#hearthfire-verse

[nattyontherun]

- 4.6k, 1/1

- emotional hurt/comfort, post-chapter 698, depression, slowburn

“The Bloody Mist,” he muses. “You wouldn't know shit if you just looked at it."

“Now, now,” Kakashi says, directing them to a cobblestone walkway shaded by a canopy of vines. “We all have our unfortunate pasts. I think Terumi did well for her village. It's… exceptional.”

“It's garish.”

[incendiorum-arch]

I really enjoy writing things that give away io's trust in a person. how much lu likes a person or acts with them is a direct link to how much io trusts them. i.e. lu is most affectionate (besides with io) with latona, who is someone io trusts the most they themself possibly can.

[maidmythics]

a basic understanding of skyrim / the elder scrolls in general, for those who need / want it. part one, part two here. ♡

personally, i think the best way to get a good read on the game itself & any need-to-know lore (even just basic stuff) would be to read through the wiki! it's fan-run, so it's pretty organized & easy to understand, plus it's updated as needed. there’s the fandom wiki (here) but i prefer (& recommend) the uesp one (here) … it’s much more organized & concise in my opinion!! less ads around the space too O_O

if you want to go even further, there's also the imperial library but that's more for reading in-depth (in-game, i think?) information. if you want to go for it, go right ahead! but otherwise if you just want the 'foundation', don't worry about it. :')

anyways! here's some basic links that could help you understand the universe / remilia a bit better: mainly lore, but some gameplay aspects too — just be careful of any spoilers if you may play the game(s) in the future! no need to read through all of them, of course, just read what you'd like. the most important to understanding the portrayal / if you want to make a verse yourself are marked :]

in general:

⭐️ the game itself / the plot ⭐️  (skyrim, the setting of tes: skyrim)* ⭐️  (tamriel, the overall continent & its other lands / races / cultures) ⭐️  (dragons!!!)* ⭐️  (dragonborn / what remi is!)* ⭐️  (alduin, the main antagonist of the main game)* ⭐️  (miraak, the main antagonist of the third dlc, the first dragonborn) ⭐️  (lore for the thu’um)* ⭐️  (the divines) ⭐️  (the daedric princes; not all are really important to remilia or need to be known except for nocturnal & azura mainly! but if you're just interested in them or curious, go right ahead <3)

[ there are also two main add-ons for skyrim (hearthfire is the third one but i don’t really count it because it’s more for building): dawnguard & dragonborn.* ]

[downy-roses]

Sapphic Conlag Poem (Cairkosi)

Said I'd post it when I finished my physics homework. I am free, for now. It's my first conlang, so don't mind its fragrant theft of English based grammar.

Ey’ael eneh ain Paith [My spouse (wife) of the Prairie]

Verse 1: Cyre eneh Erih

Ol nel ey’ael dern haln’adfa.

Cael nel oy wyrt’cyrcerd, ey’slia.

Ael, cael oithen adfaenairc’wodre.

Aelre caelre nel, sain nel ey’wyre.

Verse 2: Mairc’wyrt eneh Ireh

Fain nel saeltylloh, aroithyll, dern alohn.

Cael maircen pern, rel’oith, oh ain gwohn.

Ras pern fey ireh’adfa, oh bohn nel rasyll.

Aelohre caelre nel, ereh os, cael nel paithyll.

Translation from Cairkosi to Western Theran (Represented by English)

[Birds of Dawn]

[You be my-lover (spouse) and home-flame(hearthfire)]

[I will be your fate-bird (magpie), my-heart]

[Lover, I sing (habitual?) burning-madnesses/dreams (passions/desires?)]

[Lovers we be, they (singular) be our-fates/choices (same concept?)]

[Crossroad of Dusk] (Written some decades after the first part)

[She was horse-like (swift/strong?), elf-like (half elven), and river (metaphor for beautiful?)]

[I travel with, one-song (a lament), oh the pale]

[Wail (dirge) beside her dusk-flame (funerary candle?), oh it is wail-like (sorrow?)]

[Lovers we were, of you, I am prairie-like (lost/homesick?)]

It's in universe translated by my quarter-elven Cairkosi storyteller OC, and trans lesbian, Pippin. The Cairkosi are a formerly nomadic, now agrarian, human culture. They lived on a prairie before its destruction around two hundred years before the story's time.

[sasorikigai]

❛  i might as well sleep for 100 years or so.  ❜ ( any of their modern-ish verses lmao )

🐝  *  ―  𝑺𝑷𝑶𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑩𝑶𝑩 𝑺𝑸𝑼𝑨𝑹𝑬𝑷𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑺 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺. || @sonxflight || accepting

💥 || They both may be sad strangers in the world full of sorrow and grief; for no one bears a tenth of what they feel. So bitter once was Hanzo Hasashi's grief, yet when his soul screams, his very own body can hear nothing. It must have been his own mindful prison preventing him. A paradox of his own making. While he still internally cries from the depth of his souls to belong, to breath life in sanity, to break free from the prison emotions bestowing upon his heart, mind, and soul - his very existence, he wonders how much further he can run. How much harder does he have to try to escape? How much can he handle? How can he go back in time and change or erase? There may be a realization that the very prison he is running from exists only in his mind and only he can suffocate and conquer this unending spell.

Love has been the prime thing that helped Hanzo suffocate and conquer such unending spell; for it grows in the precious light of his chest, watered by peace and blessed by hope as beauty that will continue to plant the seeds of truth in his soul that enables him to open his eyes. He believes that everything can be within reach as long as he has faith and breathing room in his soul. No longer, he is burdened with the knowledge that all his happiness will lie in the palms of his hands, wrapped tightly between the fingers of a red, bleeding heart. It still may be capable of tearing the very fabric of his being into shredded pieces if it suddenly just decided to, but Hanzo has learned to sew them all back and still embed gold strings that will never tear asunder, lest it crinkles and become imperfect.

It is bubbling up again, that emotion of unbidden rage he will forever harbor to a certain degree which he falsely thought he smothered for good. It may never near the urgency of volcanic activity as he would visibly struggle with such cataclysmic consequences which he still bears in his flesh, heart, and soul, but Hanzo knows, the renewed renaissance of wonder, trust, and love have transformed him to be more mellow and relaxed. The hearthfire of his being burns, as if challenging the plummeted temperature to ameliorate the bone-seeping coldness of the American Northeastern winter. The stronghold of his chiseled arm approaches and embraces Ryou Sakai in all his wholeness; in attempt to break this endless circle of grief, misery, of pain - as if metaphorical blood was staining both of them as gore and brimstone drip.

Hanzo Hasashi could be defined as many things - mostly vengeance, seeking the blood of the kill, capable of ruining any life in destruction and decay - but he has become whole. Complete and wholesome, perhaps more patient and empathetic than ever. The deep timbre of his voice echoes in their milieu, as if it was only meant to be shared in their absolute privacy. They are secluded from all the others, perched atop the chaise longue of the upscale bar they frequent.

