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vanserraseris · 3 years

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END OF PART VIII - Sorry everyone, this part is a little short and a little boring lol. It’s just some more Lucien and Eris stuff. Thanks to everyone for reading and I hope you enjoy!!!

its not boring!!! i love them!!!

Prince of Ashes. Part VIII.

masterlist.

“Your footwork is absolutely shit,” Eris heard Maddox say. Even though Maddox sounded angry, he almost rarely was, but the permanent scowl that always graced his features made him look the part as well.

“Your footwork is absolutely shit,” Lucien echoed, more high-pitched and sort of nasally.

Eris heard Lucien yelp as he walked to the large, open space they all used for training. Lucien was in the middle of the fighting ring, a sword hanging loosely from his one hand as he used the other to rub his forehead. “What the hells was that for?”

Maddox smiled, barely a flash of his white teeth, “It slipped.”

“Not a very good teacher, are you, Maddox?” Eris looked to the apple core that was still sort of rolling away from Lucien.

Maddox shrugged from where he was leaning up against the raised training ring, “Can’t be good at everything.”

“Eris,” Lucien looked at his eldest brother, his forehead red from all the rubbing or red because Maddox had put a little too much strength into throwing that apple core at him, “Tell him to stop throwing fruit at me.” He said it in a way that made Eris think that Maddox did it quite often.

Maddox merely rolled his brown eyes, “Eris, tell him to pay attention to his lessons so father doesn’t beat him for being useless.”

Eris sighed, “Lucien, listen to Maddox and pay more attention to your tutors.” Lucien sputtered, probably trying to find something sarcastic to say, but Eris raised a hand, “And Maddox.” Maddox raised his brows, still not scowling, just waiting for Eris to scold him. Eris wasn’t very good at scolding, Maddox so he just settled for, “Don’t throw fruit at Lucien.”

“He’s lucky we don’t live in the Day Court,” Maddox grumbled, “I’d be throwing watermelons at him instead.” Eris would have laughed if he were in a better mood. He’d spent the better half of the morning with Cato, torturing some criminal his father insisted was causing upheaval among the lesser faeries of Autumn, and he was feeling like absolute shit.

Lucien frowned when he looked at Eris, his brows furrowing in concern. “You alright, Eris?”

Eris couldn’t help but wonder what Lucien had seen on his face to warrant that question, “I’m fine,” he lied. Even to his own ears, that sounded a little flat and emotionless.

“Didn’t know you’d be coming over today.” The words were a little bitter coming from Maddox. Eris understood why, no one really bothered telling the younger brothers what was going on in The Forest House.

Being the middle child, Maddox never really listened to their father and never really fought to be High Lord, but he still liked knowing what was happening. Eris guessed that perhaps he was annoyed at Owain a little as well. Owain and Maddox were close, Owain leading the Royal Guard and Maddox having been at his side as soon as he was able. Eris supposed he would have been bitter, too, if no one was telling him anything important.

“Father had some things for me to do,” Eris replied, deciding that he wasn’t going to give Maddox any details of what he’d been doing with Lucien around. Maddox’s eyes flicked down to Eris’s hands before he turned away from him to look at Lucien again. Eris hoped there was no blood left under his fingernails. He felt as though he’d washed his hands a hundred times, but the smell still hadn’t gone away entirely.

“Better for us,” Lucien said with a smile, “It’s been a millennia since I’ve seen you.” In truth, it had been almost a year since Eris had last seen Lucien.

“Well,” Maddox said, pushing himself away from the ring, “If you’re staying, I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?” Eris asked, more from curiosity than concern. Maddox could take care of himself.

“To find Owain, and if I can’t find him, I’ll go to Priam.” He flashed Eris a lupine grin, “Try to teach the little runt a thing or two, great eldest brother, perhaps he’ll be able to learn something from the best of us.” Before Eris could respond, Maddox had winnowed from the training area, the smell of roasting chestnuts left in his wake. Eris frowned, he wasn’t particularly happy about being mocked.

Maddox and Eris weren’t necessarily close, but Maddox was too young to ever really fight his way to the throne. If he’d managed to kill Owain and Cato, killing Eris might have proven very difficult. Little did Maddox know that Eris wouldn’t have lifted a finger against him. Eris didn’t know if he could live the rest of his life knowing that he’d caused his mother the grief of losing a child.

If his father knew how easily he’d give up if one of his brothers truly wanted him dead, Beron might have killed Eris himself.

“I challenge you, Eris Vanserra,” Lucien said in a loud, clear voice from his place in the training ring. - Eris shook his head, not feeling up to it. “Lucien, I’m not really in the—”

“Come on, Eris, humour me,” he grabbed a second sword from the rack on the other side of the ring. “I’m challenging you.”

Eris sighed, taking off his very expensive jacket and throwing it on the floor. It would probably wrinkle, but he didn’t want to risk it getting ripped. Lifting himself into the ring, Eris muttered, “Fine, I accept your challenge, Lucien Vanserra.” He was feeling a little horrible for having avoided Lucien for so long.

After Eris had rolled up his shirtsleeves and tied his hair back, Lucien handed him the sword, “I’m sure I’ll be able to beat you this time, I’ve gotten a million times better.”

The smile on his face was a little contagious. Eris took the sword, raising an auburn brow, “Have you now?”

“And I’m sure you’ve gotten rusty, spending all that time behind a desk,” Lucien flashed him a wide smile, “You know, doing father’s paperwork.”

Eris huffed a small laugh, if only Lucien knew what Eris had been doing for Beron lately. Eris tossed his sword from one hand to the other, “You shouldn’t underestimate your opponents.”

Lucien hummed his response before getting into the ring and raising his sword so that the tip was pointing at Eris, “Prepare to lose, brother.” He'd gotten quite tall, Eris noticed, probably as tall as Rufus.

Eris shook his head, kicking Maddox’s apple core off the ring, “I hope you know, fox, that I won’t be holding back.”

“Neither will I.”

Before Eris could get into his fighting stance, Lucien had lunged at him, a blur of red hair and brown fighting leathers. Eris lifted his sword, meeting the blow that had been aiming for his legs. He cocked his head to the side, raising an auburn brow, “Is that the best you could do?”

Lucien shook his head, “You haven’t seen anything yet, Eris.” He drew back his weapon and rushed at Eris once more, his attack deliberate and from many angles.

Lucien’s footwork seemed just fine, Eris noticed, and had to wonder whether Lucien was just being a bit of a nuisance to get a reaction out of Maddox that wasn’t a scowl. Given that Maddox had been ordered to make Lucien’s life miserable, Maddox had taken to just sort of bothering their youngest brother. The same couldn’t be said for the others, but Lucien had assured him more than once that he was fine.

Eris was actually quite impressed with how well Lucien was fighting. He’d been handling a sword for years, starting with a real weapon as the rest of his brothers had, but Eris still saw him as small and clumsy.

They went back and forth for some time, and when Eris tired of it, he disarmed Lucien efficiently. His sword clattering to the ground on the other side of the ring, Lucien raised his hands in defeat.

Eris grinned, “You should be less confident, fox, arrogance does not become you.”

Lucien rolled his eyes, “You think it becomes you?”

“Yes, yes I think it does,” Eris was still smiling, “You accept defeat, Lucien Vanserra?”

Lucien returned the smile, but there was mischief blazing in his russett eyes, “Never.”

Eris frowned, “What do you mean—”

Eris gasped as he felt someone grab the back of his shirt and pull. Before he realized what was going on, Lucien kicked out his foot and knocked the sword from Eris’s hand. Eris fell on his ass with an inelegant “oof” as the person behind him pulled down on his collar.

“I have a feeling arrogance is not becoming on anyone,” drawled Rufus from behind him, pressing a small knife to Eris’s neck.

Eris definitely should have been paying more attention to his surroundings. “Fucking cheaters,” Eris mumbled.

Lucien stood over him, grin wide, “You accept defeat, Eris Vanserra?”

Eris threw his hands up, palms out. “Yes, fine, I accept, you win.”

Lucien laughed, dropping down to sit next to Eris. He had just turned sixteen and he was still growing into his bones. Much too gangly and tall to be useful at much else other than one-on-one combat.

Eris was glad, Owain, who had been big and muscular for most of his life, had been sent to a war camp at seventeen. Rufus dropped down on Eris’s other side, his shoulder-length red hair tucked behind his pointed ears. All of the small hoop earrings going up the arch of his ear glittered in the light of the training ring. “You’re becoming cocky in your old age, brother, I think me and fox have taught you an important lesson.”

Eris snorted, “What was the lesson, exactly?”

Lucien looked at Rufus, “Yes, Rufus, what was the lesson?”

Rufus made a face, “Not sure yet, but there’s bound to be something he’s learned.” Lucien laughed, Rufus laughing with him after a moment, and even Eris smiled. Rufus knocked Eris’s shoulder with his own, “Did Widge show you what he’s been working on?”

Eris nodded. Widge had come to him earlier that week, running into the sitting room of Eris’s cottage, his copper hair a mess and ink stains on his face. The last time Eris had seen him like that, he had discovered a way to get fire to stay aflame on water. He’d had a mad sort of sparkle in his eye as he’d thrown a large scroll onto Eris’s lap, shoving Micah aside as he sat down between him and Eris to show them what he’d done. “He’s brilliant.”

“What did he do?” Lucien asked.

Eris turned to face him, “Found a way to make a shield out of flames that might protect an entire legion. Only problem is, he’s made all his calculations using our magic,” he waved a hand at Rufus.

“Which means that he’s got to convince three Vanserras to test his theory, or convince 30 soldiers with average magical abilities instead, I suppose.”

“I could try,” Lucien offered.

He could, but Eris wasn’t sure if he wanted to find out what would happen if Lucien tested the limits of his magic. And he also wasn’t as strong enough as the rest of them when it came to his flames. Eris wasn’t entirely certain that asking Lady Morai to suppress Lucien’s magic hadn’t affected the flames he’d gotten from their mother as well.

“We’ll see,” Eris mumbled.

“That means no,” Rufus said, reaching past Eris to ruffle Lucien’s hair.

Lucien swatted away his arm, “I’m challenging you, Rufus Vanserra.”

Rufus sighed, but stood up. “Not this again, you never win.”

As Eris watched Lucien and Rufus, he decided that he had learned something. He’d learned that Beron was a fool for trying to pit them against each other when clearly they could have been a force all of Prythian would have feared had he pushed them closer together.

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whatsherfacewrites · 3 years

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First Lines

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

Tagged by @fandomn00blr and @cassandra-pentughasst - thanks! ❤️❤️

Lmao, have I written 20 things, like ever? I’m awed by people who can be so prolific. Me, I just flog the same old fics all the damn time. So here we go! In reverse chronological order!

City of Magic (WIP, modern AU)

They didn’t call it Adamant for nothing.

The gates of the Grey Warden bunker on the western outskirts of March City took two hundred pounds of gaatlok to breach. That was the easy part, it turned out. The Wardens inside were outnumbered three to one, but not one of them was giving ground without a fight.

Words Not Voiced (one shot Divine!Cass angst)

You could give up the Sunburst Throne for the love of a great man. For a king or a prince, maybe. Or the Inquisitor, the savior of Thedas.

But for a nameless mage from Ostwick? Even a veteran of the Inquisition?

Clean Burn (canon longfic)

Senior Enchanter Owain Trevelyan leaned against the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose, absently running his thumb along the scar on his right cheek. It had been a long day, and, somehow, it wasn’t over yet.

Ok, so some light cheating here... The lines above were literally the first fic I ever wrote, so here are a few later *chapter* openers.

Mirror, Mirror (Clean Burn, Ch. 28)

Memory was a strange thing.

There were the big moments, of course, the obvious ones, the things he expected to remember. But sometimes, the details were what stayed with him. Sometimes, just by saying to himself, “Remember this,” the mundane could be made momentous, the ordinary, significant.

Never Let Me Go (Clean Burn, Ch. 29)

He was moving, but not of his own strength.

Carried, then. Strong arms supported his shoulders and knees. When his head rolled, his cheek came to rest on cool steel.

Cassandra.

Sunrise, Sunset (Clean Burn, Ch. 30)

He had good days, and he had bad days.

Returning to Skyhold should have helped, and in some ways it did, but the comfort of familiar surroundings was tempered by constant reminders of his newfound limitations. They sprang on him when he least expected, these ghosts of what he was and would never be again, even in the smallest details, like the sticky door that was easy with two hands but now had to be wrenched open with one, or the heavy chair he had to push, not lift, across the floor, or the once-reliable stair rail he could no longer count on.

After (Clean Burn, Epilogue)

Cassandra had always known her husband to be an emotional man, prone to feeling deeply, even if it was seldom evident on the surface. She herself had learnt all the signs over their years together, but even an unpracticed eye could see he became freer with his tears after the end of the Inquisition, following the loss of his hand.

If Only (one shot smut-if-you-squint)

Cassandra shut the book and shoved it under the corner of her bedroll, blowing the spent candle out of its misery. With so little light, squinting at the page was giving her a headache. She could fetch a fresh candle from her pack, but doing so would mean leaving this hard-won huddle of warmth. She rubbed the tip of her nose. So cold.

Nothing Wagered (one shot fluff)

She should never have agreed to this.

Cullen shifted in the seat across the table and carefully rolled his sleeve past his elbow.

Cassandra huffed and did the same, pushing up the fabric of her tunic and folding it in place with a deft twist.

A terrible idea.

Victoria (one shot Divine!Cass angst)

Owain tilted his head at the armed sentries that stood watch by her door.

“Are they always in here?”

“They are here for my protection.”

He arched a brow and smirked, an increasingly rare sight these days. “You? Protection?”

City of Lies (modern!AU)

Cassandra Pentaghast hated being late.

Her meeting with Seeker-Commander Corin had run over, and now there was no way she would make it downtown for the start of the Conclave.

Cold Hands, Warm Hearts (one shot fluff)

Late afternoon sun dazzled off the snowdrifts that lined the mountain path below Skyhold. Owain watched stray flakes dance across them on the wind and was so lost in his thoughts that he had no warning before something cold and hard hit him squarely between the shoulder blades. He reached a gloved hand to his back, and it came away covered in powder.

Patterns? I guess I like to start by establishing the POV and dumping you in their head. If you’re familiar with my characters, it should be pretty clear who’s “speaking,” and if you’re not, you’ll get the idea. Then we set the scene.

Favorites? I generally have stronger feelings about last lines than firsts, but today I’ll say Nothing Wagered, just because it feels very Cassandra to me. And City of Magic, because it’s my current favorite and most special baby. 😬

#*fewer #tag meme #first lines #writer meta #I need to finish CoM #it's killing me

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chrismerle · 4 years

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irrick’s last name is trevelyan, but he’s not actually an inquisitor. aha, i have tricked you all so devilishly. his twin brother is owain, the inquisitor from yesterday’s ficlet. i adore them and their relationship with each other but it is not actually a good relationship a lot of the time and i could ramble about it So Much.

fun fact: when irrick and owain first meet bull on the storm coast, irrick looks at bull. looks at owain. looks at bull. and informs owain “i’m going to climb him like a tree.” owain shrieked at him, scandalized.

Day 3: Bow & Arrow Irrick Trevelyan/Iron Bull

He knew he wasn't alone. While Bull was perfectly capable of moving silently, he wasn't putting any effort into it just then. Even with the rain, Irrick heard him coming from half a league away.

"You're soaked," Bull observed blandly.

"Rain will do that," Irrick returned without looking at him, nocking another arrow. He let it fly, and it hit the target with a firm thock! Another bullseye, and time to collect his arrows again.

Bull caught his shoulder and pulled the bow from his grip before Irrick could take a step. His eyes narrowed slightly when Irrick failed to fully straighten his fingers afterward. Truth be told, Irrick couldn't remember when he had switched from grabbing arrows with his fingertips to his knuckles. Even with the bow in Bull's hands, he could still feel the string digging into his fingers.

Bull didn't bother to ask how long Irrick had been at it. Instead, as he ushered Irrick into motion towards The Herald’s Rest, Bull sighed, “What’d he do?”

“Who?” Irrick asked, not feigning innocence so much as simply playing dumb.

“Your brother,” Bull returned, planting a hand between Irrick’s shoulders to steer him along. “What’d he do?”

