#both ladies are so pretty i almost want them to be a full women's mercenary team

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Riot Kings, page 4E

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[darthmaulification]

(Idk why I thought this but I think it’s funny) Imagine din and reader going back to visit Karga for a job and reader is a apparent heart throb to most of the villagers (not that she knows) and like “hi mrs. Parker” Friday style, these women are see them walking by going “hi Reader~” with cara teasing of reader the whole time having to tell the ladies that reader is already taken with din.

A/N: you are my very first  request, so i decided to do a full, bonifide one shot! thank you so very much!! 🥰💕💕

oddly enough, din doesn’t show his bucket in this until the very end. 💀 it became really cara-centric for some reason. hope that’s okay! 😖

also, the trope of “everyone collectively loves person, but person is so utterly oblivious to it” is, without fail, one of the funniest bits any piece of media can pull lmao.

hope you enjoy! 💗

content: references of sex (kinda), saucy language, gender neutral!reader (my first time writing a gn reader 😲), reader being completely “no thoughts head empty” type of oblivious, cara just brutally teasing reader, soft!din makes an appearance!, cara is also kinda a bisexual icon???

word count: 1,775

“... What do you mean?” 

Cara looks at you strange. She searches your face for a few seconds longer, eyebrows furrowed, trying to see if you’re serious. 

“Are you fucking with me?” She deadpans evenly, and you tilt your head slightly, blinking. You slowly shake your head, raising an eyebrow.

“No...?” You drag out the word and Cara barks a sudden, loud laugh at your genuine confusion, tossing back her head as she does. She straightens up in her seat, still chuckling lightly, and picks up her glass of spotchka. Cara leans against the backrest, draping her free arm over it.

“You’re really not fucking with me, huh?” She mutters with a grin, bringing the glass to her lips and taking a low, long sip, her eyes not leaving yours. You frown, puzzled.

“Cara, I have no ide—"

“Everyone wants to fuck you.” Cara interrupts and it takes a moment for the blunt, vulgar words to register, but when they do you feel heat rise in your cheeks. You visibly recoil, sputtering out an answer.

“I— What are— There's no—” All Cara does as you fumble over your words, getting more and more red in the face, is shrug, an easy grin on her face.

“Yeah, everyone wants to get in your pants, can’t say I blame ‘em.” Her grin turns downright predatory and it gives you the final push to spit out a reply.

“WHAT?” The word comes out incredulous and far louder that you had meant, causing you to cringe at the sound of your voice reverberating in the cantina. People glance over at you and you give the crowd a sheepish, nervous smile. Thankfully, everyone turns back to whatever they were doing, no questions asked. Then your head whips back to Cara, whose all smug-looking, to shoot her a glare. Your face is positively burning, and you just know she can see it.

“Are you fucking with me?” You throw her own question back at her, but it falls flat because all it does is grow the shit-eating grin that’s plastered on Cara’s face. She shrugs, gesturing around lazily to the room at large.

“Jax, the Rodian over there, gives you puppy dog eyes, Kol and Zaltor— the Trandoshans, not the Togrutas, by the way— look at your ass every time they get, that pink Twi’lek gal over there practically fawns over you— think her names’ Numa or Nima or something, the Duros over there...”

Cara continues listing off more and more names, and with each one (some who you know and have spoken to) you feel yourself getting more and more flustered. You sink low in your chair, staring wide eyed into your spotchka, hands on your temples.

“Good Maker.” You groan, placing your hands over your face and slumping onto the table. Cara (finally) stops listing literally the entire population of the village and gazes at you quizzically. She tilts her head.

“Don’t like being the sex idol of the town?” She teases and you groan again, louder this time. You glare up at her through your fingers, still furiously blushing. Oh, how you wish Din was here to beat the snot out of Miss Dune...

“No. This is a nightmare.” You growl out, going back to digging your face into the table, hoping the sandstone would just swallow you whole. Before Cara can reply, a new voice sounds up.

“U-Um, hi.” You stiffen and turn your head to the side to see two Twi’leks, one taller than the other, standing next to the table. They seem a bit nervous, fidgeting with their lekku and rocking on their feet, but something tells you they’re here for... something. The moment you meet Cara’s gaze, your face blanches.

“Kill me now.”

“Hey, pretty ladies.”

You groan and Cara flirts at the exact same time, Cara’s strong voice unfortunately gaining the upper hand. Both Twi’lek giggle, and the taller of the two, the lavender skinned one, flutters her eyelashes. Even more unfortunately, you make eye contact with her. She flushes when you meet her gaze.

“O-Oh my— Stars, um hi!” She and her companion devolve into giggles again and you force yourself to sit up. Giving them a forced smile, you rest your hands under your chin and elbows on the table.

“Hello. What can I do for you?” You ask through gritted teeth, attempting to keep your strained voice relatively nice, while also fighting back both the blush that’s still on your cheeks and the urge to shoot Cara with your blaster. Thankfully, the Twi’leks have gotten over the apparent “meeting their idol” giggles, because now the shorter one places a dusty tan hand on the table and leans in. A bright, stunning smile spreads across her face, but something flirty burns in her eyes.

“Mm. Me and my sister here have just been seeing you around so often.” She says, voice a obviously practiced mix of playfully coy and feigning ignorance. You glance from her, to her lavender sister, then to Cara. And your luck must really be in the gutters, or maybe Cara just wants to torture you—or both— but the mercenary only offers you a grin, lifts her spotchka to her lips, and sips. Your hands curl into fists.

“Yeah, I—” 

“You’re talking to Mando’s squeeze, babes.” Cara interrupts yet again and all three sets of eyes land on her. Two of them moon-eyed and incredulous if not also disappointed, one of them so embarrassed that Carasynthia Dune, you are a dead woman—

“Really?” The lavender Twi'lek’s eyes are so blown wide you almost think they’d roll out of her head. Her sister looks just as awestruck, and both look a tad bit fearful. You go to speak, but Cara (you’re really starting to hate her) opens her mouth again and beats you to the cut.

“Mm hm. Y’all are hitting on the Mando’s sweetheart. Pretty bold, honestly, he’s real protective over this one.” The blush you put all your hard work into smothering returns full force at Cara’s words, and the Twi’leks start looking a bit flustered themselves, though for another reason.

“So sorry!” The lavender one breaks first and goes running off to a Rodian and Zabrak sitting at a far table. She leans in close, seeming to whisper something into their ears, and suddenly all three of them are looking at you with a strange mix of disappointment, lust, and fear. You hastily look away and hide your face behind your hand.

“Aw. Shame.” The tan Twi’lek purses her lips, pushing herself off the table, and you begrudgingly force yourself to look at her. She gives you that stunning smile again and winks.

“You know I’m here for you.” She says and sashays off to where her sister is. Across the room, she gives you another wink and flutters her fingers. Pretty sure that all your bloods’ in your face, you turn to Cara, slowly.

“Cara.” You say her name lowly, looking her dead in the eye. She’s grinning, and blows a lock of her hair out of her face. She feigns an unassuming, innocent look, but both you and her know better.

“Yeah?” She’s walking on thin ice and she knows it, but you also know she’s never been afraid of risk.

“I’m going to kill you.” You say, coming across as deadly serious as you possibly can. Cara’s grin widens, her eyes twinkling, and she downs the last of her spotchka.

“I know,” She starts and she shrugs, “But you know I couldn’t resist.”

You want to reach over and smack her a good one, but a voice alerts you to a certain someone at your side.

“Hey.” Din’s low, modulated voice gentle pulls your attention to him and you turn your head to look up at your silver-clad lover. Even with the dark T-visor, you know exactly where to look to find those soft, doe eyes beneath it. A small smile creeps across your face.

“Hey.” You reply and he offers a hand to you, which you gladly accept. Like always, his hand is large and warm and strong, and it makes you feel completely at peace. Din helps you up to your feet, settling you close, but not too close, to his side. 

“I got the next few pucks, and the kid’s already in the Crest, so we’re ready to head out...” Din trails off and tilts his head, and you can feel his curious gaze roam your face. 

“Your face is... pretty flushed. Are you feeling okay?” He asks it so gently and sweetly, his gloved hand still holding yours, that it’s almost enough to make you forget why your all disheveled in the first place. Letting out a forced, somewhat breathy laugh, you pull your hand away to cross your arms over your chest.

“Um, yeah, yeah— I’m good.” You assure him, but Din knows you so he turns his attention on Cara, whose sprawl in her seat, looking like a satisfied loth cat.

“What did you do?” He asks, keeping his voice neutral, but there’s a hint of that good ol’ Din Protectiveness seeping in too. Part of you celebrates that Din’s finally here to beat up Cara, but all the other parts of you just want to hop on back the Razor Crest and get the Hell out of here. Cara lazily raises her hands in mock surrender, tilting her head into her shoulder.

“Just playing, that’s all.” She replies, eying your spotchka from across the table. She and Din are in some type of staring match even as she reaches and snags your drink. You don’t care enough to protest. Din stares at Cara for a few seconds longer before he shifts on his feet and turns back to you.

“Ready to go, cyare?” His voice is like warm like sunshine, and it makes your entire being light up. You nod and smile, uncrossing your arms to grab his hand. His thick fingers close around yours, encasing your hand in his.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.” You reply as you both start walking, tethered to one another by the most sacred link you can while in public. Din and you walk side by side, a Mandalorian and his beloved, through the cantina and out the door.

Cara watches you leave, then looks around at all the inhabitants of the cantina who had also watched you and the Mando leave hand-in-hand. She nearly laughs at all the looks of disappointment. You really were the village heart throb.

And as Cara downs the last of her (your) spotchka, she ponders,

Dammit. Wish it was me instead of Mando.

[greyfen]

Mithra 01: Looming Shadow

Been a long time since I posted any writing on here but in case there is anyone still interested in what I occasionally come up with these days, here is a bit of writing.  It’s from the perspective of Mithra Hyndell, an elven druid who I play in a D&D game on Sundays, this scene took place at the conclusion of the first arc the party experienced. After we’d gotten stuck in a house full of time magic, a vampire and a whole host of other weird shenanigans.  For context, Mithra is the last remaining (as far as she knows) druid of a place called the Verdant Thicket, a forest that has been overrun by some sort of magical corruption. At this point in the story she is working with the group in the hopes of speaking to the personal alchemist of the Queen of the kingdom they are in so as to find a lead on how to fix the Thicket.  For those wanting a read, enjoy! 

The walls felt as if they were closing in. 

Mithra wasn’t sure how she got here, it had sounded pretty simple: work with a few mercenaries or other interested parties, do a favour for the queen and in return gain the information that could help her home that she desperately needed. Instead, in a short period of time she’d been attacked by orcs, met a man claiming to be a god, visited an impossible mansion and got trapped in a vampire’s castle. 

For all her own pride in her abilities, she’d felt increasingly out of her depth since arriving at the town outside the estate of Lord Cartwright, the eternal night the vampire seemed to have conjured around the town and area, the tortured prisoners they’d found and escorted to safety and the bizarre time magic that kept everyone who spent too long on the estate trapped in some sort of loop; a fact they’d only recently discovered when electing to temporarily leave. It went entirely beyond her own experiences, she’d felt increasingly caged, something that the circle of the moon within her railed against in the back of her mind. It had taken a surprisingly understanding Nilsa to snap her back to reality earlier when she’d dropped into a panic; now she was here on the top floor, looking at the dead bodies of her friends. 

No, not my friends, some…  vision of the future perhaps. Gods this must be hard for them, how do you even comfort at times like this?

The smell of mold and decay hung in the air throughout the library, both musty books and the aroma of rotten flesh; the dead paladin’s skeleton was slumped against the wall, the ominous barred door led to the greenhouse and more bodies. The dark corridor their new companion refused to let go down altogether, shaking her head frantically when traversing it was suggested. Their new companion was an enigma too; an older version of their warrior friend Fiora, older, tired and worn, seemingly unable to speak or communicate beyond the written word and frantic gestures, the last survivor of a group that failed. 

That had died. 

Around them the ghosts of the Lady Celeste and her killers played out their repeated macabre performance, the same murders and fights over and over again, every hour. Even with all kinds of insanity around them, Lilli dashed off to a side room and Mithra intended to follow but found her eye resting upon a body in the greenhouse with the remains of Zenn, another companion. When she saw it, all thoughts of everything else deserted her mind as a creeping suspicion and fear began to gnaw at her chest. 

That figure; the garb looked elven, druidic even, but it wasn’t what she wore; as the wraiths wailed and argued she tuned them out, even the conversations and frantic questioning of this strange future version of Fiora failed to register as she looked the skeletal remains over. Patting down the body, gently at first, then more frantically as she became more and more sure that the body was not her own.

Another might have felt relief to avoid the sight of their own remains, but not Mithra. Death was not the worst thing that could bring an end to a druid from the Verdant Thicket. She found a token, a simple cast leaf denoting rank within her circle, but it wasn’t hers. 

A heavy weight set on her stomach as around her the ghosts played out their argument, the daughter and father who’d come here to save her, even if she didn’t want to be saved, the looting of the mob that accompanied him. To Mithra it was as the wind in the grass, of no importance and mere background noise as she made her way back to the older version of the tiefling she’d met only days ago.

She nodded at the paper in her friend’s hands, her eyes meeting Fiora’s directly, almost unblinkingly as she kept her voice level, Nilsa a spectator as the two women gazed at one another.

“Fiora, was that me in the greenhouse?” 

She already knew the answer as the older Fiora scribbled down something frantically on her paper before holding it up. 

‘NO’

“Am I dead? Is that why I’m not here?” 

A solemn nod was all she received in answer as the tall tiefling woman looked at her, eyes full of pity, loss and more, a sense of loneliness; Mithra was used to solitude, but the type she saw looking out of Fiora’s eyes chilled her. As much as she felt for this lost soul however she also felt the creeping dread rise from the pit of her stomach, like a weed, choking her level breathing as it came. 

“Did.. Did something take me? Is that why I’m not here?”

‘YES’

Nilsa looked on, concerned and confused and tired at the back and forth, opening her mouth as Mithra turned, her head spinning as her fears seemed almost confirmed. Walking, or was it staggering, five paces back towards the centre of the room. That sick feeling grew, reaching her lungs and biting down her fears she turned again. 

“Was it my home? Did the sickness, the curse of my home take me too?” 

A pause. 

‘YES’

After that, Mithra didn’t register a lot of what happened next, it was like everything happened at once, their friend of the future had been waiting, waiting for Lady Celeste and her father to be near the window and then threw both them and herself out of it. Ending the loop, the curse all of it; saving both herself and her friends, even if it wasn’t the same friends she’d been through hell with. In the aftermath, everyone took a moment to recover, but Mithra could stand to be in the house no longer. 

Catching Nilsa’s attention while the others took a few moments, Mithra smiled a pained mirthless smile that hid none of her internal torment. Her words tumbled out of her mouth at a rapid pace, uncertain and troubled; in her core fear had seized her heart and wouldn’t let go. 

