#Sylda-Writing

[helgiafterdark]

[thereluctantinquisitor]

OKAY for the new ask game, let's put all our eggs in exactly one (1) basket. If you don't like that one though you can do it 10 more times ;) <3

SONG: Ain’t No Rest For the Wicked - Cage the Elephant

______

“You know coin doesn’t grow on trees, right?”

A laugh bubbled from Sylda’s lips, her mouth and chin coated in a brown, sticky syrup. “I know,” she said as she sucked more droplets from her fingertips. “See? No waste.” As if in proof, she locked eyes with Delver and licked all the way up the back of her hand, on skin that Delver knew couldn’t possibly have syrup on it.

Anything to make a point.

With a put-upon sigh, Delver shook his head and cast his attention around the street. Most of the smaller towns didn’t have a market quite so crowded, but with Cheln ravaged by who the fuck knows what and abandoned, Karrak had seized the opportunity to put itself on the map with both hands. Now, the once emaciated town was practically bursting at the seams, a river of people and wagons and colourful stalls threatening to make cobbles of the smooth road that ran its length.

“You’re thinking.”

Delver’s eyes cut across at Sylda’s accusation. She was mercifully done with the sticky breaded mess she’d been inhaling. “This may come as a shock, but most people do.”

That earned him a swat on the arm - honestly, a little harder than was necessary - but he huffed a laugh as he shook her off and nodded to the far side of the market road. “See that house? The small one beside the baker. I know the woman who lives there.”

Sylda’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline as if launched by a catapult. “Oh? Know her, eh?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“What? You’ve never stopped and had a tumble between stamping papers and plucking thieves off nooses?” Sylda skirted around to plant herself in front of him, hands firm on her hips, head cocked with dangerous curiosity. “Look, I know you’re a miserable bastard, but surely someone could look past it for a night or two?”

Delver glared at her. She stared right back, mouth half-twitching into a smirk as she fought hard to keep a straight face. “Fine,” he bit out eventually, and her triumphant smile bloomed. “You win. It’s exactly what you think.”

“Yes! I knew it.” With a newfound bounce in her step, she hooked her arm through Delver’s and began tugging him towards the centre of the busy street. If they were trampled by a wagon or a particularly excited market-goer, well, so be it. Sylda wasn’t one to think quite that far ahead. “So... what’s her name?”

“Eigrel.”

“Oh.” A brief falter. “Well, I’m sure she’s got a great personality.”

Rolling his eyes, Delver allowed Sylda to resume dragging him across the road. Their direction completely at odds with the rest of the crowd, she chirped meaningless apologies every time they startled someone into a sudden stop until they finally reached the far side, and the house in question. It looked the same as he remembered, down to the chip in the bottom corner. Eigrel had slammed it on her late husband’s foot once, and had clearly deemed the memory worth preserving. Before Delver could even begin to retell the story, Sylda was hammering on the door with her bony fists like the woman inside owed her coin.

Well... to be fair...

The door swung open, and suddenly Sylda was face to face with Eigrel. Older than the third of the sister moons and bent as a willow, Eigrel looked on the precipice of a bitter tirade, red-faced and vibrating with anger, before the sight of Delver stole the acid from her tongue. Instead, something in her eyes sharpened, her mouth twisted into a smirk, and she raised her chin. The motion was imperious and just how he remembered. “Well, well. Was wonderin’ when you’d be back. Needed a few seasons to recover, did you?”

Delver gave a deep, formal bow. It was entirely to hide the grin on his face from Sylda, who looked on the verge of full-body collapse. Or nausea. He could never tell with her until it happened. Schooling the smile away before straightening, Delver looked Eigrel in her one good eye. “Come now, Eigy. How could I stay away?” Stepping forward, crowding out Sylda with the span of his shoulders, he rested a hand on the door frame and leaned close. Eigrel smelled of old linen. Nutmeg. Clove. “You know I like a challenge.”

A grin split Eigrel’s face, the cracks of her wrinkles deepening into crevasses. That one brown eye of hers, offset by its milky partner, was as shrewd as ever. “Thought you’d be tired of it by now, boy.”

It was Sylda’s voice that responded, cautious, as though she was afraid of the answer but too painfully curious not to ask. “Tired of what?”

Eigrel’s eye never left Delver. The grin never wavered. She spoke the word like a promise.

“Losing.”

Snorting, Delver straightened with his own imperious half-shrug. “No rest for the wicked, as they say. But,” he pulled out a pair of bone dice, holding them aloft between his fingers, “I’m feeling lucky this time. Made them myself.”

Scoffing in the wet, tactile way unique to the elderly, Eigrel cleared her throat and leaned forward to inspected them, getting close enough that he could have coughed and accidentally poked out her one good eye. But, confident in his workmanship, he allowed her to check the angles like a master smith testing the line of a sword. He turned the dice slowly in his fingers, one side at a time. Sylda watched, silent. The tension was near palpable.

Eigrel never approved. She simply stopped disapproving. This time, her acquiescence came in the form of an unspoken invitation as she huffed, stepped aside, and didn’t slam Delver’s foot in the door. “Go on in, then. Let’s test that so-called luck. Bring your friend, too. Girl should learn how to play proper.”

Sylda, still at a loss, quickly raised her hands as if to ward off a curse. “No, no, that’s all right! You two have your, ah... fun. Playing. Y’know. Whatever it is you’re playing.”

For a moment, Delver thought he’d have to be the one to do the convincing. After all, she was the last person he’d trust in a busy market unsupervised. But before he even had a chance, Eigrel had fixed the full force of her attention on Sylda. Pinned her with that wicked-bright eye. It gleamed in a way that made Delver suddenly nervous.

“Don’t you want to learn how to beat a man with his own dice?”

Before Delver could blink, Sylda was gone, vanishing inside Eigrel’s house like a cat at mealtime. He opened his mouth to protest her betrayal, but knowing it would be useless, gave up with a sigh. Damn Eigrel. Somehow, before even starting, he was already defeated. And they both knew it.

“Go easy,” he plead as he stepped in off the street and slid off his dusty boots. “She’s enough trouble as is.”

Eigrel responded with a raspy chuckle.

“Not on your life. You need a bit of trouble.”

[stonebreakerseries]

Day 4: Ambush + “That didn’t stop you before”

Another piece for @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober, also incorporating the Day 4 #Fictober20 prompt.

Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction) Characters: Delver & Sylda Warnings: Language

             ____________________________

Where in the Divider’s name could she have run off to?

Muttering darkly, Delver peered down another alley, shook his head, and continued onward, boots scuffing against the dust and grit that coated Yelen’s streets. When he’d left Sylda, she’d been half-dead at best, barely able to move, her body a mess of hastily bandaged injuries and deeper, less visible pains. It wasn’t that he blamed her for taking off the second his back was turned; all things considered, it was fair enough. Waking up to a complete stranger eating soup beside her bed - especially a man from the Allied Kingdoms - would be alarming at the best of times. But particularly for a young woman who had spent her previous waking moments hanging by the neck in the gallows courtyard. How she had managed to get out of bed, yet alone sneak out the second storey window, was nothing short of baffling.

Or it would have been, if he hadn’t already witnessed her do far stranger things.

Whoever she was - whatever she was - he needed to find her. Apparently, convincing her to uproot her entire life and travel the length of the continent alone with him was going to be difficult.

Who knew.

Alleys and side streets drifted past as Delver continued his nighttime hunt, the middle moon, Rhana, kind enough to bathe the streets in her pale blue glow. Part of Delver knew what he was doing was foolish. His innkeeper, after some creative haggling that left Delver short an iron drem and his belt knife, had offered vague directions towards a section of the city infamous for housing thieves and cutthroats. Apparently, it was an area civilians knew to avoid, especially after dark. Which just happened to be the exact place a runaway thief like Sylda was likely to go. 

Of course, that meant Delver had to follow, and despite it being a well-lit evening, he couldn’t keep his gaze from snapping towards every faint movement in the corner of his vision. This particular tangle of streets would make the perfect site for an ambush.

It was going to be a long night. 

What if she’d collapsed in an alley, somewhere? Divider, he hoped not. Burnout was a severe risk among thaumists - even highly trained ones. If she pushed herself too hard too soon, it could be enough to succeed where the gallows had failed.

After his wanderings along the main road bore no fruit, Delver sucked in a breath, shoved aside his self-preservation instinct, and began to search the side streets. The even narrower alleys, swathed in a near impenetrable darkness, could wait until he was truly desperate.

Of course, as he was quick to discover, even the side streets held their dangers.

“Well, what’ve we got here? You’re a long way from home.”

Delver came to a sharp halt as a voice carried up the street behind him. Turning, he found himself approached by two figures, one as tall as he was, the other about a half-head shorter. They ambled almost casually, which seemed an odd tactic for a robbery. Or a murder. That or he posed so little threat that they were happy to take things slow. 

How thoughtful.

“Easy,” Delver said, swapping to the local dialect, hoping its might earn him some kind of favour. He raised his hands, proving he was unarmed, although he doubted it made much difference. “I’m looking for a friend, not for trouble,”

As expected, the tall one snorted. “Right.” He gestured to his partner. “He your friend?”

Delver blinked. “No?”

“What about me?”

“Ah, no.”

“Well...” The shorter one smiled and drew a knife from his belt. “Then I guess you’ve got trouble.”

Great. Thieves and fucking comedians to boot. He must truly be the unluckiest man alive.

Sighing, Delver lowered his hands. “I guess I do.” He made a show of stretching his back, using the movement to quickly scan the nearby alleys. There didn’t seem to be any more movement. The two of them must have been running as a pair, probably on the way back from an unsuccessful hunt somewhere else in the city. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to just leave me alone?”

The tall one shrugged. “You could try. Most folks do.”

“I take it that didn’t stop you before?”

“Nope.”

Delver sniffed. “Fair enough.” He went to put his hands in his pockets, only to find a second knife being thrust menacingly towards him. Jaw tight, he froze, then returned his hands to their former position. “Listen - I’m only here because I’m looking for a woman.”

“Yeah? Ain’t we all.”

“No, not like… her name is Syldana.”

There was a pause. The pair shared a glance, brows raised, their knives still raised threateningly. “Hey, wait,” said the taller one slowly. His dark gaze drifted back to Delver. “You the one that bought her off the rope?”

Realistically, telling the truth could go one of two ways. Luckily, Delver had always been a gambling man. “I am,” he replied, raising his chin, doing his best to look more important than he was.

Again, the two shared a look. Then, the smaller one grinned, crooked teeth flashing. 

“Well, you’ve got more coin than brains, dontcha?”

Exhaling, Delver closed his eyes. Of course it went the wrong way.

The taller one stepped forward this time, boots crunching, advancing until he was almost within arm’s reach. “It’s our lucky day, Raoul. C’mon. Let’s clean his pockets.”