“Not everything I do is because of the Inquisitor,” Irrick groused, slowly trying to flex his fingers in favor of actually looking at Bull. His knuckles protested the action. He was pretty sure his callouses had blistered and split beneath his gloves, too.

“If you’re calling him ‘the Inquisitor,’” Bull argued dryly, “then it means he did something.” He pushed open the door to the tavern and ushered Irrick through ahead of him and towards the stairs. As Irrick headed up, Bull paused at the bottom of the stairs just long enough to hand the bow to Krem for safe keeping.

Irrick was sitting on the edge of the bed in Bull’s partially collapsed room, tugging his gloves off, when Bull stepped in and closed the door.

“You know that was stupid,” Bull pointed out, eyeing Irrick’s hands.

“Wasn’t exactly planned,” Irrick returned, arching one eyebrow. “So what now?” he asked, amused expectation creeping into his tone. Carelessly, he tossed his gloves aside. “Is this the part where you punish me for it?”

Bull tipped his head back, contemplating what was left of the ceiling as he made a show of thinking the question over. “Nah,” he settled on. “Pretty sure the way your shoulders are gonna feel tomorrow will be more than enough punishment.”

Irrick wrinkled his nose at the reminder.

“For now,” Bull carried on, “we get your hands taken care of, and we’ll see where the rest of the night takes us. See if we can’t dry you off and warm you up.”

#14DAlovers #dragon age fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #iron bull x OC #iron bull x male OC

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crimsonrae · 4 years

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Across the Road, At the Brothel

Chapter Three

Summary: Jaskier fell in love any day that the sun rose in the East. It was a trifling, pleasurable experience for him. Even when he was jumping out a window to avoid cuckolded husbands. So what happens when his trifles start to become more significant? Jaskier/OC. Some Yennefer/Geralt

A/N: Jaskier is just too adorable not to write about. This is a relationship development story with an OC. There will be smut in later chapters and plenty of angst.

Rating: Mature

Dithering Darkness"You are a very hard person to track down."

Lyrra held in a huff of exasperation as an all too familiar voice greeted her. She had taken less than a step into the Rose and Pine before being accosted. Wearily, she turned around to see Jaskier lounging against the wall with a pint in hand. His expression smug as if he were a cat that had just caught the bird. It was as annoying as it was endearing. She arched a brow at him before continuing for the kitchens, "Apparently not hard enough."

Heavier footsteps followed her.

"Don't you want to know why I was looking for you?" Jaskier queried expectantly.

"Not really." Lyrra responded glibly and came to an abrupt stop, Jaskier barely kept himself from crashing into her as she turned to give him a pointed look. He blinked confused before realizing they were at the threshold for the tavern's kitchen. She smiled as he frowned at her, "I have a feeling you're going to tell me anyway."

She stepped over the threshold and immediately turned left passing through the curtained door of a small pantry. She left her spare clothes on a shelf near the bottom. Unconsciously, she began to undress before remembering her handsome stalker. She eyed the curtain warily before letting her dress drop to the floor. An audible inhale reached her ears and she bit the inside of her cheek but refused to acknowledge the thrill that tore through her veins at the sound, "I swear, Bard, if you're looking..."

"Oh relax. The curtain stops at your lovely calves which are covered by boots sadly. I simply wasn't expecting you to disrobe... Though, do you really have to wear that dreadful frock?"

Lyrra rolled her eyes, "Yes, I have only two dresses, Jaskier, and I do not want them ruined by sloshed ale or food remnants. Not to mention men don't seem to notice me as much in this frock."

Jaskier snorted faintly, "Trust me, you're still noticeable."

"You're impossible."

"Thank you."

Lyrra shook her head ruefully as she finished donning her dress and apron. This would be Jaskier's fourth night performing at the Rose and Pine and he had done wonders in bringing the locals and the few travelers Glynedol had inside for some entertainment. To be fair, the lack of merchants had most in the town starved for news and stories from other regions and the bard had those in spades it seemed. She had been kept busy by the crowds, but somehow, someway when she had a spare minute to breathe, Jaskier always managed to appear at her side. Much to her relief, he had stopped with his more flowery comments. Instead, she was partied to his more jocular observations, usually about the Rose's audience or the town, sometimes about his companion, almost never about himself. At least nothing personal that couldn't be gleaned by a few moments in his presence, but in fairness, he never asked her anything terribly personal either. She was grateful for that...

She snatched her scarf and began wrapping it around her head as she stepped out of the pantry. Jaskier watched her practiced movements with keen eyes, "Let me guess, my headscarf bothers you too."

He grinned impishly, "Everything you wear bothers me, but I doubt you'll alleviate my pain by disrobing again."

Lyrra flushed, knowing that was exactly what he had been hoping for by the way his eyes danced. Incorrigible flirt was what he was – and if he hadn't also shown signs of being astonishingly sweet then Lyrra wouldn't have put up with his attentions, "You know where the brothel is."

"And subject myself to Madam Hatchet." Jaskier replied with a raised brow, "No, thank you."

Lyrra sent him a disapproving look at the harsh description of the Le Fleur's owner, "Madam Tyssa is actually rather kind. Just because she hasn't aged well, doesn't mean she deserves those comments."

Far from being chastised, Jaskier gave her a pointed look as he recalled his one and only trip inside the brothel, "Oh yes, that's why you had to pay her to look after your drunken friend now, was it? Did that from the deep caverns of her heart, I'm sure."

Lyrra's grey orbs widened slightly, not realizing that Jaskier had seen the exchange of money – even if he was wrong about the cause for the payment, "That coin wasn't for Nigel, but for a different service. Is there -"

His finger shot up as he realized she was about to change the subject; an expression of pure curiosity painted his face. Lyrra nearly groaned as she saw the cogs turning in his head as he interrupted her, "Whoa -ho, hang on a minute. You are not honestly going to just glide past that particular comment. What services did you require from a brothel?"

"None of your business." Lyrra retorted lightly as she fought back a smile. His azure gaze outright gleamed with entertainment and it was hard not to be pulled in by his infectious emotions, "I have work to do."

"Oh please, tell me it was something utterly scandalous and naughty with one of those skimpily clad women." Jaskier pressed, not the least bit dissuaded as she walked away from him. "Don't tell me it was Madam Hatchet."

Lyrra shook her head in amusement, "Absolutely impossible. You're ridiculous."

"A man can dream and this one will." He sounded entirely too satisfied as he trailed after her.

It was early afternoon, far earlier than she usually came in and if Lyrra was being honest she had arrived early to see if Jaskier was about. As much as she didn't want to encourage him, her life was a little less dull when he was around. As it stood, there weren't many people to serve yet. Mirel, for once, was doing her job and serving the customers and Hillard was overseeing preparations in the kitchen. The only thing she could do was wipe down tables, "I thought you had something to tell me?"

Jaskier blinked for a moment before remembering his earlier words to her, "And I thought you didn't want to know."

Lyrra raised a disbelieving brow but refrained from comment as she grabbed a rag from behind the bar. It hadn't taken her long to figure out that Jaskier did not care for silences. He filled the void with words and songs, half of it was nonsense – but, she figured if Jaskier ever found himself in a position to be tortured, the torturer wouldn't need to do much, just remain silent and the bard would either spill everything or talk the man in circles. True to form, Jaskier fidgeted and began talking again, "Not so much something to tell you, but ask."

Lyrra paused in her movements. The old rag trapped between her hand and the bar as she turned an awaiting gaze in his direction. He fidgeted again, "I hear tell that sometimes you act as a laundress in this fair town for some extra coin."

There was a beat of silence.

"You want me to wash your clothes." She stated bluntly, but then took the time to actually study him. He was clean, hair swept to the side even as an errant tendril fell over his forehead. His doublet was a little mused, but not terribly dirty – then she noticed the lack of a white-collar that usually peaked out from his doublet. Surprisingly, he kept still under her evaluation– a sheepish smile twitching at the corners of his lips as she stated more than asked, "You're not wearing a shirt, are you?"

"Uh, well no..." Jaskier answered as he rocked back on his heels, "I haven't been able to find the innkeeper since taking my room, otherwise I'd ask him about such services. I'd pay you, of course."

Lyrra frowned briefly at the comment. Owain, the innkeeper, was a regular of the Rose and Pine, it was unlike him to neglect his guests. Actually, now that she thought of it, he hadn't been in for a few days. Concern churned her gut but she masked it with a faint smile, "If you have it all together, I can stop by your room after I'm done here tonight and pick it up and drop it by tomorrow once it's done."

Jaskier sighed in relief, "Thank the gods. You are a star in the dithering blackness. Your name-"

"It's still going to be four crowns, Jaskier." Lyrra cut his flattery tirade off dryly as she resumed wiping the bar.

"Four crowns! Now, hold on – the other barmaid said you charge two!" Jaskier protested, his mouth turning into an incredulous frown.

Lyrra shrugged and reached across the bar to tug at the sleeve of his doublet, "Most of the townsfolk wear light cottons and wools. Quick and easy to wash. You're wearing silks and velvets which require more care. Unless you want your clothes ruined then I can do a basic wash."

He didn't know that she usually charged the locals only a few coppers or an exchange of food for this service. Travelers were charged two crowns as Mirel had told him. She would charge three for the fancier fabrics, but she had seen the amount of coin that Jaskier had pulled and knew he could well afford more than four crowns.

"No..." He drawled sulkily as he eyed her suspiciously, "Highway robbery is what this is. Four crowns for a bloody washing, now who's being ridiculous."

Lyrra snickered quietly and bestowed him with a smug grin, "Still you."

»»————-　　————-««

It wasn't until Lyrra was standing outside the inn that she realized the mistake she had made. Jaskier had only performed a few songs that night, much preferring to mingle with a few of the new travelers, swapping stories and news from other regions. He had also spent a good deal of time by himself, scribbling in a little journal he carried. It was the only time she had seen him so... quiet. As a result, he had been by her side within moments after she had finished her rounds for the night. Hillard had promised to take care of the last few patrons hanging around the pub.

Now, she eyed the bard carefully as they made their way inside. He hadn't done more than give her a passing smile since they had left. No quips about coming to his room, or flirtatious comments about staying for a bit. She found it odd. After all, he hadn't really missed an opportunity the past few days to play the role of the charming scoundrel.

"Are you okay?" Lyrra questioned quietly, not sure if she wanted to disturb the unusual passivity she was observing.

Jaskier blinked for a moment, as if remembering she was there, before smiling reassuringly, "I'm fine. Just tired I suppose." He stopped before a door and drew a key from his pocket. He paused, "Wait here, I need to change."

She quirked a brow, once again struck by the lack of innuendo. He stepped inside, but just as the door was about to close, he caught it and flashed her a small grin, "Unless of course, you'd like to join me."

Lyrra nearly sighed in relief at that comment, even as she shook her head at him, "Jaskier."

"Didn't think so." He stated mournfully and let the door shut.

She covered her face as she snorted in amusement. He truly was ridiculous.

And quick.

Lyrra didn't have to wait long at all before, Jaskier was pulling the door open again. He had on a loose white linen shirt that looked a size too big for him and a pair of brown cotton breeches that had seen better days and strangely looked a little tight on him. She tilted her head curiously as she studied him, "Are those even your clothes?"

Jaskier glanced up at her as he sat on the edge of his bed. His hands were already tugging his boots back on as he shrugged, "The shirts not, but my trousers are. Why? Do they not look like something I'd wear? I know they're a little plainer than what you've seen me in -"

"They don't fit." Lyrra cut in as she purposefully kept her gaze on his face and not his too-tight breeches.

Jaskier paused in consideration before making a face that said, 'that's fair'. He finished lacing his boots and grabbed his knapsack filled with his dirty clothes. He had only discovered that morning how vastly disgusting his wardrobe had become. He nearly cursed the last laundress, before remembering it had been several weeks since he had last seen a laundress, "Alright, let's go."

"Go?" Lyrra intoned lowly as she held out a hand for his bag, "I do believe you're at your room – unless you intend to go back to the brothel in which case, by all means. Just pass me your bag first."

"Uh, no." It was a strange battle of wills as Jaskier crossed his arms and met her stare head-on. While she was becoming annoyed, he was amused, "It's late and I told your barkeep I would see you safely home tonight. Apparently, that's something he does quite often. Now, you wouldn't want to make me break my word, would you?"

Lyrra blinked, this was the second time he had alluded to asking after her and she wasn't sure how she felt about it. She frowned, "I won't tell, if you don't."

"I will. Bard, remember." He replied joyfully before snagging her still outstretched hand and pulling her out the door, "Now, where to?"

"Jaskier." Lyrra huffed exasperated and tried to reach up and pull the strap of his bag from his shoulder.

He dodged out of her way with a laugh, "No, that's my name, not a direction. Think of it this way, you now know where I'm staying – it's only fair I get to see where you live."

Lyrra rolled her eyes and turned to stomp away from, "Are you always this annoyingly stubborn?"

"Ha, that's a laugh coming from you. Pot and kettle, darling."

He was unscathed by the glower she sent in his direction. Despite her reluctant mien, if she had been truly aggrieved by his presence, he would have left her in Hillard's capable hands. Though, he had the feeling she wouldn't take too kindly to the implication that she needed protection. Most of their trip was spent bickering, it was only when they left the edges of Glynedol that Lyrra's pace began to slow and Jaskier took notice of their surroundings.

"I didn't realize you lived so far from town." Jaskier murmured as they approached a dirt path.

Lyrra hummed and gave him a pointed glance, "You've seen for yourself that Glynedol isn't exactly a bustling metropolis. Most of us live on the edges or on farms. My home is not too much further. Just to the end of this path."

Tall grassy fields lined either side of their walk and Jaskier could spot patches of yellow mustard flowers, even in the dark. Ahead a large oak tree caught his attention, Lyrra watched as he took in the rope dangling listlessly from the branches, "They haven't removed it from the last hanging."

Jaskier blanched and turned wide eyes on her, "What?"

"It was a real shame." She murmured quietly; her gaze solemn. Jaskier's mouth moved soundlessly as he tried to find what words he wanted to ask first. Lyrra turned to him, "If only he hadn't pestered the local barmaid so much."

Jaskier's gaze narrowed and Lyrra burst into a fit of laughter, unable to keep a straight face any longer, "It's just a swing, Jaskier."

As if to prove her words, she jogged forward and stepped onto the wooden plank that acted as a seat. He hadn't noticed it before, but now he dropped his sack against the tree trunk and gave the ropes a slight pull, casting her forward, "You are absolutely a terror. I bet you were a terror as a child."

She smiled impishly at him, "Could say the same of you, I bet."

"More like terrified, than terror." Jaskier muttered sardonically. He surprised her when the swing came towards him again and instead of giving a slight push to the ropes, he stepped onto the plank with her. His foot sandwiched between hers, his hands gripping the rope just above her fingers as they continued to swing lazily. He smiled roguishly, "Hello."

"Hello." Lyrra had muffled her gasp at having him so close and found her voice to be a little breathier than she had intended. Heat began to fill her cheeks and she tried to find the strength to let go of the rope and step away, but she was caught. Made immobile by curious sparkling blue eyes and a smile so gentle, that she wondered if he knew what she was thinking.

It didn't matter, as Jaskier leaned forward and tentatively brushed his lips against hers. When Lyrra didn't rebuke him, he pressed forward and claimed a true kiss. Her eyes fluttered shut and she hummed softly at the lush feel of his lips. This was good... it felt right and that surprised her enough to draw back slightly.

Jaskier didn't seem to notice her sudden hesitation as he rested his head against hers, "I have been waiting four days to do that."

Lyrra smiled even as she stated, "I'm not sleeping with you."

"Don't ruin the moment."

He wrapped an arm around her waist and stepped back to the ground. His other hand dove into her thick locks as soon as they were settled safely and he stole another kiss. This one deeper, more passionate and Lyrra found her hands smoothing a path across his taut stomach as she became lost in his touch. He tasted of ale and mint, and he felt solid and strong... safe.

She groaned as he pulled away and turned his attentions to her neck, "Jaskier, we should stop."

He pressed a lingering kiss at the corner of her jaw and eyed her carefully, "Hearing you moan my name like that is absolutely delicious. Now you just need to change the ones that follow..."

"Jaskier." She breathed a laugh.

"Yes, just like that." He grinned and claimed her lips again.