“I.. I need outside, I can’t be in here, sorry but I have to breath fresh air. Or as fresh as it gets here.”

Nilsa looked at her and then said something that she didn’t expect, the steely gaze meeting her own. 

“That’s fine. I can come with you, if you need it.”

And Mithra said yes.

Minutes later Mithra was sitting on the grass, staring at the dark sky and opening up a part of her history and soul to the paladin beside her. She told her of her fellow druids, the curse that affected not just land and tree but animal; how the druids had feared that their connection to animals, to the forest might leave them vulnerable too. 

How it looked like at some point, she was going to turn into a monster if she did not find a way to negate its effects, find a way to save her home. 

Nilsa gripped her shoulder and promised to help her, a gesture from the taciturn paladin that was not lost on Mithra, but even in that moment a cold feeling settled inside the druid. 

Despair. 

She had no idea where to start, she was not powerful, she was not wise and she was out of her depth.

As the rest of the day passed she found herself buoyed by the others, their presence and made a silent vow to herself. In one world she had already failed, but she would not give up: she would fight tooth and claw until her last breath to save her home, to save the others, to save herself. 

[roraruu]

Prompt: late sunlight p.2

Confessional

It’s a shame she’s a cleric.

She’s a pretty young thing. A blunt and plain haircut that few can pull off, but the sharpness of her chin and thinness in her face makes the strands of her hair fall straight down against her neck. Two stray locks lap at her cheeks when she hurries to the next injury that she’s called to. The veil on her head will sway but rarely shows the edge of her hair—a leftover remnant of her marriage to Mila, and the signifier of her being of the cloth.

But then again, it’s always the pretty ones who devote themselves to their Earth Mother. And it’s the thing that takes them to an early grave.

He knows that if Mila’s acidic white magic doesn’t kill her first, the war will. Her type doesn’t tend to last long, he’s made note of that. The pretty faces fade, hollowing out in the eyes and growing gaunt in the cheeks. Soft, cloud-like hands that held wounds so tenderly become rough and scabbed with their own injuries. Smiles fade like the sun behind rain clouds, the only thing remaining are the incantations that preserve one life and damage the other.

He’s known of clerics and saints and other healers before. Well, he’s known how quickly they end up dead: overworking themselves, using too much white magic that it consumes them, exhaustion, and just plain old idiocy. He’s seen how quickly they go down, and the Deliverance is guilty of sending healers to the grave from their vocation.

But he’s surprised to see her last so long. Her calm mien never wanes and her thin-lipped smile offered to all that enter her infirmary for healing or a confessional. Her thin and pretty face still flush and full of life and her eyes continue to glint with a mischievous look that does not suit her character or class.

She carries herself in a refined way, speaks clearly and concisely and looks demure and modest. He knows she’s seen awful things, possibly back in the priory she speaks so fondly of, or on the corrupt mainland that he hates. Nonetheless, she’ll just turn a blind eye when he asks her further. Her silence is a fair warning that she will leave if he mentions it again.

He sees all these things—these horrors that never leave her wagging tongue—in the sore cracks on her palms that run down her bower-like fingers. They’re thin and bony and beginning to gnarl with arthritis that’s supposed to come at a later, more mature age. When those hands touch his wounds, dripping with white magic that dries his blood, stops the blisters of magic and resets broken bones, he feels guilt; and he’s not the pious, guilty type.

Perhaps it’s because of her resilience, that unwavering devotion that lingers in her gaze. Or maybe it’s because he’s always found shreds of comfort in clerics. The earthly presence in Mila’s holy women. They’re always pretty, always nice to look at with drunken eyes or ab hungover gaze. She’s no exception, but perhaps a new standard with her remarkable resilience and oddball beauty.

Even her name—Silque—is as pretty as she.

But he tells himself not to get attached from the side of his cot. She’s seated on the stool in the corner of the cold tent, wrapped in a scratchy blanket to keep warm in the cold. She’s humming to herself, some old hymns praising their goddess and regaling of the hero their country is named after.

Someone calls into the tent and he recognizes the voice belongs to the annoying girl who came with the villagers. “Silque, could I confess—“ she says, stopping as she notices Python in the cot. Her face flushes in embarrassment. “Never mind. In the morning.”

Silque glances upwards to the crack in the canvas as the villager frowns and disappears.

Python can’t help but jeer, “Confess? What, she got eyes for you?” He asks with a smirk.

Silque stops humming, her gaze falling hard on him. “Shouldn’t you be resting?” She asks, crossing her hands over each other.

“I didn’t know you were that popular.” Python says, stretching his arms out behind his head.

“Faye wanted a confessional. Many of our fellow soldiers do.”

“What’s that?”

“You do not know?” Silque asks, her brow furrowing. Her hands knead in her lap as he shakes his head. “Clerics of Mila are to hear the confessions of her followers.”

“So they tell you about their sinful scandals?” He asks, intrigued by the idea of gossip.

“Or thefts they’ve committed, times where they’ve taken her name in vain, not taken care of those around them.” She says glancing to him. “I believe you of all of us need it the most.”

He laughs harshly. “Not bloodily likely. Me and Mila don’t get along.” He says.

“But she’s your Mother.”

“My Ma was a housewife, not a dragon.” Python says. His brow arches, a smirk returning to his lips. “Why, you wanna hear my dirty laundry?”

“Not anything salacious.”

“Then I’ve nothing to tell.” He says with as she flushes chastely. He laughs again as she stands.

“Then I’ll bend my ear to someone who needs forgiveness,” she says in a backhanded way.

She leaves the tent and can hear her talk to Faye outside. Within moments, she’s comforted the distraught villager. He hears Silque gentle tone comfort her, pull her from a shaky tone and winded breath to a calm composure. And then he hears it, “In the name of Mila, say your regrets and confess”—the words that he’d hear often in the future.

But at the time he didn’t bat a lash. Simply frowned and shook her head at her blind devotion to their goddess. Besides, everyone knows that clerics in war service don’t live that long. They’re eaten alive by their own goodwill, their own vocation.

__________

He never does sit confessional with her. Not once. In fact, he usually sees her through a drunken gaze, staring up at her as she dips a rag into cool water and places it over his forehead.

He occasionally does her hear take confessions when she thinks he’s passed out. Hopes of love affairs or romances are gone within the first two minutes of confessions—they’re all about taking the Mother’s name in vain or theft. Nothing he wants to hear, but he notices how she shifts a little, her gaze focused and blank as they spill their hearts out into the med tent. In the silence of his mind, he begins to regret.

But only because everyone else around him did it at least once. Even the other healer.

He sees a spring in Forsyth’s step when he confesses about reading on the battlefield when he should be focusing. He notices how Lukas seems to breathe easier after speaking about how his elder brother’s ambition troubles him. Even a sunny disposition in Clair when she talks about a certain mercenary she has eyes for. Everyone confesses, except him. And he leaves the Deliverance without even doing it once.

Instead, she confesses to him in the upper chambers of Zofia Castle, after the war has ended. Fading pours through the small window

He’d partied himself out the night before—he doesn’t understand how the others still have energy. The liberation of both countries is a cause to celebrate, but days of drinking wine and celebrating grow dull and he finds himself with an aching hangover and a need for isolation.

There’s almost no quiet place to rest in, save for this little sitting room in the upper parts of the castle. The medical tent has changed its form, no longer canvas and twigs but now an old sitting room. Tatiana and Silque had been working for hours with little to no rest until the injured had decided to brave their wounds and turn to the celebration downstairs. Tatiana had left too, while Silque kept a vigilant watch.

The room is spacious, the walls are lined with books and portraits of Zofia’s lush countryside and past ladies and lords. There’s a hard sofa, ornate and velvet with hard cushions and pillows; a huge sitting table holds practical supplies for the healers to use on less threatening injuries; wide windows over look the gorgeous courtyard and the celebrating capital city of Zofia; and there’s a tall arm chair which Silque has pushed herself into.

She dozes off in the afternoon and he wakes to her gentle snoring. She’s probably dead tired from all the healing, but she won’t see a full rest for a long time. He doubts that there will be much time for her to rest tomorrow, what with all the injuries that she hasn’t had time to tend to.

He notices how books line the walls, tactical guides and codecs and maps that he’s never seen. He’s not much of a reader, doesn’t have the attention span or patience for books. He’s always left the grandiose stories and epics for Forsyth.

He notices her shift in her chair, blinking twice before sitting up and adjusting her veil, which never comes off, never leaves that blunt cut he’s come to think of as winsome.

“Sir Python, are you awake?” She asks, her voice is no higher than a whisper.

He’s been enjoying the peace and quiet, just sitting with her. He doesn’t want any conversation, any blessings from Mila or playful banter to accompany this moment, just her and the sunset. So he pretends to be asleep, face buried into the arm of the sofa.

She lets out a tiny sigh, turning her gaze to the window. Her hands tiredly knead each other for a moment as she lets out another short sigh and then a prayer. “I’m going to Rigel,” she confesses to him and no one else. “They have many injured from the Faithful and I’m going to lend my staff to help my people.”

He doesn’t move at all. She’s leaving Zofia behind, with everything she loves, the Priory she spoke so fondly of, her Sisters and Brothers of the cloth the bountiful beauty of the Earth Mother’s land. She’s leaving for cold and unforgiving Rigel. And the thought of the first time he saw her through drunken eyes comes to his mind again.

When he hears her softly snoring again, he lifts himself onto his elbows and stares at her for a moment, trying to commit her face to memory.

Her hair is still bluntly cut in a waif-like fashion that he’s come to find charming. It swirls and laps around her cheeks and ears, stretching just past the nape of her neck. Her veil—that signifier of her commitment to Mila—has been retired with modesty and grace.

The long, fluffy skirts of a saint that she’d worn for the past battles are done away with, replaced once again with her simple white and purple robes. Python thinks it stupid to do away with such things that would put her higher, rightfully set her apart from other healers. But in a way, he thinks of how she’s like him, not caring for status or image. Yet she’s a holy sister of Mila, a literal saint. And he’s a drunk who’s taken up room in her medical tent for a year.

Her face is washed with golden sunlight from the dying sun that burns through the windows. Her chest rises and falls with steady rhythm, her stormy eyes are shut lightly as she enters a dreamless sleep, the price of a healer.

And he thinks of how her name—Silque—is still one of the prettiest names he’s heard in years.

“Dammit,” He mutters under his breath. He sits up, elbows to his knees, practically leaning over the large table covered with books and takes a breath.

He had gotten attached to this daughter of Mila.

And to his surprise, she wasn’t eaten alive by white magic or turned into a gaunt husk by her own vocation. So after he takes a good hard look at her, he gives a confession of his own. “I think I love you.” He breathes, hoping to Mila that she won’t wake and feels a bitter happiness when she doesn’t.

[syrahnbloodfeather]

The Last Oath of Many

Syrahn sat across the room from the Harbinger, nervously tugging at her gloves while the Death Knight wrapped in his illusion rune patiently waited in silence; she was uncomfortable allowing an Undead back into the Amber Glade, especially after the catastrophe from last time. The Priestess opened her mouth to speak, but was caught off guard the moment she noticed all of the women gawking at him from the cracked door and nearby windows. They seemed mesmerized by his flowing silver hair, steely green eyes and square jawline, and they were proving to be quite the distraction for Syrahn; Rethandus noticed them the moment they started to gather, but he wasn't here to get some young girl to swoon over what he once looked like.

 “Is Ijiro on his way?” Rethandus asked, gently clutching his cup of tea, but for obvious reasons he had no desire to drink it. “He seems to be running late.”

 “He is usually still asleep at this hour.” Syrahn explained, shooting a furtive glance out the window beyond the gathered women to see the sun still high in the sky. “He might still be trying to wake up, it seems.”

 “Then you can fill him in once he arrives.” The Harbinger held the cup of tea against his deceptively cold lips, pretending to drink for the sake of his disguise. “As of right now I am in full control of the Oathguard, and my first command of many is to gather everyone still bound to the oath to prepare for war. That includes Ijiro and Eristel.”

“I see…” Syrahn bit her lip at the thought of Ijiro going off to fight again; a part of her was hoping the Oathguard would stay in Dalaran for the duration of the Argus Invasion. “So what happened to Lady Kaevia?”

 “She stepped down for personal reasons.” Rethandus quickly answered, albeit vaguely. “But when she left most of the Oathguard’s contacts and influence left with her. We're starting from scratch, so to speak. That's why I'm here; to ask you for your continued support.”

 “How many men and women are you taking with you to Argus?” Syrahn didn't like the idea of being the sole provider for the Oathguard, but she wasn't about to deprive her fiance.

“I’m estimating seventy troopers. Three formally decommissioned siege engines, and a frostwyrm.”

“That's a little sparse for an invasion.” Syrahn perked a brow while she watched him closely.

 “The bulk of the Oathguard was lost during the Highmountain fiasco.” Syrahn broke eye contact once he began speaking again, vividly remembering that two month long nightmare. “Many of the survivors chose to follow a Sun’rael. I can't guarantee they'll continue to serve under me.”

 “But they swore an oath. Breaking that oath is treason.” The Priestess objected, glancing back up at him; her concentration didn't last, as the women cooing over him began to grate on her nerves.

 “I'm not going to beat around the bush, Lady Bloodfeather; Argus is not going to be pretty. I'm expecting a high death toll during our stay there, against the greatest threat to our way of life. I want everyone charging in with me to be volunteers, and that means giving everyone a chance to step out before it's too late.” Excitement sparked in Syrahn’s stomach at the idea of Ijiro refusing the call of duty without consequence. This was his chance to stay by her side from here on out.

 “You will have the Amber Glade’s backing.” Syrahn reluctantly assured. “But I must stay aware of your operations. The Houses must know what their gold is being spent on.”

 “Thank you.” The Harbinger sounded relieved, leaning back in his chair to cross his arms. “Once we're established on Argus I will provide a weekly report of our budget.”

 “Ayyy if it isn't Rethandus! Looking as lively as ever too!” Ijiro chuckled, entering the room from behind the Priestess with a bottle of Kungaloosh in his hands; Rethandus acknowledged his presence, but the moderate scowl on his face revealed his lack of amusement. “Bringing good news, yeah?”

 “I don't like repeating myself, so I'll leave it to you to fill him in on the situation, Lady Bloodfeather.” Rethandus slowly rose from his seat to adjust his suit; despite looking mildly uncomfortable in it, he wore it well. “I'm returning to the Bloodsworn Ruins. If you could inform Eristel as well, that would be greatly appreciated.” Syrahn wearily glanced up at her lover, immediately wiping the dopey smile off his face. The Harbinger noticed the girls near the door disperse like roaches once he began to approach, but he didn't pay them much attention.

