#I’m really pleased with the mask sigil on the shield

[missingrache]

D&D au Morpheus and Hob minis~

Did I make them specifically so I could make them kiss? Possibly.

[chalkrevelations]

A bit more than a week ago, I reblogged a post (several responses down) from an OP who asked about reasons to work with deities of war. I mentioned my social justice and direct action work with Mars and Tyr as patrons. But mostly I talked about how, over my most recent year and a half of nursing, I’d come to intimately understand that Mars - the guardian and protector of boundaries - is a god of PPE and the immune system and vaccines. I mentioned a Mars sigil that I use, including on the PAPR hood that I wear with the portable air filter when I’m going into the room of a Covid patient or that I draw on a vaccine vial before I administer it, among other uses. I had some interest in that sigil, so I’m posting it here.

I tried to make it simple, so that it could be done quickly. The main part of the image is a traditional Mars symbol (the symbol we’re used to seeing for “male” or “man”) - a circle with an arrow sticking out of it, shield and spear. The circle is the boundary around what’s being protected. The arrow acts as a symbolic fascinus, the classical Roman representation of a phallus that was considered good luck, which turned away evil and invoked protection. In the center of the circle is a dot. This symbolizes what’s being protected - from an entire body down to the cellular level - remaining whole and complete, keeping its integrity, staying unaffected by disease. In combination with the circle (shield) of the Mars symbol, the dot also creates a simplified nazar, a Mediterranean/Levantine/Arabic symbol to ward off the evil eye. That’s the basic sigil. That’s what I use particularly when I need to draw it quickly, including on a vaccine vial, when I just do it with my finger and not a pen.

If I really want to power it up, and I have time - like on my surgical mask that I put on every day before my shift - I add four thurisaz runes encircling it. The “thorns” of the runes stick outward from the circle, and they’re drawn with a STRONG intention of thurisaz specifically as the hedge of protection. The “thorns” face out, to focus any chaotic energy away from what’s being protected in the circle, so that what’s in the center of the circle continues to run/work in an orderly, organized, correct (homeostatic) fashion. If I include the runes, they’re drawn in counter-clockwise, for a banishing effect.

Please feel free to use this if you’re in situations that it could be helpful. I don’t particularly care about credit, but I’d be very interested to hear from anyone who does use it, how and when you’re using it.

I ... am also thinking about making some kind of anointing oil, putting it in a roller-ball applicator, and drawing this sigil somewhere on the outside walls of my hospital in the four cardinal directions (probably sometime AFTER DARK when I leave after a shift one night). I need to think about what oils I need to use, though.

[acourtofhopeanddreams]

The Queen and the Stable Boy

Written for @jonsa-creatives​ Queen Sansa Jonsa Event - Day 1

Jon Snow is only a stable boy and even though he's very much in love with Queen Sansa, he's not sure if the spotlights and the throne are for him

Royalty AU // Cinderella Elements

A million candles lighted the ballroom of Winterfell castle. People in colorful and expensive clothes gathered around the buffet table or waited for the orchestra to start playing so they could dance the night away.

Although all of them were wearing masks, as was required tonight, most of them hadn’t tried to hide their identities well. They had their family shields embroidered on their jackets or they proudly wore golden necklaces with their house hold sigils.

Like always Jon felt out of place. Even though Winterfell was his home, he had never been one of them. He didn’t have chests filled with gold to buy clothes he would only wear once. He didn’t own a villa or an extra house somewhere in the south to hide away during the cold winters.

If she wouldn’t have begged him to be here tonight, he wouldn’t have come. He would have happily spend his night with the horses or in a tavern nearby with his friends, a few beers and jokes no lady would ever want to hear.

“You came.” Her red hair was braided and her golden crown rested on her head. The beautiful white dress she was wearing accentuated all of her beautiful curves. And even if she had not been the Queen, he would have recognized her beautiful blue eyes everywhere. Especially now the glimmering white mask made them sparkle.

Jon bowed, as a man of his standing was supposed to do. “Did you really doubt I would?”

Sansa raised her eyebrows. “Honestly?” She smiled. “Yes, I did doubt it. I know that those royal balls and official gatherings are not your favorite pastime.” There was a hint of sadness in her voice. “I hope that it helps that everyone is masked and that no one will know who you are tonight.” She shamelessly stared him up and down.

He wore a simple black costume that had once belonged to his father. The costume had been torn and shredded a bit, but one of the kitchen maids had happily fixed it up for him. He hoped that she was safely hidden in the kitchen and wouldn’t recognize him dancing with the Queen.

“You look even more handsome than usually tonight.” Sansa eventually locked her glance with his again. “And we match even better than I had in mind when I gave you that black mask to wear.”

He couldn’t help but smiling back at her. “May I have this dance of you, Your Majesty?” He held out his hand and without a moment of hesitation Sansa placed her hand in his and allowed him to guide her to the dance floor.

“And now you are dancing too.” The smile on her face grew brighter when he rested one hand on her back and used his other hand to held hers.

He wasn’t very talented when it came to dancing. He knew the steps and he had just enough training to not step on anyone’s toes, but that was about it.

But Sansa kept on smiling while they twirled around and around following the rhythm of the violin.

No matter where they moved everyone made room for them. And while Sansa seemed lost in her world of day dreams Jon heard the whispers and saw the frowns on the many faces following them eagerly.

“I need some fresh air.” He cleared his throat and as smoothly as he was capable of he moved them towards the door leading to the garden.

Even though spring had arrived a couple of weeks ago the evening air was still quite cold and yet pearls of sweat covered his forehead.

“Jon…” Sansa stepped back. “I know that tonight is a night to celebrate, but I think we need to talk.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him with her.

In silence they walked away from the palace bursting with life. When they were far enough away to know for sure that no one would be watching or hearing them Sansa sat down on a stone bench next to the pond.

He knew what she was going to say. He knew what she was going to ask. She had asked him that same question more often. And he wasn’t sure if he could keep on avoiding answering her.

“You have to make a choice, Jon.” Sansa folded her hands in her lap while he sat down next to her. Whenever she was in public she was fierce and strong and slightly distant. But when she was with him she was just a little girl longing for someone to understand her and hold her and protect her. “I can’t keep on dancing with mysterious strangers for much longer. The council already thinks I’m stalling and…” She swallows. “If I don’t marry within a month, they threaten to pick someone for me.”

Jon’s heart stopped beating. Even though he didn’t see himself as a King, he couldn’t stand the thought of Sansa marrying someone else. When he tried to envision another Prince touching her delicate and beautiful body a unwelcome rage came over him.

