#All of you put your eerie black robes and armour on or so help me

[y-rhywbeth2]

Hey! Love your lore posts! Was wondering if you knew whether there was any symbolism attached to Banites covering their eyes? Is it simply to shield their identities or is it something to do with the Church? (perhaps a "see no evil" 🙈 type deal?)

I've never seen anything about them covering their eyes in lore (which isn't the same as it not existing, but if it does I haven't seen it). If it's about their in-game design then it's just a stylistic thing, not a lore thing.

Religious garb for the Bhaalists has them hiding their faces behind veils, and the Myrkulites behind skull masks and layers of corpse ash taken from the crematoriums. Both in black robes with deep hoods to further obscure themselves. Banites tend to *show* their faces (ritual facial tattooing (I think Gortash actually has concept art with facial tattoos?), gemstones worn on the forehead to denote high rank, that kind of thing) the closest to obscuring any of their face that I remember is wearing hoods at the regular evil meetings, and the fact that, due to the military nature of Bane's Church, armour has been a big part of the uniforms so some might have masks/visors on their fancy black spiky helmets?

Out of ceremonial garb, they must wear something black (at least one article of clothing minimum) and if possible a sash-belt in red with the Black Fist on it. Also two holy symbols (one on the neck, tucked in out of sight if needs be, one in the heel of their boot). No eye covering there.

'See no evil' would be out of character for Bane. He wants open tyranny and very much wants you to look at that evil. Dressing to honour your faith in Bane but hiding your identity feels incorrect in a way I can't articulate at 1 in the morning. But like Gortash standing in public with the holy symbol practically wearing a sign that says 'I worship Bane': their faith is legal and they're not the most subtle in dress regardless, so protecting your identity is ehh.

I'd go for obscuring your face for intimidation as an explanation, personally.

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

Introductions (AU; the government are introduced to the Emperor’s right hand man)

Emperor Palpatine sat at the helm of the table, his expensive ornate satin cloak pulled up to cover his deformed features. He had made a rare exception to the never appearing in public rule, if only to summon his little group of closely affiliated followers for a less than chummy supper. The Coruscant sun had already begun to set, its pinkish rays disappearing behind the skyscrapers visible from the large single viewport of the Emperor’s dining hall. Two months had passed since the fall of the Republic. Two months since the war came to an end, two months since the Jedi were declared traitors and executed en masse. Two months since Palpatine declared himself dictator, since his regulations had begun being pushed onto all known systems. Two months, and Governor Tarkin had thought himself to be lucky with his role.

A few faces, he recognized. Former admiral Wullf Yularen was a welcome addition despite being a bit below the required rank, fighting the just fight against outliers and naysayers. Orn Free Taa was a more unfortunate case (he had likely invited himself by flattery and empty promises), while Vizier Mas Amedda was an obvious presence. Sate Pestage, Janus Greejatus, Ars Dangor, Kren Blista-Vanee and Verge’s smug faces had Tarkin fighting the urge to roll his eyes at their insipid subservience. Artist Eveli Charis was, Tarkin figured, the most surprising member of the meeting - serving as the only female face of the small crowd. Her aside, and finance minister Gagh rounded off the gathering. 

These people were - each in different ways - the most influential people of the new Empire.

“I have not gathered you simply for the sake of sharing a dinner in the wake of our victory. Indeed, I have been wishing to relay to you my plans for the grand future of our Galaxy,” said Palpatine suddenly, his voice gravelly and his gnarly hands reminiscent of claws where they rested against the table cloth.

Tarkin thought he could see a pair of golden eyes gleaming beneath the shrouded darkness of Palpatine’s hood, but chalked it up to a trick of the light. Instead, he focused on the hand stitched embroidery of the Emperor’s burgundy robes. The man had always had an affinity for fancy dress.

“It is clear that you shall provide eyes and ears for me, and I trust you to fulfill your duties towards the Empire, and subsequently to me. However, I’m afraid I must offer you a small surprise.”

“Another, Your Highness?” Tarkin said with an amused smile, and he couldn’t help but feel triumphant when Palpatine let out a pleased cackle in response.

“I’m afraid so, Governor. Surely, you shall all take this little revelation in stride. Are we not in dire need of powerful allies?” he responded, gesturing with one clawed hand towards the Vizier who stood poised by the doorway.

On each side of the hydraulic sliding doors themselves, a royal guard clad in crimson stood at a patient salute. The Emperor’s personal bodyguards, their faces cloaked and hidden from view much like Palpatine himself. Their presence was an odd mixture of reassuring and oppressive, Tarkin had decided. But he saw no reason to fear them, given his own standing with the Emperor. If anything, he benefited from their presence as protectors.

“Will you reveal to us this secret, Your Highness?” asked Charis, her expression curious and incredulous at once.

“My child, have you not been taught the virtue of patience?” was Palpatine’s response; a thinly veiled insult that put her in her place, as she shrank back in shame and lowered her head in an obedient bow.

“Forgive me my insolence, Your Highness,” she offered, apologetic and the Emperor simply shrugged her words off.

“Think nothing of it. You are correct, it appears to me that I have unfairly omitted mentioning this to either of you. Alas, it is time I remedy this arrogance.”

Tarkin noted how the Emperor turned his head briefly, giving the Vizier a barely perceptible nod and the man stepped back. On cue, the guards uncrossed their electro-staffs and parted to the sides. Confusion seemed to overtake most of the party’s faces, as the doorway slid open with ease - only to reveal a man. Clad in black armour with red and silver accents; broad shouldered, tall and visibly disdainful towards his company. He stalked wordlessly up to Palpatine’s right hand side, where he lingered - gloved hands folded in front of his hips, legs wide apart. His eyes were glowing, an amber shade to their irises, a bloodshot sclera. The man’s face was scarred, rugged; and the only visible emotions seemed to be anger and resentment. One single dark blonde curl fell over his creased forehead.

But that wasn’t the oddity. Someone in the company - Tarkin suspected it to be Yularen, judging by the tone - gasped.

Indeed, it was difficult not to recognize the young man by the Emperor's side - the Emperor, whose features had twisted into a toothy grin. The man said nothing, taller than Tarkin remembered him. Something warped and cruel and twisted distorting his rather handsome features into something unrecognizable, all charm vanquished. He was pale, peering in distaste down at the dining party as if they were beneath him. It didn’t sit right with Tarkin, given that they all knew who he was and what his past profession up until about two months ago would have been.

Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker had joined them for supper.

“May I introduce to you Lord Vader,” said Palpatine, breaking the eerie silence. “Some of you may believe you are familiar with this man. I assure you, you are mistaken. The man whom you may recall is long gone. Lord Vader has seen the error of his ways, and accepted the Jedi traitors for what they are. He came to my aid during the assassination attempt ordered by master Windu.”

Tarkin listened closely, but he was not the only one who seemed unable to tear his gaze from Skywalk-- Vader’s stern features. He looked so much older than his age, as if he had seen a million lifetimes of suffering pass him by. His hollow eyes seemed haunted, but their inherent glow was more reminiscent of a predator locked in a cage. Simply biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce. Still, he made no move and did not utter a single word.

“Lord Vader has turned out to be, much like you, one of my most trusted advisors. He is my right hand man, and while I have neglected to provide him with an official rank - he outranks every single one of you. It is my belief that only he has the means to do what needs to be done,” the Emperor continued.

Yularen seemed to shift uneasily in his seat, his eyes wide and a blunt disbelief etched into his aging features.

“You wish to speak, Colonel?”

Tarkin heard himself say; wondering if they were the only ones present - apart from the Emperor himself - who had maintained some sort of personal relationship to the man Palpatine had renamed and retooled so viciously.

“No, Governor. I--” he began, but was immediately cut off by Palpatine.

“You are wondering how the man you knew as a Jedi could turn on his own kind, is that not so? You are surprised to see that his loyalty towards the Empire could outweigh his loyalty towards his kin. Am I correct, Colonel?”

Yularen seemed to pause a bit longer than required, but gave a curt nod as he found the voice to speak up.

“Yes, Your Highness. I am merely… surprised, as you put it,” he said as a manner of surrender.

“It is understandable that you would be shocked. Should you like to speak of your own decision, Lord Vader?” the Emperor drawled, his voice menacing and sing-songy at once as he gestured to offer Vader the opportunity to speak.

“No,” the young man simply said, standing so still that his lips barely even seemed to be moving; his gleaming eyes scanning each and every person present before it landed on Tarkin - the only man who’s amusement outweighed the concerns. “I believe my actions will speak for themselves, as will your evident trust in me, my master.”

The voice was a bit deeper and gruffer than Tarkin recalled it - but that could be maturity - but its monotone quality was new. Vader spoke as if the words held no meaning to him, as if whatever he said was pointless and a waste of breath. As if his words were unbefitting of anyone but the Emperor. Yet, at the same time, he was matter of fact and to the point. A quality Tarkin had enjoyed in the past, and one he presumed Yularen had as well.

“Oh, I implore you to amuse this unspoken inquiry, Lord Vader,” Palpatine pressed, and as much as it came off as if being in good faith, it was an obvious demand no loyal servant could ignore.

“As you wish, my master,” Vader simply obeyed, his burning eyes still holding Tarkin’s in a cold, disgruntled stare. “I was the single man to commandeer the troops as they marched on the Jedi temple. I surveyed the situation, and I made sure not a single soul present escaped their fate. I am prepared to do whatever it takes to serve my Emperor, and I will not be frowned upon by the likes of you.”

The last word was delivered with such pure, unbridled loathing that it seemed to lower the temperature of the room by several degrees by proxy of mere intent. Vader nonchalantly folded his arms over his chest, lips drawn into a thin line and the perpetual scowl of his forehead had already begun to carve out fine lines in their wake. Palpatine was still sneering, grimy teeth bared in a ferocious grin.

“As you can see, Lord Vader’s conviction is admirable and undeniable. He has proved himself worthy of my trust, and so, I expect you to follow my example accordingly. I expect you to show him the reverence he requires,” the Emperor concluded, that odd glow to Vader’s eyes mirrored by his as he briefly peered up from beneath his hood - this time, it could be no trick of the light.

“I trust your infallible judgment, Your Highness,” Tarkin finally said, being the first to accept the new norm. “I may not be completely assured of Lord Vader’s motives as of yet, but he shall gain my respect when he has proved himself worthy of it.”

“My friend, you need not fear. However, I understand your concerns, and I have no doubt that you will come around quite soon,” said Palpatine, and while there was malice to the tone, he was also unusually honest and benevolent.

Tarkin suspected that was entirely on him, and their long history as colleagues and friends. He nodded, glancing over at Vader whose eyes regarded him still. Their gaze was arduous, and heavy, and vile - but that seemed to be their natural state, rather than any personal vendetta.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” was Tarkin’s only reply, and he shot a defiant glare back at Vader. “You are much too gracious.”

“Will you cease your repulsive display?” Vader snapped, and while Tarkin at first almost expected Palpatine to defend him; he found that the Emperor seemed humored enough by the obvious insult to allow the man to finish his trail of thought. “The Emperor will offer you no favours based on your fawning. You embarrass yourself, Governor.”

“Now, now, Lord Vader. I believe such childish bickering belongs elsewhere,” he finally shushed, as Vader relented like an obedient school boy fearing punishment. “However, I must agree. It would serve you well to evolve your attempts at flattery into a less… tacky matter.”

That triggered a reaction from Vader, as one corner of his lips twitched briefly upwards in a mocking, superior half smirk. He said nothing, but the triumph in those golden eyes spoke for itself.

“Now, with this out of the way, I wish to return to the matters at hand - but there is one more thing I wish to clarify. Lord Vader will not tolerate any mentions of the man you might recall him to be. He is no longer the naive child of yesterday. There will be a penalty for such insolence - no matter whom it may derive from. Lord Vader is a reinvented man. You shall address him only as such, and by no other name. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” was the singular response - and a brief hint of delight, and perhaps relief, crossed Vader’s scornful face.

“Very good,” said the Emperor with a cackle.

__________

I am not generally a fan of suitless Vader, but this idea came to me and it kinda required that so I went with it for once. Enjoy!

Ao3 link below:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32029582

[ofstarsandfireflies]

Heyo! This is another fic I was trying to make work but just couldn’t.

Hope you guys enjoy it, it’s been sitting in my phone for a year and a half hehe

Inception -

Leonardo DiCaprio is in your dreams, stealing your secrets!

“I need your help.”

Stephen is instantly sitting up in his chair as Tony tells him about the nightmares, and how they come every night in the form of the worst experiences of his life.

How he just wants to be able to sleep.

So, Stephen says he’ll help him.

He’ll go into his these nightmares and find out what is causing them.

The first night, Stephen finds himself in a military camp somewhere in a desert.

As he moves, taking in their weapons and trying to place where he could be, he sees the crates with the old Stark Industries logo on them.

And then he noticed the cave.

He slips inside, being careful not to bump into any of the ��people’ here and give away his presence.

He’s barely taken more than a couple of steps when the screaming starts, echoing around him and making a cold sweat break out all over his skin, every working nerve in his body yelling at him to run and help while his legs lock.

Tony was the one who was screaming.

He felt the cloak push into his back and suddenly he was running, calling out for Tony to answer him, twists and turns leading him to the man surrounded by pieces of his first Iron Man armour.

Stephen just stops and stares.

He had a blue glow eminating from under the black tank top he was wearing, and the orange glow from the pits he’d been smithing at was bouncing off of the sweat on his arms.

Stephen was transfixed by the sight.

Tony must have sensed someone staring at him because a confused expression crossed his face as he surveyes the room, his eyes settling on Stephen.

He stands from the table, leaning on it for support as Stephen moved cautiously to him.

Tony was visibly shaking, and when Stephen placed his hands on the muscular shoulders, they sag instantly as he leans into Stephen’s chest, the Sorcerer’s arms winding around him.

Tony was rambling on about what he’d give to Stephen if he got him out of here, whatever he wanted, Tony would give to him just as long as Stephen saved him from this hell.