She wasn't sure how long they stood like that, simply kissing. It could have been a few minutes or an hour, she knew she didn't want to stop, even as a little voice in the back of her head reminded her of the late hour. Reluctantly, she pulled away from him and he sighed in acceptance.

She grabbed his bag before he had a chance to and turned with crossed arms. It was her barrier, feeble as it was, "It's probably best if I continue on from here and you head back."

"Hmm." He hummed, not inclined to agree as he mimicked her position, "Only if I can have one last taste of your sweet lips."

Lyrra hesitated, suspicious, "And you'll go?"

He nodded benignly.

Taking a breath, she stepped forward and pull his head down to meet hers – this time she was the one claiming the kiss as he pulled her into his body. Silky, her thoughts offered faintly as her fingers entwined his hair. Dimly, she was aware of the strap to his bag falling to her wrist as she clenched at his shirt. It only took a faint nip and a gasp on her part, before she realized that the strap hadn't so much as fallen, as Jaskier had maneuvered it onto his shoulder. She peered at him thru mockingly narrowed eyes, "Sneak."

He grinned smugly, "Well you did say, I had a future as a thief." He grabbed her hand before she had a chance to take the bag back and turned her back towards the path, "Lead on, Lyrra."

They hadn't made twenty steps when Lyrra broke away from him with a gasp, "Oh my..."

He frowned and followed her into the fields, not seeing what had her attention until he looked down. Lying on the ground was the large form of a wounded man. The undeniable shock of white hair was all Jaskier needed to see to know who he was staring at. Geralt lay face down, blood seeped from his neck and back. Lyrra quickly pulled her scarf from her pocket to try and stem the flow. She looked up panicked as Jaskier muttered, "Bollocks."

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#the witcher #witcher fanfiction #jaskier #jaskier fanfiction #jaskier x oc #Geralt #yennefer #fanfic #fanfiction

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pangtasias-atelier · 4 years

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Hey could I ask for a NSFW drabble where dancer Inigo gives Owain a Risqué™ dance and Inigo's dance works its magic and accidentally makes Owain grow taller, more muscular, and out of his clothes, leaving Inigo to deal with a horny, muscular giant. Thanks in advance and I love your work so much. Make sure to not wear yourself out with requests.

All smut will be tagged #risque

This was a good idea but also one that I kinda struggle on lol so sorry this took awhile. I'm also just bad at describing dances cause I don't know how to dance like at all.

Wasn't sure how big you wanted Owain, so tried to keep it vague. Though I feel the actual sex part implies he's really fucking huge lol, though it could still be on the smaller 10+ft ish side I feel? But, I hope you like how this turned!

_________________

"I've umm," Reaching once more to fix his hair, Inigo blushes as he averts his gaze. "Never done this before,"

Unable to believe that this had been his very own suggestion, Inigo mentally cursed himself for offering such a thing. Inigo and Owain steady for quite a long time, Owain's grand confidence in nearly everything had spurred Inigo to offer a lap dance. One thing led to another, and now the two were back in their room, both waiting.

Reaching down, he plucks at his clothes. Or lack of clothes. Having already shrugged off his robe, the only articles of clothing that remain on Inigo is a black pair of panties and matching lacy garter belt affixed to stockings. Fingers digging under it, he whimpers as he feels the soft fabric cup his dick, his bulge belying his embarrassment. The garter belt tight on his waist, it cinches it, accentuating and giving off a more trim, too heavy appearance of Inigo's slight musculature. The belts running up his thighs, it partitions and squeezes them to make them look larger and plumper as well, Inigo's ass also pushed up and squeezed out. His entire upper half bare, Inigo struggles on what to cover, his hands swapping up and down.

"I am sure that a dancer of your renown-"

"Owain…," Inigo mutters, his eyes prematurely rolling. He huffs, a smile forming. "Enough with that kind of talk, it kills the mood, y'know?"

"Fine," Owain grumbles, offering his own grin back at Inigo. Sitting on their bed, Owain's state of dress is almost the same level of bareness of Inigo's, Owain only wearing his boxers. Mind and body already anticipating the show, Owain leans back on his hands as he sits, dick chubbed up and pressing against the fabric. "So, start," Owain grins, raising his brow.

Taking a deep swallow, Inigo closes his eyes as he begins to imagine a song. Following the slow imaginary rhythm, Inigo takes slow steps, accentuating the swish of his hips and ass by stepping one foot in front of the other. Eyes on Owain, Inigo follows the beat. Placing a hand on Owain's shoulder, Inigo turns himself around. Arching his back, Inigo's ass grazes Owain's lap. Arching once more, Inigo nearly yelps as he feels Owain's dick brush against his ass. Turning around again, Inigo pauses a second before pushing Owain down onto the bed. Mounting him, his knees dig into the bed as he grinds against him.

Owain under Inigo, he holds his breath as Inigo straddles him. Juicy ass and delicate fingers rubbing against his nude body, he holds back his moans. His excitement welling inside him, Owain huffs as he feels so incredibly warm. Feeling his warm body, Owain opens his eyes as Inigo grabs them, forbidding him from touching himself. Getting warmer, Owain bites his lip as he feels a rush. Eyes widening, his breathing staggers as he feels himself grow.

Head only a third of the way up the mattress, Owain huffs as he feels his body getting taller, his torso elongating across the bed and his legs spreading wider as his knees rise higher from his feet resting on the floor. Inigo placing both of Owain's hands above him, Owain can feel the swell of his arms as they grow in diameter, his biceps beginning to press against his face, the once slight ping-pong ball sized definition now matching basketballs. Lost in his own pleasure, Owain doesn't even notice Inigo stop to stare at him. His chest enlarging, the sheer heft of them press down on him, the two slabs of pure muscle jutting out, a defined well cut six-pack underneath that. Each thigh becoming larger than his torso was alone, his boxers compress and dig into them before they ultimately tear. Blood rushing to his dick, it flings out the small flap, rising high into the air behind Inigo. Owain's head hitting the wall, his torso alone the length of their bed, he lets out an oof, reaching to rub it.

His sudden growth stopping, Owain senses his massive size. Feeling stronger and more powerful than ever, he reaches for Inigo, his hands alone covering Inigo's entire chest. Inigo's mouth entirely dry as his eyes roam Owain's massive form, he lets out a yelp as Inigo reaches down for his garter belt. Tearing it all off in one fell swoop, Owain huffs as he sees Inigo's nude form. Hurriedly reaching for his nightstand, he grabs and uncorks the lone bottle inside it, digging and coating his fingers in the lube. Pushing Inigo down, Owain purrs as he buries him in his pecs, far wider than Inigo. Putting one digit inside Inigo's ass, the tight warm hole seems to clamp down on it.

"Owain," Inigo murmurs, one eye clenched shut as Owain slowly moves around his entrance, his finger taking up more space than it should. Huffing, his fingers clamp around Owain as a second finger taps at his entrance. His breath leaves him as Inigo goes ahead, fingering him with both.

"This is nothing," Owain growls as he readies a third one, hs engorged dick visible with Inigo pressed down on him. Giving a small push, he huffs at how Inigo rubs up against his pecs, bouncing them to shake Inigo. His third finger ready, Owain smiles at Owain's small whimpers before quickly pulling out, Inigo's hands wrapping around his nipples.

"Now," Uncorking the lube again, Owain dumps it all over his cock. "Rub it," Letting go of Inigo, Owain bounces his pecs, sending him back.

Eyes bulging as he feels Owain's rod pressing into him, he blanches as he sees the size of it. Wrapping both fingers around Owain's dick, he starts at the tip.

"Hurry it up," Obeying, Inigo begins rubbing the lube all over Owain's dick, Owain moaning as he receives the handjob. Doing as instructed, Inigo jumps as Owain's hands clamp around him.

Lifting Inigo into the air, Owain's chest rises high up as he places Inigo at the tip of his dick. Inigo squirming under the vice grips, Owain presses down on Inigo, inserting his dick. Holding him with both hands, Owain slowly brings him further down. Inching Inigo further and further down, he huffs as he manages to take all of his dick. Groaning as Inigo's stomach bulges, he lifts him back up. Pushing him back down, Owain begins to speed up, using Inigo's ass as his own personal vibrator. Inigo's moans joining his own, Owain chuckles at the way Inigo bobs up and down, his dick and balls slapping against himself.

Grunting, Owain huffs as he feels himself nearly approaching. Inigo cumming first, the bits of semen he squirts out is nothing as Owain lets go of Inigo, pressing into the bed as he cums.

Inigo groans as Owain erupts. His dick stretched wide, Owain's seed fills him up, the sticky substance bulging his stomach before getting filled up and slipping out of his ass.

Owain huffing as he stares, he moans at Inigo's bulging stomach. Grabbing him and pulling him off his dick, he licks his lips as his seed splatters out, splashing all over Inigo. Hugging him, Owain shifts to his side, terribly uncomfortable from being far taller than the bed but too tired to care.

"I'll clean this up in the morning," Yawning, Owain presses Inigo to him, Inigo tucked under his chin and tightly held by his biceps.

Squirming, Owain's cum still all over him, Owain's snoring alerts him to his laziness. Stuck in his grip, Owain's eyes widen as he feels Inigo's log for a dick chub up, already knowing what to expect in the morning.

#my writing #risque #risqué #buff!owain #giant!owain

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sakumosowainthirst · 5 years

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What about one where Corrin and Owain are king and queen of Valla. Or (if I can ask again) one with that harem/brothel/Arabic style we talked about, it's on my mind all the time. (Dark and dangerous power couple)

Ohh!!! An Arabian Nights Corrwain would be interesting! I think I’ll save that one for an AU miniseries, so let’s have some King and Queen of Valla! Also, sorry for the delay, been busy the past few days!

“I can’t believe Xander and Ryoma agreed to give up land for the Vallite refugees,” Corrin said as she laced her fingers in her lap. She was seated cross-legged on the bed, Owain behind her, gently pulling a brush through her damp hair. He’d offered to comb it out for her after their shower, so here they sat in pajamas, sharing a moment of quiet conversation. It was so strange being back in Nohr, though last time she’d only stayed in Castle Krakenburg one night before setting out at the start of her journey.

“It’s only fair since the real Valla no longer exists,” said Owain, raking his fingers through a snag the brush had caught.

“I guess that’s true, though the people could have assimilated into both kingdoms,” she said, frowning with thought.

“It isn’t their fault their kingdom is no more, so all the better they found a new one in a new land, with one of its former royal line as Queen.”

“I still wish Azura would have accepted the role,” Corrin pouted sourly.

“I think you’re the clear choice for the job,” he said, leaning forward to smooch her shoulder.

“I think you’re biased,” she said with a snicker.

“Maybe so, but the point still stands,” said Owain, returning to his brushing. “After all, who better to lead the people of Valla than the shining goddess who ended their struggle?”

“I had a bit of help, you know,” Corrin said, tilting her head back to give him an unamused smile.

“True, you had the great mage Odin Dark by your side,” he said with a cheeky grin.

“And because of that, justice prevailed,” she chuckled, turning fully and crawling forward to capture his lips. Smiling softly as they separated, Corrin raised a hand to his cheek. “Truly, Owain, thank-you. I couldn’t have made it without you.”

“You were already destined for greatness,” he said leaning into her palm with a warm grin. “I merely leant a fell hand.”

“A hand I’ll be counting on to help me as King,” Corrin said, leaning in to smooch him.

Owain sat back abruptly, blinking in surprise at her. “King?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “If I’m going to be the Queen, then you’re naturally going to be the King.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

“No?” Corrin repeated, frowning at him. “What do you mean no?”

“Valla is going to be a queendom, not a kingdom,” Owain said, taking her hands. “You’re going to be the one who rules, Corrin. The title of King denotes equal power, something I don’t intend to accept.”

“So, what, you intend to sit on your ass and look pretty for the rest of your life?” Corrin asked with an angry arched eyebrow.

“I’ll of course support you as your husband,” he said, frowning at her. “I just don’t think I’m worthy of accepting the role of King, since I’m an outsider to Valla, and from another world, at that.” He looked at the ceiling in thought. “I suppose since I’m a prince in Ylisse, I could be the Prince Consort of Valla, but…”

“Owain, you’re going to be the King.”

She said it so matter-of-factly that he was taken aback. “Corrin, I can’t accept—”

“The hells you can’t,” said Corrin, leering sternly at him. “If you think for one second that I’ll allow you to be treated as any less than me, then you’re severely mistaken.”

“Corrin, please, I don’t—”

“I’ll be the Queen. Ophelia and Kana will be the Princess and Prince. So you’ll be King, Owain. We’ll make that Outrealm Portal to Ylisse and bring your whole family here so they can see your coronation.”

“But I—”

“I honestly thought you’d be excited,” Corrin said with a disapproving frown. “Give me some speech about the Chosen Hero ascending the throne—”

“Corrin, please,” Owain said, taking her hands and giving her a pleading stare. Sighing, his eyes fell to their hands, his thumb stroking the back of her palm. “Corrin, this is your achievement. I always tend to overdo things and draw attention to myself, so I wanted to take a quieter role this time. I…I don’t want to outshine you.”

Corrin paused, considering him for a moment, and then her eyebrows tipped upward, a pitying smile curling her lips. “Tell me, Owain, if the roles were reversed, would you let me do the same?”

He glanced up at her, startled by the question. “What?”

“If you were being crowned the Exalt of Ylisse, would you let me refuse an equal title, just because I wasn’t from the same world?”

Hesitating, he shook his head. “No…”

“You’d argue with me to be your Queen, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes…” he sighed, eyeing the mattress.

Corrin squeezed his hands, forcing him to look up at her again. “I want you to be my equal, Owain. I’m not going to know what I’m doing with this, and I’m counting on you to help me make decisions for our kingdom. It’s true I hold the birthright, but you’re the person I chose to have by my side, and that makes you just as important. Besides,” she said, petting his cheek with a loving smile, “I shine brightest when we work together.”

He gaped at her, struck by her sentiment, eyes misting despite himself. Huffing a chuckle, he grinned. “I guess Owain Dark has met his match,” he said, kissing the heel of her palm.

“Damn right he has,” Corrin said, pressing her forehead to his. “Now shut up and be my King, Owain.”

Grinning, Owain met her for a kiss, adding softly, “As you command, my Queen.”

#sakumo writes stuff #fire emblem fanfiction #fe odin #fe owain #fe corrin #corrwain #ask replies

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ankulometes · 3 years

Text

The Pelerin, Part 4: Meistr Tomas

Making my way back through the town, I head to the market square by the castle to try and find Meistr Tomas. The agora is more or less rectangular and surrounded on one side by the castle, on another by the entrance to the temple precinct, and on the other two by about twenty or so grand residences. The houses are all of broadly similar appearance but are arrayed in an irregular manner, like plants that just happened to have grown wherever the wind dispersed their seed. Their rectilinear, two-storey facades all consist of a large central arched entrance punched through heavy, coarse stonework and secured with an equally imposing door. On the piano nobile above traipse a regular pattern of twin arched windows with red brick voussoirs and an unglazed grid of wooden fenestration beneath a shallow pitch of sinuous pantiles. Each appears to differ only in scale and detailing, as if they were projected onto the periphery using variable focal lengths.

Having purchased a rather ill-made figurine of an unrecognizable saint from a particularly keen young salesperson, I managed to ascertain using my halting Illenic that Meistr Tomas lives in one of the houses on the far side. Eventually, after squeezing my way through the heaving crowd, I find what must surely be his residence for the Olani arms adorn the colourfully sculpted keystone above the doorway. I also observe that the foliation of the window columns on the upper level had been carved and painted in the form of silver leaves and green apples.

I rap on the door somewhat tentatively with my knuckles and wait. No answer. I knock louder, thumping the door with my hand. No answer. I bang loudly with the end of my walking stick and call out in Brytanic that I wish to meet with Meistr Tomas. A servant who had clearly been by the entrance all along opens a hatch in the door behind an iron grille a couple of feet above my head and peers down disapprovingly. I kick myself for not acquiring a horse. As is quite apparent, anyone who arrives on foot is both literally and metaphorically beneath consideration. I hastily excuse my appearance, making a slew of rash claims concerning my status and importance in the process, and eventually the door is opened. Fortunately, as he beckons me to enter I soon realise that he possesses only the most halting grasp on Brytanic.