“You’re afraid and I understand that, but I know you will be the best King Westeros has ever known.” She bit her bottom lip. “And I want you as my husband. I want to share my throne with you. I want to see your pretty face in my bed every morning when I wake up. I want to share my breakfasts and lunches and dinners with you and…” She paused. “I want you to be the father of my children and the future ruler of this kingdom.”

“If only you weren’t a Queen…” Jon murmured. “I would have married you years ago already. We would have lived in a small cottage. You would play with our kids and I would earn just enough money to get whatever we needed.”

Sansa smiled and she let her head rest on his shoulder. She was taller than him and yet she always gave him the feeling he was the one protecting and holding her. “I don’t want to marry anyone else, Jon.”

“I don’t want you to marry anyone else either.” Jon sighed. “But I’m only a simple stable boy. Your council will never accept me as your King.”

“Of course they will! You are everything a King should be! They can scout and search the entire world and they will never find anyone as perfect for this job as you. I am sure they will see quite soon what an amazing person you are.”

Jon sighed. “I will be the first commoner ever to get on the throne.”

“I think it is good for Winterfell to have someone on the throne who knows what real life looks like. Who’s not blinded by gold and riches. You can give all those people who have never felt heard a voice.”

“As if the council will let me.” Jon bent his head.

“Jon…” Sansa stood up and then she pulled up her dress so she could kneel down in front of him. “I know it will be far from easy and I know that people will try to undermine you and therefore me. But I know that my world is better with you in it. My days are brighter and my nights are warmer with you by my side.” She shook her head. “Every time I try to envision a future without you, I start crying.” She reached for his hands and held them firmly between her own. “Please, Jon, please marry me and be my King. Please, make me the first Queen who marries the man she loves.”

A tear rolled down Jon’s cheek. If he would say no it would all be over. Every moment they had shared, every night they had spent together, every day they had succeeded to sneak away without any of the soldiers following them. It would be nothing but a memory, fading over time.

“How can I ever say no to you, Sansa?” Jon freed his hands and pressed his palms to her cheeks. Her skin felt so soft compared to his roughness and yet she grabbed his wrist to ensure he wouldn’t pull away. “Good, I will be your King.”

“Not just my King…” Sansa whispered. “My husband. My love. My everything.”

He nodded and then he leaned forward so their lips could touch. Even though they had kissed countless of times before this kiss felt different. The way Sansa’s tongue touched his was different. The way she pressed her forehead to his felt different. The way she held onto him, almost afraid that he would walk away, was different.

“Give me one more night.” Jon pulled back. “One more night of just being a mysterious stranger.” He helped Sansa to stand up again. “Tomorrow morning you can tell your council that I will be your King, but not tonight. Not yet.” He stood up from the bench too.

“In a way I will miss it.” Sansa smiled while they slowly made their way back to the palace and back to the ball. “There was something exciting about sneaking around and trying to hide.” She firmly grabbed his arm. “But I can’t wait to let the world know that I found the most amazing man and that he loves me as much as I love him.”

And even though he wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow he felt a warmth spreading through his entire body.

[tk-duveraun]

Bloodlines 5/?

Title: Bloodlines Fandom: SWTOR Rating: M - Implied sexual content Genre: Romance & Drama Summary: Aquila and Malish just need to talk. Please, by the stars, the ancestors, just talk to each other. Yes, research is consuming, yes, being a bodyguard is complicated, but you’re only making things worse. Communicate, you idiots. At least before you fall in love. Parts: 1 2 3 4

Black stone with thick veins of obsidian surrounds them on all sides. The cave walls are covered with engravings; some of them glow with the Force. The runes are unfamiliar to Aquila: neither modern, nor ancient Sith. The dormant runes are broken, the stone cracked and worn. A small break in the ceiling lets in orange moonlight.  Aquila launches a turret drone at the opening and watches its path. Satisfied, she nods. “We shouldn’t have to worry about an ambush from behind.”

“I don’t Sense any other presences nearby.” Malish’s voice sounds strange coming from his mask after two months in his suite without it.

“You didn’t Sense anything wrong with the crate, either, and then we were both nearly killed by wreller gas.” She pokes him in the back.

He looks over his shoulder at her. “Speaking of my crate, you said your clan would send it back after they investigated the gas bomb. What’s the ETA on that?”

“It’ll be done when it’s done. Our experts are working on it; your benefactor has deep pockets.” She activates the sonar map in her helmet’s HUD scans it for anything that could be an enemy or a trap. “And this karking relic of yours may well be dangerous in its own right. If you had let me research it before coming here-”

“Do you not understand the meaning of classified? Privileged information? None of it?”

“The people who want you dead clearly know what you’re after. Why are you hiding the same information from the people trying to keep you alive?” Aquila wants to throw her arms out in emphasis, but she’s carrying her gear and his, so she settles for a glare at the back of his hood.

“It’s not clear that they do, Meshurok.”

“Aquila.”

“Sith.”

“Fair.” She grunts. “But if they don’t know, why do they want you dead?”

Malish stops and holds his arm out to keep her from walking past him. “Having my rich benefactor might be enough on its on, yes? My death may just be a stepping stone to more valuable targets.”

“It would still help me to know. And will you just let me walk in front? We’re more likely to be attacked from the direction I haven’t guarded.” The tomb is in view before them on a dais of pure obsidian. The best place for an attack: where Malish is going to be most distracted.

“Why don’t you ask your father what happens when the Reclamation Service has their muscle walk in front?” Malish stomps his boot onto the stone and power rushes in front of him. Snow-light lines of power glow in an intricate sigil through dust that now looks suspicious like carbon ash. “Would you like to take a step?”

“Very dramatic. You were waiting for that, weren’t you?”

“The holocron did detail the defenses rather well.”

“Is this as far as it goes? Or does it extend past what’s visible?”

“This is it.” Malish kneels on the stone and presses both hands flat. Two spots of purple from his eyes war with the white-glow as he channels his Force.

Aquila sets their gear down and pulls a scanner out of pack. Which she then throws across the cavern to land just outside the ritual circle. It activates with a chirp and scans more of the cave system. She dismisses the sonar map to watch the scanner results fill in. It’s done long before Malish is. The cavern is a dead end without any nooks or crannies to hide anything malicious. She snorts. Malicious.

