer to the Tattered Prince. "Coz heard it in the command tent, from Caggo's own lips," Dick Straw insisted. "We'll march before the day is out, see if we don't."

+.+.+

"We'll get provisions in Yunkai, maybe fresh horses, then it will be on to Meereen to dance with the dragon queen. So hop quick, Frog, and put a nice edge on your master's sword. Might be he'll need it soon."

In Dorne Quentyn Martell had been a prince, in Volantis a merchant's man, but on the shores of Slaver's Bay he was only Frog, squire to the big bald Dornish knight the sellswords called Greenguts. The men of the Windblown used what names they would, and changed them at a whim. They'd fastened Frog on him because he hopped so fast when the big man shouted a command.

Frog prince, she's not going to kiss you, please go home.

He refers to himself as Frog throughout this chapter. Oh, Quentyn.

+.+.+

The Windblown went back thirty years, and had known but one commander, the soft-spoken, sad-eyed Pentoshi nobleman called the Tattered Prince. His hair and mail were silver-grey, but his ragged cloak was made of twists of cloth of many colors, blue and grey and purple, red and gold and green, magenta and vermilion and cerulean, all faded by the sun. When the Tattered Prince was three-and-twenty, as Dick Straw told the story, the magisters of Pentos had chosen him to be their new prince, hours after beheading their old prince. Instead he'd buckled on a sword, mounted his favorite horse, and fled to the Disputed Lands, never to return. He had ridden with the Second Sons, the Iron Shields, and the Maiden's Men, then joined with five brothers-in-arms to form the Windblown. Of those six founders, only he survived.

[...]

An old man he was, past sixty, yet he still sat straight and tall in the high saddle, and his voice was strong enough to carry to every corner of the field. 

There are old sellswords and bold sellswords, but no old bold sellswords. - Daenerys V, ASOS

The Tattered Prince was selected to be Prince of Pentos, and refused. It's giving Jon Snow.

For those thinking that might also be hinting at a volunteered exile, we'll later learn the Tattered Prince does want Pentos. So no, I don't think so.

"What I want," said the Tattered Prince, "is Pentos." - The Spurned Suitor, ADWD

+.+.+

But Gerris had the right of it; he and Arch were here to protect Quentyn, and that meant keeping him by the big man's side. "Arch is the best fighter of the three of us," Drinkwater had pointed out, "but only you can hope to wed the dragon queen."

Wed her or fight her; either way, I will face her soon. 

Boy, you don't know how right you are.

+.+.+

The more Quentyn heard of Daenerys Targaryen, the more he feared that meeting. 

[...]

And Books, the clever Volantene swordsman who always seemed to have his nose poked in some crumbly scroll, thought the dragon queen both murderous and mad. "Her khal killed her brother to make her queen. Then she killed her khal to make herself khaleesi. She practices blood sacrifice, lies as easily as she breathes, turns against her own on a whim. She's broken truces, tortured envoys … her father was mad too. It runs in the blood."

And the best lies contain within them nuggets of truth, enough to give a listener pause. - Tyrion III, ACOK

+.+.+

It runs in the blood. King Aerys II had been mad, all of Westeros knew that. He had exiled two of his Hands and burned a third. If Daenerys is as murderous as her father, must I still marry her? Prince Doran had never spoken of that possibility.

That's the problem with marriage pacts, you might get a Viserys or Daenerys.

He had exiled two of his Hands and burned a third.

I never considered this might be foreshadowing. She exiles Jorah.

+.+.+

Frog would be glad to put Astapor behind him. The Red City was the closest thing to hell he ever hoped to know. The Yunkai'i had sealed the broken gates to keep the dead and dying inside the city, but the sights that he had seen riding down those red brick streets would haunt Quentyn Martell forever. A river choked with corpses. The priestess in her torn robes, impaled upon a stake and attended by a cloud of glistening green flies. Dying men staggering through the streets, bloody and befouled. Children fighting over half-cooked puppies. The last free king of Astapor, screaming naked in the pit as he was set on by a score of starving dogs. And fires, fires everywhere. He could close his eyes and see them still: flames whirling from brick pyramids larger than any castle he had ever seen, plumes of greasy smoke coiling upward like great black snakes.

Good lord.

"What's the point of Quentyn Martell's POV?" This. This is the point. POVs in Slaver's Bay that aren't Daenerys.