"Maybe sometimes you are just really sad about this world, so you are trying to force yourself to feel nothing for stretches of time - and it's just one of the myriad ways your humanity destroys you every day," a shallow exhale, then his fervent lips kiss Ryou on his forehead. Beneath the drifting masses of orange and yellow lights, their silhouettes clump into one, then undulates to separate in afterimages. "While tragedy becomes beauty as our entirety became wasted into masterpieces that could not pulverized... But when does anthropology become a story we tell to make ourselves feel better? The truth always has been - not everything broken can be repaired and not everything broken should be. Just like us." 💥 ||

[gretchensinister]

Fun with blank verse. I think the rest is self-explanatory.

Text of poem under read more.

Homes Outside

Jim wants the carnival, and Will wants Jim

You want to know exactly how? My friend,

Were your desires clear, fourteen summers grown?

Then you were lucky, wanting naméd things.

But more than half the want in Jim and Will

Is turned to everything that’s not yet known.

The carnival tempts with the sweetest dark,

The kind that patient waits at every edge

And marks the place where other-outsides start.

Jim knows that’s where he’s placed, compared to Will,

And so he’s learned to want it, hope it home.

Dark fatherless boy, true untethered kite

Once outside, you can never quite move in

No matter danger and no matter sin.

You learn to make their hellfire your hearthfire.

And this wild carnival? Proves darkness full

And peopled. Who, and where, and how? Who cares?

Obscure, the customs of night-country are,

But signs they are that dark is not a void

And those who travel there will never be

Entirely abandoned. If for Jim

The town does not quite fit, the carnival

Gives proof: it doesn’t have to be this way.

And sweet! How it might be is not yet set

In any pattern he has ever learned.

Home there might be, that does not look like home

On Green Town, Illinois’ straight open streets.

And Jim, for Will, allures in this same way

His friend in moonlight dancing, boy of shout

And run, a tamer of Gila monsters,

So rich without a cent. He calls Will out

Beyond the charméd circle of his house

Where everything is just as much on rails

(Or even more) as any circus train.

So Will, why do you want this (him) so much,

Your present and your future so secure

Sure as your eyes are blue, your hair is gold?

The answer is as always, silent, dark.

But still I see the shape of it so clear

This unintended sign for me and all

Who watched so close for what we could not name

In eyes of childhood friends, and who did seek

For any carnival traces or signs

To lead us to our homes outside.

[another-heroine]

Wip: The Windmill

After the angst in the last chapter, here comes a bit of fluff and childhood sweethearts for Luis and my OC.

Oh good gods, they will suffer so much in the future...

Read the available chapters on ao3 and make a writer happy!

Her knees were hurting as hell, but she couldn’t stop going on. Laura swallowed the tears, holding her precious friend against her chest, and defying the storm.

We are getting close, she repeated to herself, feeling the cold drops slashing against her skin, reaching her under the thick coat. She didn’t mind being raptured by the storm, since her precious Gatito stayed safe and sound and warm.

She knocked on the door, chattering her teeth. Her voice echoed pitched, “ABUELO!”

It felt like an eternity while she was waiting outside, until she heard someone unlocking the door, and the old man’s face appeared through a slit. Abuelo Serra gasped, “Laura! What are you doing here? Dios mío, you are soaking wet. Luis!”

The boy went downstairs immediately, almost jumping the steps. When he saw Laura trembling and dripping at the door, he didn’t ask anything; Luis put more wood into the hearthfire.

“Come in, girl. Jesus, what is going on?”

Laura was breathless. Her lungs were full of invisible needles. She took off the blanket over her arms and begged, “Please, save Gatito!”

The old Serra took a close look and saw the lethargic animal. The white cat was grimy and his breathing was laborious.

“I don't believe that he will survive until papa comes back!” Her eyes were watering, blurring her vision.

The hunter scratched his head. He was tired of explaining to the locals that he wasn’t a miraculous saint or a heathen, his job was hunting and scouting the vicinity of Valdelobos. But how could he deny help in moments like that?

“Alright, niña, but you need to calm down,” he said. “Sit next to the hearth, I will take care of him.”

Laura almost couldn’t let Gatito go. Abuelo managed to convince her to let the animal on the kitchen table. She caressed the cat’s ears and muttered “But I… I want to help”.

“You are already doing it.” Serra touched her shoulder. “Pull yourself together first.”

Laura hesitated, but Luis pulled her gently. “You heard the old man. Come, sit down.”

She swallowed hard and nodded. The grandson led her to the chair in front of the fire. She took off her boots and put her feet into the warm water bowl. That was a relief she didn’t realize she needed before.

Luis touched her shoulders and suggested, “Now let me hang your coat. If you catch a cold, your mother will be furious!”

“I know.” Laura sniffed, slippering from the heavy sleeves. “The storm ambushed me. There was no turning back.”

“I see. But don't worry, everything will be fine. Abuelo always knows what to do,” he stated. 

“Thank you.” Her hands gripped nervously the fabric of her skirt. She was not used to crying before anyone, but her heart was so small inside the chest that she wished to cry out loud.

Gatito was puking blood for a few days, and nobody knew what to do. Although many children and teenagers were afraid of Abuelo Serra, telling stories that he was a wizard in disguise, Laura knew better that the old man was wise and well-versed in many things. A scholar, like her father.

He must know what to do.

Luis crouched and took one of her hands between his. “You are very brave, you know?”

She couldn’t look at him. The girl was feeling embarrassed and she was certain that her appearance was a mess because of the weather. Laura closed her eyes and grunted, “There is a difference between bravery and folly.”

“I'm not sure about it.” He arched his brow. “Many people were judged insane by others, when actually they just had a different point of view.”

Those words were familiar. Laura glanced at him. “Luis... Is it from Don Quixote again?”

He gave a lopsided grin, looking at the fire. “Maybe.”

Laura tried to frown, but giggled nervously.

“See? I made you laugh! Isn't it insane?”

She felt her face warming up, and couldn't tell if that was because of the hearthfire or him. He could be a dork, but at least he was charming.

They heard abuelo whispering something for Gatito, and the cat was replying with weak squeaks. Laura glanced over her shoulder for a while, then muttered to Luis, “That’s why kids here think that he is a wizard”.

“Too bad for them.” Luis got up and released her hand. “Those tontos would never know how he is a genius.”

Laura pondered for a moment. Luis noticed her expression and asked, “What is bothering you? I mean, besides Gatito being sick.”

“Do you think… Oh, nevermind.” She shook her head.

“What? I’m listening!” he insisted, curious.

Laura rubbed her cheeks, and her heart skipped a beat when Luis got too close, staring at her with those gray eyes. He didn’t even blink.

“I will stay here until you say what’s on your mind.”

She competed with him to see who could overcome that staring duel, but her eyes began feeling dry, and Laura gave up. She sighed, frustrated, and confessed, “Do you think he can teach me about the neighborhood animals? I mean, the wild ones.”

Luis tilted his head. He didn’t know how to react.

“Well, you can ask him. But… What about your father?”

The girl shrugged. “He is often too busy. And…” She smiled mischievously. “Don’t you want to lend me your grandpa?”