Well, there was no helping it. Shoulders stiff, hands still raised, Delver waited as the man started patting down his sides, hunting for hidden pockets, jewellery, treasures sewn into the lining. His knife hovered menacingly by Delver’s throat at first, so close that when he swallowed, he could feel the steel brushing against his skin. But the man was distracted, busy running a rough hand down the side of Delver’s leg. The knife wavered… pressed closer for a moment… started to dip away…

The second he had an opening, Delver swung, cracking the man across the temple with his elbow. He went down with a shocked yelp, red dust springing up around him. The knife skidded from his hand, but Delver was already moving, dancing out of his reach and away from his partner, who appeared to still be processing what had just happened.

“Krom!” the short one cried eventually, then turned a hateful glare on Delver. “You bastard - get back here!”

“Alright, alright. Just take it easy.” Delver continued retreating, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. Reaching back, he slid a wooden rod from his waistband, its twelve inch length concealed beneath his loose shirt. Just as well Krom hadn’t gotten too handsy, or he would have easily found it. With a jerk of the wrist, Delver extended the weapon to the side, doubling its length, then twisted to lock it in place. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Krom was already getting to his feet and Raoul had seemingly regained his addled wits. “How about we all just walk away?” Delver pressed, eyes flicking between the pair. “No one has to get hurt.”

Their response was simple enough.

Grunting, Delver ducked to the side, the sound of Raoul’s dagger whipping past his ear barely registering as he swung the rod, striking the shorter man across the back. The thief grunted, the momentum of his overeager lunge sending him stumbling past, buying Delver a few seconds to plan his next move. 

Or it would have, if there weren’t two of them.

A low grunt gave Krom away, but only barely. Heart lurching, Delver whipped around, his movement unnaturally fast. As he spun, something inside him burned away, the sensation sending a shiver of discomfort racing through his body. Still, he managed to slap Krom’s fist aside and follow through, ramming the end of the rod into his gut. It’s been too long since I did this, Delver thought, breathing hard, hands trembling slightly as he backed away from his assailants. He’d grown too reliant on the anchor fastened to his wrist; too willing to use its reserve of thaumic essence than tap into his own. Now the disc was empty - possibly even broken. He was on his own.

The rod, handy though it was, wasn’t doing the damage he needed. Even with its unnaturally hardened wood, the two thieves just weren’t staying down. He was starting to think the obscene amount he paid for it in Tel Shival might have been a mistake. However, before Delver had time to dwell on his poor financial decisions, he found himself accosted once more.

One knife, one fist, two angry men. Delver wasn’t a fighter. Not really. As Krom swung a punch at his stomach, Raoul darted forward, slashing at him from the side. He could only hope to stop one of them, so he swung the rod towards the dagger, barely catching it before it sunk into his shoulder. That left him open to Krom, and he acted on sheer reflex. Concentrating, sucking in a breath, Delver reached for the hum that resonated inside his body. Then, without the time or practice necessary for any finesse, he dragged it all to one spot at the center of his torso. 

Krom’s fist connected.

And the bones in his hand shattered.

The man’s scream was enough to curdle Delver’s blood. Cradling his hand, at least three fingers bent at jarringly unnatural angles, Krom stumbled away, tears pricking his eyes, a string of panicked curses bubbling from his lips. “Y-Y-You! You rat-bloody-bastard!” He groaned loudly, sounding almost nauseous as he curled over his ruined hand. “K-King’s eyes as m... my fucking witness... I’ll kill you!”

Normally, Delver would have had a snarky remark for that. You’ll have to catch me first. Tell The Errant King I said hello. Try aiming a little higher next time. But instead, he found himself also staggering, heart pounding, head spinning. Almost immediately after Krom’s fist connected with his stomach, the area briefly hard enough to rival stone, Delver had lost his concentration. What remained of his essence suddenly dispersed, like a cloud collapsing under its own weight into a fine mist. He could barely feel its hum now. It was weak. Very weak.

I need to get out of here.

Sweating, Delver backpedaled, stumbled on a broken cobble, and barely caught himself against a nearby wall. His arms were shaking something terrible, the rod in his grasp wavering laughably as he brandished it between himself and the advancing Raoul. “Last chance,” he rasped, blinking, fighting to clear his vision. And to think he’d been worried about Sylda pushing herself too hard. Divider’s Own, he was a fool. If he burned out now, that was it. He was a dead man.

“Y-You’re one of those freaks,” Raoul spat. He was shaking too, although for a very different reason. “A fucking aberration's what you are!”

On a regular day, Delver would have been impressed that Raoul even knew such a long word. But as it was, he could barely keep his feet under him, familiar shivers starting to tingle across his skin. That damn girl, he thought, an irrational anger washing over him as his remaining attacker warily advanced. She just couldn’t stay put for one night. Couldn’t even do me that one fucking favour after I---

“Raoul - stop!”

Suddenly, there was another body in front of him. Short. Brown haired. Familiar.

Delver stared, speechless. He must be dreaming. Or dead. Or both.

With a knife in each hand, Sylda jabbed one towards Raoul, who had halted mid-step, eyes wide. She was still injured, the bandages around her wrists, stomach, and throat all stained brown from old blood.

But she was there. Awake. Alive. 

“Enough,” Sylda continued, her voice surprisingly firm. Far stronger than it had been just a few hours ago. “He’s with me.”

“Ahh…” Raoul glanced back at Krom, who was clearly the leader of the pair. Unfortunately, he found him barely conscious, slumped against the wall of a boarded up building. No help there. Slowly, he turned back to reassess the situation for himself. An aberration and a miracle, both apparently on the same side.

What would he do...

“He’s your friend, is he Sylda?” Clearing his throat, Raoul’s eyes flicked to Delver. “Why, ah… why didn’t you say so?”

Delver blinked. He almost argued, then realised that this was his way out. 

“Must’ve slipped my mind.” He shrugged awkwardly. “Sorry?”

Huffing, Raoul rolled his eyes. Despite his over-performance, it was no small relief when he sheathed his knife and took a step away. “Gotta keep a better eye on your friends, girl. Nearly killed this one. He doesn’t belong here.”

Sylda just nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.” There was a pause. “Uh… what happened to Krom?”

The man in question had started whimpering, rocking slightly, hand curled against his chest.

“He punched a wall,” Delver said hurriedly, then shot a meaningful look at Raoul. The other man, clearly looking for someone to follow, nodded.

“Oh, yeah. Got a mean temper, he does. Really shouldn’t let it get the better of him like this.”

Sylda glanced back, and Delver nodded sagely. 

While it was pretty obvious that Sylda wasn’t buying their composite lie, it didn’t really matter. Sighing, she lowered her blades and shook her head. “Fine. You’d better get him back to the nest. Davros has been asking about you two.”

Raoul stiffened. “He has? Did he say...”

Dizzy and about one sharp turn away from throwing up on his shoes, Delver let the rest of the conversation wash past him, focusing on his breathing, willing his body to comply. With the threat apparently over, he twisted the rod, the two halves sliding back into themselves. By the time he’d managed to stow it away again, Raoul and Krom were already limping away down one of the nearby alleys, their forms vanishing into the heavy dark.

“You’ve...” Delver coughed, throat painfully dry. Another fun side-effect. “You’ve got some timing.”

Sylda just exhaled, clearly as relieved as he was. She turned, regarding him for a moment; his clammy skin, his shaking hands, his over-reliance on the wall. Then she reached up, fingertips brushing over the bandage he’d wrapped carefully around her neck earlier that day. As she did, her expression softened.

“Guess I could say the same about you, huh?” Slowly, she moved closer, concern tinging her round face. “Are you okay?”

Delver grunted, offering a conciliatory nod. As much as he’d been cursing her just a few moments ago, he had to admit, she had practically saved his life. Which meant…

“I suppose this makes us even.” Delver chuckled weakly, tipping his head back against the crumbling stone, closing his eyes. Just for a moment. “A life for a life. Pretty fair trade, if you ask me.”

Sylda hummed, and the pair lapsed into a strange, heavy silence. They both knew it wasn’t the same. Not really. What Delver had done - reckless and archaic and irrational - went a little beyond intervening in an alleyway brawl. When he’d saved her life, she’d been a stranger. A murderer hanging for her crime before a crowd of thousands.

But, as it turned out, they were both willing to ignore that fact. At least for now.

“Come on,” Sylda said softly, her voice coaxing Delver’s eyes to open once more. Blurry at the edges, she held out her arm - an offer of support. It was a gesture of peace, even if only temporary. “We’d better get out of here. I’ve... got some questions.”

Nodding, pulling in one last steadying breath, Delver didn’t even have to swallow his pride for once. He just accepted the offer.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

OC-tober Day 4 - Medicine

So heads up for (the, like, five lol) people who might be familiar with Stonebreaker up to this point - there has been some adjusting/reshuffling of the characters to balance things out and help dig me out of this deep writer’s block. So… yeah, just roll with it!

In which Adiran is just relaxing in the one place he feels safe, only for that to all go out (or through) the window (1000 words).

CW for cheap, nasty alcohol.

Prompt is from @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober list!

---

There were very few places Adiran felt were truly his own. The palace belonged to his parents. The city to the people. The training grounds to the soldiers. The gardens were close, but there were always people passing by. Servants whispering as they walked. Gardeners clipping branches and tending to new blooms.

But Adiran’s private rooms? His bedroom, his bath, and the spacious entry for relaxing and receiving guests? Those were his.

It was an unspoken thing, mostly. A person’s private quarters was their space away from the demands of the outside world. Even his mother and father had separate entry rooms and baths, connected by a central bedchamber. As it turned out, even Kings and Queens needed a break from each other. 

Which was what made it all the stranger when he heard a frantic tapping at his window. 

On the third floor.

Frowning, hand automatically dropping to where his sword would have been, Adiran slowly made his way towards the Valcretian windows. Designed to help circulate air in the humid Rosemarsh climate, they had two large ornate panels that swing outward, latched at the centre by a gilded hook. The royal palace simply used the design because it was foreign, and therefore expensive and desirable. Despite their beauty, Adiran’s were almost always covered by a thick blue curtain, designed to block both light and prying eyes. He kept them drawn so often he could actually see a fine layer of dust gathered on the dark material. The house staff would have a fit, if they were ever permitted inside his chambers.

Three sharp taps again, more insistent this time. A muffled sound accompanied them as well; a single - rather colourful - word in a voice that was entirely too familiar.

Heart squeezing, Adiran ripped the curtain aside to find Sylda crouching on a branch of the towering Ashewood just outside his window. Let me in, asshole, she mouthed, pointing exasperatedly at the latch. Still at a loss for words, Adiran unhooked it and shoved open one of the panels. The thief, all elbows and knees, spilled into his room like a toppled pitcher. “Ugh - finally,” she said, picking herself up off the carpet and dusting the bark and leaves off her clothes. “Thought I’d have to spit on a guard just to get some attention around here.”

“I… what… how…?” Adiran just gaped as Sylda shook out her gangly limbs, snapped the curtains shut again, and proceeded with cat-like curiosity to poke around his room.