+.+.+

When the wind blew from the south, the air smelled of smoke even here, three miles from the city. Behind its crumbling red brick walls, Astapor was still asmolder, though by now most of the great fires had burned out. Ashes floated lazy on the breeze like fat grey snowflakes.

+.+.+

The Yunkai'i did not lack for commanders. An old hero named Yurkhaz zo Yunzak had the supreme command, though the men of the Windblown glimpsed him only at a distance, coming and going in a palanquin so huge it required forty slaves to carry it.

They could not help but see his underlings, however. The Yunkish lordlings scuttled everywhere, like roaches. Half of them seemed to be named Ghazdan, Grazdan, Mazdhan, or Ghaznak; telling one Ghiscari name from another was an art few of the Windblown had mastered, so they gave them mocking styles of their own devising.

Ha ha, funny author. Almost as funny as introducing three new characters, then changing their names the next chapter.

Yurkhaz zo Yunzak will be an important character, but I don't remember enough to have an opinion of him.

+.+.+

Foremost amongst them was the Yellow Whale, an obscenely fat man who always wore yellow silk tokars with golden fringes. Too heavy even to stand unassisted, he could not hold his water, so he always smelled of piss, a stench so sharp that even heavy perfumes could not conceal it. But he was said to be the richest man in Yunkai, and he had a passion for grotesques; his slaves included a boy with the legs and hooves of a goat, a bearded woman, a two-headed monster from Mantarys, and a hermaphrodite who warmed his bed at night. "Cock and cunny both," Dick Straw told them. "The Whale used to own a giant too, liked to watch him fuck his slave girls. Then he died. I hear the Whale'd give a sack o' gold for a new one."

Guess who buys Tyrion in a slave market.

Is every character morbidly obese in this book? He's probably supposed to remind me of Illyrio. Couldn't tell you why.

+.+.+

Then there was the Girl General, who rode about on a white horse with a red mane and commanded a hundred strapping slave soldiers that she had bred and trained herself, all of them young, lean, rippling with muscle, and naked but for breechclouts, yellow cloaks, and long bronze shields with erotic inlays. Their mistress could not have been more than sixteen and fancied herself Yunkai's own Daenerys Targaryen.

Is the horse named Drogal? Does she call her slaves freedmen?

+.+.+

The Little Pigeon was not quite a dwarf, but he might have passed for one in a bad light. Yet he strutted about as if he were a giant, with his plump little legs spread wide and his plump little chest puffed out. His soldiers were the tallest that any of the Windblown had ever seen; the shortest stood seven feet tall, the tallest close to eight. All were long-faced and long-legged, and the stilts built into the legs of their ornate armor made them longer still. Pink-enameled scales covered their torsos; on their heads were perched elongated helms complete with pointed steel beaks and crests of bobbing pink feathers. Each man wore a long curved sword upon his hip, and each clasped a spear as tall as he was, with a leaf-shaped blade at either end.

"The Little Pigeon breeds them," Dick Straw informed them. "He buys tall slaves from all over the world, mates the men to the women, and keeps their tallest offspring for the Herons. One day he hopes to be able to dispense with the stilts."

The giant dwarf is a nod to Tyrion, but I don't know what the hell the rest of it means.

+.+.+

"Some say that herons are majestic," said Old Bill Bone.

"If your king eats frogs while standing on one leg."

"Herons are craven," the big man put in. "One time me and Drink and Cletus were hunting, and we came on these herons wading in the shallows, feasting on tadpoles and small fish. They made a pretty sight, aye, but then a hawk passed overhead, and they all took to the wing like they'd seen a dragon. Kicked up so much wind it blew me off my horse, but Cletus nocked an arrow to his string and brought one down. Tasted like duck, but not so greasy."

We've got an arrow taking down a massive bird, but it's the hawk that's the dragon in this scenario.

Herons fleeing once they see a dragon is probably a sign of things to come.

+.+.+

The last time the slave soldiers of Yunkai'i had faced the dragon queen's Unsullied, they broke and ran. The Clanker Lords had devised a stratagem to prevent that; they chained their troops together in groups of ten, wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle. "None of the poor bastards can run unless they all run," Dick Straw explained, laughing. "And if they do all run, they won't run very fast."

Something to keep in mind when Daenerys returns to Meereen in TWOW, and decimates the Yunkish slave army.

Game of Thrones didn't do a great job at conveying those were slaves she was burning.