Once inside, the hubbub of the agora subsides into a distant murmur to be replaced by the rhythmic trickle of a fountain over pebbles. In place of the squalid stench of fish, fruit, and manure mouldering in the heat comes a heady play of aromatic herbs, flowers, and fruits that caress the senses from fresh shaded corners amidst an arcaded courtyard.

Meistr Tomas’ man takes my broad brimmed hat, travel cloak, and name before bidding me politely to sit at a wooden scissor chair beside an occasional table with a vitreous enamel top on which is depicted a scene from the life of Sant Owain. Promptly, a young Cupryan serving girl arrives carrying a tray upon which is set a bowl of rose water filled with petals, a platter of dates, figs, and baklava, two small porcelain beakers, and three elegant glass carafes: one containing water, one filled with rum, and the other soumada. She pours me a drink as the manservant explains that Meistr Tomas is currently engaged but will be along shortly to attend to me. As I wait, I sip the beverage warily.

The drink that is called rum here in this world at this time is not the same as the spirit you know. It is more like sugar wine and about the same strength as sherry. It is pale and rather cloudy. When mixed with the soumada, which is a type of almond syrup drink, it has a milky appearance that bears an unappetising resemblance to the male discharge. Which is perhaps why many here credit it with augmenting virility. More pleasingly, it has a strong, sweet taste of sugar and almonds for which it is easy to acquire a taste. Certainly, it is popular and is drunk by all ranks in society, being both produced and presented at varying levels of quality and refinement. Meistr Tomas serves the good stuff.

Far less widely appreciated — although I suspect well understood by our good friend the emyr Bleithri — is that it is an excellent method for disposing of unwanted friends without them ever coming to learn of your secret enmity. Simply by substituting a small proportion of the sweet almonds used to make the soumada with their poisonous bitter brothers, one might be rid of an overbearing husband within the space of a month or so.

It would require an exceptional palette to detect the slight note of astringency thus introduced and considerable knowledge residing in an agile mind to make the connection. You can even consume this drink with the intended victim so long as you take care to eat good quantities of dark leafy greens, seeds from plants such as the sunflower, or the livers of chickens, calves, or sheep.

There have been an uncanny number of individuals who have succumbed to cholera-like symptoms after making peace with the Olani clan and being welcomed into their hospitality. And that famwli have often benefited from the customary marriage alliances far sooner than most anticipated.

I inspect the beautiful glass carafes in which my refreshments have been presented. Not for poison, you understand. Fortunately, I do not believe that the good emyr wants me dead. Yet. I do so simply because they are objects of the utmost craftsmanship.

The two that contain the rum and the soumada are ornamented with elegant Islamic motifs painted in lapis lazuli, cochineal, and gold leaf. Evidently, they come from the east. Muslim craftsmen are widely considered to be the leading exponents of the art. This much one can ascertain from the quality of the glass itself, which is superb. However, it is quite thick and heavy, making a dull clunk when tapped. Close inspection reveals that a slight crystallisation has occurred during cooling, producing a subtle cloudiness that has been emphasised by the choice of contents.

By contrast, the water jug is a product of the workshops in Gwyrhyd. One might determine this without recourse to the maker’s mark — a kind of abstract glyph depicting a bull’s head — that is inscribed on the base. That it is the work of northwesterners is obvious from the fact that it is decorated with scenes from the life of Sant Cara. But there are other clues in the style and fabrication.

The glass is as delicate as an eggshell, polished to a point of total transparency, utterly clear of imperfections, and produces a clear ringing sound when tapped that is only somewhat dampened by being filled. The figures depicted and the ornamental frames around each scene are not painted on: they are drawn in coloured glass that has been seamlessly melded with the clear body of the vessel. Intricate details have been skillfully etched for effect or inlaid with silver or gold that shines with a translucent brilliance when held against the light.

It is a work of incredible skill and dedication that represents the acme of Alban glassmaking capabilities. I reckon you would probably have to part with around two pund of sterling silver to acquire such an item in Albion itself. That is about half of what the master craftsman ultimately responsible for its manufacture might earn in a really good year and, from start to finish, it may well have taken his workshop a good proportion of that time to complete a commission such as this. For more or less the same sum, a peasant could have a builder construct an entire house for them, labour and materials included, or a merchant might rent a substantial property in town for an entire year.

It is an extremely valuable showpiece that has been almost casually placed before me as if it were a normal everyday item. In this part of the world it is rare enough to excite inflationary bids from wealthy individuals who compete to become one of the few to own such an exotic work. I have heard tell that the caliph in Cairo paid over 1,000 bysants to have one made that was devoid of heathen ornament and thus halal. And he is not even an individual who lacks access to skilled glassblowers.

I place the carafe back on the table with a chuckle. One has to admire the emyr’s chutzpah. He is quite literally attempting to sell sand to the Arabs. I would not be at all surprised should I come to learn that it is a deliberate joke on his part in some small way. Certainly, a number of his ancestors have required disciplining for their indulgence in such personal amusement.

Then there is the content of the jug. The water is as pure and crystal clear as the glass in which it is presented. It glistens and shines playfully with the rays of the sun that stream into the courtyard through the shading foliage. It puts the tap water in your world to shame. In this world at this time, it is more precious by far than either the rum or the soumada. Perhaps more so even than its container.

Cuprys is not overly blessed with sources of clean water. Lemesos itself is supplied via wells and a couple of canalised streams that are no better than open sewers. Drinking from the latter is tantamount to suicide. Consuming from the former is little better in my view although, this being a hot country, many people will do so at need; especially the poor. I believe they are somewhat reconciled to parasites and have developed resistances you and I lack. Those who can afford to do so avoid drinking water altogether unless they happen to be in the vicinity of a pure spring, such as one might find in the mountains that occupy the centre and north of the island.

Some visitors must at first assume that this water had been carried all the way to Meistr Tomas’ house from just such a source. However, it contains none of the contaminants such transportation would assuredly impart and the fresh taste would tell you that it has not been stored long. No, this water has been made right here from the same filth that his clients would not even stoop to allowing their servants to wash their clothes in, let alone drink.

I expect it is one of the countless tasks that that poor serving girl is expected to complete each and every morning long before her master ever rises from his bed. She would have had to carry many full buckets from the well at the castle to the kitchens before raising a fire and slaving over great cauldrons until their contents bubbled and steamed. For this water has first of all been filtered and then boiled.

That is not standard practice in Cuprys but it is in Albion. Not even the most lowly peasant there would drink water without first boiling it. It is an ancient custom that fascinates foreigners. In pre-Christian times in the Brytish Isles, water was considered divine and the abode of spirits and gods, both good and evil. To drink it could be a double-edged sword: one might imbibe the strength of a god or be possessed by a demon. However, the latter could be expelled as steam by fire. They may not have had devices that enabled them to see microscopic creatures but they were not stupid. They understood causality and constructed a framework of superstition and proto-science to explain that which they were capable of determining. Even if the ancient religions have passed away, many of their practices have endured.

After allowing time to cool, it will have been poured through a filter for a second time into a number large earthenware amphorae before being sealed with cork and wax and left to chill in the cellar until the master or one of his guests demanded refreshment.

Many concepts relating to water filtration are known at this time in a number of places throughout this world, both east and west of Hierosolym. The ancient Albans were masters of hydrology. For example, they used systems of reeds to prevent the spoliation of their divine rivers by polluted waste. However, what Meistr Tomas is demonstrating here through the creation of clean potable water is state of the art.

His filters are made using a substance known as glanarmwd. A literal translation would be “cleaning soil”. It has been brought here from Tyrodan, way out on the edge of the known world. It will purify not only water but also wine or honey or any other liquid. It will rid your hair, or that of your favourite horse, or your bed, of lice, ticks, and fleas. It will protect your grain or other provisions from weevils and prevent it from caking. It will make your soil abundant and free draining. It can whiten and polish the teeth and many other materials besides. Amongst those who have come to learn of its qualities it is considered to be nothing less than a proof of god. Some even eat it for its supposed efficacious properties. These discoveries are comparatively recent.

In the days of Ioan ap Gwaltor, Bleithri’s father, during the reign of Harri 3th, the Olani clan became involved in the violent strife that beset distant Tyrodan for a period. More accurately, one might say that they attempted a private takeover of the entire island. However, their bid faltered badly.

Emyr Ioan encouraged Cyn Harri to intervene as the cyn of the Brytans has long held a tenuous claim to dominion over those lands. Most scholars here believe Tyrodan to be the same island known in ancient times as Ddwle. Back then, the Albans believed it to be the home of Tamesis and Hafren and a gateway to Annwn. Thus it became a place of pilgrimage upon which a small religious outpost was maintained for many years through great effort.

Yet eventually those days faded into a distant memory and no ruler in Brytan has shown much inclination to revive their interest since. Not even Urthur, despite what the chivalric tales like to say. Long unpopulated, Tyrodan became home during the intervening years to a number of Olydynan, those renowned seafaring warriors from the kingdoms of Olwe and the Danmarc who are long sundered kin of the ancient Albans. Their king showed far more interest in the affair and decided to settle it in his favour. Cyn Harri received an agreeable payment to forget any notions of pressing his claim. And, for a modest fee, the Olani clan gained the right to mine and trade there. It was the stage upon which the young emyr Bleithri, little more than a boy of 16 at the time, proved his mettle and his worth. It was also where he learned about glanarmwd.

The Olani clan’s operations in Tyrodanar are a far cry from the civilised surroundings of Lemesos. It is little more than a ramshackle collection of rude stone shacks, roofed in earth overgrown with grass and moss, where desperate men are driven to hew the barren earth through the darkest depths of freezing winter. It is where they send those who have earned their displeasure somehow. Yet its produce is coveted far and wide. Twice a year, 10 gwylliar arrive and cart away up to 2,000 tuns of the stuff along with items acquired from the Olydynan such as walrus ivory, skins, and oil. That’s almost 5 million kilograms or 5,000 tonnes in your money. It’s not a lot to supply Europe.

The Olani keep the only known source in the world at this time such a closely guarded secret such that even now, two sinades after inventing the trade, very few know where it comes from. Yet a good many have become familiar with its virtues. They would immediately recognise it at work in the purity of the water that has been served to me today.

Meistr Tomas has favour within the clan, that much is evident. And it looks to be well earned. Certainly he is demonstrating a good understanding of some subtle arts even before I meet him in person. This entire assemblage, from the extravagant enamel work of the table through the refined porcelain dishes and glassware to the simple clarity of the water, are a whispered advertisement par excellence replete with delicate cultural cues and no little showmanship.

The people who come to him are not the great kings and lords of this world. They are their agents; their butlers (or drulliar, as the Brytish call them), their siambrlen, their marsial. Servants of the highest rank. They are connoisseurs, intimately associated with the pinnacle of excellence in their area of expertise and typically skilled in acquiring it for their lord on the best possible terms.

They might come to acquire cloth to supply the household for an entire year, provision the cellar of an estate, acquire victuals and other assorted items for a gargantuan feast, or furnish a stable with the best horses.

They can rack up huge lines of credit in the process that, should they ever default, would assuredly spell the end for them, their families, and potentially even their master or mistress. With some justification, they tend to be cautious and sceptical individuals. In order to part them from their purse, one must wow them so that they feel reassured that the extravagant expenditure will earn them favour and advancement. Indulging their vanity and expensive tastes also goes a long way to assuaging any fears. As, no doubt, do unspoken arrangements for skimming the cream that impute no one’s honour.

Impressive as it is, the hospitality being shown to me is cursory compared to the welcome that awaits the representative of any wealthy lord. Having arrived on foot without a retinue, Meistr Tomas’ servants know that I do not number among such men. They are unsure what to make of me for they have not seen my face before. Perhaps they are taken in by my dress and believe me to be a humble pelerin who must, in fear of god, be shown the deference due for committed penance. But, from the way they ushered me inside so quickly, it is more likely that they take me for a new spy who is yet to learn the correct protocol. For that is Meistr Tomas’ other business in these parts.

All kinds come and go by the entrance to the rear of the house under cover of darkness. The Olani operate a network of agents throughout Christendom and even beyond. Their number include persons of every type and status from high ranking servants, clerics of considerable standing, and ladies in waiting through vile mercenaries and disgruntled infantrymen down to the poorest vagrants and vagabonds.

The good Meistr Tomas is their point of contact in the east. For now. He wishes to know everything. Who is in and who is out. Who has taken whom as a lover. Who has spoken harsh words against whom. Where the powerful go and what they do there. All of this and more he then incorporates into his apparently innocent reports and accounts to the emyr Bleithri using a running key cipher. It is a technique that was invented by Bleithri’s great grandfather, who was an exceptionally innovative individual known as Rian “Calben” fisGrigor. The emyr uses this information to help direct the clan’s business; to curry favour, to play adversaries off against one another, to be in the right place at the right time — or, at least, not in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It is a profession in which the utmost tact, discretion, and judgement are required to succeed while avoiding the taint of dishonour. If he gets it wrong, Tomas will take the fall. Some recruits are remunerated for bringing a matter to his attention. Others are merely well-connected blabbermouths with an excessive fondness for being entertained. Some harbour a secret political or religious agenda of their own with which Tomas must suggest complicity without becoming embroiled. Others conceal a guilty secret which he might use to compel them to serve him. The more the clan knows, the easier it becomes to identify and control such individuals.

My suspicions concerning my perceived status are soon confirmed when Tomas’ manservant reappears to usher me into his master’s presence. He beckons me to follow up the austere stone stairway that leads to the upper floor and shows me into the office. There are none of the attachés one would expect were I considered a man of business; no scribe, no secretary, no page, and no priest to bless the transaction. Nor are his wife and household present to welcome me as a visitor in the manner demanded by customs of hospitality.

The office is a large room with windows to each side. Those overlooking the agora are shuttered against the noise and stench. A warm breeze idles through the silken chiffon drapery that surrounds the others overlooking the courtyard and through which the late morning sun throws geometric shadows from the mullions over the square tiled floor. Their shapes are echoed in a beautifully ornate ivory-carved chess set that adorns an occasional table amidst the curtains. Tomas is seated behind a substantial writing desk at the far end of the room surrounded by piles of heavy tomes and scrolls, still scratching away with his pen. Beyond him, a whitewashed wall is dominated by a large, empty stone hearth of spartan appearance above which hangs a rather fine Brytish tapestry depicting the mutilation of Sant Cara. It has been somewhat blackened by smoke. The other walls are plastered and painted with architectural ornamentation in a heady mix of reds and greens and blues. Above, the open roof trusses are carved and painted in a similarly decorative vein. It is quite dark. Especially when contrasted against the fierce glare of the southern sun.

“The pelerin, meistr, who goes by the name Barachiel” he says, announcing me with a bow.

Tomas dismisses the servant before even looking up. When he does, he completes a double-take that is quickly buried. Emerging from behind the desk, he lowers his knee and head slightly to take my hand and kiss it in greeting.

“Welcome, good penitent. My humble apologies for I have been remiss in my hospitality. Had I known, I would have bid my wife to attend to you immediately. My servant had led me to expect another. Rest assured, I shall rectify his wrongdoing!”

“You expected one less deserving of hospitality perhaps? Think nothing of it. I have been treated like a cyn and will say so to anyone I meet on my travels. And, please, I wish no one to suffer on my account.”

“For sure. It shall be as you wish. There can be only one suffering servant, is that not so? Please, sit. You must be weary. For sure, I would be honoured if you would accept board and lodging in my meagre home for as long as you have need. And I would surely delight in hearing any news from your travels. But first, tell me, how may I be of service to one such as yourself?”

I confess some pleasure in watching Meistr Tomas extricate himself smoothly from his initial error. Look at him! He is so learned yet so humble. He understands every protocol. And not merely what needs to be done but also why it must be so. Every lapse will be atoned for. Nothing is too much effort. His only wish is to satisfy your every whim. And he asks so little in return!

The good meistr is a young man in his 20s of middling height, build, and appearance. He is neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin. He is easy to look upon without being excessively handsome although a lively intelligence plays in his pale blue eyes. With his fine pointed nose, fair skin, oval face, and straight, mousey hair he looks somewhat Saesan, rather than Brytanic. Yet he speaks the language with a flawless erudition in the accent of southern Eirean. He is like a constructed amalgam of features from the Brytanic Isles at this time.