Stephen placed his hands on Tony’s face and brought it up, big teary eyes looking up at him, sparkling in the orange of the embers and desperate.

Stephen wanted to say so many things to comfort him.

He wanted to tell him so many things of how he felt.

Had always felt.

Instead, he leant in and touched his lips to Tony’s, who melted instantly against him, his hands gripping his robes to prevent him from pulling away from what he’d started.

If this was the price he had to pay for Stephen’s help, Tony was up for it.

But as soon as he had Tony trapped between himself and the table, the world around them began to alter and shift, hazing in and out before everything around them snapped back to reality.

Stephen expected Tony to throw himself away from him, to yell at him for what he’d done.

But it didn’t happen.

Stephen was panting, on all fours on the ground, and Tony was right beside him looking at him with those big brown eyes full of concern.

He didn’t remember.

Maybe that was for the best.

The second night saw him in Stark Tower.

Well this wasn’t as traumatising as the previous nightmare, so why would this be considered one?

Stephen looked around at Tony, who was dressed casually in jeans and a black sabbath shirt, a few years older than the previous Tony he had met.

Tony had a hopeful spark in his eyes as he told Stephen to do whatever he had done last time to end this dream too.

That hopeful spark slowly faded when Stephen told him he hadn’t used magic to end the nightmare, replaced by narrowed scrutiny.

He’d asked Stephen for his help to end these things, not to use for his own enjoyment because he couldn’t have the real Tony.

Stephen rolled his eyes, really not wanting to get all personal about his mixed up feelings with this dream version, when the entire tower began to shake.

Pictures fell from the walls and Tony’s liquor cabinet smashed everywhere as the two in the tower grabbed hold of the other to keep themselves balanced.

Tony really didn’t care what Stephen did in the previous dream, he just needed him to do that again so he could wake up.

And when Stephen finally tells him exactly how he had woken him up, the floor beneath them splinters and cracks and dust rains down on them from the ceiling.

Tony’s snide comment of it not being very good if he didn’t remember it had Stephen turning as bright a shade as his cloak, his own remark about how it was a younger version of Tony making this one’s eyebrows shoot up.

The tower groaned loudly and shook forcing Tony into action as he grabbed the sorcerer, pulling him hastily in for a kiss, Stephen losing his footing as they crashed to the ground.

And the shaking stopped.

Tony pulled out of the kiss first, looking around him.

Had it worked?

No sooner had the thought entered his mind, the floor they were laying on caved in, and beneath them wasn’t another room, but the infinite void of space.

Stephen grabbed Tony as the cloak around his shoulders kept them afloat.

A portal of New York City opened before them, and Stephen suddenly realised where and when he was.

It was the Chitari attack.

He’d still been a doctor at this time.

And that’s when he heard it.

Tony was muttering “Not again...Not again...” to himself over and over and Stephen could feel his chest rising and falling against his own far too quickly.

He tried calling his name but Tony didn’t hear him. He forced him to look up at him, those brown eyes he loved so much staring right through him.

All the while muttering “Not again...”

There was nothing he could do except hold him.

The third dream was one Stephen had heard about.

Tony was laying on the ground, chest plate almost cracked in half and he didn’t seem at all interested or amused by the Sorcerer’s late arrival.

Where was he when he needed him at the airport, when Rhodey was hurt?

Where was he when he needed him ten minutes ago, when Rogers and Barnes left?

Where was he when Tony needed him ever?

Stephen didn’t understand, they hadn’t even known each other at this point in their lives.

But that was Tony’s argument, wasn’t it?

Stephen had held an Infinity Stone that could control time and hadn’t even bothered to meet Tony earlier.

To be on his side when the shit hit the fan and Rogers got his american underpants in a twist over protecting a murderer.

Stephen had never heard Tony this angry before.

He knew their fights could get out of hand sometimes, and he knew they had each said some things when tempers flared, but it was never about blaming the other for something out of their control.

Then he was back.

Tony was still asleep, which he was grateful for.

He didn’t think he could face him after that.

Stephen knew this place.

He’d been here a few years ago.

Tony sat by himself amidst the red sand and rock, fragmented peices of the Iron Man suit still hanging off of his body and specks of ash blowing away from him.

Stephen stepped forward, making Tony look up.

His eyes were red and his face shining with tears.

His eyes widened however, when they found Stephen’s and spoke his name in a whispered disbelief.

Tony got unsteadily to his feet, holding his side.

Stephen knew he should leave, that he shouldn’t try to tamper with this nightmare, but his legs were moving by themselves, bringing him closer to Tony.

Tony began shaking his head, looking away from him back to where he’d been sitting, before mentioning how if Stephen was here...Peter was too right?

Stephen’s brain was screaming at him to abort this mission.

But he couldn’t.

He’d made a promise to Tony that he would stop these nightmares.

He reached for him, and Tony allowed him to pull him into his arms, asking Stephen where Peter was.

Tony’s voice was so small, so devoid of life.

He looked up at him, his eyes brimming with tears as he struggled to hold them back.

How could he explain?

He’d done so with the previous versions of Tony but this one...would he believe him? Would he know what Stephen was telling him?

This version was so utterly broken by what this nightmare was.

So what had the real Tony Stark been like when this had actually happened?

When their relationship was nothing more than putting up with one another?

Had Tony mourned him?

Was Tony as lost then as he was now?

Stephen could only hold the dreamer as his grief became too much for him and he broke down in his arms, Stephen’s robes becoming soaked as Tony cried into them.

What had he done to this man?

Why did he continue to torment him and remind him of this moment with his very presence?

Because they were friends?

Because he loved him?

Stephen wiped away the never ending tears, the cloak lending its support and warmth to the crying man as well.

“It should have been me.” Tony sobbed, “It should have been me not him.”

Stephen pulled himself out of the dream, took one look at Tony, and left without a word.

He knew what he had to do now.

He knew what he was up against.

Who he was up against.

So when it came time to enter the final dream, Stephen was not prepared for what he saw.

Black.

Surrounding the two of them was just black, with the eerie feeling they were being watched.

But Stephen knew.

In a way, he’d always known.

Whatever wanted him here had been using Tony to draw him in.

Well not anymore.

This was their fifth time, the fifth dream reincarnation of Tony Stark he had met.

He’d fought with his anger, gazed into distant eyes of denial, kissed away words of desperate bargaining and had wiped away too many tears when the depression became too much.

But this one.

This Tony was looking at him like it knew what Stephen did.

And was accepting him.

And that just made it all the more painful to do what he had to do.

With a simple incantation, a brand appeared over Tony’s arm.

Tony looked down at what Stephen had done, wide eyes staring up at him.

Now Tony’s dreams would return to what they were.

And Stephen would remain here to make sure it stayed that way.

But Tony didn’t want that.

He didn’t want to wake up if Stephen wasn’t going to be there.

And no matter how many times Stephen tries to tell him they were just dreams, Tony’s counter was that they were his dreams.

About Stephen, about them.

And Stephen can’t look him in the eyes.

Tony is shaking his head, trying to grab hold of Stephen with fingers that just went straight through him as he begins to fade.

He’s waking up.

This was always meant to be Stephens nightmare.

Tony was just used to lure him here. The entity that has been feeding off of Tony’s fears and regrets, gaining strength from all his weaknesses... He won’t let it use Tony anymore.

Stephen pressed his lips softly to Tony’s one last time as he feels them fade away from him.

When he opened his eyes, Tony was gone.

The world around him began to rumble and quake.

And the being who appeared was...himself.

Paler in comparison and wearing green robes instead of blue, but it was still like looking in a mirror.

Nightmare had really out done himself.

Nightmare mocked Stephen, told him his plans for Tony once he finally got rid of the meddlesome magician, pulling a fabricated Tony Stark to his side

The Tony of Stephen’s dreams, wrapping Nightmare’s arm in his own and standing dutifully by his side.

Nightmare knows Stephen can’t defeat him.

Stephen’s fear when it comes to Tony Stark makes him vulnerable.

Weak.

Nightmare could feed off of his torture for eons.

Stephen’s more than prepared to go through with it.

With Nightmare focused on himself, he won’t have time for any one else.

And that’s the way it would have went had Tony Stark not landed right beside Stephen and blasted his double away.

He is pissed that Stephen chose to play the self sacrificing card when he was trying to tell him how he felt.

You don’t do that to someone, especially after you’ve just witnessed all their flaws and fears.

Nightmare just grins at them.

He knows everything Tony is scared of. He’s a complicated human, but a human none the less.

But when he tries to change the dream around them, he can’t.

And as he fails again and again, Tony just stands there.

He’s not worried about those dreams anymore.

He’s come to accept them, completely erasing the fear he had of them.

And only a being who has conquered their fears can truly defeat a Nightmare.

Angered and powerless, Nightmare makes a quick escape.

Stephen tries to go after him but is stopped by Tony, who points him to the portal he came through.

And Stephen suddenly gets this gnawing feeling in his gut.

Like this isn’t the real Tony and all of this is actually part of Nightmare’s plan.

He tries telling him this, tries to get a straight answer from him, but if it is the real Tony he’s choosing the worst moment to play mind games.

And then he asks him what he believes, what he feels, as he pulls him closer to the portal.

Wherever this Tony is going to take him, back to reality or into a nightmare waiting to happen, Stephen wants to be with him, whether it’s the real Tony or not.

So he follows he him through.

Quotes -

“An idea is like a virus. Resilient. Highly contagious. And the smallest seed of an idea can grow. It can grow to define...or destroy you.”

Nightmare to Stephen

“What if you’re wrong? What if I’m what’s real? You keep telling yourself what you know. But what do you believe? What do you feel?”

Tony persuading Stephen to be with him.

In My Dreams, You’re With Me.

Nightmare has a hold of Tony’s dreams and is forcing him to relive shit he thought he’d buried long ago.

It’s up to Stephen to help.

Missed a Day? Catch up here!

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5

Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9 Day 10

Day 11 Day 12 Day 13 Day 14 Day 15

[johaerys-writes]

Witcher AU: Viper In Tall Grass

Chapter (1/3): The Emperor’s Adviser

Summary: Tristan of Toussaint is a witcher, his life dedicated to following the Path of the Viper. It is curiosity more than anything that leads him to Emperor Emhyr var Emreis’s court. That is where he meets Dorian Pavus, lead sorcerer and adviser to the crown of Nilfgaard, and his life as he knows it changes for good.

They say that destiny is inexorable. Tristan is starting to see the wisdom in that saying.

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This is a prequel fic I wrote for the as-yet-untitled Witcher AU my beloved friendo @solas-disapproves​ and I have been working on! I hope you enjoy :)

Read here or on AO3!

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“You are the witcher?”

Tristan glanced over his shoulder at the man who had spoken. He was a tall fellow, the black and white Nilfgaardian uniform he was wearing crisp and freshly pressed. He had a receding hairline and the skin on his face was dark and leathery, his lips pressed in a tight line, a hint of contempt lingering in his mousy brown eyes. He looked more like a tired, middle aged servant rather than Emperor Emhyr’s personal steward, like Tristan had been told he would meet.

He turned unhurriedly away from the crackling fire in the hearth, crossing his now well warmed arms before his chest. “You’re the footman?”

The man’s mouth twisted in a disgusted frown before he spun on his heel. “I am Var Heid, the Emperor’s steward. The Emperor is ready to receive you.”

“About bloody time,” Tristan muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Var Heid to hear him. If he had, he showed no sign of it.

The palace of Vizima was a large fortress, one of the largest Tristan had seen in a while. Labyrinthine, too; had his witcher training not given him an extraordinary sense of direction, he was sure he would have been lost three times over. Even so, he wasn’t entirely certain he could find his way to the nearest exit, not without having to knock down a wall or two.

He followed the man through the twisting corridors of the palace, his tough leather boots sinking in the plush carpet along the stone floor, letting his gaze sweep over the shining sets of armour and the paintings hanging on the high walls. When Tristan had arrived to the palace to hand in the notice he had found on the nearest village’s board, the sun had been just past the middle of the sky. Now, the snow on the western mountain tops was tinged pink and gold as the sun set, and the dancing light of torches cast eerie shadows on the walls as he walked. Tristan disliked waiting, and he had done his fair share of it ever since stepping foot in that place. The way the steward was walking now, with slow and leisurely movements, he suspected it would be well after nightfall when he would finally be done with this entire affair. So much for being curious, he thought, scowling at himself.

The servant soon led him to a small, winding staircase, at the foot of which he turned around to give him a quick lookover. His nose wrinkled more and more as his eyes trailed from his hair, hanging loosely about his shoulders, to his leather armour that had definitely seen better days, and lastly to his boots that were caked in mud.

“Your appearance is displeasing to the eye,” he said in a heavy Nilfgaardian accent that did nothing to hide his disgust. If anything, it highlighted it even more. “Under any other circumstances, I would have requested for a bath, a shave, a haircut and a change of clothes before presenting you to the Emperor. Alas, time is of the essence.”

“What’s wrong with my hair? Or my clothes, for that matter?”

A flash of amusement sparked in the man’s eyes. “They are… how do you say in your tongue… unseemly? Uncouth? Barbaric? Not to mention probably infested with lice.”

Tristan shrugged, scratching the light stubble on his cheeks. “Been on the road a while. Can’t be helped.”

“I suppose not.” The servant drew himself up with a sharp sniff. “May I at least ask whether you know how to address the Emperor?”

“Your Royal Magnificence, perhaps? Or your Majestic Brilliance?” Tristan said with a bored frown. He had been at this for hours and could already feel a warm dinner and a bed calling him.

The man sniffed again, more loudly this time. “I see you are in the mood for jests. I’m afraid the Emperor does not share your disposition. “Your Majesty” will suffice.”

“Fine,” Tristan grunted, rolling his eyes. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? Don’t have all bloody day.”