The Force lines on the floor wink out and Malish stands. He stretches both arms over his head. “Okay, bring my kit, but don’t step on the dais. I’m wearing the guise of its master, so it knows me.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, his Force shifts and he feels wrong. It makes Aquila’s skin crawl, even through her armor. The Sith corruption is thick enough to taste and she wants to gag. She drops his equipment at the foot of the dais and stalks across the cavern to set up another turret. It’s unnecessary, but she needs to get away from the wrongness. The feel of a true Sith is bad enough, but she feels alone and… cold without the familiar touch of his Life Force. Two months of knowing him and one of never leaving his proximity has had a greater effect than she knew until that moment. The weight of the revelation is crushing.

And distracting.

An inhuman gurgle and the crunch of bone comes from the tomb in front of Malish. Aquila’s too slow, she’s wandered too far to reach him in time to pull him away. With sharp breaths fogging her HUD, she yanks him backward with the Force. She slides past him on her knees and activates her shield generator just as hot, sticky, black ichor erupts from the open tomb. It sizzles against the barrier and wails like an injured akk pup. She bites her tongue and uses the console in her right gauntlet to channel energy from her armor into the shield. The ichor gushes like a fountain and spits out Dark Force energy that slaps and scrapes against her mental barriers.

Malish, feeling mercifully like himself, claps his bare hands on either side of her helmet. “I’ve got you, Meshurok.” His own mental protections spread over her like a blanket, soothing away the reaching horror. He’s panting and breathless. “I can stop this. Just hold strong.”

Unable to speak, Aquila nods.

Malish throws a handful of small kybar crystals into the air above the tomb. Each glows a different color. The beams cross into the shape of a net that slams over the tomb like an overaggressive sealing droid. The remaining ichor sloughs off Aquila’s shield and seeps into the floor.

Swallowing down the bile in her throat, Aquila says, “That explains the black stone.”

Malish puts his hands on her shoulders and rests his forehead on the top of her helmet. He’s panting and resting his weight on her. “You really are worth every credit.”

“I hope your research is.”

[pyrereader-blog]

Thrash Pack

The next morning, the Reader rises early and slips out into the common-room of the blackwagon before anyone else in the triumvirate is awake. There she takes a seat at the table and picks up the Book of Rites, quickly burying her nose within its pages. She was curious about what Peyford might have alluded to last night, saying that the triumvirates were formed by the Scribes as if that fact had some sort of relation to her. She gets to work skimming the first pages of each chapter of the book. Since they’re so conveniently color coded she feels like it would be a waste to not make use of the book’s intuitive layout to speed up her research.

A little while later she comes across a chapter dedicated specifically to describing the triumvirates. She is surprised to find that it is written by Ha’ub the Swallow, the imp Scribe. After hearing about his legends in the Commonwealth she had been a bit perplexed to find that the imps of the Downside were such simple creatures. It appears that Ha’ub might have been an exception rather than the rule. Putting that aside, she quickly flips through the chapter, passing over the other triumvirates until she finds the page about the Chastity, alongside a beautifully drawn rendition of the triumvirate’s sigil. Apparently this triumvirate was formed by Lu Sclorian Hundred-Minds, the Scholar. Seeing that name immediately brings back memories of her father and the Reader has to take a moment to reminisce.

She remembers that he had never put much of his faith in the nomad Scribe, Gol Golathanian, as was custom among other nomads in the Commonwealth, and that under his tutelage she had instead learnt about the virtues of Lu Sclorian, to hold his wisdom and peaceful nature as great ideals to strive for. The Reader sighs at the thought... she may have been exiled, but it seems like her exile might have brought her just a little closer to the scholarly Scribe, and by extension, her father. It’s... a little comforting to think about. She then carries on to reading about what the triumvirate is supposed to represent. The qualities they are supposed to stand for... modesty, wisdom, integrity, and kinship...

At that moment the door to the living quarters swings open and Manley strides in, closely followed by Peyford.

“Peyford, I simply must ask you to, oh, please restate once more what you’re saying because I am having a hard time believing what I’m hearing.”

The Reader rolls her eyes. “And there he is, the embodiment of such qualities...” She mutters under her breath.

The sap is all smiles as usual, though the way he is rubbing his thumb and index finger together indicates that he is holding back more than a little bit of frustration.

“Manley.” Peyford replies. “I know that you can hear me perfectly well, and I believe we should make an attempt to be at the Ridge of Gol tonight. The Reader surveyed the stars in an incredibly skillful manner and I believe we would be best served heeding her advice.”

“Hmph- I cannot believe that you put so much stock in the girl after a single reading. We should continue to go by my instructions until she’s proven that hers are at least as reliable as mine.”

The sap is looking less composed by the minute, and Peyford glances towards the Reader as if asking for support. However, instead of responding, she simply raises the book to shield herself from being addressed. After last night she is not even considering having a conversation with Manley. Instead, she’d rather that the two of them argue it out among themselves.

Eventually, Peyford manages to sway Manley. He points out that while the sap expects the next Rite to be few days from now, the Reader instead predicts they should be at the ridge this night. That means that if they hurry they could check out both the Reader and Manley’s locations at each of their proposed times. He also notes that if the Reader’s take is accurate, then this is a good chance to verify her abilities. While Manley does not seem happy about it, he finally relents and orders a course towards the Ridge of Gol.

The trip there is uneventful, and while Peyford is scurrying about the wagon, cleaning up cobwebs, the Reader decides to spend the time leafing through the first chapter of the book. It tells the story of the last emperor of the fallen Empire of Sahr, Soliam Murr. She is certain that she has heard some variations of the fall and redemption of Murr in the past, either told as folk-tales or in some book her father read to her during her childhood. Still, she’s fascinated to see the book itself corroborate things from the stories such as the emperor turning into a demon and being saved by an imp. These fanciful details had always felt a bit like something out of a children’s story rather than a historic account, but they become hard to deny when read from a book supposedly penned by the Scribes themselves. Her musings are abruptly brought to a halt as the wagon shudders to a stop and Xaxiana calls out that they’ve arrived. Peyford quickly makes his way out of the wagon while Manley saunters out behind him. All three of them are already dressed in their raiments, save for the masks.

The Reader curiously follows them outside to watch them set up before the Rite. Peyford and Xaxiana grab a heavy-looking sigil from the back of the cart, the design matching the icon representing the Chastity which she had seen in the book. While they haul it into the Rite field under Manley’s supervision, the Reader surveys the surroundings. Sadly, she finds little other than rocks and dust, no sign of another triumvirate. This fact slowly starts to worry her, as she wonders if perhaps she did not read the stars as accurately as she thought. Soon the light begins to fade, and the darker it gets the more annoyed Manley seems to become, a fact which he is very diligent in sharing with the rest of the triumvirate.