“Who, what, when?” she teased, dropping her voice in imitation of his own. Distracted, she gave a low whistle as she prodded his duvet. “Divider’s Own - I reckon your bed’s as big as my entire room!”

“What— I—” Adiran caught himself mid-stammer, partly because the look Sylda gave him made it clear she would not hold back a second time. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? How the fuck did you get in here?”

“Window.”

“That’s not what I—” Adrian cringed and lowered his voice. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

She just grinned, spun around, and flopped bodily onto his rumpled bed. “And you know that’s a secret. A trick of the trade, as they say. I can’t just go telling anyone how to sneak in here.” Sighing, she seemed to all but melt into the soft mattress. “It’d be bad for business. And for you, probably. Wouldn’t want any unsavory sorts climbing in through your window at all hours of the day.”

“Yes. That would be terrible.”

“Right?”

Judging by Sylda’s tone, the finer details of just how many people might actually know how to sneak onto palace grounds was, evidently, a matter for another day. Running an agitated hand down his face, Adiran double-checked the window before turning back to confront his latest problem. “Can you at least tell me what you’re doing here?” 

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Sitting up, legs crossed, her boots leaving dirty streaks on his covers, Sylda swung her battered satchel around until it was resting square in her lap. “Hadn’t seen you around in a while. Figured you might’ve caught something nasty last time you were out mingling with us low-folk. So…”

Before Adiran could even muster an indignant response, she pulled out a bottle of something painfully familiar. “You didn’t,” was all he said, aghast, before a wicked grin lit up her face. 

“Didn’t… what? Bring you some medicine, like the kind and thoughtful friend I am?” Her smile widened as she held the bottle aloft, swaying it enticingly. “Damn right I did. Now, you got cups in this fancy palace of yours, or are we swigging?”

Adiran was still trying to process what was happening. Taking his silence as some kind of response, Sylda shrugged and tugged the cork out with her teeth, barely managing to catch a stray droplet on her outstretched palm before it stained his sheets. 

“Wait... you... you seriously broke in here just to torture me with Palmaros Red?” Adiran had had a rough time, after his introduction to that particularly deceptive breed of swill. It was just sweet enough that you could comfortably polish off a whole bottle before the suffering kicked in. Despite his hesitation, Adiran found himself sliding onto the bed beside Sylda, doing everything in his power not to dwell on the suspicious brown streaks left by her boots. “Do you hate me or something?”

Rolling her eyes, Sylda took a long, deep pull of the wine, throat bobbing as she swallowed it with a belligerence that bordered on terrifying. Veteran though she was, even she winced at the after-burn as it went down. “Smooth as gravel,” she rasped, then turned her attention back to Adiran. “And do you really reckon I’d come all this way for someone I hate?” Before he could reply, she shoved the bottle at his chest. “Just drink up, princeling. It’s been quiet without you around to talk shit with me.”

Wrapping a hand obediently around the bottle, Adiran regarded it with pure disdain, almost wishing Sylda had just left him entirely alone. But, of course, that thought drained away when he glanced up to find her watching him fondly, lips twisted in amusement, dark brows raised expectantly, mouth tinged a tell-tale red. That strange pressure in his chest suddenly returned, almost making it hard to breathe.

What could he have possibly done, to make someone go to all this trouble just to drink utter piss with him? 

In truth, he didn’t know. He felt like he barely knew anything, these days. Not where other people were involved. But despite his own self-doubts... there she was. Sitting in the last place he ever expected to see her. A surprisingly welcome sight, even in the one place he dared to call his own.

So, with a defeated sigh, he plucked a stray leaf out of her curly hair, and took his damn medicine.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Soft sentence starter prompts! “You’re not in bed. I came looking for you.” OR “If you keep doing that, I’m going to scream— stop smiling, I mean it!” OR [Puts feet on the other’s lap], your choice! (Also, if you can make, “My gut does the weirdest things around you— acrobatic things.” work then by all means because that's the funniest thing I can imagine someone saying.)

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED: “My gut does the weirdest things around you— acrobatic things.”

In which Delver has buried himself in a Cipher job, forgetting that he is traveling with three other people who have not agreed to so much downtime...

“Delver. Enough is enough. We need to keep moving.”

“Alright, alright. We will. I just...”

Leaning against the doorframe, Kyri watched as Delver trailed off to mutter something under his breath, his blood-shot eyes fixed on the mess of pages splayed beneath his fingers. When was the last time the fool slept? she thought, the sides of her jaw aching until she forced herself to unclench her teeth. If nothing else, it was good to know Sylda hadn’t been lying when she’d said Delver had a unique kind of focus. Admittedly, her exact words had been terrifying and obsessive, but there was nothing about the stubborn man that Kyri found particularly terrifying. No - he was just a scholar, neck-deep in his passions and willing to stay there until he died of old age.

Unfortunately, they did not all have time for such luxury.

“It has been almost a full turn. You said this would not take more than a few days.”

“I was wrong.” He spoke like a person used to having the last say, his words clipped, his tone final. “Clearly.”

Oh, he would have to do much better than that.

“Clearly. When was the last time you sle---”

---“Kyri, please. I need to focus. Just give me a few more days.” His eyes never left the pages. They barely blinked. “I’ll have it done. I’ll get it. Then we can collect our sicets and be on our way."

“There are other ways to make coin. Faster ways. Sylda said---”

--- “Sylda would rob a blind man giving her sweets if the poor sod forgot to string his purse tight enough. No. This... this is better.” Paper rustled as he shifted one aside, replacing it with another, his brow set in a deep frown. “Can’t get arrested for this. Usually.”

Sighing, Kyri reached up and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “We don’t need the coin, Delver. We have enough between the four of us.”

To her surprise, Delver gave their conversation enough mind to bark a dry laugh. “We do, do we? Sure, you might have a few sicets left over, but Sylda and I share the same miserable purse. And Taelan?” He snorted, although his attention had clearly drifted back to his work, the flow of his words slowing to a trickle. “The lad... he was bondsworn. Didn’t even own his own body for most of his life, yet alone anything else. No... this... this is how we do things. We need coin. I’ll get it done.”

No. This is how you do things. It took a few moments before Kyri realised the pain in her palms was from her own nails, biting crescents into her flesh. Stubborn bastard. She uncurled her fingers one by one, taking the time to force her temper back into compliance; squash it down so she didn’t unleash it carelessly. Just because Delver had a point didn’t mean she had to like how he made it. But now was not the time for that conversation. In truth, she wasn’t sure he was even hearing her right now. With what he was saying - the cruel carelessness of it - he might not even be hearing himself.

“How much do you have left?” Levering herself off the wall, Kyri moved into the room, her nose wrinkling as she approached. It seemed bathing, along with eating and sleeping, formed three parts of the same distant memory for him. Pausing at his side, she leaned over, peering at a page of what looked like incomprehensible squiggles and symbols, crossing one another at senseless angles. Beside the page was a second piece of parchment, its contents partially constructed, a scattering of words and phrases in more familiar scripts perched at the tip of Delver’s quill. Somehow, some way, he had pulled them from the maelstrom of their source. How he even found one common term was beyond her understanding, yet alone several. She would never claim he was not talented. Impressive, even.

But also exhausting.

“Go. Please.” Delver’s voice pulled Kyri out of her quiet regard. The request was almost strained, as he muttered something unintelligible and shifted the pages slightly. Apparently her shadow had fallen one of the page’s corners. There wasn’t even any writing on it. “You’re making it impossible.”

Kyri frowned. “To...?”

“Divider’s Own - focus, Kyri!”

“Focus?” She straightened, her frown deepening as she folded her arms across her chest. “I was not speaking.”

Delver huffed, penning down another word and scratching it out in the same terse movement. “I know, I know. It’s not-- look. My gut does the weirdest things around you— acrobatic things. I need it not to right now, so if you would please just...”

With that, he jutted his quill towards the door, a few droplets of ink scattering on the floor, his gaze still fixed on his precious papers. Taken aback, Kyri stared at him for a moment, wondering if his clearly overtaxed mind would ever catch up to the mad words that had just tumbled from his lips. But those same lips were already moving again, forming silent phrases, testing them, casting them aside with a frustrated grunt. His quill quickly returned to the parchment - writing, pausing, scratching out - and Kyri realised that there was really nothing more that could be said. Not right now, at least.

“Fine. But I will be back at nightfall.” She leaned even further forward, planting her hand firmly on the desk. “Finished or not, Delver, you will eat, you will sleep, you will bathe. Understood?”

“Yes, yes, fine.” Delver waved a distracted hand, as if to brush hers off the table. Then he hesitated, midway through re-inking his quill, his expression turning thoughtful. “Give me an extra hour tonight. After sundown.”

Kyri cocked a brow. “Why?”

“I can eat in the bath.”

She stared blankly at him for a moment, then groaned and cast her gaze to the stone ceiling. “Shei-tah preserve me - fine. If that is what it takes.” Despite her frustration, she lifted her hand and began to move back towards the door. “I will see you then.” Pausing, she glanced back at Delver, his fingers tangled in his copper hair, hunched over his work, and added more gently, “Just... do not push yourself too far.”

Whether her concern reached his ears or not, she couldn’t tell. She could never tell with him; he was not one to carry such things where they could be seen. But, the rest of their conversation aside, she was content with her parting words. That would have to do.

So, softly, she shut the door

[thereluctantinquisitor]

19. sea change

Thanks for the prompt, nonny!

19. sea change (550 words)

Taelan had never seen the sea. At least, not since he was a child, and even then, the memory was vague, tainted by fear, thick with uncertainty. All he remembered was the feel of bodies, pressed together in a too-tight space. The taste of salt. The smell of iron and sweat.

It was nothing at all like the translucent water, cold to touch, that now lapped gently at his feet.

The others were busy arguing with a coast-runner, attempting to barter passage to Tel Shival via the Trade Coast. Apparently that was easier than just going through the front gate, if you could convince a captain to risk their reputation and take you. At first, Taelan hadn’t cared what route they took. But now, his boots discarded by the shoreline, his feet submerged in the bite of the water, he found himself wanting to go further. To sink down into the maw. Spread his arms. Let himself drift away...

“Your toes falling off yet or what?”

Taelan opened his eyes, not even realising he had closed them to begin with. “Not yet,” he said, after confirming with a downward glance. He couldn’t exactly feel them. Turning, he threw a questioning frown back at Sylda. She was standing on the thin strip of sandy shore, arms crossed, looking thoroughly disconcerted about something. About him. A familiar pang lurched in Taelan’s stomach and he quickly turned away, palms pressing instinctively to the sides of his thighs. What was he doing? “I’ll come out.”

“What? No - hey, it’s alright. I was just teasing.” Something in his voice must have given him away. Or maybe it was the fact that his hands had curled into fists without his permission. But before he had a chance relax, a splashing sound from behind stole his concentration.

It was Sylda, her trousers rolled clumsily to her knees, wading into the ankle-deep water. “Divider’s ass!” She gritted the words out through clenched teeth, a pink flush already colouring her cheeks as she braved the bitter cold. “You’re fucking with me, right? You can’t be enjoying this!”