Var Heid made a small noise that sounded oddly like a harrumph and turned around, ascending the stairs. The guards at the door parted to let him pass, and he walked in with slow, steady footsteps, his back straight like he had swallowed a broomstick.

Tristan followed behind him, eager to get this done and over with.The room he stepped in was spacious, the carpets lining the floor rich and well made. The thread of gold tapestries on the wall glittered in the last light of the waning sun that streamed in through the tall stained glass windows, the rays dissolving in an array of warm colours. The man sitting on the gilded chair behind the large mahogany desk with the graying hair, the stately demeanour and the hawk-like eyes would have to be the Emperor. No doubt about that.

Var Heid had already started announcing his arrival in Nilfgaardian, his tone even and wooden as if he were reading from a book, when Tristan’s gaze fell on the man standing just a little way behind Emhyr, and his mouth almost fell open.

Tall, dark, imposing. Skin like burnished copper, rich and smooth like velvet. Black hair combed neatly in glossy waves, framing a face that should have belonged to a work of art. High cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes the colour of polished silver, a strong nose, a moustache perfectly curled, expertly shaped to highlight full, honey coloured lips. The black robe he was wearing was similar to those Tristan had seen a hundred times since stepping foot in that palace -the Nilgaardians were notorious for their love of uniformity- , yet on that man it looked… different. Elegant. Regal. Striking. Just a tad tighter along the chest and arms, the fabric on the shoulders arranged in such a way to leave a swath of skin exposed, the thread of gold and tiny pearls embroidered along his collar a touch more extravagant than perhaps expected. And the way he held himself, that proud tilt of his chin, those long, beringed fingers resting lightly against his folded arms, the quirk of his eyebrow, the glint in his eyes as they took him in, lazily gliding from his face, to his armour, to his mud-caked boots and up again. A slight curve at the edge of those luscious lips, and Tristan suddenly wished for the floor to split in two and engulf him.

There he was, in a room with the Emperor of Nilfgaard and the most handsome man he had ever laid eyes upon, and he looked like something that had crawled out of a bog. Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful.

Var Heid cleared his throat behind him before doubling over in a deep bow, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Bow,” the man hissed.

It took great effort not to roll his eyes and grit his teeth as Tristan bent in a bow. Not quite as deep as Var Heid’s, and definitely not as refined as somebody’s who had spent their entire life bowing and scraping. But good enough.

He straightened awkwardly, trying his best to fix his gaze on the Emperor instead of on the man behind him. The Emperor of Nilfgaard’s gaze was just a tad less unnerving.

“Tristan of Toussaint?” Emhyr said slowly, as if trying to examine the truth of his statement. Tristan nodded. The Emperor’s eyes stayed on him for a long moment before a slight flick of his wrist sent Var Heid and the guards scrambling out of the room. The heavy doors closed firmly behind them, leaving Tristan alone with the Emperor and the strange man next to him.

Tristan drew himself up, taking advantage of every inch of his height, returning Emhyr’s scrutinizing stare levelly. It was evident that the man let the silence stretch to unsettle him, but he was a witcher. Witchers owed meak submission to no king, especially not Emhyr, who had all but declared witchers of his School enemies of Nilfgaard a few years before.

“Tales of you have spread far and wide,” Emhyr said slowly. “It is not common for a witcher’s name to be spoken so frequently. What brings you here?”

Tristan leaned on his back leg, hooking his thumbs behind his belt. “You put up a notice, searching for a witcher. Heard you’ve seen half a dozen, but sent them all away. Got curious. Came here to see for myself what the fuss is all about.”

The dark haired man behind the Emperor let out a soft exhale, that sounded like a breathy chuckle. Tristan gritted his teeth even harder, not taking his eyes away from Emhyr.

“This is Dorian Pavus,” Emhyr said, waving absently towards the man. “He is lead sorcerer and adviser to the throne.”

Tristan let his gaze drift to him, just in time to see his lips quirk in a tiny smirk as he gave him a short bow with his head. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, master… witcher,” he purred in a voice that slid down Tristan’s spine like warm, spiced honey. Damn him, was there anything about him that wasn’t perfect?

His jaw clenched so hard, he was sure he must have cracked a couple teeth. “Likewise,” he said in a clipped tone, returning to Emhyr. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I would like to know what you want of me. The day isn’t getting any younger, and if my skills are not satisfactory for your quest, I’d like to be on my way before dark.”

The Emperor didn’t seem insulted by Tristan’s curt tone. He leaned back in his chair, elbow on the armrest, forefinger brushing against his thumb. “I believe my adviser will be able to explain things much better than I could.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Pavus took a small step forward. “The quest you would be asked to undertake is of a highly confidential, and highly risky nature. If you accept to take this quest, you will be bound by an oath of secrecy and loyalty to the crown of Nilfgaard.”

“Witchers are bound to no king or county, or any oaths they would seek to impose. Witchers owe allegiance only to their respective schools. This is known.”

“It is indeed,” the mage replied in a calm and unaffected tone, as if he had fully expected his answer. “Yet, this is no ordinary contract. It is not about killing drowners or collecting water hag blood for hexes or whatever it is you witchers do these days.”

Tristan scowled at the man, annoyance flaring in his chest. “I hear a lot about what this contract is not, but not near enough about what it actually is. Care to enlighten me, or are we simply going to dance around it for another day or two?”

The mage’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Master Witcher is impatient, I see. Very well, let’s get straight to the point.” He drew himself up, clasping his hands behind his back. “The creature you are required to exterminate is a Fiend.”

Tristan’s mouth went dry. Fiends were walking mountains of muscle capped with horned, tooth-filled heads. Their size alone made them extremely dangerous – one blow from their powerful paws could kill a knight along with his fully armored mount. Their enormous heft also made them invulnerable to most signs; even witchers that had spent their lives specializing in the use of Aard, able to summon small windstorms at will, could not move a Fiend even an inch. They were quick, agile and inventive, and their wounds healed at lightning speed, yet all that was nothing compared to their true threat; the third eye located in the center of their forehead. A burning, watchful eye, meant to draw the Fiend’s prey into a state of hypnosis.

Hypnosis is the state of loss of control and consciousness, in which the person loses the power of voluntary action and sense of direction. During these times their victim does not see anything beyond this single burning eye – the last thing they see before their death.

The bestiary entry came to his mind unbidden, the contents of its pages etched into his brain ever since he was a child. He gave Pavus a hard look under furrowed brows. This had been a waste of time after all. “Are you out of your mind?” he said, huffing a scornful laugh. “You would need at least three witchers to take down a beast such as that, not to mention an entire apothecary’s worth of ingredients to make the bombs and oils needed.”

“You can have as many apothecaries’ worth of ingredients as you require. Yet I’m afraid that recruiting more witchers won’t be possible. The fewer people that know about this the better.”

“Then you can forget about it,” Tristan said. “There’s no way you will convince any witcher to take on this quest alone.”

Pavus’ lips curled in a smile. “Who said anything about being alone?” Tristan just blinked at him, and the mage’s smile got wider.

Emhyr shifted on his chair. “One of the terms of your contract is that Lord Pavus will be accompanying you to kill this beast. He will assist you in killing it, yet you are bound to keep him safe from harm and bring him back to Vizima after the quest has been completed.”

Tristan paused for a moment, his gaze shifting from Pavus to Emhyr and back. He crossed his arms before his chest, considering. “Where is that Fiend?”

“There have been sightings of one near Velen. In Crookback Bog.”

Crookback Bog. As dark, dank and treacherous a place as any there were. Tristan’s eyes narrowed in thought. The help of a mage would be significant when taking on that Fiend. Pavus seemed powerful enough. Tristan could just about feel his magic reaching him, rippling in the air around him. Were Tristan a mage he would have been able to gauge exactly how powerful his spells could be. Yet, even with the vague knowledge he had at that moment, he could tell that the man was a force to be reckoned with.

Still. Tristan was supposed to kill a Fiend, and keep the mage safe. Impossible.

“How much?” he asked the Emperor. The least they could do for asking him to do the impossible was make it worth his while.

“One thousand gold pieces.”

“Five thousand.”

The Emperor’s gaze flashed with something akin to indignation. He obviously wasn’t used to people bartering with him. “Three and a half.”

“Five,” Tristan said again, his tone even and flat. Emhyr’s lips tightened in a line, and Tristan shook his head. “You want me to kill a Fiend, a beast that no one has been known to defeat in at least two centuries, as well as be your sorcerer’s glorified wet nurse? You’ll have to pay for it. No way around it. Your Majesty,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Emhyr’s hand tightened in a fist, and he took a sharp breath. “Very well,” he assented curtly. “Five thousand gold pieces it is. But know this, witcher; if you don’t bring either the Fiend or my sorcerer back, it will be your head.”

“You said you’ve heard about me,” Tristan said. “Then you surely know that I always keep my word once I give it.”

The Emperor regarded him for a long moment, so long in fact, that Tristan thought he had swallowed his tongue. In the end, he waved him away tiredly and sank back in his chair. “My steward will draw up the contract for you. It shall be ready tomorrow morning, before you leave. You are dismissed.”

**

The contract, written in neat, precise letters, had been just as rigid and binding as Tristan had expected it to be. He would receive half the gold before leaving for his quest, and the rest after he had returned with both the Fiend and the mage. It was an odd contract, to say the least, but Tristan wasn’t a stranger to odd situations. He had seen his fair share of them, travelling through the Continent. At least this one promised to be quite lucrative.

He mulled over his conversation with the Emperor the previous evening as he made his way to the stables. The stables the Nilfgaardians had put his horse in were warm and spacious, with clean hay and fresh water. The stableboys seemed skilled enough, but Tristan wouldn’t trust his mount to just about anyone.

Almond tossed her head back when she saw him, neighing gently. Tristan pulled a piece of dried apple from his pocket and gave it to her, idly brushing her coat as he formulated a meticulous plan in his mind. When travelling for a quest, details were important; which road to take to avoid the bandits lurking in the woods close to Velen, how many days would be needed to reach his destination, how many bombs and potions he would need to make. One of the first things a witcher was taught before hitting the road was how to plan ahead. An unprepared witcher is a dead witcher, or nigh on as good as one, was what Heir, his mentor ever since he was a child, would have said about then. She certainly had a lot of opinions when it came to proper preparation.

Tristan had just about finished saddling Almond when a smooth voice behind him drew his attention.

“A beautiful horse,” Pavus said. “Never seen the like.”

Tristan shot him a glance over his shoulder. He was dressed in practical travelling clothes, that still managed to be flashy somehow. The stout black woolen cloak he was wearing was decorated with thick white fur around the collar and his boots that peeked under the hem of his robe were made of soft black leather, with coiling and twisting snakes carved along the sides. His cheeks were flushed from the crisp morning air, but other than that he looked as formidable and his expression as unreadable as any mage Tristan had met. They were a troublesome, secretive lot, to say the least, and most of them weren’t particularly fond of witchers, so far as he was aware.

“Wouldn’t expect you to,” Tristan replied, fastening the last hook on Almond’s saddle, testing the girth one final time. “Her breed is native to Toussaint.”He caught her reins and gently led her out of the stall. Pavus’ eyes glided over him again, and this time Tristan returned his look calmly. His armour had been cleaned and mended, and he did manage to have a bath and shave the previous night. Var Heid wouldn’t let him get into bed unless “any and all pests were eradicated”, as he had said.

Pavus walked beside him, nodding to the stable boy who followed them with his own horse readied and saddled. It was a beautiful steed, its dark coat glistening in the grey morning sun, the thick muscles of its chest rippling as it moved. It was strong and looked agile enough to be ridden into battle, if it had been trained for it. Heir had often insisted that he have a horse like that. Your horse is pretty, she would say, but witchers have no need for pretty horses. Tristan believed that, too. Yet letting go of Almond was not something he was ever about to do, at least not willingly.

He threaded his fingers through her buttery white mane before placing his foot on the stirrup.

“I didn’t know witchers to be sentimental.”

Tristan froze, his brows furrowed in a perplexed frown. “Huh?”

Pavus smiled at him as he gracefully climbed on his horse, his cloak falling softly around its trunk. “You’re from Toussaint. Your horse is from Toussaint. Is that a mere coincidence? Or a way for you to remember home, perhaps?” He kicked his horse forward, hardly waiting for an answer.

Tristan scrambled hastily onto his saddle, urging Almond to a canter until she reached Pavus’ horse. “Witchers have no home,” he said flatly.

“You say that,” Pavus said with some amusement, “yet you’re the one sporting a regular courser when you should have had a charger, or a destrier, to say the least.”

“She’s not just a ��regular’ courser,” Tristan grumbled, frowning at the derision in his tone. “She’s…”

She had been a gift from his twin sister on their twentieth birthday. Witchers didn’t usually have any connection to family after taking up their training, especially not those of his School. Heir would certainly be displeased if she ever found out that he still kept contact with them, and even visited his sister from time to time. He wasn’t about to say all that to a sorcerer he had just met, though, and who looked overly eager to get under his skin.

He closed his mouth, staring stubbornly ahead of him, over Almond’s ears. The mage chuckled softly. “No answer to that, I see. Interesting. I maintain my original observation, then. You are sentimental for a witcher.”

“And you are very talkative for a mage,” Tristan retorted irritably. “I thought your kind wouldn’t even deign to talk to someone who “collects water hag blood for hexes”, or whatever it is you think witchers do, unless someone held a knife at your throat. Perhaps not even then.”

Pavus through his head back, his silvery laughter cutting through the crisp morning air. “Knives? Ha! Who would use a knife against a mage? Even witchers can’t be that coarse.”

Tristan glared at him. “What did you just say?”

“Is the master witcher’s hearing impeded? Has he lost that as well as his ability to reason? Perhaps it’s all that hair.” He reached out, gently brushing Tristan’s hair behind his ear. “There. That’s better.”

Tristan blinked at him for a moment, startled by the unexpected touch. He tried to ignore the odd, tingling sensation that spread down his spine at the lingering feeling of the mage’s gloved fingers on his skin as he scowled at him. “My ears are fine. Yours won’t be for long if you keep at this.”