Luis flustered. “No, not at all! I mean, it would be great if you come by and study with me— us! Our library is very useful, there are many books… like a library should have.”

Laura lowered her head and chuckled. “It sounds great.”

Luis nodded, feeling dumb. And strangely happy.

(tagging: @navstuffs)

[talldarkandroguesome]

15th of Hearthfire, Fredas

What a lovely little gathering we had at the Nest last night.

I was surprised to find that the little Scuttlers had prepared for my arrival. They had incense and candles going and the altar already decorated with flowers and wine.

These are not the casual participants that join to have a club for sexual exploration the way so very many Nests fall prey. These are clear devotees to our Prince and Her sphere. There was jovial conversation and merriment abound.

As I looked upon the offerings, I could see that many were beautifully rendered. Arrow and Goat, having much experience with repairing fishing nets, had used their skills to create a net in the pattern of a web, all out of silk rope. That is not something that can be accomplished in a short time. There is much planning and time dedicated to such a creation. I am proud for the energy they have put into their offering.

Everyone had contributed something. Food, drink, trinkets. They had worked so hard and the effect was incredible! You could feel the energy given off by the efforts of the Nest.

I spoke with all my dear Spiderlings before I asked for the privacy to speak with Zethith. I wanted to be able to report to them the full extent of our Nest's devotion.

Zethith did seem to be interested in how, even without my direction, the loyalty and desire to impress was so great. We agreed that leaning into the idea that dedication directly leads to rewards of power and ability seemed to motivate the spiderlings. Nowhere was this quite as obvious as the bold statement of Prince, who asked me directly if he might warm my bed this evening, in private. When I asked to what end he sought such things, he said he wished to push himself further than he had been able to do with the group. He has ambition. All of my potential Deathweavers do. I think that the others who are not ready for such things, with the exception, perhaps, of Ebony, will serve well to mentor newer members when I am ready to welcome any more little Spiderlings into the Nest.

Tanur, we decided, works best in the capacity of managing the facility and the needs of our Spiderlings. And if he continues to play host for our gatherings that include the mundane, then he will have his hands full with maintaining that facade. Between that and his shop, he will certainly be unable to do any regular training.

What I need is someone who I can put in charge of the regular training of the Nest. At this time I do not have anyone capable of doing so to my satisfaction. I do not wish to take from my current Spiderlings, for fear of creating animosity. It is still too early for that. What I am going to have to do is dedicate more time to training my Deathweavers. They need such precise care. I could tell from their demonstrations that they have grown complacent with the course as it is. They need more challenge. They need to be given new tasks. They need to feel the race of adrenaline when you have to slip passed so many searching eyes and reach your target, eliminate them, and then escape unseen. There is an ecstasy that comes with that process that cannot be replicated any other way.

I also spoke to Zethith about my desire to appeal to our Prince to recover part of Leythen, that I might be able to bind his ancestral spirit to me and later Widows of the Stonefalls Nest. I told Zethith that I want to start working on raising up my future descendant so that I will be able to eventually focus my effort on the Cathedral of Webs completely. Yet to do that, I need to have fully trained and reliable Spiderlings. Especially to succeed in a place like the Summerset Isle, I need to make sure I have reliable agents.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I am going to have to rely on some Altmer. At least one or two. It should not be impossible, Leythen was an Altmer. There could be others that are like him. Maybe. Finding them may be difficult. I need someone who is well versed in life on the Isles and can speak to the proper levels of politeness and political savvy. I need someone who is deeply involved, but willing to sow chaos and be loyal to our cause. I do not know if such an Altmer exists outside of Leythen.

Leythen. How I miss him. I need to speak to him, to be connected to him. I must! Whatever it takes to be able to us together, assuming he will agree to the pact, I wish to do.

Zethith says they will speak to our Prince on my behalf. They warn me that a mortal desiring to retrieve part of the body of another is not a usual priority for someone such as a Daedric Prince, but they will see what can be done.

I thanked them excitedly. They seemed to be unsure of my expression of gladness, but they said nothing.

We spoke of the options for competition for becoming the vessel for our Prince's Summoning Day. They suggested that we have a series of competitions, that way those of differing skills could earn a chance. Their suggestion was to have different points earned by winning each challenge. That each day should have a different challenge with a different type of skill and difficulty. Success would earn a currency. And currency could be exchanged for favors from others.

Once we had determined a set of challenges and arranged them upon the days leading up to the Summoning Day.

Zethith has asked that I check in with them a little more often over the next month. There is much to discuss and they wish for me to begin considering increasing the challenges for my Spiderlings. That they should be rewarded for the work they have done and see marks of that progress. I should consider adding new Spiderlings so that those who came before can begin to feel like a part of a hierarchy.

I do not know when I shall have time to properly train those I have with me, let alone a new set of Spiderlings. But if Zethith says so, then I must consider it.

[thebard490]

Paladins Chapter 17: Hearthfire

            I am The Bard, who has seen The Story echoed over and over anew. Chaos rises, and the goodly creatures of the world banish it for a time, each again and again until night falls, then dawn breaks anew. Thus it has been since the days of old, when creation was young but no longer very good, so it shall be until the last verse is graven.

As the exhausted and bloodied band of crusaders flopped down in the nearest beds they could find, occupied by a giant warming pad called Kazador or otherwise, they were swiftly claimed by the quiet net of sleep.

This night, they all dreamt, and all dreamt the same dream. Again, they stood outside, but this time atop the walls of the abbey, now blazing with fire like the light of the sun, but the fire did not burn them. From atop the walls they looked out into endless and dark night, dark without stars or moon to light it. In the forest past the edge of the fire’s light they all saw clearly the writhing, strangling infection. All now saw the dark vines, even Julian, pulsing with ebon ichor upon the land, upon the trees. Yndri saw a stag running in the night, agile even through no less tangled than the flora in the creeping curse. Then, they sensed a presence beside them.

Senket saw the Tiefling ghost, blazing in brilliance besides her, and he turned to the abbey and raised a bright finger at it. “Seek us. Seek that which has fallen. Seek the story unforgotten. Echo of what once was, take up our sword once more.” He commanded.

Kazador looked to the west and saw a stone dragon lying broken on the shore, barnacles upon its tail, smokeless fire in its breath, and a sword of mithril rippled liked the waves, in its claws. Fire burned so very dimly around the blade, and he heard many voices, male and female, speaking in the tongues of men, in the tongues of dragons, in the tongues of dwarves, and in the tongues of angels. “Lord of Order, restore what was lost.”

Yndri looked to the north and to the east, and saw trees hung in spiderwebs. Amidst the trees stood a statue of an elven woman, pale as marble. Her arm fell off as she reached for Yndri, and the statue called to her “Wandering Wind, let the gates be opened once more.” As she watched, shadow spread across the statue, marble regressing to insidious obsidian, save the hair. Two pairs of amethyst eyes stared into one another, as the statue spoke words in a language Yndri did not know. Yet still she understood the pleading, as for a mother for her estranged daughter to return. Before any more words could come, silver spiderwebs cracked across the statue and strangled it to dust.