He didn’t really know how to explain. How to put into words that the throb of the cold was comforting because it was something he had never felt before. Unlike so many things, it wasn’t a memory he’d made as a bondsworn. There was nothing to compare it to. Nothing to taint it. It was new. It was his.

“I guess I just like the cold.”

“Ugh. Insanity.” Sylda cringed, but continued wading out towards him like he owed her money. “I s-swear, this is----ACK!” The water suddenly swelled, rising to mid-shin, and Sylda’s voice pitched with it, her horrified yelp loud enough to disrupt the negotiations taking place further down the shore. “Shitttt!” She rose to her toes, but it did little to save the bottom of her haphazardly rolled clothes. “Shit shit shit!”

Abandoning her misguided quest for solidarity, she spun and hurried back to shore, cursing and yelping the entire way, threatening every gentle wave with a painful death until she was back on dry land. Once safe, she immediately began the futile task of trying to wring the sodden ends of her trousers, muttering darkly, glaring and snapping impotently at any wave that dared venture too close.

And, for the first time in a long time, standing there in the glittering water, Taelan laughed.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

OC Kiss Week 21

I arrive with a humble entry, dedicated to my lovely @frenchy-and-the-sea. Thank you for letting me borrow one of your Seven Cities characters!

This turned out a lot longer than expected because of who I am as a person. Anyway I hope you like it, and I apologise in advance for any wild inconsistencies with the Captain of my Heart and Soul.

~2000 words, original fiction (a hearty blend of Stonebreaker and Seven Cities)

                _______________________________

There weren’t a lot of things to be said about sailors. Well, other than the conclusive fact that they were all utterly insane. But there was something about that cocksure Captain Alex, with her big hat and big ego to fill it, that had been keeping Sylda up later and later into the night. Before, she would just lie in her makeshift pallet, entertaining increasingly ridiculous ideas; the kind that scythed their way through her skull to the rhythm of the rocking ship. This time, partly out of desperation, she had opted for the aid of fresh air to clear her mind.

Perched on the wooden taffrail, her gaze - and left leg - swung out over the ocean’s dark oblivion. For the first time in over a week, she was finally alone. Thinking.

Just... thinking.

How Delver had managed to find them passage on a remotely seaworthy vessel was nothing short of a miracle. Sylda hadn’t asked any questions - she certainly knew better than to look the proverbial horse in the mouth. But the fact that they hadn’t been gutted and keelhauled the second they lost sight of land still hadn’t quite sunk in. She’d heard stories about the mad seafarers of the east. About their obsession with dark water. About their greed and cold steel. About the way they used people as bait to lure creatures from the deep... 

Well, she supposed she should be grateful they hadn’t ended up on one of those vessels. Delver was a lot of irritating things, but at least a decent judge of character appeared to be one of them.

The sound of a door suddenly creaking open earned a carefully languid glance, the motion at utter odds with the lurch of surprise in Sylda’s stomach. Relax, she chided herself. This wasn’t some ale-soaked back alley. It was probably one of those twins - Fin or Din or something - wandering out to take a piss.

Her rational side’s attempt to assert dominance crumbled the second she realised who had actually stepped out onto the afterdeck.

“Captain Sheffield.” Sylda wasn’t about to snap to attention, but she gave Alex what she felt was a suitably deferential nod. “It’s a nice night. Out for a stroll?”

Alex’s nose wrinkled slightly. “Some fresh air, more like. Not much strolling to be had back here.”

That was true enough. There were far better options for an evening walk than the stern, after all. Letting the door swing shut behind her, Alex groaned softly and moved forward, hands on her lower back, stretching as she went. From her vantage, Sylda swore the line of Alex’s spine had fixed itself into a slight bow, ready at any moment to diligently curve itself over a desk. Whatever she and Delver had been up to, it seemed to have gone far longer and far later than expected. He probably drove her half-way mad, rambling on the way he does, she thought, smiling slightly to herself. At least someone else got to experience the uniquely infuriating pleasure of his company.

As quickly as the smile arrived, she shooed it away with a start. No - she would rather die than admit to even an ounce of fondness for the insufferable man. He was a means to an end, and she was exactly the same thing for him. That knowledge - that truth - had served them well over the seasons.

A sharp clearing of the throat pulled Sylda from her thoughts. Alex had stopped a few steps from the door, and something about the hawk-like intensity of her gaze made Sylda feel very much like a mouse on a platter. “Do me a favour,” Alex began slowly, as though each of her words required careful and deliberate measuring. “If you’re plannin’ on tipping yourself into the sea, kindly do so when I’m not close enough to feel obliged to go in after you.”

That startled a laugh out of Sylda. “Oh? Is that something captains do?” When Alex’s stern expression didn’t waver, she cocked her head and smiled. “C’mon - don’t give me that look. Are you trying to tell me that daring rescues aren’t actually part of the job description?”

It took a moment before Alex responded, and when she did, it was strangely like a confession. “It’s... more a personal habit than a demand of the position.” She snorted softly. “An unfortunate one at times, if you ask Tahir. Reckon that particular impulse has had a fair hand in turning him grey over the years.” The brief moment of levity, however, vanished as quickly as it arrived. “But let me be clear; I've no intention of feeling guilty tonight.”

There was no mistaking the unspoken command. And frankly, with those piercing eyes leveled at her, Sylda didn’t feel particularly keen to risk disobedience. That was a strange thing all by itself. Divider, she’d cussed out bandits with a knife to her neck - spat in the face of guards hauling her off for a week in the pit. But now, she found herself sighing and swinging both her legs ship-side. Without even a trace of her usual malicious compliance, she slid smoothly until her feet were pressed safely to the wooden deck. “Well, I wouldn’t want to cause you any grief, Captain.” Her eyes flicked up and she flashed a half-smile. “You know, I’ve actually got a pretty steady set of legs under me. Been running rooftops since I was tall as your waist.”

“That so?” Alex folded her arms, but something about her posture had shifted. Loosened. “Well, when rooftops start pitching in a swell, make sure you pass on word. I’m sure plenty of folk will be keen to know another viable application for their sea legs.”

“Alright, alright. Point taken. I’ll keep my arse off the rails.” Still chuckling, Sylda turned, leaning her forearms on the lacquered wood instead. “Can’t imagine a stiller night than this one, though. Can a ship even move in this?”

The sound of boots against the deck heralded Alex’s approach. Arriving beside her, the Captain mirrored her pose, allowing her weary back to settle into a more familiar position. “Aye, it can, but not at any particular speed.” She motioned at something in the dark, her finger tracing a line over the water. “The current here runs south-east. We’ll just let her drift in that direction until the wind picks up.”

“That won’t take us off-course?”

Alex shrugged. “Not far enough to be worried, unless we’re becalmed for days on end. But I can’t say I’ve had that happen out here. The Pale’s not a quiet sea. This is...”

Alex trailed off, closing her eyes, as though to better feel the strange stillness. There was no real need for her to finish her sentence; Sylda simply allowed herself to lapse into the same peaceful silence. The sound of the water lapping against the hull was a soothing rhythm for tired souls. It had been a long few weeks. Seasons, even, if she were being truly honest.

“Hey... can I admit something?” Sylda eventually asked. That, it seemed, piqued Alex’s curiosity. The Captain turned away from the water, arching a brow to indicate her approval. Maybe even her curiosity, if Sylda felt like flattering herself. “Coming out here,” she continued, “out on the open water... it kinda scared the shit out of me.”

To her surprise, Alex snorted. “And here I thought you’d be telling me something I didn’t guess the first hour out of port.”

Sylda cringed. “Was it that obvious?”

“Finn reckoned you were wound tighter than a tenday clock.”

Groaning theatrically, Sylda made a show of hanging her head. “Alright, alright, laugh it up. At least I kept all my meals down.” They shared a glance at that, and twin smiles slowly spread across their faces. Who would have thought that the image of Delver, green-faced and dramatically clinging to the rail, could actually bring people together? For a moment, Sylda almost forgot where she was. Who she was with. It was like being back in Yelen. Back in the Nest, sitting across from someone she knew. Someone she trusted. Respected, even. Someone with eyes of steel and a liberal dusting of freckles.

Someone she might just want to lean towards and...

As quickly as the feeling had taken her, Sylda remembered that everything she knew about Alex Sheffield could comfortably fit into a thimble - with her thumb already in it - and the smile drifted away. Clearing her throat, she did her best to hide her burning cheeks, turning back towards the quiet, dark ocean. The Pale. An ironic name if ever there was one. “Anyway... I heard a lot of stories. About the deep water. I’m not sure if any of them are true, but they were enough to convince me I wouldn’t let myself anywhere near it. Just in case.”

Alex turned as well, the folds of her shirt shifting softly as she leaned backwards against the rail, her weight resting on her elbows. With the stillness of the night and her head tipped slightly skyward, Sylda couldn’t help but picture Alex as a kind of statue, her sight forever set on the stars. She supposed anyone willing to sail the open water had to be a bit like that. A bit in love with things distant and unknown.

“But, despite it all, here you are,” Alex said after a moment. Her voice was suddenly soft. Thoughtful. Somehow, Sylda got the distinct feeling that she wasn’t just talking about her anymore. That was alright. It was a night for quiet contemplation, apparently. That could be nice, sometimes. Calming.

Leaning into the moment, Sylda exhaled slowly, feeling her shoulders dip. Feeling the weight of her feet pressing against the deck, of her arms on the rail. “But here I am,” she replied, then playful smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Fuck me, right?”

Alex snorted. Confused, Sylda turned to discern the source of her amusement, and when it hit her a half-second later, she let out suffering groan. “Oh come on. You’re better than that.”

“Am I? You’ve seen the kind of company I keep.”

It was Sylda’s turn to laugh. “Okay then, maybe not. But if we could side-step the gutter for a moment, I’d like it known to you and anyone eavesdropping nearby that I expect at least a kiss first.”

“That so?” A gentle breeze stirred - just enough to tease the curling locks framing Alex’s face - before quickly falling away again. For a second, Sylda’s words stuck in her throat, and she realised just how close they were. Just how alone they were.

Then the playful gleam in Alex’s eyes - as though she somehow knew exactly what she was doing her - tugged Sylda back to the present.

“What can I say? I’m an old fashioned kinda gal.” Sighing in mimicry of the high class ladies whose purses she liked to pluck, Sylda arched her back and mimed demurely fanning her bosom. “I require courting.”

“Really?” Alex raised a brow, her lips twisting in what Sylda quietly hoped was amusement. “With just a kiss?”

Sylda grinned and mimed tossing the fan into the sea.

“Well, I never said a lot of courting.”

Laughter seemed to carry further on still nights. It was as though, in the absence of wind, it sought to fill the sails all by itself. For the first time since leaving port, Sylda felt lighter. Not without burdens - never that light. But at least, for a few moments, she could flit and flirt and pretend it was something a person like her just got to do. Without guilt. Without worrying about all the things standing in her way. About all the ways she would inevitably fall short.

