#her name is calamity frost

[lanabenikosdoormat]

i am cringe but i am free

(click for high-res lol)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Stricken 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, violence, ostricization,and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you were scarred by a storm years ago and its bringer has come to upheave your life once more.

Characters: God of War!Thor

Note: I did this finally.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You always know when a storm's coming. The hairs on your arms stand and your skin burns hot. The smell of rain is tinted by another scent. That of burning flesh and ash. Your scars raze as if struck again and for a moment, you cannot hear or see. 

Slowly, the scent of rain returns to you and the noise of the patter, sometimes more a hammering, as if to remind you of its bearer. The thunder is his war cry. The lightning his wrath. You do wonder why then it should’ve come down on you. 

You keep your hood up, your chin low. Though you hide, the villagers know who you are, they know of your misfortune. The calamity wrought into your flesh in veined scars. Your face is marked with the storm, zigzagged with lines as your left eye is struck blind and white. 

Yet it isn’t your name they whisper as you stop at a stall to buy grain. It is his. The Prince of Asgard. The might God of Thunder. The monster who made you like this. 

The air is thick, roiling with unspent moisture, and the clouds threatening in a grey ripple. You should have come yesterday. You should not have waited so long.  

You trade your coin and move on, gathering the small rations you can afford. You’ll return to your hovel, gather what you can from the garden, and check the traps for rabbits. It should get you through, though the frost does eat away at your harvest.  

As you have it, between the chirping of your disfigurement, there is worse creeping from the north. The snows have fallen heavy and whole lakes have frozen to the silt. You do not believe all you hear but you know better than to disregard the nip in the air. 

Your basket remains like but you’ve spent your limit. Your cloak shifts with your movement and you shrink lower as you near the group of adolescents feigning at battle with sticks. Their audience glimpses your passing and you hear their voices mingle with laughter. 

“It’s that crone. The burnt one,” comes a bit louder than is meant. 

You don’t stop. You don’t show that you’ve heard it. There is nothing to be said.  

“Cursed, by Thor’s hammer,” another chortles, “it is said he was forging and struck the blade too hard. In his wrath, he sent a storm. A mongrel like her drew it upon herself, broken like the sword.” 

Certainly, that too is a story to be met with skepticism. One cannot guess at what the gods do in Asgard nor why they bring only misery and chaos to Midgard. You cannot disagree that the storm was no favour to you. A curse, certainly, though the meaning can never be known. 

You move along, leaving behind their whispers and their sneers. Off to your solace, to your safe. Out of the path of any wandering soul or any blowing storm.  

⛈

A storm rages without. Water swirls and batters your small abode, built against the wall of a cave on a carpet of peat. You cover your ears as the winds whistle and wail. You quake beneath your cloak, eyes locked shut as you cower away from the tempest so much as your own memories. 

The blinding white flash and the scalding hot pain. Your fingers creep up to your chin and feel the rigged scars. You can never forget, no matter how you try. You can never be as you were. You are marked, you are damaged, and as the villagers have it on their tongues, broken. 

Even your family would not have you. You remember your mother’s wail as your father drove you off like some beast. ‘The gods have smited you themselves. You cannot remain or you will wreck ruin upon us all.’ 

Days of walking and tears, like the very storm that scarred you, a haze through which you trod until you could go no more. Until your head would split and the burnt flesh began to weep. A woman found you on the forest floor, rotting away from the corruption spreading through you. 

You don’t remember much of her. Only her touch and how she healed you. She bid you off with the cloak you wear and some food for your travels. Then you were alone and thus you remain. Not even the thieves will steal from you, nor the criminals darken your door. A curse is worth no piece of gold, no drop of blood. 

The pounding of rain relents. A chill creeps beneath the slats of your door and seep into the walls. You fill the earth with what kindling you have, the clay chimney puffing smoke up through the center of the roof. You hold your hands out to warm but find little comfort. 

You settle on your side beneath your cloak and stare into the flames. You shiver. It’s cold. Very cold. Typically, the rain chases away the chill but this is different. You can feel it in the ground. You curl up tight, clinging to your warmth, let your eyes close. Sleep comes but for lack of and not peacefully. 

Your dreams are a maelstrom. There a flames and ice, one after the other, sometimes together. Sharp pointed shards frozen and hanging, then licking tendrils of heat from below. You are lost in the land of sleep, tortured by a world built of your own fears and follies. 

You wake stiff and frigid. The fire has gone out. Not even smoke remains in the pile of ash. You move carefully, bones aching, scars tingling. You touch the hard ridging along your cheek and your fingers pulse from the cold. You can see your breath. 

How can it be? It was sunny before the rain. You get your feet under you and stand with a groan. Near the door, a strange dusting of white powders around the door, flecking in from beneath and around the edges. Snow? 

Were the tales true after all? You wince as suddenly your scars singe and sting. Ow. You recoil and cover your face with your hands, hissing and wheezing through the pain. It hurts terribly. Worse than even the first strike.  

You pull your hands away as your eyes water and you blink through your tears. You can see, at least in your good eye. There is no lightning, it is only in your mind. You shakily turn and search around. You cry out again as the agony surges once more in your head. 

Why? 

Your legs quake. Something is amiss. The frost has come and this meagre hut cannot withstand it. You take your rucksack and put what you can carry into it. Your water skin is strung across your chest and your pack upon your back. You wrap your boots with rags and your hands too. You haven’t the clothing for the cold but you will need to find something. Perhaps skin a hare or two. 

The door blows inward almost as soon as you touch it, another gust nearly bowling you over. You sway with the wind and cling to the crooked doorframe. You shove yourself out, just as quickly flattened to the wall by a flurry of snow. It dusts your face coldly and you pull up your neck scarf over your nose and pull your hood into place. 

You set off, hunched, reaching with your arms as you lift your knees over the treacherous heaps. You keep close to the rock wall. The thought of turning back stops you but it seems as foolish an idea. The hovel cannot hold for much longer. You need to get to the mouth of the cave and chance a sleeping bear within. 

You sidle along, slowed by the snow and the wind, the former soaking through your clothing as the latter whips around your hood. Suddenly, a roll of thunder, like war drums, churns in the air. The word dims and the furor sounds again; louder, closer. 

You cry out and lift an arm to shield yourself instinctively. You curl your hand into the rockface and holler even louder, closing your eyes as your memory summons another storm. No, it cannot be. Not again.  

A deafening boom shakes the ground and knocks you to your knees. You crawl along, keeping low near the ragged stone, those hidden beneath the snow jabbing against your palms. You whimper and whine, blinded by the thickening curtain all around you. 

Yet you never heard of the god raining down snow upon the lands. Only the slaking rains and the hot violence of his bolts. Never this. What sword has he broken this time? Perhaps it was his very own hammer.

The thunder overhead continues its horrid thrum as more pulses in the earth. Boom, boom, boom. You feel it beneath your hands. Your knees come down clumsily as you scramble through the piling powder. You open your eyes and still cannot see. The world is smudge in gray white and black, the sky flashing and darkening from one moment to the next. 

You cry out again as your scars burn. You push yourself back on your heels and grasp your face as you shriek. It hurts! So bad! Your eyes well and flow over. Your body trembles and collapses. You writhe in the snow, contorting with the agony as your flesh feels as if it is splitting. 

Beneath the incessant pounding comes a rocky noise. Like laughter it curdles in the air and chases after you like the steady boom, boom, boom. Closer and closer, louder and louder, the earth quakes in tandem with the cacophony. 

“I’ve found another,” the deep voice scoffs and snickers, “ah, Heimdall, you must see this--” 

The craterous voice halts and the air still. The snow drifts but the wind stops and the thunder relents, the world seeming to hum. You scratch at your face as the flames grow unbearable. You must be alight. It can be the only reason for such pain. 

The large figure, a blurry silhouette in your skewed vision, looms like a mountain. He steps over you, sliding a foot between you and the cave wall and flips you onto your back. You stare up at the sky, rolling in sheets of grey and black, the dark figure standing above, blotting out the clouds. You sob and plead. 

“Make it stop!” You beg as your hood falls back, “kill me! Kill me! It hurts.” 

He bends as your eyes roll back and he grabs your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face. He pulls you half off the ground, not a single grunt for the effort. You feel whoever, whatever it is, looking down at you; upon you. A rattle rises in his gritty throat. 

“And what are you?” He breathes. 

You feel another surge and babble, reining in your wild eyes as you quiver uncontrollably. You make yourself look at him. You shudder and shake your head. Shaggy red hair, a braided beard, and eyes so blue they jolt you. Ink marks one side of his broad face as he wears fur upon his soldiers beneath emblems of the godly lands. 

“It hurts...” you rasp, “I am dying.” 

“You...” he grabs your chin, holding you by your shoulder. His thumb extends up your face to touch the scars and you let out a shrill howl as the agony piques. You latch onto his thick arm and thrash. 

“It buuuuuuuurrnssssssssss,” you scream as your spine arches. 

“Hmm,” he hums and throws you into the snow. You continue your desperate wriggling, the fire softening but not leaving you completely, “Heimdall!” He calls out like a war horn, “get your skinny ass over here!” 

There’s a tinkle of coy laughter and lighter footsteps that land on the boulder above. Your eyes drift over and you see another shadow, this one hazier but smaller. A dusting of snow flies up beside you as the other man lands beside you. No, not a man. 

Heimdall? Son of Odin. 

“Oh, Thor, what trouble have you found--” 

“Another one,” the other growls. Not the other, Thor. The God of Thunder. The beast who marked you. “Father says they all must come.” 

“This one?” Heimdall muses as his voice spikes with humour, “why look at her. Pathetic—wait a moment... brother, is this your handiwork?” He squats to see you closer and snickers again, “why how very peculiar.” 

“Bring her,” Thor barks and spins on his heel, swinging his hammer, “we haven’t time--” 

“You bring her, brother. As you say, you are so much stronger--” 

“Just do it!” Thor snarls and a peel of thunder breaks through the clouds. “I need ale.” 

[mangooes]

Chapter 4 - Intertwined for now, perhaps forever?

Chapter 1 - All will eventually fall upon the earth

Chapter 2 - I weep for the departed

Chapter 3 - Ready for another dance, shadow monarch?

Silence is the description of what is happening right now. Only the sound of breathing was heard, as the pair stared at each other unmoving. Before the girl continues, in a stern voice. 

“Let me go, Sung Jinwoo.” Her voice stern as she ‘tries’ to pull her hand away from the man’s grip. “This is not what you think it is.” Acheron continues. 

The man chuckles instead, finding the situation amusing before pulling her hand back, “Using my full name huh? You always have me, my dearest. No matter where you go, or how far you run, or how your presence always disappears on me, I will always find you, you can’t outrun me Acheron.” The man paused before releasing his grip on the girl, “You can fight me, but you will never know how far I am willing to go just to get to you..” as the man finishes with determination in his eyes.

The girl hums as she turns away from the man, facing the opposite direction. “Interesting…let’s save the conversation for later, looks like we got company.” 

As the girl finished her sentence, a large spear of ice was sent towards the ground where the pair stood. “How amusing our meeting has become," a voice echoed through the empty rift. Emerging from behind, another figure appeared—a being of regal cold, surrounded by an aura of frost and ice. It was the Monarch of Frost, gazing with an unreadable expression.

The Frost Monarch’s eyes flitted between Jinwoo and Acheron, his gaze hardening. "It seems the Monarchs underestimated your alliance," he said coolly. "But make no mistake—the both of youre presense means nothing in the face of the calamity to come." As the creature continues lauging maniacly, “Prepare yourself to meet your demise!” 

Acheron, her red eyes gleaming beneath her long dark lashes, remained silent, watching the interaction unfold. Her mind was not on the Frost Monarch’s words but on the weight of Jinwoo’s earlier claim. He remembered her, even after she had erased herself from his memory, no…. This is …How was that possible? She glanced down at the hand he had held, still feeling the lingering warmth from his touch.

But as they prepared to face the Frost Monarch, Acheron’s voice cut through the tension. "Enough of this," she said, her tone as cold as the frost gathering around them. "There’s no need for words with him. Let’s just finish this quickly.”

Without a second thought, Acheron raised her sword, the same crimson electricity sparking across its blade. In one fluid motion, she struck. A burst of red lightning shattered the frozen air, her attack too swift for the Frost Monarch to react, sending a large blow to the creature. 

Jinwoo blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sheer force of her strike. It was beyond what he’d seen from her before, even in his memories of their first battle. "You're stronger than before..." he muttered.

Acheron holds her sword, her face impassive, though her heart thudded with a strange, unfamiliar rhythm. "As are you," she replied quietly.

The monarch of ice grimaces under the force of the blow, his form weakening as he lets out a frustrated shout. “You! Such a disgrace!” his words drowned by the fury of Acheron’s power. The rift shook, the fabric of space itself tearing at her presence. 

Jinwoo smirks in amusement as he watches from behind. “Don’t you think it’s my turn to show off?” “Go ahead.. the stage is all yours..” The girl replied, backing away from the battlefield as she let the man take his turn. 

But before they could dwell further on their encounter, the space around them began to warp, the rift twisting into something far more dangerous. The Frost Monarch seemingly makes his escape, “This is not over yet pesky humans! You will all die in the hands of me!” as the Monarch disappears into the crack of the rift. 