Peregrin looked into the dark and saw many tiny lights, like fireflies in tar, scattered out across it. Across the north, across the east, and all about his feet. “Sword of Light and Shadow.” The voice of a halfling woman commanded him “Let the light of the small be lit once more. Let light shine forth and bring the wanderers home.”

Julian looked into the dark and heard no voices, saw no visions at first, until he felt himself drawn far from the walls into the north. There, where the old road and the mighty river met in the ruins of a once great city he heard a voice. “Godless and without inheritance. Son of heaven scorned for the mother’s sins.” A woman’s voice, great and terrible, rang about him. “What shall you fight for here? You have no gods to fight for and will find no gods here.” It warned, but the paladin did not quail.

“No, you have no time for the dalliances of divinity, do you?” she asked with a chuckle, knowing the answer. “Only that your will shall be done, and the world redeemed by the hands of a man. Such folly, to think that you, a man, shall do what no god can? Come then, seek beyond gods, to the fire that cannot go out, so that the worm must die. Seek that which is anathema, if thou dares to choose a destiny for oneself.” She challenged him, as the black vines burned with the sulfuric smell of brimstone.

The party awoke with minds burning, and in Kazador’s case, a blanket of halflings. He pushed off the several smallfolk who decided the warm dragonborn was a good place to sleep, rumbling and grumbling with enough ornery morning grumpiness to rival War Pig.

“Ah’m gonna have tae tell Peregrin tae ware his folk against using me as a pillow.” He grumbled as he pulled on his armor and belted on his axes.

“Kaz, you are the first man I have ever known to complain about having too many companions in bed.” Senket remarked dryly as she pulled on her tunic and donned her armor. The dragonborn turned slightly more red than usual.

“Speaking of the little fellow, where is Peregrin?” Julian asked as he walked out of the privy, still wearing his helmet out of habit.

Yndri walked in, fully dressed and ready to go. “Julian, do you really need the helmet?” She asked. “Strange habits aside, Peregrin sent me to come and get you. Breakfast is ready.”

Julian took off the helmet and put it by his bunk. Fully aware of the stares the halflings were giving him, he pulled out his spellbook. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.” He said slightly self-consciously.

“Fine, more scoff fer me.” Kazador rumbled as he heads out.

As Julian studied his spellbook. He was surprised to find a new page in the book, not simply leafed in, but completely new, as though it had been made with it. The paper was of high quality, and furthermore the spell was not written in his draconic engravings he preferred, nor in the diabolic script his mother used, but in a fine hand of sacred runes, as used by priests and angels. He frowned as he considered this, and quickly identified the spell as one to call forth a familiar. Even stranger, to find arcane magic written in a script most commonly used for divine rituals. He set the mystery aside for the moment.

Down in the kitchen, Peregrin had been up for a while alongside Yndri, putting the abbey’s food stores to good use. A wide collection of grains, flours, and premade loaves made life far easier, and furthermore the abbey possessed many looted spices and sugars. Best of all though was when he discovered a coop of irritable but bountiful hens, and therefore a small hoard of eggs. With this bounty, the paladins, halflings, and goblins were treated to their first hot breakfast in quite some time, hot steaming bowls of porridge, scrambled eggs, and toast. Simple, but exceedingly satisfying.

Kazador examined the workmanship on the bowls and spoons. They were all identical, indicating that they were either created using magic, or perhaps a gnomish invention such as an auto-forge. They were simple, but all of rather high quality, clearly not goblin make, and thus were either stolen or perhaps simply were used by the abbey’s original inhabitants. As they ate, Peregrin and Yndri joined the pair in the scoff. “You know, we still need to find this place’s name.” Yndri said between bites. “I say we wander about and see if we can’t find any old records of it.”

“Julian, Peregrin, you two are the most well read and well-traveled among us, have you ever heard of this place?” Senket probed the more intellectual pair.

“My studies were mostly large-scale history and the arcane. I’m afraid I’ve heard no mention of this place’s name in my books. The Northern Garden have been abandoned by all civilized races but the hobgoblins for three centuries or so, and it wasn’t exactly a densely populated area even at the best of times. So, its “history” seems all too much tied up in legends and myths rather than solid facts.” Julian said, sounding slightly disappointed.

“I’ve heard stories that supposedly came out of here.” Peregrin said. “And heard a few more from my kin here. However, it’s sort of garbled. Either there’s been a whole lot of times where this place has been invaded and a hero rises to deal with the problem, or it happened once, and everyone kept switching around who the hero was and what the problem was.” He said with a bit of a shrug. “It’s probably a bit of both if I’ve had to guess, my folk will tell a story a thousand times and never the same way twice depending on what we want to get across as a point. I get the feeling that we’re going to be part of one of those stories again.”

“We are nae allowing a bard to come an’ follow us around getting intae trouble. Nae way. Ah am nae keepin me eye on some frilly lute lover.” Kazador rumbled aggressively. Not to worry my friend, I was here the whole time, and you had never needed to keep an eye. Not that you could have seen me after all. The eyes of a king are wise indeed, but one doesn’t get to record these kinds of stories without a certain kind of cleverness,

“Don’t you dwarves have a long history of using songs to keep pace when you mine and march?” Yndri questioned.

“Aye, we chant the old histories and remember the old grudges. It’s nae bard-song though, we tell it like it happened, nae frilly turned o’ phrase or unnecessary elven maids tae rescue an’ bed. Our women can deal fer themselves.” He grumbled.

“I’m afraid we are probably going to wind up in a story one way or another, a whole bunch of paladins on a merry crusade to retake lost lands? It’s practically storybook.” Peregrin chuckled.

“Hm, sort of like that epic about the lizardfolk, out of Muab, Rising Dawn was it? With that… oh what was his name, Matlal?” Julian considered. “Strange habit bards have of slapping names on parties. And why are they always called parties to begin with?”

“Tradition, I suppose.” Senket muttered into her coffee. “I suppose they’ll slap one on us as well. Probably something silly like the Stardust Crusaders or something.”

“I think that’s already a thing, a bunch of monks in Mercat if I recall correctly.” Yndri pointed out. “I suppose if we want to avoid something silly, we might as well come up with something of our own.”

“Bah.” Kazador said as he wiped his mouth and picked up his dishes. “We’ll work it out when we’ve got time. Let’s get this bloody place cleaned out first then deal with this wee bit o’ nonsense.” With the name discussion left behind for the moment, the party split off and began to wander the abbey in search of any clues as to its history and identity.

Senket headed to the walls and the gatehouse, finding the place where she stood in the dream. Scouring the top of the wall, she did find something unusual. Covered by a layer of sandy dust, she brushed clear a section just where the Tiefling was standing to find a small brooch in the shape of a sun, carved from what looked like silver, set into the stone. With a small bit of effort, she managed to pry it free from its engraving to examine it more closely and realized that it was in fact a medallion. The medallion was far too sturdy to simply be made of silver, but it lacked any hum of magic about it. No words were carved on front or back to identify the owner, but it was very clearly placed in this stone and hidden by dust for a purpose.