“They’re not here yet.” He comments for what might be the twentieth time, shooting an annoyed glare in the Reader’s direction. She avoids his gaze, looking up to the sky to seek new guidance in the stars. It is then when she notices that all the stars of the Scribes have aligned, drawing the shape of the Scribe Star just as depicted in the book. She opens her mouth slightly in awe at the phenomenon above them, unlike anything she had seen in the Commonwealth before. However, the magic of that moment is suddenly broken by a loud howl from a nearby hill. Everyone’s heads snap around to find the source of the sound, and the sight almost makes the Reader duck behind her triumvirate. At the top of said hill are six curs, all dressed in menacing black and orange raiments, howling in unison as they start rushing down the slope in a loose formation. As they get closer the howling stops, only to be replaced by a constant cackling and hollering as three curs break off from the pack and take up a spot where they can watch the Rite.

Manley grunts in disgust at the sight, suddenly appearing more on guard than usual. For some reason he keeps occasionally looking over his shoulders or shifting his legs uncomfortably. The Reader leans in towards Peyford to quietly ask him what’s going on and why is Manley so on edge.

He responds in a low voice. “Oh, the leader of the triumvirate we are facing... Barker Ashpaws of the Dissidents has a tendency to... I believe the saying is he ‘pisses off’ the upper class.” At that, Xaxiana bursts into laughter, as if she just remembered something really funny.

The Reader raises an eyebrow, and is about to ask for clarification when she is interrupted by the remaining three curs dashing down onto the field, kicking up clouds of dust as they swerve at the bottom of the hill. Two of them haphazardly toss down the sigil they had been carrying on the opposite end of the field, while the third one approaches Manley and his cohort and hops up onto a rock to address them.

“Well I’ll be right buggered if it aint the Chastity! Since when are you lot ever on time for a Rite?!”

The loud cur claws at his mask for a few moments before throwing it down to his feet and putting his paw up on it. The Reader takes a moment to process the appearance of the cur, not quite sure what to make of him. His fur is completely black, and his eyes appear to be red in the dim light. His torn ears feature several piercings, his collar is adorned with spikes and a pair of metal skulls, and topping it all off, quite literally, is a bright red mohawk running from the top of his head down to his neck. It is all... incredibly bizarre.

After checking his robes again for some reason, Manley initiates his characteristic pleasantries with the cur while Peyford and Xaxiana go to take up their positions for the Rite. The Reader almost gets the sense that they are trying to avoid engaging with the cur for too long, and she remains a few paces back from the entire affair. However, after a short back and forth, Manley waves her over, and she begrudgingly approaches.

“Now, Barker, I simply must introduce you to the newest addition to the Chastity, which I am sure will guarantee our triumvirate’s bright, bright future. This is, our reader.”

The sap gestures at the Reader and she narrows her eyes at him in return, although the sap skillfully ignores the look. It is incredibly annoying to her how he keeps referring to her as an accessory to the triumvirate, rather than as a full member and a person. Well, no reason she should act badly to another triumvirate leader just because of that. Manley being rude is nothing new and maybe the cur’s appearance is deceiving. She bows slightly to Barker, assuming that a leader deserves at least some level of respect.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, mister Ashpaws.”

There is a moment of silence. The cur does not answer, though his mouth, which had up until this point been constantly open in a mocking grin, is closed as he examines her. Then, he bursts into a hysterical laughing fit.

“Bwaaahahahahah! Didja hear that fellas? What a polite little thing! Oy Manley, how’d you disguise yer sapling to behave like a nomad, ahaha!”

The Reader lowers her eyes, instantly regretting everything. Certainly, she knew how to deal with the veiled insults and insinuations of the upper class. This open mockery however, does not leave her with much of any recourse at all, other than sheepish silence.

“‘Ey fellas! You lot better call me ‘miiister Ashpaaws’ from now on eh?” Barker shrilly imitates the Reader’s voice, getting a laugh from his triumvirate in return. “If them fancy-pants can get respect without deserving it then why not me too? Gahah!”

Finally, Manley snaps back, seemingly more frustrated by the jab at his social standing than by the mockery of the Reader. “Bah! How utterly, utterly insolent! You common rabble cannot even comprehend what is at stake in the Rites, can you?! We would all be far better served by you standing aside and simply letting the Chastity prevail. Or perhaps we should continue this pointless mockery until the morning comes, mhm?”

Barker and his crew let out another howling laugh as the cur kicks his mask up into the air and catches it on his head. “First useful thing you said all night mate! ‘Cept we won’t be standin’ aside for no one. It’s way more fun to make Commonwealth babies like yerself cry after you lose. Bahaha!”

The cur strolls back to his crew and takes up his position as the leader of the triumvirate. Manley huffs, throws on his mask and moves to his own spot in front of Peyford and Xaxiana. The Reader hurriedly gets off the field and takes up a good vantage point as the pyres ignite behind the triumvirates.

...

“Reader!”

She winces in surprise as the Voice calls out to her again. She looks up at the sky where the stars are aligning, wondering if this is going to be a regular thing.

“You now look upon the glorious Ridge of Gol! Here, the Chastity has already performed many a Rite… with far less success than they may have hoped for... This eve you shall stand against... The Dissidents! While they hunger for victory just as much as you do, you might find that they are more motivated by denying your freedom than by earning their own.”

The Reader frowns and turns her eyes back to the field where the triumvirates are waiting for the Rite to start. Now it occurs to her that she does not know where the orb comes from. Neither of the teams seem to have brought one, and she can’t recall where it came from during their vision inside the book. Thankfully, her question is soon answered, as a thin ray of light appears in the middle of the field. It quickly grows into a bright, shining pillar before a celestial orb crashes down right in between the two triumvirates.

“Begin!”

The voice calls out as the opposing teams burst into action. Although, ‘bursting’ might be too generous of a description of what the Chastity does. Manley starts slowly making his way towards the center of the field, seemingly intending to lock down the area with his aura. The Reader can tell there is no way he will be able to get in range to control the surroundings before Barker reaches the orb, and tries to get him to stop and hand initiative over to Peyford or Xaxiana instead. The sap stubbornly refuses, and she’s convinced she can hear him mentally scoff at her. This means that she can only watch as Barker runs straight past the orb, leaps over Manley, and takes out both Peyford and Xaxiana with a single well aimed aura blast. In that time, Manley has reached the center and projected his sapling to defend the orb. It serves little purpose however as another cur slides in behind him, already preparing to cast. By the time the Reader calls out for Manley to protect himself, the sap has already been banished in a flash of orange light.