Acheron sighed watching the scene in front of her, her expression melancholic. "Cowardice…It’s never truly over, is it?"

Jinwoo stepped beside her, his purple eyes glowing with an unyielding resolve. "Perhaps not. But this time, we will fight together."

For a moment, the weight of those words lingered between them. The world was still, the future uncertain. But in that moment, they understood, whatever battles lay ahead, their fates were intertwined… for now perhaps.

Hey guys! I'm not satsfied with this chapter either :(( i might rewrite this, but for now i'll just go w this!! I promise i'll update again tmrw but i might upload a new fic instead! It's a star rail fanfic (reader/oc insert prob) so if you guys r interested it's called "Amargeddon" inspired by aespa's song! Deff check it out tmrw if u guys r interested in it!!

[nknightfanfics]

Amphibia x Slugterra Status

What if the Calamity trios used to lived in Slugterra and then got sent to Amphibia.

 The girls grew up in the slum in Antimony Cavern. Both Anne and Marcy lost their parents and Sasha was left behind by the Watiton, (she changed her last name to Waybright). They had to work on delivery, taking odd jobs, scavenge a few places and stopping poachers. They hate poachers, especially slugs poachers.

Their slugs act like their good conscience and are considered family.

The people known the girls as calamity trios due to their reputation of using collateral damage to win the duels and stopping slug poachers. 

The girls are 15/16 years old.

Anne is dress in blue shirt, twin gray arm guards, gray gloves and gray trouser, armor holder at hip

Sasha is dress in pink shirt, a reddish cuirass from arm to  right shoulder, gray gloves and gray trouser, armor holder at hip

Marcy is dressed in green shirt, green goggles, gray gloves and gray trousers, armor holder wrap around the chest.

The media, fictions and food style are similar as Earth culture.

The Mecha beasts are programmed to be loyal to their riders, sometimes act a bit like animals. 

Slingshot were made first then blasters for slugs.

Marcy likes to create makeshift bombs and tools to help their journey, such as stink bombs, flashbang and grapinghook. She has hi-tech glasses that allow to record, take pictures and connect to Daredevil’s goggles to see what he sees.

Anne makes the homemade slug food, Marcy asks the slugs to help with her experiments and Sasha helps the slugs remain in top shape.

The girls will have their supplies as well as maintenance tools in Amphibia but no mecha beast.

Slug energy can make plants grow faster than one usually in Amphibia. 

Anne’s blaster is light blue with the barrel decorated in web style similar to X-duty takedown

Sasha’s blaster is pink, acts like a revolver fire mechanism and the barrel shape as a sharp edge.

Marcy’s blaster is light green, the barrel has small fins at top and side of the barrel, acting like a crossbow.

The girls know a few people, such as the Tracker molenoid Pronto; the mechanist slugslinger Kord Zane; the two robotics geniuses Jess and Ally; the historian and explorer Dr. Jan; scientist Terri; and best trickshot and pizza restaurant worker Mario Bravado.

Slugs used:

Anne: Arachnet (Web), AquaBeek (Splash), Diggrix (Digger), Fandango (NRG), Flaringo (Torch), Frost crawler (Frost), Gazzer (Gaz) (season 2), Hoverbug (Aero), Phosphoro (Aurora), Polero (Duo), Slyren (Singer), 

Sasha: Armashelt (Hardshell), Dirt Urchin (Spike), Geoshard (Shard), Grenuke (Bombshell), Hop rock (Rocker), Lavalynx (Magma), (MakoBreaker (Chomper) season 2), Rammstone (Smasher), Sand angler (Sandy),Thresher (Sawbite), Tormato (Storm),  

Marcy: Bubbaleone (Bubble), Crystalyd (Driller), Flatulorhinkus (Funk), Frightgeist (Phantom), Hexlet (Hex) (season 2), Hypnogrif (Psi), Jellyish (Goo), Lariat (Slime), Neotox (Tox), Vinedrill (Vine), Speedstinger (Daredevil), Tazerling (Shocker)

Current Status: Active, Creating a timeline

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Morning and Evening

by Charles Spurgeon

Evening, March 8th

"She called his name Ben-oni (son of sorrow), but his father called him Benjamin (son of my right hand)." – Genesis 35:18

To every matter there is a bright as well as a dark side. Rachel was overwhelmed with the sorrow of her own travail and death; Jacob, though weeping the mother's loss, could see the mercy of the child's birth. It is well for us if, while the flesh mourns over trials, our faith triumphs in divine faithfulness. Samson's lion yielded honey, and so will our adversities, if rightly considered. The stormy sea feeds multitudes with its fishes; the wild wood blooms with beauteous flowerets; the stormy wind sweeps away the pestilence, and the biting frost loosens the soil. Dark clouds distil bright drops, and black earth grows gay flowers. A vein of good is to be found in every mine of evil. Sad hearts have peculiar skill in discovering the most disadvantageous point of view from which to gaze upon a trial; if there were only one slough in the world, they would soon be up to their necks in it, and if there were only one lion in the desert they would hear it roar. About us all there is a tinge of this wretched folly, and we are apt, at times, like Jacob, to cry, "All these things are against me." Faith's way of walking is to cast all care upon the Lord, and then to anticipate good results from the worst calamities. Like Gideon's men, she does not fret over the broken pitcher, but rejoices that the lamp blazes forth the more. Out of the rough oyster-shell of difficulty she extracts the rare pearl of honor, and from the deep ocean-caves of distress she uplifts the priceless coral of experience. When her flood of prosperity ebbs, she finds treasures hid in the sands; and when her sun of delight goes down, she turns her telescope of hope to the starry promises of heaven. When death itself appears, faith points to the light of resurrection beyond the grave, thus making our dying Ben-oni to be our living Benjamin.

[70svampyr]

Watch Yourself

Pt.1 because I've been postponing this for so long that my reins of patience have finally snapped. Not much action in this part, except Billy's usual erratic behavior through the phone. Also mentioned a bit of Phyl in this because my girl deserves some love and I barely see her brought up.

WARNINGS! brief sexual language, creepy behavior, pills (I don't know if this should be a warning but I've seen people put it as such before so just in case), alcohol usage, gn! reader (rather they are just visiting the girls at the sorority or living there with them is up to interpretation.) 3k+ words.

edit: rereading this, I just realized I accidentally referred to the reader as "she" once. SO SORRY about that, I fixed the mistake to a proper pronoun! hopefully, that's all...don't be afraid to comment if you see another mistake and I'll gladly fix it.

Dread eased its way into the Pi Kappa Sigma sorority, a withered mask of weariness placed on top of the resident's exterior solid. A thick layer of frost encased the foundation of the estate and left a bitter imprint on the once nicely-looking establishment, marking its new territory. The harsh winters of Canada had made their appearance and took the drudgery to add another list of trepidations for the poor tenants that shook with the blistering winds. Batters of snow stacked on top of rooftops and devoured the driveways with its sharp canines, regaling the trees and encompassing the streets. The entire calamity resembled a rotting carcass, shaken to the bone and having premature icicles wilting from the milky muscles. The sorority girls of Pi Kappa Sigma, including you, felt like just on the edge of the cliff between falling to your demise and dulling the blades of the rock as it dug itself into your skin, illustrating your now lifeless body a pretty crimson-red; Flesh and bones becoming frozen on the shore from the vicious winter. Unless someone else does it first, saving you from this misery. Doubtfully so.

"Maybe he won't even call. The pervert's likely too busy with this harsh snowstorm as much as we are. He'll probably be shoveling up the snow off of his driveway so much to even consider calling us."

Phyl had been trying her best to lighten up the mood that had been drizzled with despondency and wariness. Not even an hour prior Barb had brought up the heinousness of it all and the talk of their little "prank caller" they'd been receiving for the past two months had slinked into the conversation. This had brought the girl's temper down at a frightening rate, now just recalling back to the ghastly phone calls this same man would initiate. They were sickening and perverted. It was the same damn thing every ring; him conversing about his carnal desire to plow his tongue in their nether regions and begging for his dick to be sucked─in summary. Profane rackets would be added to the mixture, not to mention pig sound reenactments and simply downright awful moans that none of the girls enjoyed. The vulgar phone calls had quickly become frequent, so the girls (more like Barb) had materialized up with the name "The Moaner" as an alias for their... unique guest.

The epithet fit, regarding how much he loves to moan into the receiver like he was deprived of it for all his life. So "The Moaner" stuck like honey. Except it wasn't sweet like honey, nor like chocolate or surgery sprite; something that you'd constantly want overlaying the base of your tongue and sizzling. It was more like the taste of copper, a taste seeping in between your teeth after biting down on your lip too harshly and letting the crimson liquid stain the skin of your chin and continue to rise back to the surface as you licked up the blood. It's not terrible the first time, sinking your teeth into the flesh of your lip, but overdo it and the metallic of it all begins to fester inside you, and all of a sudden it doesn't taste so tolerable.

Jess had circled the kitchen countertop to stand beside you while giving Phyl a kind, but dubious smile. "I don't know, Phyl. What if he doesn't even live in Toronto? Or Canada as a whole? He might live somewhere else, like Texas. It never snows up there." The proclamation coasted over the bungalow in a pristine bleak ambiance, eyes all equally passing back and forth towards each other, similar thoughts in each girl's mind, like a radio detector. You noticed the apparitions that now spelled the room, looming with a dark force, Jess's face lengthening into a hangdog right beside you. You began to feel guilty for not stepping up to Phyl's endeavor in a fresh atmosphere, but before you could even get a word out to arouse some kind of fresh air, the loud wail of the phone castigated your opportunity and brought an even gloomier vicinity.

"How fortunate." Barb sarcastically remarked as she carried another sip of her brandy. The acerbic beverage was just as broiling plummeting down her throat as the phone's ringing, everyone in the room knowing well who it could be. Not a soul dared to move across the space, too afraid and frankly too tired to handle what was on the other side. Regardless the ringing just kept going, until the noise finally got too pricking for you. Biting your tongue, you swerved the kitchen countertop and roughly picked up the plastic cable from its handset. "Hello?" Your voice was firm, yet just by reading between the lines, the habitue could easily tell how tentative you stood. You swiped the sweat off your brow as you anxiously waited for an answer, bouncing off of one leg and scratching the back of it with the other. Silence hovered above the outlying sound of static, your heavy breathing rolling as the singular proof of vitality. No one said a word, as if a ghost picked up the phone. "Uh- Hello?─"

"Just hang up, [Name]. It's probably him just fucking with you." Barb's resonant and hoarse voice scratched at you with its sharp claws from across where you stood; swaying back and forth for it was a habit of yours when the vines of impatience came creeping up higher and higher. Uneasiness too. You mulled over the brunette's words while still supporting the phone hooked to your ear, regarding the possibility that whoever was on the other line would finally gain the courage to speak. But as some more seconds passed and the sound of droning pervaded your ear, you let out a low sigh and lowered the phone. "Maybe it was the wrong number─?" Yet, whenever Clare's soft voice peeked up, the shrill of the phone echoed throughout the room once again. Not a ghost; If it was, it was a very teasing one. "That quick? Wow, he must be excited. Well go on, let's give this guy what he wants." Barb sat up from her place─, sprawled out onto the couch, holding a cup of brandy in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, ─and stumbled toward the phone with a tremble in her step. However before she could reach out for the crying device, you gently placed a hand on top of her chest and slightly pushed her away, shaking your head in a rejecting manner. You could see the look in her eyes, the underlying drunkness too clear not to notice. She was obviously intoxicated; It was best to leave Satan lingering at the door rather than have your inebriated friend piss him off and set the house ablaze. "No, Barb, you're too drunk to deal with him. Let's just all head to bed and call it a day. We don't need to end it on a much more terrible note than it already has."

Barb only scoffed at your proclamation, swatting your hand away from her dress shirt as if the touch scorned her, taking another gulp of her beverage like her very life depended on it. "I'm not that drunk! I can handle the son of the bitch! Plus, he's only gonna keep calling us until one of us picks up the phone. We might as well get over it." She eyed you like a piranha ready to forage, spitting out the words with fire. Nevertheless, you simply stood taller and kept your feet planted on the ground. "You're only gonna spur him on and add fuel to the crossfire. Trust me, the last thing we need is to piss him off, we don't know what kind of person he is. Now, go to bed. I mean it." Your words hung over the two of you in an icy blaze, and if it weren't for Jess coming up to rest a solacing hand on Barb's shoulder and tell her "they're right, we should go to bed", you would've been having to deal with Barb's violent episodes, certainly gaining a few bruises and a busted lip. With a coerced sigh, the brunette began walking up the stairs, before halting abruptly and twisting her body to face yours, a grim expression plastered on her complexion. "When he calls again, and again, and again until it drives the whole house crazy, you're gonna be the one picking it up." And with that, she went to bed.