 Walking through the Amber Glade was something he may never get used to, but at least with this illusion rune he didn't have to worry about the guards hounding his every step. The constructs saw right through his disguise, however; they would already be looking in his direction before he saw them, but after a few ominous moments they would continue with whatever they were doing. Hopefully that was Syrahn’s doing.

 “Rethandus, wait up.” Ijiro called out from behind, lightly jogging out into the open. Rethandus stopped and turned to look at him, but the tone in his voice already told him everything he needed to know. “Look, here’s the thing. I’m engaged to Syrahn now, yeah? I have a responsibility here too, and if given the choice, I’d rather stay here.”

 “I’m not going to twist your arm, Ijiro. I need volunteers only, and I don’t plan on dragging anyone to Argus.” The Harbinger calmly responded. “Syrahn already agreed to continue supporting me, so I’ll manage. Keep a good eye on your health, and don’t drink yourself into an early grave. Best of luck, Mercenary.” As Rethandus turned to leave, a young elven woman popped out of the bushes and ran over to him; he took a step back, fearing this woman would slam into him and discover his undeath, but she looked strangely familiar.

 “Lord Rethandus! It’s me, Nairi! Do you remember?” She squeaked, clearly out of breath.

 “What are you doing here, girl?” Ijiro narrowed his eyes at her.

 “Yes, I remember you. You helped Whitstan cleave that pit lord’s skull in half.” Rethandus crossed his arms, seemingly relieved she wasn’t about to break his illusion rune. “Can I help you?”

 “I want to join you on the invasion to Argus.” Nairi quickly responded, causing Ijiro’s body to stiffen. “You could use my skills and you already know I have experience fighting the Legion.”

 “What?! You’re not going anywhere!” The Hunter hissed, taking a step forward to grab her by the elbow. “How do you even know about this?!”

 “Eavesdropping.” Nairi pulled her arm away defiantly. “You need all the help you can get, right? Let me help you!” Rethandus scratched the back of his neck, a habit he must have gained from watching someone else.

 “I do need the help.” He admitted. “But I’m not about to infuriate your father.”

 “With all due respect, I am a legal adult who’s capable of making her own decisions.” The woman clenched her jaw while she spoke, clearly biting her tongue. “I know this isn’t a game, or a joke. My father fought in Northrend so I would never have to pick up a blade and do the same. Now I want to fight so that one day when I have children, they don’t have to fight either. Help me help you.”

 “Hmph.” Rethandus huffed, glancing over at Ijiro; the rugged elf looked paralyzed with anger, but at the very least, he was mercifully speechless. “Alright. Make your peace with your family and join me in the ruins of the Bloodsworn Vanguard. Do you remember that place?”

 “Of course I do.” Nairi huffed again, almost choking on her words this time. “I-I mean, yes sir!”

 “Off with you then. I have a lot to do before we join this invasion.” Rethandus waved his hand at the woman, who almost jumped a foot off the ground with excitement. He took one last glance over at Ijiro before turning to leave, almost breaking his frozen scowl to smirk.

 The sun was beginning to set on the Amber Glade once again. The whispers of the mysterious stranger had finally begun to disperse, and now the guards were exchanging shifts for the long night. Tyrasam waved to her last customer of the day, still in disbelief that she was able to make a name for herself out here in the boonies; still amazed she was even invited here in the first place. Often she would think of what she would be doing if Syrahn hadn’t extended that invitation. But she put those thoughts behind her as the sound of the bell along her door jingled.

 “Evening.” Eristel greeted with a modest wave of his hand. “How was your day today?”

 “Uneventful.” Tyrasam leaned forward and placed both of her elbows along the front counter. “Business seems to be picking up, in no small part to all the doomsayers running around. They actually think we’re in the end of times. It’s the Cataclysm all over again.”

 “I uh… I brought Jaeras a gift.” The Mage withdrew a neatly folded scarf. “It’s all gold, woven over and over until it’s as soft as silk. I’m not sure how they did it, but… this is for all of her hard work being my student.”

 “Awww you shouldn’t have.” Tyrasam clutched the scarf gently, running her thumbs along the soft silk-like gold; she would need to learn this technique eventually.

 “I also… got you something.” The Paladin glanced up to see him holding a delicate flower she hadn’t seen before. “It’s called an Astral Glory. A delicate herb found only on Argus.”

 “What’s with all of these gifts?” Tyrasam asked, perking a brow before gently taking the flower into her own hands. “What’s the occasion?” Eristel bit his lip and fell into silence for several moments, letting the woman enjoy the aroma from the Astral Glory before speaking again.

 “I’m leaving the Amber Glade.” He eventually admitted, causing the smile on her face to vanish. “I don’t think I’ll be able to return for quite some time.”

 “What? Why?” She sounded indignant, suddenly feeling like a small child being baited by presents.

 “Rethandus is leading the Oathguard now, and he’s calling everyone still bound by the oath to serve him.” Tyrasam’s stomach dropped at the mention of that Death Knight’s name, but she did her best to hide her disappointment. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning to join the fight on Argus, and… I just wanted to say… just in case I don’t return… I uh…-”

 “Where will you be staying tonight?” Tyrasam watched the Mage closely.

 “Where…? The Tidebloom Estate…” Eristel sounded confused by the question, reluctant to break eye-contact with the woman; but her stare was becoming intense. “I mean I’ve already packed my things and-”

 “Jaeras will want to see you off tomorrow morning, and it would be a shame if you left without saying goodbye.” Tyrasam’s gaze dropped to the flower and gold scarf, before slowly meeting his again. “You could spend the night with us, if you’d like.” Butterflies began to flutter in his stomach, but he cleared his throat to avoid sounded a bit too excited.

 “Y-yes, I would like that…” Eristel nervously answered, adjusting his collar.

 “Good.” The Paladin left the gifts on the counter while she slid off her seat to rise to her feet. “Lock the front door. I’ll be upstairs, Lord Tidebloom.”

[valerie-royeaux]

Blood & Dust - Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - Maker-Given

Word count: 4,280 Read it on AO3, or continue below

Previous chapters: Chapter 1 Chapter 2

“You look impressive, ser Cousland!”

Junia chuckled as she looked at John coming out from behind some bushes. He looked positively more composed than the night before, when he was barely more than a ragdoll enveloped in rope. The spoils from the bandits in the chantry had allowed Junia - with a healthy dose of bartering in the local language - to buy most of the things John needed. While they did not compare to the equipment that now gathered moss deep beneath the Minanther river, it was enough for his survival: a sword complete with belt and scabbard, a round wooden shield with a steel boss in the centre, and a slightly rusty oversized chainmail. She even managed to include a dark brown travel cloak in the bargain! His pants and boots were the same ones that came out of the water with him.

And just like his situation, the bond between them had improved significantly overnight. Junia’s chuckles were growing into full hearted laughter as John moved in circles around himself letting his cloak flow free. “You still have to buy me some hands, Junia”, he shouted, letting the hems of his chainmail jiggle from the edge his hands, completely covering them. “This will be the new fashion in the Orlesian tournaments. Sleeves too long over hands with no gloves. You have never seen knight more comely, m’lady!” Junia only kept laughing, openly, her low pitched tone enchanting John with each giggle.

They walked the idle pace of heavily loaded donkeys. Junia’s plan had already been to follow to Kirkwall this morning with her band of dusters by accompanying a merchant caravan that travels regularly from Starkhaven to Kirkwall. While her company had changed, it was still the safer way to traverse the Free Marches countryside, without drawing any attention. Numerous mercenary bands guarded the travelers, and they enjoyed the protection of even warring lords. One of the very reasons commerce flourished so strongly in the Free Marches. No one messed with the caravans.

It didn’t take them the morning to bond, and by noon time John did not feel like a hostage, neither did Junia felt compelled to keep an eye on her expensive prize. Their throats actually ached from all the talking, and they had already refilled their water skins twice. By dinner time the caravan had stopped in the grounds of an enormous monastery, protected by bailey walls and the growing towers of a Cathedral. The magnificent building was almost ready, and those were the last of over sixty years of construction. But instead of finding rest in the grandeur of the cathedral’s halls, even though John’s theological views had enchanted Junia most of the morning, he asked them to eat at the fully enclosed monastery's hall.

“You can’t be serious, John. Bugs, really?”

“I hate them all, I’m telling you! If we eat outside, we’ll attract bees, and they will stick to our food, and they will sting us! And those other weird bugs. And don’t even get me started on the wasps they have up here in the north.”

Junia could not believe that was the reason they were not in a calmer or sainter place, but enjoying the not so private end of a crowded trestle table. The Fereldan language was what shielded them from most of the prying ears. “So, you regularly clad yourself in armor and risk your life in battles, but you are afraid of bees?”

“And wasps. And big beetles. And spiders. But not ladybirds and butterflies, though.” He made a pause to bring food to his mouth, but decided to continue in the face of Junia’s raised brow. “I mean, it’s not fear per se. It’s more a… safety notion that, should the veil fail, these critters will eat me. Have you ever seen a giant horse? No. And if there were? We would ride them, and love them. But giant spiders? Maker, I’d take on dragonlings every time!”

Junia simply raised an amused eyebrow: “So you wouldn’t fear a giant butterfly?”

“But of course not!” John laughed heartily and, even among marchers, he was gesturing wider and talking louder than anyone else on the table. “Which demon who respects itself would possess a butterfly? Behold, I’m the demon-flying-flowers!” They both kept laughing before John added: “But that applies only to butterflies, though. Moths are evil creatures who will blind you.”

The situation in Ferelden had been put to a comfortable bed on the back on John’s mind. Eventually he would worry about the time they were taking on their journey, he would think about the issues his sister would be facing back in Denerim, or Highever, or wherever. Wherever, he thought. The place where it always wheres. Like in Highever it always highs. This is how the easy state of mind of a high nobility second son would bring him out of worrying and back into enjoying the company of this beautiful woman - yes, beautiful, he would say to Fergus in his own mind.

At least Gwen wouldn’t judge him. She somehow corroborated him on these matters. She was able to feel the inner workings of John’s likings and never judge them, despite not quite agreeing with them. She knew how much he enjoyed the color match of chestnut hair and eyes, how he anticipated Junia’s large breasts to sag to the top of her belly when free of clothing; how he could not avert his gaze from lips and eyes that were too large to the dwarf’s roundish face, and therefore perfectly cute. How soft and firm she should feel to hold; short and broad, more than he could grasp; which marks her belly and hips would show; which would be the smell in her bushes after stripping to sleep at night. He could not wait to tell all about Junia to Gwen, and that is how his hyperactive mind would snap him back to his sister’s woes. And back again at how much he wanted her to meet this special pretty andrastian dwarf. Yes, Gwennie, pretty dwarf, and pretty andrastian. And pretty. And he needed more things to tell his twin sister: not only of Junia, but about Junia.

“But enough bugs, because I don’t want you to think you will have to save me when those weird flying ants they have in here come barging. I talked, and talked, and talked since last night, but all I know about you so far is that you are a mercenary, and that you come from Waking Sea, and that the Maker protects you from pretty much everything. Come on, Junia, I have only until Highever to get to know you, and I don’t think this will be time enough for me!”

Junia could not think these were empty flirting lines from a bored knight. First of all, because she had read all the classical authors - and that is not how knights would go about courting a lady. Not that she was a lady, of course. But that is not how men of war would go about wooing cheap women into their beds either. John’s sincerity was new and assailing, and Junia could not realize how vulnerable she was to it. John had been shielded enough from life to be able to ride under all of the dwarf’s shields, and straight into childish giggles and serene smiles. There were no defenses she could raise to a man who employed no attack. Which is a lie. He already longed for her. But his wanting seeped, rather than being directed. And it immersed them both.

“Alright, John”, she said, letting out a long sigh. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

She smiled a kind smile, and realized she never really talked about her life to anyone. Not in a organized chronology, not like she wished she could, not like she one day hoped chroniclers would want. She would sit and laugh with companions, share drinks and stories with friends. But this was not about the laughter it would bring to a booze-bright table of bandits. This about making herself known to this weird man. The ultimate goal was not to amuse, to scare, to make a point. The ultimate goal was herself. And she delighted on it.

“Well, very well. I guess we can start in Waking Sea. That is where I’m from.”

“I know, and that is so close to Highever!”

“I know, I know. But I didn’t stay there for long. You see, I was born to a very wealthy family. They were heavy supporters of the Surface Caste. They even kept the casteless brand”, Junia touched the mark on her right cheek briefly, “as a mark of surfacer pride. And this is pretty much it for my childhood. I know I had to wear dresses, and learn manners, and sew and do my hair, and all this shit rich girls are supposed to do. This goes on until I am about eight, or nine, or something around that time. That is when they tried to give the jester a shitting pot.”

This time Junia was not interrupted. John watched, listened and chewed attentively, his eyes widened and focused on hers. Eventually darting down to her moving full lips, that is true, but mostly they were on her eyes. “I don’t know the details. But my family did not belong to the Merchant Guild, and they crossed the Merchant Guild. The Guild killed my parents, and looted the house. I was part of the loot.”

John’s expression fell to absolute sorrow, but found no resonance in Junia’s. He noted how used to death she was - and how that diminished him. Embarrassed him of himself, even. This woman mentioned her parents death as if it was nothing, as if it had no sting on her. And Junia could not even notice how heartfelt John was with her family’s murder. It would only sting one not used to murdering. John remembered how easily she dispatched the sleeping men who held him captive. And it made more sense now. For a moment, their situation and how they came to be there briefly flashed in his mind. But just like he was baffled at the ruthlessness of the dwarf, she was entranced by the innocence with which John carried himself to that moment. So she just continued, and John, silent, soaked it all in.

“They were really good to me, actually. You see, better not to damage the merchandise. They shipped me across the sea to Kirkwall. I had not idea what was going on, but here’s the Maker guarding me again: they happened to sell me to the one brothel owner who would not employ children, John. I remember chatting with signora Benedetta later on, and she told me she would never employ anyone young enough to die and go straight to the Maker’s side. A pious woman, she was. And she was thinking that of a dwarf. Instead, she sent me to a convent. She payed to have me, and released me for free.”

Junia almost continued saying how she spends a lot of money in Benedetta’s brothel every time she is in Kirkwall. But for the first time in a very long time, she felt ashamed. She hesitated and made a pause, reeling from that awful sensation of shame before that man, probably a few years younger than her, who would not think so well of her if he knew she visited brothels. It wasn’t enough that she hid from him she was a bandit, rather saying she was a mercenary. Now, she was also hiding she was a regular at brothels, and she was hiding Benedetta’s brothel, of all of them. This is not how she would want to him to know her, Junia realized. She knew the Maker was with her, and that He had given her that. She earned every woman she spent her money on. Sister Lucia, who would very often disagree with her on most things, was very adamant in affirming the Maker did not judge love, given for free or purchased with coin and taken with kindness. This was one of the very few things Junia did not use to ask forgiveness for. But now, and suddenly, she wanted John’s good opinion too. She was sure he would never understand a woman who visits brothels, let alone keeps the company of other women. Thus her nights with Benedetta’s women never left the lips that pleased the human so much. She continued to the very Sister Lucia who would scold her for hiding it.