He averages this impression out even further through his choice of clothing, being dressed in the eastern manner in a finely embroidered silk kaftan, headscarf and slippers over a pure white linen shirt and trousers. His outfit has been carefully considered to demonstrate taste and refinement without any extravagance that might be unbecoming to his station and incite envy amongst struggling social superiors. Yet he wears it well and exhibits a care for his finery that is indicative of one who has known a life without it.

“I was born in Occitan but I have recently arrived in Cuprys from Acca,” I lie, “where I have served as a humble servant in the scriptorium of the king for the past 20 years. Sadly, the recent strife has weighed heavily upon my good wife who has come to be possessed by a strange affliction. Her body quivers and many days she will not rise from our bed. I fear she is beyond the aid of any physic. So now, as you see, I have taken a hat and staff and seek passage west to pray at the shrine of Sant Ansel.”

“A scribe you say? In the service of King Ioan no less? Then, for sure, we are brothers, although I myself have served no one so august as your emyr the king. To deny you any request would surely offend both our profession and the king; not to mention God, given the sufferings for which my pity goes out to you and your sorely afflicted wife. But, tell me, if you will permit me to be so bold as to inquire, why do you not go to your master with this request? He is a man possessed of means and power far above my limited station. And merciful too, I hear. Surely he would be well disposed toward any petition from a faithful servant such as yourself?”

He knows as well as I do that the King of Hierosolym is a blustering, impotent, bitter, bad tempered, and vindictive ass whose only real power for years now has been to vex his peers and put them to great expense. But a king without a kingdom is a problem and Ioan is well capable of making trouble. Having an invisible background servant in his court, overhearing every word and with easy access to every writ and proclamation, would be a coup for Tomas.

“I did, meistr. Or, at least, I approached his canghelor who has kindly furnished me with some money for the journey ... And entrusted me to attend to some urgent matters of business on his behalf when I reach Brytan.”

Tomas studies me carefully as I talk, his alert features a picture of earnest attention as his inquiring mind searches the subtext of every word.

“But sadly my emyr’s estate has been much diminished by the recent tragedies in the Holy Land. He has no ships and little land with which to pay for such things. He is heavily indebted, and not only to his grace, the Arcyn. His oriental tastes are indulged by the Dgenofans who poison his dreams of restoration with grander ambitions. They urge him to forge an alliance with Il Chan. He misplaces his trust in rogues, brigands, and cutthroats and places himself at odds with his own brothers when they have the greatest need of unity. But I have spoken too plainly of my lord’s affairs,” I stop, pretending to catch myself in the midst of an outpouring. “Least ways, I fear that I shall never make it to Brytan for the feast of Sant Ansel and that the king’s matter will linger beyond redemption,” I sigh, wringing my hands in a pantomime of nervous supplication. It is the manner demanded by etiquette, allowing the space for one’s host to swoop in and shine like an angel through an act of merciful benevolence. Naturally, the good Meistr Tomas doesn’t miss the cue.

“It is a sorry situation, to be sure. If only there were some way that together we could serve your master the good King by helping to bring him to reason. As for passage west, if only you had come to me two months ago! I could have offered a safe escort with a caravan. I would hesitate to offer a voyage by sea. The vessels are already overladen. Valuable cargo would surely have to make way for your berth, for which my emyr would not thank me. Moreover, the journey is not for the faint hearted. Nor, if I may be so bold, for those whom the Lord has seen fit to grant long years, even unbent as you clearly are by them. Your penitence puts me to shame, I confess. For which you have my sincere admiration. Yet, if you would consider it acceptable, I could arrange for masses to be said on behalf of your wife by the brothers of the hospital of Sant Ioan itself. And, for sure, I would be happy to see any other matters of business conducted as you instruct.”

I suppress a smile of pleasure at watching Tomas at work. He has dangled the carrot and demanded money in one move. I suspect he must be a strong opponent for any who take him on at a game on that beautiful chessboard of his. Of course, I am obliged to accept his exchange of pieces. “Of course, I must recompense your good emyr — and yourself, naturally — for any loss you might incur on my part. I would not wish to be a burden and, despite my advancing years, have become accustomed to the hardships of travel in recent times. As for my lord the King, I see that you perceive his affairs trouble me. So I confess that I came to you in part because I seek an audience with the good emyr should I ever reach Gwyrhyd. He is a man known for wisdom, they say. And for having the ear of the Arcyn. There is a small matter on which I feel in great need of his counsel.”

Tomas stops recording our transaction and looks up, unable to conceal his intense curiosity as I proffer the book tentatively. Reluctant to place it entirely within the hands of one so perceptive and untrustworthy, I merely open it before him in order to allow him to see what he will see.

Slowly, he reaches into its depths and, for a moment, I fear that he has glimpsed its true nature. A void; the nothing. Pure light and absolute dark. Both infinitely small and unbounded in extent. Total knowledge and utter ignorance. A door and a map to all worlds that were, are, will be and the pulsating, breathing rhythm of their emergence and subsumption into nothingness.

This gift of mine is rare. Even amongst those who possess it, the ability to manipulate The Noth effectively comes only with considerable training. It must be conceptualised and channeled through a medium, such as my book, with great effort. Even amongst my fellow Vala, I might not recognise their device unless they chose to reveal it to me. Doing so is always fraught with peril, even to one with no perception of these things. Most will simply see what they wish to see. Or what they expect to see. Which is why great care must be taken to feed the desired thoughts into their mind. And there are times I could swear that it was as though The Noth displayed a will of its own; or at least an insatiable instinctive drive to consume and destroy. There is an ever present danger that someone will perceive things they should not. Or stuff they simply cannot process. The consequences can be far reaching and undesirable.

Fortunately, my fears and doubts concerning Tomas prove unfounded. His finger runs over the non-existent page he expects to see. From the depths of the book, he pulls a flattened scroll whose seal has been broken and reads intently.

“You have the authority necessary to re-seal this missive?”

“I do,” I reassure him.

“Then, for sure, my advice would be that it reaches its intended recipient intact. And with all due haste. But only via the eyes of the Arcyn from my emyr. Are these Dgenofans acquainted with your face?”

“They are not,” I smile, taking the scroll from him as bidden and storing it securely inside the book once more.

“Good, good. I shall send a bird ahead to let my emyr know to expect you. He will be able to arrange matters so that one of our men can fulfill this charge on your behalf. And you shall be free to pray for the soul of your wife, if indeed that is your wish. At the very least, for sure, it would seem prudent for you to continue your journey alone just as you currently are. It would be for the best were our knowledge of your master’s affairs — and your involvement — kept from him.”

“I cannot thank you enough, good Meistr — for both your swift assistance and your discretion. I am greatly reassured in my decision to come to you.”

“For sure, for sure, the gratitude is all on my part, I assure you. You have done my emyr and the Arcyn a great service in bringing this to my attention. Rest assured, it will not go unrewarded and I shall endeavour to ensure that the friendship of the Olani is extended to you wherever you may go.”

Rising from his seat, Meistr Tomas takes my right hand, embraces me with his left arm, and kisses me on the right cheek in the conventional Alban manner for those sealing a clan friendship that comes with unspoken ties. He is astute enough to know, given what he believes of me, that it would never be appropriate for either us to kneel to the other or swear oaths of fealty that might breach our pre-existing commitments. Naturally, I reciprocate.

“The winds must surely change any day now. Brief as the time may be, I pray you will accept my offer of the hospitality of my house until you depart, rather than return to Lydiria?”

“You are most gracious and hospitable, meistr. And I would be delighted to accept. I feared I might have to stay nowhere until the ships set sail but now I believe you have made me at home in this hard town. May it ever be so,” I say, offering my eternal friendship in the customary manner.

“May it ever be so,” Meistr Tomas affirms. And so it is done.

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ohlawsons · 7 years

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FOR WANDERING SOULS | 01 PROMPT 0008: ROLL FOR IT 02 [ANWYN & EDER]

SUMMARY. A collection of fics written for @pillarspromptsweekly, for the ones that are too short to really post on their own. Features various watchers and pairings. NOTES. written for the roll for it prompt a while back, with eder + wine + questions i’ve sorta fallen way behind on fic thanks to work and nano, but i finally finished this so hey, that’s something LINKS. [ ao3 ] [ Anwyn and Owain’s tag ]

Anwyn watched the crowd gathered in the Black Hound, one hand idly stroking Morwenna’s head while the other tapped against her half-empty glass of wine.

They were a… lively bunch, Dyrwoodans, and the rowdy group in the inn was the most small-town-backwoods group that she’d seen in a long time; not that she minded , really, because she’d seen far worse in the years she’d spent traveling Eora and Gilded Vale, at least, had a sort of charm to it.

It was a hostile, murderous charm, but it wasn’t boring and really, that’s all Anwyn could ask for.

Her silent people-watching was broken as someone sat at the seat next to her, a tall blond human she’d seen when they’d first made their way into town. Since he clearly hadn’t picked up on the air of hostility that Anwyn was so carefully projecting, she arched an eyebrow and gave him a pointed glare. “Yes?”

“Surprised the two of you are stickin’ around, after that warm welcome earlier.” He glanced over at Morwenna, but there was none of the hesitance or distaste that Anwyn had come to expect. “Most folks woulda headed out already, but it looks like at least one of you has made yourself comfortable.”

Anwyn followed his gaze over to her brother, seated at a corner table with the wizard he’d met earlier; they were deep in discussion, Owain making wide, enthusiastic gestures as he spoke while Aloth nodded along politely, reserved but no less enthralled. Owain was at least three drinks in -- by Anwyn’s count, and she hadn’t exactly been keeping careful watch -- and certainly looked right at home. “He found someone attractive to buy drinks for,” she explained dryly. “There’s hardly a better reason to stay.”

He grinned at that. “Name’s Eder,” he introduced himself warmly. “I met Owain earlier today. He said the two of you came here looking for cheap land.” He glanced over at Morwenna again, and even though he still didn’t seem unnerved by her presence, Anwyn couldn’t help but comment.

“Does my lioness bother you?”

“No,” Eder answered quickly. “I was actually-- Can I pet her?”

Anwyn blinked, staring blankly at Eder for a moment, wondering if she’d actually heard him correctly. “Can you pet my lioness?” When he nodded, as earnest and eager as anything, Anwyn glanced down at Morwenna, who was currently nuzzling her head against Anwyn’s still hand. She would love the attention, Anwyn knew -- Morwenna acted as if Anwyn never spent any time with her -- but she wasn’t in the habit of drawing attention to the fact that her ferocious, battle-hardened companion was actually a fan of cuddling and ear scritches. “I won’t be responsible if she takes off a hand,” she protested weakly, already knowing that Eder was about to make himself one of Morwenna’s favorite people.

With a bright smile, Eder eagerly reached a hand out to Morwenna. She inspected it curiously, giving his hand a little sniff before nuzzling it affectionately. He beamed down at her, scratching at her chin before turning back to Anwyn. “What’s her name?”

“Morwenna.”

The lioness glanced up at her name, tail flicking appreciatively as she stood to sniff at Eder, curling around the barstool he was on and sitting between him and Anwyn.

“She likes you,” she admitted with a sigh, glaring down at Morwenna in mock chastisement. “I raised you,” Anwyn said with a frown, shaking her head at her lioness, “travelled halfway across Eora with you, and you betray me like this?”

“You raised her?” Eder paused to look up at Anwyn, his curiosity evidently piqued by the information.

She took a slow sip of her wine, wondering just how long she’d have to put up with Eder’s presence now that Morwenna had his attention. “Yes. The mother was killed by poachers. There were two other cubs, but they didn’t survive.” Anwyn’s frown deepened, and she reached over to stroke Morwenna’s head. “She almost didn’t make it, either. We found her just in time.”

Her answer seemed to placate Eder -- for a time, at least, and then he was asking more questions and Anwyn found herself in need of more wine. “How’d she end up fighting with you?”

“It just happened ,” she said tersely. “I like guns, she likes fighting, we both like travelling. We left home about ten years ago and haven’t looked back.”

“Not here for Raedric’s land, then?” he guessed.

Anwyn pursed her lips, grip tightening on her wine glass. “Owain was interested. I just wanted the excuse to visit the Dyrwood.” She searched for an excuse to leave, but before she could work out something that was somewhat more polite than simply walking away, Morwenna made a low noise of contentment and slid down so she was laying at Eder’s feet; her tail flicked happily as she looked up at Eder expectantly, and with a long sigh Anwyn admitted to herself that she wouldn’t be pulling Morwenna away anytime soon. She crossed her arms on the bar and rested her head on her arms, settling in for another round of Eder’s questions.

#pillars of eternity #pillars prompts weekly #brooke writes things #fic: anwyn and owain #eder #anwyn and owain tag #for wandering souls fic