Exhausted sighs washed over the tenancy room in sync the instant Barb's door slammed shut behind her. You silently thanked the divinities above for the tight-lipped exchange of agreement that was masked over with a dreary exhale. A low yawn from Clare broke the brief stillness and placed a cheeky smile on her pale face, slightly flushed from the cold. "I think I'm gonna head to bed as well. This day has drained me of dignity." Her candied-laced voice brought a few nods in understanding, a hushed giggle from Phyl, and numerous eyes tracing her figure spiraling up the staircase and to her coffin. Clare's retreat seemed to construct a rolling dice match; once she entered her bedroom, Jess had bid her good nights as well, then Phyl followed suit, until only you stood in the kitchen space, wide awake with the underlying fatigue. But you knew you wouldn't be able to fall asleep just yet, so you stayed put. You watched Phyl track up the carpeted stairs before she suddenly turned around to face you. "Thanks for that─ you know, with Barb and all. I'm sorry she can be such a priss, but you know she would feel extremely guilty for hurting you. Anyways, good night- Oh! And try not to stay up too late. Remember to take your pills once─"

"I know, I know! I've got the drill memorized Phyl, you don't have to remind me." You waved your hands in exaggeration as you earnestly attempted to shoo the curly-haired girl away. "Plus, I know Barb would never consciously hurt me, but hey, she can throw a few good punches." you couldn't stop a laugh from slipping out, Phyl chuckling along with you. "Now go get some sleep. You need it more than me." All she gave you in retort to that was a vacillating smile, before trotting upstairs and entering her room, gaining her once solitariness. You monitored her with a similar grin on your complexion. You cherished Phyl and all of the other sorority sisters as if they were your own blood, even Barb who was an alcoholic, but you didn't need them plaguing you like pigeons swarming a clutter of scattered peanut kernels. It wore you, as much as you didn't like to admit it; you needed your space as much as they needed theirs. And that came with being able to memorize when to take your zaleplon.

The resonate of stillness leaped off the walls with an eerie calmness to it, the distant racket of something ricocheting up in the attic remaining as the only noise to materialize. You brushed it off for the rats scurrying inside the house; it's become a recent convulsion that you quickly learned to overlook. Your eyes trace towards the stack of dirty dishes that sat In the equally dirty sink, its essence taunting you in a way that screamed for help. A wave of grimace washed over you at the tainted scenery, complying with the demands it spoke without a lip to invoke it. You made sharp work of rolling up the sleeves of your top and wrenching on the faucet, letting the water get poaching hot underneath your fingertips, and seizing a bottle of dish soap out from underneath the sink. An odd notion crept in the back of your head, recalling back to the sicko that had a guilty pleasure in harassing the sorority's phone line.

'I wonder if he "enjoys" washing the dishes as much as I do.'

─

The cognate clock on the paint-peeled wall ticked within your work time, a grating reminder and alarm of how vastly time passed as you set out your responsibilities. The snow had not lessened throughout clattering dishes and rinsing dish soap, preferably amassing up more and concocting an upheaval for the impending sunrise. You hummed to a jolly Christmas tune ─although couldn't fathom remembering what exact song, ─ with a newfound sense of clarity that shimmered in front of you like a dazzling star as you scrubbed at your last plate. Once you had turned off the sink and positioned the now soaking-wet ceramic on the laid-out kitchen towel, the sound of the phone going off brought a startled yelp out of you, the shrieking noise slicing through the air with its sharp, tantalizing knife, narrowly missing the flesh of your skin. 'Jesus fuck.' you grasped onto the cotton above your beating heart like a sheathing barrier, withholding a glare aimed at the maneuvering device that jerked in its handset with deduction. It looked as if the caller was desperate for you to pick up, screeching how badly they wanted to hear your voice throughout the receiver, hear it bark at them with such resentment that rippled a burning crackle of fire downwards. And maybe they did. Perhaps that was what lied behind the harmless gadget. However, that was unbeknownst to you.

Throwing the paper towel you were utilizing to dry your hands off on top of the marble counter, you trudged toward the screaming telephone and harshly picked it up, silencing the ring and lifting it to the front of your ear. "Hello?" You had said for the second time that night, uneasiness already seeping its way through the crevices of your bones and aligning your insides, Its long, twig-like arms enveloping themselves around your heart and squeezing it like a vice. At first, nothing. Just the sound of static and what you could make out as a subtle shuffle, but no words. "Hello? Who is this?" attempting at your voice again, you immediately were greeted with (dare you say, very realistic) reenactments of pig snorts. "He─"

"Pretty piggy! Pretty, pretty piggy!"

Your speech was interrupted by a voice that resembled a mix of nails on a chalkboard, and a busted windshield with cracks spiraling across the glass. "Oh. It's you again." was all you were able to muster up, clear annoyance laced with your words, before the male switched to making slurping noises like a light switch. "Let me liii ick it! Lick your pretty, pink─" Vulgurties already began to spew their way out of his mouth, the carnality and the pictorial of it all reaching towards you with its repulsive tongue, driving you to impulsively back away from the phone. It didn't take long for the caller to bring in his roundabouts of elaborating on his horniness and bragging about his dick, the slurping noises only obtaining louder and more explicit that you could virtually feel his spittle through the receiver. 'Gross fuck.' was all that you ruled to think during the esprit of the phone call. You could only handle so much until the wires snapped and you finally had your fill. "Listen, I hate to break it to 'ya, but these phone calls of yours are getting old. If you want to keep calling, be my guest, but at least change up the act. We're all sick and tired of your crap, and we could give less than two shits about how big your dick is. So either stop calling or makeup something new." you couldn't help yourself from snapping; the act was growing old, and the troubling frigid weather that you already had to deal with had given you a bit of a push. You didn't hesitate to hang up the phone.

Yet, of course, that didn't seem to be enough to scare off the male, as the ringing merely came for the umpteenth time, not even letting a second pass after you had abandoned the prior call. "Jesus Christ...What?!" you practically screeched into the receiver, fed up and exhausted for the night, your cup overflowing with crises. A resonate of giggles greeted you not-so-warmly, a vein beginning to appear on your forehead as you rubbed at your nasal. "M-Mommy's mad...real mad..." the male murmured between giggles, his luny cheerfulness bubbling up back to the surface, the rest of his insanity tied together in a swirl of madness. "G-Gonna...H-Have to punish...Discipline! You have to learn to discipline, Billy! Or else the baby will never learn! Learn from your mistakes! Mistakes, mistakes, MISTAKES!" The voices used seemed to alternate between a thunder of an angry older male and a younger one, paralleling a conversation between father and son.

"Punish pretty piggy...yes...punish, punish, punish, punish─"

You rolled your eyes to cover up the growing uncomfortableness, sensing the male's delirium within his odd speech. Responding with a familiar bite, you pressed the phone closer toward the flesh of your ear. "So you still live with your mother? I can't say I'm surprised. And I think I'm gonna have to pass on being 'punished'." All he did in response was laugh. Laugh after laugh after laugh, until he finally cracked and never stopped, even for a minute.

Amid his ongoing fit, you suddenly recalled that you still needed to take your pills. Placing the phone on top of the table it was residing at, face-up, you strolled towards the kitchen and opened up one of the cupboards, taking out two tablets from their dwelling and setting them aside on the marble counter, all while the faint sound of deranged laughter sufficed the room. 'What the hell is this maniac laughing about?' you pondered while you fetched your mug of water and swallowed down the tablets smoothly. Even once you crawled back to the telephone, what sounded like shattering windshields did not subside.

"What? You got a joke to tell me? You better make it quick then, I doubt your mom will appreciate you staying up this late, harassing a sorority house for that matter." the words slipped from your lips before you could even lasso them back in, and immediately, the male halted his antics. An uncanny silence poised over you for the third time that night as you gulped down nothingness, omitting your growing anxiousness. The pang of regret was already beginning to web around you, its spidery legs creeping all over your body as you waited patiently. 'Did I piss him off? Did I royally fuck up?'

You almost jumped as a normal voice spoke close to the receiver.

"I'm going to kill you." prevailed as the final thing you heard before the line went dead in your clutch, a sudden waft of chilliness sawing through you.

'What the fuck.'

Tentatively, you placed the phone back down in its respective compartment─hopefully for the last time that night─and paced two steps back from its plateau. His words dispersed inside your brain as you tried to collect your bearings, the frost-bite tone he held swelling louder and louder, drumming against your skull. A shaky sigh managed to escape your lips as you gathered yourself, mentally face-palming. "Stupid, he just said that to scare you. No need to be so worked up." you softly muttered as you glared daggers toward the plastic cable. With a final scoff, you stomped towards the light switch connected to the kitchen and flicked it off, allowing yourself to be bathed in darkness and take on whatever is obscuring among it. A yawn almost instantly evaded you afterward, feeling your exhaustion take its final bows. Not even bothering to take one last finalized glance at the house, you ambled up the carpeted staircase and made your way across your enclosure, not distinguishing the hazel-green eyes boring into the back of your head, pissed off and blood lust surfacing.

tearing my hair out, this took so fucking long and it's only pt.1. I know this might've been a little boring, but I swear the next part will actually have some mind-fucking because I believe billy would enjoy that type of torture. take this as a sample of me trying to get better at my writing. -cora

[myreia]

Divergence of the Heart

CHAPTER SIX: PROMISES KEPT, PROMISES MADE

Chapter Rating: Mature (full story rating is Explicit) Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Aymeric de Borel, Thancred Waters, Hilda Ware Pairings: Aureia/Aymeric, Aureia/Thancred, Thancred/Hilda Chapter Words: 7,625 Notes: Set during the Heavensward patches. Summary: Aureia Malathar may have made a name for herself in Ishgard, but her deeds come with a hefty personal toll. Despite her victories at the Grand Melee she has never felt more unsure of herself. Her relationship with Thancred—the person she thought knew her the best—is strained, yet she cannot abandon him. Aymeric is falling for her harder with each passing day, yet she cannot bring herself to accept it. All may be fair in love and war, but at least war is predictable. Love on the other hand… Chapters: 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 Read on AO3

Aureia sips at her wine, barely cognizant of the smooth, rich flavour flooding her mouth, distracted as she is by Aymeric. Friendship, he proposed, but it is more than that and they both know it. Something better left unnamed for now. She doubts either of them know where this evening will end, but to be frank, she would rather not think on it. She wants nothing more than to enjoy her time here in his company, without distraction or worry.

The food is as good as it smells, featuring dishes she knows and more that she doesn’t. The last time she had a meal this fine Raubahn lost an arm, but she has a feeling the limbs of all attendees to this dinner are safe tonight. She bites her tongue, refraining from making the joke. Even with a glass and a half in her system, she’s not a fool enough to overshadow the evening with memories of the bloody banquet.

Aymeric is more talkative than she has ever seen him. Of course he is habitually loquacious, rivalling only Urianger for the amount of words he can squeeze into a sentence before running out of breath, but the way he relaxes over the course of dinner brings a smile to her face. The politician is always simmering underneath, but the more their conversation wanders, the less present he becomes. So rarely have they had the chance to talk about topics unrelating to war or politics, she knows she is seeing a side of him he rarely shares with others, if at all.

She knows the feeling all too well. Idle chatter about unimportant things isn’t something she’s used to even among friends. Outside of Tataru’s company, that is. Then again, Tataru makes it a point for her to talk about non-world-ending events on pain of death, so maybe that doesn’t count.

This is good. For both of you.

“…would that I could have seen such a momentous event,” he says, his eyes sparkling with interest. “Thank you, truly—”

“Wouldn’t have been a problem if it wasn’t so bloody cold,” she replies with mock sarcasm. “Why is it so cold here? Is it always so cold?”

“Ah.” He pauses, lowering his fork. “It has been this way for some seven years now. Ever since the Calamity overrode the land with frost and fury.”

“Oh.” She flushes, pressing her lips together. She should have known that; or, at the very least, put two and two together. This side of the world was ravaged by horrors she could only imagine from the safety of her post in Ilsabard when Dalamud fell from the sky. “What was it like before?”

A strange expression falls over his face, lost in thought. Whatever memory he is retreading resonates with fondness and loss. “Green valleys and rolling hills, so vibrant in their colours no painting could capture them,” he says quietly. “Lakes clear as glass reflecting skies of pure azure. I remember there were small periwinkle flowers that bloomed in abundance near Whitebrim Font. My mother… the viscountess… She was very fond of them. Now that I come to think of it, I cannot remember their name.”

He pauses and glances across the table at her, the memory subsiding. “I am certain any botanist could tell you the extent of what was lost far more keenly than I,” he continues conversationally. “A whole land irrevocably changed. We cannot return to what we have lost, but perhaps we can look to what we have gained. A new land sprung up beneath our very feet. In time, who knows what will come to call these snowbound highlands home? As destructive as the Calamity was, I would consider it rebirth rather than destruction. For Coerthas was not destroyed. We remain.”

She smiles. “I like that.”

He returns the smile and reaches for the decanter, refilling his glass. “I suspect you will admonish me for this, yet I must admit I have the desire to apologize for our inclement weather, as far outside my control as it is.”

Aureia snorts, unable to hide her laughter. “Don’t,” she says and pushes her glass across the table. Not necessary, perhaps, but why shouldn’t she be indulgent when in the company of friends? “There’s comfort in it. Familiarity. Predictable, if you know what you’re getting into, what to expect, and come prepared. Too many Eorzeans balk at a little snow.”

“Speaking from personal experience, I presume?”

“It’s not exactly a climate the city-states are used to, no. Three years on this continent and I’ve yet to see genuine snowfall outside of Gridania. It’s funny to think I would have had an easier time adjusting had I found my way to Ishgard rather than Ul’dah. Thanalan was unbearable after Ilsabard. I’m used to snow, not heat. The desert was suffocating enough outside the city, but inside? Like being trapped in a hothouse.”