+.+.+

"A pack of stinking yellow fools," Beans complained. "They still ain't managed to puzzle out why the Stormcrows and the Second Sons went over to the dragon queen."

"For gold, they believe," said Books. "Why do you think they're paying us so well?"

"Gold is sweet, but life is sweeter," said Beans. "We were dancing with cripples at Astapor. Do you want to face real Unsullied with that lot on your side?"

Daenerys better not lose battles in Westeros.

+.+.+

A real fight, thought Frog. The words stuck in his craw. The fight beneath the walls of Astapor had seemed real enough to him, though he knew the sellswords felt otherwise. "That was butchery, not battle," the warrior bard Denzo D'han had been heard to declare afterward. 

[...]

Dead or alive, the Butcher King still took the Wise Masters unawares. The Yunkishmen were still running about in fluttering tokars trying to get their half-trained slave soldiers into some semblance of order as Unsullied spears came crashing through their siege lines. If not for their allies and their despised hirelings they might well have been overwhelmed, but the Windblown and the Company of the Cat were ahorse in minutes and came thundering down on the Astapori flanks even as a legion from New Ghis pushed through the Yunkish camp from the other side and met the Unsullied spear to spear and shield to shield.

A whole chapter dedicated to telling me Yunkai doesn't have a hope in hell.

+.+.+

The rest was butchery, but this time it was the Butcher King on the wrong end of the cleaver. Caggo was the one who finally cut him down, fighting through the king's protectors on his monstrous warhorse and opening Cleon the Great from shoulder to hip with one blow of his curved Valyrian arakh. Frog did not see it, but those who did claimed Cleon's copper armor rent like silk, and from within came an awful stench and a hundred wriggling grave worms. Cleon had been dead after all. The desperate Astapori had pulled him from his tomb, clapped him into armor, and tied him onto a horse in hopes of giving heart to their Unsullied.

Dead Cleon's fall wrote an end to that. The new Unsullied threw down their spears and shields and ran, only to find the gates of Astapor shut behind them.

What the hell?

I'm instantly reminded of Roose Bolton's decoy, but I doubt he'll be a dead guy.

+.+.+

Yet that was no real fight, he thought. The real fight will be on us soon, and we must be away before it comes, or we'll find ourselves fighting on the wrong side.

[...]

Those were hardships to be endured, the stuff of all adventures.

But what must come next was plain betrayal. The Yunkai'i had brought them from Old Volantis to fight for the Yellow City, but now the Dornishmen meant to turn their cloaks and go over to the other side. That meant abandoning their new brothers-in-arms as well. The Windblown were not the sort of companions Quentyn would have chosen, but he had crossed the sea with them, shared their meat and mead, fought beside them, traded tales with those few whose talk he understood. 

Aww, he's made wildling friends.

Nice for the sellswords, but I wish more Yunkai were humanized. We're getting nothing but evil one-dimensional caricatures right now.

Oops, sorry, am I being a slavery apologist again?

+.+.+

It was the Tattered Prince himself who did the speaking. "Orders have come down from Yurkhaz," he said. "What Astapori still survive have come creeping from their hidey-holes, it seems. There's nothing left in Astapor but corpses, so they're pouring out into the countryside, hundreds of them, maybe thousands, all starved and sick. The Yunkai'i don't want them near their Yellow City. We've been commanded to hunt them down and turn them, drive them back to Astapor or north to Meereen. If the dragon queen wants to take them in, she's welcome to them. Half of them have the bloody flux, and even the healthy ones are mouths to feed."

And it begins.

Just when she thinks Astapor is behind her, someone rides in on a pale mare.

+.+.+

"A fair question. You're to ride east, deep into the hills, then swing wide about Yunkai, making for Meereen. Should you come on any Astapori, drive them north or kill them … but know that is not the purpose of your mission. Beyond the Yellow City, you're like to come up against the dragon queen's patrols. Second Sons or Stormcrows. Either will serve. Go over to them."

"Go over to them?" said the bastard knight, Ser Orson Stone. "You'd have us turn our cloaks?"

"I would," said the Tattered Prince.

Quentyn Martell almost laughed aloud. The gods are mad.

Now he doesn't have to defect! This is like the only good thing to ever happen to Quentyn Martell.

+.+.+

Hugh Hungerford frowned. "You think Queen Daenerys will take us in …"

"I do."

