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zeciex · 6 months

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A Vow of Blood - 43

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 43: The Depravity of Desire

AO3 - Masterlist

SMUT!

“Prince Aemond,” Ser Arryk’s gravelly voice announced as he entered the prince's chamber, his attire far from the pristine white cloak and armor typically associated with the Kingsguard.

Aemond, sitting with an air of casual indifference, lifted his gaze from the parchment that lay strewn across the table. His brow furrowed slightly at the disheveled state of the guard before him. “Hmm?”

“Your brother requests your presence,” Ser Arryk Cargyll relayed in a weary tone.

Aemond let out an almost imperceptible sigh, leaning back in his chair as he contemplated the summons. Aegon’s penchant for finding trouble in the most inconvenient places was nothing new.It usually involved a brothel or a gambling den, sometimes both. Aemond wasn’t particularly interested in the nature of his brother’s escapades; he was simply growing tired of constantly coming to Aegon’s aid. But blood, as they say, ran thicker than water, and Aegon was blood.

“Can’t he handle his own mess for once?” Aemond replied, a touch of exasperation lacing his words. It was a sentiment he harbored each time Aegon landed himself in trouble. But the unspoken bond of brotherhood compelled him to intervene time and again.

Ser Arryk Cargyll regarded Aemond with an unyielding stance, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “Prince Aegon specifically requested you.”

Aemond couldn’t help but roll his eye, his evening’s prospects dissipating like smoke. Aegon had an uncanny knack for disrupting his well-laid plans.

Aemond released a weary breath and rolled up the parchment, putting it aside on top a precarious stack of books that cluttered his table. He moved with deliberate grace, donning a doublet fashioned from rough material and fastening a somber black cloak around his frame. Securing his sword at his side, he trailed behind Ser Arryk, who awaited him at the chamber’s entrance.

Bringing Aegon home was the most sensible course of action. The thought of his mother discovering her son disheveled and suffering from the night's ventures on the morrow of his impending name day feast was a scene best avoided. Aegon, Aemond reckoned, was indulging in premature celebrations, well aware of the impending, although likely dull, revelries.

Despite the late hour, Flea Bottom’s streets teemed with activity. Street vendors peddled skewers of beat that bore a striking resemblance to rats and cats, while musicians filled the air with brawdy melodies that drunken patrons sang along to. Groups huddled around makeshift dice games etched onto stone, their animated voices blending with the night’s revelry. The only illuminations emanate from scattered torches affixed to the walls and the soft glow of house windows.

The pervasive stench of filth seemed to cling to every surface and every soul in Flea Bottom. They wove through the labyrinthine streets, bypassing the brothel with the distinctive blue door, continuing deeper into the district until they arrived at a decrepit residence. Crack spider-webbed up its shabby walls, and its once-green doors and window frames now bore a faded hue. The sound of debauchery poured forth from the open windows, mingling with the raucous laughter and boisterous chatter.

Aemond’s hum of displeasure reverberated through his chest, the sound swallowed by rowdy voices as he stepped over the threshold. The scene within mirrored the sambolic exterior, complete with peeling paint and visible wall fissures. In a futile effort to mask the disrepair, the establishment’s proprietors had draped various fabrics around, inadvertently emphasizing the decrepitude.

It appeared Aegon’s penchant for debauchery knew no bounds, nor did it rest on any form of cleanliness.

“What can I help you fine folks with?” Inquired a dumpy brothel matron, her hair pinned up in a crude intimidation of a noblewoman’s style. Smudged kohl accentuated her dark eyes, while the paint on her lips hinted at what nature had not provided. As her hands clasped together in front of her, the bracelets adorning her wrists chimed together like tiny bells. “I’ve got anything you might be looking for. I’ve got girls from eleven and upward–boys as well, if that may please you. I’ve got thick girls, thin girls, maidens–”

“I’m here for my brother,” Aemond interjected dryly, showing no interest in her assortment of available girls.

The brothel matron blinked in astonishment as Aemond and Ser Arryk Cargyll surged deeper into the sordid establishment. Ser Arry, familiar with the layout, led the way while Aemond attempted to down out the sordid sounds echoing through the house.

“Brother!” Aegon’s boisterous greeting reverberated as Aemond and Ser Arryk turned a corner, entering one of the numerous rooms in the brothel. Aegon reclined against a mound of plush pillows, flanked by two young women. One had dark skin, with large ebony eyes and a slender frame, while the other had waves of blond hair, green eyes, and an innocent countenance that seemed all too youthful.

“Very well done, Cargyll!” Aegon hailed, rising from the bed with an unsteady gait to approach the Kingsguard. He slapped Ser Arryk’s shoulder in a manner more suited to acknowledging a messenger boy.

Aemond narrowed his eye at Ser Arryk, who apologized with a curt nod before making his exit through the door. Aemond turned his eye on his brother then, scrutinizing and filled with disdain. “I assume you’re not in trouble, then.”

Aegon’s lips curled into a mischievous grin as he quipped, “I seem to always find myself in trouble, and you always come to my rescue.”

“One day, when you need my rescue, I won’t be there,” Aemond retorted to his brother’s jest.

A nonchalant shrug tugged at Aegon’s shoulders as he walked through the room towards the table and the flagon of wine upon it. “You wouldn’t have come had I not been in trouble.”

Aemond’s response was swift and candid: “No.”

Aegon turned, leaning against the table, his head tilting as a grin pulled at his lips. “Then you leave me little choice.”

Aemond, unamused, glowered at his brother. He should have suspected something was amiss; if Aegon were truly in any significant trouble, Ser Arryk would have been sufficient to handle it himself, and if not, he would have been in more of a rush. “It’s your name day celebration on the morrow. You’re expected to attend, preferably clean and of present mind. You should not be out whoring.”

Aegon scoffed and, with a shrug, picked up the flagon to pour himself some cheap wine. “Don’t be so dull, brother. I know the feast is not for my benefit.”

“Mother will be cross–” Aemond began.

“Mother is always cross with me,” Aegon interjected sourly, displaying a petulant streak. “It’s nothing new. I’ll be ready in time for the feast. Perhaps still drunk, but ready.”

Aemond rolled his eye in exasperation, feeling the irritation prickle beneath his skin. “Why did you call me here?”

“To celebrate the day of my birth the way I want ,” Aegon answered with an impish grin. He swiftly downed his cup of wine and proceeded to pour another. His shirt hung loosely on his frame, revealing a canvas of bruises and red marks adorning his chest. A single finger drummed out a repetitive rhythm against the ceramic cup he clenched tightly in his hand. The skin of his hand bore the lingering marks of healing scars and faint traces of blisters and rashes that had covered his body the month earlier. The Maesters believed it an allergic reaction or perhaps the pox, but they couldn’t pinpoint the exact cause of these afflictions. It was Daenera’s doing, he was sure of that much. He presumed that his brother had, in some way, deserved such treatment.

Aemond remained unimpressed. “It still doesn’t explain why you want me here.”

“Because, brother ,” Aegon retorted as if speaking to a stubborn child,”it’s my name day, and all I wish for this year is for you to loosen up! Come on, Aemond! Live a little for once! You’ve been moping around the Keep for months, and quite frankly, it’s been utterly tedious to witness. Perhaps a taste of some genuine, proper cunt might distract you from your so-called ‘broken heart’.”

As Aemond turned to leave the room, Aegon’s sudden outburst caught him off guard. Aegon grabbed his brother’s arm and physically blocked his path, positioning himself squarely between Aemond and the exit. Aemond’s face twisted into a scowl as he shot a disgruntled glare at Aegon.

“Wait!” You’ve come this far, brother, do not leave now,” Aegon implored, his tone almost pleading. “If I had the luxury of another brother to accompany me and play with me, I’d extend the invitation to him, believe me. Regrettably, Daeron is off in Old Town, likely having more fun than you.”

With a low grown, Aemond forcefully wretched his arm away from his brother’s grip, as though the mere touch was repulsive to him. His features contorted into a disgusted sneer, and his lone eye burned with disdain as he shot back, “I have no interest in stooping to your level, or indulging in the same depravity as you, brother .”

“Are you sure about that? You started your fall from grace when you fucked–” Aegon’s words were abruptly cut off as Aemond seized him by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. Plaster crumbled and flaked around them, cascading onto Aegon like a shower of dandruff. Despite the silent warning conveyed in Aemond’s intense glare, Aegon simply grinned, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Seems like you’ve got a lot of pent-up frustration from not fucking her, brother,” Aegon needled, pushing the boundaries even further. He wasn’t merely poking the dragon; he was beating it over the head with a stick and daring it to retaliate. Aegon snapped his fingers, prompting the two girls to scrabble off the bed and hastily exit the room. “I can help you with that.”

Aemond’s lip curled with disdain as he shot back, “I do not want or need your help, brother . I won’t partake in whatever twisted game you’re playing.”

Aegon’s grin only widened, his words dripping with mockery, “Why not? It’s rather enjoyable, and you might discover what it’s like not to have a rod up your arse.”

“I refuse to lower myself to your standards of ‘enjoyment,’” Aemond declared, his voice oozing contempt.

Aegon pretended to ponder this for a moment, a theatrical expression on his face. “Hmm… But deep down, you’re more like me than you care to admit.”

Aemond’s eye flared with anger. “I am nothing like you.”

Aegon continued his relentless prodding, unfazed by his brother’s anger. “So, you’re not playing games with the princess? You did not take her maidenhead? And you do not wish to still fuck her, even as she’s married?”