“I went to a convent, a big one, not unlike this monastery where we are.” A peaceful smile seeped through Junia’s face, and sweet nostalgia toned her voice. “I believe I was a decade old by the time I arrived there. They had me doing base chores - stuff not even the sisters following stricter versions of the Rule would do. The mothers and sisters there wasted no time letting me know I was a dwarf, and therefore I would not be educated like the other orphans. There were some in the cloisters. They would grow to be sisters and brothers. The ones with wealthy patrons would either become Mothers or Templars. But me? I was to be their servant, and that is it. I was so… numbed, around that time, John, that I can barely remember a thing. I didn’t even speak the language of Kirkwall. Or Chiesaforte, in their language. All I know if is that I hated being poor and destitute. With passion.”

“Hearing you say it, it seems to me you speak it as well as a native, Junia,” John remarked, not used to hearing about poverty, and not knowing how to deal with it. He felt is was wrong, but could not think of what to say, therefore the remark about language. As if it was the first time he, a high noble, was made aware of the existence of poverty and tragedy. Junia simply shrugged, still immersed in the sweet memories she was about to tell. She was not ashamed of these ones. Well, not completely.

“There was this one sister. Suora Lucia. Sister Lucia. Her name means light, and that is exactly what she was to me. It took me a while until I could understand her. But she had some… privileges, as always. Wealthy patrons. Well, in her case, more than that. Anyway, you will see the Maker reaching out to protect me again, John. The good shepherd knows its sheep, and calls them by name. Sister Lucia made sure I would serve only her. She was the head of the scriptorium, where the sisters copy manuscripts. So I would make sure the supplies were tidy, the room was clean, and the sisters writing had what they needed. I also helped her keep track of sisters who were slacking in their copying!” Junia giggled through her pause, and noticed how firm was her grisp in John’s attention. He was done eating his bread, and his wine sat still, cup half full.

“Sister Lucia ensured my service was light enough. And she would take some hours of her time, every night, in between the end of her chores and the nightly prayers, to teach me the language. It was when I was already speaking some of it that she told me she wanted to make sure I learned the Chant. That she wanted me to know that the Maker was the creator of everyone. Everyone, John. Even me. Andraste cared even for one as myself.”

Junia made no pause, but John could see how elated she was to speak those words. She savoured them, sound by sound. Drops of balm onto her soul. He already loved this Sister Lucia, and was actually hoping they could see her when they went through Kirkwall. That somewhere down her story, Junia would say that Sister Lucia spoke Fereldan. Regardless, he was charmed by the delight in the dwarf’s soul, translating clearly through the features he already loved to admire. He nodded rhythmically, at the slow beat of Junia’s speech, absolutely sure that Andraste herself validated every word. A sensation Junia shared.

“I also did not take long to meet Sister Lucia’s wealthy patron. A noblewoman named Mara. Even though, in theory, Sister Lucia lived in the cloister, signora Mara would visit her at least twice a week. They were both somehow old at that time. I think they were forty-five, maybe fifty? I digress. One of my main chores, and that only because I was not considered ‘cloistered’, was to travel Kirkwall back and forth with notes from Lady Mara to Sister Lucia, from Sister Lucia to Lady Mara. And Lady Mara loved me! She cherished to see me being raised into a good Andrastian, and after a while she started helping Sister Lucia with my lessons. I loved those days so much, John. So much.”

Again, she did not tell it all. She didn’t need to. She told the important part about Sister Lucia and Lady Mara, and how kindly they kindled all good that Junia ever learned how to feel. She did not disclose the whole truth about them, but enough to share with the man she was growing ever close to. She was ready to move on to darker stances of her past, when John interrupted her.

“How nice, they were lovers!”

And he hadn’t only interrupted - he did it with a clear affirmation of love between two women, a full smile under his beard, and admiration in his eyes. Junia coughed the last sip of her wine, and stared at the human widely. “N-No…” She knew that nobles would more often than not allow themselves some… experimenting. Debauchery, was the word in Orlais. But something in the way he said it did not denote it. He was not talking about nobility excesses. And he clarified it in his next words.

“No need to hide it, Junia, it is fine. I don’t think it is bad, not all. Actually, I cherish it.” Upon Junia’s puzzled expression, he continued. “I was not supposed to tell you that, but what the hell, I want to tell you everything.” He took his moment for some laughter before he continued. “My twin sister is like this. Gwennie, the one who I told you about. She likes women the same way a man would - the same way I do. She actually loved this girl, Lucille. For a long time. To be honest with you, I think she was going to find a way for them to marry. Our father found out, we suspect, and out of the blue, the girl was married to a man.” John’s excitement vanished suddenly - but Junia’s was there, fiercely rekindled, as well as one of Thedas largest smiles, which did not match John’s next words. “Lucille killed herself not long after. Gwennie never truly recovered.”

It took John a while to see Junia’s beaming smile, and he replied with a weak and understanding one when he noticed it. “I take it you are just like her?” Junia mistook the disappointment in John’s voice by the drop in his mood due to talking about Lucille’s suicide.

“I am.” Junia answered, and John nodded, simply, in silence. But his gaze perked up when he heard Junia say “Well… Kind of.” And that perked gaze prompted her to go on with an explanation. “I have been attracted to men on certain occasions.” She paused. John waited for her to continue. And continue she did, after realizing that this was again the Maker’s hand steering His love towards her. She could not have, randomly, out of chance, saved a kindred soul in so many aspects, to the point of understanding the love between two women. Between the most important women in her life. So she would talk to this man about being with other people. She would openly discuss sex with a man who she really wanted to think highly of her, who she didn’t want to think her indecent. It took Junia another breath and an extra dose of heavenly encouragement.

“Men don’t know what to do with what the Maker has given them, John. They have mouths, and hands, and noses, and… They don’t even use, no, not really, what is between their legs. They just… Go in, and that’s it, sod over, it’s done. I have been attracted to some men when I was younger, and every time I tried them, I barely had time to regret it.” Junia closed her eyes shut, and faced away from John. She regretted talking about all the times she had been with men, like a slut, and that is not even mentioning that she implicitly made clear she had been with women many times over.

“I know, right? Gwennie told me all about it”.

Junia’s eyes snapped wide open at John again. “She what? You and your sister talk about it?!”

“We talk about everything, Junia. She knows how I think, because we are twins, I suppose.” It was John’s turn to feel ashamed and not be totally frank with the dwarf. “She has never… Came to full terms with a man, but she had her run-ins with them. And she hated these few times bitterly. After she started knowing more of women, she told me how women do it. How they take their time, and use all their Maker-given parts.”

He laughed out loud, and so did Junia. She was baffled and incredulous, actually slightly shaking her head at how the Maker reaffirmed time and again all she believed in. Specially the one point where she and Sister Lucia agreed. And she found really cute that John finally blushed. “I learned to use my Maker given parts myself. And this did not involve my sister!”

More laughter followed. Free, loud, tension-releasing laughter. To the point they both remembered their cups and toasted vividly.

“To Maker-given parts!”

Junia kept telling John about her past, and John probed more on the relationship between Lady Mara and Sister Lucia, as well as Junia’s own relationships. She was pleased to tell him how their families discovered their affair, and one was sent to the Chantry, and the other forcibly married right away. But she still would avoid telling about herself . Throughout most of her life, all her encounters had been casual, and mostly paid for, and that ashamed her. Instead, she probed him back for stories about himself, and Gwen as well.

And she did not tell him how, after staying in Kirkwall’s monastery for three years, she wanted to become affirmed. And how she was denied, despite Lucia and Mara’s influence. Apparently, Grand Cleric Elthina learned of Junia’s intention to become a sister, and denied it herself. And how, slowly, she started working with the Carta. First with small deliveries, then at small hits, and surely, to be one of the organization’s most effective agents around the Waking Sea’s shores. To John, as far as Junia could control it, she was a mercenary.

And John was happy to let Junia know how he had always been attracted to dwarven women, even though they were few and isolated. Dwarves were too insular, and even as a noble, he never got close enough to a dwarven woman like he was now close to Junia. And he made sure she knew how much he was loving it. He was also happy to share some of Gwen’s love stories, and the fact that they were indeed more numerous than his.

Slowly, the hall of the monastery started to empty, and they realized it was about time for the caravan to move. The stood to go to the caravan’s gathering place, and Junia welcomed the distraction. Her heart was pounding fast. She could not say she was having feelings for this male human, but she could feel roots fighting to take hold. She knew he was feeling it all, too, he made it really clear, while at the same time being incredibly respectful. He was giving Junia her space to decide whether she would be willing to pursue something with him.

Junia was pondering whether or not to give it a try - to go back on her decision of not wasting time on men. Clearly, she had never tried one such as John. At least, he seemed to be aware of how not to be a bossing jerk. She paused and looked down, reprimanding herself for thinking that. He was obviously well intentioned. And she had not met a well intentioned lover ever since she left Kirwall to do the Carta’s dirty work. Junia cherished the only pair of  well intentioned lovers she had ever met. And she was sure Lady Mara and Sister Lucia would love to know John. While he longed to introduce her to Gwen, she longed for her moms to know him.

When she raised her gaze decided to do something, she noticed the hall was too empty. People had simply vanished, and all doors were closed. John kept talking about something in Highever, oblivious to the change in the room.

“Shhhh!” she said, and started to gather their things in a lot of haste. John was puzzled at that, but in a second started to help her, despite not understanding what was going on.

“Be ready, John. Let’s get our things and run. Something is not right.”

Junia knew that monastery, and led them running through a door which into the cloister. At the same time, armed men poured into the hall from the opposite end.

[heroineimages]

Average protagonist

Literature and entertainment are full of stories of that classic character who runs away from home to pursue their dreams. Depending on the type of story, they’re either wildly successful---saving the kingdom or marrying the prince or princess or whatever---or they become horribly disillusioned after trying their best and failing. But what about stories where the protag just does kind of average. They’re competent in their chosen field, but not exceptional. They settle down in a comfortable romance with someone who makes them happy, but who can’t exactly give them the world on a silver plate. I kind of ran with this idea for a quick story I wrote. It’s a short, one-scene fantasy story---I imagine the setting to be similar to the Sword Coast from the Forgotten Realms, series. It’s kind of rough, and I’m not super happy with the ending, but it was an interesting quick study. (Bree story 2)

Bree

“Ian?” Jen’s voice urged quietly, waking him. “Ian, you have a visitor.”

“What’s that?” Ian mumbled, reflexively adjusting his quilts. Jen grimaced as he coughed twice from the exertion. He blinked the sleep from his lids, focusing on his wife’s eyes above him.

“You have an unexpected visitor,” she explained, taking his hand and sitting on the stool beside their bed. “Our daughter, Bree, has come to visit you. I… think she genuinely wants to see you one last time. She said she’ll understand if you don’t want to see her.”

Ian frowned at the ceiling as he considered. So his prodigal daughter had returned to visit him on his deathbed. He hadn’t seen or heard from Bree in almost seventeen years and wasn’t sure how many years it had been since he’d even really thought about her. His initial assumption was that she must have heard he was dying and come to ensure her place in his will. But for his daughter to admit she’d understand if he didn’t want to see her—that wasn’t exactly the attitude of someone who’s trying to schmooze her way back into the inheritance.

At sixteen, she’d run away to become an adventuress or a knight errant or a paladin or whatever romantic damned notion she’d gotten from those books her grandmother left her. Bree was determined that she was going to learn to fight brigands and slay dragons and rescue princesses in towers. Before and for a long while after she left, her cousins used to joke and place bets over whether she would be slain by orcs, eaten by gnolls, or captured by Drow slavers. After years of not hearing from her, the joke became less funny.

“How does she look? Does she seem alright?” he asked his wife after a moment.

“Older, stronger,” Jen admitted, smiling tiredly. “She might be an inch or two taller, as well—or maybe she’s just standing straighter than she used to. I think even without the uniform she’d look like a soldier.”

“What kind of uniform?” Ian asked, frowning up at her.

“Chainmail with a cream-and-burgundy surcoat,” she told him, shrugging. “So, whatever city or guild or company that represents.”

He exhaled, mentally bracing himself. “Alright, tell Bree I’ll see her,” he decided, quietly, reluctantly.

Jen merely nodded, keeping her tired smile. Wishing he knew what to expect, Ian closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly as his wife left the room.

“Poppa?” inquired the voice he’d never expected to hear again. He opened his eyes and slowly turned his head as his daughter stepped cautiously through the bedroom door.

Though the burgundy surcoat looked more like crimson to Ian, Bree looked much as Jen had described: older, stronger, and wearing infantry armor. The mail hauberk was elbow-length at the sleeves and knee-length at the hem, with a broadsword belted at her waist. She wore a grey travel-cloak, black boots, gloves tucked into her belt, and a dark grey arming shirt and hose under her mail.

He realized his daughter had definitely grown taller during her absence, but was sturdier and broader as well, particularly across her chest and shoulders. Her height and build filled up a doorway as easily as either of her brothers. Bree’s face looked darker and somewhat leathered from whatever adventures or campaigns she’d traveled on, and Ian counted three scars on her face, as well as two on her neck and a notch in her left ear—which made him wonder how many scars he couldn’t see. The dark-chocolate braid that had once reached her waist was short now, not much past her shoulders.

“Daughter,” he finally answered her, gesturing to the nearby stool. She smiled slightly and sat beside his bed. “Your hair is shorter,” he commented.

“It fits under a mail coif or kettle helm better,” she explained, her smile looking more genuine. She looked away as her smile fell. “I’m sorry, Poppa,” Bree admitted, blinking and fighting back a tear. “I’m not sorry for leaving, but I’m sorry for how I left. You were stubborn, and I was angry, immature, and stubborn, and I said things I shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he agreed, trying not to relive their last fight. “We both said things we shouldn’t have. How… how did you know to come?”

“Laura wrote me,” Bree said, meaning her twin sister. She tucked a knee to her chest and rested her boot heel on the edge of her stool. “She said you’d been injured and were sick from the infection—something about a barn blowing over?”

Ian nodded, coughing. “Farmer Chalice, you remember him? He hired our shop to help shore up that old barn of his for that big windstorm two weeks back. The storm blew the barn on our heads before we’d finished. Killed his boy Abel and a couple horses, broke your brother Ryan’s arm, and bloodied up everyone else. I ended up with two cracked ribs and three rusty nails in my right hip. The apothecary gave me stuff to make me comfortable and keep the fever down, but there’s nothing more he can do for the infection.”

“I’m so sorry, Poppa,” she whispered, shaking her head and blinking back the tears. “I should have written letters to more than just Laura. I should have come back and visited sooner. But I didn’t know if you were still angry, and I knew that everyone else would want me to come back to stay.”