"… but if she does, what then? Are we spies? Assassins? Envoys? Are you thinking to change sides?"

[...]

"Let us be frank," said Denzo D'han, the warrior bard. "The Yunkai'i do not inspire confidence. Whatever the outcome of this war, the Windblown should share in the spoils of victory. Our prince is wise to keep all roads open."

Hedging his bets. Now we know how he made it to sixty.

I'm a little cloudy on the details, but I believe Daenerys doesn't take the Windblown sellswords in at first, because she doesn't trust them. Then Barristan Selmy is put in charge, and agrees to do business. Is that correct?

More relying on the wrong people basically.

+.+.+

"Every one of you has ample reason for wanting to abandon me. And Daenerys Targaryen knows that sellswords are a fickle lot. Her own Second Sons and Stormcrows took Yunkish gold but did not hesitate to join her when the tide of battle began to flow her way."

It only now occurred to me that Taena Merryweather and Daario Naharis might be playing the same role in each queen's story. Other than the sexual attraction, I mean.

Cersei knows Taena is playing both sides, but seems to forget that as the story develops. Daenerys knows she shouldn't trust sellswords, but. . .

+.+.+

The three Dornishmen were silent as they left the command tent. Twenty riders, all speaking the Common Tongue, thought Quentyn. Whispering has just gotten a deal more dangerous.

The big man slapped him hard across the back. "So. This is sweet, Frog. A dragon hunt."

A dragon hunt?

Final thoughts:

That was one of the hardest chapters to read in the entire series. Not gruesome, I mean I didn't understand anything.

-> return to menu <-

[madefate]

Blitzo is about ten seconds away from throwing the entire thing away and saying fuck it. The woven netting in his hands is thick and unwieldy, the fiber rough under his hands and refuses to take being poked with a needle or rewrapped with new, slightly less shitty rope. The only thing stopping him, really, is the fact that he knows that if he does, he'll just wind up coming back to it in a half an hour and he'll waste more of his damn day.

That, and the fact that if he doesn't repair the fuckin' safety net, no one will, and he's not letting Barbie do another performance with the thing looking like it'll give out at any second.

So, he just takes a moment to put the net down on his lap and wrap his relatively better fingers around his throbbing wrist, blinking the sun out of his good eye. It's - infuriating. He should be better than this by now. It's been, like, a fucking year and the scars and fractures in his wrist still flare up at the worst goddamn moments. At least he's good at finding out of the way places to hole up - sprawled on the ground behind one of the out of use tents, the sounds of the fairground distant enough that he has some privacy.

Or, had some privacy.

He's just picking up the netting again, fumbling with the stupid needle and prying it out of his stupid finger when a shadow falls across him, and his mouth is running before he even looks up. ❝ Whatever you want, it's not urgent. The show doesn't start 'til six so if you need something, you can shove it until I'm done - with - ... ❞

That is - not who he's expecting. Blitzo blinks a few times; it's not Fizz and it's not Barbie, and it sure as fuck isn't Cash. It isn't even one of the crew members. No - for a few, silent seconds, Blitzo just ... processes the out of place looking but achingly and eerily familiar face, until -

❝ Wh - Stolas ? ❞

// @helldustedstories &. :')

[marvelmusing]

Back with a thought about In Another Life bc I can't get it out of my head...

What if the books are already Reader inserts with Alina? Like... it's a sort of fairy tale version of the reality? A much darker reality 😱

Since I've seen the show and found out about the plot and the ending of the books the thought of this story being in the wrong genre bothered me so much. I think it should be a fantasy war story, gritty and dark and maybe even horror laced into it. YA is just making it feel a bit cheap for me. What could have been if the focus is not on the love triangle and Mary Sue Alina?

The war, the hunting of Grisha, the racism, the genocide, the scheming and plotting to get to power. Living for hundreds of years just to see these and you don't expect him to be desperate enough and do anything to stop it? - this is not YA material

Sorry about this ranting here 🙈

Do not be sorry about ranting, and especially not about shadow and bone’s potential as a dark fantasy (or even just an adult fantasy)

I have so many thoughts about this

Alina should be mid twenties. She should have a good position as a senior cartographer. (Because I hated reading how Alina wasn’t even that good of a mapmaker, like please give her a smidge of self esteem and some talent besides her hidden Grisha power).