Aemond clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white as he fought the urge to grab his brother and shake some sense into him. Aegon remained unaware of the affair, but he had a knack for being annoyingly perceptive when he wanted to be.

Stepping back, Aemond took a deep breath, struggling to regain his composure.

“Oh, come now,” Aegon drawled, straightening his disheveled clothing and running a hand through his greasy hair, ruffeling it to loosen the plaster that had landed on his head. “It’s my name day.”

“Not yet,” Aemond responded sharply. “It is not yet midnight.”

“I’m getting a year older.”

“But not a year wiser, it would seem.”

Aegon dismissed the remark with a casual wave of his hand, as if swatting away an annoying insect. “Let’s consider it a pre-celebration, then. Don’t be such a bore, Aemond. Having a bit of fun might do you some good.”

The door swung open, admitting a woman with a cascade of dark, lustrous hair that framed her round face. Her cheeks held a natural plumpness, and her lips curved into a sly, knowing smile. Her eyes, a striking shade of gray, held a familiarity that sent a shiver down Aemond’s spine, recalling the embarrassment she had once caused him.

Clutching her skirts, the woman performed an exaggerated curtsy, mimicking the graceful manners of a lady. “Prince Aemond, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

Aegon’s eyes darted back and forth between his brother and the enigmatic woman, his amusement evident as he pointed playfully between them. “You two know each other?”

Aemond’s face darkened with irritation as he directed his glare at his younger brother. “Don’t feign innocence, Aegon. This is your doing.”

“I ordered a whore with a resemblance to the princess. I had no knowledge of her being the whore,” Aegon retorted with almost giddy excitement.

“There were no prior encounters,” Aemond snapped in frustration. His patience had dwindled to a fragile thread, stretched taut and on the verge of snapping. The sensation of frustration coiled like a serpent in the pit of his stomach. The disbelief directed at him had a sting of humiliation to it that was maddening, a sensation that gnawed at his core. He might not be a good man, but he was not depraved like his brother.

The woman offered a mockingly sincere apology, an impish glint in her eyes. “I was simply following orders, my prince. I mean no offense.”

Aegon couldn’t contain his amusement, wearing a wide grin that clearly indicated he was relishing the discomfort of the situation. “So, it is the whore, brother? The one you brought back to your chambers and mother caught you with? –At least I have the sense not to bring my company back home with me.”

“I did not bring her to my chambers,” Aemond gritted out through clenched teeth.

Aegon encircled the whore, placing his chin casually on her shoulder, his hands boldly exploring her body, tracing every curve. His tone dripped with mischief. “Did my brother have the pleasure of exploring your body?”

The woman’s eyes remained on Aemond, a seductive gleam flickering in the gray, as she answered, “No, my prince.”

Aegon’s grin widened, savoring the ongoing exchange as he cupped her tit and gave the nipple a firm squeeze. “No?”

“I have yet to have the pleasure of his cock,” the whore declared with a sweet smile, her voice breathy as her head tilted gracefully to the side, a mimicry of the princess that sent an unsettling shiver down Aemond’s spine.

“Then you’re in luck,” Aegon proclaimed, swimming his arm out in an expansive gesture towards his brother, his voice laced with a sardonic edge. “My brother here is in dire need of a satisfying encounter. Perhaps this will help you forget about the girl.”

“Aegon,” Aemond cautioned, his annoyance simmering.

“It is my name day!” Aegon chimed in once more, his jubilation unabated. “Be a good brother and indulge in his delightful company, as I surely will.”

Aemond clenched his jaw as Aegon exited the room with a hearty laugh, the door closing noisily behind him. The door itself offered scant privacy, its bottom splintered, and it hung precariously from a single hinge. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed the whore drawing near.

Her hand gently made contact with his chest, her fingers splayed across the fabric of his doublet. Her head tilted once more, causing her thick tangle of hair to cascade over one shoulder. Her gray eyes, resembling polished silver coins, gleamed with amusement, watching his cold response. They were gray, not the haunting cornflower blue that plagued his dreams in the darkest hours of the night. Not the ones that had beckoned him to come to her chamber those few weeks ago.

“I can be whoever you want me to be,” she whispered with a sultry promise, her words hanging in the air like an alluring temptation.

The woman skillfully took a step back, coaxing the delicate straps of her scanty dress down her shoulders. As they slid away, her heavy breasts were unveiled, their inviting softness beckoning with an allure all their own. Her fingers tugged the dress a touch lower, exposing her stomach, the curve of her wide hips, and the lush expanse of her thighs. Between them, a thicker thicket of hair adorned her cunt.

Aemond’s mind wandered to thoughts of Daenera, his recollection lingering on her ample breasts that swayed enticingly as she rode him with abandon. He recalled the gentle expanse of her stomach, often marked by the imprints of her corset. Her hips, sculpted to perfection, had been a pleasure to grip as he thrust into her, her thighs strong and soft. His thoughts inevitably drifted to the familiar scar atop her left thigh, a line he had come to know intimately.

There was simply no comparison between this whore and the poison that made up Daenera.

Even as the woman pressed herself against him, her hands roaming over his chest and shoulders, Aemond detected the overpowering scent of cheap perfume, an sickly sweet aroma that seemed to stick in his nose.

For a fleeting moment, Aemond pondered whether this liaison could serve as a release from the torment of his desires for Daenera. Would it finally purge those yearnings out of his system, or would it cement them further?

“Allow me to bring you pleasure, my prince,” she whispered, her hand descentind down his chest to grip his cock through his trousers. Dark brows shot up in surprise.

Aemond’s patience had eroded to the point of utter contempt. He seized the woman’s wrist with a fierce grip, yanking her hand away from him in a swift, forceful motion. His features contorted into a sneer of pure revulsion as he addressed her with a tone dripping with disdain.

“Why should I even entertain the thought of debasing myself with you?” He spat, grip tightening. “You possess nothing that could even remotely pique my interest.”

With a rough shove, he released her wrist and drew up the hood of his cloak, shrouding himself in its obscurity. He didn’t spare her a second glance before striding out of the room.

In the adjacent room, Aegon lounged on a settee, surrounded by a quartet of women, resembling a withered god of depravity. Their gazes locked for a moment, and Aemond could already anticipate the forthcoming taunts that would escape his brother's lips.

“I suggest you escort the prince back to the Keep, Ser,” Aemond grumbled curtly to Ser Arryk Cargyll. “The Queen will be far from pleased if he fails to attend his own feast.”

Aegon clambered unsteadily from the settee, navigating through a thicket of entangled limbs that reached out, desperate for him to stay. Once more, he imposed himself in his brother’s path, throwing out his arms in a wide gesture to block Aemond’s way.

“Step aside,” Aemond commanded with an air of authority, his voice firm and unwavering. He had no more patience for his brother’s games.

Aegon, undeterred, moved closer to his brother. His expression was a peculiar blend of skepticism and sly amusement. “Prove to me that you’re notfucking her.”

Aemond responded with a mocking sneer. “There was a time, brother, when such tactics might have worked. But I’ve outgrown the need to prove myself to you.”

Aegon pulled a wry face, his lips curving downward in an upside-down smile, a gesture he often employed. “Well, it sounds like I’ve received my answer.”

“I am cautioning you, Aegon,” Aemond warned, his tone as meticulous as it was threatening. “Indulge in your games as you wish, but do not involve me.”

Aegon’s smile grew cold and wicked, reminiscent of the same expression he wore while orchestrating one of his cruel pranks. “Of course, dear brother. I’ll amuse myself with my games and torment you incessantly, but rest assured, I will guard your secrets of your illicit affair.”

“Ensure that you do,” Aemond retorted, his voice carrying a heavy undertone that served as both a threat and a stern admonishment. “Or I may find myself compelled to inform mother about your continued exploits.”

“I’m sure she already knows of my exploits,” Aegon hummed.

“But does she know about your bastards?” Aemond questioned, his voice lowered to a level only Aegon could hear. The subtle narrowing of his brother's eyes betrayed the truth that Aemond had alluded to–Aegon did indeed have bastards, a likelihood that was hardly surprising. “Does mother know about your proclivities or your predilection for young serving maids?”

“I’ll keep you secrets if you keep mine. That’s what brothers do, after all,” Aegon conceded, sealing their unspoken pact.

Aemond made a decisive move, sidestepping his brother with a determined stride.

As he exited the brothel, he found himself besieged by a swarm of women, each vying for his attention and hoping to lure him back into their embrace. Aemond paid them no heed, steadfastly pushing his way through the throng of whores, his brother’s mocking taunts ringing in his ears, accusing him of harboring a proverbial stick up his backside.

The supposed fresh air of Flea Bottom’s streets proved anything but refreshing, failing to lift his sour mood or alleviate the tension between his shoulder blades. Aemond trudged back to the Red Keep, irritated by his brother’s scheme. He was overwhelmed by a deep sense of revulsion, his skin tingling with a potent mix of frustration and repulsion. It was as though the contact with the whore had tainted him, leaving an indelible mark of contamination. Her gray eyes were a far cry from the blue that haunted his dreams. Her skin had lacked the silken softness he longed for, her hips not quite the right size and her thighs too slender.She had not looked at him with the same curiosity, slyness and knowing allure that Daenera possessed.

Gray was most certainly not blue.

What was even more infuriating, was how his mind kept pulling him back to her . Poisoned, that was what he was.