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creepy--pasta · 7 years

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The Candy Man

It was the summer of 1987. The heat of that June seemed to come out of nowhere. One minute we were shuttered inside, looking out at the granite-grey shoreline, and then next the sun was pouring in, starching the grass, unfastening flowers and pulling everyone down to the pier. The fairground came, manned by the same troupe of gypsies who were as ingrained as the seasons themselves--big strong men with funny accents and work-rough skin. They were the ones we suspected first. The month passed in sweltering heat; some flocked to the beach, toes enmeshed in the powdery sand; some went in gaggles to the pier, swelling among the attractions, gorging themselves on candyfloss; some stayed in the cool darkness of the arcades and others just sat stewing on their stoops, like sweating water in an icy jug. That summer I celebrated my fourteenth birthday with my good friend Maggie. Maggie was the quiet sort, tall for her age and bony. She lived with her father who she tried desperately to please, and appeared to be stuck in the 1930s; Maggie always wore a navy cotton day dress, a simple, modest frock with a drop waist and sensible shoes to match. Some of the other kids used to tease her for it. On July 13th the news came through. Twelve year old Charlotte and eleven year old Lauren were missing, last seen walking home from the fair. The story sent shockwaves through our small town; we spent five days hacking through foliage and searching through woods, terrified that we might happen upon some horrific discovery. One man found a girl's shoe by a large oak, but the shoe looked more fitted to a five year old than Charlotte or Lauren. I had a deep, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that something awful had happened, which wasn't helped by the putrid heat and the hot fug of wild mint which packed my nose as I raked through bushes. Maggie was quick to blame the gypsies, but I knew that was just her dad putting words into her mouth. The gypsies denied any involvement and soon packed up their gear, ready to be on the road again. The pier looked empty without the fairground there. That was the first thing I thought as I walked along the coast that morning. I was taking my dog Alfie out for a run along the beach. It was an uncharacteristically cold day, with the clouds knitting together above my head, bone-grey and dismal. I narrowed my eyes against the spray of salt water and Alfie ran on ahead. He seemed to have found something. He was sniffing in the slushy sand and barking as if alerting me to come over. After a few seconds he retreated, and I could smell the death already. My mouth went bone dry. A sweat sprang to my armpits as I raced over to Alfie, distinguishing two lifeless shapes sprawled out by the tide. I waved a flurry of seagulls away and felt bile rise in my throat. It was them. The two girls. They lay face-up, all grit and goose flesh, sloppily re-buttoned into their clothes like distended marionettes. Weak patches of blood bloomed through their shirts, their eyes still open in terror. The news hit us like a ton of bricks. We were horrified, terrified, disgusted and confused all at once; the two girls had been raped and stabbed to death, but that was not the baffling part. The baffling part was that Charlotte's kidney had been removed and so had Lauren's spleen. The knife wounds had been quick, erratic, the work of a mad-man, but the incisions made to retrieve the organs were neat, clean... professional almost. A fortnight passed and I was still having nightmares about finding them on the beach, of their rotting flesh, their dead eyes. The investigation eventually went cold. Nothing else was heard, no threats, no missing people, so parents gave their daughter's stern warnings to be home by dark, and everyone tried to move on. After all, it wasn't like it would happen again. It was around this time that Maggie's grandfather came to visit from Yorkshire. He was a small, stocky man with a stooped posture and a tiny bald head. He looked like a mole, with thick-lensed glasses and a huge copper-brown coat that swamped him. I greeted him politely but he never spoke back. Maggie told me that he had fought in the First World War and had been injured badly, which would explain his muteness and the large bumpy scar that ran down the centre of his cranium. She also told me that he'd ran a sweet shop back in the 40s and could still make delicious toffee. Maggie's grandfather was the tamest creature I'd ever met, but he aroused suspicion from his neighbours which came out in full storm when a third child went missing. It was a little boy this time, nine year old Owaine who'd been playing at the arcade late one warm purple night. I didn't blame poor Owaine for being out at such an hour; despite the atrocities that had occurred there, our town was still the same blasé place, a place where kids wandered from garden to garden and front doors were left gaping open. After the disappearance of little Owaine the town fell apart. It was every man for himself. My parents even stopped me from visiting Maggie, much to my anger, saying that no-one could be trusted. Feds trawled the beach every day, hoping that the serial offender would drop Owaine off at the same spot he did the two girls. They were right. Owaine's body appeared the next day with no wind or where about it. No-one saw anything, he just turned up in the sand, the nudging tide performing a sad imitation of life against his little body. This time the killer took a lung, one single lung, stitched him back up like a surgeon and pummelled the rest of his body with stabs. The gruesome discovery filled me with rage; how could someone do this to a child? I wasn't more than a child myself but at the time I felt a surge of protection for the dead kids. Maggie had always been like a little sister to me, meek and lonely and constantly needing back up, and this was no different in my eyes. I decided I'd find this bastard, even if it meant putting myself in harms way. But it wasn't until Maggie went missing that I put my plan into action. Maggie's disappearance sparked less of a fury among the press and the public, much to my anger. I knew straight away it was because she was odd, quiet, and not particularly attractive; she wasn't pretty like Charlotte and Lauren, nor was she as young and cute as Owaine. This coltish fourteen year old was hardly the kind of face they wanted splashed across their newspapers. But I'd find her. I'd find her and I'd bring her home and catch this mad bastard. Besides, I would make the perfect bait. I only slipped out when I was sure my parents were asleep. I had packed beforehand; torch, key, kitchen knife and the hunting rifle Dad kept mounted behind one of our framed paintings for emergencies. I wriggled out of my window (we lived in a cottage so it wasn't too high,) and landed in our tomato patch with such a thud that I was afraid I would wake someone up. Fortunately they stayed asleep. I hot-footed it onto the high street, looking out for any telltale signs of strangeness. The streets were empty, eerie, and I felt a chill bolt through me as I stood there alone. I had a fleeting moment of regret before my thoughts of Maggie brought me back down to earth; I had to do this. I could hear the knife and rifle sloshing around in my backpack. The rifle was loaded for convenience and I remember being terrified that it might go off accidentally. So much so that I took it out and aimed it as I entered the darkness of the woods. My heart began to race as I stepped over the ditch and found myself under a thick canopy of leaves. I aimed the rifle with two hands and held the torch in my mouth, trying to contain the shakes as I did a quick 360 of my surroundings. Nothing. After a lot of scared stop-starting I found myself by the thick oak tree where a man had found a child's shoe just a few weeks before. The shoe still sat there, a tiny blue shoe with a Velcro strap, grubby and waterlogged. I picked it up for inspection, holding it before the torchlight. SNAP I dropped the shoe and whipped around to where I had heard the sound. My heart dropped into my stomach. The torchlight hit a darkened figure-- Maggie's grandfather. I stood there in shock, heart racing, finger trembling over the trigger, before slowly coming to my senses. "Oh," I said, voice still shaky with nerves. "What are you doing here?" "I could ask you the same thing," it was the first time I'd heard him speak. His voice was rattly and old, but gentle in a soft perverted manner. He seemed totally calm. "I'm looking for Maggie," I said, lowering the weapon. He nodded, and I saw his hand duck into his pocket. I only saw it for a split second but his hand looked odd somehow, like some of it was missing. "Old army injury?" I asked, which in retrospect was pretty rude of me, but I was beginning to get unnerved and his silence wasn't helping. He said nothing and instead unearthed a brown, square cube wrapped in cellophane. "Candy?" I was taken aback. My mouth struggled to summon enough saliva to speak. This was getting weird. "Um, no thank you." "It's really good," he said, and took a step forwards. I took a step back. I needed to get out of here. Now. "No. no thank you." "Really. Ask Maggie." Then I saw his mouth. A thin, white puckered hole in the centre of his face. I turned to run, but a pair of strong arms grabbed me and hoisted me into the air. I screamed and bucked, trying desperately to escape whoever was holding me. In my panic my hair fell over my face, obscuring my view of the night. Sickness swilled in my stomach. All of a sudden I felt a cold, bumpy hand forcing something into my mouth. It was the toffee from earlier. I groaned in protest, arching away from his touch but he shoved the toffee in anyway, along with my caught up hair and his freezing, rotten fingers. I woke up drenched in sweat. At first it was groggy-- my hair was covering my face, I was hunched over--until the jarring realisation hit me like a shot. I sprang up and was tugged down immediately; I was strapped to a chair by my ankles and wrists, thick leather cutting into my flesh. I bucked and screamed like a mad woman, but to no avail. My eyes were still adjusting to the light, but on second glance I realised that I was in a crude, grimy cinderblock room, lit only by a naked bulb that hung from the ceiling. A large white surgical table lay a few feet away, accompanied by a sterile tray of glistening instruments. Merely the sight of them made my stomach lurch. Two hunched figures sat in the darkness, and a third... a third with sensible shoes, a navy cotton skirt, a drop waist-- "Maggie?!" She looked at me, trembling, her eyes full of tears. A pair of jagged scissors rattled in her hands. "Please," she whispered. "I... I didn't want to." It was all too much. I puked down my front. One of the darkened figures stood as I was coughing away the rest of my bile. It was Maggie's father, huge, tall, terrifying. He put a hand on Maggie's shoulder. "Maggie always said you had a good heart," he grinned. "Let's test the theory." "I TRUSTED YOU!" I screamed, overtaken with rage. Maggie quivered away from me, snivelling pathetically. I spat a chunk of vomit onto her front. She hardly noticed it, just kept on sobbing. Her father continued smoothly: "Please try to understand. We aren't evil, we just need your help to keep an old soldier standing." "WHERE IS HE?!" I screamed. "WAS IT HIM?! WAS IT HIM ALL ALONG?!" Then, with swiftness, the third figure rose from the darkness, sending a hail of flies up with him. The first thing I noticed was the stench, a stench so strong that I almost puked again. Instead I stared, glaring into that darkness. When Maggie's grandfather stepped into the light my jaw went slack and every bone in my body turned to mush. It's a sight I will never forget: He was stripped naked, with no coat or glasses. And his body--if it could even be called that--looked like a Frankenstein mesh of other bodies. His torso was a patchwork of foreign flesh held together by sutures, flesh of different shades, textures, and stages of decay. Some flesh had the blood flowing through it, while some was putrefying so badly that I could see right through it. He had no nipples, no bellybutton, and no genitalia, just a flat expanse of hexagon-stitched skin. His hands looked like chicken's feet, three-tonged with no fingers. His feet were the same, like they were wrapped in a dozen bandages. But his face was the worst. Without his glasses I could see the mimicry of his eyes--one blue and one brown-- which lay squashed behind a cage of taut white skin, stretched over the two puncture marks of a nasal cavity and the anus-like mouth which tugged itself into a horrific imitation of a smile. He pointed to his chest. "I have Owaine to thank for this--" down to his stomach "--and Charlotte and Lauren to thank for these." His chicken-hands drifted to his chest. "And little Cindy... such a kind heart. It lasted me eighteen years, would you believe? That little shoe you found, a memento I dropped all that time ago. It's amazing how long things last." He began advancing towards me. I writhed and screamed, pulling desperately against my restraints. Maggie's father stopped him. "Let Maggie do her job first," he said, and gave a nod towards his daughter. "Get her clothes off." I was having none of this. I continued my insane writhing, spitting curses as meek little Maggie edged closer with her scissors. "BITCH! BITCH!" I screamed, as she took a shaking pinch of my shirt. I snapped my teeth at her hand but was powerless to stop her as she slowly began to snip the material away. Soon my shirt was left gaping open, exposing my front to the two men in the room. Maggie then tried to hack at my bra, but the thick underwire stopped her from cutting through. This is the only time in my life I have been thankful for the underwire of my bra. "Maggie?" Her father rose with indigence when she turned back, hopeless. "I--I can't cut it," she whispered. Her father started stomping towards us until the Monster stopped him. "Stop. Let the girl do it." "But she's--" "She has to learn some time." He nodded towards Maggie. "Untie her and cut it from the back." Maggie gave a quick nod and began fumbling with the straps on my wrists. My heart raced. I wouldn't have long. She unbuckled the first wrist and my fist went flying into her bony chin with such a force that it sent her flying backwards. The room sat in shock for a few crucial seconds as I feverishly untied my other wrist and my two ankles, blood coursing through me. Maggie's father charged as I lunged out of reach and snatched up the rifle he'd dumped by the wall. With a huge BANG I unleashed my first bullet into his fleshy head. He jerked back with a burst of blood and hit the naked bulb, which swung crazily as Maggie screamed. Then, without thought, without a plan, I shouldered every last atom of strength I had against the door and bolted out into the freezing darkness. The air rushed in and stung my skin. All I could do was run and run and run, screaming all the way, until I reached the coastline and collapsed, weeping, into the arms of an early morning jogger. The next morning the police found the barn-house I had been taken to. They unearthed a chair with straps, a surgical table and a tray of instruments, and Maggie, still holding her dead father in her shaking arms. She sat in a pool of blood, her traumatised eyes fixed on the ground until one of the officers pulled her away. I stayed in that town for two more years before my parents decided to move. And all throughout that time I wondered if I'd made the Candyman up, that he was a fabrication, a horrible nightmare I created to deal with my shock. And all throughout that time I looked down onto the beach, thinking of how it could have been my body there, my lifeless body with its missing heart.

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detectiveroboryan · 7 years

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Tempest

Rating: M Ship: Lucina/Azura, because it’s me and because sometimes playing with my imagination makes things like this TW for alcoholism, self-harm, other assorted Less Than Fun Things. Not gonna be able to do all the days but here’s this. On AO3

Was originally going to be for FE rarepair week but they have a no dubcon thing and I figured the sex as self-harm thing was too close for comfort to that line. Posting here anyway, enjoy

The hangover is always worse when she skips dinner. It makes the mis-healed joints in her right arm ache like they do when it's about to rain, which throws her off, and after heaving the bile in her stomach into the nearest available place, she'll lie face-down on her low bunk and try to ignore the pounding in her head. Her room always reeks of stale alcohol and morning breath— or perhaps she does— and it's a long, stumbling, shameful walk to get her sheets washed once she peels herself from the sheets that, by the smell, would lead one to guess she sweated whiskey onto them all night. Severa will chasten her for being sloppy and Inigo will try to cheer her mood with a few jokes and Owain will ask her if she needs anything, but they'll all wish she didn't do this so often while simultaneously knowing that if they were in her shoes, they may have done the same.

Her head pounds. What is her name? Lucina. How old is she? Twenty-seven. Where was she born? Ylisstol. Where is her army? Everywhere, nowhere, too far away to respond to her rallying call but they're all still alive, she knows it, and it is mere selfishness to think that they'd stay. Where is her army? Anywhere but here. The answers to her questions hurt when she thinks of them and when she cannot think of them she's had enough to make it stop hurting. It takes a little more every night.

Afternoon sunshine hurts her eyes. She does her drills in the practice yard with thoughts of Nohrian shadowberry brandy running through her head. After dinner, she tells herself. It's been a rough week. She's earned it. It'd be easier to just walk back to her bunk now and drain the whole thing, not because it tasted good but because it made the hurting sharpen into a spike and then melt away like acid, leaving her feeling raw and bloody in the cold air. But then she could feel them, could make herself cry and shout and pound her fist into wooden beams until they bled, and when it was done she'd be tired enough that she could close her eyes and sleep without seeing monsters in the corners of her vision and watching her friends and family die, over and over again, in her dreams.

The sunshine hurts her eyes. She thinks of shadowberry brandy.

Falchion strikes the wooden training dummy so hard her arms turn to rubber from the impact, blade lodged firmly into its side. She lets the blade go and the dummy falls to the ground.

Azura is standing with her elbows resting on the fence. She's in white, blinding in the sunshine, and she's bright enough that Lucina has to squint to look at her. Her head aches in an annoying reminder that she's successfully avoided drowning in her own vomit that day.

"You're working hard," Azura notes, sounding passive. She always sounds passive. Lucina knows it's false— she makes herself sound like she doesn't care because she's convinced herself nobody cares about her.

"You know me," Lucina replies. She's too tired to bother smiling. Shadowberry brandy, she thinks. She makes herself smile a little bit.

Azura nods. She swings around the entrance to the ring, her slender hands tracing the grain of the wood. Her hips sway and the fabric of her gown brushes her shins. It's still bright, but the hems are fraying and it's getting threadbare where the seams are getting tired from constantly holding it together through wash after wash. Still, she's blinding in the sunlight. Lucina wonders if that's because she wears white or if it's because it's just the way she is.

"You ought to take a break," Azura tells her. She's standing an inch too close for it to be just a suggestion— this is insistence. Last time this happened, Lucina ended up staggering back to her bunk in her smallclothes, heart pounding so strongly she felt it between her legs, dizzy on the scent of the sky in the eye of a storm and drunk on the taste of heartbeat beneath her lips. Lucina is no blushing virgin by far, but she had never been with a woman so like a storm.

"Does this break involve spending the evening in your bunk?" Lucina asks, arching an eyebrow. She cracks her wrists and yanks Falchion out of the dummy.

"It could," Azura shrugs. "Though if you have a date with the brandy in yours, I understand."

Something in Lucina's core burns. The night with Azura felt like she was standing in the midst of a hurricane, her feet on the ground but standing in rushing water up to her knees that threatened to knock her down at any minute. The wind of her breath at once chilled and warmed Lucina's skin, her movement rolling like the ocean itself. Azura pretends she is beneath notice like rain dripping off eaves of a roof, but Lucina wonders what sort of person can think that after experiencing heartbeat like thunder rolling across the sky, motion like floodwater meant to push and sweep away whatever it hits, breath like wind that ushers in clouds and then rains, leaving miniscule droplets on sweaty skin. Physically it is satisfying but there is something about it that took Lucina's breath away— breath snatched in the fading winds of the storm. It left her shaking, unsteady on her feet, and yet feeling as if she'd just witnessed the sublime in all its terrifying and awe-inspiring beauty. Who would ever fail to notice Azura after that?

"There's enough to share," she says. Her mouth feels dry.

Azura's lips curl into a smile. Lucina has witnessed this enough that she knows it isn't real.

The brandy is forgotten the moment Lucina closes her door. Their lips crash together like waves against a cliff and Lucina is being swept out to sea with the tide; Azura's power is not in the way she wields a lance but in her words, how she sharpens desire into a blade and holds it to the throat of whoever she wants that night. Lucina has known people like that. They're dead now.

The thought of dead friends sends a chill through Lucina— it is enough that Azura, pinning her to the door, can feel her hesitation.

"Not tonight?" she asks.

Lucina shakes her head. She pushes past Azura and takes the brandy from her trunk. She uncorks it with a satisfying pop and takes a long drink.

"Just a thought," Lucina shrugs. "Don't trouble yourself."

Wordlessly, she offers the bottle to Azura. Azura hesitates, but sits down next to Lucina on the low bunk and takes a sip. She winces.

"Strong stuff," she comments. "I suppose the Nohrians would be serious about their liquor. What can you expect from a country where nobles shank each other for sport?"

"Weren't the Nohrians your family?" Lucina asks. It's not strong at all to Lucina. She needs strong in order to feel the buzz. Half the bottle will do. She'll save the rest for a bad day.

Azura laughs. It's so bitter Lucina can taste it like bile in her throat. "My family is dead, and I no better. Sometimes I wonder what my mother would think— knowing that her daughter is not only a political hostage, but a whore to boot."

She passes the bottle back to Lucina. Lucina takes it, and Azura stretches her arms over her head. Lucina says nothing.

"I fully expect that you'll be too hung over to remember this conversation tomorrow," Azura continues. "I won't judge. Everyone in this little army has their own way of dealing with things. I had a talk with Niles about it just the other night."

"Define talk," Lucina mumbles.

"That's fair." She shrugs. "It's exactly what you expect. The mushy part came later. A whole lot about being kindred spirits. He said we should meet up more often. He likes a woman with experience. I asked him if that was because he could make them do all the work and he rescinded his offer. I think I hurt his pride." Azura chuckles. That's the largest amount of words Lucina has ever heard her say. Lucina takes another sip from the bottle and passes it back. Azura takes a drink.