A lot of her work is done in Os Alta, or maybe even Poliznaya. Maybe she’s seen the Darkling a few times before. She still hears the frightening stories and rumours about him, but she doesn’t internalise them and believe them as fact. But she’s still a little scared of him.

Maybe at the orphanage, they told the children stories about a sun summoner who would save Ravka. Ever since she left their care at sixteen, Alina hasn’t believed in the saints or a sun summoner.

But then gets assigned to cross the fold with a few other cartographers. People that she cares about. The volcra attack, and she has to watch the only family she’s ever had, the one she’s made for herself, be torn to pieces by horrific monsters. A volcra grabs her, and the light comes out.

The tent scene I wouldn’t change too much. Alina would be more bewildered than in denial. I’d keep the anticipation, and the show of the Darkling’s power, the knife and the calling of her power.

She’d be less defensive towards Ivan and Fedoyr during the journey to Os Alta. I’d keep the Drüskelle attack, and the Darkling using the cut to save her. Later, Grisha would share stories of Drüskelle around the campfire, tales of pain and loss.

To be honest, in the books there wasn’t actually that much romance between the Darkling and Alina. Whenever she describes what she feels about him, it just sounds like his amplification. And I don’t think the Darkling even expected to fall for her either and didn’t know what to do with himself when he did.

So I’d keep the romance elements from the show: the horse riding, the talking about the fold, the Darkling telling her about the people he’s lost and how alone he is.

Random side note: I think writing the book in third person would have been interesting as well (we wouldn’t be limited to Alina’s point of view)

For the rest of the story I have two main ideas.

Either:

Alina grows into her power, and sees that taking down the fold won’t fix things. She claims the amplifiers herself, and joins the Darkling’s secret band of followers who are plotting to take down the monarchy and win the wars. Insert politics and schemes here. The Darkling and Alina have a pull to one another that they don’t acknowledge for the sake of their plans.

The Darkling is the third amplifier that Alina needs. Alina refuses to kill him, because she’s in love with him, even as he pleads with her to take his life for the sake of Ravka and Grisha. Maybe she does it, and the book ends with his funeral like in Ruin and Rising. Maybe she brings him back using merzost and that’s her final action that makes her villain arc complete.

Or:

Alina somehow finds out that he’s the Black Heretic, and decides to confront him about it. The Darkling then commits to his villain role (sorry Aleksander but you could have been a lot more evil). He threatens Alina’s friends (her new Grisha friends, and the cartographers), and she’s forced to pretend to the whole world that her and the Darkling are going to destroy the fold. Outwardly they look almost like a couple, but secretly she despises him. They argue in private and there’s lots of tension.

Alina figures out that she needs to kill the Darkling to claim his power. There’s some internal conflict, because she hates him so much, he’s threatened her friends and manipulated her, but with all the pretending between them she’s uncertain of her feelings. She’s helped him do awful things, does that make her an awful person? Is he the only one who can truly understand her?

Maybe she kills him and takes his power - either disappearing once the fold is destroyed so that she can’t hurt anyone else or she becomes a tyrant worse than him.

Maybe she doesn’t kill him, instead they take the crown by force and rule together.

To be honest I’m leaning more towards the second plot idea

-

Now I’m going to say sorry for ranting. I went a little overboard with this, but I think the Grishaverse had so much potential in a different genre

Also, the Grishaverse has a lot of similarities to another book series called The Black Magician trilogy by Trudi Canavan which I thought was really good and I think some of the elements of that series would have worked well in the Grishaverse (although I haven’t read it in a while) - I’ve also just realised that was the first fandom I ever wrote fanfiction for

[thiagosrussianlitblog]

Five Interesting Russian Nonfiction Books

Natasha's Dance: A Cultural History of Russia - History on a grand scale--an enchanting masterpiece that explores the making of one of the world's most vibrant civilizations. A People's Tragedy, wrote Eric Hobsbawm, did "more to help us understand the Russian Revolution than any other book I know." Now, in Natasha's Dance, internationally renowned historian Orlando Figes does the same for Russian culture, summoning the myriad elements that formed a nation and held it together. (GoodReads)