Pavus batted his long, black eyelashes at him. “Oh? What will you do to them, pray tell? If you must know, I quite enjoy ear massages. You can bite them, too, if you’d like. Not too hard, mind you. Or I might bite back.” He flashed him a wide, teasing smile as he kicked his horse to a trot, riding ahead of him once more.

Tristan just stared after him and the snow that his horse’s hooves kicked in his direction, his mouth slightly agape. When his tongue had been sufficiently frozen by the biting chill, he snapped his jaw closed, muttering curses under his breath. Were all mages that mouthy? And if not, had he been fool enough to agree to a quest with the only one?

**

As the hours dragged on, with Tristan rocking on his horse and Pavus talking his ear off, he was convinced that he was, in fact the mouthiest mage in the Continent. Tristan had been used to the endless days of travel and the infinite hours of silence that these ensued - often spending days at a time talking only to Almond. There were moments when the silence sounded deafening in his ears. It wasn’t unusual for him to wish for some company during those quiet moments.

Oh, how he missed those moments now.

The mage talked as the expansive orchards around Vizima gave way to the green, rolling hills of Temeria. He talked as the rolling hills descended into dense, forested land. He kept on talking as the woods became sparser the closer they rode to the swamps of Velen. Tristan did his best to reply to Pavus’ quips and jokes as laconically as he could, hoping his half hearted grunts would hide the flush that often crept up his cheeks at his blatant teasing and flirting.

Flirting. How long had it been since anyone had flirted with him? Far too long, obviously, if a mere glance, a smile or an accidental touch whenever they stopped to water their horses or set up camp could make heat flare in his chest like that. Most people in their right minds didn’t want much to do with witchers, staying well out his way unless they absolutely had to. Tristan was used to the curses muttered through tight lips, and the fearful glances, and the invocations to Melitele or whichever god they prayed to as soon as he turned his back. It didn’t irk him much anymore. It was better when people were afraid of him; it made his work easier. Simpler. He would get the job done, get paid, and get on his way. Getting too attached to anyone, or any place, was never a good thing.

He was accustomed to all that. Marginally comfortable with it, even. What he wasn’t accustomed to was… him.

Pavus never missed a chance to talk, or touch or be overly familiar with him. Worse, he showed no fear or apprehension whatsoever, as if his being a witcher was a mere trait to be overlooked. Tristan had met hundreds of people in his life - those that didn’t see him as a freak or an emotionless killer he could count on the fingers of one hand. It was odd, to not be regarded like that for once. More than odd it felt… exhilarating.

Which was a dangerous feeling to have, especially when it regarded the advisor of the Emperor of Nilfgaard. Tristan always sought to keep his affairs simple, neat, tidy, and this was proving to be anything but that. He had been given a task; kill the Fiend and bring the mage back, and that was what he intended to do. All he intended to do, in fact.

Thus, he resolved to avoid the mage as best he could. He would keep his responses short and curt, and every night when they stopped to make camp, he would tend to Almond or pretend to keep watch a little further away from the fire until Pavus retreated under his bedroll.

The third night they had camped together was much like the others. Tristan had spent an inordinate amount of time tending to Almond, or making sure his snares were set up just right, yet he had returned to the fire to find Pavus still up. He was reading from a thick, leather-bound tome, his eyes swiftly following the letters on the page. Those silver, glittering eyes snapped up to his face when he walked within the dancing halo of the fire.

“Taken care of business so quickly? That’s a first.”

Tristan grunted as he sat cross legged before the fire, fishing his flask out of his pocket.

“What is that? Whisky?”

“Brandy,” Tristan responded. “From Aedirn.”

Pavus let his book fall closed and shifted a little closer. “Aedirn? You have very fine taste. Have you tried Kaedweni brandy? It’s even better. Here, have some,” he said, taking a flask out of his own pocket and extending it to him.

Tristan shook his head sharply, staring at the fire. From the corner of his eye, he saw the mage shrugging and uncorking his flask. The smell of the brandy reached his nostrils, as well as the scent of Pavus’s cologne, drifting towards him with the wind. His witcher senses tingled and focused, zooming in to a sharp point. Smell of oakmoss and sandalwood, cardamom and cloves, mingled with something deep and earthy and slightly musky, emanating from those pulse points in his throat and his wrists. Tristan took a deep breath, letting that intoxicating scent fill his lungs. He swallowed thickly when he realised his mouth was watering.

He clenched his jaw, taking a long sip from his flask. It was just a smell. He could ignore it, if he tried hard enough. He had been trained since childhood to ignore far more aggravating situations. It took a few long, agonizing minutes, yet he somewhat managed to get the unruly thoughts under control.

To his dismay, the mage cleared his throat, glancing his way again. “Been to Velen before?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Several times, I gather. You seem to know the way rather well.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are there lots of beasts there to be killed?”

Tristan simply shrugged.

Pavus leaned back on his elbow upon the covers of his bedroll, shifting his half lying body to face him. His head was cocked to the side, the shifting light of the fire illuminating the soft, delicate skin of his neck. It felt to Tristan that if he focused enough, he could see his life essence pulsating under that soft, velvety skin, feel the energy that was vibrating in his body. A spark, bright and unexpected, flared in his chest. He frowned, stomping it down tenaciously.

“I never knew travelling like this could be so wearisome,” Pavus sighed. “Want to know what I miss the most?”

“A comfortable bed?” Tristan asked before he could stop himself. “Or a warm bath? I know I would miss those.”

“Wrong on both accounts. Although I wouldn’t say no to either. Especially the latter.” He smoothed his long fingers through his dark, glossy waves, staring wistfully at the fire. “I rather miss the bards in the palace. They always played the most wonderful songs after the evening meal. Perfect to talk and drink some fine wine over.” He tipped the mouth of his flask over his lips, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. His slender, delicate throat. How Tristan wanted to brush his thumb over the sides of that long, elegant neck. Then slowly run his tongue over those tendons, follow them until they led him to the dip in his collarbone. Then he would work each button of that snug coat of his free, and then…

Stop. Looking!

Tristan bit his lip as he glanced at his boots, pretending to pick at their buckles. Suddenly, the mage’s eyes sparked, a huff of excitement rushing past his lips. “Oh, but what am I saying? Who needs a bard when I have a witcher? And not just any witcher. The infamous Tristan of Toussaint.

“I would hardly call myself infamous.”

“Wouldn’t you? There isn’t one person in Vizima that doesn’t know about you preventing the assassination of the Duchess of Toussaint. Or about your slaying of that basilisk that terrorised Ellander for months, all on your own. You must have all sorts of stories to tell.”

Tristan grunted, staring at the fire as he sipped on his brandy.

“Come now,” Pavus pleaded, his voice soft and sing-songy. “Tell me a story, oh broody one.”

Tristan frowned at him. “I am not brooding.”

“Very well, scowling in a very attractive manner, then.” Tristan rolled his eyes, and the mage’s smile got even wider. “Just one teeny, tiny story. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How would you do that exactly?”

“There are a couple ways that spring to mind,” he replied, wiggling his eyebrows at him. “Care for me to… elaborate?”

Tristan’s cheeks shouldn’t have felt as hot as they did with the unspoken promise in his gaze. His pulse shouldn’t have quickened either at the sound of his honey smooth voice, lowering to almost a purr. He gritted his teeth. “No. No stories.”

The mage sighed, yet still he didn’t give up. “Alright, then. What if I promise to tell you something, too? Tit for tat, if you will.”

Tristan’s focus snapped to him. “Like what?”

Pavus’s eyes sparked with amusement at having drawn his attention. “You haven’t really asked me anything since we set off. Aren’t you interested to know why I had to come with you? Or why the Fiend needs to be killed?”

Tristan narrowed his eyes. “I thought this was confidential information.”

“It is,” he shrugged. “As you can see, I am that desperate for some entertainment.” His gaze slid slowly from his face all the way down his torso, as if peeling his armour off, layer by layer.

Tristan’s hand curled into a fist around the mouth of his flask. What was the man doing, teasing and flirting with him so… so… shamelessly? Were all mages the same way? He was infuriating. What was even more infuriating was that his breeches now felt way tighter than they did a few moments before.

“Witchers don’t ask questions,” he said flatly, pushing down the wave of warmth that rushed through him. “A monster needs to be killed, we kill it. After the pay has been negotiated.”

“Are all witchers so diligent and focused as you are, I wonder? Or is it just your School?”

“There aren’t many of us left.” Tristan thumbed the amulet hanging by his neck, the viper head cold to the touch. “Besides, even if there were, I can’t talk for anyone other than myself.”

Pavus regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, his features unusually serious. “Perhaps it is just you, then.” He took a small swig from his flask, his gaze fixed on the fire for a long moment before he spoke again. “It must be hard.”

“What?”

“Being like you,” he said softly. “You must be very lonely.”

Tristan’s mouth went dry. He opened it. Shut it. Opened it again, but no sound came out. They gazed at each other, Tristan’s bewildered stare meeting Pavus’ calm silver gaze. There was no teasing glint in his eyes now, no mockery or flirting; only something that looked like… sympathy. Understanding, even.

He cleared his throat abruptly, just as his heart threatened to beat out of his throat. He screwed the cap back on his flask, standing up. “You should get some rest. We have an early start tomorrow. I’ll keep watch.”

Without another word, he walked off towards the edges of the ring of firelight, kneeling into a meditative position. He could feel the mage’s gaze lingering on his back for several long, agonizing minutes, until Tristan finally heard his breaths easing into a deep sleep.

The night that stretched beyond their small fire suddenly seemed dark enough to swallow him whole.

[lucifer-lacroix]

Interview With a Witcher Chapter 2

Geraskier - Fanfic - Romance - Fantasy - Netflix Series - Wild Hunt - Future Plot - Ravenloft

(For Chapter 1 go here)

Geralt rode up to the castle that Jaskier had circled his map of Novigrad. Out on the far coast of the western reaches, a once-abandoned castle was in the middle of being rebuilt. Blanketed construction scaffold lined the wall while dozens of men brick and repair the stonework. A new settlement of families had moved in, and there were large dogs who ran around with kids in the late hours of the afternoon. The dinner bell rang in the distance as Geralt rode through the homes towards the castle. About three hundred meters off Jaskier came around the bend with sweat dripping from his brow and he struggled to catch his breath. He ran the entire way by hopping fences and using a shortcut to catch up to Geralt who was now in eyesight. By the time Jaskier had reached village his legs were ready to give out as he leaned against a tree trying before he could continue.

“Halt!" A guard dressed in black armour stopped Roach before she could step onto the bridge. "You have arrived at Castle Ravenloft. What is your business with his Majesty King La’Croix of Ferelden." The knight addressed Geralt with a salute. "I’m here on behalf of Julian Alfred Pankratz... Viscount of… Lettenhove, the owner of the Chameleon. The theatre wishes to personally invite his ...highness to the next show." Geralt nodded to the guard after stumbling over the name. "Sir Eckhart will show you the way." The guard motioned Geralt to cross the bridge where a man sat on horseback wearing midnight armour and a violet caplet on his shoulder.

As Geralt crossed the bridge, he felt his heart beating in his throat as Roach came to a stop in front of the black knight. "Sir Witcher." The black knight removed his helm and revealed himself to be a man with raven hair and tipped ears. "His Majesty bids you welcome. I am Sir Nathanial Eckhart, Knight commander and personal guard to his majesty Lucifer La’Croix King of Ferelden who is here fleeing from the blight with his people. If you pose a threat to his grace or his guests, I have authority granted to me upon King Radovid V ruler of Redania to strike you down where you stand. Are we clear?" "Crystal." Geralt replied as he was lead towards the stable up the mountain trail.  

Jaskier had finally caught his breath and took off running once again. Once he reached the gate he was just in time to see Geralt be led away by a knight. Jaskier cursed “Shit Balls fuck! Dammit! Geralt!” Jaskier quickly approached the bridge sliding to a stop. “Halt!” the guard said, “What business do you have at Castle Ravenloft?” Jaskier gave a small flourish, “I have come to invite the King my magnum opus performance The Princess and the Frog live on stage in three days time at the Chameleon. Forgive my friend he seems to have arrived before me and didn’t bother to wait for me. So hard to find good help these days.” The guard looked over the exhausted-looking mess which was Jaskier as he ranted. His hair mussed, and his skin clammy and red. The bolero he was wearing under his arm, with the top few buttons of his shirt undone.

The guard waved to the battlements above as a man with a crossbow ducked out of view. “You will have to come back…” The guard started to turn him away when Jaskier started protesting. “Wait, wait! I am a Viscount of Lettenhove. I am the proprietor of the Chameleon. Please let me prove to his royal highness that I am indeed the greatest bard that will ever rejoice his name.” The guard hesitated and looked away for a moment before lowering his spear. “Go a head.” He said and let Jaskier through with a wary glance. “You will wait for Sir Lionheart to lead you inside.” The guard looked up to the battlements again and waved. A teenager ran down the stairs and appeared a few moments later wearing scouts armour and a purple caplet “Sir…” the boy had a sour pout on his face as he walked up to the Jaskier. He had long raven hair tied in a ponytail, and youthful looks but walked about with a scowl as if someone had to spit in his waterskin. “So you’re the famous bard Dandelion?” Sir Lionheart asked. “You’re pretty old looking.”

Geralt and Roach followed Sir Eckhart in eerie silence, no questions or resistance into his person or his goals as Geralt stared at the silver sigil on Sir Eckhearts back. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice behind him, slowing Roach down to listen. Before he could focus, Geralt spotted a man with a crossbow pointed at him from the battlements. “Keep moving.” Sir Eckhart spoke, breaking the silence between them. “Not a very nice way to greet a guest…” Geralt spoke and stopped the horse as the Knight turned around and drew his sword. “You are no guest. You are a witcher who threatens this castle. March.” Sir Eckhart sat tall on his horse sword at the ready, making Geralt sweat. A fight was not what he expected and when Geralt tried to draw his sword he heard Jaskier close by.  