And for her part, Alex proved surprisingly open to the game. Maybe it was just because she was tired, and her walls were lower than usual. Despite her curiosity, Sylda hadn’t expected to even catch the Captain alone, yet alone rope her into a starlit conversation. After all, she knew - acutely well - how much of a time-siphon Delver could be. Particularly when his passions were piqued. It was a miracle he hadn’t shackled himself to Alex’s ankle like the ball and chain he was.

No. That's not fair. Closing her eyes, Sylda pulled in a long, slow breath. When she opened them again, Alex was regarding her quietly, her arms folded once more, her head cocked ever so slightly. Sylda knew when someone was sizing her up, but this... well, it wasn’t quite the same. A step to the left of it, perhaps, where she knew something was being measured, but she just wasn’t sure what.

“Copper for your thoughts?” Sylda asked eventually. Alex blinked, then reasserted herself, her arms unfolding as she hummed and levered herself from the rail.

“Just committing some things to memory. Don’t worry yourself over it.”

At that, it was Sylda’s turn to arch a brow. “Oh?” She reached up absently, her fingers twisting the ends of her hair as Alex smirked and headed back towards the door. Then, finally, she decided to be brave. “Well, before you head off, here’s another thing for your memory. I wouldn’t mind, ah... worrying myself.” She paused, then hastily added, “Over it. That.”

She swore she heard someone snort from somewhere in the rigging, but she was already too mortified to pay it any real heed. Well, that was smooth as fucking gravel, Sylda thought, cringing inwardly. It took everything in her power not to flip herself over the rail and into the sea. Idiot. This is why you don’t do this. This is why...

Again, maybe it was the product of weariness, or perhaps the strange stillness of the night, but Alex Sheffield, Captain of the Ranger, actually turned back. Her hand rested on the carefully carved doorknob. Her hair, untouched by wind, curled loosely at its ends.

“Well,” she said, then graced her with a quick, sly smile. One that went straight to Sylda’s knees. “Suppose I’ll go ahead and add that, too.”

[thereluctantinquisitor]

AHHH I MISSED PROMPTS! How about we give someone in Stonebreaker something they desperately need. 22, nap!

Micro Story Prompt

In which I, once again, fail to deliver a micro story. (1453 words SHAAME).

                                         ---------------------------

“Hey, Delver... can we stop for a bit?”

The heat was unbearable. Oppressive. Smothering. So much so that Delver trudged a few more steps, deep in the trance of just putting one foot in front of the other, before he even realised Sylda had opened her mouth. By the time he lumbered to a halt, the young woman was already veering off the road, her pack half-slung, dangling from her elbow. “What?” He blinked slowly, glancing around the roadside. Red dust. Brown grass. A scattering of rustbark trees. “Right here?”

Divider, he felt like his head was about to split open. Whose bright idea was it to make the sun so damn... well... bright.

“Mhm. Why not?” Sylda, the brat, was already dragging out her spare cloak. Deftly, she shook out any stray pieces of grass before laying it down again beneath the thick branch of one of the rustbarks. The squat tree, its copper leaves drooping like a miser’s purse, cast its shadow at a long, wide angle. They still had a few hours of light left. It made no sense to stop.

Delver opened his mouth to say as much, only to turn and find Sylda already lying on her back, one leg kicked over the other, her foot bobbing, shoeless, in the late afternoon heat. He stared for a beat. And another, bemused. Then, with a defeated sigh, he shook his head and trudged over, boots grinding against road until the sound was replaced by the snapping of brittle grass.

“What, no argument?” Sylda seemed genuinely surprised. He supposed that was fair enough. On a regular day, he would have a number of choice words at the ready, but right now his head hurt enough to turn his empty stomach inside out. So instead, Delver just grunted, dropping to the ground, not even bothering to put anything beneath him. He wrapped himself in his cloak and leaned back against the rustbark’s knotted trunk. As always, it was about as comfortable as lounging on a bed of river rocks, but for some reason it didn’t bother him so much. The shade alone, like a salve against his throbbing skull, was worth the rest of the discomfort.

”Twenty minutes,” he said, and tried hard to keep the relief out of his voice as a gentle breeze trickled around the tree, curling the edges of his cloak. Merciful Divider. He failed to stifle a yawn. “After that, we keep moving.”

“Forty,” Sylda countered. Because of course she did. “I’ll keep watch for the first half while you take a nap. You can do the second. Deal?”

Delver would have sent her a vicious glare - Divider knows she deserved it.

But, lucky for her, his eyes were already shut.

                                                ---------------

Delver awoke, disoriented, to the sound of birds. Groaning, struggling onto one elbow, he nearly yelped like a startled maid when something slid from on top of him and landed with an indignant rustle in the grass.

A cloak?

His cloak.

When had he...?

As his consciousness slowly rejoined reality, Delver glanced around. A few feet away was a pit, lined with stones, the smoke of a freshly quenched fire curling from its charred center. A pot hung above it, filled with water, about a cup short of full.

And, perched atop the already packed coil of her sleeping roll, was Sylda.

How had she managed to boil an entire pot of water in twenty minutes?

“Oh, hey- you’re up.” Turning, alerted by his attractively waking grunts, Sylda threw Delver an innocent smile. It called forth just the right amount of dimples to disarm even the sternest opponent. It was the exact smile she used when she was up to something. “Feeling any better?”

As much as Delver wanted to chastise her, he found himself lacking the willpower. Again. Oddly enough, this time it was because he didn’t feel like a mule had kicked him in the head.

He really was losing his touch.

“I’m fine. I was fine yesterday, too.” Sitting up, wincing from a night spend on dirt and stones, he mustered the effort to cast her a disparaging look. “You didn’t keep watch all night, did you?” He wasn’t sure what would make him angrier. Camping roadside was dangerous at the best of times. One of the biggest benefits to traveling as a pair was having a second set of eyes readily available. If she’d stayed awake, she was an idiot. If she’d dozed off, she was a reckless idiot.

Sylda shrugged, before climbing to her feet and moving towards the pot of water. Well, at least she'd put her boots back on. “It’s alright. I sleep well most nights.” She left out the unspoken unlike you, which was unusually tactful for her. “And before you start snapping at my neck, it was an accident, okay? I got all stuck in my thoughts and forgot to wake you.” She scooped a ladle of water into a cup. The water was probably still pleasantly warm. “You didn’t even snore for once. It was actually peaceful.”

While that was a valiant attempt to distract him, Delver refused to rise to her obviously false bait. He didn’t snore. He had that on good authority. “It doesn’t do either of us any good if you’re exhausted either,” he chided, stiffly accepting the offered cup. “You won’t be able to concentrate on your lessons.”

The water was a sweet, sweet mercy. His throat felt thick and dry with dust. It coated his skin, his hair, darkened the underside of his nails. Divider’s Own, he couldn’t wait to be rid of it. Away from the dust storms, and the burning heat, and the shadeless stretches of sun-cracked road...

He lost himself so thoroughly in the simple act of drinking that he completely missed that Sylda had spoken.

“I said,” she repeated with a roll of her eyes, “that you’ve been in no shape to give me lessons these past few days anyway, so what does it matter if I’m a little tired?”

The urge to argue rose like a flood within him. In fact, Delver spent a good half-minute in stony silence trying to come up with a remotely feasible defense. But, like with most things lately, it just kept slipping through his fingers. He might not be in crippling pain, but he still wasn’t himself. As much as he loathed to admit it... she might have a point.

“Oh!” Clearly immune to his resentful silence, Sylda tugged up her sleeve, her fingers making short work of the leather straps binding the anchor to her wrist. “Here. I took it off you while you were sleeping. Figured I could try practice a bit overnight, but...” She faltered, some of the brightness in her dimming as she turned the ebenite disc over in her hands. Delver waited silently, partly because he still felt a little too raw to speak, partly because he assumed she had more to say. But instead, she just sighed and handed it over, her eyes fixed on the brown grass at her feet. The shame radiated off her so intensely it was almost palpable.

“Drawing from any anchor isn’t easy, Sylda.” The disc felt right, strapped safely to his wrist again. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed its absence the moment he woke. “And drawing from Ebenite? It’s practically impossible at the best of times. If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here, doing what we’re doing.”

More importantly, if she truly couldn’t do it, she wouldn’t be here. Alive. Breathing. Mothering him despite being ten years his junior.

“I know, I know.” With a heavy breath, Sylda kicked at the stones near her feet. “I just... I don’t know. I have the anchor, and I have you. I figured I’d be able to do something by now.”

You and me both, Delver thought, but kept it to himself as they lapsed into silence. She self-applied more than enough pressure without him adding to it. He might be a belligerent asshole, but he liked to think he knew when to ease off. “We should pack up,” he said after a time, sensing they both needed a distraction. As Sylda nodded and stood again, his gaze followed her, a slight frown tinging his brow. “You’re... sure you’re not tired?”

His kindhearted concern was met with an entirely unnecessary groan.

“I’m not, Delver. Really - I feel better than fine. It was just one night. I’ve stayed up for longer before, back when I was in Yelen.”

Just one night. Sure, if they were lounging around eating grapes and reading poetry, he might accept that. But they were on the road, traveling all day in the dragging heat of Latesun. It just didn’t add up.

Then again, he had to admit, she really did seem fine. No heavy footsteps. No dark circles beneath her eyes. No sluggish reactions as she went about clearing up their makeshift campsite, bundling utensils, kicking dirt over the fire, re-scattering the stones. She wasn’t even yawning, even though she had been the day before.

Slowly, Delver’s gaze drifted down to the anchor. It was warm against his wrist. As warm as usual? It was hard to tell, with the day’s heat already climbing fast around them. Regardless, he made a mental note to pay closer attention in the future. Something could be happening right beneath their noses. Something subtle enough that they could comfortably blink and miss it.

“So are you planning to watch me do all the work, or...?”

Snorting, Delver waved an acquiescing hand and struggled to his feet, muscles protesting the movement, aching from a night spent curled on the uneven ground. “What, you mean your goodwill only lasted one night?”

He barely caught the ladle as it went spinning towards his head.

[stonebreakerseries]

Day 2: Mercy + “That’s the easy part”

Day 2 of @oc-growth-and-development​’s OC-tober challenge and the @fictober-event​. Another successful merging of the two prompts, which I think paired rather well today!

Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction) Characters: Sylda & Valesha Warnings: descriptions of blood, language

“Act natural. We’re being followed.”