He pauses, gripping the decanter, and a strange look crosses his face. Too late she realizes the implications of what she has said, the conclusion he must have come to. She flinches, mind whirling as she grasps at any explanation that will do, truth be damned. It’s not that she wants to lie to him—of course she doesn’t, she never has, the thought of it makes her sick to her stomach—but that she can’t bring him into her past. It is not a place she is willing to go with him. He doesn’t deserve to suffer in those trenches with her.

“I take it you spent time in northern Ilsabard, then,” he says carefully and tips the decanter, the deep red liquid pouring out in a rush.  

She swallows the lump in her throat, her eyes drawn to his hands. He fills the glass near to the brim and pulls back. A bead of wine bubbles at the lip, clinging to the edge. It falls, the spot splotching the tablecloth. A single crimson spot on a sea of white. Like blood in the snow, Coerthan, Garlean, or otherwise.

Trust him. You have to trust him. If you can’t trust him, you can’t trust anyone.

“I did,” she says finally. “I was there for many years.”

Aymeric sets the decanter down. “The Imperial capital?” he asks.

“Close to it.” Her throat is raw. A lie, of a sorts. Stationed there for a time, but on the outskirts. She never stepped foot in the Imperial palace or the districts that composed the true capital. She may have been born within Garlemald’s borders, but people like her were never considered as such. They would never let a non-native like her, with dangerous magic coursing in her veins, closer than that. “Long enough to adapt. Eorzeans think Garlemald is bitter and unforgiving, but they do not know the half of it. It is far more than the cold and the ice. There is no survival if you are unprepared.”

“I have heard similar when Lucia has seen fit to speak of it. You have all my respect and more, Aureia—” He cuts himself short, laughing awkwardly as he quickly corrects himself. “Of course you always have—I didn’t mean to say that I did not before—but knowing this, even in the smallest capacity, knowing what trials you must have faced on your journey here…”

You don’t know. You have no idea. The bitterness of the thought takes her by surprise and shame flushes her cheeks. How could he know any different? He must be imagining some grand escape by yet another defector with too much good in their heart to endure living in a tyrannical nation. Not an operative with too much blood on her hands, who fled for selfish reasons.

Avoiding his gaze, Aureia reaches for her glass and disappears behind it, taking a long drink. Aymeric exhales a long breath and runs a hand over his chin, lost in thought. If her behaviour is odd to him, he either has not noticed or thinks nothing of it.

“Aureia, may I confess something?” he says after a moment.

She lowers the glass and nods.

“For countless decades Garlemald has been an enemy to all nations upon this star. But oft I have wondered where we would stand had history shown us a gentler hand, one of collaboration and cooperation rather than one of ruthless war. What could we have learned from Garlean expertise had the few not corrupted the many with tyrannical ideals and gluttonous expansionism? What could they have learned from us?”

He leans against the table and holds his gaze to hers, his eyes blazing with passion. How long has he been withholding these thoughts, waiting for the right person to tell? Someone he trusts irrevocably? “Ishgard has its own bloody history, a fanatical fabrication upheld by the very souls charged with her protection while they bled her people dry. As Ishgard recovers, I am left to wonder whether the cycles we have suffered here are not also in play in a land like Garlemald. As our nation has been isolated from the brutality of their war by virtue of being preoccupied by another, I would dare utter this before the Alliance when our coalition is so young and untested. But I believe there is a mirror in our greatest enemy, one that reflects a terrible truth we see in ourselves.”

“I don’t know if many would agree with you,” Aureia replies grimly. “It’s an empire. It’s not a place you can forgive.”

“I do not speak of forgiveness. They have harmed and will continue to harm the world greatly. But to paint every citizen who lives beneath their banners with the same broad stroke does not sit well with me. It would be the height of hypocrisy after what Ishgard herself has partaken in.”

“Perhaps.”

“I am not a faultless man, Aureia, I know this to be true more than anyone. I still have much to learn. But if there is one lesson that has remained with me throughout my time in command, it is that leadership does always speak for the people. Those with power will always have an agenda at play, for good or for ill. I will not condemn civilians for the place of their birth. When they have been shown no other path than one that has led to dogmatic beliefs and unquestioned chauvinism, perhaps they are as much victims of their government’s regime as those who have fallen to Garlemald’s might.”

“And those who are not civilians?” The question is out of her mouth before she can stop herself. “In a future where the Alliance wars with Garlemald and the Empire is brought to its knees, what grace would you extend to those you fought on the battlefield? Would you see them as victims worthy of help or perpetrators deserving of punishment?”

“That is a difficult question. One that has no easy answer.”

What would do you, Aymeric, if you knew? That I was one of those very people.

“I would like to hear it.”

“Then I would say I have none. For war only muddies the waters, never cleanses it. We know all too well how the annals of history are written in the hand of the victor. There are casualties on both sides of any war. If we are to judge our enemies by the harshest laws, then we must look to our own leadership and judge them by the same standards.”

She blinks, uncertain what to say, and looks down, chasing the remnants of her meal across her plate. The evening’s conversation has led them in a direction she didn’t predict. And all from a discussion about the weather…

The again, Aymeric’s sincerity has struck her deeply. She has never known anyone like him, really. His unshaking resolve paired with his unflinching acknowledgement of his own flaws… He has a capacity to see the good in people without excusing terrible actions. What he has told her tonight will stay with her for a long time.

“I apologize.”

His voice interrupts her thoughts. She blinks again, clearing her vision, and finds him staring at her from across the table, concern in his eyes.

“I did not mean to ask you to revisit painful memories,” he continues. “Whatever is in your past you have no obligation to tell me unless you wish to.”

She raises her head and picks up her glass, swirling her wine and fixing him with an arch look. “Did you know you say sorry too much, Aymeric?” she says.

His eyes widen, an embarrassed pink flushing his cheeks. “I—well—perhaps I do, but it is out of respect, is it not? I apologize, I had not realized—” He stops, cutting himself off as he hears the words he has just spoken. Chuckling, he shakes his head at himself and takes his wine in hand. “I am a fool, aren’t I?”

She smiles. “No,” she says, taking a drink. The wine warms her, flushing across her chest. Despite the gravity of their conversation, she feels content. Safe. Happy. “At least, no more than the rest of us.”

“I should strive to do better.”

“You should strive to be no more than yourself.”

Aymeric pauses, once again surprised by her words, and raises his glass to his lips. He drinks deeply, savouring the wine as he regards her from across the table. There’s that look in his face again… The one she can’t place. He seems enchanted and she hasn’t even done anything. Who is she to hold his attention? His friendship? His love? Though she wants to believe differently, she can’t ignore the deep sense of wrong within her. That this is some horrible mistake. That someone like her doesn’t deserve someone like him.  

She drums her fingers against the tabletop, desperately searching for a way out. She thinks back, winding the conversation back to before it slipped into uncomfortable territory. The weather. The snow.

An idea forms.

“You know I don’t mind the cold,” she says, raising her glass to her lips. She nurses her wine, her fingers dancing across the table. She waits, noting how he watches her as she turns her palm upwards. With a breath, she commands the smallest threads of aether, her fingers crackling with frost as ice manifests in her hand. It dances above her palm, reflecting the warm glow of the candlelight in its crystalline heart. “I have a few tricks.”

He smiles and watches enraptured, the remains of his meal forgotten. “Ah, of course,” he replies. “The talents of a black mage are never to be underestimated.”

“Useful in Ul’dah.” She relaxes her fingers as the ice splits into three small shards and rotate in a circle above her palm. Show off. “On scorching days when I could barely think.”

Adrenaline is already coursing through her. Creating ice is a shock to the system, jolting her mana regeneration into overdrive. The font is infinite, regenerative, powerful. To have so much mana flood through her at once makes her head spin, her heart beat faster, every fibre of her being pulsing with untouched power. So simple, yet so addictive.

Aureia exhales and dismisses the ice. It dissipates in a puff of air, snuffing out the nearby candles. “This is more helpful here,” she says, summon a small ball of flame. She splits it into three and lets it play across her fingers. The orb burn brightly and happily, the light warming her skin. Fire-aspected aether is so often deemed the crux of destructive magic, but she knows better. As devastating as its power can be, fire can also soothe. Warm the hearth. Light the way. A spark in the darkness. “I don’t need much when travelling the Coerthan wilds.”

Aymeric watches in rapt silence as she twists her hand and sends the orbs flying, each alighting on a candle’s wick and setting it aflame. “Estinien thought I was quite the idiot last year. Running off into the snows by myself.”

He chuckles. “Estinien has a low opinion of all adventurers. Himself included.”

The pained look on his face does not go unnoticed. “He will return someday, Aymeric,” she says.

“I would like to believe it. But some days I am not so certain.”

“I think he was right to leave—”

“Without informing a soul? Vanishing without a trace? That is true to form. He is gone, and for those who remain, those to whom he extended a rare hand of friendship, are left to only speculate where time and tide will take him. Or how many moons will pass before he sees fit to return.”

She pauses, meeting his eyes. She has never heard him speak in anger about those he holds dear, at least not like this. Estinien was a friend to them both, but Aymeric knows him in a way she never will. Their bond runs deep, one of comradeship and brothers-in-arms. That he gave her no notice before departing doesn’t phase her, nor can she blame him for it. She may have very well done the same thing had she been in his place. But for Aymeric… Forget Ishgard, to walk out on him without a word has stung him.

And of course he is too polite to show much anger.

Without thinking much of it, Aureia reaches across the table and slips her hand into his. “I miss him, too,” she says softly. “Give him the time he needs, he deserves that much. As I said, I think he was right to leave. There can be no recovery in a place that reminds him of everything that was done to him.”

He exhales a long breath and closes his eyes. “You are right, of course. I spoke in haste and ill of a very dear friend who deserves compassion and understanding, not grievance and blame. Forgive me.”

“Aymeric. What did I say about you apologizing too much?”

He chuckles, shaking his head, and opens his eyes. She catches a flash of a smile in the flickering candlelight and he squeezes her hand once before retreating. “What say you to another round, my friend?” he says, raising his cup.

Aureia glances downwards. When did she finish her glass? She can’t remember. “Why not?” she replies and grabs the decanter. Normally she would avoid a third glass except on nights when she’s intent on drinking herself into oblivion, but with Aymeric she feels… Well. It’s not like she has anything to do tomorrow. And he offered.

He rises from his chair as she refills their wine, reaching for the platter of pastries and shifting it down the table. They have yet to taste any of them, distracted by their conversation as they are. He returns to his seat and clears his throat, hovering awkwardly as if he is waiting for her to make the first move.

“You must know we Ishgardians enjoy indulging ourselves,” he says, taking his glass from her. “It would be very poor manners indeed for me to deny you the first taste of dessert. Please, go ahead.”

She pauses, arching an eyebrow. There must be a reason for his hesitance. Why does she have the feeling he is planning something? “All right,” she says suspiciously, reaching outwards. She doesn’t know half the names of the desserts on the plate, but a familiar red pastry catches her eye at once. “Oh gods, tell me you didn’t.”

He chuckles with laughter and takes a long drink of his wine, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I heard whispers that you were fond of such little treats.”

“I was! I am! I—”

“Are you blushing, Aureia?”

“No, I—” She shoots him a dirty look. “It’s just that these are made with snurbleberries. What kind of a name is snurbleberry? The Warrior of Light can’t go around announcing she likes snurbleberry tarts, it would ruin the image—oh don’t look at me like that, you know what I mean.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, I… Fine. Perhaps I should consider this vengeance for all the times I’ve teased you.”

“Perhaps. Though, in the spirit of honest conversation, I would be bereft if you stopped. Your spirited remarks are a reminder that I am not confined to the stoic and stately countenance required to be upheld by the Lord Speaker.”

Warmth floods through her. Or is that the wine? “I used to love these,” she says, plucking a tart from the plate. The red berries stain her fingers. “I haven’t had one since I was exiled from Ul’dah. How did you know?”

“As I said, I heard whispers.”

“Mhm.” She takes a bite. “Whispers. I’m sure.”

“And by that I mean to say that I spoke with Tataru. She was quite keen to spill your most closely guarded secret.”

She laughs, mouth full, and finishes the tart. “She’s a good friend. Knows me better than she lets on. We have been through a lot together. Her, me, and Alphinaud.”

He nods, his smile warm. “You have. It was by terrible circumstances that the three of you sought refuge here, but I am forever gladdened that you did. Our lives would be quite changed had it been different.”

The conversations stills, lulled to comfortable silence by sweets and wine. Aureia sips at her drink, pleasantly full and warm, her gaze passing around the dining room. She can’t remember an evening where she has enjoyed herself so thoroughly and so peacefully. When they are on their own—without the meddling of stuffy butlers—there is something about Aymeric that keeps her grounded. At peace.

She doesn’t want this evening to end. 

“Aureia,” Aymeric’s voice says quietly, interrupting her thoughts.

“Hm?”

She glances across the table to find him risen to his feet, a hand extended. Ever the gentleman.

“Would you join me in the parlour?” he asks with a half-bow.

She arches an eyebrow. “Am I allowed to bring the wine?”

“I don’t believe I could deny you even if I wanted to.”