Jaskier followed behind Sir Lionheart. “Hey! It’s seems as if there is a misunderstanding, I know the King he came to my show last month!” Jaskier over sharing as he fluttered around the knight. “I apologize for my friend barging in without—- ” Jaskier noticed a glimpse of silver-white hair ahead of him. “GERALT!” He called out. “Jaskier what are you doing here?” Geralt asked and jumped off of Roach. If he was going to be shot, he didn’t want her caught in the crossfire. “Get on Roach and go.” Geralt said sternly. “I shouldn’t have come alone, but it’s too late.” he tried to speak, but Sir Lionheart drew a knife and pointed it at Jaskier’s neck from behind. “Not a step further. You will deliver your invitations in person. You know, because you’re so chummy with the King” Sir Lionheart threatened.

“The Witcher and The Bard will both be greeting his Majesty this late evening. We will see if you are telling the truth. Put down your weapons, you are surrounded.” Sir Eckhart spoke loudly to catch his attention. “I pray you mean no harm, or else we will be forced to ensure the safety of our own.” Nathanial said as Geralt and Jaskier shared a worried glance. Although directed to surrender his weapons Geralt did not remove the swords from his back. “No thanks, I will keep them sheathed but you aren’t touching them,” he replied.

In the main hall of the castle, a line of wine casks lined up along the wall each one the size of an elephant. Halfway down the foyer standing in front of a cask draped with red cloth sitting under a magnificent stained glass window stood a man wearing midnight blue evening robes, his long raven hair falling past his waist and tumbled into soft curls. It had been a while since he had last shaved and his balbo styled goatee was overgrown into a dense scruffy beard. Sir Eckhart escorted Geralt at sword point while Sir Lionheart held a dagger to Jaskier's back. They marched forward up to the King of the castle who turned to them with a wine glass in hand. "What is the meaning of this? Why are they being threatened." The King demanded. Jaskier had heard rumours but had not ever having been this close to King Lucifer La’Croix in person. His pale skin like snow contrasting his pure blue eyes which glowed in the dim light. "They claim to be inviting you to the theatre, but this one is a witcher he arrived in Velen by boat this morning." Sir Eckhart nudged his blade into Geralt's back, making him step forward. "So what? Has he posed a threat to me?" Lucifer asked, somewhat offended. Jaskier cleared his throat, “g—good evening,your highness,” he tried to greet the King, but he was slightly distracted with the dagger pointed at his back. His skin prickled with goosebumps knowing that this was a situation to employ wit and not brutality. “The Witcher is Geralt of Rivia. He is with me, not as a Witcher but as a fellow patron of the arts. My first muse,” Jaskier tried desperately to talk his and Geralt’s way to safety. Hopefully, Lucifer could sense his honesty and would be willing to listen.

“Wait, I know you,” Lucifer said, looking at Jaskier for a long moment. “Yes! You’re the bard Dandelion the one with the catchy tunes but can be off-key in the high notes Your theatre runs those boorish plays in the slums. You need a better writer.” Lucifer said as he placed his wine glass down next to three others All of which were filled with various wines in the middle of a taste testing. Jaskier’s lips pursed as Lucifer told him his notes were flat. “Perhaps you’re tongue can be used for other things here this will be better… well put down the blades, and everyone have a taste.” Lucifer walked up to Jaskier and handed him a glass of white wine. “Sir Eckhart, go back to your post. Sir Lionheart you can stay.” Lucifer waved them off, but Sir Eckhart and Geralt were in the middle of a staring contest. “I don’t trust this witcher.” Sir Eckhart said and sheathed his blade.

“I have not lived this long by not being cautious, my friend, Sir Lionheart, will keep an eye on me. Won’t you son?” Lucifer smiled graciously, and despite the rough greeting of his armed guards, the King of Ravenloft was welcoming and kind.  “Not interested. Jaskier wants to invite you to his show at the end of the week and to write a good review, there isn’t enough creativity in Novigrad, and your words put a dent in business.” Geralt spoke up in defence of Jaskier, however, was incredibly distracted by the words Jaskier had used. Why would he say muse? Also, why would he say that in the past tense? As Geralt battled those thoughts in his mind, Lucifer’s gaze focused on the witcher with intensity as if he knew. Jaskier took a sniff at the wine, checking the aroma then took a sip. “Hmmm… not bad, there are some nice sweet notes in it,” he commented, examining the glass. Jaskier noticed the intensity in the air and tried to think of how to change the subject back to the reason why they were there. “Right, I would like to personally invite you, most gracious King Lucifer La’Croix to my latest show at the Chameleon, it will be a grand affair of song, dance, wine and music.” Jaskier said with a flourish of his hand and a jovial bow. “I am hoping my latest piece will inspire you to review us more favourably.”

“No, you haven’t. You came to make sure Geralt didn’t try to kill me, you told him I am a vampire and witchers slay vampires so when he disappeared after your lovers quarrel you thought. What?” “Hold on that’s not fair.” Geralt tried to interject. “Oh yes, Geralt of Rivia, I know who you are the white wolf. My brethren have warned me of you.” Lucifer said with a smile, waving his fingers at Jaskier like he was a naughty child. “Oh, how the gods laugh upon me, a silly play is what reveals me to you,” Lucifer said and started to walk down the hall towards another cask. The torches in the room shifted as their flames all pulled towards the rear window, which was open. The sound of rain softly rattling against the glass as the leaves of trees began to sing. “I’m not come here as a Witcher.” Geralt snapped as Lucifer came to a stop at the next cast. This one smaller than the rest with a burned dwarven rune on the side of it. Lucifer poured another glass this one, blood-red with a pungent smell. Jaskier couldn’t place, but it was intense and inviting. “I admit, I invited him with me because I had figured out what you are and asked Geralt to accompany me because I was afraid to approach you alone,” Jaskier tried to plead his case to Lucifer. “But it was only to invite you to the show. That’s it, I swear to you. Nothing more, not even a threat for a good review! Your grace delighting our presence is all I need” Jaskier nervously laughed while Geralt stood there glaring at Lucifer with malice behind his gaze. “So you are a vampire?” Geralt asked as Lucifer brought the glass to Jaskier. “So what if I am? Does that make me the villain? A monster?” He asked and placed the cup in Jaskier’s hand after delicately taking away the white wine. “Tell me, do you find me that terrifying?”

Lucifer asked, his gaze like a mirror Jaskier could see himself within. A window into the truth which Jaskier wished to see more of. “What are you doing?” Geralt asked, noticing how intensely they were staring at one another. Jaskier’s eyes glazed over, and a small smile appeared on his face. “No, you’re not a villain. Someone with an acrolite carved face and eyes that shine like crystalline glaciers? Not at all… misunderstood perhaps… hmmm… I want nothing more than to make you melt with heated passion at my performance, ” the bard pondered a moment examining Lucifer intently. “I’m certain you have amazing stories as well. Ones that could inspire song and lyric that would enchant the world over!” Jaskier seemed quite taken with Lucifer. His eyes sparkled with inspiration Geralt has seen before. “Please your highness, tell me your story. I will make people better understand you and your greatness,” Jaskier exclaimed wide eyed as he waited for Lucifer to reply.

Lucifer hungry eyes gazed upon Jaskier wrist, his black painted fingernail grazing across Jaskier’s delicate skin along the artery in his forearm. Lucifer attention taken away at how calm Jaskier was. When their eyes locked Lucifer was suddenly infatuated by him. Jaskier spoke nothing but the truth and Lucifer quickly let go of Jaskier’s wrist. A small imprint in his skin that was about to bleed as Lucifer stepped back away from him. “My story? It’s long and complicated.” Lucifer turned away from the question. Geralt suddenly confused by the whole situation as the two exchanged longing looks. “Jaskier?” Geralt asked as he focused on the lovey-dovey face he recognized since Jaskier made it to every muse he had ever taken. “Hey, snap out of it.” Geralt marched up to Jaskier and snapped his fingers in front of his face. Jaskier seemed not to notice his attention on Lucifer. “I have time, please. I must know,” Jaskier all but begged at this point. Lucifer was the most fascinating person he had ever met and damned all to hell he forgot to bring his lute. “Geralt, you horse’s ass. This is not about you!” Jaskier cried with tribulation.

“A pity I feel like on a different day and under different circumstances I would have enjoyed your company, but alas I cannot tell you my tale oh sweet… Jaskier.” Lucifer turned to Sir Lionheart and nodded his head. “Take the Witcher to the private suite and lock him inside until I figure out what Jaskier’s real plan is. Come here.” Lucifer beckoned to Jaskier who forced by magic walked forward. “What! Jaskier snap out of it!” Geralt went to strike the bard, but Sir Lionheart attempted to grapple him. Geralt slapped Jaskier across the face in an attempt to break the spell as Sir Lionheart failed at trying to grab hold of his arm.

The teenager was not strong enough to fight against Geralt’s muscle. He palmed the boy in the face and knocked him on his rear using his Ard ability. The table leg holding onto one of the larger kegs broke as Sir Lionheart collided with it. Geralt watching at the barrel began to rock off its stand and onto the boy. Jaskier paused for a moment after Geralt slapped him across the face. He held his cheek looking a little dazed. “It’s alright, Geralt. I am just going to speak further about the cabaret. I very much want his approval,” still enamoured with Lucifer Jaskier would follow him anywhere. Geralt grimaced as Jaskier walked away and caught the keg before it rolled onto the kid. Lucifer watching them all as his expression fell to horror for what happened within moments of these two entering his castle. “It’s going to be that kind of night.” Lucifer sighed and with a wave of his hand, the table leg snapped back into place making everyone in the room stop for a second. “If you please. We will speak in my study. Come, Witcher, I will not harm him, less I steal from you his love.” Lucifer winked, and Geralt let go of the keg and used his Axii ability. Reaching into Jaskier’s mind using the powers of chaos taking control of his will for the first time. “Step back! He’s dangerous.” Geralt warned.

“Uh! That’s my move!” Lucifer gasped and noticed Sir Lionheart scramble up to his feet with his dagger drawn. “Halt!” Lucifer said to the knight before he attempted to stab Geralt from behind. Jaskier stopped moving and took a cautious step back from Lucifer. He blinked a few times as Lucifer’s charm went quiet at Geralt’s warning. Jaskier continued to step back until he was away from the vampire. His eyes didn’t leave Lucifer as he carefully and cautiously flead back to the witcher. “Geralt…” he whispered, “I think I should have just swallowed my pride and not have gone looking for the King’s approval.”

“You think?” Geralt snapped but realized he caused this situation at equal blame. “Listen, I am not here to kill you.” Geralt said firmly to Lucifer. Lucifer couldn’t read him, a blank slate and Geralt could not understand him. Jaskier was feeling overwhelmed while looking for and exit. He did not dare to move while a stalemate between his dear friend and a misunderstood vampire. The castle Ravenloft sitting in a cursed silence. It was an inspired moment, and Jaskier suddenly understood what he had been missing in his recent works. “Your Highness, I think Geralt and I would like to take our leave. I do hope to see you at the Chameleon at week’s end. I promise you it will be a show you will never forget!” Jaskier grovelled. “And walk into my assassination like a lamb to the slaughter?” Lucifer asked with a delightful grin. “How scandalous? You think once you came into my castle, I was going to let him go?” Lucifer asked, pointing to Geralt. “No, he does not leave… you may go and if you come back I will make sure you and everyone you love disappear. Luke take him away.” Lucifer dismissed the Bard and glared at Geralt. “You wish to fight me alone?” Geralt asked, noticing the room would be just the two of them once they left. Geralt’s witchers senses were paying attention to each and every little thing in the room. Lucifer was no ordinary vampire. The smell on him was old, like a carcass dug up from an ancient tomb. The simple parlour tricks Lucifer had shown so far just a hint from the aura of chaos which exuded from the King. Geralt hoped he had what he needed, superior oil for slaying undead creatures. A potion of black-blood already in his bloodstream to poison a blood sucker. All of these things which Lucifer had probably picked up on by the speed of his pulse. “Are you afraid of me?”

Geralt asked. Sir Lionheart following orders and forced Jaskier away. “Of course, a coward hides behind a lie. Is it so alarming that I fear death?” Lucifer replied nervously scratching his chin. Jaskier struggled against Sir Lionheart. “No, I’m not leaving without Geralt,” Jaskier had to think quickly. He needed to say something that would get Lucifer to let Geralt go. “I— I can’t perform the show without him! Geralt is one of my leads! Without him, there is no show!” Jaskier exclaimed as Geralt’s eyes widened with sudden enlightenment, and he nodded quickly. “Yes! I’ve been on the stage before with Irina and Pricilla last year. The play was called “The Doppler’s Salvation,” I played the witcher.” Geralt said speaking the honest to gods truth.

“Do you expect me to believe Pricilla, the gorgeous, the grand and my love Let you perform with her? That is a laugh you can barely express the truth let alone a human emotion. Who pre tell are you playing this time? Another witcher? Do you take me for a fool?” Lucifer said rather astounded at the garbage coming out of the wolf’s maw. Jaskier butted in to wrangle the conversation in their favour. “Yes, Geralt is usually very method, but this time he will be playing the villain. A glorious call back to his first role in one of my stories,” he was getting elaborate. “Of course Pricilla will be our leading lady and as for my role… that will be a surprise!” Jaskier sounded as if he had planned all of this from the start, but truth be told he was making it up on the spot and going to need to write a whole new script that night if Lucifer let them go. For More Fanfics go ( here )

[youremypride]

The Truth About Love | Ch.2

☽ Have you ever love someone so much, you would do anything for them? Even disturbing the peace between the living and the afterlife? Love knows no boundaries but there is always a price to be paid. How much do you say? As much as your heart desires for your true love.

Pairing: AHS! Michael Langdon x Reader

Genre: romance, angst, violence

Warnings: mentions of death

Note: Before the new episode starts, or is starting, another chapter to get the story rolling.