“I didn’t know you and Laura were even still writing each other,” he said, unable to think of anything else to say.

“A dozen or so letters, nothing regular,” she admitted, resting her chin on her knee.

“You know, it wasn’t just our hearts you broke,” Ian chided, unable to control his smirk. “There’s four or five of the local lads and three of the local lasses who all had their eyes on you and were plenty broke-up that you left.”

His daughter chuckled. “Only three lasses?” she asked, her smile returning. “I’m pretty sure I kissed at least twice that many.”

“Three that I know of,” he shrugged his good shoulder. “You look a proper infantrywoman, by the way,” he added, indicating her mail and surcoat. “That means you turned paladin or adventuress on us? Rescue any princesses from towers?”

“Fell a little short of ‘paladin,’ I’m afraid,” Bree admitted, perhaps laughing at herself a bit. “I’m just a corporal in a pike cohort for Lady Theodora’s mercenary company.”

“I think I’ve heard of them,” he mused aloud.

“We do sell-sword work all up and down the coast,” she explained, “but our winter headquarters is near Vestin with three training sites and recruiting stations as far north as Daggerpoint. We specialize in mixed infantry with archer and spell-caster support—between eight- and twelve-hundred standing at any one time. We have some pretty basic siege weaponry, mainly to supplement our clients’ sieges, rather than lay down our own. No regular cavalry, though, just a few squads of scout cavalry.”

“Mostly human, or do you recruit far enough north to get a lot of elves and dwarves as well?” Ian asked, genuinely curious. It sounded like a recruitment spiel to him, but as a corporal it made sense that recruitment might be part of Bree’s duties.

Bree chewed at the inside of her cheek as she considered. “I’d say maybe sixty-five to seventy percent are human or part-human,” she estimated. “Many of our archers and wizards and a lot of our lighter infantry and scouts are elves, and a lot of our best pikes and heavy-to-medium infantry are dwarves.” She laughed. “And our best scout-cavalry squadron is made up of a bunch of loony halflings on wolves and riding-dogs.”

“Isn’t your Lady Theodora the one with the bodyguard of Amazon fighters?” Ian asked, trying to remember where he’d heard about this woman.

“Her banner-guard consists of forty elite heavy infantrywomen, if that’s what you’re referring to,” Bree told him, frowning thoughtfully. “And there’re a few dwarves and elves and a couple Tiefling gals in that unit. They get to wear full-plate armor and train to fight with claymores or broadswords and shields, depending on the mission. I tried out twice for a position in the banner-guard, but was never skilled enough to make the cut.”

As strong and competent as his daughter looked in her uniform, Ian could only imagine how powerful the women in the banner-guard must be.

“So you’re not just trained as a pike woman, then?”

Bree shook her head. “No, pikes are great for open-field warfare or for corking or uncorking a bottleneck, but there’s other times when they’re just a pain,” she admitted. “Any kind of cluttered terrain makes them worse than useless, and one can’t exactly climb a scaling ladder or storm an entrenchment with one. When we can’t use pikes, the captains give us kite-shields and make medium infantry of us, since we all carry short swords or broadswords anyway.”

“I assume mercenary work pays well?” Ian inquired next. “As your father, I just want to be sure you’re making a good living,” he added.

“Over three times what our local militia makes,” she laughed, looking smug. “And they hate us for it. We get paid twice-monthly wages plus a share in any spoils taken during campaigns. As a corporal, I get about seven percent more than the regulars. And my wife makes reasonable money by making and mending costumes for the local theatre house.”

“Wait,” he sat up an inch, hissing painfully as his ribs protested. “Sorry,” he muttered, still grimacing. “I just… you startled me. I had no idea you were married.”

“Oh my gods,” Bree murmured, placing a hand over her mouth. “Laura never told you? Yes, a little over ten years ago I married Becca, a half-elven widow with two little daughters. They’re twelve and fifteen now,” she added. “Her husband Orrin was a sergeant in my pike cohort, back before I made corporal. He fell in battle about a week after their second daughter was born. While Lady Theodora keeps a policy of compensating the families of her fallen soldiers, it’s also a tradition for individual cohorts to take up a collection of our own for bereft families of our comrades. I offered to deliver the money to Orrin’s widow, even though I’d never met her and barely knew Orrin.” Bree smiled sadly, as if at bittersweet memories.

“Becca thanked me for the money,” she continued. “And I… I felt for her, you know? A young widow with a toddler and a newborn baby, I just felt so badly for her. So I accepted when she invited me in for tea. We talked for a long while, and I comforted her whenever she wept. And she invited me to please come back for tea again sometime. And I came back to see her during my next leave, and then during my leave after that, and the one after that. And she kept inviting me to come back. After the first few visits, I found I preferred drinking tea with Becca over drinking ale with the other mercenaries. Soon she started loaning me books, which I didn’t have many of at the time.”

“Which is a surefire way to win your affection,” Ian added, trying not to chuckle.

“To be sure,” Bree agreed, laughing. “It was nice,” she admitted. “It was this pleasant, comfortable, almost sisterly friendship that I didn’t really get from drinking with any of the gals in the company. A… friendship like I hadn’t had since leaving Laura behind,” she added, regret forming on her face. “I suppose it was around three-and-a-half or four months seeing each other when I took her to the theatre with me. It was some silly tragedy play—a forbidden-love tale between an elf prince and a half-elf commoner.”

“The kind where half the characters end up dead by the end?” Ian asked.

She seemed to think about it for a moment. “Yeah, I would guess it to be around half,” she confirmed. “I wore my dress uniform, and Becca wore a dark blue dress with a black corset. She’s kind of tiny, even for a half-elf,” Bree added. “She’s not even as tall as my shoulders, and sitting at the theatre that night, we learned that we fit together really well with my arm around her and her head against my shoulder. I kept my arm around her as I walked her home. I… uh, I kissed Becca goodnight for the first time when we got to her house. And… we didn’t want to stop kissing,” she confessed, blushing. “I, ah, woke up in her bed the next morning. I suppose you could say our courtship began in earnest after that.”

That’s my girl, Ian grinned to himself. “How did you end up married?” he needed to know.

“I bought her a house,” Bree smiled nostalgically.

He raised his brows. “Really?”

She nodded. “One night, around a year after we’d first met, I asked Becca how she was getting along financially. She admitted that things weren’t good. Her landlord had raised their rent again, and her seamstress work wasn’t enough to support them without Orrin’s income. She’d gone through all of the money from Lady Theodora and from our cohort. And she’d gone through most of the money she and Orrin had been saving to pay for their daughters’ schooling once they got older—which I know broke her heart to do.”

Ian grimaced sympathetically as she spoke. In a smaller town or village, it was common for a community to work together to help support their disenfranchised. In a big city like Vestin, it was painfully easy for a destitute widow to slip between the cracks. “So you bought her a house?” he shook his head, grinning and proud of his daughter.

Bree laughed. “I did,” she smiled. “I had a lot of unspent pay still in the company treasury, and I volunteered for extra patrols and other duties for the next three weeks to save up even more. When I had close to enough, I withdrew most of it and borrowed a little more to buy a house that I’d seen for sale. It’s not much larger than her old house, but it’s in a better part of the city, not far from the theatre—where Becca later got a job as a seamstress.”

“And you proposed to her after that?”

“She proposed to me,” Bree clarified, laughing. “I told Becca what I’d done and showed her the house. She started weeping and wrapped her arms around me, tucked her head to my chest, and whispered ‘marry me.’ And eight months later when we could afford it again, we did exactly that. A lot of Becca’s family didn’t come—her mother didn’t really approve of her daughter marrying some peasant woman—Orrin was from yeoman stock, you see—and I wasn’t sure where I stood with my family to know if I should invite you. Which I’m still sorry for,” she added. “But the wedding was still nice; we had a few of her family and friends as well as some of my colleagues from the company. Her daughters both got to wear pretty dresses and participate in the ceremony. Though, they were both kind of young to remember.” She laughed again. “That was when they started calling me ‘Soldier Mom,’ come to think of it.”

Ian smiled despite the sudden, slightly uncomfortable realization that he’d had granddaughters this entire time without knowing. For Bree’s sake, he decided not to mention anything. “I hope I get to meet them,” he said instead.

“You will, Poppa,” Bree assured him, smiling with a tear on her cheek. “They’re staying with Laura’s family, but should be here tomorrow. I thought it would be good for them to get to know their aunt and cousins. I came early to make sure… make sure it was alright for us to see you.”

“It’s alright,” he assured her, feeling relieved at the purpose of his daughter’s visit—relieved that he hadn’t had to ask Jen to show their daughter the door. “I look forward to meeting them.”

“I’m glad,” Bree said, looking more relaxed at the sentiment. “I know this was a lot to take in, and I wasn’t sure how you’d handle everything. I just… I thought it best to make sure, you know.”

“You were doing reconnaissance,” Ian offered the analogy. “Makes sense: you’re a career military girl.”

Bree laughed again. “Yeah, good way to look at it.”

“Stay for supper?” he offered. “We can put you up for the night, too. And your family when they get here tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Poppa,” she said, kneeling beside the bed to give him a hug. She kept her arms around his shoulders to avoid his damaged ribs.

“Let your momma know. Your brothers will be back soon, and over supper you can tell us all war stories,” he suggested.

“I will,” she assured him. “Love you, Poppa,” she added as she stood to leave.

Ian smiled as he settled back in to his pillow, feeling a little better about the world in general.

[mechagalaxy]

John T. Mainer: Chocolate is essential

Chocolate is essential

I am Supply Officer Rampjet of the Fists of Doom mercenary company, you may ask yourself, how do I come to this place, selling a prize Spitfire mecha to buy six tons of chocolate and one pair of augmetic knees. I would say it’s a funny story, because 99% of the Fists of Doom is laughing about it right now, but that was my Spitfire, and the knees I need to be certified for combat again. It is a cautionary tale for all Academy graduates, listen to your NCO’s; kneecaps and clues turn out to be really expensive.

We were in the middle of the Gorax plague, it had been going on for a while, and looked to be going on a whole lot longer. My hours were bad, being supply officer when the supply chain was breaking down was not good. Contracts were getting tight, as we agreed on terms for our defensive contracts pre plague, and the profit point was healthy enough. Turns out having almost all travel locked down, international trade lower than the last time the Hegemony tried to eat Cogwork.

I had argued for some stringent cost cutting measures. I went over the repair and maintenance schedules and looked at any replacements that were not failure driven and flagged them as non-essential. I needed to cut replacement parts costs, and I needed to cut expenses every way I could to make sure we retained a profit margin or officers like myself would find out what life was like on base pay, with no fat bonus cheques.

That is like drinking local whiskey, and eating in the commissary, not the officer club. I may as well be enlisted for niodes sake!

Sgt Rosa Gonzales and Sgt Pepper Nakamura, our chief technician and quartermaster burst into my office in scary lockstep. One thick Latina with thicker accent, and one tiny ice cold Shogunate refugee in matching glares.

Gonzales started shouting first.

“What pendejo thought after making us work overtime for straight pay ‘for the duration of the emergency’ then decided suddenly I have to get all the repairs done, but can’t decide when to replace parts? These are war machines, not minivans.” Rosa was obviously upset.

Pepper Nakamura tossed a data slate across my desk, narrowly missing my coffee cup. It was a drama queen move when the same data could have been projected on the office hologram like she was doing right now, and only included to make me jump. Her voice was not as loud as Rosa’s but her contempt was cold like deep space with a busted cockpit heater.

“I see that you have cut back on feminine hygiene supplies by fifty percent to offset cost overruns by the officer club liquor budget”

Holy crap, how did she spot that? I mean I didn’t link them, and I imposed them in different transactions, but you can’t slip a lot past an experienced quartermaster like Pepper.

Sure it looked bad, but at the end of the day, I was an officer and a gentleman, and they were a wrench jockey and store keeper. Rank hath its privileges.

I put on my best reasonable tone and laid down the law to my subordinates.

“Listen ladies, times are hard, and hard choices have to be made. Everyone is sacrificing here. Sure you have to work within the budgets I allow you, and anything I deem non essential you will have to live without. If the officers need to relax now more than ever, well Rank Hath Its Privileges.”

Pepper turned to Rosa and said, almost casually.

“Did you know that right after ruling tech crews were no longer allowed to use the Stim Packs when working overtime, our good Supply Officer Rampjet disallowed the chocolate budget as….non essential?”

Rosa actually drew her multitool from her belt, the arc welder sparking to armour cutting life and for a second I thought she was going to swing at me, but Sgt Pepper Nakamura had anticipated it, locked one hand on her wrist, and used a delicate finger to move the multi tool control to off. Shaking her head, she bowed far too deeply, almost but not quite openly mocking her superior with its insincere depth as she stated quietly.

“I am sure that Supply Officer Rampjet would never put his own interests above the company, or its hard working men and women. I am sure that in the fullness of time, the good officer will come to a deeper understanding of what is essential.”

Looking back, I should have been worried, but I wrapped myself around the better part of a bottle of Glen Wombat 12 year old, and some Vol Wurm stuffed mushrooms and let the mellow wash the unpleasant encounter away.

The Emerald Dragons came calling that Wednesday. We held the contract for Bubba Duck transport, and they had a minor trade war going with Swift Turtle Logistics over control of the Aga Khan gateport complex. Both wanted to be first carrier in the queue, and only one was going to get it.

I fight in the third rank, Supply Officer is basically a staff position, but in the Fists of Doom everyone fights if they want to get paid. My Fext “Necessary Roughness” was showing a lot of amber lights, nothing was outright failing, but not tuned the way I expected. I opened a channel to the tech bay to bitch, but instead of my own technician, I got Rosa.

“Listen pendejo, you have a lot of little failures because some pendejo decided I was not allowed to pull parts I thought were going to fail and replace them, I had to wait until they actually failed, and then get a commissioned officer to sign off on it. I couldn’t replace your lasing crystals any more often than I can change my FRACKING PAD!”

Ah crap. Rosa was on the rag, and a little upset. I decided that there was no sense reasoning with her, and besides I had a battle to fight.

“Don’t go getting bent out of shape about a little blood on the undies Rosa, we all have to make sacrifices!” I shot back as I killed the connection. I was still chuckling at my cleverness when the second rank started to take fire.

Crap. The Emerald Dragons had cut our front rank to ribbons and were hitting the second rank pretty hard. I pulled my shields off standby and powered them up.

They were out of tune, not balanced properly as they fine synchronization required was not quite there. Eddies of disruption created weak spots of interference. Normally maintenance deals with that but they were still functioning within, albeit at the extreme low end, of tolerance.

My lasers preheated. Two of them went red as they overheated, and I cut them out of the firing sequence. Damn. Now they failed. Those should have been replaced as a precaution, but they hadn’t failed in the mecha bay, just fluctuated a bit, so under current rules they couldn’t be stripped out.