Sylda’s spine stiffened, her shoulders rising, her grip on the leather-wrapped bundle tightening as she clutched it to her chest. “What?” she breathed. She didn’t dare speak louder than a whisper, ears straining, hairs rising on the back of her neck and arms. On either side, the walls of the buildings rose two storeys high, their crumbling stone and sun-bleached wood giving the alley a ghostly, forgotten appearance. It was unsettling at the best of times, yet alone in the middle of the night. “Val, you’d better not be messing with me. This isn’t funn--” 

Beside her, Valesha continued her ambling stroll, one hand buried in her pocket, the other swinging casually by her side. Lanky, with knife-cropped hair and a face full of sharp angles, most readily mistook her for a young man. Wandering about after dark in her loose shirt and trousers only enhanced the effect. While Valesha’s posture gave nothing away, it was the look she shot, dark but burning like hot coals, that silenced Sylda mid-sentence.

“Shut up,” Val hissed. The hand in her pocket shifted slightly, adjusting its grip on something. “Behind us. Left side.” The silver light from Anayh, the smallest but brightest moon, cut the alley at an angle, illuminating the taller woman’s head and shoulder. “Just keep walking.”

Mustering the faintest of nods, Sylda did as she was told, continuing forward, heart stammering. Her arms and legs seemed to vibrate, palms sweating as nervous energy coursed through her. The awkward bundle pressed to her chest suddenly felt uncomfortably heavy. Uncomfortably obvious, like a beacon to every thief and cut-purse looking for an easy mark.

Gods above and below, why did we have to take the alleys? 

It wasn’t their territory. The Copper Hawks owned the rooftops - everyone knew that. It made for risky travel and easy escapes, the two often balancing each other out among their less skilled members, but serving the veterans well. But some jobs didn’t lend themselves to running along ridges and leaping between eaves. This time, it was the weight of the parcel and the delicacy of its contents. One wrong step on a rooftop, and the entire job would have been for nothing. She didn’t even want to imagine Davros’ face if that happened. No, Sylda was not going back to the nest empty-handed. Not again.

Never again.

“Drop!”

Valesha’s voice was a whip, cracking through the alley. Immediately, Sylda threw herself forward, twisting mid-air to keep the satchel skyward. Her back struck the broken cobbles, a shock of pain ringing from her spine to her teeth as she clutched their prize to her chest, both arms wrapped over it like a scaly creshek guarding its egg. Inside, she felt something creak slightly, but nothing seemed to to crack of splinter. Maybe it was true what everyone said, and The Errant Queen really was watching over her.

Or maybe the goddess was just biding her time.

Even as Sylda fell, Valesha was moving. She spun, heel grinding against the ground, her hand a blur as it snapped from her pocket and sent something bright and curved whistling into the dark side of the alley. Sounds pierced the thrum in Sylda’s ears; a yelp of shock, a wet wheeze, boots scrabbling frantically over dust and stone. Valesha, now facing into the alley, already had the tip of another talon jutting from between her thumb and forefinger, arm poised for a second throw. Sylda used to fall asleep to the sound of her practicing, the thud of the curved metal biting into wood strangely comforting as she hit her mark over and over again.

This time was no exception.

As Valesha positioned herself in the center of the alley, Sylda pushed herself further towards the street, careful not to lose grip on the leather-wrapped bundle. Distance is your friend, girl. Find it. Strike from it. Flee towards it. Just past Val, two shapes were moving, one stumbling out of a side alley, the other hanging back, hesitant to follow. As one of the figures - a man with stringing black hair and a close-cropped beard - spilled into the light, he fell to his knees, hands groping at the side of his neck. Throat tight, Sylda could only watch as he tugged - once, twice, three times - the warning on her tongue unable to make it past her bloodless lips. 

Don’t. Don’t try to pull it out.

On the fourth try, he succeeded. Val’s talon ripped free, the hook halfway up its length tearing through flesh, taking a chunk of his neck with it. The silver light made the blood appear black as it sprayed then pulsed in hideous gouts from the wound. The man, panicking, tried to stem the flow, but his hands were clumsy and shaking. It was over in seconds. With a final judder, fingers straining, eyes wide with shock, he slumped to the side. Limp. Lifeless.

There was still one more.

“Last chance, little rat.” Valesha’s voice was colder than the steel at her fingertips. She had never been a warm person, but something about her, half-washed in moonlight, a corpse framed by the stance of her legs, sent a shiver across Sylda’s skin. “Run back home before I change my mind.”

The sound of footsteps fading into the distance was Sylda’s only clue that their second tail had taken Valesha’s sage advice and fled. Breathing hard, she slowly struggled to her feet as Val knelt beside the dead body, hands patting along his limbs, hunting for hidden pockets, pieces of paper, something to sell. By the time Sylda was standing again, her breathing leveling out, Valesha had returned empty-handed, a sour look pinching her narrow face. “Fucker could have at least had some sicets on him,” she muttered, then held up her bloody talon. “Look at this shit. By the time we get back, it’ll be all dried on. I’ll be stuck for hours scratching it off.”

It was a little hard to feel sympathetic, all things considered. Luckily, Val never wanted anyone’s sympathy, yet alone Sylda’s. Muttering darkly, the woman shook it once, scattering tiny droplets on the alley wall, then shoved it back in her pocket. Lovely.

As Valesha beckoned her over to check the parcel, Sylda found her eyes drifting back to the corpse. She’d thought he was an old man, at first. The way he moved seemed stilted, like the grind had set itself deep in his bones. But up close, she could see she was wrong. Lying in a pool of black, his skin was still smooth, his hands dirty and stained but unmistakably youthful. If she had to guess, she might have placed him in his mid-twenties. Certainly no more than thirty dry seasons.

And now, he was dead.

She supposed it wasn’t so bad. Most barely made it halfway before meeting similarly ugly fates.

“Sylda?” Valesha’s voice tugged her attention away from the body. She was frowning, her dark brows angled sharply down as she readjusted the bundle’s leather wrapping. “What’s the matter with you? You’re acting like you’ve never seen blood before.”

Of course she had. As much as any of the others. Probably almost as much as Val, who had been in this business from the day she could walk. But, strangely, it wasn’t the dead man that had her so unsettled.

“You let the other one go.”

Val stepped back, jaw tightening, expression closing off. “So? Got a problem with that?”

They started walking again, faster than before, not wanting to linger. Even though most of the grey coats patrolling the streets turned a blind eye to murders among thieves, it was still never a good idea to be caught with a fresh body. You never knew when one of them might actually feel like doing their job. Swallowing, Sylda hurried to keep pace, Val’s long legs leaving her scampering.

“I just… didn’t expect it, that’s all.”

“Yeah? Why not.”

This was dangerous territory. Sylda had to choose her next words carefully unless she wanted to be sleeping alone for a turn or two. “It’s just… you always say that if you’re going to make a kill, you’ve gotta do it once and do it right. Mercy just seems…”

Sylda trailed off, knowing she was toeing a very fine line. Luckily, Valesha seemed strangely willing to continue the thread. “It seems like taking the easy way out.”

Feeling a little sheepish, Sylda just nodded. It wasn’t that she thought mercy was weak. It as just... unusual, given who they were. What they did.

“C’mon, Sylda.” Val shook her head sharply. It was clear she was still on edge, all senses on the look-out for trouble. “Killing some idiot in a back alley? That’s the easy part. That sorry bastard didn’t stand a chance. But knowing when to let them go…” Pausing to check their surroundings, the pair exited onto the street, crossing quickly before slipping into an even narrower alley on the other side. “Mercy’s a lot harder,” Val continued, finishing her thought as they made a left, then a sharp right, losing themselves in Yelen’s tangled warren.

In a way, Sylda supposed what she said made sense. Death was just death. Letting someone live had a lot more uncertainty involved.

“I guess he might be a problem, in the future.”

Val nodded. “He could be.”

Sylda glanced across, regarding her partner for a moment. The moon was higher now, and the shadows rushed to full the hollows of Val’s cheeks, making her appear unusually gaunt.

“But you don’t think he will, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why?” She adjusted her grip on the package, arms starting to ache now that the nervous energy had worn off. “I just don’t get it. How can you know something like that?”

“I never know. I just… get a feeling, sometimes.” As their surroundings grew more and more rundown, they slipped under a section of broken wall, only a few feet between its crumbling base and the dust-covered ground. Val paused on the other side to take the bundle from Sylda, allowing her to navigate the tight space. “This one tonight? He was just a fucking kid. Couldn’t have seen more than ten or eleven dry seasons.” She shrugged and, to Sylda’s quiet dismay, passed the bundle back once she was through the gap. Turning, thrusting her hand back in her pocket, Val led the through the abandoned building’s ground floor. “I guess I just ask myself: will killing this person make my life easier? If the answer is ‘no’, then...”

She shrugged, the gesture seeming to suggest the conversation was over.

Unfortunately, Sylda had always been good at ignoring those kinds of cues.

“What if he comes looking for you?”

Val scoffed, the sound echoing around the broken building. “Then he’s an idiot and I’ll go ahead and finish him off. But I really don’t see that happening. Do you?”

If he was as young as Val claimed, Sylda supposed she had a point. Besides, the kid hadn’t exactly caused them any trouble. Gods, he didn’t even bother trying to help his companion as he bled out in the alley. Knowing the way of the streets, there probably wasn’t any kind of bond between them. Just necessity. A set of eyes to watch your back, and report back if you die. Such was the way of things.

They walked in silence for a time, both women lost in their own thoughts. Sylda’s were split between her own doubts and the ache in her arms, but Val seemed unusually troubled. Her hand shifted in her pocket rhythmically, and Sylda could imagine the motion of her fingertips as they traced the talon’s wicked edge. One wrong move, and she’d be adding her own blood to the mix. She liked to play those sorts of games; test herself in strange, unsettling ways. Inevitably, she would slip up, then spend the rest of the evening glaring sullenly at her bandaged fingers.

Nope. Not on my watch.

“Well,” Sylda said, rolling her shoulders as they finally reached the last stretch of their journey, “I guess one good thing came of letting that kid go.”

“Oh yeah?” It was nice to hear a bit of humour back in Val’s voice. Her dark brown eyes flicked across. “And what’s that?”

A playful smile spreading across her face, Sylda nudged her with an elbow. “You don’t have to spend the night scratching blood off two talons.”

Rolling her eyes, Val groaned. But she slid her hand out of her pocket, reached across, and draped her arm over Sylda’s shoulders, so she figured her tasteless comment had been worth it.

“Wow. Morbid,” Val said. Then she grinned, and immediately set Sylda’s heart into an energetic flutter. “That’s why I like you.”

[thereluctantinquisitor]

This or That Meme

Thank you for the tag @frenchy-and-the-sea! I’ve decided to focus on Delver and Sylda for now, because they’re the two I’m currently writing with (I’ll pop Sylda’s under the cut just because this was starting to get quite long).

Tagging: @chaitea09, @lavellanlove, @bladeverbena, @leothelionsaysgrrrr, @saphylee, @livjnoodles, @dafan7711 (and anyone else who might want to do something like this for their OCs!)

B A S I C S

full name: Delver

gender: Male

sexuality: Heteroflexible

pronouns: he/him

age: 33 (I added this in mostly for my own benefit lol - I SHOULD know this)

O T H E R S=

family: 

Father: Relos Aram (a traveller/relic hunter who moved on well before Delver was born - likely has no idea he has a child. Might be dead.)