The Reader puts her head in her hands as she watches the leader of the Dissidents get passed the orb and, with ample time before anyone from the Chastity returns, he has enough of an opening to do a taunting little dance before leaping backwards into the fire, cackling as he disappears into the flames.

“Barker douses the pyre, still completely lacking in respect for his betters I see!” The Voice comments.

Two dousings later and the Reader is starting to wonder how they can possibly turn the situation around. There is little to no coordination among her companions, and the two last rounds played out almost identically to the first one. This time however, after failing to control the center of the field, Manley decides to take up a defensive position, using his sapling to create a very large perimeter around the Chastity’s pyre. While the Reader agrees with this course of action, he then fails to capitalise on it in any significant way. Rather than letting his teammates move forward, he simply holds his position without accomplishing much, still refusing to cease his movements so that his teammates can advance and mount an offensive. The Dissidents on the other hand immediately capitalise on this defensive play, taking the opportunity to move their entire team forward before rapidly passing initiative back and forth between themselves and taking haphazard shots at the sap. Peyford and Xaxiana repeatedly get caught in the crossfire but Manley’s aura is enough on its own to keep the curs away from their pyre.

Of course, the sap can not hold out forever, and ultimately a stray aura blast banishes him despite the Reader’s attempts to give him accurate information about the curs’ movements. That moment however is when something surprising happens. At the exact moment Manley is banished, Xaxiana returns from her own banishment. The harp immediately capitalises on an opening, and with a furious shriek she charges straight through Barker and grabs the celestial orb. After a dash and a short flight she then plunges into the Dissident’s pyre, scoring their first blow.

“And at last, someone from the Chastity musters the courage to douse the opposing pyre.” The Voice remarks dryly as the teams get back into position and the Reader tries to once more convince Manley to let someone else act once he has his perimeter set up. She is met with no response as the next round starts.

The rest of the Rite is a long drawn out affair. The Reader feels like she is learning a lot about the capabilities of her triumvirate, but she is having issues putting any of the things she learns into action, as the three of them are either holding each other back, or not listening to her advice as is the case with Xaxiana. Ultimately it is all for naught. While they can play defense for a long time, the Chastity cannot hold the Dissidents off while also mounting an offensive of their own. Several rounds later and the Reader lets out a despaired groan as she watches one of the curs dive into the flame, finally snuffing out their pyre.

“And there it is, at last.” The Voice remarks. “The Dissidents stand victorious. And rather convincingly so, I must say. They have proved their worth, and will go on to further glory in the Rites. Now, I bid you farewell, Reader.”

...

The Reader slumps to the ground, exhausted, as her triumvirate joins her. However, she quickly gets a hold of herself as she sees Barker and the Dissidents approach.

“Oi Manley! Didn’t ya say you wanted us to stand aside eh? Sure didn’t think that meant you lot were just gonna step aside and let us dance into yer pyre! Bahahaha!” The Dissidents cackle loudly at the joke.

“Bah! This is an utter outrage I say!” Manley huffs as he throws his mask to the ground. As it hits the ground, one of the Dissidents darts forward, snatching the mask up in their teeth before putting it on and hopping up on a rock where everyone can see them.

“Oi Barker! Check this out.” The Reader immediately covers her face, seeing where this is going. The cur continues with a haughty tone, which is a decent approximation to Manley’s voice. “Good evening miiiiiister Ashpaaaws, I’m Manstick Babblestuff and I neeeever shut up. Please just give up and let me wiiiin. Hoooooooh.”

All the curs join into a raucous laugh, and the Reader buries her face further into her hands. She knows that this whole thing is going to reflect back onto her, and she really does not need more of Manley’s anger tonight. Finally, the taunting cur drops his mask and they all run off. After they’ve gone, the Reader bends down and grabs the mask, quietly handing it to its owner. Manley snatches it from her hands and huffs.

“I hope you’re aware of the deep, deep embarrassment I had to suffer through because of you!”

The Reader does not say anything in return. She’s being gnawed by the feeling that she could have done more to help in the Rite, even though she feels that Manley had been making everything far more difficult than it had to be. The sap continues complaining into the air, making sure the entire triumvirate knows exactly how displeased he is as he walks back towards the wagon. The Reader is starting to wonder if she should bother following him. After all, she is not feeling particularly wanted at the moment. Then, a hand is placed on her shoulder, and she looks back to see Peyford offering some comfort.

The Reader sighs. “I don’t understand...I tried to do my best...I’d worked out a simple strategy… but... I don’t even know if you have a strategy of your own, at least none that you told me about. Manley just… did not seem to want any input, or let anyone else act for that matter.”

Peyford snorts. “Pff. We’ve never had a strategy, Reader. Unless you count Manley offering empty promises from the Commonwealth in exchange for the triumvirates to stand aside as a strategy. Of course, no one would exchange a chance at freedom from the Downside for something immaterial in the Commonwealth. Really, it’s gotten to the point where no triumvirate even listens to him. And, if it is some comfort, from my perspective this Rite wasn’t that bad...the closest we’ve ever been to winning against the Dissidents was when Manley almost bored them to death. I believe that is how they came up with the strategy they used to banish him today.”

“I see… still, I am not really looking forward to going back to the wagon and facing him. It feels like I am entirely to blame for the loss in his eyes.”

Peyford pats her back. “Don’t get discouraged, Reader. This is simply a different flavour of his usual complaints, we’ve heard something similar after every Rite we’ve conducted.” He smiles faintly. “Now let’s go back and focus on the next step of our journey.”

The Reader smiles back weakly and nods.

[tiavonnada]

The Journey of Wightskiller - AU fiction Game of Thrones part 2

Part 1 can be read here!

I hugged my coat tighter around my body as my borrowed horse trotted to the massive gates, barely visible against the heavy snowfall, but I knew this was it. This was the place I set out to reach and now I stood in front of it.

Winterfell, just like Tormund said. He told no lies. One step closer.

I didn't know how to enter the gates so I jumped off my horse and stood there. Southerners were different in their customs than us free folks. They were rigid and unwavering in their laws and, once upon a time long before the short winter shuffled me out of the North across the Narrow Sea, I vowed to never live south of the wall. And yet here I stood. “You still don’t live here, Kristol.” I reminded myself.

So what was I doing?

I lowered my hood to look more approachable by these guards that walked the gate. They are an untrusting bunch, but if the stories I heard of what they went through were a quarter true, I couldn't blame them.