Romanov Autumn: Stories from the Last Century of Imperial Russia - The Romanov dynasty ruled Russia for a little over 300 years. The story of the dynasty's dramatic end has exerted a lasting fascination. This book seeks to widen the picture, looking at the lives of members of the family during the last century of imperial rule, and setting this into the context of the grand palaces in which they lived. It was a time of contrasts, a period in which the Tsars reached the peak of their wealth, prestige and power, yet also faced the growth of forces which would destroy them. In 1817, 100 years before the Revolution, the first Nicholas and Alexander were married in the Winter Palace. This book tells their story, and the stories of their successors, Alexander II, Alexander III and Nicholas II, each trying to steer their own course. It also looks at the lives of their sisters and brothers, and other members of the large Russian royal family, detailing their daily lives. (GoodReads)

Tent Life in Siberia: An Incredible Account of Siberian Adventure, Travel, and Survival - In the 1860s, the Russo-American Telegraph Company set out to telegraphically connect the United States and Europe using lines running through the Bering Straits and Siberia. The failed expedition marked one of the first explorations of the vast Siberian wilderness, and George Kennan’s tale of a seemingly endless land filled with wildlife and nomadic tribes is as entertaining today as it was 140 years ago. With biting humor and poignant insight, Kennan details his years fighting to survive a doomed mission. He depicts the quiet loneliness of the desolate landscape, the eerie glow of the sun at midnight, and the refusal to give in to one of the harshest places man has ever tried to conquer. His book is a testament to our planet’s beauty and danger, as well as to the tireless will of the human spirit. (GoodReads)

Moscow Nights: The Van Cliburn Story-How One Man and His Piano Transformed the Cold War - Gripping narrative nonfiction that tells the dramatic story of a remarkable young Texan pianist, Van Cliburn, who played his way through the wall of fear built by the Cold War, won the hearts of the American and Russian people, and eased tensions between two superpowers on the brink of nuclear war. In 1958, an unheralded twenty-three-year-old piano prodigy from Texas named Van Cliburn traveled to Moscow to compete in the First International Tchaikovsky Competition. The Soviets had no intention of bestowing their coveted prize on an unknown American; a Russian pianist had already been chosen to win. Yet when the gangly Texan with the shy grin began to play, he instantly captivated an entire nation. The Soviet people were charmed by Van Cliburn’s extraordinary talent and fresh-faced innocence, but it was his palpable love for the music that earned their devotion; for many, he played more like a Russian than their own musicians. As enraptured crowds mobbed Cliburn’s performances, pressure mounted to award him the competition prize. "Is he the best?" Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev demanded of the judges. "In that case . . . give him the prize!" Adored by millions in the USSR, Cliburn returned to a thunderous hero’s welcome in the USA and became, for a time, an ambassador of hope for two dangerously hostile superpowers. In this thrilling, impeccably researched account, Nigel Cliff recreates the drama and tension of the Cold War era, and brings into focus the gifted musician and deeply compelling figure whose music would temporarily bridge the divide between two dangerously hostile powers. (GoodReads)

On a warm July evening in 1985, a middle-aged man stood on the pavement of a busy avenue in the heart of Moscow, holding a plastic carrier bag. In his grey suit and tie, he looked like any other Soviet citizen. The bag alone was mildly conspicuous, printed with the red logo of Safeway, the British supermarket. The man was a spy for MI6. A senior KGB officer, for more than a decade he had supplied his British spymasters with a stream of priceless secrets from deep within the Soviet intelligence machine. No spy had done more to damage the KGB. The Safeway bag was a signal: to activate his escape plan to be smuggled out of Soviet Russia. So began one of the boldest and most extraordinary episodes in the history of spying. Ben Macintyre reveals a tale of espionage, betrayal and raw courage that changed the course of the Cold War forever... (GoodReads)

[myimaginedcorner]

A TUMBLR STORY: TORN PAGE (p.14)

PREVIOUS RESULT: Near the big lake.

Laefen was who chose the place. He said water always is a good resource to have, that lakes are peaceful havens where all the beasts gather in harmony. No wolf attacks a deer that’s drinking at a lake; no pixie will play tricks on travellers thirsty and tired. It’s one of those rare laws that Nature has imposed on all her children, with few exceptions being outcasts to her rightful rule. Mermaids, monsters, ghosts – those are an evil Nature cannot control, born from hatred and from tragedy.

Those were his words, and with Hibiscus backing them, you trusted. You rode past the solitary wall, away from the majestic sanctuary that had given you abode and hearth for many years, long and fruitful. You bestowed but a quick glance to the solitary mountains to your right, where creatures of wide wings circled the peaks, their species hidden by the distance. You moved around the gloomy forest; to your left, you felt Hibiscus’ quiet pain, phantom tears washing her heart in sight of woods so sad, so twisted.