The Humbaba beside me rocked, its trample shields flaring bright as it shrugged off the better part of a thousand points of overshot from some kind of heavy kinetic cannon; whatever it was had enough to go through and Apatotron lengthways and still rock the Humbaba. Luckily his trample shields guided most of it to either side harmlessly.

Something hit the Kami in front of me, and a massive shock hit my Fext. My trample shields were only partly effective, and while bits of broken and flaming Kami were directed aside, a cold lance of Leviathan hammered my Fext, and the flash freezing shattered my cockpit glass, shredding my pilot suit and flooding my cockpit with the copper/iron scent of my own blood.

I was distracted by the pain enough that when the attacking Boreas stepped forward my own shots flared along its shielded flank, while it punched a Chiller Equation at me. My lasing crystals were over heated, and the cold shock caused them to shatter. The released unfocused energy tore through my systems and ignited by capacitors, who then exploded. I was awake and screaming as the fire took my legs. The fire fighting equipment was stale dated, and should have been replaced, but during the crisis if it hadn’t actually failed yet, I had ordered it not to be replaced.

Pepper Nakamura was waiting by my trauma bed when I came to.

“It doesn’t look good. We don’t have enough replacement parts for all the mecha that are down. We took almost twice the casualties we should have because so many systems failed in combat due to marginal parts not having been replaced, and ordinance from missile and cannon mecha being reused even when the potential for damage destabilizing them normally required their removal. Rosa has six technicians injured from fatigue, no stim packs or even chocolate and twice the usual damage to correct, they are bleeding from doing without”

Pepper’s voice was correct and cold. I was not in the mood to be criticized.

“I HAVE NO LEGS YOU UNFEELING BITCH!” I screamed at her.

She laughed, and quoted me in a voice at least as cold as the Chiller Equation that did me in.

“Don’t get bent out of shape about a little blood on the trousers Supply Officer Rampjet, we all have to make sacrifices”

She tossed a data slate onto my lap, above my stumps.

“For the price of your Spitfire, we can get the supply parts we need for the mecha, and you will still see a good sized profit, those bonus cheques are so important after all. I negotiated an offer that included full sensory feedback augmetic legs, the finest work out of the Dragons own facility on Delos VII”

I took my time and focused on the slate. Here it was, the supply order I had rejected, plus an additional supply order to cover the losses we took because our ill maintained machines took such a pounding, and an additional supply order to cover the butchers bill of the pilots maimed and wounded as a result.

I opened a two new line items, left the amount blank, then authorized the sale of my Spitfire.

“You left two things off the list, I need you to fill them in.” I said as I passed her back the slate.

Pepper Nakamura looked at them and raised one shapely eyebrow.

“Chocolate and feminine hygiene products sir? I thought those were non-essential?”

I forced my eyes to focus on her and put what command authority I could into my voice.

“Stim packs for the crews working overtime, scheduled overhaul of our combat and support systems, are both essential. Anything required to keep the men and women of the Fists of Doom in top shape during combat and post combat operations are essential. Yes Quarter Maser Sgt Nakamura; chocolate is essential.”

For the first time ever, she stepped back and gave me a parade ground salute. I waved vaguely in return. New knees, and new perspective. You get them as a set at no extra price. That kind of deal is only offered here in Mecha Galaxy.

John T Mainer 28840

[spider-man-and-i]

2. Blood never bothered the Merc

Patrol. Its usually pretty uneventful, get a kitten from a tree, help an old lady cross the road. But not tonight..he didn't know why but he could just feel it in his bones that tonight wasn't going to end very well. In fact he was right it ended very, very badly...

***Flash back to 8 months earlier***

Spider-man had been swinging from building to building making sure everyone in his city was A-okay when he came across a man, wearing a black and red leather full body suit, sitting on top of a building pretty far up there. Obviously the situation hadn't been dangerous for anyone other than the man sitting on top of the building so Spider-man swung to him and landed with a soft thud, one that shouldn't have been detected by the man but he snapped his head around.

"Hey man, it's okay." Spider-man said with his hands in the air. He kept his distance not wanting to cause the man to make any fast decisions by his movement.

"No! It's not okay.." The man said with a soft voice. "Nothing is okay..." He said and then he jumped before Peter could do anything. He ran to the edge to see...Nothing. There was nothing there, then he felt someone tap on his shoulder and turned to see the same man as before. Was he bowing?

"How the- what?" Was all he could get out as he stared at the man in the red and black leather. The man laughed and slung his arm over the other, smaller, man's shoulder.

"I'm Dead Pool! And I wasn't actually gonna jump, but you showed up acting like I was so..I did."

"But..But how? How are you- how did you? What!?" Peter asked and the man simply disappeared  then tapped the young Spider on the shoulder again and when he spun around the man fell down with laughter, and that was the start of a pretty good, pretty weird friendship.

***Present***

Peter felt kinda bad about blowing off Dead Pool but he had wanted to be alone tonight, he wanted to go on patrol with out the jokes and snide comments where silence should be. He wanted to swing through the city making sure his people were okay by himself because the silence allowed for thinking time. Even though he hated thinking because any time he started thinking he couldn't stop the memories and pain crashing into him like a truck. But thinking about it meant he could finally allow himself to get some built up tears out and he didn't want the Merc with a mouth to be there for that.

The city had been pretty uneventful lately so he figured instead of patrolling with the mercenary he could manage by himself, so he didn't go to the building top they had met on. But tonight ended differently than he wished. Tonight he ended up needing the merc more than he had ever needed anyone.

Actually, there was another reason he didn't trust himself with the other masked man. He trusted him. That wouldn't have been such a bad thing if he hadn't wanted so badly to take off his mask and let the man in black and red see him. Really see him, not just the alter ego he had created. He couldn't let the other man know who he was because it was dangerous..It was dangerous because he had people Peter Parker had to protect, not Spider-Man. He just wanted someone to see him and understand both parts of him, the spider and the boy.

It had been quiet after the gun shot that he had heard in some building pretty far off and as he swung closer to where the noise had radiated from he realized how close he was to his house. To his aunt's house more specifically. He tried to remain calm as the eerie silence filled his heart after his spidey senses and suit led him to the apartment building his aunt had lived in since.. since that night. He tried to keep his breathing even as he climbed up, letting his suit guide him, telling him where to go.

"Karen, are we going to my aunt's apartment?" he asked the suit in an almost too quiet voice. The artificial intelligence took a few moments to reply.

"I'm afraid so, Peter." She said and with that he climbed higher and faster until he reached the window he had climbed out of every night for the past 10 months. When he entered the apartment he felt the familiar buzzing and burn in the back of his head as he always had when he was in danger. He pushed the tears back as he walked through the threshold not knowing that if he walked any farther his life as he knew it would be over. He would have lost everyone he loved, everyone he cared about, everyone other than 3 friends. If he had known that his life would forever be changed and his soul would forever be tainted black then he would have ran, climbed back out that window and not come back.

When he reached the living room he saw her, lying there with her eyes open. The tears fell and he couldn't stop them. "No! No! Aunt May! Wake up! Please, wake up! You have to wake up now! Please don't leave me! Please oh god! Help! someone Help!" Peter cried tearing off his mask. If he had stayed home, if he hadn't gone out tonight he could have protected her. He could have stopped this. That's hen he saw it, in her hand the camera she had bought for him last week, the one he had left on the table that morning before school. He grabbed his aunt and picked her up so softly, afraid that if he moved too fast or too harshly he would wake her. Then he shook her hoping maybe he would wake her and she would tell him to knock it off and leave her alone. But the crimson stain on the floor let him know he was wrong.

she wasn't going to wake up. She wasn't going to annoy him by making jokes about how much his body was developing. She wasn't going to argue with him about doing laundry, she wasn't going to let Ned into Peter's room with out letting the young wall crawler know first. She wasn't going to embarrass him by saying larv. She wasn't going to be there to shake him awake from the nightmares he would continue having or the ones he was going to start having. She wasn't going to be there, holding him after he screamed himself awake, holding him while he cried. She wasn't going to wake up. Not this time. Not ever again.

He set her down gently as his tears became body shaking, heart wrenching sobs. He held her in his arms as he yelled and cursed the sky and cried. God how he cried. He had already hooked the camera up to the printer and was waiting to collect the pictures before he called the cops, but his sensitive hearing picked up sirens coming his way as the last picture printed. Someone had heard the gun shot, followed by the screams of a boy who had just lost what was left of his family. He grabbed the pictures, his mask and left, crawling through his window one last time.

He waited until he was on top of the tallest building in Queens before looking at the pictures and it was the first few that made him realize just how beautiful May is...was... He cried as he held one of the 2 of them posing with silly faces. He continued looking, knowing that there was a reason she had the camera in her hand as she died. As she died. As she died. Aunt May was dead. The reality of it hit him again and he screamed. He screamed until his lungs cried out. He screamed until his voice was scratchy and his throat hurt and then his screams became whimpers.

"Peter.." The A.I. in his suit, that was his suit said, "Look at the last picture." She said and he did. The last picture was a man holding a gun, a tattoo on his arm, barbed wire going all the way to his elbow. "His name is Stephen Mirez. Until now the only thing on his record was break ins and robberies."

"Find him. Scan the entire city if you have to Karen, just find him." It didn't take the suit very long to find the asshole who had just changed spider- man's life forever.

He found him in an alley running not too far from where he had just shot the one person he can say didn't deserve anything bad. He wasn't alone, 3 other men were with him walking down the dark alley. Spider-man swung down before anyone could notice.

"So you like shooting women in cold blood?" He spat and they all snapped their bodies around to look at me. The man, Stephen ran and the other three pulled out weapons. He webbed Stephen to a wall so he wouldn't get away while he took care of his buddies. One had a knife, one had brass knuckles with huge spikes on them, and the other had a gun. He quickly sprung into action, probably getting to into the beating up part but he couldn't care.

He webbed himself onto the man with the knife, not noticing the knife that cut deeply into his  side, Spider-man jumped off of him and webbed him to a wall. Next came gun guy, he webbed the gun out of his hand and to a wall before knocking him unconscious. He should have stopped when the buzzing and burn started in his head, it was stronger than usual but he couldn't stop his own hands as they fell on the man over and over until they were slick with blood.

That's when he felt it, the white hot pain. He hadn't heard the shot and turned to find knuckles guy holding a silenced gun. He stepped back in shock as pain ran through his body. It only took a second of hesitation for his to get shot again and the spiked knuckles to find their way into my side, opposite of the already healing knife wound. Stupid, stupid I should have know there would be another gun. He thought to himself.  When the Knuckles were pulled from his body he realized the spikes had not left, and quickly webbed the guy to the man who shot his aunt.

He then  lazily swung  himself from building to building feeling the pain as the wounds bled more and spread open as he forced himself to keep swinging. He knew couldn't take a break because if he did the nausea or the dizziness would overtake and he would just lay there and die. When he reached his destination he had to hold onto the wall of the building to look up. Sure enough there he was, silently waiting.

"Hey! Spidey! There you are!!" He said as he looked down at the spider who tried to web himself to the top but instead he  stumbled. "Whoa dude, you good?" He asked as the young web-slinger dizzily stumbled and swayed back and forth.

"Dead Po-" Was all he could manage before he fell only to be caught by gloved arms twice the size of his own.

"Oh god." was the last thing he heard before his legs failed to hold him and all his strength left his body, he felt arms gently loop through his legs and lift him, easily, off the ground.

[largando]

EMO_OSR_ExileIsland_Knights

Header: </style><a style="font-family:arial; font-weight:normal" >Knights of Exile Island<br><br>Exile Island is a crappy place between all the great empires and crawling with remnants of great evil empires from the pre flood era. There are so many dungeons here that farmers are always wary of digging up a cursed relic, a lost city or some horrible monster when all they want is turnips. The north is still wild and barbaric but the south has the barrony and a Colony of the Great Empire on the south continent. Both these lands produce knights but others come from far off lands to quest and kill monsters that are hard to find in less horrible lands.<br><br>A knight is basically a military aristocrat cavalryman who owes fealty to a superior lord all the way up to a king or emperor. Some who come to the Island are fairly exotic. Some weird non human knights also come. Undead knights occasionally roam the land too from when necromancers ruled man thousands of years ago.<br><br>from Elfmaids and Octopi<br></a><a style="font-family:arial; font-weight:normal; font-size:75%"><br>elfmaidsandoctopi.blogspot.com/2017/05/d100-knights-of-exile-island.html</a><hr>

table: start <style>ul \{margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 1em;}</style>& <style>table \{border-collapse: collapse;\}tr \{border-bottom: 1px solid black; border-collapse: collapse;\}</style>& <table><col width="150"><col width="1000">& [|<tr><td>Knight Type</td><td>[@KnightlyTypes]</td></tr>|<tr><td>Knight with Entourage</td><td>[@KnightsOfExileIsland]</td></tr>]& <tr><td>Doing what</td><td>[@WhatAreTheseKnightsUpTo]</td></tr>& <tr><td>Equipment</td><td><ul>[@KnightEquipment]</ul></td></tr>& <tr><td>Heraldry</td><td>[@MakeHeraldry]</td></tr>& </table>

table: MakeHeraldry {legs==4}& {creature=='[@HeraldicCreatureDesigns]'}& On a background of [@HeraldicColours]:<ul><li>& [!{1d3} HeraldicObjects >> implode <li>]& <li>{creature} [@CreatureDepiction{legs}]</ul>

Table: KnightlyTypes Knights of Barrony, where mostly evil robber knights near Shadelport come from Knights of The Empire, currently waging a long civil war around the young tyrant The Crusader knights who battle chaos eruptions in the name of the gods of Law Templar knights, warrior priests who serve the gods in the crusades Knights of Waerlund, the misty mystic Islands where knights and wizards rule together Knights of Dutainia, the Iron Kingdom, who grind the weak and poor under hoof Knights of Volnir, the frozen north kingdoms who wage eternal war against barbarians   Knights of Sindra, the desert kingdom, whose curved swords serve a strange god of law Knights of the lotus-shrouded dragon kingdoms, seeking salvation from desire and slavery Knights of the Cherry Blossom Islands, who fanatically kill and die for their bloody honour code [|Paladins|Holy champions] of a particular [|religion|state|order], on a great quest to destroy evil Obsidian knights, who ride terror birds in the great jungle kingdoms [@SomeStrangeKnights]

Table: SomeStrangeKnights Lizard knights, riding [|raptors|triceratops] from monster island come to challenge man Tako octopi riding flying sea horses have mass migrated to escape evil fish men Faerie knights ride unicorns (women) or stags (men) and hunt with werewolves Doom Knights, servants of the long gone necromancer kings are up to something Rowanac, chaos elf wizard knights who ride dragons, monsters and demons Giant knights ride mammoths and wooly rhinos from the glaciers to kill mankind Mutant Knights, corrupted by chaos into parodies of knighthood Changeling knights, from hidden courts of beast men and nature lords Beast knights from mongrel tribes of beast folk who seve chaos Witch knights, evil magical knights warped by the forces of hell