The winter winds here were a little less violent than Hardhome but it still stung my nose.  I shook my head to allow the thoughts of the wights to flee. I needed to be of clear mind. I felt my cheeks redden. I had been in Essos for entirely too long and lost my tolerance to the cold.

“Who are you?” A guard yelled from the top of the gates. He sounded miles away but I noted an accent unlike a Northerner and pondered where he was from. Tormund said there were soldiers from the Vale too. I had no idea where that was, but he told me a place high in the sky where they dropped their enemies to their deaths from something called a moon door. It caught my interest. Maybe one day I would visit, hopefully not as an enemy.

“I am Kristol. Please allow me into your gates out of these winds!” I shouted back, my voice still hadn’t healed fully, cracking and failing me but he seemed to have understood my message.

Not even a minute passed before I heard the gates creak and moan against the chains and there stood four men, head to toe in shining steel armor, one of them had a practice sword and wooden shield in hand. They had different sigils. I only recognized the wolf. I knew none of the others, didn't really care.

The gates closed behind me, again with the loud creaks and groans. Unlike North of the Wall and East Watch, there was bustling life here. Men practiced their one on one fighting. Women passed by, chatting loudly about news unimportant to me. Children followed behind the women, playing their games. There was a gaggle of armored men that dragged a large sack from the tall castle in the middle of Winterfell. They put forth no effort in trying to conceal the blood that seeped from a collected spot. Was it from training? Did they kill during practice? That seemed counter-intuitive. The smells of fires and body musks were almost masked by the cold, but not enough for me. I curled my nose at the offending odors. I focused my attention back to the four men in front of me and they stared back. A sight I was to them for sure.

Here stood a woman, twenty years of age, with a sword on her hip (albeit under my thick coat) and thick coarse hair tucked underneath a golden scarf, eyes to match. Everything about me was always described as golden. Kissed by the sun nana always said. I looked like none of the free folk; I looked like none of any Westerosi I've encountered.

We all wore thick furs to battle the bone-rattling cold. Theirs were more tattered, however. I bought this coat on the way from Braavos and it has served me well. However now the tears from my battle with the white walker and its wights made themselves known as traces of cold seeped through.

They took in the sight of me and uttered not a single word. It was like being back at Slaver’s Bay during the auction to ensure if I was worthy of their attention and money. I pursed my lips and waited.

“What are you doing here, girl?” The man nearest me asked. His thick gray mustache quivered with his words.

Shivering, I stilled myself. “I'm here to see the King of the North. I come with news from the real North.” I sneered. The men looked at each other, no one moved otherwise.

“Are you another related to the king?” He sneered. The rest of the men huffed laughter in on some joke that I was the butt.

“No, I've come. With news.” I repeated, more slowly this time. Maybe I had been too long away in Essos and spoke as they did when conversing in the common tongue of Westeros.

“King’s not here and the Lady of Winterfell is too busy to deal with the likes of you.” He straightened his back. Apparently my not getting whatever jape this was soured his mood. Lady? I remembered the stories of my nana and Mance saying that only men ruled these lands and everything in it including women. It was a reason I vowed to stay a spearwife. “So whatever news you have, you can take it back with you to wherever you come from.” Gray Mustache leaned over to another soldier and whispered not so quietly,“There's too many foreigners coming in for my taste.”

“Or she can keep my bed warm. Think she’s at least pretty enough for that,” said another and the group erupted into laughter again; the others nodded with his statement.

I tightened my jaw and slid my hand to my dagger. This was a mistake. I knew coming here was a mistake and now I’d have to fight my way out.

“What do you think you all are doing?” A girl’s voice, as dead as the night and quiet as a mouse pissing on cotton, intimidated the men because they all jumped and scrambled to address her. Their backs to me, but my hand still gripping my dagger’s hilt.

“M’Lady, we didn't hear you come behind us. I, uh, I thought you would’ve been busy with your sister and the judgment sentencing.” The gray mustache stood as rigid as his armor. He was nervous; I saw his hands shake with a sloppy salute.

“So you think you can molest a woman in Winterfell, in my home, and I not hear about it? Because you’d assumed I’d be ‘busy’?” Her accent was notably northern. Whoever she was, she scared the people here. They called her ‘M’lady’, she was of some importance. I didn't need her protection but the less that these people had to see from me, the better for them. “Leave.” The men parted as she walked towards me, hands behind her back. “If I ever hear of talk like this again...” She left the rest of the statement blank as the men almost tripped over each other to get from here.

A small thing, this girl was. Face long, hair dark brown. Her gray eyes bore into my face, studying me. She wore a light leather cape and leather clothing as if the cold didn't bother her. On each hip, she had a blade: a dagger on her left hip and a thin sword on her right. She's a left-handed fighter. Rare to see them and downright dangerous to fight if one wasn’t careful.

“You'll have to forgive them,” she said. Her face hadn't changed; it was as if she were made of the very stones that held this place together. Her stance and swagger, I had seen this all before and almost smiled but swallowed it. There was something solemn about this place and I needed to mimic it if I were to get in.

I bowed my head, “Thank you, m’lady. Are you the one I need to talk to?” She said nothing for a long time. I knew her question. “I am here to speak with you about offering my services, knowledge, and experience in the upcoming battle.”

“You sound of the North, but you carry yourself as a Braavosi fighter. Your sword, however, isn't that of a water dancer; it's a soldier's sword. Your clothing, too,” she nodded towards my coat. I hadn’t realized I dropped the tight grip of my coat and shown the clothing underneath. “Free cities. Have you been in this country long?”

I cocked an eyebrow. She knew all of that from my clothing and looks. “I'm of the free folk, lived many years in Essos and decided my services were needed back home.”

“Free folk?” she asked as if tasting the word. “Wilding. How did a wilding acquire a sword like yours?”

I licked my lips, “I found it.”

“You're lying.”

This time, the smile came forth, “You're correct. It was a prize acquired from my travels. I wish to discuss matters of importance somewhere warmer.” I truly wanted to change the subject because it would always lead to my unknown parentage. I didn’t know my parents nor where they were from. All I knew was of the free folk until my forced travels.

The young lady turned on her heel and walked back towards the collection of buildings. I would've been impressed by these heights if I were still a young lass North of the wall, but years in Essos left me numb to these architectural designs. Matter of fact, they were unwelcoming and desolated.

I jogged after her, “I didn't get your name.”

“I didn't get yours.” She retorted as calmly as if soothing a baby.

“Kristol.”

“No last name, Kristol?”

I looked at the door we just passed. The thick wood framed with iron had to be many inches thick. This place was truly made for war. “None.” The girl nodded towards a guard at the door. I removed my coat and handed it to him.