Word Count: 3046 words

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After the earthquake, I had completely lost track of time. I couldn’t tell how long we were locked in those iron cages. It almost drove me insane if it weren’t for Timothy and Emily. Until one day, they released us from our captive holdings and put us in an armoured vehicle that was silver and made of metal. As I looked out of the window, all I could see was thick fog swarming everywhere. All the leaves from the trees were gone, leaving a bare and eerie look from the outcome. The bark of the trees was burnt. Was there a forest fire or something?

Everything was grey and not a single drop of colour left could be seen. How could an earthquake do so much damage like this? This is why I should’ve watched the news. All my questions were answered by the same man who had took me away.

“There was a missile attack. A lot of countries were affected by it, including us.” Missile attack? Wow, I didn’t think that would happen so soon.

The two workers from before who were supposedly addressed as Cooperative agents said they were bringing us to an outpost. A survival shelter like the ones from Fallout.

“What’s going to happen to us now?” The man threw yellowed radioactive suits at us. “Put these on. The air is contaminated. They’ll explain to you when you arrive.”

They? Who is they? As we stepped out of the vehicle with our suits on, tall black gates welcomed us and it made an unsettling feeling in my stomach. The entire area was closed off with black fences as well. Was this a gated community? No, that can’t be it. To keep people out? Those two agents said that the environment was harmful now. That must be it. I couldn’t imagine being one of the affected. Just thinking about it sent shivers running down my spine.

A figure stood in front of us, dressed in a long robe that covered the person’s entire body, hands covered with gloves and a head mask with large eye googles and an opening tube to help with breathing. It reminded me of the Brotherhood from one of the Silent Hill movies.

The figure brought us further into the clearing and as the fog begins to clear, up ahead there was a man and a woman, kneeling on the grown with three other figures similar to the one in front of us. The woman was begging for forgiveness, saying it over and over again. What was she sorry for?

It was then accompanied by loud fired shots, as both the man and the woman were shot in the head. I felt my chest tightening, my breathing rigid and heavy. Holy shit. They shot them. They fucking shot them.

The entrance to the Outpost was a short curve till we reached the centre of the structure. The figure from before held out a card to the card scanner on the wall, a beep was heard, giving access to the main entry. It was then I knew that it would be the last time I ever saw the outside.

We had been assigned to our own rooms, mine just beside Emily’s. Each room had the same necessities, and a en suite along with it. The wardrobe was filled with long purple dresses, all of them with the same design and cutting. I was never really fond of wearing dresses, but if that’s the only thing I get, then so shall it be. Once I felt the hot water of the shower hitting against my skin, I felt rejuvenated and fresh. It’s been so long since I had one, and the feeling felt so good. My hair that was once greasy was now back to its original condition. I didn’t smell like a hobo anymore and the dirt from my skin had been cleared away.

I stepped out from the shower once I was finished, only to be surprised by a message on the mirror. It had been written out from the steam of the shower. It read, ‘Duo in carne una’. I couldn’t tell what it meant. Maybe someone might tell me but I wasn’t sure if I could trust them, knowing they would be suspicious of me. With a last look in the mirror, I join Emily and Timothy to meet with the others. We followed the music that was playing which brought us to a living room, a fireplace on the other side of the walls, with bookcases and sofas mirroring each other and a coffee table in between. This must be the common room for the survivors here.

There were seven people in the room, three men and four women. One of the women was in grey clothing unlike the rest.

“Well, well, well, well, well. New blood.” The older woman closest to ask spoke. Another woman approached us, “Come in, don’t be shy.” She greeted us warmly.

“You’re Dinah Stevens,” Timothy started, “My mother used to watch your show. She said you beat the pants off Oprah any day.”

“Bless her heart, a million of her and I wouldn’t have to be replaced by that telenovela.”

From my side, a blonde man came up to us, “Um, what’s happening out there?”

“It’s all gone.” Timothy replied. “Everything.” Emily chips in.

“Nothing but death.” I spoke. Thuds started coming from behind us. Ms. Venable was approaching us. She rings a bell, pausing a while before speaking, “Dinner is served.”

A plate holding a small white jelly cube sat in the centre of it.

“It’s all we get. Don’t be too disappointed.” The blonde man now known as Mr. Gallant tells us.

“Darling, you don’t know what disappointment is until you slept with Yul Brynner.” Evie replies back to him. Dinah laughs as Mr. Gallant looks down on his food, “I want to die.”

“The cube on your plate contains every vitamin our body needs.” Dinah informs us, “Or so they tell us.” Beside Timothy, Coco had stuffed her entire cube into her mouth, wolfing it down.

“I’m still hungry. I am so tired of the hunger.” She slams her hand on the table, standing up, “Fuck this bullshit! With all the thought that went into this place, they don’t have a single bag of Pirate’s Booty in the pantry?” While Coco was ranting away with her issues, Ms. Venable and Ms. Mead approaches the dining room from behind her. “For a hundred million dollars a ticket, I expect goddamn Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen cooking us real food!”

Ms. Venable’s cane taps the floor and the room went silent. With a flick of the wrist, Coco was greeted by a slap to her face, Timothy catching her and helping her regain stability. Everyone was shocked but I knew Coco had it coming for her. From the very moment, I could tell she wasn’t appreciative of what she had. Serves you right, bitch. I bit back a smile so that no one could see it.

“I’m going to be very clear so there will be no misunderstanding. We have enough nutrition for the next 18 months. And if our situation doesn’t improve, you can count on less and less.”

“Situation? What is our situation?”

Ms. Venable had informed us about a perimeter alert they had in the morning, saying a carrier pigeon from The Cooperative had sent a message stating that governments were wiped, rotting corpses had increased and survivors out there killing each other for food. Other outposts had been overrun, leaving our outpost the only one that was currently alive. Its been told that all of this happened in a mere of two weeks.

A few others came up, saying they detected a spike coming from the room. Mr. Gallant was quick to blame us just because we recently just got here. We defended ourselves, stating that we went through the procedures before entering The Outpost.

Ms. Mead checked each and everyone of us, and the only people that were caught were Mr. Gallant and Stu. They were dragged away to the decontamination room.

Another day passed and we all gathered back to the dining room. To our surprise Mr. Gallant had joined us, without Stu. He said that he was clean and Stu wasn’t which is why he was able to get free. Andre was blabbing away saying Stu never went outside and that he was with him most of the time, Coco was talking about how she started masturbating to cure her boredom, spewing out insults, causing Andre to curse at her.

Something was off about tonight’s dinner since Ms. Venable considered it a treat after last night calling it the bonne bouche. While the others were drooling over the hot meal, Andre was still not over Stu. Coco as always, getting a spoonful of the meat, slurping it up. Timothy too had suspicions about the meat. Andre began freaking out after finding a finger bone in the stew, claiming that Stu was the stew. Everyone started gagging and coughing out, while Ms. Venable stated it was ridiculous of them to think that. It was only her, Evie and I that was left sitting on the table. Everyone didn’t want to go near the stew anymore.

Evie continued her meal, “I don’t care what it is. It’s absolutely divine, and its full of fibre. I’m going to finish every drop.

“Don’t tell me your thinking of eating the stew, Y/N.” Timothy asked me. Was it wrong? It is after all, food. I was starting to get sick of the jelly cubes. “You shouldn’t waste food, Timothy. As much as it repulses me, I’m going to savour it.” A look of pure disgust came across his face while it earned me a smile from Evie and Ms. Venable.

“Such a good child, Y/N. You all should learn to be like Y/N.” Evie chimes. “Indeed, she is.” Ms. Venable adds on.

The others begin leaving to get back to their rooms, probably cleansing their mouth a hundred times to get the lingering taste off their taste buds.

Andre was glaring at Evie and I. He had an angered expression and the looked in his eyes says he was disgusted by the both of us.

“You’re a monster,” He spite at Evie, “How could you keep eating? You knew what it was. And you, Y/N. You barely just arrived and you think eating my boyfriend was your welcoming gift?!”

“It was chicken, Andre. Delicious white meat chicken.” Evie tried to assure him it was all in his head.

Annoyed, I decided to spite back at him. He needed to stop being such a pussy just because I ate his boyfriend, no pun intended there. “In my defence, I couldn’t care less if it was Stu or not. He tasted great. It’s been such a long time since I had someone in my mouth.” A sinister grin appeared on my face, causing Andre to get worked up.

“You’re disgusting. You’re a cannibal. You’re all cannibals!” He screams. Dinah, who I knew now is his mother, had both her hands on the side of him, stopping him from his rash behaviour. “Think about it. She ate it, too. Stu was contaminated. Why would Venable eat irradiated meat?”

“That’s right,” Timothy agrees, “Why would she feed us poison? The whole reason she is here is to keep us alive.”

“What makes you so certain she wants us alive? You can never trust anyone here, not even yourself.”

Andre starts asking his mother about his body, his ugly sobs starting to make me feel irritated.

“Shut up, shut up!” Emily snaps. “Just listen.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly. The song stopped.”

The old music player had changed to another song. Mr. Gallant proclaims that it was The Cooperative sending a message, saying that they were coming for them and that they were going to be rescued.

He was wrong. They were all wrong. All of them were dejected. Drinking away their sorrows, bringing up their hopes and spirit only for it to come crashing down. I wasn’t. From the day we were attacked, the was no hope left to seek. Only death awaits to give you kiss and embraces you in their darkness.

The days were long and it felt like I was on repeat every day. Wake up in the morning, get dress for the day, eat the same gelatine cubes, hang around with the others in the common room or read the books that filled up the shelves. The place is a bore and my life is a chore. There was nothing fun to do anymore. After a few weeks, Emily and Timothy started to distance themselves away from me. I didn’t take a genius to know what they were doing behind close doors. They had been on secret rendezvous with each other and the rules about copulation was starting to make them feel agitated and lusting for more of each other.

It was better that way. I was able to sneak around the Outpost without Ms Venable or Ms Mead knowing. The Outpost had a theme going the entire place. It was decorated with antique furniture; all the rooms were lighted using fireplaces or candles causing a saturated filter in my eyes. The whole place felt old and Victorian like. They did say this used to be a school. School for what exactly? Witches? I highly doubt it. The old news about that coven school for girls years ago was just the cherry on top. As if they exist in this century.

It dawned on me that it had been eighteen months since our arrival and the attack that left the whole world in chaos. The jelly cubes were starting to get smaller, and not forgetting that one time they served us Stu as stew. I enjoyed it with Evie as the others left to their own rooms, repulsed by the fact they were served human meat. I mean, eventually we all will be eating each other when resources decline and there’s little to none left to eat.

Before heading back into my room, I was startled by Ms Mead after finishing my nightly rounds around the place to digest my dinner.

“Ms Y/N, I’m surprised to see you here. How are you feeling?” Her voice brought me back to my senses, and I glance to her face. She had the same look on her, expressionless with no hint of life. However, I picked up a slight glint in her eyes and the small smirk playing on her lips. To be honest, I was beginning to wonder why she is always trying to start up small conversations with me unlike the rest. Does she have a secret agenda with me? What is her motive for having small talks with me?

“I, um… I’m fine, thank you for asking. Dinner was great. It’s been a while since we had something other than cubes. I’m heading towards my room? Are you heading towards yours as well?” I raised an eyebrow waiting for her reply.

“I’m getting the workers to get a room ready for a guest that’s coming.” Her eyes went big for a while, probably cursing herself for saying something she wasn’t suppose to. “Well, I better hurry along now. Go get some sleep, good night.” She hurried right passed me and disappeared around the corner.

“Weird.” I glance back before walking towards my room.

“My love, why do you call me your flower? Flowers are so beautiful, their petals are painted with different colours to make them stand out from each other, and their lingering scent could put you on a spell. I’m definitely not a flower, I am not beautiful enough to be captivated by.” This caused the man expression to sour after hearing what his lover had said about herself.

“Don’t you dare say something like that about yourself.” He cupped her face with both of his hands and made her look up to him. “I call you flower because you’re the most beautiful amongst all the flowers. I could never get enough of basking my eyes with your beauty. The colours you say? I’ve never seen so much colour in my life before meeting you, and now my vision is filled with bright shades of the colours in contrast to my previous ones of black and grey. I’m always under a spell, your natural scent only keeps me hungry of you more and more. You say you’re not a flower? To me, you’ll always be the most beautiful flower the world has never seen, as your beauty is for my eyes, and my eyes only. My beautiful flower.

“You really do have a way with words, don’t you?” Delicate fingers stroke against the pale white cheeks of the man. He places a small kiss on her palms and caressed her long curly locks of hair before pulling her in for a breath-taking kiss.

“Of course, if it weren’t for my words, I wouldn’t be able to court you at all.” Small laughter escaped from the woman’s mouth and it was music to the man’s ears. Her laughter finally comes to a stop as she held eye contact with the blue hues of the man’s. Green meeting blue, both holding a gaze so powerful with so much endearment and comfort.”

“I love you.” Her velvet voice was so sweet and gentle just like her lover’s embrace, holding her in his arms.

“I love you too,” The man had said a name, but it was unclear before everything starts to become hazy, the scene of the man and the woman fading out into pitch black.

Y/N woke up with a startle. Beads of sweat had dropped down her face, causing small hairs to stick on her forehead. Y/N could feel her heart clenching in pain as if it was broken by something, or someone.  Y/N was still in her purple gown from the previous day and it didn’t help that it was hot and stuffy wearing it to sleep.

Why am I having these dreams again. Who are these people? What is going on? I need answers. I want answers.

[ruluxe]

Scaultrite City

Fandom: Voltron Legendary Defender Pairing: Lance/Loving Himself, Lance/Original Character Characters: Lance, Original Characters Tags: Aliens, Comedy, Lance-centric, Kissing, Marriage Proposal, Gift Fic Summary: Lance rescues a small ice planet from the Galra and its prince wants to thank him in a very peculiar way. Notes: My dear Tom asked me to write a fic where Lance gets appreciated, perhaps by a gorgeous alien prince. I hope I did their request justice. Love ya babe!