Table: WhatAreTheseKnightsUpTo Exiles now mercenaries who hope to find a new patron Robber knights have taken over a [|ruined castle|cave] Robber knights on borderland who profit from playing sides against each other On a sacred quest seeking a relic Hunting [|enemies|a criminal] Seek a important person to rescue Off to crusade killing anything they don't like look of on the way Hunting a [|fanciful questing beast|famous monster] Seeking to carve out a territory on lawless frontier Looking for deeds for fame and glory Seek opponent to challenge for the glory Blocking a [|road|bridge] to [|challenge|tax] passers by Seek a traitor who possibly sent them here on wild goose chase [|Cursed|Damned] to complete a doomed quest Fleeing destruction of their lord and now deemed outlaws Defending the common folk who have no justice Seeking [|squires|mercenaries] for an adventure since last ones were all killed Following a leader who has shamefully led them all to tragedy and dishonour Hunting an evil [|magician|priest] raising hell the area Escorting something or someone of great importance

Table: KnightEquipment <li>Ringmail AC+3<li>Spear<li>Shield<li>Sword<li>Helmet<li>Light warhorse <li>Scalemail AC+4<li>Spear<li>Lance<li>Shield<li>Sword<li>Helmet<li>Light warhorse<li>Baggage horse<li>Squire <li>Chainmail AC+5 spear<li>Lance<li>Shield<li>Sword<li>Mace<li>Helmet<li>Medium warhorse<li>Baggage horse<li>Squire <li>Splint Mail AC+6<li>Spear<li>Two lances<li>Shield<li>Sword<li>Mace<li>Helmet<li>Medium warhorse<li>Two baggage horses<li>Squire<li>Courtly outfit<li>Type one kit for squire or spare <li>Plate Mail AC+7<li>Spear<li>Three lances<li>Shield<li>Sword<li>Mace<li>Helmet<li>Medium warhorse<li>Three baggage horses<li>Riding horse<li>Luxury tent<li>Squire<li>Servant<li>Two courtly outfits<li>Type to kit for squire <li>Full Plate AC +8<li>Spear<li>{1d4+1} lances<li>Shield<li>Sword<li>Mace<li>Helmet<li>Light warhorse<li>Two baggage horses<li>Two squires (one young one older)<li>{d4} servants<li>Bard<li>{d4+1} courtly outfits<li>Type three kit for old squire and type one for younger one

//Lady Knights fine in my setting and amazons are pretty common - i guess there could be amazon knights. feel free to change genders and names.

Table: QuickKnightTypes Young Knights Veteran Knights Old Knights Hopeless knights Robber Knights Wicked Knights Foriegn knights Hell Knights Holy Knights Strange Knights

Table: KnightsOfExileIsland Sir Everard a young knight seeking glory and adventure opportunities to make a name Sir Aramor driven from home and his inheritance usurped seeks allies to help him Sir Marat hopes to obtain some peasants and take them to claim frontier land Sir Donal is being hunted by hired killers and cant get home he worries about Sir Alek wants allies so he can attack humanoid villages on the frontier for glory Sir Petar seeks to kill the man who killed his father Sir Seramon looking for his sweetheart who was kidnapped by a wicked hag Sir Fanilek is haunted by a evil spirit and has fled home to spare his family Sir Danor who is secretly a lady in disguise trying to save her family and brother Sir Radiment wants quick cash and experience is looking to join murder hobos for a bit Sir Morngrim seems a gloomy down and out knight but secretly is a spy seeking bandits Sir Ormond is looking for holy relics so gods will forgive his broken vows Sir Dremond has returned from crusade to find everyone he knows is dead from plague Sir Hillary secretly a templar is looking for signs of chaos in the frontier to destroy Sir Lorien seeks elves or faeries to translate family documents for a inheritence Sir Digby likes to drink and fight and likes to join murder hobo companies for fun Sir Lor serves a dark cult and roams seeking suckers he can lure into cult dungeon Sir Villimor looking for goblins who kidnapped a peasant girl Sir Arrant has become a desperate highwayman and hides his heraldry for the shame Sir Kernu is a wild knight who has been impeding hunters and loggers on the frontier Sir Tirion is world weary and seeks a just cause to die for Sir Mardrak seeks magic to restore his youth chasing any story or lead Sir Orlak seeks to start glorious war with humanoids to reignite the flower of manliness Sir Firlion wants glory and fame after years of inglorious courtly administration Sir Wadrak is a chaos agent and wants dupes to release demons trapped in a dungeon Sir Curleon seeks secret decadent vice and inhuman pleasure often joins adventurers Sir Garlan a tired almost broke old knight wants cash but really wants a home Sir Karlid serves a vampire sorceress and lures young heroes to be her victims Sir Glorion throws splendid decadent parties and secretly has links to many cults Sir Kalidad killed his kin and now lurks country trails hoping to join robber knight band Sir Glubfrey seeks young adventurers but really he works for goblins who pay him Sir Arnold distracts travellers with colourful stories while his servants rob them Sir Seran seeks brave warriors to join him because his cult needs them as sacrifices Sir Corgan begs to join parties but he is vain, boastful and a bit of a coward Sir Bendell is a washed up drunk but he joins adventurers to cook tasty monsters Sir Viran brings his werewolf lover with him everywhere that usually ends in tragedy Sir Corman is ill and wants to die fighting, his family will blame his companions Sir Veritous is a hopeless black lotus addict and will do anything to get more Sir Bindle has inferior equipment and hopeless servants but wants to fight monsters Sir Abanathy is insanely greedy and will join explorers but will try to steal treasure Sir Doran leads a band of villains from a ruined keep and charges road tolls Sir Malcombe leads brutal murdering bandits who kill all to keep his good name Sir Toran has kidnapped many ladies to work looms and has ogres guarding them Sir Voran leads bandits but they are also cultists who torment and sacrifice captives Sir Kippel and his robber band have a ruined keep and command a long stretch of road Sir Rendel and his robber band are actually were rats but they usually hide this fact Sir Orzak is a robber and has recruited evil goat men who eat their victims Sir Telran leads a robberknight band from a cave and they worship devils Sir Malarous enjoys robbing with his band and taking hostages to their hidden dungeon Sir Banlan the one eyed leads a band of cut throats and they impale captives for fun Sir Zaran serves a witch who has brought him back from the dead several times Sir Kerab rules a village of cultists off the main roads who worship demonic megaliths Sir Varas rounds up victims by force then tortures confessions from them for treason Sir Korad works with witch hunters egging them on to atrocities while he worships chaos Sir Malekor collects orphans and buys poor children he burns before a altar in a dungeon Sir Vardel kidnaps and spoils maidens then feeds them to his wyvern in his tower Sir Garad recruits commoners to the rebellion then captures and hangs them for rewards Sir Kaldor lures victims into the forest ruled by his spider demon lover Sir Tarump boasts about his deeds but actually works with hobgoblin chiefs in secret Sir Marrus joins travellers and shares poison wine with them from his evil cult Sir Erad is a swarthy strange knight with unusual weapons for a knight on a quest Sir Tremour is a beautiful foreign knight that women harass and keep ruining his life Sir Farziv is a foreign knight with spectacular decorations who is rude and superior Sir Kalimar is a strange foreign knight actually a fishman hybrid seeking sea god relics Sir Utilkar is a exotic feather plumed knight with a obsidian sword on a quest Sir Barbar is huge foreign man with sharpened teeth who collects severed heads Sir Kunlun is a strange foriegn knight with a jade sword and spectacular fighting arts Sir Umbra is a dark skinned warrior from far away with odd customs but very noble Sir Sharmar is a strange knight from far away seeking glory in combat and gold Sir Sir Hazran a knight from distant kingdom seeking prehistoric tomb   Sir Kerull is actually a devil in human form seeking escapee criminals from hell Sir Nimeon herding coffle of chained serfs to sell to raise funds for hell Sir Viran with his men rounding up villagers for treasonously avoiding taxes Sir Raddog with secret police and erinyes devil looking for traitors hiding from law Sir Masterman with cultists looking for host body for devil promising superhuman powers Sir Curmdgen looking for a hellmouth so he can deliver gifts to the dukes of hell Sir Tradmere transporting naked criminals to deposit in hellmouth Sir Mortlen seeking relics of hell sealed away by good long ago in dungeon Sir Varan is actually a shape shifting devil trying to grant wishes four souls of knights Sir Orlok a vampire knight sent by hell to killl those trying to get out of serving hell Sir Armelia a lady paladin seeking evils on backwood roads she has heard of Sir Marlok a fanatic paladin seeks to destroy village of possible chaos cultists in area Sir Tirion the paladin looking to challenge wicked knights and cults on the frontier Sir Zabur hunting ogres on frontier who have preyed on villagers Sir Marmad the paladin hoping to keep the peace on the frontier and preventing wars Sir Cordelia a lady paladin who heals the poor and hunts plague spreading evils Sir Curan a paladin seeking lost relics of good and hopes to destroy evil relics Sir Prendal a paladin intolerant of druidry and non lawful cults who tolerate evil Sir Korthal seeks to burn non lawful good holy places and kill non believers Sir Marel the paladin kept busy rescuing maidens from harm Sir Golan wears suit of decorated plate he never removes because he is a iron golem Sir Boran is actually a revenant with cultist servants who work to kill knights Sir Derleth scours the land seeking rival old ones cults to destroy for his master Hastur Sir Baran roams the land collecting treasure for master is actually a dream emanation Sir Viriam is actually a elf in disguise with druidic disciples as servants on elf quests Sir Orlando is a ancient immortal knight who changes gender occasionally   Sir Mortis is a flesh golem and his servants are really necromantic apprentices Sir Perimore a famous musician and courtly lover but really he drains the life of his mates Sir Grendan the Sea knight is actually a fishman hybrid serving dark sea god cults Sir Vetrin is a imortal seeking a relic so the gods will finally let him die

Table: HeraldicColours a single colour two coloured halves split [|vertically|horizontally] two colours, [|divided into quarters|checkerboard pattern] three colours in [|horizontal|vertical|diagonal] bands four colours divided into quarters

// Sometimes heraldry seems to fit knights character sometimes it is a problem. My friends family coat of arms had three severed negro heads which family rightfully embarrassed by. // Feel to pick something that suits the knight though. Pick a colours that seems to suit the knight. Poses of beasts all have names and a easy way to distinguish between knights // with same beast or you might have two or three of the same beasts on one design.

Table: CreatureDepiction4 head only, facing [|front|left|right] lying down standing on all fours standing on all fours, facing front standing on all fours, one leg raised standing on all fours, one leg raised face front on standing on hind legs, forelegs in air standing on hind legs, looking behind -- two of them, standing on hind legs, facing each other

Table: CreatureDepiction2 head only, facing [|front|left|right] lying down standing, facing [|front|left|right] standing, looking behind -- two of them, standing, facing each other

Table: CreatureDepiction0 head only, facing [|front|left|right] lying down risen up, facing [|front|left|right] risen up, looking behind -- two of them, risen up, facing each other

Table: CreatureDepiction3 \z

Table: HeraldicCreatureDesigns Dog (for loyalty) Cat (for the crafty) Lion (for the brave) Wolf (for the fierce) Deer (for lord of the woods) Boar (for savagery) Bear (for might) Fox (for cunning) Goat (for resilience) Bull (for might) Falcon (for alertness){legs==2} Owl (for wisdom){legs==2} Rooster (for protection){legs==2} Puffin (for fidelity){legs==2} Raven (for cunning){legs==2} Peacock (for splendour){legs==2} Finch (for industry){legs==2} Swan (for beauty){legs==2} Duck (for intuition){legs==2} Eagle (for freedom){legs==2} Beaver (for hard work) Mole (for destiny) Rat (for survival) Otter (for creativity) Weasel (for cunning) Bat (for fearsomeness){legs==2} Shrew (for savagery) Hare (for craftiness) Hedgehog (for protection) Squirrel (for preparation) Snake (for fertility) Toad (for longevity) Frog (for opportunity) Newt (for magic) Turtle (for patience) Crocodile (for devouring) Lizard (for regeneration) Raptor (for ferocity) Triceratops (for defence) Tyrannosaur (for might) Dolphin (for helping){legs==0} Shark (for savagery){legs==0} Pike (for alertness){legs==0} Whale (for might){legs==0} Swordfish (for aggression){legs==0} Barracuda (for warlike){legs==0} Catfish (for longevity){legs==0} Narwhale (for nobility){legs==0} Lobster (for inscrutibility){legs==0} Crab (for determination){legs==0} Octopus (for cunning){legs==0} Basilisk (for lethality) Wyrm (for wisdom) Dragon (for wealth) Wyvern (for determination) Salamander (for invulnerability) Drake (for cunning) Naga (for mystery){legs==0} Amphisbaena (for eternity ){legs==0} Cerastes (for steadfastness (Ram horned snakes)){legs==0} Unicorn (for purity) Yale (for preparation) Cateoplas (for awfulness) Gorgon (for fearsomeness) Peryton (for deception){legs==2} Leucrotta (for duplicity) Manticore (for mean spirited) Chimera (for versatility) Sphynx (for mysterious) Lamia (for attrition ) Ogre (for brutishness){legs==2} Satyr (for fertility){legs==2} Mermaid (for duality){legs==0} Minotaur (for guardianship){legs==2} Goatman (for virility){legs==2} Cyclops (for single minded){legs==2} Centaur (for ambiguity) Giant (for appetite){legs==2} Gigantes (snake legged giants) (for strength){legs==2} Apkallu (fish man sage) (for wisdom){legs==2} Harpy (for revolting){legs==2} Siren (for charming){legs==2} Phoenix (for immortality){legs==2} Cockatrice (for destruction){legs==2} Griffon (for ferocity) Hippogriff (for loyalty) Hippalectryon (half rooster and horse) (for alertness) Stymphalian Birds (for steadfastness){legs==2} Pegasus (for loyalty) Winged snake (for healing){legs==0} Elemental (for magic){legs==0} Hag, [|washing|holding a broom] (for terror).{legs==3}// 3 means no positions Ankou (robed skeleton with lamp and scythe) (for death) Vampire (for eternal hunger){legs==2} Werewolf (for savagery){legs==2} Hellhound (for ferocity) Hellcat (for duplicity) Demon (for evil){legs==2} Devil (for domination){legs==2} Angel (for holiness){legs==2} //Bees, snails, rabbits, eels, kingfisher and anything really depending on climate, local industry and taste

Table: HeraldicObjects Holy symbol Book Grail Scales Eye Sword Axe Mace Severed head Bottle Bunch of grapes Head of wheat Poppy head Flower Tree Apple Hammer Waves Crown Sceptre Spear Horn Harp Drum Skull Armoured knight Candle Lantern Scroll Fish hook Anchor Quill Acorn Mistletoe Turnip Onion Tankard Helmet Bound faggots Burning faggots Noose Coil of rope Pick Spade Wheel Tower Castle Crossbones Open hand Heart Gem Barrel Ship Anvil Flail Cat-o-nine-tails Pitchfork Portcullis Needle and thread Smoking pipe Boot Gauntlet Chest Chain Hourglass Star Ring Key Sausage Mortar and pestle Wheat sheaf Cauldron Beehive Snowflake Teardrop Seashell Fist Bell Oakleaf Pinecone Arrow Crescent Full moon Sun Mountain Volcano Mushroom Treestump Sickle Scythe Shears Comet Jaws Compass Gate Birdcage Shepherds crook Chariot [|Hood|Domino mask] [|Chef's|Papal|Mayoral] hat

[aion-rsa]

Clevinger Presents a Real Science Adventure with The Flying She-Devils

For ten years, Brian Clevinger and Scott Wegener’s “Atomic Robo” has blazed the trail for high-adventure, good-time, sci-fi comics. Appearing both online and in print from IDW Publishing, Robo’s met dozens of outrageous and memorable characters, each of whom have potentially dozens of stories of their own to reveal. This April, Clevinger, Wegener, and IDW team up with Lo Baker of Aquapunk to bring another of Robo’s allies to the printed page in the high-flying, dogfighting, madcap “Real Science Adventures: The Flying She-Devils.”