Mother: Aryssa Torvul, Cipher to the King of Sygnea.

birthplace: Caldaron, capital of the kingdom of Sygnea.

job: For the most part, he has become something akin to a wandering notary/scribe. He generally performs freelance work for two types of people:

Nobility who know of and can afford his skills as a discreet Cipher (as he is the only one untethered to a lord, king or court).

Regular folk who want someone to slap together a will or a deed (this is his ‘I need coin to live’ work). Unfortunately, his seal has recently become outdated, meaning this can only work if the person he is working for is illiterate.

phobias: Madness. Irrelevancy. Lack of control.

guilty pleasures:

Storytelling - both hearing and sharing. He has a deep fascination with the past that doesn’t really translate well to a world where history is shrouded in superstition by the lower classes and religious censorship by the elites.

He’s also prone to checking out old ruins or abandoned places in the hopes of finding something new or interesting. This is the act that earned him the nickname ‘Delver’, which he then adopted as his actual name.

Gambling. A lot of the time, there’s just not much need for his services, especially in smaller villages and towns. So he’ll gamble, and he’ll cheat while doing it. This has got him into trouble more than once.

M O R A L S

morality alignment: Chaotic neutral. He’s spent the majority of his life looking out for himself above anyone else. So yes, he has officiated deeds and contracts with an outdated seal and a fake name just to make enough coin for a room and a meal. Yes, he has cheated drunk tavern-goers in games of dice. Yes, he has abandoned people out of guilt or shame when things went wrong.  

Basically, he always believed that unless he had a vested interest in a person, he wouldn’t lose sleep over them. But he starts to find that the more he cheats or swindles, the more he begins to resent himself. It begins to wreak havoc with his general inferiority complex.

He also likes to think he’s more jaded and heartless than he truly is. When faced with a truly difficult situation, he can show surprising amounts of charity and kindness. But these acts are always done quietly and he will never stick around to be thanked. It’s almost embarrassing for him - like it’s a weakness to be kept hidden.

sins: lust / greed / gluttony / sloth / pride / envy / wrath

virtues: chastity / charity / diligence / humility / kindness / patience / justice

T H I S - O R - T H A T

Introvert / Extrovert

Organized / Disorganized

Close-minded / Open-minded

Calm / Anxious

Agreeable / Disagreeable

Cautious / Reckless

Patient / Impatient

Outspoken / Reserved

Leader / Follower

Empathetic / Unempathetic

Optimistic / Pessimistic

Traditional / Modern

Hard-working / Lazy

R E L A T I O N S H I P S

otp: None yet. Possible Delver/Kyri, but I’ll see how it all shakes out for them.

ot3: None.

brotp: Delver + Sylda. Delver + Kyri (once they get past their shaky start)

notp: Delver/Sylda. Big nope - he’s basically her mentor.

———–

B A S I C S

full name: Syldana (Sylda)

gender: Female

sexuality: Bisexual

pronouns: She/her

age: 20

O T H E R S

family: Biological family is unknown, but she ends up running with a pack of thieves who become like family to her.

birthplace: Jorhum, likely near or in the city of Yelen.

job: Mostly night work (breaking and entering). While she graduated from day work (pick-pocketing) a few years ago, she still dabbles occasionally to keep her skills sharp and because, to be honest, she finds it more exciting. Her greatest achievement was stealing a pocket-watch from a man while he was holding it. She has yet to make a more impressive steal.

phobias: She develops a very strong aversion to places of ‘justice’ (gallows, execution blocks, etc.). Also can’t swim so is very uncomfortable around large bodies of water.

guilty pleasures: 

Dresses. While acknowledging that they are frivolous and impractical, she’s never owned one, and has always wondered what they might feel like to walk around in. She would also rather die than admit this curiosity to anyone.

She also has a guilty desire to learn to read. While she has picked up some basic words over the years (like shop names, etc.), there is no way she could read something like a book or even a flyer. Her guilt for wanting this decreases as she travels with Delver, because while reading wasn’t really that important in her former life, it would benefit her greatly in her new pursuits.

M O R A L S

morality alignment: Chaotic good. Yes, she stole and burgled to survive, but only from people she felt could afford to lose whatever she took. It also wasn’t purely for herself; they pooled their hauls and the whole group used it to buy food, supplies, medical treatment, etc.

sins: lust / greed / gluttony / sloth / pride / envy / wrath

virtues: chastity / charity / diligence / humility / kindness / patience / justice

T H I S - O R - T H A T

Introvert / Extrovert

Organized / Disorganized

Close-minded / Open-minded

Calm / Anxious

Agreeable / Disagreeable

Cautious / Reckless

Patient / Impatient

Outspoken / Reserved

Leader / Follower

Empathetic / Unempathetic

Optimistic / Pessimistic

Traditional / Modern

Hard-working / Lazy

R E L A T I O N S H I P S

otp: None (yet)

ot3: None

brotp: Sylda + Delver, Sylda + Taelan, Sylda + Kyri. (She’s pretty easy to get along with)

notp: Sylda/Delver.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

24: tender

Sometimes, trusting someone doesn’t take years and years of small, slow steps. Sometimes, it just takes one moment. For Sylda, it was the moment Delver handed her back her book. She must have fallen asleep with it clutched to her chest. It was an old thing, but familiar, its leather cover cracked and weathered at the edges in patterns she could paint in her sleep. It fell during the night, and for the first time, Sylda was not the one to pick it up.

The way he did it could only be described as tender. Delver took it by its spine, gently lifting it until it rested in both hands, then paused. Just for a moment. Just to look at it. Just to trace a careful fingertip along the crease in the center of its cover. The movement was almost reverent, and even though the book was hers, Sylda actually felt like she was intruding on a something deeply personal. Something not meant for her eyes.

Then, he noticed her, and everything shifted. The calm broke and Delver returned to the man she knew - the one more comfortable clearing his throat and holding the book at arms length towards her. She’d lost her book, once. Let it be taken from her by a man who wanted to make sure remembered where her loyalties lay. She’d been a child. A fool. She’d promised herself, and in some ways her mother, that she would never let it happen again.

But then she looked at him. Truly looked at him, the book a dark shape between them, the room slowly filling with light from the rising dawn. She knew he’d wanted to open it. Wanted to desperately. But he hadn’t.

Slowly, she reached out... and pushed the book back towards him.

“Actually, Delver... I’ve always wanted to know what it says.”

[thereluctantinquisitor]

mentor/mentee bonding or long, tight reunion hugs after a long separation if you're taking some of those prompts from the list!

Mentor/Mentee bonding it is! Featuring Delver and Sylda from my original work…

As far as inn rooms go, it wasn’t the worst they’d ever stumbled into. A quick assessment of the floor and ceiling revealed no obviously damp spots. The beds, while threadbare, seemed clean enough. Even a candle, thick and melted at the base, burned with quiet determination on the windowsill. Coupled with the fading daylight, it shed just enough brightness to provide comfort without revealing the more unseemly details of the room. Delver was perfectly content with that. Ignorance could be bliss when you were tired enough.

“You know, if you want a hand with that, all you need to do is ask.”

The stool creaked beneath him as Delver fired Sylda a sharp look from the corner of his eye. The only think keeping him from firing back a reply was the tie held between his pursed lips, the coarse fabric nearing its final breaking point. He’d probably get another few days out of it, if he was careful. And a little lucky.

Not that luck had been on his side, lately. Something told him he’d used it all up back in Yelen.

Huffing, Delver’s nose crinkled as he tried to card his hair back away from his face. Yes, it was knotted and miserable and road-worn, but gods above he wished he’d just left it how it was. Some ancient and habitual part of his brain had apparently decided that retying his hair went hand-in-hand with removing his boots, so now there he was, bare-foot and simmering in his own stupidity. Divider’s sake, he was a cipher, owner of one of humanity’s most complex and unexplainable minds! Yet, somehow, it managed to forget his entire right hand had recently been used as a rakhund’s chew toy and was about as useless as any other slab of meat.

Soon, his frustrated grunts morphed into a growled curse as he tried to wrestle his hair out of his face. Over the other side of the small room, Sylda had taken up position leaning against the wall, cross-legged, observing him from atop her bed like a bored courtier waiting for the entertainment to begin. Ignoring her was almost as hard as maneuvering his bandaged hand.

“… You still sure you’re fine?” she asked after a particularly frustrated grunt. “At this rate, you’ll be at it all night. No offense, but you need your beauty sleep a lot more than I do.”

“I’m sure,” Delver snapped, then jolted as the tie fell from his mouth. Pure instinct took over once more as he tried to grab it. The movement was as sudden as it was stupid, and in a split-second it was like someone had stabbed a knife straight through his palm. Delver cursed in some language or another - he didn’t really care - and grabbed his wrist. It was as though he hoped pressure could somehow stop the fire from shooting down his arm. Fuck, it had been days since that damn animal had decided it wanted a piece of him - when was it going to stop feeling like a fresh wound?

As usual, Sylda’s knack for moving around without making a whisper of sound nearly shocked Delver into an early grave. He jolted as she plopped down in front of him, crouching for lack of a second stool. Only this time there was something different in her brown eyes. Something not entirely stubborn. 

“Would you just say ‘yes’ already and put us both out of our misery?” She nodded pointedly at his hand. The bandage was starting to turn. “You’re hurt and I don’t mind, so why not just let me do it?”

“I don’t need—”

“—Just give me the damn tie, Delver.”

Suddenly, there it was. The thing that was different. It wasn’t a new emotion, but rather the absence of an old one. Her usual teasing was… gone. Not sure what to make of that, Delver actually relented, his curiosity momentarily outweighing his pride. For as long as he’d known her, Sylda had hidden everything behind tactless and ill-timed humour; practically driven him mad with it. In fact, the only time he had seen it utterly absent was when she’d been hanging from the gallows in Yelen. This hardly seemed a comparative scenario.

She snatched the tie with a look that screamed thank you in the most exasperate way possible, then moved behind him. Delver turned, trying to follow her with his eyes, but the next thing he knew her hands were in his hair, tugging his head forward sharper than was strictly necessary. 

“Still don’t trust me, huh?”

Delver closed his eyes. Damn it. “It’s not that.”

“I dunno. Kinda feels like it is.”

“If you wanted to slit my throat, I assume you would have done it by now. We’ve been on the road long enough.”

Sylda’s fingers paused their journey along his scalp as she considered the proposal. “True,” she conceded after a moment. Her hands resumed, catching the dull copper locks of Delver’s hair, scooping them back. Divider, it was a mercy to have it off his face again; like he could breathe easy. “Why so tense, then?” she continued. “You’d think I was torturing you, but here I am, gentle as a spring-born lamb.”

“Hm. Unnatural for you.”

“Oh, deeply. So I’d appreciate a little more relaxing on your part, if you wouldn’t mind.”

A chuckle broke past Delver’s exhausted defenses. “I’ll try. But I make no promises.”