The restlessness beneath his skin prickled and intensified with each step, and by the time he reached the Red Keep, he was practically vibrating with it. He felt an acute discomfort in his clothes, the seams scratching at his skin, the fabric constricting and suffocating. Skipping two steps at a time, he quickly climbed the stairs, eventually reaching the upper floor. With an air of urgency, he strode through the doors of his chambers, promptly pushing them open and locking them securely behind him.

As he let out a slow breath, he worked with deft fingers to undo the buckles of his sword belt, placing it carefully against the wall. Stepping forther into the room, he made his way to the central table, his intent to pour himself a glass of water momentarily sidetracked by an unexpected sight.

There, sprawled out on his bed, lay the temptress herself, Daenera, Her lithe form resting on her stomach as she engrossed herself in a book. Her loose hair fell over her shoulders, a wave of flowing silk. A sudden, unexpected pulse of emotion surged within him, and he watched her closely as she pushed herself up into a sitting position.

Their eyes met, and Aemond found himself captivated by her gaze. Her eyes were the very shade of cornflowers , deep with a subtle hint of violet, like the most enhancing of spring blooms. He had never anticipated her appearance, much less in his bed, clad in a wisps of a nightgown so delicate it barely covered her from. Its neckline hung tantalizingly off one shoulder, exposing a portion of her soft skin.

“Where have you been?” She inquired, her head tilting with curiosity, her discerning eyes sweeping over him.

Aemond weighed his response carefully, feeling the irritation still simmering beneath his skin. “Aegon summoned me.”

Her brow arched inquisitively, demanding further explanation.

Unbuttoning his doublet, Aemond felt the urgency to rid himself of it. Daenera responded with a soft hum, gracefully slipping from the bed and moving barefoot towards him.

He found himself in a tumultuous internal struggle, uncertain if he truly desired her presence. It was a paradox – he longed for her to be here, yet simultaneously he didn’t. Her being here felt like an intrusion, a test of his self-control and restraint. Aemond observed her closely as she approached, ready to assist him in removing the bothersome doublet, which he promptly tossed over the back of a nearby chair.

“You carry the scent of brothel,” she remarked astutely with an undercurrent he couldn’t place.

A hint of defiance crept into Aemond’s response. “And how do you discern the scent of a brothel?”

Their gaze locked, her eyes narrowed slightly. He felt his defenses slowly crumbling. It was a wretched thing, to have one’s guard weakened by the fluttering of someone’s eyelashes – a vulnerability he couldn’t deny, no matter how much she wished to resist. It only added to the frustration itching beneath his skin, begging to be released.

A crooked smile danced up on her lips. “My husband returns home reeking of brothels often enough for me to recognize that scent.”

Reaching up, she deftly undid the clasp that secured his eyepatch around his head, carefully placing it on the nearby table. Aemond couldn’t help but notice the fleeting glance her eye made towards his sapphire eye. Instead of expressing disgust or horror, her gaze held a sense of wonder, as if she found it to be a thing of beauty. It didn’t sit right with him that she could look at him in such a way, nor did it seem right for her to brush her thumb against the end of the scar as though attempting to mend the pain and loss inflicted upon him by her brother. Yet, against his better judgment, he found that her touch lessened the ache in his scar.

Aemond turned away from her touch, pouring himself a cup of water and downing it in one go.

Daenera turned away from him, and he caught the faint furrow of her brow and the subtle pursing of her lips. “Did you find any enjoyment in your time there?”

Observing her as she padded back to the bed, Aemond couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of twisted amusement. She appeared entirely nonchalant, as if the situation had no bearing on her.

“Are you asking whether I bedded one of the whores?” Aemond’s voice carried a sharp accusation, laced with spite and frustration, as he directed his ire at anyone who dared question his integrity. Did she truly hold such a low opinion of him? Anger coiled tightly in his gut, intensifying the irritation and exasperation he felt. “Is that what you think of me?”

Daenera’s response bore a certain petulance as she retorted, “I have no claim over you. You’re free to bed the entire population of Flea Bottom for all I care.”

With a firm grip on his eyepatch, Aemond stormed into the bedchamber. There, he found Daenera sitting on his bed, reclining on her arms with her feet suspended above the floors, legs spread, the nightgown the only thing letting her keep some modicum of modesty. Her demeanor exuded an air of both spite and decadence. He seized her face, turning it forcefully to make her meet his gaze.

“Why would I entertain the thought of bedding some lowly wench in Flea Bottom when I could have you?” A snarl of disdain curled his lips, his eye ablaze with an undeniable intensity.

Daenera made an attempt to twist her face free from his grip, but Aemond’s hold remained unyielding. He kept her in place, allowing his thumb to brush gently over her lips, while a sardonic smile twisted across his face. His voice dripped with authority as he issued his command, “Get on your knees.”

He released her, his gaze half-lidded as he observed her jaw moving from side to side, a subtle attempt to alleviate the lingering ache his fingers had left. She locked eyes with him, then almost spitefully, descended to her knees on the floor, casting a coy glance up at him through her long, dark lashes.

Aemond ran his hand through her hair, casually tossing his eyepatch onto the bed. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she leaned into his caress. When his fingers slid down to the nape of her neck, he firmly grasped her hair, eliciting a shaky breath from her.

“Come now,” Aemond drawled, his voice silky and low. “You know what to do.”

Her eyes bore into his soul as her nimble fingers trailed up his powerful thighs, eventually reaching the bulge in his trousers. With practiced ease, she undid his laces, pulling down the fabric to allow his erect cock to spring free. It slapped against his lower abdomen, the engorged head a deep shade of crimson as it pulsed with blood. A prominent vein ran along the underside, curving sensually along its length.

Aemond inhaled deeply, savoring the air in his lungs for a brief moment before exhaling. His cock pulsed with an insistent need, churning a firestorm in the put of his stomach as he beheld Daenera on her knees. In her eyes, he glimpsed a tantalizing blend of defiance and undeniable lust. Though they had shared this intimate position before, her cheeks still bore a rosy flush, reminiscent of their very first encounter when uncertainty had mingled with her defiance. Back then, her eyes had widened with innocence and determination.

His lips parted as she warped a delicate hand around his throbbing shaft, the palm of her hand smooth and unmarred, sending waves of pleasure coursing through him as she stroked him with expert precision.

“Be a good little whore,” Aemond drawled, tugging her hair a bit firmer, “and open your mouth for me.”

Her delicate hand glided down the length of his shaft, her lips pressing a soft, teasing kiss upon its tip. The corner of her mouth curled upward, a defiant challenge in her eyes that only fueled Aemond’s growing hunger.

In response, Aemond’s grip tightened on her hair, his fingers firm around the base of her jaw as he demanded in a low growl, “Open your mouth.”

“Ask me nicely,” she retorted, her voice strained from the pressure he exerted on her throat just below her chin. Her gaze flickered across his features, her eyes holding a fiery defiance.

Aemond glared down at her, his lips curling into a snarl, his eye darkening with desire as his grip grew tighter.

“Open,” he commanded.

With a hesitant submission, Daenera obediently parted her lips, allowing his thumb to slide into her mouth. He maintained her mouth agape, spitting into it. Her eyes widened in surprise, a small, involuntary squeak escaping her, soon melting into a sultry moan. Aemond pressed his thumb down on her tongue, and finally, it seemed she yielded to his will, closing her mouth around his digit to suck on it with newfound urgency.

Aemond’s cock throbbed with an insistent ache against his abdomen, a relentless reminder of his burning desire. He withdrew his thumb from her mouth, the moistened digit leaving a glistening trail of saliva across her lips as he released his grip on her.

Lust ignited within the blue depths of her eyes, a blazing fire that mirrored his own primal yearning. Her hands traced the contours of his thighs, her nails lightly grazing his taut skin, sending a shiver racing down his spine. Fingers curled around the base of his throbbing cock, as she lowered her lips to its tip.

Her tongue flicked out, teasingly brushing over the glistening head, swirling sensuously around it before she captured it with her soft, warm mouth. A wave of pleasure coursed through Aemond as her hot, wet mouth enveloped him. Her tongue pressed against the sensitive underside of his cock, following the path of the prominent vein that pulsed beneath the surface.

As she began to withdraw, she employed a tantalizing suction, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked with fervor. The hand gripping his base trailed upward, following her lips’ descent, and as her mouth released the head, her hand encircled it. Her fingers twisted around the crimson crown of his cock, caressing and stimulating, before her mouth descended once more to take its place in an alluring dance of desire.

Pleasure surged through Aemond’s veins, and he couldn’t help but reach out, brushing the hair from her face and gathering it into his firm grip. Her eyes locked onto his as she skillfully pleasured him with her mouth.

Aemond’s gaze remained fixated on the sight of his cock descending deeper into her mouth, pushing her limits until a strangled sound mixed with a moan escaped her as her throat closed around the intrusion of his cock.

The rhythm escalated gradually, and Aemond abandoned all restraint. His grip on her hair tightened, urging her on as he thrust deeper and deeper into her throat. Each time he buried himself inside her, she swallowed around him, sending bolts of pleasure racing through his body. The intensity of it all caused his toes to curl in his boots.

His breath emerged in ragged pants, his teeth biting into his lower lip as he struggled to maintain control. Her nails, on the other hand, etched angry red marks into his lip, tracing a fiery path down his thigh. The soothing pressure of her fingertips followed the same route, easing the stinging sensation her nails had left in their wake. Her hand then slipped around him, gripping his ass firmly, and replicated the journey down the back of his thigh, igniting a maelstrom of pleasure that threatened to consume him entirety.

“ Fuck ,” Aemond grunted, his voice a hissing breath.