“It will grow back,” you pointed out, in sympathy to her grief for a creation failed and broken. You knew the feeling from your younger days, that itching ache when your achievements crumble. “Deeper into its thicket, there’s a new settlement being built, a research town for elven biologists. In time, this place will become even bigger than before.”

The satyr heard you; you made sure to speak loud enough for her to listen. Preceded by a silence full of self-reflection, there was a silent ‘thank you’. You smiled, faintly. Building up a courteous relationship with your fellow teammates was a gratifying task.

You stopped once blue swallowed the landscape up to the horizon, and your mount’s hooves got washed by waves that spilled onto the shore. Saddles off, and runes placed to create a temporary barrier, you left the loyal animals to have a deserved rest, taking care of your own tents and fire.

“Strange.”

The roof of what would be your dwelling for tonight raised up to mimic heavy crowns of foliage; your gaze, freed of the tiresome burden that’s setting up under the last rays of sun, moved to the man that swore to be your sword and shield, now crouched next to the threshold of the realms of water.

“What is it?” you asked him. To you, this place was adverse and alien; to him, it was his second home.

“It’s the water.”

Another voice answered, not elven. Turning around, you saw M walk to where you stood, hands behind their back, their deep, trapping gaze resembling honey ready to capture naïve flies. Reciprocating your inquisitive inspection, they smiled.  

“Lakes should not have waves so prominent.”

Their statement came in simple phrasing, indifferent to the uniqueness of their observation. You felt alone while struck by realisation, and solitary curiosity is what imbued you as you looked at Laefen once again. Indeed, no waves should be there, but there were. And yet, instead of awe, you saw insouciance, worry, and exhaustion.

“Better to keep watch tonight,” was the conclusion reached by the rogue when he re-joined you back where the bonfire danced in a valse of flames.

“Something wrong, Laefen?” finishing her ration, Amani watched the elf give her a little shrug.

“Just a hunch. Better to be safe than sorry.”

You started to suspect this was his most used expression.

Sunset was gone, and with it, the need to stay awake. Biding farewell to everyone, you approached your tent, refusing, nonetheless, to enter before you saw Ashna in front of theirs. You were close by, a fact that made you happy. You knew they would be by your side if something was to go wrong.

Your gazes met. You found yourself in deep stupefaction, admiring every single sparkle that roamed within their intense stare. Like a celestial mantle, stars lived within their eyes, their own, soft light illuminating in your starless heart a new path to follow, one you ignored for long enough. Those guiding stars, they invited you to sail through endless waters into an ocean to drown, dragged to the depths of your emotions. Dangerous, that’s how you described them every single time. Dangerous in how beautiful they were.

“Sleep well,” they whispered you, and you confused their whisper with a quiet purr; at least, that’s what your ears wanted it to be.

“You too,” you answered, feeling how the string that kept you standing there gets pulled off your hands. You could have made the conversation slightly longer – there’s always something wise to say and to discuss with someone on whose knowledge there’s no doubt. You failed to find the words, however; again, you failed to say out loud the thoughts you had in mind.

They noticed your embarrassing confusion. They realised the shyness that struck your heart, that pathetic feeling that has great paralysing power over one’s physical body. A fascinating, yet humiliating sight…

However, they didn’t mock you, of course not; to them, things like emotions were oddly gripping, perhaps, in link to their love for the exploration of the mind. Or perhaps, it was you, who had them captivated; your heart skipped a beat at the thought of that.

Their hands took yours, and, before you had the time to answer, a soft, brief kiss caressed your cheek with its burning touch. You felt fire burst through your lungs, its heat immediately getting veins to rage in passionate blazes. Your eyes had sparkles dancing in their pupils.

Such a reaction made them laugh.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” they said, this time, definitely purring. Then, they quickly left your side, and their figure disappeared behind thick cloth before you saw how their ears started shivering in excitement.

You couldn’t sleep, that night. That night, all what was on your mind was Ashna, and that sweet, soft kiss. A futile, cyclical idea without an end or goal, that was forbidding you from having your deserved recovery after a tiring day. Your health was at stake, and yet, all what you thought of was still them, and that small kiss. That silly, ephemeral kiss. How happy had it made you.