Glass gripped in one hand, she follows him through the double-doors at the end and across the threshold into the parlour. The room is smaller to the sitting room they occupied before, though similarly decorated in plush furnishings and soft blues. Cozier. More private. Her gaze wanders, taking in the portraits lining the walls and hung above the hearth. Family portraits, hunting scenes, brave knights and fearsome dragoons… Naegling makes an appearance in more than one. These must be the ancestors of House Borel.

Not his family by blood, but his family by choice.

He settles into a couch by the hearth, resting his wine glass idly on the armrest. She joins him and sinks into the cushions, curling her legs beneath her. He looks different here in the comfort of the parlour. Relaxed. More at ease. His proximity sends an excited shiver down her spine. She has seen him countless times, but now she wonders whether she has ever truly seen him. The deep midnight of his hair, the faint flush on his cheeks, the way the light catches his familiar blue and gold earring. The curve of his lips.  

She presses her glass to her mouth, the rich wine heavy on her tongue. She wonders what it would be like to kiss him. She wants to. She imagines it would be nice. He must be good at it. How many lovers has he had, she wonders? He’s so determined, pragmatic, married to his work. It doesn’t seem like he has had the time for that kind of thing. And yet he is far too much of a romantic not to.  

Her stomach twists into a knot. There it is. The familiar embarrassment rushing up within her, the horrid sense of wrong, wrong, wrong. She’s not normal. She knows this. The things that come so easily to others are not easy for her. She hates the judgement, self-inflicted as it is.

Would he think differently of her, if he knew? How incongruent it is—a warrior and a saviour on one hand, capable of striking down primals and stemming the tides of chaos, and a shamefully inexperienced woman on the other, who at over thirty would be considered an unsalvageable old maid by Ishgardian standards. There are girls half her age who are married.  

Not that Aymeric thinks much of Ishgardian standards.

You have got to get over this.  

She hides from the thought by gulping down a mouthful. When she resurfaces, her head feels light and buoyant, buzzing from the drink.

“I think it’s my turn,” Aureia says finally, sinking deeper into the cushions.

Aymeric raises an eyebrow. “For…?”

She nudges him playfully with a foot. “You asked me a personal question. It’s time for me to ask you.”

“Oh?”

“It’s only fair.”

“I won’t argue that. What would like to know?”

She pauses, wetting her lips as she thinks. “Your parents. What were they like?”

He doesn’t answer. The longer they sit in silence, the more her panic grows—perhaps she misspoke, perhaps it was a mistake to go down this path. She told herself she wouldn’t pry into his family history, but her curiosity won out in the end. She wants to know, if only to know him better.  

“My foster parents…” Aymeric speaks quietly, lost in thought. He rests his hands against his knees, his wine glass held loosely in his hands, his eyes lingering on the portraits on the wall, the generations who came before him. “Were I to describe them in a single word, I believe I could choose no other word than resolute. They were elderly when I was born. No heirs. The Borel line would have died with them had they not taken me in.”

She curls up, leaning her head against the back of the couch, and listens with rapt attention. There is as much love in his voice as there is pain.

“They knew there would be talk. That their House’s reputation would be tarnished by adopting a bastard boy. But when it came down to a choice between sacrificing their reputation in the eyes of the nobility or surrendering their house entirely, they chose the former. Too many depended on them. Loyal knights whose fathers served their fathers, and their fathers before them. Servants who had been with the family for generations. They had a right to call this house home as much as my parents did. Had they died without an heir, they would find themself in need of different employment. The knights would be absorbed into the personal guard of rival houses, the servants scattered among the staff of the nobility if they were fortunate or to the Brume if they were not. Benoit and Violette did not wish to condemn those sworn to them and under their care to such instability.”

Aymeric clears his throat and lowers his head. She can barely make out his face in this light. His profile his dark, the lines of his sharp, proud features backlit by the crackling hearth.

“And so they were steadfast in their decision to raise me as their own. The scandal of it haunted them for the rest of their lives, but they cared not. They were upstanding members of high society, the most noble of nobles. For every cruel word spoken about them, they simply smiled and carried on, secure in their decision. And they were happy in their final days. Content to see me grown. Benoit, proud of how I had proven myself in battle and honoured to pass me Naegling, the symbol of his lineage. Violette, proud of the caring and determined soul she believed me to be.”

“How old were you when they passed?”

“Fifteen.”

A lump forms in her throat. Fifteen. So young. Too young. Still a child, though he may not have been considered as such at the time. Ishgard is far from the only nation to send their children off to war, but the unquestioned nature of the status quo does nothing to relieve the pit in her stomach. She was a child once, too. Garlemald crushed it out of her.

Aureia sips slowly, nursing her wine. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.  

He catches her eye. “They loved each other deeply. Trusted each other beyond measure. Their faith in one another saw them through the course of life, both the good and the hard. Some would say they were blessed by the Fury, to live the full lives that they did, for as long as they did. It is not often that Ishgardians reach their old age, even among the Elezen. War, grief, and illness all take many before their time.”

A pause. There is no discomfort in his voice; she knows without a doubt that he is telling her this because he wants to share it with her. Her fears of prying too far into his history dissipate. “A love like theirs was precious. Perhaps it is idealistic of me, but one day I hope to find the same, unlikely as it is given my position.”

“Aymeric…”

He raises his glass to his lips and drinks. “It is the way of the aristocracy. Family is of the highest importance, second only to our war and our faith. The relationship between noble bloodlines is ancient and complex. Marriage is a joint endeavour, a commitment struck between two households with an heir as the prize. I may be the Lord Commander, but I am also a viscount. I know the expectations set before me.”

“That’s hardly fair.”  

“And yet I understand the truth quite plainly. No, Aureia, as long as I hold Ishgard in my heart of hearts, my duty is to her and her people above all else. Personal sacrifices will be demanded, and they are ones I am content to make for the sake of this fledgling republic.”

“It shouldn’t be that way. Can’t you… I don’t know, change their minds? You are the Lord Speaker, aren’t you?”

He throws his head back and laughs, fixing her with a warm smile. “I can certain rouse discussion between the Lords and Commons and guide them as best I can,” he replies. “But no. Enacting reform within a system of governance is a far cry from changing a culture itself. I cannot expect the high and minor houses to change their views overnight. It will be a slow progress, one that I can only hope will benefit our children’s children and their children after them.”

She nods, rubbing her thumb absently against the side of her glass. This talk of love has brought a flush to her cheeks and she is once again thinking what it would be like to kiss him.

Damn it. Maybe he wouldn’t even want to. As he has said himself, there are expectations placed upon him. He will eventually need to marry. Have children. Where in that is there room for someone like her?

“And this is what your parents wanted for you?” she asks.

He glances at her. “Benoit and Violette wished only for my happiness,” he replies. “That I pursue a life worth living, whatever I believed that entailed. But there was a time when my foster mother did confess to me that she wished for me to leave Ishgard and see the world beyond our borders. And I will freely admit there was a time I yearned for that too, only to set it aside when practicality won out. However…” He trails off and he sets down his glass, shifting on the couch to face her. His fingers brush hers, tentatively taking her hand in his. “Truth be told, visiting those sweeping vistas of the Churning Mists with you at my side has reminded me of those days. I do feel the slight pangs of wanderlust, and I think… Someday, perhaps.”

Aureia meets his gaze. A part of her wants nothing more than to keep staring at him, to listen to his steady voice and fall deeper into his eyes. Another, smaller part is screaming at her to excuse herself and flee, escaping back to her miserable existence in the Forgotten Knight and forget all about him. She knows this will never work, this thing between them. Why set herself up for failure and risk hurting them both?

She swallows the panic and shoves it down. “Someday, yes,” she echoes tentatively. “Aymeric, do you think perhaps—”

A warm rumble resounds in her ears. A cat—large, orange with grey streaks, his fur fluffier than any she has ever seen—steals out from under the couch. He rises up and places his paws on the cushions by her legs, his tail swishing back and forth.

She stares at him. He stares back with large, yellow eyes.

“Sylvaine,” Aymeric chides, his tone somehow both fond and irritated. “What are you doing here?”

“Sylvaine?” Aureia asks.

The cat mews and stretches, his claws digging into the cushions and pulling at the fabric.

“My parents’ cat.” He leans forward and scratches the back of the cat’s head. “An old gentleman by any standard now, though Marcel complains he is far too lively for his age. One could say he is as much a symbol of House Borel as I am.”

The cat yawns, showing sharp teeth.

“Be careful. Majestic though he is, do not underestimate him. He has a mean streak the size of Coerthas for anyone he deems troublesome or dangerous. Or—quite frankly—anyone he thinks has looked at him wrong. Once he has judged you unworthy there is no asking for forgiveness.”

She holds back a smile. “Oh? And what counts as troublesome in his little lordship’s mind?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. It changes day to day, week to week, you see. I would never dare to assume what is happening in my dearest feline friend’s mind. Though I do recall quite vividly the day he cornered the fair Lady Hermine de Gervaise in the corner of the second floor library. As the staff could not catch the dastardly creature, a dragoon was called to assist the good lady in climbing out the window and escaping to the safety of the garden below. So great was her fear of Sylvaine that it far outstripped her fear of heights, you see.”

Aureia snorts with laughter. “Poor Hermine.”

“Indeed. Poor Hermine. She never called on me again, despite her family’s insistence.”

Sylvaine mews and leaps into her lap, curling his tail around him. His weight is warm and pleasant. Friendly. Cautiously, she reaches out a hand and runs it down his back. He offers a content purr in return and snuggles deeper into her lap.

“…and the dragoon?” she asks, petting the cat. She’s not used to being around such creatures, especially household pets. The closest thing she has is Filo and her chocobo is such a notorious biter that the Holy Stables refuse to stable him. “What happened to him?”

“Hm? Oh. The lady thanked him for his service, as I recall. And he made every excuse never to see her again.”

Her eyes narrow. “Please don’t tell me that was Estinien.”

“I have indicated nothing of the sort.”

“Oh, you liar. That absolutely was Estinien, wasn’t it.”

He grins. “Old stories aside, Sylvaine is very dear to me and the staff. His temperament may be ferocious at times, but we could not want for a better guardian.” He scratches the cat fondly, watching the way he curls in her lap with amusement. “I am glad he has taken a shine to you.”

She returns his smile. Finishing off her wine, she reaches over and places the glass on the floor. She has no desire to get up and find a table when there is a cat in her lap. “Aymeric,” she begins softly. Her head is buzzing slightly. It is so comfortable here, sitting on this couch with him. Between the warmth of the hearth, the contentedness of the cat, and his company, she has never felt more at ease. “When you said someday earlier…”

“Yes?”

“You spoke of wanderlust.”

“I did. I have no shared this with many, but I have a fervent wish to see more of this world. The lands beyond Ishgard. Beyond Eorzea. It is a yearning I cannot fully explain. My mother once said I had an insatiable curiosity; perhaps it stems from that. We have turned a blind eye to the world beyond our gates for too many years. I once considered myself well-versed in the ways of the world, but your arrival here has shaken that. Indeed, the vivid accounts of your adventures and our exchanges with both the Alliance and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn have been a firm reminder that there is much I do not know.”

She pauses, careful not to jostle Sylvaine as she moves closer. “Then come with me.”

“To where?”

“Anywhere. Beyond Coerthas. Beyond Ishgard.”

“You have no idea how fervently I wish to accept such an invitation. But I cannot. My duties with the House of Lords demand my undivided attention.”

“They ask too much of you.”

“They ask nothing. It is I who must give it to them freely, for the sake of my nation. I cannot abandon them for my personal desires, no matter how much I wish I could.”

Aureia meets his eyes. “Have you considered that perhaps it is not they who do not have faith in you, but you who do not have faith in them?”

He blinks, so shocked by her statement that he is lost for words. “I… well… I…”

“The situation is perilous, I know. This new republic of yours is young and fragile. There are many in Ishgard—and the world beyond—who believe you are the sole reason why it has not fallen apart. That makes you a target.”

“We both know that all too well.” The gravity of his words is not easily missed.

“But if the Lords and the Commons are indeed so volatile that they will fall apart if you disappear for a day, then it will happen one day with or without you. You speak of trust so often, but I think, perhaps, it is you who do not trust them, rather than the other way around. Show them you have faith in them. They will eventually have to learn to govern without you.”

He sighs and bows his head, a faint flush on his cheeks. “Once again you have seen straight through to the heart of the matter,” he says. “How do you do it?”

“Sometimes you care so much you blind yourself. Or put yourself in your own way. I have a fair bit of experience with that latter one.”

Sylvaine mews and sits up. With a long stretch, he gives a great yawn and leaps down onto the floor, skidding across the rug. He prances away, tail held high, and slinks through the open door into the dining room and out of sight.

Aureia watches him go and shifts closer to Aymeric. A distant part of her mind is startled by her newfound confidence. Perhaps it’s the direction of the conversation or the comfort she feels here—or the wine. Most likely the wine. But she will seize this moment before she loses it. She has to.

“So,” she finishes, slipping her hand into his. It would be too easy to curl up against him, her head on his shoulder. “I’m going to ask again. Would you come with me?”

He squeezes her hand, his eyes unable to leave hers. Thancred would likely say something snide about him looking besotted. Her heart thunders in her chest. Between the wine and the way he’s looking at her, the desire to kiss him is overwhelming. Why shouldn’t she? She may never get another chance.