Her teeth grazed the sensitive skin at the base of his cock, a fleeting sensation amidst the softness of her lips. Aemond sent an unforgiving pace, thrusting further into her throat, his hips driving the tip of his cock down until her nose bumped against the silver curls at the base of his cock. With each punishing thrust, his balls collided with her chin, tightening as he inched closer to his climax.

A strangled gag escaped her, her eyes now welling up with tears that trailed down her flushed cheeks. Despite the disarray she appeared to be in, it only seemed to heighten his pleasure.

“You’re such a little whore,” Aemond murmured, his voice hoarse and raw, resembling gravel against his vocal cords. “What kind of princess drips with need while having her face fucked?”

She emitted a soft hum around him, her eyes fluttering as his fingertips brushed against her scalp.

Aemond groaned at the vibration, the intensity of the sensation sending shivers down his spine. An overwhelming desire to bury his throbbing cock within the silky embrace of her warm, wet cunt coursed through him. Aemond removed her mouth from his swollen cock, preventing himself from spilling his seed down her throat, and guided her to her feet.

Her eyes appeared red and puffy, tears clinging to her dark lashes, while her flushed cheeks radiated warmth. Her once-glistening lips had become swollen, and a mixture of spit and tears trailed down her chin.

“Look at you,” Aemond hummed, his thumb brushing over her chin in an attempt to clear away the remnants of spit but inadvertently smearing it down her throat. “One would be hard-pressed to imagine you as anything but a whore.”

“What does that make you?” Defiantly, Daenera retorted, her voice raw and hoarse from the earlier ordeal of his cock pressing against the back of her throat. Her hands moved to cup his face, but Aemond seized them in an unyielding grip. If she touched him with the gentleness she was about to, he feared he’d lose himself to it, and the frustration and anger was all that he had to give at the moment.

“On the bed,” he commanded, his tone cold and unwavering.

“What if I refuse?” Daenera challenged.

A sardonic smile curled Aemond’s lips, revealing his teeth like vicious fangs. “Do you truly wish to find out?”

“Seems the whorehouses got you all riled up. Maybe you should find more… obedient company there,” Daenera taunted, her voice laced with playful mockery.

A half-laugh, half-squeal escaped her lips as Aemond swiftly tossed her onto the bed. He seized her hips, flipping her over onto her stomach. His strong hands found the discarded eyepatch, and he used the leather strap to bind her wrists together behind her back. Daenera let out an audible exhale, attempting to blow her disheveled curls out of her face as she craned her neck to catch a glimpse of him.

Aemond, with purposeful movements, lifted off the bed and tugged at her ankle, pulling her closer to the edge. Her nightgown rode up, unveiling the plump, flawless expanse of her buttocks. He widened her legs with a nudge, exposing her glistening cunt, her thighs coated with traces of her arousal. The alluring scent of her desire hung heavy in the air, mingling with the natural fragrance of her skin, a fresh citrusy aroma complemented by sweet floral notes.

“Would you look at that,” Aemond purred, the rough pads of his fingers trailing up her inner thigh. Her body quivered in anticipation beneath his touch, a shiver of goosebumps rising on her skin. His satisfaction grew with every reaction he provoked. With firm hands he kneaded the supple flesh of her buttocks, parting them briefly before letting go. Her needy cunt throbbed, and he could feel her hips twitching in response.

“Your cunt is practically sobbing with need,” Aemond observed, his fingers gently parting her folds. Her desperate moan filled the room as her slick walls clenched around nothing but the tantalizing anticipation.

“ Aemond ,” her voice carried both a plea and a demand.

“Tell me what you are,” he teased, fully aware of the torment he was inflicting on her. It was but a fraction of what she had inflicted upon him for months . His one-eyed gaze shifted from her wet cunt to her face, noting the tightly sealed lips and teeth sinking into the swollen flesh. “Tell me what you are and beg .”

Daenera scoffed, her defiance palpable. “I will make you beg –”

Aemond’s fingers ghosted through her slick folds, a delicate touch meant to withhold gratification. It teased her senses, promising pleasure without delivering it. “What was that?”

“I–” Daenera began, but her words were cut off as Aemond’s fingers descended to the bundle of nerves he had grown so familiar with. The pad of his finger pressed into the sensitive flesh, and her hands clenched into fists, straining against the leather restraints. With a low curse, she buried her face in the sheets and let out a frustrated growl.

“It’s a simple request,” Aemond hummed, his fingers tracing slow, torturous circles on her sensitive nub. Her legs quivered, and her back arched, hips rising to meet his teasing touch. He gauged the pressure carefully, keeping her on the edge of release.

As she finally caught her breath, she let out an exasperated huff. “ Fuck … The whores must have really gotten under your skin.”

A surge of anger shot through Aemond, searing bolt that sliced between his ribs. In response, his hand landed on her quivering ass cheek with a resounding smackm the sound echoing through the room. Her body jolted in surprise, and the flesh of her ass turned a vivid shade of red. Aemond’s palm stung, but it only fueled his satisfaction. He delivered another sharp slap, harder this time, and Daenera groaned, her hands pulling against the restraints as her body rocked forward. Aemond struck her once more, ensuring the imprint of his hand was emblazoned upon her ass.

He watched as the walls of her cunt clenched around empty air, her arousal trickling down her thighs and dripping from her core. “What are you?”

“A whore,” Daenera answered, her voice slightly muffled by the sheets.

“What was that?”

“I am a whore,” she admitted, her defiance crumbling as she released a ragged breath. “ Please. ”

Aemond kneaded the red flesh of her ass, attempting to soothe the sting she undoubtedly felt. He let his cock brush against her soaked folds, rubbing up and down the length of her slit. Daenera writhed under his touch, her spine arching as he allowed the head of his cock to shallowly dip into her. A shudder went through her body.

“ Please, Aemond ,” she mewled, her voice breathless with desire.

With a swift, decisive movement, Aemond buried himself deep with her slick heat, surrendering to the irresistible pull of her velvety walls that clamped around him, urging him to stay. She stretched out for him, taking in every inch he graced her with as he pressed into her, each stroke deliberate and unrelenting. He thrust into her with abandon, hips snapping against hers with precision, eliciting soft gasps with each forceful movement.

His strong hands clamped onto her hips with a vice, fingers digging into the supple flesh, leaving his marks. With each vigorous thrust, her feet lost traction on the stone floor, slipping slightly. The room filled with the rhythmic symphony of flesh meeting flesh, intensified by the lewd, wet sounds of her needy core enveloping him again and again. Daenera’s passionate moans harmonized with the sound, her body arching to match Aemond’s relentless pace.

“You’re my little whore,” Aemond sneered, relinquishing one hand from her hip to seize the nape of her neck, pushing her further into the mattress and holding her in place as he ravaged her with relentless fervor.

His muscles coiled and rippled beneath his skin, as he worked them with expertly control. Each sharp snap of his hips was the crack of a whip, each thrust a swing of the sword.

“I–I am your little whore,” Daenera choked out, her voice trembling with submission and pleasure. Her hands opened and closed, as if pleading with him for release.

Her inner walls fluttered around his pulsing cock, sending a shiver coursing down Aemond’s spine. Beads of sweat formed on the back of his neck, glistening as they descended his chest. He panted heavily, thrusting into her as if this were his sole purpose in life. His determination to fill her with every drop of seed consumed him entirely–and her cunt seemed obliged to take it.

“Please–I’m close,” she whimpered.

Aemond hissed, the relentless grip of her tightening cunt pushing him to his limit. His pace showed no mercy, each withdrawal followed by a powerful thrust back into her. Daenera let out a quivering breath, her body yielding as he thrust into her again and again. Aemond adjusted his angle, targeting that special spot that made her eyes flutter with pleasure, his balls rhythmically slapping against her clit with each snap of his hips.

Her fluttering intensified, and she released a loud, resonant moan as her inner muscles clamped down around him. A wave of pleasure cashed over Aemond, forcing him to thrust forcefully into her as he emptied his seed into her eager womb. He continued his thrusts, extending their pleasure. She sorbed every drop of him, her cunt slick with their combined fluids. As he drew out of her half-heartedly, a trickle of seed released, dripping onto the floor.

Aemond stilled, his breaths coming in ragged pants as he loosened his grip on her. He remained inside of her for a moment, her climax-induced tremors making her cunt continue to flutter.

With a hiss, he withdrew from her, wiping the sweat from his chin. He watched as her cunt tightened slightly, a small trickle of his seed escaping her. Running his hand along her folds, he pushed his seed back inside her; he had no intention of letting her waste a single drop. She squirmed from the over stimulation, mewling breathlessly, her legs trembling as they hung limply over the edge of the bed.

Aemond reached up and deftly undid the ties of his leather eye patch, freeing Daenera’s hands. She quickly adjusted her arms, finding a more comfortable position.

A sudden wave of repulsion twisted in Aemond’s gut, compelling him to walk towards the flagon of water, his throat feeling parched. He poured himself a cup, lifting his gaze to look through the window. The night was still, the moon hanging low.

“You never answered me,” Daenera’s voice cut through the silence.

Aemond turned to face her, a coldness etched upon his features. “I have no need for a whore when I have you, do I?”

Daenera shot him an intense glare, her cheeks aflame with color. Her dark hair clung to her skin as she straightened up, her brows furrowing with irritation.

“I am not as depraved as my brother,” Aemond continued, tearing his eye away from her to gaze upon the moon. Clouds littered the sky, yet the moon had found a weakness in their formation.