First introduced in “Atomic Robo and the Flying She-Devils of the Pacific,” the She-Devils are a cadre of women pilots operating during the aftermath of World War II. Their debut spotlight finds them pursued by fanatical skyraider Mad Jack after they conspire to liberate a Sunderland patrol bomber from his possession. Baker’s vertiginous aerial escapades match Clevinger’s rapid fire dialogue to take readers on a six-issue thrill ride above the Pacific Ocean.

CBR: Brian, how soon after they first appeared in “Atomic Robo” did you start wanting to tell more stories about the Flying She-Devils?

Brian Clevinger: Immediately! Both because Rocket Powered Lady Air Pirates as a concept begs for more and more stories, and because we put them in a specific time and place filled with adventure hooks by recasting the Pacific Ocean as a kind of all-new wild west.

For people who missed their debut, can you give a short-version of the Flying She-Devils’ mission?

These women served the Allies in World War Two as pilots, engineers, mechanics, nurses, etc. and when the war was over, they decided to stay in the Pacific to make new lives for themselves. But it’s a new life surrounded by other pirates, mercenaries, and warlords.

“Real Science Adventures” wears a lot of classic adventure strip influence on its sleeve. Were there any particular inspirations you were channelling?

While there are tons of aeronautical pulp adventure comics, I always thought of the She-Devils as a Western that just happens to occur in a different time and place. Which is to say, the fact that they fly takes a backseat to the sheer lawlessness that surrounds our heroes and how/why they push against it. Oddly enough, this means “She-Devils” tracks closer to a wuxia story than flying ace comics.

The other major influence appears to be the chase. The opening arc is basically one very long chase sequence with lots of aerial action. Was that a specific choice, or was there a notable inspiration?

The She-Devils are very much an air and sea version of “Mad Max.” Does that make them Mad Maxine? But just like those movies you’ve got someone committed to justice in the face of chaos or corruption and overwhelming odds. The She-Devils and Max have two choices. Respond to the lawlessness, or give up and let the environment kill you. It lets you explore how and when and why these heroes choose to act when nothing matters but surviving for the next three seconds.

How long have the She-Devils’ adventures been appearing online? Do you plan to continue their adventures for the foreseeable future?

Oh, wow. I hadn’t thought of that! We put the first page online almost exactly one year ago!

There’s no explicit plan for more She-Devils stories, but that’s what I used to say before we made this one! Part of the advantage of how they’re situated in the overall Robo mythos is that it only takes a spark of an idea and suddenly you’ve got another six issues of adventures for them. So, yeah, nothing specific in mind, but She-Devils have already proven they can’t be kept them grounded for long.

Most of the stories have already appeared online before moving to print with IDW. Do you find much crossover between the webcomics audience and the print audience? In talking to other creators, there seems to be a divide and was wondering if you’ve noticed that or had any thoughts on it.

So, we dumped all our comics archives online back in 2015. Our new content goes online too, and I’d say about 95% of that is in advance of the print editions. Our data suggests there is no net crossover.

Obviously, there are those people who choose to throw money at “Atomic Robo” every way they can. The Patreon, the Kickstarters, the print issues, the collections, the comiXology versions. Lord knows we could use more of ‘em! And there are some folks who read it online for free without ever spending a nickel. That’s fine too! Hell, that’s why it’s online in the first place. You can read our stuff without any barriers and then decide for yourself if, when, and how to throw some money at us.

But almost everyone who supports us in some way chooses one of those options and sticks to it exclusively. Common wisdom suggests these different revenue streams ought to cannibalize one another, or at the very least detract from print sales, but in practice each one serves a different kind of customer who has no interest in the other options. Together they add up to two guys doing independent comics as their full time jobs. Which is pretty crazy. The fact that we’re starting our twelfth series (fifteenth if you count “RSA”) is simply unheard of.

Will there be material in the print versions that hasn’t appeared online?

There’s material that hasn’t appeared yet…but is going online with one page added every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday as of March 6th. It’s an all-new story about the Sparrow infiltrating a secret Nazi “wonder weapon” facility. Spoiler: things will explode.

Anything to tease for “Real Science Adventures” after the She-Devils and Sparrow stories?

I just wrapped up the scripts for our next RSA series. It’s tentatively titled “The History of Everything” but that might change before it comes out. Either way, it takes place way back in the eleventh century right on the cusp of the First Crusade starting up. Our heroes are attempting to break into the most secure facility in the known world, The Imperial Library of Constantinople.

The research and writing for this thing was a real hoot and we can’t wait to share it with you. Should be available later this year!

In addition to “Real Science Adventures” and “Atomic Robo,” do you have anything else in the works?

I’ve got a few things in mind but nothing concrete just yet. The great thing about “Atomic Robo” and our ability to expand upon its setting with “Real Science Adventures” is that we’re able to build one giant world of filled with adventures of just about any genre. We’ve got heists, Weird War 2 stuff, Tesla, Wild West, Cold War spy action, deep dark conspiracies, a talking dinosaur, rockmen of Hollow Earth, kaiju, and on and on.

And that sounds like a wacky pastiche of random sci-fi tropes, but we welded it all together into a coherent whole with a robot at the center of it.

The post Clevinger Presents a Real Science Adventure with The Flying She-Devils appeared first on CBR.

http://ift.tt/2pflo9l

[spider-man-and-i]

1. The fight, the friend, and the Foe

Patrol. Its usually pretty uneventful, get a kitten from a tree, help an old lady cross the road. But not tonight..he didn't know why but he could just feel it in his bones that tonight wasn't going to end very well. In fact he was right it ended very, very badly...

***Flash back to 8 months earlier***

Spider-man had been swinging from building to building making sure everyone in his city was A-okay when he came across a man, wearing a black and red leather full body suit, sitting on top of a building pretty far up there. Obviously the situation hadn't been dangerous for anyone other than the man sitting on top of the building so Spider-man swung to him and landed with a soft thud, one that shouldn't have been detected by the man but he snapped his head around.

"Hey man, it's okay." Spider-man said with his hands in the air. He kept his distance not wanting to cause the man to make any fast decisions by his movement.

"No! It's not okay.." The man said with a soft voice. "Nothing is okay..." He said and then he jumped before Peter could do anything. He ran to the edge to see...Nothing. There was nothing there, then he felt someone tap on his shoulder and turned to see the same man as before. Was he bowing?

"How the- what?" Was all he could get out as he stared at the man in the red and black leather. The man laughed and slung his arm over the other, smaller, man's shoulder.

"I'm Dead Pool! And I wasn't actually gonna jump, but you showed up acting like I was so..I did."

"But..But how? How are you- how did you? What!?" Peter asked and the man simply disappeared  then tapped the young Spider on the shoulder again and when he spun around the man fell down with laughter, and that was the start of a pretty good, pretty weird friendship.

***Present***

Peter felt kinda bad about blowing off Dead Pool but he had wanted to be alone tonight, he wanted to go on patrol with out the jokes and snide comments where silence should be. He wanted to swing through the city making sure his people were okay by himself because the silence allowed for thinking time. Even though he hated thinking because any time he started thinking he couldn't stop the memories and pain crashing into him like a truck. But thinking about it meant he could finally allow himself to get some built up tears out and he didn't want the Merc with a mouth to be there for that.

The city had been pretty uneventful lately so he figured instead of patrolling with the mercenary he could manage by himself, so he didn't go to the building top they had met on. But tonight ended differently than he wished. Tonight he ended up needing the merc more than he had ever needed anyone.

Actually, there was another reason he didn't trust himself with the other masked man. He trusted him. That wouldn't have been such a bad thing if he hadn't wanted so badly to take off his mask and let the man in black and red see him. Really see him, not just the alter ego he had created. He couldn't let the other man know who he was because it was dangerous..It was dangerous because he had people Peter Parker had to protect, not Spider-Man. He just wanted someone to see him and understand both parts of him, the spider and the boy.

It had been quiet after the gun shot that he had heard in some building pretty far off and as he swung closer to where the noise had radiated from he realized how close he was to his house. To his aunt's house more specifically. He tried to remain calm as the eerie silence filled his heart after his spidey senses and suit led him to the apartment building his aunt had lived in since.. since that night. He tried to keep his breathing even as he climbed up, letting his suit guide him, telling him where to go.

"Karen, are we going to my aunt's apartment?" he asked the suit in an almost too quiet voice. The artificial intelligence took a few moments to reply.

"I'm afraid so, Peter." She said and with that he climbed higher and faster until he reached the window he had climbed out of every night for the past 10 months. When he entered the apartment he felt the familiar buzzing and burn in the back of his head as he always had when he was in danger. He pushed the tears back as he walked through the threshold not knowing that if he walked any farther his life as he knew it would be over. He would have lost everyone he loved, everyone he cared about, everyone other than 3 friends. If he had known that his life would forever be changed and his soul would forever be tainted black then he would have ran, climbed back out that window and not come back.

When he reached the living room he saw her, lying there with her eyes open. The tears fell and he couldn't stop them. "No! No! Aunt May! Wake up! Please, wake up! You have to wake up now! Please don't leave me! Please oh god! Help! someone Help!" Peter cried tearing off his mask. If he had stayed home, if he hadn't gone out tonight he could have protected her. He could have stopped this. That's hen he saw it, in her hand the camera she had bought for him last week, the one he had left on the table that morning before school. He grabbed his aunt and picked her up so softly, afraid that if he moved too fast or too harshly he would wake her. Then he shook her hoping maybe he would wake her and she would tell him to knock it off and leave her alone. But the crimson stain on the floor let him know he was wrong.

she wasn't going to wake up. She wasn't going to annoy him by making jokes about how much his body was developing. She wasn't going to argue with him about doing laundry, she wasn't going to let Ned into Peter's room with out letting the young wall crawler know first. She wasn't going to embarrass him by saying larv. She wasn't going to be there to shake him awake from the nightmares he would continue having or the ones he was going to start having. She wasn't going to be there, holding him after he screamed himself awake, holding him while he cried. She wasn't going to wake up. Not this time. Not ever again.

He set her down gently as his tears became body shaking, heart wrenching sobs. He held her in his arms as he yelled and cursed the sky and cried. God how he cried. He had already hooked the camera up to the printer and was waiting to collect the pictures before he called the cops, but his sensitive hearing picked up sirens coming his way as the last picture printed. Someone had heard the gun shot, followed by the screams of a boy who had just lost what was left of his family. He grabbed the pictures, his mask and left, crawling through his window one last time.

He waited until he was on top of the tallest building in Queens before looking at the pictures and it was the first few that made him realize just how beautiful May is...was... He cried as he held one of the 2 of them posing with silly faces. He continued looking, knowing that there was a reason she had the camera in her hand as she died. As she died. As she died. Aunt May was dead. The reality of it hit him again and he screamed. He screamed until his lungs cried out. He screamed until his voice was scratchy and his throat hurt and then his screams became whimpers.

"Peter.." The A.I. in his suit, that was his suit said, "Look at the last picture." She said and he did. The last picture was a man holding a gun, a tattoo on his arm, barbed wire going all the way to his elbow. "His name is Stephen Mirez. Until now the only thing on his record was break ins and robberies."

"Find him. Scan the entire city if you have to Karen, just find him." It didn't take the suit very long to find the asshole who had just changed spider- man's life forever.

He found him in an alley running not too far from where he had just shot the one person he can say didn't deserve anything bad. He wasn't alone, 3 other men were with him walking down the dark alley. Spider-man swung down before anyone could notice.

"So you like shooting women in cold blood?" He spat and they all snapped their bodies around to look at me. The man, Stephen ran and the other three pulled out weapons. He webbed Stephen to a wall so he wouldn't get away while he took care of his buddies. One had a knife, one had brass knuckles with huge spikes on them, and the other had a gun. He quickly sprung into action, probably getting to into the beating up part but he couldn't care.

He webbed himself onto the man with the knife, not noticing the knife that cut deeply into his  side, Spider-man jumped off of him and webbed him to a wall. Next came gun guy, he webbed the gun out of his hand and to a wall before knocking him unconscious. He should have stopped when the buzzing and burn started in his head, it was stronger than usual but he couldn't stop his own hands as they fell on the man over and over until they were slick with blood.

That's when he felt it, the white hot pain. He hadn't heard the shot and turned to find knuckles guy holding a silenced gun. He stepped back in shock as pain ran through his body. It only took a second of hesitation for his to get shot again and the spiked knuckles to find their way into my side, opposite of the already healing knife wound. Stupid, stupid I should have know there would be another gun. He thought to himself.  When the Knuckles were pulled from his body he realized the spikes had not left, and quickly webbed the guy to the man who shot his aunt.

He then  lazily swung  himself from building to building feeling the pain as the wounds bled more and spread open as he forced himself to keep swinging. He knew couldn't take a break because if he did the nausea or the dizziness would overtake and he would just lay there and die. When he reached his destination he had to hold onto the wall of the building to look up. Sure enough there he was, silently waiting.

"Hey! Spidey! There you are!!" He said as he looked down at the spider who tried to web himself to the top but instead he  stumbled. "Whoa dude, you good?" He asked as the young web-slinger dizzily stumbled and swayed back and forth.

"Dead Po-" Was all he could manage before he fell only to be caught by gloved arms twice the size of his own.

"Oh god." was the last thing he heard before his legs failed to hold him and all his strength left his body, he felt arms gently loop through his legs and lift him, easily, off the ground.