Aymeric smiles gently. “There is nothing that would make me happier—”

She kisses him.

For the briefest of moments, she feels him freeze in shock and surprise. Then he melts, his mouth warm and gentle as he kisses her in return. She trembles, her mind buzzing, giddy with astonishment at her own boldness. Without giving it much thought, she twines her hands at the back of his neck and pulls herself into his lap, straddling him. His breath catches in his throat and she senses his hesitation, his hands resting gently against the small of her back.

But he does not push her away. For a moment, they are caught in time—seconds passing, indecision mounting, as if they are both too hesitant to make the first move.

And now that she is here in his arms, it terrifies her how scared she is of losing this. Losing him.

Head fuzzy with wine and too lost in the moment to think, she does the only thing that make sense. She presses her mouth to his again and kisses him deeply—

He pulls back. “Aureia, wait,” he says.

“Hm? What for?”

Aymeric exhales a long breath. “I… This… A moment, if you would, please?”

Shame flushes her cheeks. Was she too eager? Did she misunderstand him completely? Did she misread every sign? Maybe his interest in her was simply her imagination. Fuck it, maybe those romance chapbooks really did do a number on her. This is all Tataru’s fault.

Fuck. What the hells do I do now?  

Cursing inwardly at her own stupidity, Aureia disentangles herself from Aymeric and slides off him, shifting to the far edge of the couch. Her face burns with embarrassment and she tugs awkwardly at her coat, readjusting it. It’s difficult to forget the feel of his hands on her back or his mouth on hers. For a moment, brief though it was, she was in a fantasy.

Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she rests her elbows on her knees and stares determinedly at the opposite wall. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. It was I who—”

“No. It was me—”

“Aureia—”

The door opens.

“Lord Commander, I—”

Aymeric rises to his feet and drops his hands to his sides, standing at attention. “What is it, ser?” he asks, his tone crisp and official. “News from House Fortemps?”

Aureia flushes, doing her best not to fixate on how quickly he has fallen into his professional façade. The messenger is not one she recognizes, but from the shine in his armour and the terseness in his voice, she has a feeling he is one of Artoirel’s men. The Fortemps heir has never liked her much and the distant professional courtesy he extends her has rubbed off on his knights. If he had walked in only a few seconds sooner, he would have caught them in a moment that would no doubt give Artoirel yet more ammunition to disparage her with. Not that he couldn’t put two and two together…

To his credit, the messenger either hasn’t noticed or refuses to acknowledge the empty wine glass on the floor.   

“An urgent message for the Warrior of Light,” he says with a curt bow. “I was instructed to deliver it without delay.”

Well then, spit it out already. She forces a smile on her face and gestures, silently inviting him to continue.

“Master Thancred returned to the manor a short while ago—”

Aureia’s heart drops. Thancred, returned. Thancred, at the manor. She hasn’t given him any thought for a while now. Impressive, considering how difficult it has been to excise him from her mind. So many restless nights of unanswered questions rolling around her head, wondering what went wrong and when, shoving down the hurt of seeing him and Hilda together like that. She was enjoying being free of it.

And now it has coming rushing back.

She would be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t relieved to hear of him. Confirmation that he is safe and sound.

“—bearing an injured maiden.”

Her ears prick up. What’s this?

She exchanges looks with Aymeric. He raises an eyebrow, but she shrugs and spreads her hands. She is as perplexed by the announcement as he is. What maiden? Who could it possibly be? Thancred has a reputation for philandering, but it is, frankly, a farce. This must be something else.

“Master Leveilleur and Mistress Tataru are tending to her wounds, but they do not like her chances. Respectfully, my lord. They have requested the Warrior of Light’s presence immediately.”

Aureia’s eyes widen. If Alphinaud is involved…

It can’t be. Alisaie…?  

His long-lost sister and twin, who diverged from her brother’s path to take matters into her own hands. Aureia doesn’t know her well and has not seen her in years. But if she is back and she is injured, if Thancred saved her… Then she knows where she has to be.

“I will go at once,” Aureia announces and rises from the couch. Blood rushes to her head and she winces, doing her best to keep her expression straight as a headache pulses between her eyes. She is regretting drinking that much wine. She may not be drunk, but from the way she is wobbling she knows she must be tipsy—and it’s going to be a pain to hide it.

Aymeric puts a gentle hand on her elbow, steadying her. Whether it is a gesture of support or to save her from further embarrassment, she doesn’t know. Her stomach twists into a knot. She doesn’t wanted to leave things left open with him like this, but she doesn’t have a choice.  

“And I shall go with you,” he says firmly. “Lead the way, ser. Mistress Malathar and I will follow.”

[graha-stan-account]

Once Bitten, Twice Shy: Day 11

Once bitten, twice shy: idiomatic. A person who has failed or been hurt when trying to do something is careful or fearful about doing it again. 

Present; Napha and Dajhir are on a sibling date in La Noscea. Once they get past bickering, Dajhir finally opens up a bit about his recent past.

FFXIVWrite 2023 Masterlist

--- 

The moon was high over Camp Bronze Lake, the odd raindrop plunking down into the mineralized waters of the hot springs as the distant crickets of late summer renewed their song. 

"I know you think I'm a fool." K'dajhir turned away from the moon, facing his sister. "A harlot." He tilted his head. "As someone so straight-laced, it must be embarrassing for you." 

"I can't tell if you're putting yourself down, or putting me down." J'napha propelled herself along the floor of the spring toward him. 

"Neither. I survived a Calamity. What care should I have for the opinions of others?" He shrugged. "Don't you wonder why I changed my name?" 

"I do. And when I asked you told me to 'nevermind about that.'" 

"Because it's a long story. One that's apt to get my words all tangled and," he sighed heavily, "it's a lot." 

"So is this you telling me now, or," she gestured behind her with a thumb, "shall I towel off?" 

"Full glad am I of your interest." He narrowed his eyes at her. "'Tis a better tale than the one of why you changed your name, though I'm sure Mother would love to hear it." 

Napha rolled her eyes. "Those traditions used to mean something to some of us, Dajhir. Doesn't mean I'm above putting necessity before pride." 

"Oh, yes," he said with a sneer. "A matter of survival, most definitely. Ph." 

"You don't remember what it was like."

"I do," he said, his words heavy as an anchor. "You haven't been back though... have you?" 

Napha looked away, lips tightly pursed, silent. 

"Mm." K'dajhir nodded, having obtained the answer he expected. "Little Napha, slayer of primals, liberator of nations, Warrior of the newly-found Big Mouth, can't bear to show her face at home." 

"You left first."

"I had to. There was no future for me there, and no reason to go back." 

"You said the same of me." 

"I did, but they'd be proud of you." He looked down, adding a flippant slight: "Well, perhaps if you hadn't changed your name, Ja'napha." 

"What of you? Ran off to join a stronger tribe? Ashamed after proclaiming you'd toss it all away? After you swore up and down you'd be a city boy, an adventurer or what have you, only to run back to what's familiar?"

"I did not go back to tribe life. I was serious when I said I didn't want that. I'm just..." he seemed uncomfortable. "Sentimental. I knew you wouldn't understand." 

"Wouldn't understand? How can I even try if you don't explain?" 

K'dajhir sighed heavily. 

Napha insisted with a flare of her eyebrows. 

"His name was Mjrn." K'dajhir bit his lip and turned back to face the moon's soft glow. "I met him in Coerthas, a time after the Calamity. He was a hired guide for a band of adventurers I happened to cross paths with. They were making their way south toward the Rhotano Sea." He peeked at her, placing a hand on his chest. "Me, in the frigid wastes?" He let loose a nervous little laugh "Mjrn knew before I did I was half frost-bitten."

"l'm still not seeing..." 

"His mountain name, as he called it, was Kallvjnd." A smile split his face. "By the time we reached the coast, we chose to be bonded together. Nothing fancy. I adapted his surname to my name, because... I wanted everyone to know he was mine." He paused for a moment, staring into the dark water. "He wanted to do the same. Tribal Viera change their names when they settle somewhere new, did you know? He wanted to use my given name for his surname."

Napha stifled a laugh, unsure if it was appropriate. 

"Oh, trust that I explained that to him." A chuckle escaped. "The fool used it anyway." 

"Dajhir..."

"That's the thing with you adventurers. You're so damn good at leaving an impression, but you don't stick around long, do you? You take too many risks - and trust me I love you for it, I do - but," his ears bent back and his look of determination wavered, "loss either hardens you or softens you. I haven't decided which I am yet." 

"I'm sorry." 

K'dajhir smiled, his eyes sparkling with a glassy sheen. "Do not be. Out of it, there's things I've learned. Life is short, for instance. So have that drink... kiss that boy." He moved forward, grasping her by the shoulders, giving her a little shake. "Oh Napha, can't you see? I'm still looking for romance! I'm just not looking for love. That path, I've walked it – it's lovely –but it hurts too much to go bounding down again. Instead, I live for the day now. So I don't let them break my heart when they go. And I don't think Mjrn would begrudge me for that. I still wear his name, after all." 

[sotcwcrp]

What's New In The Roleplay:

Gosh, lots has happened, hasn’t it? Let’s catch up! (Happy pride!)

Thunderclan:

★ — Cedarwatcher, Zinniaburst, Ryefox, Tractorpurr, Flipskip, Dandelionwish, Squirrelstride and Flutterfang (formerly Bebe) have earned their full warrior names.

★ — Pollentuft, Twilighthymn and Ebonhaze have joined Thunderclan's ranks.

★ — Badgerkit and Thrushkit were born to Tigereye and have recently earned their apprentice names; Badgerpaw and Thrushpaw.

★ — Blossomkit, Primrosekit and Rosemarykit were born to Firelily and Chrysalismoon. Their six moons have already been reached, and they are apprenticed under Lichenfoot, Withercall and Buzzardsoar.

★ — Leopardkit, Pheonixkit, Confettipaw and Shadepaw were found on Thunderclan territory and taken in.

★ — Cricketkit and Mothkit have become Cricketpaw and Mothpaw.

★ — Raintasy and Skyhunter have earned their full healer names, as well as Deerfluff and Lynxthroat have joined the healer ranks.

★ — Heartdaze, Galesong, Scorchedfern, Cloudymoon, Desertstep and Mushroomprance have joined Starclan, losing their life to Redcough.

★ — Pipitquip has seemingly fled from Thunderclan.

Riverclan:

★ — Bouncewither, Marbleshatter, Greasedog, Frecklefur, and Viperhawk were lost to Redcough, with Wavewish perishing in a hunting accident soon after.

★ — Sasha, Alyona, and Raincloud have departed from Riverclan; they are all wished well in their new horizons.

★ — Cypresswatcher, Dushkaze, Mumblesun, Howlmoon, Granitewish, Valleysun, Squirrel[?], and Tidestrider have all received their full warrior names; Rookshadow has graduated into a full healer as well!

★ — Riverclan has been blessed with the pitter-patter of many little pawsteps! Fledgekit, Fuzzkit, and Puddlekit were born to Hawksire and Peachblossom; Hibiscuskit was born to Lovebug; Buckkit was found and given to Lovebug to raise alongside Hibiscuskit; and, Squeakkit and Squawkkit were found and taken in by Sturgeonsnout and Wrenwhistle.

★ — Weevil has joined Riverclan from Windclan, with a loner by the name of Eagle following suit soon after.

★ — Mudstar and Chrysanthemumstare have stepped down from their respective positions as leader and deputy, with Camelliastar and Sunrise stepping in to take their places.

★ — Cypresswatcher and Larchbounce have been taken on as healer apprentices!

Windclan:

★ — Foxheart, Hawkmeadow, Sun, Dappledlight, and Heronwatcher passed from Redcough

★ — Windclan suffered from severe flooding during the rains. Though the clan continues to rebuild its tunnels, many were injured, and Whistlingskies succumbed to her injuries.

★ — Weevilspring departed from Windclan; they are wished well in their travels.

★ — Spiderpaw, Solarpaw, and Moonshadow have been made into healer apprentices.

★ — Ice, Willow, chill, Hail, Winter, Frost, Calamity, Catastrophe, Ascian, Cinder Monsoon, Crow, Caracal and Dragonfly joined the clan.

★ — The kits Gladiator, Cobra, Roach, and Bluebellpaw were found and given refuge within Windclan.

★ — Wishwhimsy, Hopeweaver, Joysnap, and Dreamflight have received their full warrior names.

Shadowclan:

★ —Silentstalk, Birchflame, Pebblestorm, Symphony, and Dragonflyblur passed to redcough.

★ — Castorpaw, Polluxpaw, Noblepaw, Brightpaw, and Eeriepaw, and Poppaw have all been apprenticed.

★ — Mudpuppy and Pipitquip have joined Shadowclan from Thunderclan, and Raincloud has joined from Riverclan.

★ — Seabreeze and Starlingpool had a litter, welcoming in Puffinkit, Cormorantkit, and Ternkit.

★ — Charlie, a kit found wandering from beyond the territories, has been taken into the nursery to be raised by Shadowclan's monarchs.

★ — Arduinopaw graduated, now Arduinojitter.

★ — Bell has taken the name Bellknell.

What’s New on the Server:

★ — A map change! You can check out our recently updated version on our website, including new spaces in each of the clans.