Daenera didn’t hold back, her words pointed and accusatory. “You’re having an affair with a married woman behind her husband’s back. You stuffed your cock down my throat, then tied my hands behind my back and took me from behind, all while degrading me, calling me a whore.”

Aemond retorted with bitterness, “You sought me out. You initiated this. What does that make you?”

“I think you’ve made it pretty clear what that makes me,” Daenera replied, her gaze locked with his. She rose from the bed and approached him, her movements gentle but not unassuming. She reached out towards him, but he intercepted her hand, gripping her wrist firmlin and restraining it just out of reach.

Her eyes swept across his features, searching his face as she sought answers to his mood.

“You’re not your brother,” Daenera asserted, a sincerity in her voice that felt like a rare glimpse of truth in their tangled web of intrigue. “And you’re not depraved like him. There’s a difference between being depraved and this .”

Aemond found himself questioning her certainty. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because true depravity is sickening,” she murmured, “and this feels… different .”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Aemond loosened his grip, allowing her hand to slip away. She turned, gracefully walking towards the water basin to clean herself.

“You were waiting for me,” Aemond observed, casually selecting an apple from the bountiful bowl of fruit adorning the table. With a knife in hand, he deftly pierced the crisp apple’s flesh, taking a satisfying bite while his gaze remained fixed on Daenera as she cleaned herself.

As Daenera meticulously washed away the remnants of their recent intertwinement, the wet cloth gliding sensuously between her thighs, the muscles in her back rippled gracefully beneath her flawless skin, the soft curve of her ass still bearing a rosy hue from their passionate encounter.

“I was feeling rather bored,” she admitted, an amused note in her tone.

Aemond’s brows arched ever so slightly, the smirk playing on his lips growing more pronounced. “So, you sought entertainment here.”

Daenera continued her cleansing ritual, the amusement spreading as a smile on her lips. Her eyes landed on Aemond.

“Believe it or not,” she began, her tone dripping with wry humor, “but conversing with you proves far more stimulating than exchanging words with my husband.”

Aemond shrugged half-heartedly as he cut off another chunk of the apple. “Well, I can’t say we’re known for our riveting conversations.”

“I’ve found that I don’t mind your silence,” Daenera confessed, lip curling as she brushed a lock of her from her face with the back of her wrist. “ Nothaving a conversation with you is more stimulating that having one with my husband.”

An unsettling stirring churned within Aemond’s chest, a relentless wave of emotions he’d prefer to deny. He couldn’t but watch her, his solitary eye tracing every delicate curve of her form.

His grip on the half-eaten apple and the knife tightened for a moment, as he cut another piece and brought it to his lips, letting the sweetness of the apple fill his mouth and mask the dryness that had suddenly found its way into his mouth, before placing the items onto the side table of the bed. Then, with a heavy sigh, he lowered himself onto the bed, leaning against the headboard.

A strange sense of unease coursed through Aemond as he observed her lift the hem of her nightgown. It was an unease that, upon closer inspection, seemed to be tinged with an unwelcome yearning. It made his heart strain his chest, and he averted his eye.

“You were reading,” he remarked, his tone carefully measured.

Daenera’s smile widened as she settled onto the bed, rolling onto her stomach and propping herself onto her elbows to look at him. “I find it curious how many books you possess pertaining to Old Valyria. It is odd for a Hightower, is it not?”

Aemond’s eye narrowed at her, and as he spoke, his voice was not without barbs. “And what do you read? Children's stories or have you crossed over to old wives tales?”

“Sometimes,” Daenera replied, allowing the barbs to caress over her skin without sinking in. “But I prefer scholarly books about plants, or if I fancy something different, books about history. I am currently reading about Harrenhal.”

“Baratheon must find it a relief to have a literate wife to read his letters for him.”

A scowl pulled at Daenera’s features as the barbs seemed to bite into her flesh. “My husband is not overjoyed to find that I have thoughts and opinions. I imagine he would prefer me to lay waiting in bed all day for him to stumble home to.”

A sharp smile formed on Aemond’s lips, and amusement found its way into his voice. “Hmm, I might have found something to have in common with Baratheon.”

Daenera’s laugh danced in the air as she inched closer to him. Her body gracefully folded over his, and she rested her chin upon her hands, which were placed delicately on his chest. The intimacy of their position was unmistakable, her warmth seeping through the thin fabric of her nightgown, caressing his skin with its gentle heat. Stands of her hair teased his flesh, her breath, warm and rhythmic, brushed against him.

He wondered briefly if she could feel his erratic heartbeat against her palms.

She gazed up at him, her eyes traversing his face with an intensity that felt like deliberate probing. It was as though she sought to dismantle his armor, leaving him exposed and vulnerable to her poison.

What unspoken words were dying on her tongue, not yet formed?

Her head tilted to the side in curiosity, and her delicate hand found its way to his face, her touch gentle yet burning as she traced the scar that ran from the top of his eyebrow down across his face marring the flesh. It felt as if her touch insight a fiery trail along his skin.

“Does it hurt still?” She murmured, her voice soft and filled with genuine curiosity.

For a brief, harrowing moment, Aemond was transported back to the blinding pain of that fateful day when his eye had been so viciously torn from his skull. He could almost taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth, feel the scorching agony that had seared through him, and see the world being drowned in a crimson haze.

The vivid memory of that excruciating pain flooded his mind, accompanied by the gruesome image of blood coating his vision until everything had been consumed by its relentless tide. He recalled how his own blood had felt like molten iron, scalding and boiling as it poured down his face.

Aemond’s fingers clamped around her hand, pulling it away from his face with a grip that was tighter than necessary. He stared at her with a piercing intensity, his thoughts consumed by a suspicion that she was playing some kind of game with him.

She sat up in bed, her gaze fixed on him, a perplexed frown knitting her eyebrows together. Her hand reached out again, but Aemond swiftly evaded her touch, his grip on her wrist becoming almost bruising. She winced, but his anger eclipsed any concern he might have had for her discomfort.

What was her motive? Why was she punishing him like this? Why did she insist on bringing up the past?

“Why must you insist on ruining everything?” Aemond’s voice rumbled, thick with anger and frustration.

“You’re still angry,” Daenera observed calmly, her tone tinged with sadness.

Aemond’s glare bore into her, a seething storm of resentment and bitterness. “Is it not understandable that I harbor a grudge, given that your brother was responsible for taking my eye? Should it really come as a surprise that I haven’t forgotten or forgiven it? Tell me, would you react any differently?”

Daenera’s scrutinizing gaze seemed to pierce through him, akin to how the dagger had sliced through his eye. Her searing gaze made him feel exposed, vulnerable, and it only fueled his anger further.

Agonizing pain radiated from his missing eye, clawing its way through his skull like a relentless, fiery serpent. It was as if lightning striking across the sky and splitting open the heavens, followed by the deafening, thunderous roar that echoed in the depths of his mind. The sensation was overpowering, every bit as intense as the day he had lost his eye, and it consumed him whole.

In the grip of his torment, he could hear the thunderous beat of his own blood coursing through his veins, a relentless reminder of the storm raging inside of him. Resentment festered within him, gnawing at his insides like a festering wound, and a prutrid sense of rot oozed through his every fiber. His mouth seemed to fill with it.

“I would,” she replied, her voice carrying a lightness that grated on his nerves.

As irritation began to smolder in his chest, Aemond couldn’t help but observe the way she regarded him. It was as if she was attempting to peel away his layers, to expose the hidden depths beneath that no one had ever seen. In the past, she had looked at him with wary apprehension or outright contempt, things had been simpler. It had been easy to embrace the monstrous image she had of him, one he accepted for himself. It was better to be a monster than being pitied. But that gentle gaze, now attempting to breach his defenses, offered no guarantee that it wouldn’t inflict deeper wounds in its wake. He was all too aware that it could be a cunning ruse, a mere strategy to burrow beneath his skin before administering a lethal dose of poison.

–A poison so sweet he almost longed for it. It would be easier to hate her.

Aemond had learned the hard way to be wary of those who showed kindness. He had no intention to fall victim to their deceit. His words echoed her words cautiously, “You would?”

“Of course I would,” Daenera replied, her tone both honest and exasperated. “You know I would. But you also have to admit that you were planning to bash my brother’s head in with a rock.”

Aemond bared his teeth and averted his gaze, as venom filled his mouth. “I would have. I might still do it. Take one brother’s eye, bash another one’s head in. You have so many to choose from.”

Her response was swift and fierce, a slap to his cheek that stung like that of a wasp sting. All the vulnerability she had previously displayed now transformed into fury, widening her eyes and contorting her lips into a sneer.

“Why must you ruin this?” Daenera sprain up from the bed, hastily adjusting the neckline of her dress to shield her exposed skin as if he wasn’t familiar with every inch of her.

“Did you really think I would just forgive and forget? That you spreading your legs for me would somehow absolve what your brother did to me?” Aemond’s anger was fueled by more than just the loss of his eye; it was the excruciating pain, the humiliation her brothers had inflicted, and the subsequent rejection and resentment she had caused. The dark, vengeful part of him longed to hurt her in the same way they had hurt him.

“No,” Daenera sneered back. “But I did think you’d be capable of taking responsibility for your own actions.”

“I would have bashed your brother’s head in,” Aemond spat at her, now inches from her. “I will admit to that. And had I received the justice I deserved, your brother would have had to put out his eye as compensation.”

Daenera mirrored his cruelty. “And here I thought you said losing your eye was worth gaining a dragon.”

“I should not have needed to pay for Vhagar with my eye. I rightfully claimed her. If my cousin had tried to claim her, she would have perished in the attempt,” Aemond insisted. He could tell by her expression that she knew he was right. “You know this.”