“Arya Stark.” Hands tucked into the other’s sleeve, she was as cool as the weather outside. “I'll bring you to my sister. She is the Lady of Winterfell. You can discuss matters with her. But wait here.”

This Arya pushed opened a door into a small courtroom and closed it behind her. I breathed a little easier. She didn’t ask about any lineage. She heard wilding and took that. But she may also not have much experience with us Wildings.

I fingered my dagger sheath as I waited. Muffled voices were heard on the other side, quiet, no arguments. It wasn't long before she opened the door again, beckoning me to come in.

I took in the sight as I walked towards the center of this room. Dark gray and dead like everything else here. The Stark’s sigil hung on banners against the cold walls and even their direwolves were gray. There was something that threw me off though. In the middle of the stone floor was a dark stain. It seemed that someone tried to wash it unsuccessfully.

A fireplace roared behind the table where a woman with flaming red hair sat, scribbling on a small piece of paper. Lady Arya stood at the end of the table, hands resting on her dagger and sword.

A strange place this was and nothing like my nana said. The men were outside in the cold, practicing and training and here were two women. The ladies of Winterfell. One, without a doubt, a killer and the other, I hadn't gotten a feel of her yet. And they were harsh as the winter.

She looked up from her paper to study me or wait for me to say something. Her blue eyes pierced into my gold ones. High strong cheekbones and a sharp face. She definitely did not look like a Northerner in comparison with her sister who did not look as kind. Her eyes though, I could see she had been through much and seen much. They were hardened and mistrusting.

“You are the Lady of Winterfell?” I asked.

“What do you want?” Ah, there was the harshness and hard tones of the North littered through her voice. She was a lady born in the North and not married into it. “I've had a rather exhausting day.”

I bowed again, “I come from long travels, m’lady. I've seen things that you can only imagine. I was told your king would be here, but according to Lady Arya and others here, I've apparently missed him.” I licked my lips, “I've come to warn you of the white walkers’ approach…”

“We know of them,” the Lady of Winterfell interrupted. She seemed on edge that even her sister gave her a side eye. The Lady sighed and spoke in a softer tone, “and we are preparing our men for the oncoming battle.”

“Forgive me as I'm not accustomed to your ways of fighting, but have any of your men ever faced a white walker or wight? And survived? Have you?” I turned to Arya, “Or you?”

“Our king, Jon, has.” The alpha wolf leaned back into her chair, cool as the air outside of these halls. The light of the fire cast a dark shadow.

“Is he here?” My patience was beginning to wear thin. I swallowed to regain self-control. Here I am trying to help them with a foe they have never faced. And the only person they knew of to face them and live was not here.

Her eyes bore into me and, as if on cue, her younger sister stepped forward, hand resting on her dagger. Of a pack, they truly were. “You might not want to fight me,” I tested, but made no moves towards either of my weapons. I needed these Starks to trust me; however, I was not making good progress as of now. “He isn't here.” I started over, “I am. I want to give you and your people a fighting chance against the wights. I know things that I'm sure your king, Jon, probably hasn't told you.” I faced the fierce young wolf with her hand still on her dagger. “I am no enemy. Maybe years ago, I would've been, but not today. I stand before you and your family, Lady Stark, offering to help you and your men learn to battle against those monsters.”

The Lady Stark studied me for a time. I noticed her eyes cut to her sister more than once; it was as if they were having a nonverbal conversation. She leaned forward, looking into her hands, “What do you want in return for this ‘offering’?” The last word laced with mistrust. She waited for this part and must have assumed I wanted a large reward or lands.

I was interested in neither.

I shook my head, “Nothing, honestly. I wanted nothing more than to be out from the other side of the Wall after what I saw.”

“And what did you see?” Arya spoke.

I felt my breath quicken as I thought about my latest encounter. Gripping my sword for stability, I steadied myself. The women looked at each other, furrowing their brows. The white walker had affected me more than I cared to admit. His sullen face was still etched in my memory. Had I not blocked, I would’ve still been on the other side of the Wall, eyes blue, mind not my own. I was losing my training. I needed to refocus. Inhaling, I stood straighter and let go of my sword. “I had been in Essos for the last seven years, but I’m a Wilding from North of the Wall forever and always.” Lady Stark’s lips pursed. She didn’t believe that statement, but I continued. “We had seen wights before my abrupt leaving. They were easy enough to cut down. I come back home, to Hardhome and no one is there. Nothing. No children, no chickens, goats, just...empty. So I head to the Wall, taking a chance. You southerners kill us on sight so I planned on sneaking past.

“But the land was barren. No food or water. Days I had been walking and had not eaten. I heard ‘em long before I saw ‘em. New sounds added to the winds: growling, clicks, screams. Not like us; they weren’t screams of the living.” I lost myself in the retelling of my story. I chanced a look at the sisters and their eyes bore into me, hanging on to my every word. My hands grew wilder as the story continued. Telling of my reaching the Wall, the women visibly relaxed. “They are not far out, m’ladies, and your men must fight them and must learn how.

“My nana told me that there must always be a Stark at Winterfell. I have no idea what that means, but it was repeated multiple times. So it had to be important.” I looked at the both of them. “I need to be here to protect you, the both of you.”

“Arya and my sworn sword, Brienne, will do that.” Lady Stark resumed her cold face that must have taken years to master. But a small swallow told me she wasn’t so sure as her face made.

“What happens if the Night’s King gets either of them and turn on you? They no longer follow the laws of your land, just what is commanded of them by their generals. Another line of defense and one trained in the art of war can do no harm on your side, m’lady.” I wanted to ask why the King of the North was not here, training his men on how to fight, but it was not my place.

The Lady of Winterfell eyed me with great suspicion. I assumed many questions she wanted to ask, yet none came forth. I needed to be honest with them. Looking down into her lap, Lady Stark asked, “You said you’ve been trained in the art of war.” She looked over to her sister, “I want you to prove it. My sister will oversee to ensure you can do what you say. She’ll find the best way to test you. I will be out shortly to ask of your progress.”

Arya looked surprised and a smile, a genuine one, appeared. She looked to me, “Follow me and discuss the strategy the wights use.”