★ — Forums and rule changes!

★ — Minty, Cyber and Theo have joined Riverclan's staff team!

★ — Bat and Tabris have joined Shadowclan's staff team!

Opening News!

There is currently not a set date for our next opening, but I have so much thanks to give for the over 100 members we earned from our last one! To those of you waiting to hop in, I promise there is discussions being had. The interest in SOTC has been overwhelmingly flattering, lots of love from the staff team to all of you!

[minti-tales]

Minti makes good on a promise. We meet the Frost Queen, She Made of Ice.

---

Minti Chocolate had no desire to be in Coerthas again. And yet, here she was, riding her chocobo like she was late for supper, up-up-up the muddy path from the last post in the North Shroud. Broken twigs, well-trodden dirt, dead grass, goblin detritus - all these were hers, rewards for traveling during Eorzea's winter season.

The chocobo, a brown bird named "Riptide," wanted to press on despite the coming rainfall. Perhaps he thought this would get him out of a bath, dirty thing that he was, and each clawprint, each schluck from the grasping muddy ground, was further distance from his bullies, Soap and Tub. His confident "Kweh-heh-hehs" gave him away as much.

Thunder and lighting in Gridania's forests gave way to snow showers, causing the rain on Minti's winged golden armor to turn to frost. It was awful.

"Twelve above, girl, keep it together," the viera muttered, loud enough for Riptide to hear. The dirty bird might be relishing his time out of the free company stables, but Minti wasn't having this jaunt to the Observatory, and, quite frankly, neither was The Choir. To put their collected displeasure to parchment would take ages. The Volunteer was the only one excited about all this mummery and capering about.

It was that damned sense of honor, wasn't it, pushing rider and mount up the hills, past the river teeming with smallfish, past the wolves hungry for their next meal. It certainly wasn't the Volunteer pushing her forward, whispering in her ear about unfinished business. No. The Ishgardian "stiff upper lip" and need to maintain one's honor in the face of proper society, those were to blame. Yes, those. What wonderful gifts Lady Sabbatine had given her, a long time ago.

One last hill to crest, then to the First Dicasterial Observatorium, where Minti's honor kept a faithful vigil, ever waiting for her return.

Halone's faithful knight rides forth to confront the Dragoon, who lies in wait atop yonder tower.

---

Coming up from Gridania, aspiring adventurers are like to see The Observatorium's grand tower first, before they see the rest of the settlement. This structure holds an astroscope, a device which is used to study and document star patterns and movements.

During the time of the Dragonsong War, the tower and encampment was used by Ishgardian astrologians to predict the movements of the Dravanian Horde; with the ending of the War, it became a place to train new astrologians in the ways of the healing, although not as openly as some might wish. Here, too, was Ser Alberic Bale, former Azure Dragoon, current mentor to many of Eorzea's dragoons.

For many nights, Ser Bale had waited by the encampment's covered firepit, keeping both it and the hearts of his students warm. The end of the War gave rise to more soul crystals reaching curious hands, and more lancers coming up from the guild in Gridania. They needed guidance, and who better to give it than him?

This night seemed to stretch longer than most, which the biting cold and swirling snow around the Observatorium knew to take advantage of. To the imagination, it would seem as if a great ice dragon of eld, a frightful winged being with dark blue scales and gold claws, had made roost about the tower, and covered the Central Highlands with what Ishgard had known since the Calamity: Frightful, unending, punishing winter.

Of course, any Ishgardian worth their onze in salt knew that the weather was coldest before the start of Heavensturn. More logs for the fire were needed, then, and a hot cup of cider to ring in the new year. "Haisie, come by the fire, rest your bones and your spirit," Alberic called out to the shivering Twin Adder nearby. The Elezen was handing out Company scrip to a young archer and, as usual, complaining about the second watch not yet arriving. "There is little reason to suffer tonight."

Haisie must have said something to frighten the hyur, who ran off towards Camp Dragonhead at the fullest speed they could muster. "I would love a hot meal, and a place to warm my arse," the elf stammered out between shakes, "But I must keep watch, else I shall never be relieved of this gods-damned burden! Where is that second watch - Oh. *Well.* What fresh mummery is this?"

---

There was a new-old voice by the Observatorium's firepit, waiting to be acknowledged by Minti. A grand dragon of ancient ice, of Coertha's layers of snow, of the numbing cold that comes from the regrets men have of their younger years. She was tall enough to tower over Azure Dragoons, current and former, and small enough to be unseen for many winters past. A reminder of failures, of promises broken, of lies. Many, many wrongs, all kept in her pretty, glittering hoard of coins. A Frost Queen's ransom, perhaps.

My dearest child approaches, the dragon thought to herself as she flew to the upper mechanisms of the astroscope. No one would mind if she watched, would they? Creatures like her were always drawn to these sorts of spectacles, after all.

Ah! And what a fine spectacle this would be. Miss Chocolate herself, all dressed in shiny armor and lance, riding into camp like Emmanellian de Fortemps out a-courting. Head buzzing like a beehive, face scrunched up in such a serious expression. How much like a lady of Ishgard. How divine.

Our hero approaches that dottering old man by the firepit, yes, and sits beside him. Says nothing, just sits and looks over at him like a lost, frightened puppy. Is she nervous? Oh, she must be. She must be terrified.

What's this? They're talking. Real, deep, insightful conversation. Rubbish about how Minti hated how long it took to come back, and how sorry she is, and would Ser Bale please take her back, please, she'll be a very good girl this time around, sob sob sob! This isn't a good meal, it's a sad, pathetic snack. Bale would be in his rights to send Minti on her way. Everyone can agree on that.

The Queen nearly retched as Bale and Minti hugged, a long hug with rubbing of backs and soft words and forgiveness. And yet, in that sincere moment of forgiveness and acceptance, something about her changed. On a fundamental level, no less.

There must be time for forgiveness, the new-old voice of the Frost Queen considered, in between gusts of winter wind. A time for acknowledgement, and a time to move forward into tomorrow. We should learn from our failures as much as we should our successes.

Her hoard of coins had two faces on them now. How very odd.

As the night came to a close, and dawn was just about to come, the frightening visage of the Frost Queen shifted to one resembling a dear friend, an elezen who could call upon an Primal of Ice, then to an Au Ra wearing the blue and gold armor of a sworn Halonic Paladin. The Queen liked this form. It suited her well.

She would rejoin the Choir, and lend her voice to Minti Chocolate's cause. The rabbit would need her guidance to become a full Dragoon, after all.

[lanabenikosdoormat]

playing around with ice aesthetics :0)

[tempest-toss]

1/2

Here's my 1st part of the revision of the list, with a few additional Overseers who never got a statue made. List is formatted as Callsign - Fate - And additional info. Some are smaller than others whether it be that they didn't do a lot, or I didn't know them personally

--Four

Archangel - Deceased (Sacrifice) - An angelic being they were, but did not have enough power to hold the archangel status. Frequently at odds with their council. \

Analyst - Deceased (Crossfire) - One of the founders. Snooty yet diligent, he was adamant on documenting as much anomalous activity and species that he could. He was killed during the Great Catastrophes. \

Beacon of Hope - Alive? (Fate Unknown) - A light shining in the darkness, they temporarily joined the council to help combat an anomalous event that threatened to engulf the eastern seaboard in permanent darkness. Soon after the events they vanished, their only remains being their destroyed Foundation phone. \

Bleeding Crimson - Deceased (Sacrifice) - Honorary member that was partially infected with the Flesh that Hates. Was able to provide useful intel before they disappeared, admitting in a letter that they could not resist the spread any further and left to keep the council safe. \

Businessman - Deceased (Assassinated) - One of our most well-known financial overseers. Unfortunately despite his attempts to hide in normalcy, he was gutted by Insurgency. \

Chaos and Order - Deceased (Sacrifice) - Two beings in one that was awoken to deal with a great calamity. To save the universe they sacrifice themself, removing the threat from Tempest forever. \

Commander - Deceased (Betrayal) - Betrayed the Foundation and was subsequently murdered by Seven and myself. I believe her swords were moved to the armory. \

Daisy - Alive (Retired) - Originally a more passive member, she became quite assertive after developing thorny vines and became a sort of de facto leader. \

Despair - Alive (Stepped Dkwn) - A walking bad luck charm, he brought misery wherever he went after an anomalous accident. Left so that it wouldn't impact the council. \

Dewdrop - Alive (retired) - Able to control the morning dew, they were necessary to halt the Flora Fighters. Married Mint, and reportedly has a family with him. \

Dice Magnet - Alive (Left, amnesticized) - Similar to Gambler, he was also well known for his love of making bets. He would create a casino-based GOI, and was amnesticized before things could go south. \

Disciple - Deceased (Assassinated) - One of the Founders. Immune to religious-based entities, like myself. They were offed by the Daevites, if I remember correctly. \

Engineer - Deceased (Burnt) - Not an actual O5 but we have his statue as he helped a lot with construction, and accidentally passed due to an ignited gas valve. \

Frostbite - Deceased (Frozen solid) - Descendent of Nikolai Frost. Operated mainly in the poles and was working to prevent future melting of the polar caps, resulting in him turning into ice. \

Gambler - Deceased (Crossfire) - One of the Founders. He was notorious for his life for gambling and bets. This was used to secure the Foundation money in its infancy. Perished in the Great Catastrophes. \

Heiress - Deceased (Old Age) - One of the Founders. I remember her being quite petty, and she was more aggressive in her handling of anomalous artifacts. I will admit I'm surprised she lived as long as she did. \

Horizon - Alive? (???) - A Calming force, she was one of the best both in talent and her infinite heart. She disappeared but I'm certain she still exists. \

Iris - Deceased (Explosion) - Not to be confused with 105, she used her many swappable eyes to see what we could not. She's the one mentioned to have exploded. \

Jujubee - Alive (Self-Demoted) - Ten tells me that she shares a name with a drag queen, which I didn't know. Jujubee still works today but demoted herself so she could more efficiently lead the team opposing the Flora Fighters. \

Labyrinth - Alive? (???) - The minotaur from the very same mythos. Asterion like some of the others seemed to just vanish, but I have a feeling he returned back to Greece. \

Lawyer - Deceased (Assassinate) - Originally an EC member, they helped lead with an iron fist and lawful knowledge. Killed by MC&D Ltd. \

Life - Deceased (Sacrifice) - The opposite of Death. Life grew around them wherever they went. They died to halt and reduce the amount of spread of the Flesh that Hates. \

Mediator - Deceased (Old Age) - One of the Founders. Acted as the peacemaker of the group whenever tensions arose and helped establish early alliances within groups and benefactors. \

Methusaleh - Alive (Retired) - With an anomaly of old age, he's the oldest person ever, eclipsing Five. He served in several departments but ultimately left to allow the next generation to serve. \

Mint - Alive (retired) - Despite only being able to control mint, their mind was instrumental to taking down GOIs. Married Dewdrop and had a family with him. \

Mirror Match - Alive (Retired) - Similar to Fourteen, except she could make only one copy a day, but could perfectly mimic anyone down to their abilities and a decent \

Mosswood - Deceased (Betrayal) - First traitor. Took down most of his council before being put down himself thanks to the remaining three O5s and Josie. \

Murder - Alive (stepped Down) - Mentioned him here \

Nightmare - Deceased (Assassinated) - Able to conjure up fearsome illusions that could create fear in anyone. No one was safe, and unfortunately that included himself. \

Oni - ??? (Deceased) - I have not that much to say about her as I never interacted with her, just that records show that she was hardworking and put in 110% during her time with us. \

Patient X - Alive (Stepped Down) - The walking immunity, she had no sickness and couldn't get sick. Befriended 049 and then abruptly stepped down and vanished off the face of the Earth. \

Pizza Delivery - Deceased (Old Age) - Fake callsign. Lovely man, Mr. Friesan. Yes, he did make pizza and I can confirm it was quite tasty. Mayhaps that was why he was so popular. \

Q - Deceased (Traitor) - A walking enigma, they kept themselves very quiet and closed off from others. They successfully managed to trick and deceive most of the then-council. Their death was not swift, from what the records state. \

Spitfire - Deceased (Explosion) - A pilot ace that carried over their callsign from there. Was unfortunately shot down over the Bermuda Triangle and presumed dead. \

Sunburst - Alive (???) - Wielder of the sun, he could use solar energy at will and helped fight against uncontainable creatures. Vanished but I'm sure he is the father of the reality bender known as Ratmir. \

Teeth - Deceased/Alive - The one and only. The one who has a statue has long since passed, but it is confirmed that a new Teeth was reborn into the world and lives today. \

The Academic - Deceased (Old Age) One of the archivists of the past. She Prioritized getting things right over overall efficiency. She has helped clear many a mistake, but the archives are cluttered thanks to her. \

The Arbitrator - Deceased (???) - Despite the name, never did any arbitration, which makes sense as this would be biased to the Foundation. I don't know them, except that they died at some point. \

The Astronomer - Deceased (assassinated) - Poor Ms. Astro. Her legacy lives on with her sons, but she was iconic, as Ten would say. Her knowledge of space and her exceptional vision allowed us to discover many a threat before they got too close.

[wistrea]

v. MARVEL

now there's only one thing i can do, [ ... ] fight until the end like i promised to.