"Why do you do that?" Lucina ventures. "The sleeping around thing. It can't just be because you like the action."

Azura quiets. "You don't care about that," she replies, setting the bottle on the crate Lucina's using as a bedside table.

"I care about a lot of things," Lucina replies. "Nobody does anything without reason. Call it a silly leftover from my days leading an army, but knowing someone's reasons for doing something could be the difference between life and death."

Where are her friends? Died before she met them. Died before they could ever be born. Died young, too young. Clawed apart by the Risen. Crushed under collapsed buildings. Skewered on sword-point. Drowned in flooding rivers. Rotted in mass graves. Dissolved from the inside from the acid of the dead and dying. Hacked their lives out bit by bit with sickness. Shot with a dozen arrows. Bled out, slowly and painfully, while Lucina held their hand in hers and told them you won't die here, you'll be alright, and they just said just don't go, commander, don't go. The ones that lived scattered across the horizons and even the three that she could reach now were different, serving different lords and ladies, fighting another pointless, thankless war. Was she selfish, for wanting them home so she could make sure they were still alright? Was she selfish to want to see them grow and smile like she'd promised herself those years ago, when she was seventeen and the aunt that raised her was dead and the world was bleaker than it had ever been?

Probably. She chugs half the bottle and swipes the excess from her lip. Her vision swims. Lucina. Twenty-seven. Ylisstol. Anywhere but here. She hasn't had enough yet.

"There has—" she takes a moment to get her tongue on straight. "Has to be. I've dealt with people. Nobody does anything without a reason."

Azura shrugs. "A little more brandy and I might open up. We'll put this off another night. You're drunk."

"Give it another half-hour and I will be," Lucina says. "These things take time to kick in. You don't have to go."

"And what would be the point of me staying here?" Azura replies. She sounds like she's daring Lucina to argue. Lucina's head is getting foggier and she finds she wants to argue. Or cry, or have that night's breakdown about her dead friends and family and how terrible her life is, or whatever. Something tells her it'd be easier if she were dead and she tells it to shut up, Brad.

Lucina shrugs. "Want some?"

Azura takes her up on that offer. She takes a sip and coughs after it goes down. "You'll have to forgive me," she says. "I don't usually drink."

"So I'm special?" Lucina chuckles. "I understand if you're done for the night, though. I imagine you don't want to risk getting too drunk and spilling things you'd rather I don't hear."

Azura hums. "Aren't we perceptive."

"Actually, I'm usually not," Lucina admits. "I'm bad with sarcasm, and most metaphors. When I first met Selena, she told me she'd gotten arrested for grand theft when she was six and was going to be executed, but they put it off because she was too short for the execution block until she was nine, and then she'd gotten recruited into the army because of her particular thievery-related skillset. It didn't occur to me that she was making it up for at least a year. She mentioned a birthday party when she was eight and I asked wait, weren't you in prison then? And she laughed for at least an hour. Though she never did say it was explicitly false."

Azura snorts at that— actually snorts, then covers her mouth with her hand. "So today is special? Or is it me?"

"I'm not sure," Lucina shrugs. "I think it's because I know a lot of people like you."

Azura's not sure how to respond to that. She takes a swig from the bottle of shadowberry brandy and hands it back to Lucina. Lucina takes the bottle but doesn't take a drink from it.

"I meant what I said," Lucina says. "I do care. I do want to know. I understand if you don't want to share, but— you can understand my thought process."

Azura wants to brush her off, but Lucina doesn't sound like she's judging. She sounds concerned, honestly concerned, for Azura's wellbeing. Azura knows how to deal with judgement. This? This is new territory.

"Why bother?" she asks. "Did that one night really make you care this much? If that's the case, I'll have to check and see who else here can't have a simple one-night stand without dragging feelings into the mix."

Lucina shrugs. "Honestly, I don't know. I suppose it's just— instinct." Instinct was one word for it. It felt more like a feeling, a feeling of crashing waves and rolling thunder and wind that stings her cheeks, a whirlwind of a woman that left her reeling in her bunk and left with barely a word— the smell of rainwater in her nose and metal in her mouth. Sometimes storms are forgettable but sometimes they are so earth-shaking that one can feel the aftershocks at the slightest reminder. Azura is a storm and Lucina is the one standing up to her knees in the floodwaters, watching her roll past the horizon with her wind and her rain and her lightning and thunder. Perhaps Lucina was one of those people that couldn't have a one-night stand without dragging emotions into the mix.

Azura is quiet for a long time. She takes another swig from the bottle. There's not much left, but they can get more if they need to. Then she shrugs. "It's easy."

"Sex is easy?" Lucina repeats, frowning. In her experience it was anything but— it was complicated and all-consuming but during the end of the world it was a comfort, something that reminded her she was still alive despite everything. It was revelry sometimes, celebrating that the day had not killed her, and sometimes it was living life the fullest she knew how before certain death the next day. As a young adult it was tossed around among her friends, the ones that were adults, but it was never easy. They all understood the weight behind it. Hearing that Azura thought it was easy felt strange.

"It's just another dance," Azura shrugs. "But it's— well, what else can I do? I can't control who I've been fighting for, who I've been following. I have nowhere else to go and nobody else to turn to. I don't have a choice what my circumstances are and I'm pretty sure that if it weren't for Corrin and his peace crusade, I'd be stuck up some tower in Hoshido like a songbird in a cage, watching the little people get crushed in a war between two superpowers and doing my job for the royals, singing on command and never asking when I'll get to go home."

She takes a breath. "Sex is easy because I choose it," she says. "Nobody can tell me what I can and can't do with my body."

Lucina lets that sink in. "Doesn't it ever hurt?" she asks.

Azura laughs bitterly. "I wouldn't do it if it didn't."

"It's not supposed to," Lucina says.

"And you're the expert now?" Azura retorts.

Lucina hesitates. "It's not supposed to hurt," she says. "It's—" Not love, at least not romantic love— it's connection, celebration, living. Appreciating that you're not dead yet and embracing that you may die tomorrow. The epitome of youth in the midst of chaos.

"If it doesn't hurt then how do I know it's happening?" Azura finally says. "What am I supposed to do? How do I know it's really there and I'm not just— just slipping through the cracks?" Floating away, dissolving into puddles of rainwater that seep into the ground and vanish when the sun comes out. She's gripping her arm now, fingernails digging into her skin. There are bruises on the backs of her arms. Lucina can see it because her dress is sleeveless, cinched only at the sleeves and draped the rest of the way down, cut simply but Azura's slender figure makes it look elegant. It's fabric that's soft with wear and smells faintly like it was sitting in a massive bolt of fabric intended to be used for curtains or tablecloths, like making it into a dress was an afterthought.

And Lucina doesn't know how to respond to that. "You just know," she says, her voice hoarse. "There's— there's something that clicks when it's happening. Near the end, I think. The fact that someone else can make you move the way you do, feel the way you do, kind of sinks in and then everything that ever was makes sense. You feel so real and there and alive for a moment that it's almost a shame when the peak hits and then everything's a rush of sounds and feelings. That's at least how it's worked for me."

Azura considers this for a long time. She corks the bottle of brandy and sets it on Lucina's bedside table, then moves like she's about to leave the bunk. Her bare feet are nearly silent on the stone floor. Does she have shoes? But she doesn't reach for the knob— instead she turns back to Lucina, and moves so her arms are on Lucina's shoulders, and then they're kissing again. Lucina puts her hands on Azura's waist. Azura has one knee on the bunk and the other between Lucina's legs.  "Show me," she says.

For a moment she wants to. But she's half-drunk and she knows this is another of Azura's attempts to make it hurt.

"I can't now," she says. "I wouldn't be able to touch you like you deserve." It's a romantic way to say that she's going to have trouble moving her fingers in the right way. Azura deserves better than a sloppy drunk for a paramour, if only for the night, after Lucina's just promised her something mind-blowing.

Azura laughs. "It's not funny," Lucina tries to say. But Azura just shakes her head and pushes Lucina's hair out of her face.  "You have interesting notions about what I deserve," Azura comments.

And then she stands, and leaves, and takes the breath from Lucina's lungs as she goes.

#robo blabs #my writing #fire emblem #fire emblem fates #lucizura #femslash

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divinityblink-blog · 7 years

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｢Containment Breach｣

Word Count: 5126 A/N: This is my first drabble in a loooong time. So, I hope I do pretty okay for it. I just wanted to hammer in some of Aster’s backstory and motivations for this blog and him as a muse, this isn’t necessarily a required read! PLEASE, reference [here] for several of the characters’ essentials and information. But, if you do decide to read it, enjoy yourself!

“Aster--! You’re silly!”

The female’s voice rang out, a man’s laughing behind her. Three sat at the lunch table, garbed in white scrubs and sneakers. They nearly blended into the scenery around them, the facility a striking and strange white. The only color there were the armed guards, dawned in black combat gear for any occasion. However, based on the trio enjoying their lunch, one wouldn’t even pass the thought of an uprising.

A younger man was sat across from a woman and older man duo, both his seniors. His short sleeves allowed for the exposure of a bold ink, marked ‘S#032.’ His teal gaze was still blank, looking at the bland food before him. He couldn’t understand why the other two were laughing at him. The woman held her gloved hand out, being the only one with a full body uniform. She grabbed the plastic utensil and stabbed the prongs into the cooked green beans, holding them out before his mouth. His eyes looked up at the woman, her soft, beige complexion settling upon his blank stare. Teal hues refused to leave the woman’s face as she then mimicked a mother to a child, “Aster, say ‘ahh!’” His mouth opened but no sound came from his lips. The food was placed in and he began to chew, the man across from him giving a small chuckle, “Gosh, Jae. If he wasn’t so brain dead, it’d be like you were a cute couple sharing a meal-- Except it took all the mush!” “Dex, sometimes your mouth is just too big for that tiny head of yours!”

The two continued to bicker as Aster chewed, swallowing the mouthful of food once it was thoroughly ground up. He blinked his eyes, the two others turning their gaze back to him. The man lifted his head with a half cocked smile on his face, “Hey, Aster, what’s my name?” “D... Dexter,” The young man replied, his gaze slowly turning to the older, bulkier man. Dexter then pointed to the woman that had her hand pressed against his face, his own fist pressed down against the top of her head, “... And her?” “Jae-eun,” Aster replied, slow and zombie like. His gaze slowly shifted to meet her, and she simply smiled at him. The response ignited one within himself as well, the barely alive man’s lips curled at their corners to create an expression of delight. Jae-eun and Dexter smiled alike, dropping their hands from each other. Dexter then folded his arms, “Looks like our boy is becoming more and more human, huh?” “He’s always been human, Dex. Don’t tease him like that.” “Tease him? I’m just saying, wait until he can hold conversation! It’ll be nice to be able to talk to somebody besides you--!” “Hey, nobody’s asking you to talk to me!”

Their laughter echoed from the table, enriching their imprisoned lives. For what it was, it held peace. Years passed as they grew closer, the three experiments forming an unbreakable bond.

“Dex, from the right!” “Don’t leave our left flank open, Aster!” The two men were training together, running a lane for a combat simulation. A target popped up from the left, where Dexter had called it. Aster’s body encased itself in a blue glow as he thinned down to a blue beam of movement, only to reappear into the air as he had made destination. He extended his left arm, to reveal a black, metallic pistol. The trigger was pulled and the shot rang out, the lead round tearing through the air with the intention of pain and destruction. It tore through the target, the figure collapsing onto its back with a successful buzzer beep. His body encased itself once more, suddenly appearing next to Dex. The taller man was looking up at the large time posted from a neon clock, Aster’s eyes following him.

“17 seconds?! We were slower!?” “I told you, Aster! You’re slower than I am, you need to focus on what we know is there. I can handle the rest,” He constructed, turning his gaze to meet Aster. The man gazed up with a nod, the both of them then bumping their forearms together, “There’s always next time.” The two were then released from the lane, the door leading to a long hall that branched off in many directions. Jae-eun was waiting for them, a large smile on her face as they came walking together. Her hands clapped together, “About time they let you out! I was about to go eat without you!” “You probably would have eaten our meals, too,” Dex said, Aster following up with a laugh himself. “I’m feeding for two!” She retorted. “T-Two!?” The duo exclaim, looking at one another as if they had the suspicion that the other was at fault for this. “Myself and I!” She answered, with a look of accomplishment to wring out such a response from them. Aster’s cheeks flushed red and he turned his gaze away while Dex threw his head back with a groan, “Come on, then, Sea Sponge. Let’s go catch dinner.”

The three were walking together, making conversation about the day’s happenings. Aster’s gaze turned from Dexter and Jae-eun, meeting a woman’s figure at the end of the hall. She stood, arms tucked in and downwards, a bold ‘S#037′ placed on her left bicep. The teal hues raised from her arm to her lean face, examining her genetic perfections. His lips curled with a hint of a smile, giving a small wave, “Hey, Aella.” The woman was kind enough to return the smile and nod at him, “Enjoying yourself, Aster?” “Of course, Aella. Dex is always a blast to be around!” “Isn’t he?” She replied, her gaze shifting to the taller man. The two held a silence before he stepped out from in between Aster and Jae-eun, giving them a quick glance back, “I’ll catch up, you two. Don’t wait up-- Just keep the food hot.” He gave them a smile, ushering them along.

Aster paid no mind to it, turning to his companion to continue casual conversation-- Only to catch her glancing back at the two. He then turned back to see the two exchanging words, Dexter glancing up at them only to turn his figure away from them. As if he were blinding himself of their presence, to shun them away from this side of who Dexter was. Every time he spoke with Aella, he closed himself to the lot of them. To Jae-eun. To Aster.

His brows burrowed upwards with a line of concern, Jae-eun’s hand placing itself onto the younger man’s shoulder and turning his gaze away from that image of self torment and questioning. His breath was unsteady without even his own realization, the rolls of mucus being the only indicator to Aster. two.

The two had stepped out into the cafeteria, only to see a bulky and tall man, a gaze hard on the duo. The man’s number was bold across his larger bicep, a printed ‘S#039.’ Aster’s brows furrowed at just the sight of the other, “It’s Owain.” “I know,” Jae-eun replied in more of a whisper, to attempt to dissuade any sort of suspicion that Owain might have held. However, despite her attempt, the man’s figure moved towards them. His lips were in a natural frown, his brows generally pushed forward to that of annoyance or anger. He stepped in front of Aster, Jae-eun attempting to put herself in between the them. Owain didn’t push to her advances, his silver eyes glaring down the shorter Aster, “’32, don’t you listen to that boy’s lies now.” “Wh-What are you talking abo--!?” “They need you, ‘32. And, when the time comes, walk between their given paths.” “What’s your deal, Owain!?” Yet, before an answer could be given, a loud buzzer sounded across the facility. Everyone present knew the meaning, a long buzz to signify that it was time for them to sleep the night away. It drew Aster and Jae-eun’s attention away from the man, his movements shifting as he stepped passed and began his way to his own containment cell. Aster turned about, spotting the man’s back as the words seemed to rattle his brain.

“... Who are they?”

Aster had given his final bits of the night to Jae-eun before he made his way to his own cell. His shoes tapped against the tiles of the hall’s flooring as he walked alone. A hand raised to the back of his neck, brushing the loose locks and fuzz that it managed to capture upon its clasp. There were armed men by the door, ushering for his entry as he approached. Like clockwork, he went through a body search before entering the cell and making his way over to his bunk. He practically collapsed in the cushion of the bed, his eyes staring at the starch white wall, “... Why is everyone acting so weird?”

Teal hues shut from exhaustion.

His eyes suddenly opened, a heat of sleep deprivation stinging at the exposed bits of the organ. He turned in the darkness of his cell, hearing commotion from beyond the door.

Struggles.

Screams.

Then, silence.

There was more movement, and the thick steel suddenly shifted. Light peeked through, Aster’s grip on the blanket pulling towards himself. His brow arched forward, the image of the heretic blackened from the light that beamed passed. Aster’s arm raised above his brow, eyes squinting with the sudden visual intake. The figure stood before it turned itself away, stepping out from the doorway. Aster could hear the foot steps fade, until there was silence. It was like his stomach was anchored to the floor.