Read on Ao3

Lance cautiously follows the royal guard down the long stretch of hallway towards the throne room. They're dressed in long, heavy robes made from what looks like crushed velvet, soft blue in colour and fastened together with holo buttons. They march robotically, carrying slender poles that resemble a wizard’s staff, complete with an opalescent orb caged within a crystal claw.

The castle walls are made of glistening scaultrite. He remembers the ordeal Keith once had to go through to get some and wonders just how they managed to harvest this much from the belly of a weblum.

“You could make a thousand giant teluduvs out of this castle,” he says brightly, hoping to break the uncomfortable silence. The guards do not regard him.

He stops abruptly as they halt at a giant door, one tall enough to fit the whole of Voltron through. There are knockers made of scaultrite too and as one of the guards leans forward to lightly tap one against the door, Lance begins to get nervous. For once in his life he feels like his wit and charm might not be useful in this situation, he’s already tried a number of times. It isn't until another royal guard pokes it's pale grey face out a small and round peep door inside the larger one that Lance's mood lightens. He feels like he's seen this comical movement somewhere before.

They speak to each other in a foreign language, a series of mechanical whirs and clacks that sound more like heavy machinery struggling to start up rather than words that have any meaning. The guard behind the door shifts its beady black eyes towards Lance and then nods in understanding before shutting the smaller door.

He suddenly begins to sweat profusely under his paladin armour despite the frosty atmosphere. Lance tries to convince himself that this could only mean good things, but the guards’ stiffness doesn't put him at ease. He begins chewing on his bottom lip as the guards usher him inside. It’s funny that no matter how many times he's done this before, doing it alone makes this so much more nerve-wracking.

There’s a long swoosh and a booming thud, the sounds of a big and heavy deadbolt sliding to unlock. The doors open with a loud whining creak and Lance follows their lead.

Inside the throne room, guards form a line on either side of a navy carpet, stretching the distance of this very large space. They’re dressed differently in here, with tall garish caps and chin straps to hold them in place. Their robes are just as long but the collars resemble white feather boas and the cuffs remind Lance of faux fur hand muffs. Their weapons are spears made from scaultrite with tips so sharp they could pierce through the thickest of armour. None of them look at Lance, but rather through him as he walks. Like statues. It gives him the chills.

“Welcome,” a voice calls, silken and soft. It echoes off the hollowed walls.

Lance startles, it’s the first bit of English he’s heard since arriving on this planet, other than the slurs and curses of the Galran fleet he took out moments ago.

His eyes find the throne. It’s huge and jagged points make it look like an iceberg jutting out from the Arctic Ocean. Also made of scaultrite.

“No surprise there,” Lance mutters under his breath. Then his eyes fall to the being occupying it.

He expected to find a short, pudgy alien, like the rest of the residents in the city. They, like the guards, are slightly different in appearance, a light grey compared to the sickly, almost translucent colour of occupants outside the kingdom. Their faces are round like small moons, their irises pinprick black floating around mercury-like sclera but otherwise humanoid features. One nose, one mouth, normal teeth and oddly enough, human ears. It’s kind of jarring to look at, even though he’s seen his fair share of extraterrestrials.

Their leader, however, is much different.

He is strikingly handsome, with silvery skin and flowing white hair. His irises are an icy blue, stark against the dark sclera. Just under his eyes bear the mark of an Altean, though these are crystalline, dug deep into the leader’s cheekbones unnaturally and catch the light like the rest of the castle. Lance can't help but shudder with a peculiar intrigue. His ears are pointed and peek through strands of his hair, which Lance wonders if they are also in homage to the race. Atop the leader’s head is a scaultrite crown with five high points resembling shards of glass. In the front centre is the highest and widest, adorned with a large opalescent gem. He wears a long, midnight blue mantle over a futuristic looking bodysuit that looks and shines like it was made from mithril. It’s fashionable, Lance will admit, but practical and comfortable? He doubts it.

“I am Prince Oz,” he declares, rising from his throne.

Lance snorts and hysterical laughter follows. He knows now why everything had felt so familiar to him.

The prince cocks his head in confusion. “Why do you laugh?” he asks, his mouth quirking into a smile.

Lance tries to stifle it before he gets into trouble but can’t help himself. “Your name is Oz. Like the Oz? As in the Wizard of Oz?”

The smile drops from his face as he shakes his head, his brows knit pensively. “I do not know this wizard you speak of. In this kingdom, there is only one Oz and it is I, the great and powerful.”

“Yeah huh,” Lance agrees with a nod as he fights off another laughing fit. “It’s nice to meet you, Prince Oz, the great and powerful.” He bows as the prince steps down and suddenly that anxious knot is back and Lance has to wonder if these aliens are versed in linguistic nuance. All jokes aside, he must be serious now otherwise he’ll probably be beheaded before Blue can crash through this scaultrite palace to rescue him.

The prince takes his gloved hand and kisses it, and heat flushes Lance's cheeks. “I had my guards bring you here to thank you for saving our city. It has been under the Galra’s control for too long. We fought back at first but many of my people suffered and died at their hands.”

Lance stands, watches with confusion as the prince circles around him, skimming his long fingers along his paladin armour.

“You must be a very brave warrior on your planet. We have heard the legends of Voltron but have always wondered if our kingdom was too far out of its reach. For you to travel so far through thousands of galaxies to save our home from the Galra’s clutches says a lot about your character, paladin —”

The prince stops, slides his fingers under Lance's chin. They're surprisingly smooth and cool against the heat of his skin. Oz looks at him expectantly and realisation dawns on him.

“Lance,” he squawks, instantly chastising himself for producing such an undignified sound in front of royalty.

Oz tips his chin and smiles. Lance can see his reflection in the scaultrite boomerangs under the prince’s eyes.

“Lance… what a lovely name.”

Lance's heart is thudding in his chest. He isn't sure if he's flattered or terrified or a little bit of both. He laughs nervously, feet cemented to the scaultrite floor. “Thanks… And the whole saving your planet thing well, it was really nothing,” he says as modestly as possible but it sounds just as boastful as anything that comes out of his mouth.

“I beg to differ,” says the prince, coming full circle to stand in front of him. Lance hadn't realised how tall the other was before now. Not when his words are softly spoken and his height is quite clearly being used for intimidation. “Which is why I have prepared a feast in your honour to not only commemorate your bravery but to celebrate our union.”

Lance physically feels his eyes bulge out of their sockets and his heart jumps into his throat. “Our what?!” he chokes, leaping a step back away from the prince.

Oz smiles once again and though he's still gorgeous, his facial expressions are beginning to look a lot more nefarious. Even downright eerie. “Our union, of course. Your level of courage will be a quality that my people must learn to aspire to and my excellence will continue to expand this beautiful city until we are a force to be reckoned with. Together we will lead Scaultrite City — and possibly the universe — to greatness.”

Lance forces down the panic quickly rising from his gut. He isn't quite sure how to get out of this. “Uh, look man —” He stops himself in an attempt to smooth out the tremble in his voice but he also reminds himself that he is speaking with royalty. He clears his throat again after shooting a nervous glance over his shoulder. The guards are still in their places and have yet to start closing in. Even the prince remains at the foot of his throne. “I’m sorry, Prince Oz, but I can't marry you. I also can't stay here on your planet. I have a family back on my home planet that I miss a lot. My sister Veronica, my brothers Luis and Marco. My parents and grandparents. Besides, I already have some—”

Again Lance stops himself from finishing the sentence with someone I love. He has no idea how the prince would react to that. Instead, he says, “— other planets I have to rescue from the Galra.” He ends up puffing out his chest, if intentional he'll never really know. “Voltron needs me. They'd be lost without my mad skills.”

The prince stares at him in what Lance hopes is quiet consideration. He's sure if he makes it out alive, this will definitely be a story to tell, though he'll make sure he leaves out the part where he was so terrified at one point, he probably would have peed his pants.

Finally, after what seemed like one thousand decaphoebs, the prince nods. “I agree, Lance. It would be truly selfish of me to steal you away from your duties as a valiant paladin of Voltron. You must continue your mission.”

Lance shakes his head in shock. He doesn't think he heard right. “Are you serious? You're letting me go, just like that?”

It's the prince's turn to shake his head and he begins closing the distance between them. “I do not hold you captive, Lance. You are free to leave at any time.”

“But what about our union?” Lance blurts. He scolds himself internally for not being able to think before he speaks. He backs away from the prince as he gets closer when he hears a commotion behind him and his back hits against something preventing him from moving any further. His heart starts to race and his blood runs cold knowing that the guards behind him have just blocked his only exit and this is about to get real dangerous. Lance wonders if he should try and reach out to Blue but part of him feels guilty already at the thought of the lion destroying the castle to get to him. It is truly a stunningly marvellous building.

The prince leans forward and he takes Lance's head in his hands. He's even more beautiful up close. His hands are smooth as they caress Lance's skin, igniting a fire in Lance's cheeks. Despite the gentle motion, Lance is frightened, and his eyes squeeze shut as he tries to concentrate on calling out to his lion.

However, the link is broken when he feels the plush push of lips against his own. His heart stops for a minute, either out of terror or some other emotion he isn't quite sure has a name. His petrification only eases from here on out, beginning in the tips of his toes. A tingling warmth meanders through his icy veins, and Lance can't explain it himself but he finds himself embracing the kiss, gently grasping at the prince's cloak. He has no idea what he's doing.

The kiss doesn't last longer than a dobash, at least he thinks so. Lance isn't sure if he's disappointed or relieved by that fact. Either way, when their lips part, Lance is left in a hazy and wanting state. He has half a mind to chase that heat right back to the prince's mouth.

Luckily, the prince speaks.

“It is an open invitation shall you return. It was an honour to meet you, paladin Lance. I hope one day we meet again.”

Lance can feel the heat radiating off his entire body, certain that he'd melt ice should he be near it. He's rendered speechless, and happily so, lest he make a fool out of himself saying any number of things that would get him into trouble.

The prince turns on his heel and walks gracefully up the stairs to his throne. Lance watches in awe before stammering, “It— It was uh, very nice to m-meet a great and powerful prince like yourself.”

Gone is the resistance at his back and as Oz sits, Lance catches one more of his smiles, this one more genuine than the rest. “And never will again, I fancy. There is only one of I and I am it.”

Lance nods, feigning understanding, and turns to leave the throne room. The guards are back to lining a walkway, silent and statuesque for their tiny, fat bodies. The door is closed and there is no doorman in sight. Lance's anxiety returns.

“Uh,” he asks shakily, running his hand through his hair. “How do I get out of here?”

“All you must to do is to knock on the door three times and command the wormhole created to carry you wherever you wish to go,” Oz calls from his throne.

Lance turns to face the prince and almost laughs. “Are you saying I've gotta tap three times and repeat 'there's no place like home ’?”

“If home is where you desire,” replies Oz. The marks on his face Lance had assumed were fake until now begin to glow as he places both hands over orbs on the armrests of his throne Lance had failed to notice before. Maybe he was some form of an alternate universe Altean after all.

He marvels for a moment, even more in awe than before. This is probably simultaneously the coolest and weirdest thing that's ever happened to him since this journey began. It makes him think of home, where there are vast valleys of green and blue skies with the fluffiest of clouds; crystal blue oceans and the people he loves most. Where things move at a slower pace but that's okay because he'd get to savour the moments. Yet he knows if he had never come here, he would never have found his place in the world, would have never have known what it's like to be part of a team that needs him. A universe that needs him. He would have never come to value his own self-worth.

So, as desperate as he is to go home to be with his family, Lance does not knock three times and wish for that. Instead, he closes his eyes and thinks of his other family, and the home he's found in them.

And he knocks.

[forthepursuitofknowledge]

“You won’t hurt me, I promise.”

Noah looked to Kaz, his eye wide surprise at the statement. A part of him could tell that behind the confidence the man there was a very real truth. Perhaps he couldn’t even harm the Xaela? Maybe he wasn’t even capable of making the man before him flinch…

But he certainly had to try now didn’t he?

“Alright then…let’s see how true that can hold.” Noah spoke, his tone of voice calm, collected…almost jovial as he casually sauntered towards his weapon. The sky was black as pitch, stars gently casting their signature dotted shine but it almost seemed to hardly pierce the inky black void the resided above them. The wide plains of the Steppes were a fitting battleground to test all that he’d been learning, all that Syvard had been teaching him in the last few moons. Noah could feel that lingering mix of anticipation and anxiety as he looked to his opponent. Kaz was by no means anything less than intimidating, sporting a similar black garb wrapped around his eye, wearing a mix of armours and leathers that allowed him flexibility and protection where it counted. Green locks slicked back, and that piercing single eye of the Xaela were all a fierce mix of stoic, unbridled power.

 “I am not sure how far you’d want me to take this Noah…Or honestly how long you’d last under such duress. Didn’t you say you’ve only recently picked up your axe?” Kaz let a brow rise ever so slightly, a cautious, confused look to the behemoth.

“You heard right…but I’ve been taught very extensively.” Noah quipped, “Don’t get me wrong, I do ‘not’ for the life of me expect to win this, I’m not a fool! But…to not so much as hurt you? Well - “ The man laughed before placing his helm atop his head. Noah was adorned in a fine mix of plate and chainmail, the heavy metals covering him well bit still leaving some open areas to give ‘some’ ability to move. The royal blue armour accented by a golden trim, and finished with a few red robes that adorned him. These colours had purpose, meaning to him…and while he wore his armour he could feel his confidence at it’s peak. He felt like the very Knight’s he would try to idolize in his youth. “- I’m very eager to test myself to that.” Noah took a stance, his axe at the ready.Kaz smirked ever so slightly, a gentle tug to the end of his lips left before unhooking the massive greatsword he carried with him. “Alright then, but don’t be surprised by the result.”