Peregrin headed outside and wandered through the orchard, between the thick glades of apple trees, ripe with fruit. He saw a clear progression of ages, indicating that each tree was planted several years apart. He followed this to the youngest tree, which even still was a rather old fellow, though nothing before the ancient and massive sort at the other end.

He searched around the tree, trying to find out why they were planted at such seemingly random intervals, hoping to find some hint, until his bare foot stepped on something cold at the base of the youngest tree. He turned to investigate. Brushing aside the dust, he gasped as he found that what he stepped on was a plaque set into a small stone at the base of the tree. It read, in common and a language he didn't recognize; “Abbot Thibb, A good and generous man even in the harshest time. Claimed by the great plague, he provides even in death. Rest in peace.”

Peregrin rushed to the next tree, and found a similar plaque, the resting place of an abbess. He rushed to another, and then another. He swiftly realized that this orchard was not merely a supply of food inside the walls but was in fact the final resting place for the leaders of the abbey. Each abbot and abbess lying peacefully beneath a fruit tree, their body providing nourishment for a new life that shall in turn nourish others. From the general dates of life and death, he was able to find this abbey had stood a remarkably long time, nearly seven hundred years. It predated the hobgoblin empire, and had survived throughout it, and then for almost a hundred years after its fall.

Kazador headed down, following a staircase from the great hall into the comfortable underground. Inside, he found a long table covered in reports with thirteen chairs. The paper and quills still lying there seemed to be various reports, and it seemed this room was where the legate held conferences. The entire room was made of the same warm sandstone as the walls and main building but was generally comfortable and cozy.

On the far side of the room was another door, and next to it a grand tapestry that covers the entire wall. It was a massive cloth edifice showing Tamur’s conquest of the other goblin gods, and his many wars against the other gods.

Kazador was obviously displeased at the existence of such a tapestry and walked over to it. After confirming that there was nothing else flammable nearby, he sucked in a breath and bathed the remarkable piece of pagan artwork in fire. He smiled slightly smugly to himself, thinking that if they wanted to keep their art, they should have made it a bit more permanent. He turned to investigate the other door, when, out of the corner of his eye he saw the flaming tapestry was in fact hiding something. He turned and chuckled slightly, as it seemed the original designers of the abbey had the same ideas on art as him.

Hidden behind the tapestry, which was presumably hung to hide this, was a massive stone carving into the wall itself. This was clearly dwarven work, as only they could paint such a picture in solid sandstone. The carving depicted the building of the abbey, by dwarves and humans working together, under the watchful eyes of a stout looking dwarf lord and a human wearing a mighty sword. As the scene progressed, the human and the dwarf defend the abbey from a horde of various monstrous races. Goblins, Orcs, Gnolls, and creatures more obscure and profane that Kazador could recognize rush in a great swarm against the pair, only to be flanked by an elf from the woods and a dragonborn riding on the river. He stared very closely at the dragonborn in the picture, it appeared to be descended from one of the aquatic dragons, perhaps a gold or bronze one. Most curious of all though was their sword, which rippled like water and was wreathed in flame.

At the far end was the most recent work, looking to be perhaps two hundred years younger than the original piece, showing the human from before, standing with sword in hand in front of a multitude of different humanoids of all races, all standing behind with the same sword in their hands and the same determined stare in their eyes.

It is a truly beautiful piece, although it did contain an imperfection, one only a dwarf or one raised by them might notice. In the final panel, the first hero’s sword was missing the center of its crossguard. Rather than being carved outwards like the rest, it was carved inwards, digging into the wall rather than out of it. Examining the sword’s depiction with the other heroes, the crossguard would appear to have a small symbol of the seven for its center. Kazador smelled a hidden door, and to confirm his suspicions, he quickly departed, moving to go find the one other party member with the senses to detect it.

Yndri was exploring the main building, finding mostly dormitories and other such rooms, but she was pleasantly surprised to find a large suite of rooms that appeared to be a hospital. These rooms were immaculately clean, even by the hobgoblin’s own obsessive standards. The beds are laid with fresh linens, and the room was light and airy with several large windows.

Further examination discovered what looked to be an alchemy lab, with a small stock of potions, names labeled in goblin. Since she could not read them, she left them until she could find Peregrin or Jort. In the next room over was a single bed with straps to bind the occupant down. Many cruel looking sharp implements hung on the walls. It was uncertain whether this was a torture chamber or an operating room. However, considering it was run by hobgoblins, probably both. She turned from the room, which even when cleaned still stank of blood, when she heard Kazador calling for her and headed over to him. After the situation was explained, she headed down to the carven hall and examined it. After several long minutes of study, she confirmed his suspicions. There was indeed a cleverly hidden secret door here.

Julian followed Jort, while also looking like he was conducting his own search. Despite the young paladin’s aid in defeating Pompey, he was still somewhat suspicious of the treacherous blue-nose. Eventually the pair arrived at the Legate’s suite and began to search through it, finding mostly situation reports.

In searching his bedroom, they found the leader’s war chest, a large padlocked and sturdy oaken box. A solid strike from the nephilim opened it, revealing a substantial amount of gold, silver, and copper, as well as several precious stones and golden images. It was probably enough wealth to purchase half a small village, but Julian was somewhat unconcerned with it, what were they going to spend it on?

Despite this, they left it alone for now, and continued to search the room. Julian raised an eyebrow when he spotted a book poking out from under the pillows of the large bed. He snorted derisively when he discovered it was the rather popular “How to Pick Up Fair Maidens.” He considered just tossing it back down on the bed, but instead, after making sure Jort wasn't looking, slipped it inside his bag for later reading. Books are books after all, and he’d needed something new to read for some time.

He was then incredibly pleased when the next room they searched was filled to the absolute brim with books and scrolls. Jort was certain this was the happiest he’d ever seen the Nephilim as he carefully began to look through. Julian’s grin grew even wider when he realized what they’d just stumbled across. Volumes upon volumes of recordings, mostly in the form of clearly dated journals from the abbey recorders across history. The newer books were written in the common tongue, but as he also scanned several of the older ones, other languages appeared. It seemed angelic was popular at the beginning of the abbey, several were written entirely in dwarvish, and an entire tome, larger than all the rest, was written entirely in draconic. The writings on that seemed to have been written by what looked suspiciously more like a claw dipped in ink than a quill.

As he dug in with sheer glee, Julian at last discovered the true name of the abbey in the recordings of one Methuselah; “7.16.[illegible], Little has occurred of note this day, save that I have discovered the etymology behind our fair Hearthfire’s name. It seems that there is indeed magic [illegible] as I discovered in an ancient, almost crumbling letter from our founder [Illegible] to lord [dwarven runes, mostly illegible]. “This place shall have the warmth of the kindly sun in it, a [faded and illegible] goodly people I build it for, for this age and the ages yet to come.” So, that is why it is Hearthfire. I am very pleased to have discovered this, though I fear the paper shall soon become entirely destroyed by age.”