Aemond pressed on, his voice filled with frustration and bitterness. “I didn’t deserve to be mutilated, and I didn’t deserve to be blamed for it. Your brother faced no punishment, and I received no justice.”

No, all he received was disdain and blame. Only his mother had truly cared about his suffering and had been willing to take justice into her own hands. His father had never given him a second glance, and after he lost his eye, Viserys could only muster displeasure when looking at him. The scar, a permanent reminder of his ordeal, was a topic no one dared to let fade into oblivion, yet no one dared to speak about it openly. They refused to let him forget it, and in return, he clung to his anger as tightly as the last thread of sanity.

“You tend to your resentment and bitterness as if they were delicate blooms in a carefully tended garden,” Daenera remarked, rubbing her forehead before wrapping her arms around herself. “You nurture your hatred and feed your anger.”

“Don’t pretend you’re any different,” Aemond retorted sharply. “You’re not so innocent in all of this. We’re not so different, you and I.”

He pushed aside her hair, then cradled her head in his hand. His fingers stretched from the nape of her neck to the front of her throat, and his thumb rested on her pulse. He felt her swallow, her lips pressed together as she stared at him. “You were well aware of who I am. You knew of my hatred for your brothers. Yet, you chose to give yourself to me.”

She glared at him, her gaze sharp enough to cut through stone. He had made no effort to hide his anger towards her brothers or the events those years ago, he had not masked his monstrousness or what he could be capable of. He did not pretend.

It was clear they would never see eye to eye on this matter.

She inhaled deeply through her nose and closed her eyes. And as she released her breath, it seemed as if her frustration ebbed away, slipping through her fingers like dissipating smoke. Her eyes fluttered open, and she leaned into his hand. The gesture felt intimate, almost submissive. It quelled the flames of his anger, leaving only a lingering warmth beneath his skin. He found himself lowering his forehead to gently touch hers. It wasn’t an apology, as he had done no wrong, but rather an unspoken acknowledgement.

“Come back to bed,” she whispered, her fingers entwining with his as she tugged him gently.

He should have resisted, should have pushed her away, leaving irreversible scars on her soul. But he allowed her to lead him back, allowing the last remnants of his anger to slip through his fingers.

Daenera nestled against his chest, her index finger tracing slow circles over the bare skin of his chest.

“It does,” Aemond found himself confessing, and she lifted her head to gaze upon his face. “It hurts. There’s rarely a moment when I can’t feel it. It throbs, aches with the ghostly pain of the blade. Sometimes, it becomes unbearable, and it feels as if I’m losing it all over again. Even a simple brush of leather can turn it excruciating.”

Her eyes widened slightly, her brows lifting in concern. The finger that had been tracing his chest halted its journey just short of his scar. “I hurt you?”

Aemond let out a breath that was part chuckle and part sigh. “Sometimes.”

During all those months when he had watched her from a distance, nursing his resentment, the pain had been relentless and excruciating. It was as if the mere absence of her soothing touch had intensified the injury.

While her touch, as before, could intensify the pain, it more often than not soothed it.

It left him feeling strangely unsettled, as if his entire existence hung by a single, excruciating thread, and then she gently wove a thousand threads around it, providing relief from his torment. Yet, those threads remained subject to her mercy, easily severed to plunge him back into a world of agony.

He wondered if it would be better to suffer, than to know the absence of the suffering.

“I am sorry,” she murmured, and Aemond felt an unexpected warmth spread through him, as if her words eased the tension in his muscles.

Her blue eye shifted to his sapphire one. “It’s as if you hole the entire night sky in your eye. As if it harbors clusters of constellations just waiting to be discovered.”

Oh, how sweet her poison was.

#aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond fic #hotd fanfic #aemond smut #A Vow of Blood

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karygurl · 1 year

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cold comfort (ffxiv)

Takes place in Heavensward, after The Vault. Cass finally learns the other side of the double-edged sword that is her Echo-born empathetic ability.

So cold.

Everything in Ishgard was cold.

Cassandra was sitting on the stones of the dais at the end of the Last Vigil, the darkened chasm on the other side of the railing before her stretching endlessly downward. The frozen cobblestones, the biting wind, the frigid air pulled into her lungs; the cold seeped into her from every angle and she welcomed it.

The impermeable cloud cover hung low, so near that she could almost reach out and touch them. The pre-dawn light was struggling to light the sky beneath their heavy blanket, and for a brief moment she wondered if they might actually succeed in keeping the dawn at bay. If ever a day didn’t deserve a dawn, it was this one, surely.

Haurchefant was gone.

Dead, she corrected herself with a stern finality. He was dead.

One of the patrons at Buscarron’s Druthers had once commented that her lack of memories was such a blessing, to have her slate wiped clean and be able to be whomever she felt like.

That was the day she stopped telling people about her amnesia, until she met the Scions.

To be so detached from the world around her, and have no memories of herself or things that may have happened to her, was certainly a curse rather than a blessing. She sometimes struggled with concepts or emotions that many found easy to handle, simply from having little experience.

Anger. Worry. Fear.

And now? Grief.

The emotional insight she'd always gleaned from others with her Echo was likewise suddenly nothing more than a curse. The pain she’d experienced as she’d desperately tried in vain to heal Haurchefant, held his hand, smiled for him, watched his soul leave his body, had been immeasurable. And yet it had been simply a precursor to the anguish she’d experienced from those around her. The grief of Lucia and Aymeric had painfully pressed in around her, Alphinaud’s on top of theirs choking her and weighing down her mind and steps as they’d left the Vault.

Walking had been a struggle of putting one foot in front of another, time moving in an incomprehensible fashion, but it was nothing compared to the weight of sorrow that quickly came to envelop House Fortemps. It had felt cruel to have young Alphinaud deliver the news, but though she’d opened her mouth first in an attempt to spare him, words had failed to reach her tongue and he’d instead been the one to report their dread news. Another failure.

Slowly but surely, she’d nearly collapsed under the weight of the combined sorrow of the household. Not only her own, but that of Haurchefant’s father, brothers and staff, all of them mourning, all of their anguish pressing in on her, around her, crushing her senses inward until only their pain remained. When Lord Fortemps finally broke, so did she, sinking to her knees with shuddering breaths and weeping openly as if her tears were the only thing that could restore him. She was trembling, nearly out of her mind, the sadness and grief overpowering her thoughts and choking the breath from her throat. She trembled, she was vibrating out of her skin and her bleeding heart was pouring out onto the floor and the grief was too much, she couldn't breathe, someone please help, she couldn’t take it--

Alphinaud’s hand coming to rest at her shoulder helped to anchor her, just for a moment. Just long enough to remind her of the existence of her body amidst the torrent of emotions she found herself trapped within. Pulling herself together had been a monumental task that had left her all but spent.

She didn’t remember falling asleep that night. One of the servants had kindly placed a discreet bottle of sleeping tonic in her room, a kindness that she hadn’t deserved. The sleep had lasted only a few hours however, and before dawn broke she’d slipped from the front doors of the manor and allowed her feet to lead her onward, to the end of the street.

There she sat, absorbing the cold that surrounded her and hoping that the sensation might numb the anguish that plagued her.

She’d heard the phrase “mad with grief” before, but now she understood, could feel it for herself. How the edges of her mind seemed to fray. The lack of concentration. The skittish, maddened thoughts that plagued her, that were so out of place that they seemed to come from another mind altogether.

(You should have done something. She should have, she would have. She had no excuse, she’d simply not known what was coming, not done enough, not been enough.)

Haurchefant had called her his hope. It rang hollow now, a curse rather than a blessing. What hope could she offer, she who time and again was unable to save her friends?

(Someone else should have taken his place. Yes. But no-- she would not wish that on Aymeric, or Lucia, or Alphinaud, gods forbid.)

(You should have died and taken his place. She would have. Oh, she would have, given the choice. But then who could face off against Thordan and his knights without becoming tempered? She couldn’t have abandoned him or anyone else to that fate either--)

He’d been her hope in a way she’d not expressed to him. (Too late now.) She thought she’d understood the concept of grief well enough, had grieved and wept for her fellow Scions lost in the attack on the Waking Sands, had mourned Moenbryda after her sacrifice. She’d thought that the terror that she’d felt for her friends after the bloody banquet had been the most dire feeling she’d ever experience. There had been panic, worry, the not knowing eating her alive, all emotions that clung to her even now, but there had also been a feeble and desperate hope that Haurchefant had helped to kindle within her. But losing him forever? There was no hope, there were no possibilities. This was… impossible. Impossible to contain, impossible to endure. And yet she still breathed, her heart still beat. The sun still struggled to rise, fighting against the smothering blanket of clouds overhead.

Her mind had spiraled in every conceivable direction, circled each and every dead end over and over and there were no answers to be found in any of them. Now she was simply… cold.

She imagined the slow creep of crackling ice spreading in crystalline tendrils to envelope her, and she embraced it. She might have considered it a gift from Saint Shiva, or Halone, were she being fanciful. She allowed the ice to form and freeze over the gaping, bleeding wound in her heart and seal its anguish away. Her sorrow and despair crystallized, flawless and frozen in time. The pain became... remote. Benign. Constant, but worthy of little notice, like the sound of her own breathing.

She was left with only the cold, the numbness, an emptiness. Only an echo of grief remained, and in its place came to shine a cold unbridled fury the likes she’d never felt before. It robbed her of vision, of feeling, until nothing but pinpoint clarity remained.