It began without pause after Kaz spoke those words, Noah hunched forwards, lowering himself before darting towards his sparring partner. Kaz simply waited whilst Noah close the gap, and seeing Noah’s body turn as he wound up his initial strike, he could see where Noah was guiding his weapon. Noah spun his large axe around his person to the right, not intending to strike at Kaz but rather to build momentum for his follow up. With all the speed he’d hoped to build up as the weapon reached the end of it’s first swing, Noah fluidly sent the weapon of his into another swing, this time arching to come down upon the Xaela. 

Kaz sent his weapon upwards, the two heavy edges meeting one another. Though for all the force Noah had tried to build, Kaz was able to guard the attack with relative ease. As Kaz put his force into his weapon, his push back of the clashing blades sent Noah back a few steps. 

Damn…the man may have been right…maybe I ‘can’t’ hurt him. The Hyur thought, still though, he had to admit the notion of such an impossible task made it all the more interesting to try and tackle.

Kaz was on the assault now, his blade low to the ground as he ran full speed towards Noah. With a swing upwards swing Kaz’s blade cut vertically, the edge almost singing as it moved through air. It took damn near all Noah’s strength to guard that attack of his with the belly of his axe, the long pole horizontal and catching the weapon, if the swords travel ‘may’ have caused it song as it moved - then certainly the clash of the two weapons was the chorus’ valiant climax.

The smaller man stumbled back a bit, seeming on the ropes as Kaz moved in to close the gap and ram the pommel of his blade into Noah’s center. Despite the plating, Noah felt the blow as if he’d simply forgone his metal armour, being sent back in a roll backwards, ending up laying on the ground and coughing and hacking behind his helm, trying to catch his breath and tell himself the pain had to be shaken off.

“You ready to stop, Noah?” Kaz gave a confident laugh as he slung his blade over his shoulder, looking at the man clad in knightly armour struggle to get to his feet. “You know there’s no shame at all in just turning in on this.” The Xaela’s smile was most definitely that of the shit eating variety, though he meant no ill by it.

The armour clad form shaking just a bit, form trembling inside his plated shell could be heard panting before leaning slightly upon his axe. “Y-…You know…as appealing as that sounds…I-…” the man groaned as he stood himself up again, “I got more in me.”

“Then don’t hold back anything, I’d rather we go at this with our all.” Kaz spoke sternly, eyes narrowed on Noah as though knowing there was more to the man than just that.

As Noah finally got himself standing upright and proper he could understand what Kaz meant, he pointed to Kaz. “You asked.” He gave a small laugh before gripping his axe and drove the head to slam against the ground for a moment while he concentrated. Noah began to focus, conjure images and thoughts in his mind that drove him to relive some of the anger he’d at times withdrawn. The fights adrenaline already had him worked up, his body was already on that anxious precipice and so it didn’t take much more to get him to push off and find himself embracing the Beast.

Channeling his own Inner Beast, Noah’s lone optic suddenly blared to a red, intense life as from behind his helm’s guard that lone red flare had a bright eerie glow. The man’s panting intensified, his body trembled still as he struggled with that instinctive rage the Beast always had wrought.  The man’s grip on his weapon went taught and in a swift movement the mid-lander was rushing towards Kaz. A low, raspy growl from him as he drew closer until the man swing hard - sending the large, hammer like butt of his weapon towards the Xaela’s left side, arching towards his torso.

Kaz once more saw the direction of the weapon and again brought his weapon to guard…but the wide center of blade was struck much harder than the Xaela had anticipated. Kaz felt himself pushed back a bit, eye widening in surprise only to see Noah’s left arm swinging around. Using the full amount of force he would summon, putting a fine curvature and rotation of his hips into the strike - Noah sent a left hook to Kaz’s right kidney, the fist landing firm.

There was a loud clasping sound of fist hitting muscle as Kaz felt the impact hit him. Noah’s anger driving him forwards he slammed his reared his fist back and again sent it to Kaz’s open kidney, and again, each blow having a rather potent almost piston like amount of nearly combustible force. However, upon making way for a fourth blow Kaz caught Noah’s arm and swiftly responded with a strong knee to the Hyur’s center. The force of his counter enough to slightly lift Noah off the ground.

Noah wasn’t certain if he were seeing double, perhaps the blow cause his vision to scatter, but he could have sworn that following up on the knee, that two Kaz’s stood before him, both swinging their blades upwards and carving two jagged scars into the man’s blue armours.

Noah was thrown back, landing hard on his back as he gasped once more for breath, the man was completely wiped out, body aching - screaming at him to let it rest now through the many various pain receptors all signalling the extend of the damage was not lethal, but certainly painful. “O-…okay,” Noah spoke between pants. “I think my ass is thoroughly kicked…” he coughed again, groaning as he moved about slowly.

Kaz moved towards the fallen midlander, offering a hand to help him to his feet as he chuckled, “Not too bad, Noah. You did well for a newcomer.”

Noah took the hand and again groaned out as he was pulled to his feet by the massive man. Though as he stood a bit hunched, he watched Kaz turn and take a few steps as he placed his sword back onto his back where it held. 

“S-…so…what do you think Kaz? H-…Hurting at all?” Noah asked, still panting as he slowly looked to the departing Xaela.

Kaz just grinned to himself before calling back. “Not nearly as much as you, Noah.” He said, offering a wave while walking along.

Noah paused, thinking for a moment, “That is not a real answer!!!!” He shouted to the greatsword wielding behemoth. 

Only to be met with a small laugh carried along the winds…

So wow! Thanks for reading all this is you made it this far! I wanna thank @fujiwarakazunari for the ask and I hope this played out a bit like you’d had thought! Kaz ain’t no joke man! Noah’s got some brushing up to do, the scrub! Thanks for reading and hope to get more asks in the future!

[jiraiya-goketsu-writing]

More writings of a tired, caffeinated man

The guards led me through the hallways of the ancient cavern.  They were beneath the ancient Lake Biwa.  The most famous lake in central Japan; much like my patrons, the lake had witnessed much of the history of this land.  A massive lake that once bordered several provinces in ancient times, held a single, solitary island in the middle. Beneath this island lay secrets that humanity had long since forgotten about.

Kagemusha.

Shadow Warriors.

This elite sect of warriors fought the shadows from within the shadows.

Humans had forgotten the role these important heroes and heroines played in shaping the history of the Land of the Rising Sun.  I had forgotten too.

But the funny thing about one’s lineage—it is hard to run from.  My lineage was steeped in the Kagemusha, and for all the running my grandparents did after the war, it was not enough.

All the way to the USA they ran; two oceans, three continents, and thousands of miles.  Yet here I stood, in my ancestral homelands, deep beneath the surface of the seemingly perfect land.  I had always dreamed to come back, but not like this.  This was not how I had imagined fate would bring me here.

The two guards stood much taller than I ever could; almost seven feet by my estimates.  To accommodate their increased height, the ceilings were at least ten feet tall, carved from the natural stone of the Earth.

As I walked down the hallways, following my guards garbed in what seemed to be a highly advanced exoskeleton of metal and machinery.  I could not see their faces, but what seemed to be their hair sprouted from a small hole at the back of their helmets.

Long, banded ponytails wrapped in cloth hung down to their knees, swaying gracefully behind them.  The tip of their ponytails held within it, two hooked blades that jutted out from the sides.  The ponytail provided both function and fashion, it seemed.

As I was escorted down the hallway towards my unknown destination, I witnessed scrolls, hung beautifully and evenly across the walls.  Long scrolls with elaborate paintings upon them of great heroes and mighty beasts.  Yokai and demons battled the heroes of the Kagemusha; men and women who bravely fought for the greater good.

The farther down the hall I walked, the older the paintings seemed to be.  I recognized battles and images from other famous depictions.  

Osaka.

Sekigahara.  

The Imjin War.

Shizugatake.

Honno-ji.

Odawara.

Okehazama.

Dan-no-ura.

Ichi-no-tani.

Shishi-no-tani.

Names were written on the massive hanging scroll, and dates.  Colours and vibrancy made the images almost come to life. It was beautiful.

Whoever had painted this wall scroll had put time and dedication into telling the story of the Kagemusha.  Little did I know I would soon meet the artist herself.

Finally the hallway ended and I was escorted into a rectangular room lit by a fireplace and several wall torches.  At the centre of the room, a massive stone table stood, lined with cushions. Of course I’d be sitting on the floor.

I was forcibly sat upon the cushion nearest the door I had been forcibly shoved through.  Within moments the armoured guards disappeared behind the sliding door that led to the meeting room, and shut it behind them.

Through the silhouettes in the doors I could see that they remained on guard outside the door, ever vigilante, as if they expected to be attacked at any second.

I had been waiting not minutes before the other door slid open to reveal a retinue of handmaidens, each armed with a naginata and a quiver of arrows.

They dressed much like Shrine Maidens would, but with more purpose, and a greater intent on going into battle.  These handmaidens wore red hakama, two legged bottoms that appeared as skirts but were closer to baggy pants.  And white gi, their robes folded left over right, with long billowing sleeves that no doubt contained even more weaponry.

The women were tall, not as tall as the men who had escorted me, but well above six feet; at least six and a half if not more.  Their skin was pale and their features sharp and slender, attractive and beautiful.

From what little I could see of their faces, I could tell these women were beautiful beyond normal human standards.

Their hair came in ponytails trailing behind them, bouncing from their width and weight.  Red, silver, platinum, silver, blonde, white.  These colours trailed behind the girls as they walked.

Their thick ponytails were bound and decorated with metal rings of gold, silver and red, their meanings lost to my ignorance.

The only thing about them that unsettled me, aside from their eerie silence, was their eyes.  Covered by strips of black cloth and…glowing with a white, otherworldly light from beneath.

I looked away from the handmaidens as they lined the walls, standing on guard to protect…something.

Then I looked upon their leader, and bowed my head instantly in respect.

She stood tall, over seven feet; taller than even the guards just outside the door.

She was slender, dressed in the finest of billowing robes.  Yet despite the intricacy of the heavy, silk robes, it looked as if this women would have no trouble fighting off an army on her own.

She carried in one hand, a massive, black metal staff.  It was plain, but looked weighty and deadly.

Her features were much like those of her handmaidens.  Sharp.  Her chin, her noise—sharp with slender lines and definition.  She was incredibly beautiful and looked no older than I, and yet she carried the burden of one much older than she.

The woman’s eyes were gold, like her long hair that trailed behind her, dragging several feet on the floor behind her.  She bore no pupils, with just golden disks surrounded by white sclera.

Her skin was pale like the moon and shone with radiance in the limited firelight.

She smiled.  Laughed. Her voice like a melody sung upon the sweetest flutes dipped in honey and gilded with gold.  She was the embodiment of grace, elegance and beauty.

Kaguya.  Empress Kaguya.  That was what I soon learned her name to be.  She was leader of the Tsuki-jin, the Moon People.

“My dear child,” she spoke gently to me, “You look upon my beauty and admire it…yet if you knew how old I truly was, you could shriek and call me an old hag.”

The women chuckle in a kind, yet demure way.  She sounded as if she had played this game for years.  The game played by nobles and high-society; the game of talking with two tongues.

Kaguya played this game well; she had mastered it in her many years of playing. I, being but a normal peasant compared to her, frowned, unable to respond in like kind.

I bowed.  Low, my forehead almost touching the table.  “Forgive me, I did not mean offence.”

Kaguya smiled.  Her features then transformed from one of kindness to seriousness.  Her brows furrowed, her mouth frowned—though not unkindly—and she looked at me as if she was inspecting my very soul.

“You are rough around the edges, but training will fix that child,” she said softly, her voice the gentle blowing of the wind upon the boughs of a willow, “You know why you are here?”

“Because I am Kagemusha by blood,” I responded, knowing only what my captors had told me.

“Because you are one of the few who can still say that,” frowned Kaguya, “In all my three thousand years on this planet, I never thought I would see the day where the cause against the demons went so poorly that we had to begin enlisting the children of deserters.”

Even when she seemed upset, I could not help but desire to throw myself at her feet and beg for mercy, for forgiveness—for her love.

I soon learned this was part of her natural defences.  It was a spell she had used upon herself, to throw her enemies off guard and gut them like a fish when they were not paying attention.  This combined with her exotic looks and natural beauty had been the demise of many the weaker mind.

She was testing me that day.  I am glad to say I passed—for I did resist.

“Child, do you even understand what the word Kagemusha means?” she asked me, standing up, the shadows of the fire dancing upon her face.

“My Japanese is rusty, I’ll admit,” I bowed again, “I know what they are though. Kagemusha hunt demons.”

“Kagemusha hunt the shadows.  The very evil that allows demons to exist,” explained Kaguya, her lips pursed tightly but her voice still like sweet nectar to my senses, “Kagemusha--Kage meaning shadow, musha meaning warrior.  We are a Shadow Warriors, and the meaning is two fold.  We fight the shadows from the shadows.  We use the power of the demons against them—the necessary evil.”

I remained silent.  The logs in the fire popped and crackled as the flames danced and licked the stone confines of the fireplace and heated the hearth.

“You will learn everything there is to learn about being Kagemusha,” Kaguya said, smiling like a cat about to pounce on a fat, sleeping pigeon, “And you will learn as your predecessors have.”

I sat there, I said nothing, I did nothing.  I locked eyes with Kaguya, and my vision blurred.  I could not move, or talk, or anything.  I sat there as I entered her mind’s eye.  There she showed me things—many things.  She showed me three thousand years of history and beyond. Things that to this day, I dare not wonder on for fear of madness.

For in life, I’ve learned that the gods and all the spirits rarely make sense to us humans.  Their reasons lay a mystery to us—their plans, our fates, known only to them. Why and when and how, that is the thinking of beings far beyond us, and I do not envy them.

You see, my child, our story starts with the gods above.  Izanami and Izanagi—those who created this very world from a spear and some mud.  Listen close, it’s not a tale that can be easily understood by idle minds.