”Hearthfire then.” Julian mused as he looked at the old book, it itself now almost as ruined by the wastes of time as that letter this ancient Methuselah had found. “Fate smirks at least.” He muttered as he put it down. There was too much here for him to throw himself into for the moment, so he selected the youngest of the books and headed to find the others. As noontime rose, the group re-assembled in the hall for a meal and to discuss their findings. At Kazador and Yndri’s report, Senket’s eyebrows jumped.

“Would this perhaps be what was missing?” She said, producing the medallion. Kazador examined it, and his eyes went wide. “By the maker’s beard.” He invoked. “This is Mithril.” He said as he examined the small medallion carefully, seeming unable or unwilling to let it go.

The paladins looked at one another excitedly. They all knew the incredible value of that particular metal, and while they were not greedy, the existence of such a token indicated that this was once an incredibly prosperous place.

“More dwarf work tae boot. Ah keep findin signs o’ me kin but nae a place where they’d call home.” The dragonborn said, actually sounding worried for the first time.

“Still, that’s definitely the key.” Yndri agreed as she looked at the craftsmanship.

“But the key to what I wonder?” Peregrin said, his natural curiosity piqued. “Underground and hidden behind a secret door, whatever it was they really didn’t want it disturbed.”

“Considering I found it where the ghost was, maybe it’s his tomb.” Senket offered.

“I’m not sure, I found where they buried all their abbots, why would they go through so much trouble to hide anyone else? Unless there was some kind of super-abbot.” Peregrin said, trying to consider what a super-abbot would do with his time.

“Whatever it is, it should prove useful, though I think I may have found the most valuable point of all.” Julian said proudly as he produced his book (the history one, not the dating one). “There’s maybe a score or two more of these, the whole history of the abbey once I get time to go through it.”

Kazador rumbled something under his breath about the inferiority of paper to stone, but Julian ignored him and opened the book. “Now, let’s see what happened here.” He mused as he began to flick through the pages until he found where they stopped and the book went blank, and then turned back several pages and his eyes flicked across the paper. He read through the last days of the abbey quickly, flicking the pages over seemingly every minute, totally oblivious to the outside world. Even when Senket placed an empty mug on his head to test, he still didn't notice.

“I’ve seen men look at their gods and at their wives with less love than that.” Peregrin whistled, honestly impressed by the scholarly warrior’s focus.

As Julian read, his face grew sourer and darker as he came to the end and sighed, face grave. “It seems the inhabitants of this place were wiped out by a plague.” He said, though his eyes said that what he read there was far more than that. He shifted slightly, and the mug fell from his head, caught by Jort, who threw it back to Sen. “It struck the land without warning, wiping out almost all major settlements, spreading like wildfire through anything larger than a halfling village. The people here took in the sick, tried to help them. All they did was let the sickness in.”

The account had been harrowing, the recorder steadily growing more and more frantic as more and more died, and then as he had felt the symptoms take hold. It seemed he had tried to keep writing, but collapsed, as the last page had nothing but gibberish, ending with a letter that collapsed into a long scrawl across the page.

“It got worse.” he said, deciding to reveal this last horror. “The symptoms were this. Their bodies wasted away, like the life was drunk out of them. Their blood turned black, and their veins thickened, until they were, and I quote:

“Like vines digging through skin, wherever the light was weakest.”

A chill ran down the party’s spines as they remembered that creeping curse in the dark, and their vision of the strangled land beneath the coils of endless black vines, pulsing darkly like blood vessels.

“None of us are sick though, and neither were the goblins or the halflings.” Senket raised.

“We can’t get sick.” Peregrin reminded her. “And the halflings and goblins are probably the descendants of survivors who developed an immunity.”

“Wait, you can’t get sick?” Jort asked.

“We can’t.” Julian replied, including the younger hobgoblin in that we. “The magic we passively channel keeps us from succumbing to any illness. It’s the same reason why we’re faster, stronger, and heal more quickly.”

“The colonists won’t have that though. Weren’t they sick when we left?” Yndri realized, and the party began to understand why every colonization effort before had failed.

”Damn!” Kazador cursed, blowing smoke from his nostrils. “Julian, that book, did they ken even the beginin’s of a cure?” He demanded.

“Not even close, they sent out people searching but those never came back.” Julian said grimly. “We’re on our own.”

“No, we’re not.” Senket said. “The ghosts, the visions. We all saw our own, didn’t we?” The party nodded. “They must have found something, and now it’s up to us to follow through. This is our quest, to finish the job and save this land. We shall not fail.” She stated, her faith becoming ironclad as the pieces fell together. That same determination spread across the party as fervor and zealotry banished fear and replaced it with the invincible resolve of heroes.

“The ghost bade me to seek where he rests.” Senket said as she stared at the mithril medallion. “I think I might know just where that is.”

[bosspigeon]

you said u used to ship zevran/warden/alistair?? so how about a snippet of them and ur warden idk 👁️

Zevran hears the whispering outside the tent long before either of the Wardens even stir, but he says nothing. He does not move. Perhaps he chuckles to himself, as quietly as he can, but at the moment, he is quite content where he is, and no amount of silly gossip (however much he enjoys silly gossip, especially being the subject of it) will move him from this spot until one or both of his Wardens see fit to oust him.

Alistair, it seems, is just human enough to run quite a bit hotter than either of the elves in their hastily joined bedrolls, or perhaps it is less a matter of his heritage than his sheer muscular bulk. Regardless, he has become the center of their graceless sprawl for all his hearthfire heat as the nights grow ever colder. Andrael has put on a bit of bulk himself from all the fighting and hard travel, but he is still a spindly sapling of an elf—even if his arms have begun to strain his sleeves quite nicely when he swings that staff of his—and as such huddles close to Alistair's side and tucks under his arm to leach his warmth with all his long, freckled limbs tangled up around the warrior like an amorous octopus.

Zevran is similarly curled against the solid wall of muscle that is the former Templar, enjoying the warmth and comfort of him. He did not expect the reluctant princeling to be so soft, under all that hard armor, but his bountiful muscle is generously padded with a layer of fat and a sprinkling of hair that makes him exceptionally cuddly. The assassin hums happily to himself as he nuzzles against one soft pectoral, even as he hears the whispering begin to reach fever pitch just outside.

"It's none of our business!" Morrigan hisses furiously, and, oh, Zevran can hear the pretty twist of her snarling, painted mouth. "And I care not to make it so!"

"Someone's got to say something!" Leliana pleads.

"This has all gotten quite out of hand," Wynne murmurs disapprovingly. "Andrael hails from the Circle, and is not well-versed in these matters. He is going to get himself hurt, and that assassin getting involved is only making things worse!"

The three harpies immediately fall silent when Alistair grunts and begins to stir, and Zevran hears the swift patter of footsteps over grass as they hastily disperse.

"Good morning, my dear Wardens," Zevran whispers delightedly when Andrael yawns and mumbles muzzily, lifting his head enough to peer over the curve of Alistair's chest at Zevran. The mage smiles sleepily, his dozy eyes squinting.

The little gold hoop dangling from his tender red earlobe catches the weak morning sunlight filtering through the slit in the tent flap, and Zevran's chest feels like it is full of fluttering little birds.