She would kill Thordan and his knights.

Lord Edmont had bid her give chase to his son’s murderer, and she would do it. She would have stopped Thordan and his knights regardless, but now, she would end them, like the rabid monsters they’d become.

The first feeble rays of sunlight broke across the cover of the clouds, finally heralding the dawn and lighting her way forward.

Quiet footsteps echoed on the cobblestones behind her. She heard the sound of her name, Alphinaud's voice carrying easily enough in the still quiet of the morning. Tilting her head back to the sky, she inhaled deeply, breathing in the cold air and encasing herself in its comforting chill before she stood to face him.

His eyes were red rimmed; no doubt hers were as well. Though she tried to offer him a small smile, his brows furrowed, gaze searching hers. Perhaps he’d expected her to still be weeping. Perhaps she should be. But she had work to do, first.

She placed a hand on his shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. “Come, let’s see how Aymeric is doing. And then… I need a sword.”

#ffxiv #cassandra tygrova #heavensward is not a great time for cass #apologies for any tenses I butchered #flinging this out into the world and maybe it'll fix itself #heavensward spoilers

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hardestgrove · 2 years

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THE MUNGROVE FILES: ELRIC/LOTR

Fantasy as a Means of Examining the Dynamic Between Billy and Eddie Or Why I Think You Should All Read Elric and Associate It With Billy

This is another unhinged essay from me and I will be doing a lot here, arguably the most, certainly too much. But fuck it it’s 2008 and I’m writing a shipping manifesto bc tbh I think LJ had it right and long ass metas are fun. In this essay I will be talking about why I think Billy would be a fan of the Elric Saga, how this works thematically with Eddie and why I think that the difference in which series mirror their character cores enhances the dynamic.

For starters, Elric of Melniboné — what even is that?

The Elric Saga is a series of about 7 books written by the English author Michael Moorcock from the 60s to 00s, the majority being written in the 60s-80s. They were printed in magazines and then novellas and then compiled into larger books so it can get a little confusing when you looking for information about them. The Elric Saga is a seminal piece of dark pulp fantasy that has been just as much of a foundational piece of western fantasy media as The Lord of The Rings if not as well known by the masses. It’s been referenced by countless bands including Blue Öyster Cult, given Edward Elric of Full Metal Alchemist and White Wolf Publishing their names, been one of the foundations of Dungeons and Dragons entire creation and is the inspiration for the Targaryens and Valyria in George R. R. Martin’s series A Song of Ice and Fire — just to name a few places where Elric has had an effect.

(Also the Eldar from Warhammer 40k are LITERALLY the Melniboneans. Almost to a T.)

The story of the series follows Elric of Melniboné, a sickly albino sorcerer king of a decadent and corrupt empire still clinging to it’s glory from when it ruled most of their world. Elric at first determined to somehow do something about their slow decline, not just in power but in humanity, exiles himself and sets out to travel the Young Kingdoms of the humans to learn more than he could from books and study. Because of Elric's introspective self-loathing and hatred of Melnibonéan traditions, his subjects find him odd and unfathomable. However, his cousin Yyrkoon (next in the line of succession, as Elric has no heirs) interprets this behaviour as weakness and plots Elric's death. Complicating matters is Yyrkoon's sister Cymoril, who is deeply in love with Elric; Yyrkoon covets her, and part of his plan for usurpation is to marry Cymoril himself.

Elrics greatest aids in his quests for peace for his people, and then later only himself when he realizes there is no hope for Melniboné, are his patron and master Arioch, a Lord of Chaos and Duke of Hell and the evil eldritch blade with a mind of its own bestowed to him by Arioch, Stormbringer. The sword confers upon Elric strength, health, and fighting prowess, allowing him to do away with his dependence on drugs, but it must be fed by the souls of intelligent beings. In the end, the blade takes everyone close to Elric and eventually Elric's own soul as well. This is the most constant element of the Moorcock’s stories, that anyone who is too close to Elric for too long shares in his tragic fate by Stormbringer’s or Elric’s hand. The other is that Elric is trapped as a pawn in the cosmic war between Order and Chaos (this is where the DnD alignment chart comes from).

Elric himself is a handsome but weak and miserable man forever fighting against his own depression and despair as he feels his situation in life becomes more impossible to bear. He also has a lot of sex for someone who’s so miserable to be around which is pretty impressive. He’s a byronic anti-hero, at times really even more of an anti-villain and literally everything about him is sexy and tragic. He comes from a cycle of cruelty and is considered somewhat impure of breeding, that impurity is also likely why he still has even scraps of basic decency left compared to many of his country men who revel in atrocities. Even with him being the least terrible he’s still cruel, arrogant, prideful, spiteful and generally apathetic to life and most joys.

You see, Elric and his people are doomed. There is truly no hope for them. Thanks to an ancient deal made thousands of years ago the Melniboneans are tied to Arioch and as Arioch is a Lord of Chaos this means he is a monstrous corrupting force and the source of all the depravity bastardizing Elric’s people over the generations. Elric as their king is in many ways little more than a slave to Arioch’s wishes. While Elric as a facet of the Eternal Champion inevitably works for Balance and works with agents of Order at times, he is an agent of Chaos because the pact with Arioch which cannot be broken and Arioch is happy to bring him back to heel when he sees fit. There is no peace or happiness or safety for Elric, his god —and his sword— do not wish it so and Elric cannot fight back.

Elric became a very popular place to pull inspiration from for Hard Rock and Metal artists because of these darker themes. It’s noted that Elric’s relationship with Stormbringer is similar to an addiction. He relies on the sword to feel better/be healthier but it’s evil. It has it’s own agenda and frequently robs him of his own will or control over his own body, forcing him to cut down his own friends and loved ones. It fuels him by devouring the souls of others, damning them to a fate forever trapped inside the hell that is the sword. This dark parasitic/symbiotic relationship helped it hit home with musicians of the era.

Many people in the community consider Billy to be a secret bookworm or just more passionate about reading than you’d immediately think from seeing him. I throw in my hat for the Elric Saga being Billy’s favorite series. It’s fantasy, it’s metal, it’s got sex in it, it’s got a very handsome man absolutely going through it in conflicts he has largely no power over that get into questions of fate and self determination, all that shit. It reeks of Big Billy Energy™. You can even see parallels between his character in season 3 and Elric in what I just said about Elric and Stormbringer. Fun fact— The Eternal Champion always bears an aspect of the Black Sword as his or her weapon, though it may not always manifest as a sword (black veins anyone?).

I can see Billy finding Elric’s life and struggles much more engaging and emotionally resonant to his own than he ever could with say, The Lord of The Rings which as one of the biggest fantasy series of all time and present in this era I know many like to use when talking about what he reads. Elric is a miserable fuck, he hates himself and wants to die but he persists through everything. He curses the gods, picks himself back up, gets back into the pit and commits a few atrocities, fights a dude, saves a kingdom, accidentally kills his new best friend, saves the universe, weeps into his wine over his dead girlfriend, has sex with some lady, kills another dude—rinse, repeat. It’s honestly pretty impressive since he so clearly needs a therapist or 80.

The idea for many as to why Billy reads is for a certain amount of escapism from Neil and the abuse which I agree with. But I don’t think that LOTR has the kind of escapism Billy would resonate with because of its more optimistic and comforting tones. I don’t think that even in his escapism Billy likes to be “lied” to. He prefers stories where while it might not be the focus, the harsh realities are there. His escapism is in power fantasies, in stories set in rich and compelling worlds (which yes, LOTR also has), and in putting his pain into a character. I think many things that are baked into LOTR because of who Tolkien was don’t always sit well with Billy. Sometimes you win, but it’s a pyrrhic victory and you also kinda lose because the cycle of conflict continues. Sometimes the exiled king isn’t some stalwart dude who’s rule will fix everything with no good explanation as to why that would be, sometimes he sucks and there is no way out of the tailspin anyway. Sometimes you end up alone because of your own cruelty and selfless. Sometimes it takes the Apocalypse to finally get a chance to free yourself from your masters. Elric is as compelling as he is tragic and he’s only one facet of the Eternal Champion, a being that exists in different forms throughout the Multiverse. The Champion exists to uphold the Cosmic Balance, and could even be said to be an aspect or reflection of the Balance.

Most Champions don’t even know that they are a Champion and multiple can exist in the same place at the same time. I can see him fantasizing about being one. Billy is at his heart a protector, I can see him daydreaming about being a warrior for Balance, protecting the world from the war being Law and Chaos, and never even knowing he was. I think for Billy, who feels worthless and unwanted, the inherent fantasy of being just Built Different™ is more appealing than the “anyone can be a hero” vibes of LOTR.

With that let’s get into why The Lord of The Rings is Eddie’s favorite series and then the whole compare-y constrast-y “and that’s why they should kiss” part.

If Billy looked at Elric and said “yeah I’m about to make this dude my whole personality” then Eddie did that with Frodo. Frodo is essentially the town eccentric who was raised by his uncle, the other town eccentric. He’s intelligent and kind and no one’s idea of a hero at a glance. But he is heroic and he takes on an incredibly heavy burden because someone has to and he cares too deeply to let someone else be stuck with it, even if he wishes anyone else could have it. LOTR at it’s core is a story of hope, of unlikely friendship and heroism that stands up against time, distance and unspeakable evil. It’s a story of faith in your beliefs and your friends. It talks about surviving through harrowing events and the darkest times and how love and friendship can do so much to help you continue on against the odds.