“Does it hurt?” Her question came so suddenly that it caught Delver by surprise. It was also what gave him the impression that she had been sitting with it for a while, trying to decide the best time to ask it. Naturally, she missed the mark by a good mile or so. Glancing down, he released he was still gripping his wrist tight enough to cut the circulation to his hand. 

“It’ll heal, in time.” Stiffly, he uncurled his fingers, wincing at the red marks he had left on his own skin. While he was no stranger to injury, he had to admit, this was the first time he’d been mauled by… well, anything. 

He hoped he tasted as shitty as he felt.

“That’s not what I asked.” Her hands move again at the back of his head; a new pattern this time. “But I guess it was probably a stupid question, so…”

As she trailed off, all Delver could muster was a hum of agreement that ebbed away just as quickly into the waiting silence. The candle flickered madly, caught in a gentle breeze, and suddenly all Delver wanted was a meal, a drink, and a long night’s rest. Divider, he wanted it so badly he could feel it like a pressure in his chest. It was almost irrational. Painful. Childish, even.

“Why’d you do it?”

Sylda, having completed her task while Delver momentarily recessed into childhood, was now in front of him again, fixing him with that expectant, matronly look she got when she wasn’t in the mood to argue. At first, Delver wasn’t sure what she was talking about, until her eyes flicked pointedly to his hand again. As soon as she did, he sighed.

“Leave it be, Sylda.”

“No.”

“Just… go downstairs and grab whatever’s left from supper. Before the innkeep tosses it to the pigs.”

“Sure. Once you answer me.” She folded her arms, and there it was. That stubbornness again. It hardened her gaze to stone. It was the reason she drove him halfway mad. It was the reason he knew she would do great things, some day. If he did his part properly, that is. 

It always seemed to come back to that.

Delver heaved a sigh that carried the weight of generations. “The fucking thing was about to pounce on you, Sylda. Was I just meant to let it?”

“You could have.”

“Really? Well go ahead and add it to the long list of things that make be an idiot, then.” It was hard to look at her, all of a sudden. “Listen, I’m the one dragging you across the damn continent. Just let me play the hero for once and stop badgering me about it.”

“Hero? More like the fool.” The words themselves were harsh, but the way she spoke them somehow… wasn’t. They almost seemed to sigh out of her, and she slumped down on the edge of the bed. “Just don’t do it again, okay? I can take care of myself.”

Delver snorted, shaking his head. “Fine.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. What I don’t understand is why you think you need to tell me.” He finally looked up and met her startled gaze. “Sylda, listen… I have no idea what you’re capable of, and frankly neither do you. But sometimes you just get hit by a bout of bad luck and skill has nothing to do with it. I’m not interested in letting some rakhund rip your throat out because you just happened to be looking in the wrong direction.” He paused, fighting the urge to clench his fist, then added, “And judging by the way you gutted the damn thing with that pocket-knife of yours, you feel the same way. So let’s just call it what it is.”

“Fuck you, it’s not a pocket knife.” While she spoke, she folded her arms. Wary. Guarded. “And what are we calling it, exactly?”

“Responsibility.” Grimacing, Delver hauled himself off the stool, rolling his shoulders. Funny, how the stiffness of spending too many days walking only ever seemed to catch up to him once he stopped. “When you travel with someone, you watch their backs. It doesn’t matter who takes the hit, and no one owes anyone anything. That’s just how it is. So enough with the coddling and questions.” He huffed, shaking his head as he rifled through his pack. “Divider willing, you’ll be folding my bloody socks before long.”

“Yeah, over my dead body.” It was almost a relief, to see her grin and hop off the bed with almost twice the energy than what she’d shown before. “Alright, fine. Have it your way. Can’t say I’m against the idea of not owing you anything.”

“Yes. I thought you mightn’t be.” As much as Delver fought to maintain a believable level of exasperation, it was hard to keep the smirk off his face. “Now go and get that food before we both pass out for the night. Should be a few coins left over.”

“Alright, alright. Keep your hair on.”

Maybe it was the way she said it. Maybe it was some other instinct entirely. But as Sylda snatched the coin pouch off the bed and headed for the door, Delver finally took a moment to reach towards the back of his head.

“Sylda?”

“Hmm?”

“Is that a fucking braid?”

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Lucky 7 Meme

Tagged by @frenchy-and-the-sea - thank you, dear <3

Rules: Go to a current WIP, to the 7th page, 7th line, and share the next 7 sentences.

This is a little snippet from my main project, in which Delver is in the process of teaching Sylda how to do his gambling trick (i.e. cheating)...

She rolled yet another five, mouth hanging open, still poised to argue. Then her mind caught up and she closed it with a click of her teeth, piecing together her composure, building it back into a hasty wall. It was a shame, really. Sure, outrage wasn’t a great emotion, but at least it was a start.

“Then how?” Sylda demanded, the dice held gingerly between two fingers as though she expected it to bite her. Or steal her soul, which was arguably the more common fear.

A grin spread across Delver’s lips and he waggled his fingers. “Magic.”

I tag: @bladeverbena, @lavellanlove, @ephemereon @chaitea09 @smolpocketmonstercoffee @thedosian-cabbage aaaand anyone else who wants to do it! <3

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Favourite Works of 2020

I was tagged by the wonderful @frenchy-and-the-sea - thank you! :)

So as with most folks, I found this very difficult. I produced some things in 2020, but I’m not sure of the extent to which I am proud of them as pieces. But they exist, and that is at least some kind of step in the right direction (that direction being writing), so I can safely say I am proud of that!

Rules: It’s time to love yourselves! Choose your 5(ish) favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2020. Tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!  

The following are in no particular order:

1. A micro-story prompt about Delver and Sylda. This, naturally, turned out to be anything but a micro-story lol. I liked being able to explore their dynamic as a duo and get into Delver’s head a bit, especially when he’s not feeling his best.

2. Another micro-story prompt that ended up being a regular-length prompt. This one surrounded some side characters in Stonebreaker, regrouping after losing the War of Chains. It gives particular insight to Dassian Varo, who was appointed War-King on the battlefield, and his conflicting emotions regarding the conflict and its motivations.

3. A short piece of Adiran and Riin sparring, where they banter about how Adiran learns best.

4. Ironically, this Witcher AU for Varlen and Hanin, in which the roles of who was the Witcher and who was the Bard were the opposite of what most would expect. It was quite fun, imagining Varlen as a gruff mercenary-type and Hanin as a lore-conscious bard, determined to spread an accurate message about monsters and how to harm them. I finished 2 parts, but ran out of steam for the final installment. *shrug*

5. This early piece from Delver’s POV, after he rescued Sylda from the gallows. It’s just him musing in a tavern room, but I kinda like it. Plus it was one of my first pieces of 2020, so it gets to go in the lineup lol

I will tag: @lavellanlove, @dafan7711, @captainsaku, @bladeverbena, @cobaltash and anyone else who wants to share (just please tag me so I get to see it)!

[thereluctantinquisitor]

🌹📙💙 for anyone you like! :)

Oooh, I think I’ll go with Delver for this one! most under the cut because it got a little long (sorry!)

Jumbo ask game!

🌹 How easy is it for them to connect with others and make friends? On the flip side how easy is it for them to make an enemy of someone? Are they the kind of person who hangs around the food table at a party and never talks to anyone or are they the type who can talk to anyone?

It is very easy for Delver to make friends provided it is directly associated with business or pleasure and no deeper intimacy than that (in fact, his idea of friendship might even be quite skewed - most people he calls friends others would probably think of as acquaintances or associates). He is actually quite charming when it suits him, and he can turn it on to schmooze his way into someone’s good books (and wallet) pretty damn well. But making true friends - the kind you can open up to and trust to have your back when you really need them - is hard for him. Partly because of his personal insecurities, which lead him to keep people at arm’s distance, but also simply because he’s always on the move and getting to know people well enough to form that kind of bond is hard.

He does have a bit of a knack for making enemies, though. He likes to joke that for every friend he makes, he pisses off at least five other people in the process. There is also a degree of notoriety regarding what he does (freelance ciphering, which is basically unheard of because all Ciphers are sponsored and work for a noble house/family). This automatically puts him in the bad books of local lords and their ‘official’ Ciphers, especially because he likes to undercut them as a bit of a middle-finger to the whole system.

As for whether he is likely to skulk or mingle at a party, it really depends on the party and what he has to gain from being a social butterfly. His preference is to just drink and eat in a corner and people-watch, but his wallet tends to tug him around the room fishing for well-paid jobs. So, he often puts on a smile and *shudder* networks.

📙 What kind of subjects (of conversation, of discussion, in school or whatever) does your OC find interesting or engaging or that they can talk for hours about? What kind of stuff do they just find fun? What things bore your OC to tears and they couldn’t care less about? Why?

💙 What did your OC want to be when they grew up and why? Did they have any lifelong dreams or ambitions they never got to work on or are they currently working to achieve this dream? Has their life taken a very unexpected turn and put all these plans on hold for a while or have they given up on any dreams?

Delver can talk forever about history, myth, legends - anything that deals with the past and, particularly, interpretations and re-imaginings of the past. He is obsessed with finding buried truths in what the world now calls fiction, and is always up for a good session of increasingly outrageous theorising over the pre-Divide world. Hell, he’ll even provide the booze himself (a rarity, to be sure)! He will also happily leap onto his soapbox over what he calls the ‘ridiculous and arbitrary over-regulation of the thaumic arts’ (in particular the outlawing of sapping, which involves drawing thaumic essence from other living things), but most people are wise enough not trigger that tirade of his more than once!

But if you start taking about swordplay or general combat? Snooze city. Leave him out of your training and tactics lol

Delver just wanted to be known for something - ideally something that would shake the foundations of the world they thought they understood and maybe shed light on what lies beyond the impenetrable mountains that frame the safe-harbour they inhabit. All his life he’s felt like there’s something missing from the annals of history; gaps and inconsistencies in the rhetoric of post-Divide writings that left him asking ‘well then, what had been omitted?’ Essentially, he wanted to rediscover something groundbreaking from the forgotten (or censored) past. There’s nothing wrong with a reputation built on notoriety, after all, and if it means butting heads with traditional scholars and the Divider’s loyal clergy, hey, all the better.

In a sense, he is still working towards achieving this goal, but he knows the feasibility of success is incredibly low. Circumstances forced him to leave his home and birth city well before he was ready to strike out alone. Other than a handful of years spent working in the city of Tel Shival - the ever-beating heart of thaumaturgy - the majority of his time is spent just trying to scrape together enough coin to get from one job to the next. He used to follow a lot of leads when he was in his early to mid 20s, but after failure upon failure, Delver grew a lot more jaded. He had this grand notion that the world was out there, waiting for him - the brilliant renegade Cipher - to discover it. Then he grew up, realised the world had never waited for anyone, and discovered his crippling insignificance instead. 

By the time the story starts, he had all but given up on ever leaving his mark or achieving his goal. Then he met Sylda...