"My, don't you look scrumptious in this light," the assassin purrs, just to watch the Warden's eyes go wide just before he hides his beet-red face in the safety of Alistair's bounteous bosom. "Ah! An excellent choice!" he teases.

Alistair is quite bemused by all the activity happening above him, not much of a morning person, but Zevran does his part as a dutiful member of their merry little band to wake him up by nibbling at the gently pointed shell of his ear—if only to resist the urge to fiddle with the matching golden hoop dangling from his still-healing earlobe. Alistair, too, turns quite a delightful shade of red and rolls over to hide, almost squashing the much slighter Warden under his bulk.

Zevran flicks his own little earring as he watches the two of them try to disentangle themselves in a flurry of hushes apologies and flustered greetings. It took a bit of doing to have the pair split and made into three smaller earrings, but Bodhan's boy worked wonders with what little supplies he was given, and Zevran could not have been happier with the results, though he is still unsure if the odd tingling is some sort of magic, or simply his overactive imagination.

Regardless, he rouses his Wardens and helps them get ready to face the day (or makes it a bit more difficult, pouting and pawing as they fumble into their gear) and grins to himself like a giddy child as he struts out into the fresh morning sunlight in just his leather kilt and boots with his breastplate tucked under his arm to face Leliana and Wynne's matching expressions of disapproval.

Expressions that cloud over further when Andrael stumbles out of the tent, fighting with his boot, and then morph into blank shock when Alistair comes tottering out as well with one of his greaves loosely buckled enough that it's twisted around the back of his calf.

"Good morning, my radiant beauties!" Zevran greets them cheerfully. "How are you both doing on this fine morning?"

Morrigan, as usual, is sequestered as far away from the camp proper as she can reasonably be, but Zevran can hear her scoff even at a distance.

He beams.

[nattyontherun]

more to collision doodles while i try to hammer up new fic, good day to y'all 💃

[terrainofheartfelt]

☺️ and ☀️ for the ask game <33333

jo love how funny that you ask this JUST as I have "Let Me Hear Your Balalaikas Ringing Out" running on the TV :)))))

☺️ Share a happy line.

from the P & P au:

“And he had no idea that I’d been in LA last August.”

“No,” Dan says, sarcastic in his emphasis.

“That - fucker - Chuck Bass never gave him my message”

“Oh, bravo. That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said about anyone.”

Serena snorts in laughter, tossing one of her beaded throw pillows at him. “I’m just so”—more giggles bubble out of her, like she can’t help it—“happy. I know we can’t really erase the past, but”—she grabs at another pillow, hugging it to her chest—“I think I might love him, Dan.”

☀️ Share a line with figurative language.

again, from the forthcoming Dan POV in the Milo-verse, because it's been in the forefront of my brain the past couple weeks...

He knows it’s fleeting, that this will end sooner rather than later, but he’s drawn to her, moth to flame, to the hearthfires banked deep within her, orbiting in her sunlight.

[maidmythics]

a basic understanding of skyrim / the elder scrolls in general, for those who need / want it. part two, part one here. ♡

for verse-making, if needed or wanted:

- the companions (hired muscle, bounty hunters, warriors, werewolves!!) - the thieves guild (which remilia is a part of! basically as the name implies) - the bards college (as the name implies; for the more musically & poetically inclined) - college of winterhold (for mages / magic-users) - the dark brotherhood (for assassins / contract killers) - cities / holds

constellations / "astrological signs": (not super important but may be fun to pick out! basically like zodiacs but... Not at the same time) all info from uesp.net <3 (NOTE: please remember that just in like in real life, just because a sign is said to have a certain trait does not mean they must have that trait. it's just a general thing, & not exactly canon either so go wild!)

morning star (in our world, january) ... the ritual ↪ those born under this sign are thought to have various abilities depending on the aspects of the moons and planets. according to elder scrolls online, those born under this sign are also thought to be good natural healers & strong magicka users. sun's dawn (in our world, february) ... the lover (remilia's sign hehe) ↪ those born under the sign of this sign are thought to be graceful & passionate. first seed (in our world, march) ... the lord ↪ those born under the sign of the lord are thought to be naturally stronger & healthier but may have more weakness to fire. according to elder scrolls online, they are said to be proud, reserved, calculating, strong, & ambitious. rain's hand (in our world, april) ... the mage, also known as the sage, the mechanist, or the witch depending on culture ↪ those born under this sign are thought to have more magicka and a talent for spellcasting. according to elder scrolls online, they are said to be adventurous, (sometimes) arrogant, & could be absent-minded at times. second seed (in our world, may) ... the shadow ↪ those born under this sign are thought to have the ability to hide in shadows exceptionally well, using them to their advantage easily. according to elder scrolls online, they are said to be cold, cautious, & patient. mid year (in our world, june) ... the steed ↪ those born under this sign are thought to be strong, both mentally & physically but sometimes can be too impatient & rush into things headfirst. according to elder scrolls online, they are said to be swift, headstrong, & willful. sun's height (in our world, july) ... the apprentice ↪ those born under this sign are thought to have an almost innate affinity for magic, but also may have a vulnerability to magic from others (aka good offense, bad defense). according to elder scrolls online, they are said to be prideful & intelligent. last seed (in our world, august) ... the warrior ↪ those born under this sign are thought to have great skill with weapons (or can learn these skills quicker than those born under other signs). according to elder scrolls online, they are said to be short-tempered, wrathful, willful, & straight-forward. hearthfire (in our world, september) ... the lady ↪ those born under this sign are thought to be naturally kind & tolerant. according to elder scrolls online, they are said to be elegant, patient, foresightful, cautious, & sharp. frostfall (in our world, october) ... the tower ↪ those born under this sign are thought to have an almost unnatural knack for finding gold & easily opening locks. it's said most (good) thieves are born under this sign or, obviously, the thief sign. according to elder scrolls online, they are said to be strong & durable. sun's dusk (in our world, november) ... the atronach ↪ those born under this sign are thought to be natural sorcerers with deep reserves of magicka, but cannot generate their own magicka easily & have to rely on potions, spells, or learning. according to elder scrolls online, they are said to be sturdy, adaptable, steady, & smart. evening star (in our world, december) ... the thief ↪ those born under this sign are thought thought to be inclined more to take risks & evade harm, however... their luck can run out eventually, cutting their lives short. like the tower, most born under this sign are naturally good thieves, sneaky & cunning. according to the elder scrolls online, they are said to be swift, lucky, & daring. no real month, moves around the sky with no fixed position ... the serpent. ↪ those born under this sign have no real defining characteristics, interestingly enough. however, it's said that those born under this sign are almost always either the most blessed or the most cursed. according to elder scrolls online, they are said to be dangerous & can be self-destructive.

races: either in the category of man, beastfolk, or elven.

nords (man) imperials (man) bretons (remi's!) (man, but can be considered man/elven hybrid) redguards (man) dunmer (elven, sometimes called dark elves) orsimer (elven, sometimes called orcs) altmer (elven, sometimes called high elves) bosimer (elven, sometimes called wood elves) argonians (beastfolk, sometimes called lizard folk, though that's generally derogatory & not how they refer to themselves) khajiit (beastfolk, usually refer to themselves in third person) there's also the snow elves, but they are an extinct race as of the fourth era (when the game takes place). any "leftover" remnants have become a twisted, blind, underground-roaming creature known as the falmer.

supernatural:

vampires dawnguard (vampire hunters) werewolves

[nothing-more-than-hot-leaf-juice]

Me: hmm i should scroll through leaf’s blog a bit, see what I’ve missed. Also me: wait tho I’m not strong enough for more croc verse

friendship with the Crocverse has ended

Hearthfire AU is now my friend 

in all honesty, they both live rent-free in my heart, but the crocverse content is over and it’s safe to come out now 

[sasorikigai]

❛ i love taking care of you. and i always will. you know that? ❜ Wanda sighed softly as she leaned in to press her lips against Hanzo's cheek. (Any verse!)

&. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. || @hexsreality || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Hanzo Hasashi cannot move; he can only see a sleep paralysis demon watching him. As worlds shift and memories become distorted, he becomes lost to the echoes of time. The hidden, undying grief manifesting and materializing, beating in time with his heart during every waking moment and clinging to the wispy ends of his dreams. His grief learns to be smart and cunning; learning to hide in the gaps between breaths, learning to whisper in his ears as the merciless gelid winter storm brews and blows. It does not linger long, but just enough to make him evermore still and silent. The demon's touch, so unbearably cold against his skin, ignites something deep within. On the warmth-absent tatami mat, he takes his place a spark. For the unlucky and unprepared, it may grab ahold of this moment of vulnerability and weakness and pull him under when he least expects it.

For Hanzo, though, it fades once again, and he continues forth with only faint memories surfacing in the recesses of his mind, lest the widening and exacerbating scars that grief leaves in his mind run deeper than any physical and psychological wound ever could. It also tries to convince him that he too, are forever lost, as his past life is lost. While in his life, he had healed just enough to briefly let go of his grief, letting it flow past him in the tumbling river of his thoughts without fighting it. This deep-settled melancholia may never fade, but it doesn't have to. Grandmaster Hasashi learned to live with it and he is still learning. But in this instance, grief festers and grows; taking over every bloody thought, every breath, every second of his waking moment. It pulls him under like an undercurrent, drowns him in fear and pain. He cannot resurface alone, and without someone to pull him up or a rock to grab ahold of, he may be lost forever. It has happened before, and will surely happen again, albeit seldom.

He finds his embrace longing beyond his comprehension and his countless trials and tribulations in Netherrealm, as it finds a home in his heart and soul, finding an inseparable connection. Time stands still and the night drags on and on. And in his subconscious, time is a hallway, filled with doors and mirrors. He sees Harumi Hasashi leaning on the sixth frame, and he runs to her, but grief is hiding in the cracks in the form of Satoshi's ruptured, frozen corpse. It grips his foot, and starts dragging him against the cold hard ground. But he is still resilient and persistent, for he climbs his way back to shore - and is the one to answer the cries and wails of his heart and soul, as the flaring surge of embers become the guiding light gleaming gently.

For hope becomes a whisper in the silence, the imperceptible smile on his exhausted face, as his fathomless umber eyes become the unwavering belief, the possibility of shining through cracks of despair. It is his courage to persevere, the resilience to rise, as Hanzo Hasashi yearns to become that last blazing leaf on the tree in autumn. "The guilt of not being able to save them still picks at my bones like a vulture, but I will not let it take me away from what matters most now," as the stronghold of his form rises to meet her warm lips like the lighthouse nestled in the impervious darkness, the hearthfire of his embers glow ablaze. How he wishes he could honor the unjustly slaughtered with every bloody bit that is left of him still.

How his impassioned eyes, scintillating like the brilliant stars hidden in the celestial skies as once-crumbled walls of reality become solid once again. And his arm rises, nestled against the nape of her neck as an upward caress cups her jaw in tender fashion. "As long as we have each other's hand in hand as we stand amidst even in the heartless storm, sharing burdens, united we withstand, the love's beacon will burn bright, guiding us through the unstable times of war." ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Kethrys Timeline: A month or two after Ariadne escapes from Edwyn

---

Arson

Hay for the horses, grain for the soldiers. Stacked sacks of flour -- perfect -- crates and jars and hanging herbs. The granary is a tinderbox. And Ariadne is a spark.

She strikes real sparks from flint in the darkness, admiring their perfect brightness. A handful settle in the hay, and take hold. Orange-yellow glow spreads along the first stalks, hypnotic. Tiny candle-flames spring to life, dancing, crawling, spreading.

Can it be this easy?

She should leave. But what if the flames die out instead of spreading? She should stay.

Brighter than a candle now. Her hands are yellow-limned and trembling. Ariadne takes a handful of the burning stalks and tucks them into the bottom of the stack. She can see the inferno in her mind’s eye already.

The flames grow larger. They start to lick and dance. Ariadne expects the pop and crackle of burning wood, but it is eerily silent. Heat caresses her hands as she grabs another handful. Her blood races, her skin prickles. She feels alive.

She should leave. She can’t be here when the people come running to the light and the smoke.

Instead she seeds flame in half a dozen places. In the crates, in the stacked hay, in the dust and the drying grains that coat the floor. 

The first fire grows faster now. Brighter than a campfire, hotter than a hearthfire, fierce and wild and hungry. The granary is filled with light to the walls. Ariadne’s shadow is long and mad and leaping. The heat is too fierce to grab another handful, but she won’t need to.

She should leave. She should run before the inferno consumes her. Terror races across her skin -- she has burned before.

But the fire is hypnotic.

The flames leap higher than her head and she gazes upwards, fascinated, thrilled. A breeze stirs her hair, drawing in towards the blaze. Ariadne is drawn in towards the blaze. The smoke smells clean, not quite the same as woodsmoke. Her heart rises with the fire, leaping, climbing, burning. Brighter than sunlight, hotter than a forge-fire.

She must leave.

The heat stings her eyes, prickles across her skin. Ariadne is terrified, and she is delighted. Her feet are rooted to the ground. She does not want to burn, but she cannot tear her gaze from the fire. It makes a sound now, not a wood-popping crackle but a rush of breath, ever inwards. It is alive, it is hungry, there is no stopping it now. She could scream, she could laugh in exultation. She is mad and she is going to burn.

A portion of the hay collapses, sending a whirl of bright sparks higher, reaching for the dry herbs above. Like a kick in the chest, it starts Ariadne stumbling, and suddenly she is running, heart thundering, squinting through the glare and the growing haze.

Cold air hits her like water, like ice against her sweat-drenched skin as she breaks the threshold. The black is absolute, her sight still dances with the memory of flames.

There are voices in the night, raised in alarm and confusion. She should have left earlier, she should be long gone. But instead of fear she feels glee. Let them shout. Let them cry and rail and weep. They’re too late to stop the flames.