He tossed his blanket to the side, slipping from the edge of the mattress. He stumbled with his first few steps, knees weak. His stomach seemed to twist with each step closer to the door, his eyes focused with the light now. He could see the fresh crimson water splatter across the white tiles of the hall. His fingers latched onto the metallic frame as his head perched out. His gaze shifted up and down the hall before he took a step out, his chest shaky as he took a deep breath. His hands curled into tight fists, brows furrowed with a held determination.

He ran down the hall, teal hues spotting a group of rushing guards. He attempted to stop and duck for concealment, only to slide on his padded shoes. He quickly backtracked against the wall, his head gently tapping the clean tiles as he let their grouped sound fade somewhat. He rushed passed the branched off entry, rushing over to the cell labeled with a bold, black ink ‘S#033.’

Aster’s hands grabbed onto the steel door, not questioning the lack of guards around. He used his weight to pull the handle, then pushed inwards to allow light to break into the darkened room. A figure rummaged from under the covers, only to lift up in a daze of tired. She rubbed her right eye, grogginess in her voice, “... Aster? Why are you here? The morning alarm--” “We’re getting out of here, Jae!” “... What?” Aster stepped into the room to help her up, reaching forward only to stop and pull his arm back. The exposing light flashed across her body, showing her in a white tank top. His cheeks flushed red as he looked away, clearing his throat. He had never seen Jae-eun in this kind of light, and he hadn’t realized how attractive she really was. It hugged her body, giving her a much more shapely figure despite being rationally average with her measurements. He awkwardly cleared his throat, Jae-eun’s eyes drifting downward as she smiled a much more devious notion. She shook her head, kicking her legs to the side and using the motion of sliding off the mattress to gain footing. She took a deep breath, “Aster, let’s get you back before we both get in trouble--” “Jae-eun, someone killed the guards and opened my door! Jae, we can--!!” “What!? Aster, this isn’t good! They’re going to kill you for this!” “No, Jae! We’re going to get out of here! You, me, and Dex! C’mon!” Her tired eyes simply looked at the other, brows arched forward a bit. Her wake was slowly catching up with her, her mind grasping what Aster was planning. Her lip tucked itself between her teeth with a gentle bite before she nodded her head, “If we do this, we’ll never be able to come back, Aster. This life of peace... This is something we’ll never have again. Are you sure you want that?” “This is hardly a life of peace, Jae... But, as long as I’m with Dex and you, nothing will stop me from fighting until we get that peace.” Jae-eun replied with a simple smile, the both of them taking the ever dwindling time to race out of the room. Dexter’s cell was branched off another hallway, the two wasting no time to locate the painted letters of his serial, ‘S#038.’ However, as they arrived, the two quickly backed out of view of the hall. Guards in riot gear were posted all about the hallway, heavily guarding the designated door. Aster grit his teeth, “They’ve got guys all over his cell!” “Then we make do, Aster! I’ll distract them, you get Dex!”

The moment suddenly hit. Jae-eun had run into the open hall, calling for attention. She then ran back, rushing passed Aster. The man took a few steps back before ducking into a corner. The men rushed passed, chasing after the rather agile woman. Once the last set of boots turned away from his line of sight, Aster slowly stood to his feet. He rushed down the hallway, one of the two guards left behind turning his sights to the man, “Hey, you’re not supposed to--!?” Aster’s body suddenly engulfed in a blue aura, his body ripping across the space. When he reappeared, his fist was extended outwards and thrust into the man’s facial mask. He was thrown back into the other, both now spread across the white, glossy floor. Aster turned to the door, grabbing the steel hand and pulling it open. He then placed his shoulder against the door, pushing into it as he slowly opened. The light of the hall crept passed his figure, illuminating the dark room. Aster’s eyes scanned around as he took a step inside, “Dext-- Huh...?”

It remained empty.

The bed was made, and it seemed to have been untouched for sometime. He stood in the doorway, his bros pushed together, nearly touching from the intensity. He turned back without a second thought, following the path that Jae-eun had ran. He headed down the hallway, the white suddenly stained with a fresh, bright crimson. It ran along the wall, splotches remained on the floor. The smear of the blood gave the impression that whoever was bleeding was in a rush down the hallway. He paced himself, fear causing hesitation in the man.

He appeared in the entryway of the cafeteria. He froze up, the sight of the chaos having caught his gaze. The tables were flipped, several guards had their weapons drawn. Jae-eun was collapsed, the trail of crimson leading towards her. His eyes continued to gaze around, aware that the attention of the room was now suddenly shifting to him. Jae-eun’s gaze turned up, and she pushed herself forward, “No! Aster! Ru-- Agh!!” One of the men cut her off early, ramming the buttstock of his rifle into the side of her head. She collapsed again, obviously hitting her hard as she struggled for consciousness. Aster took a step forward, only for a man’s voice to shout at him to stop. He recognized the voice, and at its presence he had turned around.

Brows burrowed forward as the bulky, tall man walked into view. His hair was short, but long enough to be wiry and messy. Eyes were a deep blue, hard to look at if one couldn’t recognize him. His face was a permanent frown, almost etched into him so naturally. The man looked down, unfolding his arms to expose the bold ‘S#039′ print on his left arm, “Stand down, ‘32. You’re not part of this mission.” “Wh... What do you mean ‘mission’!?” Aster shouted back, his hands balling into fists, “You mean... You’re just going to attack Jae-eun!? She’s one of us! You’re going to just turn against her like this!?” “You need to understand!” His brows arched forward, glaring down at Aster, “We don’t have friends-- We don’t have family. We’re weapons and nothing more! We were stripped of our names, our lives! We are dead to the world, ‘32,” Owain’s deep voice rattled through Aster’s chest, widening the teal hues. The man then stepped passed him, his body slowly coating itself with a shiny, metallic cover, “My mission is to exterminate Subject Number zero-three-three. You’re being decommissioned, as for you--” He stopped walking, his feet stopping with the sound of scrapping metal. He looked over his shoulder again, “You are to be recaptured and detained. You are too valuable to the company, ‘32.” Jae-eun slowly pulled herself up, her eye now swollen over. Owain continued towards her, holding his hand out and pointing it downwards towards her. She looked up with her dark eyes, irises red from the held back tears of pain, “Please, Owain...” “You know what our purpose is. I only sympathize with you for being on the other end.” “Then... Let me say goodbye to Aster...” Owain turned his gaze over to the man, still paralyzed before the sights before him. His hands were tightened, knuckles white, teeth bared, and eyes lost in the white tiles of the floor. Jae-eun called his name, his teal hues drifting over to her defeated image, “Aster... Don’t be sad... I’ll be with you, alright?” Tears began to swell up in her eyes, a woeful smile on her face, “And together, we’ll walk through the Garden of Eden.”

Owain suddenly shifted. His brows arched forward, turning from her to Aster’s image now. His eyes hardened suddenly, his body straightening upwards. Owain threw his hand forward, “Fire! Fire now, you idiots!” Jae-eun took the moment to scurry to one of the corners.

The men raised their rifles, suddenly firing the automatic gunfire. Suddenly, his body disappeared with a blue aura coating his body. The blur ripped across the air. He’d appeared in one location, only for the coating to engulf his body and move him to another spot of the room, waiting for the men to pause their firing. Once the last round fired, a fraction of a second passed before he reappeared. The man held out a closed hand, turning it towards the floor and opening. From his hands, discharged rounds were dropped to the nearly flawless tiles. The men stood for a moment, Owain’s lip quivering, “... Shit.” One of the men shifted, only for Aster’s body to phase over. He suddenly thrust his left hand upwards, diverting the fire of the rifle. With his arm extended upwards, he used the down motion to hook the back of the guard’s head. He pulled it down to meet with an upwards knee, cracking the visor of the other’s face mask. He then turned on the heel of his still planted foot, turning and extending the bent leg outwards with some impromptu sideways kick. His foot hit the side of the man’s helmet, knocking him to the floor. He shifted again, his body forming in the air with his leg already upwards. He brought it down like a hammer, thrusting the other down towards the floor with a stumble. He then reappeared on the ground, quickly bending down to grab the ankle of his black boot. With a surprising amount of strength, he twisted himself about to toss the man across the room. The guard screamed before he hit the wall, cracking the tiles and falling limp to the ground. The next moment, he was on the third guard. Before he could fire, Aster threw a left hook into his side. The force caused him to drop the rifle from his arm. Aster’s free arm crossed across his body to snag it, only to push the barrel up on the other’s exposed neck from the handguard. Without any sort of negotiation, he brought his left hand to the trigger and pulled with ease. The man’s neck exploded into a bloody mess, the sound of sudden gurgles and chocking filling the air-- Muffled only by the ring from the muzzle blast. Aster turned to see Owain’s movement towards him. The metallic man swiped his arm horizontally, Aster ducking. The arm ripped through the rifle like butter, causing the upper half to spin about in the air from the force. He grabbed it, taking the barrel and pushing it between Owain’s lips. The man’s metallic coated eyes looked down, only for the assassin to swing the buttstock like a bat against the other half. There was the sound of grinding metal, shortly followed by the sound of Owain choking and gagging. The metallic man was leaned forward, coughing. He felt a hand place itself on his neck, lifting him up. He was met with the image of Aster’s gaze. The teal hues like a burning flame, his discolored brows arched forward with intense line. Aster cocked his head back, only to thrust it forward against his. Owain stumbled back, his hands held against his forehead now. His vision blurred in and out, looking down at the other.

Blood ran from Aster’s forehead, only for the open wound to seal itself shut in a matter of seconds. The larger man shook his head, raising his fists, “No more playing around, ‘32... I will cut you down if I have to!” Aster tilted his head to the side, giving a scowl.

The two met, Owain throwing the first punch. He threw a right hook, only for the other to lean back and have the initial attack miss. He threw a straight, Aster shifting his body so his fist ran alongside his head. He used the momentum, swiping his leg beneath Owain’s to throw him off balance-- Cutting up his own leg rather badly. Owain’s body fell with a slam, cracking the tiled floor beneath them. He grunted as he looked up towards Aster, the assassin staring down at the metallic man. His breathing was heavy huffing, “You can’t... Kill me, Aster... Not even ‘37 was able to best me in spars. What makes you think you’ll be able to--!?” Aster bent down and gripped Owain’s forehead. He pulled him up, only to use his full force and slam the back of his head back down into the tiles. Raising Owain’s head once again, he kept slamming him into the ground. Metallic clunks echoed through the round as he let out grunt after grunt, Owain’s hand pressed against Aster’s face-- Cutting him up like a thousand razors waltzing across the ivory skin. His blood began to run down the underside of Owain’s arm, only for the heated feeling in his face to meet another warmth. Owain had suffered from head trauma, the metallic coating on his body growing spotty and exposing some of his flesh. His fingers attempted to curl, “As-Aster, don’t...” Aster tilted his head away from Owain’s hand, pulling his hand back from the other’s face. He then stood, his body slowly beginning to heal itself as he approached one of the tossed aside rifles. He picked it up, grabbing the pistol grip and holding it by his side. By the time he had come back to Owain’s body, his wounds were healing scabs. Aster stood over the main, bringing the rifle upwards towards the exposed rift across Owain’s chest. The man looked up at him, his brows arched up. His exposed hand reached up towards him, “No please... I-I don’t want to die, Aster...!”

No remorse was held as he pulled the trigger, Owain’s crimson spilled across the imperfect tiles.

Teal hues suddenly widened as reality built itself around Aster now. His hand began to shake, dropping the rifle suddenly. It rattled and bounced as it hit the floor, Aster taking a few steps back from the scene. His gaze looked around, spotting Jae-eun in the corner. Her eyes were wide, tears streaming down her puffy cheeks with no facial reaction. Aster took several steps towards her before stumbling a bit and falling to one of his knees. She crawled towards him, the man struggling to get back up before he simply let himself fall to his knees. He wanted to hold her, he wanted to feel the comfort of her presence but he knew of the consequences. They both just knelt near one another, Aster’s cheeks dry despite the knot in his throat. He felt a piercing pain in his chest, a push of a blade that went deeper and deeper with each beat of his heart. It felt as though his neck was going to swell shut, a constant swallow as a reminder that he could still breath. He didn’t want to look-- He couldn’t look. He knew what he had done, he could feel Owain’s weight.

How could he ever be a good guy like this?

Jae-eun got to her feet at the sound of the clunking boots, “A-Aster, c’mon! We have to go!” He turned his gaze to Owain’s body, laying so freshly lifeless. He continued to nod his head as she gripped his shirt to help him get to his feet, holding her side as they made their way to a now unguarded exit. Jae-eun had known about this back exit for some time. When she was younger, Dexter and she used to sneak out into the garden. It wasn’t gated off, which always lead to them being lectured by Owain for reckless behavior. She pressed her weight against the door to reveal gray clouds and falling water, the colors of a darkened and gray nature but still all the while more vibrant. It was like opening a door to a dream that he hadn’t even known he had forgotten. He stared up at the sky, wincing a bit at the clouds as the rain drizzled down upon them. She guided him along a line of bushes in bloom, allowing now time to admire their color. All his life, Aster had seen only the colors of the facility and labs. He hadn’t known such color existed in the world-- Not in all sorts of coexistence. Their feet suddenly met with hard soil, dried from the usual heat. And yet, on such an unusual day rain had decided to grace the land with its rare presence. The facility grew smaller and smaller as they continued towards where Jae-eun could only hope the road was. She had her hand still gripped on the chest of Aster’s shirt, only for her to suddenly jerk back as he stumbled again. She turned around, seeing the man once again on his knees. The rain felt warm against his skin, humid and clammy. It felt discomforting, like he couldn’t be washed away. His teal hues looked up at her, several strands of water running down his soaking face. And yet, even through all that, she knew that he was no longer holding himself back. She bent down, placing her knees on the wet ground, her hands reaching out towards him. They placed themselves on his shoulders, “Aster... You were stronger than anyone I had ever seen before. That’s why I know you’ll survive, you’ll get through this.”

Jae-eun leaned forward, her lips pursed gently to meet his. The man’s eyes widened a bit before they softened, pushing back into the kiss. He knew of the consequences, before for the first time in his life he felt the comfort he had always wanted. The kiss was brief, but felt as though he was experiencing it for a lifetime. Their lips parted, and Jae-eun’s gaze met with Aster’s. He could feel his body begin to tense up, and he struggled to fight the poison. He looked up at her, watching her stand from his body, “I’m sorry, Aster... But, I know what I have to do. I’m not ready for you... Not yet. I hope you can forgive me.” She began to take a few steps back as pushed himself to attempt and follow, only to lean forward and meet his face with the dirt. However hard it was, he continued to struggle against the toxins. His face ground against the wet, hard earth just to get a glimpse of her back. He struggled to reach up, his arm tense as it extended in small movements. His jaw dropped, shifting up and down as he struggled to call her name.

Maybe if she heard him, she’d stay.

Maybe if she knew he loved her, she’d stay.

Yet, her image continued to shrink. Fading from his sight. Fading from him.

A bell rang, a diner’s usual customers having their morning chatter. A young girl had been running late to work, no doubt a waitress. Her hair was in a mess, clothes ruffled. The small business was too busy to afford a lecture right now, and she was pointed by one of the older women to help with a gentleman’s order. She gave a nod and a thousand apologies, heading over to the man’s booth. “My name’s Lindsey today, might I get you somethin’ to drink, hun?” “Just a coffee, thank you.” The man looked over at her, a smile on his face. An ivory fair skin, white locks that wilted to a black-- Probably the work of a very good hairdresser. He was well dressed, a blue blouse, tie, suspenders, all complimented with his black slacks. As she wrote down on her pad, the bell rang again. She looked up to see some thugs, roughed up with gaudy suits and egos to overcompensate. One had a cigarette hanging from his lips, despite the prohibiting sign in the door. They looked around the place, immediately silencing it, one of the men spoke up, “Hey! We’re looking for Lindsey! She ran out on our date last night and owes me some of that ass!” Naturally, the waitress stepped back. One of the men tapped the other, pointing her out. They smirked, walking over with swagger, “Lindsey, you thought you could--” The man suddenly stood from his both, the thug bumping into his shoulder. He wasn’t phased, instead he stared down the annoyances to the diner, “Hey, who the hell do you think you are!?” His teal hues were set on the obvious ringleader, “My name’s Aster Brooks.”

#Drabble!;;#tw: gore #tw: sexualization

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