[vorthosthewillis]

Laughter

 The problem with becoming friends with planeswalkers, Finn thought to himself as he walked through Ravnica alleyways, was you never knew where the heck they were. Though it didn’t require more people, his super secret plan of the day would have been much more effective with others. He really should have talked to Lucion when he saw him a month ago about this plan, he knew about it at the time but it was in the back of his mind. Oh well, guess he was going solo. First thing first: find and obtain access to apple cider and pie.     The pie was a bust almost immediately. Sure, he could get one, but everyone selling them wanted actual coins instead of simple bartering, and Finn didn’t have the time to legally obtain coins. Finn sighed in defeat as he went looking for apple cider.    The first place being out of apple cider, sad coincidence. The second, annoyance. The third? That was getting unfair. By the seventh, it felt to Finn like the whole cursed plane ran out of that delicious liquid at the Worst Possible Time. Ugh.

    It was alright, the extra people and food were small problems, not important. At least he could still acquire the item.

~*~

    As he planeswalked back to Ravnica, Finn clutched the long, thin box tightly. It took him nearly three weeks to have it made, but the sword in the box was of a solid quality, created on the plane of Alara. While scouring the plane for etherium a few years back to make his mask, Finn discovered that the entire world of Alara was as if five mini worlds had been squished together. One of them, called Bant, was home to armor and weapons that amazed Finn in their.. Well, shininess. The Sigils, as they were called, were all over the place on Bant, and though no one would put one on the sword itself, the weaponsmith who made the sword still made the thing quite beautiful, for a hunk of metal used to stab things.     Planeswalking was a tricky business. If you have gone back and forth to a place over and over again, you generally got better and better at aiming for it, for lack of a better term. Places like his home on Stawthese, and the alley near Saria’s home here on Ravnica, were perfect examples of that. However, sometimes even the most well known places got mixed up in your head, and…    ….Finn found himself on the middle of the street in a Boros enforced district maybe ten minutes from where he had intended to appear. Jeez, add another happy problem to his list today. It was fine, just needed to take some back alleyways, and…     “Excuse me, sir. That’s quite a large box you have there, do you have the appropriate papers for that?” a voice behind Finn called out. Finn turned to see a Boros soldier with short brown hair  walk up to him. Great. “No problem sir, give me just a second to whip it out.” he muttered as he garbed a piece of paper from his page, quickly putting a illusion on it before handing it over to the man. The boros soldier looked over the blank paper, nodded, and then asked, “Alright, what’s in the box?” Finn inwardly sighed, and then opened it to show the sword to the man. He prepared a quick lie, and got ready to reply which weaponsmith in the precinct forged the sword…     “Interesting sword. Looks like it’s from a place I know called Bant. Hope you know that bringing weapons from another world is illegal?”     Well, shit. So much for that plan.     Finn snatched back the box, closing it tightly as he threw up both a hexproof shield and illusions of himself running in four different ways at once, while the real him darted straight down the main road. “Stop!” the boros walker yelled as Finn darted into an alleyway, and began ducking and weaving his way slowly out of the boros precinct. Of course the one boros soldier to flag him down was probably the only planeswalker on their payroll. Man, his luck was off the chart today! He turned the corner, and then stopped as he noticed the Boros soldier leaning against the wall, a slightly annoyed look plastered on his face. “Imagine meeting you here!” Finn said sarcastically, cursing the situation under his breath. “Please, call me Marius. In case it's not obvious already, I am a planeswalker, and all I want is to protect Ravnica,” the soldier answered as if Finn hadn’t spoke up, “Now, perhaps you were not aware of the rules here, and are even new to this plane, though I suspect the second isn’t true. I won’t bring you in, this once and once only, if you just hand over the illegal weapon. And I won’t ask again.”

    Finn almost shot off another sarcastic remark, but stopped himself at the last second. This… this was a delicate moment. He wanted, no, he needed the sword for his plan. What he didn't need was an enemy, someone out to get him. Especially one not only associated with the Boros Legion, as well as one who could travel the planes. He only had one choice… tell the truth.

    Finn sighed and put the box on the ground before saying, “Marius, the name’s Finn. You’re right on both accounts; it's not my first time here, but I also didn't know about your… rule about stuff from other worlds… wait, how the heck does the Boros have a rule like that? Wait, no, that’s not important. I brought the sword here for a reason though. You see, I've been working on this plan…”

    Marius listened to Finn’s plan and his luck so far, and at the end of his tale actually chuckled a little when Finn brought up the odds of running into the only Boros to be a planeswalker.  “Sweet Sigarda, that’s a tale. Alright, I do have to take the sword, but I have an idea of how you can still salvage this. I know of a guy, he works with the Simic…”

~*~

    When Saria opened the door to her apartment, Finn was sure she was going to look at him like he was an idiot, and was slightly surprised when Saria looked concerned. To be fair, he was soaking wet, with his right arm covered in some sort of goo and his left arm dragging his Stawthese coat behind him, so concern probably was the right emotion for the situation.

    “What in the five suns happened to you?” Saria asked as she stared at him. “Well, it all started when I got into a fight with a snot elemental…” Finn began, and Saria just rolled her eyes and moved aside to let Finn in. He rushed into a small side room to change in drier clothes, and when he came back out, Saria was sitting on a comfortable chair, her face basically asking for the story. “All right, all right, what really happened. Well, it started this morning when I went to try and find Lucion…” Finn continued through the entire story again, adding embellishes and his own sarcastic remarks in places. “...so then I actually meet the guy down at the simic guildgate, and he’s like “I’ve got the goods if you got the cash,”, and I’m all like “yup”, so he hands me the furtle, only this weird turtle frog thing starts spitting out the goo and the guy is like “Sorry man, come back tomorrow, this one is sick!” Annnnnnnd then I found my way over here.”  Saria gave him a look, and asked, “Why? What was the end goal of all this trouble you went through?” Finn looked at her, confused. How did she not realize it yet? “Well,” he started, “When we were both back home, you once told me your birthday. Now, calender's between worlds are slightly different, but a year is a year is a year, so I did the math and today is your birthday.” Saria’s face softened into an apologetic smile, and she responded kindly, “Thank you Finn, but… you got the math wrong. It was last week.” Finn just stared at her a moment, processing what she said, and then did the only thing left to do: he began laughing. Lucion belongs to @gigaguessmtg, Marius to @actualborossoldier, and Saria to @nantukohunk. This is the kinda/sorta the first part in a two part thing. As you’re probably aware, Finn has no family and no world, so his friends are his,,, well his lifelines to life in a way. Both stories, this one and the next which will release this upcoming week for sure, tackle just what Finn is willing to do for his friends. I won’t give any more spoilers towards the second tale, other than this: It is based off of @baldore-of-the-boros‘s prompt of Fury. Anyway, thanks for reading! Tagging those who have expressed interest in the past. If you want included, shout out! @foilmountain, @confused-phyrexian, @the-foxwolf