THE YOKOHAMA INCIDENT: the compound property belonging to the organization known as the hand, referred to as ███ ██████ in the jike countryside north to yokohama, tokyo, japan was destroyed, recorded on the date ████████ ██ ████. this was following the event that many eye witnesses had described as " dancing lights in the sky " that evening, akin to aurora borealis. all electricity in the yokohama area had been subsequently cut off following a sudden electrical surge, traced back to the ruins of the buildings. when personnel were sent to investigate, they found only demolished structures and, amidst the falling frost, was a child no older than twelve standing on blood - stained snow. the incident was written off as an unexplained mutant event. said mutant involved was traced to a series of other incidents following this one.

the subject has been known to don many aliases, called many things depending on who comes across them, but the most common one is : KHAOS.

name ( last, first ): horikoshi kira aliases: " ki ", khaos, the chaos witch, corvid, the yuki - onna of yokohama, the raven witch. title/s: the lady of corvids, archmage of calamity, world shatterer

place of birth: miyagi prefecture, japan current location: ███████ ████████ affiliations: independent, the x - men, the atlas foundation, the hand ( not by choice ) occupation: vigilante, biochemist head of the archives at atlas biotech.

species: mutant, sorcerer powers: witchcraft, chaos magic ( tied to destruction ), flight with the aid of wings made of energy, energy construct conjuration, energy manipulation, heightened magical sense, power amplification, telekinesis, the ability to speak to corvids, light teleportation, spells and phrases, summoning

at birth, kira had only manifested the abilities of energy manipulation and conjuration, as well as the raven - like wings made from said energy. they had mostly manifested in concentrated orbs with destructive capabilities or conjured into the form of birds made of lavender light. her ability for spellcasting and ties to chaos magic had manifested later amidst the hand's experimentations on her during her childhood.

heightened magical sense: kira is able to detect the presence of magical persons or objects within a certain radius around her.

power amplification: for a decided and set period of time, kira is able to enhance the abilities of a mutant or sorcerer by granting them a blessing from her chaos magic that serves to strengthen them, something that she calls a "boon".

the ability to speak the corvids comes from her having her own familiar, a raven named sanzu created from her own magic and tied to her soul.

weaknesses: due to kira's chaos being tied to her dimension's warp of reality, her powers are weakened when in another plane of reality for as long as her limitations to dampen her magic for the world's safety are in place. her ties to chaos magic are not based on creation, and therefore is not able to warp reality or manipulate time. it was also said that her abilities tend to fluctuate depending on her emotions, as particularly strong emotions could cause her to lose control.

✧ PRESENT ARC.

kira horikoshi, better known by her alias " khaos ", is a mutant and sorceress who headed a shadow organization of spies who called themselves the band of corvids, serving as her information network. one of the most powerful witches known to exist in her time, her own motivations are driven by her ambition, and the cunning that ensures that she will acquire what she set out to get. she had spent much of her time antagonizing the hand from japan to new york, working as a vigilante, for her own goal of revenge, but in that pursuit caused her to attain power along the way. unaffiliated to any group, until she diverted her attention towards the injustices mutants were facing in the world after witnessing and experiencing it herself firsthand. she eventually joined the x - men, despite her reluctance to fight associated to anyone due to her past with the hand. it was on a " trial basis " as she had called it, though she comes back like a bird to a familiar perch every time she leaves every now and then. she works in the atlas foundation

✧ BACKSTORY.

masako imaushi had been one of the first witches born into her bloodline, having been adopted by the sakurai clan, the heads of the organization in yokohama orchestrated by the yami no te, otherwise known as the hand. they had used her magic to further their goals towards gaining immortality before she had escaped, and later on married hanshiro horikoshi, the descendant of a prominent bloodline of swordsmen. together, they had three children who had all been born mutants, though it was their youngest and only daughter who had caught the hand's attention.

kira horikoshi was born on the eve of december 4, ████ and manifested her abilities no more than three months later, believed to be only energy manipulation. years later, she had manifested the rare connection to the dark forces known as chaos magic, a force tied to the very creation of the cosmos. the sakurai group had orchestrated masako's death by sending their own mercenaries in disguise and took the young girl into a facility known as ███ ██████ where they framed themselves as her saviors, promising to help her control her magic whilst using her for their own gain. while she was there, she had met an infant orphan named yuuichiro, who she had looked after like a little brother.

the hand had sought to use kira's ties to chaos in order to use her creation abilities for her own purposes, only to find that she was not tied to creation, and destruction instead. kira had the potential to become a world shatterer, and hence the restrictive hexes the sakurai had placed on her heart. it was more for the safety of others rather than herself. at the age of fourteen, kira had discovered the truth of the hand's machinations shortly after she had been sent on her first mission after the lady sakurai had wanted to test her capabilities. the evening kira had escaped with yuuichiro would be known as the yokohama incident. in the dissaray of yokohama, after they had reunited, the horikoshi clan had once again built their influence by salvaging the sakurai's resources as their own.

years later, kira had gone to xavier's school for gifted children in order to bring her little brother, yuu, there in hopes that he will find a place for himself where he can be comfortable and happy whilst exploring his powers. meanwhile, she was attending university in new york city whilst searching for the hand, answers to her magic and revenge on the people who had wronged her family. it led her down a path of vengeance for longer than she had wanted to admit, getting involved in underground circles and going by her first alias known as corvid. only when she had made herself an enemy of the hand had she begun to be called khaos.

[xasha777]

In a universe where magic melds with technology, a young woman with striking platinum hair and piercing blue eyes stood before the great Tower of Icedom. Her name was Lysara, and she was no ordinary inhabitant of the icy planet Hailstorm; she was its queen, born with the power to manipulate ice and snow. The tower she approached was a monument built by the legendary architect Josep Puig i Cadafalch, who, in this alternate reality, was revered not just as an architect but as a master of integrating mystical energies with physical structures.

The Tower of Icedom, crafted from shimmering blue ice that never melted, served as a beacon of hope and strength for the people of Hailstorm. But now, it faced an unprecedented threat. An intergalactic entity known only as The Scorch sought to melt the ice of Hailstorm, intending to drown the universe in water to make way for its aquatic species.

Lysara, upon her coronation, had received prophecies about such a calamity. Under the guidance of the last words of Cadafalch, she embarked on a mission to activate the tower’s core—a fusion of ancient magic and futuristic technology that could generate a shield to protect her world. The tower's interior was a labyrinth, filled with puzzles that only a ruler of Hailstorm could solve, integrating symbols of ice and snow that required both her powers and her intellect.

As Lysara ventured deeper, she realized that Cadafalch had designed the tower not just as a fortress but as a test of leadership. Each challenge pushed her to her limits, intertwining her magical abilities with her understanding of advanced engineering principles. The walls glowed with ethereal light, and cryptic inscriptions hinted at the synchronization of natural elements with cosmic forces.

Finally, Lysara reached the core chamber, a vast, dome-shaped room where the heart of the tower pulsed with an intense blue light. Here, she faced her final test—a direct confrontation with The Scorch, which had infiltrated the sanctuary. Manifesting as a searing wave of heat and fire, it clashed with Lysara’s ice-bound spells.

The battle was fierce, casting steam and frost in swirling eddies around the chamber. Lysara, drawing on the architectural genius of Cadafalch and her own inherited powers, channeled all her strength into a final spell. She infused the core with her ice magic, amplifying its power with the ancient and advanced technologies embedded in the tower’s design.

With a deafening crack, the core unleashed a burst of icy energy, expanding rapidly to form a protective shield around the entire planet. The Scorch was repelled, its flames extinguished by the intense cold. Hailstorm was saved, its people cheering as their queen emerged victorious.

In the aftermath, Lysara dedicated herself to studying Cadafalch’s designs further, intending to advance the integration of magic and technology. Under her reign, Hailstorm became a sanctuary not only for her people but for scholars and scientists, all seeking to explore the mystic and mechanical wonders encapsulated in the architecture of Josep Puig i Cadafalch. Thus, the queen and her architect reshaped the destiny of an entire universe, proving that when magic and science converge, no force is too great to overcome.

[moonrazemalestorm]

Pokémon list

Pokémon name/species/type of Star energy/title

Battle team:

Mahina/Lunala/Double Star energy/superstar Moves: Moongeist beam + Moonbeam A curious and playful Lunala. The beast that calls the moon, and a proud mother figure to orphaned Pokémon Aria/Primarina/Bonding Star energy/superstar Move: Sparkling Aria Bonded Pokémon: Dusk form Lycanroc (move: stone edge) Loves singing and has quite a fan base in the forest. Treats the Lycanroc she is bonded to like a bodyguard. Squishy/Goodra/Eternal Star energy/Star Move: Dragon pulse/Max Wyrmwind Friendly Goodra. Finds tiny Pokémon cute and will hug them until the end. The selection of tiny Pokémon expands when she dynamaxes

Cloud/Altaria/Basic Star energy/Star Move: Sky attack Hates being wet. If she gets wet, she will have a massive meltdown even in the middle of battle.

Other Pokémon in possession:

Calamity/Yveltal/Double Star energy/Superstar Moves: Dark pulse + Death wing Investigating sightings of a superstar primal kyogre lead to Calamity’s sighting. To prevent potential destruction he was captured in a masterball and is currently being kept with Siren. Occasionally sent out in wild battles.

Cream/Alcremie/Eternal Star energy/Star Move: Dazzling gleam/Max Starfall Very clingy. Will make a big fuss when left alone. Squishy loves her.

Snail/Hisui Goodra/Basic Star energy/no title Move: Dragon pulse Very timid Hisui Goodra. Squishy’s adopted younger sibling.

Darktres/Galarian Moltres/Double Star energy/Superstar Moves: Firey Wraith + Hurricane Mischievous. Spotted at Hoshi Garden

Bliss/Alolan ninetails/Prismatic Star energy/Star Move: Blizzard/Subzero slammer Calm, graceful, and beautiful, like the snow itself.

Support Pokémon:

Sparrow/Pidgeot Move: Hurricane

Astra/Dragapult Move: Dragon darts

Frost/Vanilluxe Move: ice beam

Ride Pokémon:

-Lullaby (Noivern, air)

Area Zero Pokémon:

-Ghosty (Flutter mane/Protosynthesis/Moonblast, Shadow ball, Perish song, Mystical fire)

-Kora (Koraidon/Orichalcum Pulse/Collision Course, dragon claw, counter, close combat)

Previously owned

none.. yet

[saltcove]

pairing: prussia/hungary | @doomspiral theme: sinners in a monastery  

julia’s hair is caught in her mouth, ears blistering with cold. the winter is sweeter when it’s meaner, sweeter when it breaks into bone and splinters the throat; she’s used to it. she sits on the steps of a monastery in burgundy, her cross nipping into her collarbone, buried under waves and waves of wool. there’s no sound other than idle prayer and soft calamity; god born in the bushes. in the bird song. 

“you’ve been out here for a while.” 

she doesn’t turn to look towards the huntsman, but her lip pokes into her cheek. a sneer she aims forward. 

“tending to the spirits,” she replies. it’s sardonic. “isn’t it terrifying?”

he’s a tall thing, with a vulture’s wingspan and shapeless brown eyes. he comes into view wearing thicker clothes than her, the skin of some animal she doesn’t care enough to name. gaz, is what he was called. son of a butcher, brought them game and mulled wine once every few weeks when the snow cleared enough to make passage. 

“what, you?” he scoffs, and there’s a smile she hears behind it. “you’re terrifying that’s for sure.”

“not the nicest thing to say to a woman of god,” she looks up at him. his mouth is parted and wet, and there’s something obscene about the way he looks at her. something unapologetic. her eyes lid and her smile stretches. “aren’t you afraid i’ll tell him not to forgive you?”

“for what?”

“for the way you dream of me.”

he smiles back at her, like she’s right because she is. his face is red with the frost, a shadow constellates his jaw and the scars that haven’t faded since she’s known him. it’s been years now, since they climbed apple trees and bruised shins, since she helped him through the first heat of youth. 

“and what if i don’t want him to forgive me?” gaz siffs, runs a tongue over his crooked canines. he has a hand on his knife and she wonders how crisp it would feel pushed into her side. she wouldn’t mind it, either; wanted him to push her into a hallway and threaten her with it, so when they ask, she can absolve herself. 

not that she ever cared to. 

god is a fickle creature, a poor lover. 

gaz is flesh and bone, clay that warms against her skin. she appreciates it, adores it; he’s an adam in the winter, and eden never was described as cold. paradise, she thinks, in motion. 

“if you don’t want him to forgive you,” she crosses herself, grins the way knights did when they bedded their war-wives, the wives of other men. “then i urge you to seek god.”

he kneels in front of her, and a hand finds the skin of her ankle. his eyes leave hers in favor of her robe. her hidden cross. “i’ve known god.”

“have you?”

he hums, thumb brushing over a tendon. “he exists between your thighs.”

julia puts a hand over his head, grips the line where fringe meets scalp. it’s the back of the monastery, where no one comes unless they’re tending plants and no plants grow in this weather. no one will see them but god. “you refuse to make an honest woman out of me, gaz.”

“because you’re not an honest woman.”

“because you have a wife.”

“because you have your god,” he pushes a cheek onto her knee, teeth catching on her skirts. “and i have you, as you are.”