It feels like a no brainer why all of that would appeal to Eddie. Unlike Billy, Eddie has a loving uncle and has managed to build a support system. His life is by no means perfect but he’s certainly doing better than Billy is. Eddie prefers the story where good inevitably triumphs over evil in a pretty clear cut way because that’s what he feels is right. It’s his escapism. Frodo’s struggle hits him emotionally and the plot itself is likely part of the foundation of his belief system. When asked to go with the party he says they’re asking him to walk into Mordor which yeah, fucking stupid, was stupid in LOTR too. But it was also the only option and the only right/good thing to do. Even if they didn’t succeed they would have at least tried. So of course Eddie goes too.

“Man was not born to a world of justice. But he can create such a world!” ― Michael Moorcock, Stormbringer

“War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

Their choices in favorite media are basically symbols of their philosophies, beliefs and aesthetics. Elric is one man’s quest to find his place in the world and failing that, making a new world. Of overcoming endless adversity in a harsh uncaring universe. It’s got all the aesthetics you think of when talking about 60s-70s pulp fantasy— scantily clad ladies, handsome sword boys, crazy shit, totally unpronounceable words, weird architecture etc. LOTR is the story of a group of people working together to end a war and save their world. They have total faith in each other and their friendship, love and humility is in the end what helps them win. It’s aesthetics are more classic because well— it fucking codified the classical fantasy genre look. Also like fucking 8 million poems and songs everywhere constantly.

Billy does not take pride in his softness, he takes pride in his resilience, in his anger. Eddie takes pride his creativity and his care for others and his kindness. He talks about how he saw the boys alone in the cafeteria and went out of his way to take them under his wing and he runs a whole club built on collaborative creativity. Billy has worked alone his whole life to find ways to deny Neil’s shrinking of him. He plants his feet when he’s hit and refuses to be someone you forget. He refutes a universe that would walk by his existence, he will not be denied his space. He’s miserable and arrogant like Elric— Elric who only wants to be at peace. Eddie has found is little niche and he’s content in it, but when pressed he will stand up to defend it even if he’s scared. Because it’s the right thing to do, because he cares, because he couldn’t bear putting someone else in danger just so he’d be safe. He’s adventurous and loving like Frodo— Frodo who saved the shire for everyone, but not for himself.

Billy and Eddie are complimentary forces. Their differences create a conversation between them which can lead to growth and change and their similarities ensure it happens on even footing. They’re both poor, from dysfunctional families with bad dads, they both love metal, they’re both unlike the people around them. Billy can say the world is shit and Eddie can say “is it really?” and a dialogue can be opened that gets them both thinking. Billy ensures Eddie’s kindness isn’t abused, that the Shire remains unscoured. Eddie gives Billy the affection he craves and gives him the space he needs to feel peace. Because Billy is a protector and Eddie is a carer. Eddie shows on multiple occasions his emotional sensitivity and compassion. Like Elric traveling the Young Kingdoms, most people look at Billy and see a threat, a villain, because of what he is (a Melnibonean/an abuse victim with unhealthy mechanisms). Like Frodo, Eddie has the big heart and open mindedness to show pity and compassion even to Gollum who would’ve absolutely loved to bash his head in with a rock. And that kindness is what allows what’s left of Gollum’s humanity to shine through as Sméagol, the man he used to be.

I’m losing mental steam here because I’ve been at this Billy/Elric shit all day but I feel like this quote from Moonglum, another aspect of the Eternal Champion, kinda says what I’m getting at here.

“He had never understood his friendship with the albino. It had always been a peculiar mixture of reserve and affection, a fine balance which both men were careful to maintain, even in situations of this kind.

Elric, since his passion for Cymoril had resulted in her death and the destruction of the city he loved, had at all times feared bestowing any tender emotion on those he fell in with.

He had run away from Shaarilla of the Dancing Mist, who had loved him dearly. He had fled from Queen Yishana of Jharkor, who had offered him her kingdom to rule, in spite of her subjects’ hatred of him. He disdained most company save Moonglum’s, and Moonglum, too, became quickly bored by anyone other than the crimson-eyed Prince of Imrryr. Moonglum would die for Elric and he knew that Elric would risk any danger to save his friend. But was not this an unhealthy relationship? Would it not be better if they went their different ways? He could not bear the thought. It was as if they were part of the same entity different aspects of the character of the same man.

He could not understand why he should feel this. And he guessed that, if Elric had ever considered the question, the Melnibonean would be equally hard put to find an answer.” —The Vanishing Tower by Michael Moorcock

#mungrove #billy hargrove #eddie munson #stranger things meta #meta #writing.doc #JUST FUCKING TAKE IT #no one is gonna read this why do i keep writing these things i know no one is gonna read lol

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gonegrove · 2 years

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THE MUNGROVE FILES: ELRIC/LOTR

Fantasy as a Means of Examining the Dynamic Between Billy and Eddie Or Why I Think You Should All Read Elric and Associate It With Billy

For starters, Elric of Melniboné — what even is that?

(Also the Eldar from Warhammer 40k are LITERALLY the Melniboneans. Almost to a T.)

The story of the series follows Elric of Melniboné, a sickly albino sorcerer king of a decadent and corrupt empire still clinging to it’s glory from when it ruled most of their world. Elric at first determined to somehow do something about their slow decline, not just in power but in humanity, exiles himself and sets out to travel the Young Kingdoms of the humans to learn more than he could from books and study. Because of Elric’s introspective self-loathing and hatred of Melnibonéan traditions, his subjects find him odd and unfathomable. However, his cousin Yyrkoon (next in the line of succession, as Elric has no heirs) interprets this behaviour as weakness and plots Elric’s death. Complicating matters is Yyrkoon’s sister Cymoril, who is deeply in love with Elric; Yyrkoon covets her, and part of his plan for usurpation is to marry Cymoril himself.

Elrics greatest aids in his quests for peace for his people, and then later only himself when he realizes there is no hope for Melniboné, are his patron and master Arioch, a Lord of Chaos and Duke of Hell and the evil eldritch blade with a mind of its own bestowed to him by Arioch, Stormbringer. The sword confers upon Elric strength, health, and fighting prowess, allowing him to do away with his dependence on drugs, but it must be fed by the souls of intelligent beings. In the end, the blade takes everyone close to Elric and eventually Elric’s own soul as well. This is the most constant element of the Moorcock’s stories, that anyone who is too close to Elric for too long shares in his tragic fate by Stormbringer’s or Elric’s hand. The other is that Elric is trapped as a pawn in the cosmic war between Order and Chaos (this is where the DnD alignment chart comes from).

With that let’s get into why The Lord of The Rings is Eddie’s favorite series and then the whole compare-y constrast-y “and that’s why they should kiss” part.

“Man was not born to a world of justice. But he can create such a world!” ― Michael Moorcock, Stormbringer

Elric, since his passion for Cymoril had resulted in her death and the destruction of the city he loved, had at all times feared bestowing any tender emotion on those he fell in with.

#mungrove #billy hargrove #eddie munson #stranger things meta #meta #writing.doc #JUST FUCKING TAKE IT #no one is gonna read this why do i keep writing these things i know no one is gonna read lol #the ancient texts #i'm tempted to someday do a revamp of this essay tbh bc i lost steam/track of my thoughts by the end so i feel i could conclude it better #but i need to let it rest for a bit more before i come back to it

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vampiratecaptain · 2 years

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dnd today was absolutely wild.

we opened session starting to gamble w the warden of the demon prison we’ve just broken into in exchange for a powerful sword we were hired to retrieve; we thought it’d just be one person gambling, but he said it had to be all of us. we took so long to decide whether we wanted to do that or fight him (in what we worked out would be a fight we weren’t likely to win) that he decided to tell us what we were gambling:

the changeling bard/rogue’s true face, the rangers’ soul, the warlock/bloodhunters’ magic helmet (which originally belonged to said demon), and my warlocks tome or her magic pocketwatch - neither of which her patron would be happy if she handed over, and she preferred her chances of fighting and was just gonna let herself die over it until he decided to pull some bullshit and suggest gambling with the group cleric/adoptive mother figure to both the bard/rogue and my warlock/unofficial team leader.

so that couldn’t stand, and the only way to get him to let her go was for my warlock to bet both her tome and watch in a 2-for-1 trade, which she did in a heartbeat knowing full well if she lost them she’d be pretty much screwed when her patron found out. also, the demon pretty much confirmed she was soulless, spilling the warlock beans to the other two party members who didn’t already know.

anyway, we start gambling. half the table isn’t breathing ooc or ic. the bard/rogue comes in clutch, rolling an equal number the first time and a higher number the second and catching him cheating, so we win and get our stuff back. he gives the ranger the wrong soul, which turns out to belong to a friend of the party, but he notices and he manages to keep both the friends’ soul and get his own back. my warlock gets given a fake watch but notices the bullshittery and talks him into getting the real one back and we all leave with our things and the sword.

then we have to go up to the third floor to break out our ally and the reason we’re actually here, have an absolutely chaotic fight with some gibbering mouthers but live. the ranger is spooked into running through an explosive trap, which blows a hole in the wall of one of the cells and shows a weird as fuck creature inside.

my warlock gives it some food to appease it, since they’re posing as dinner duty, but when she does she can feel a darkness enter her mind for a second and the other thing in her brain is fucking terrified, which spooks her so dang much. end off session with the second last puzzle, where we get heckled by another death slice who just likes to hang out in prisons bc he’s a weird dude, but he did actually give some good advice.

#oc: irene #aspen plays dnd #pls we were all so scared during the gambling scene #it was so good

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bananasofthorns · 2 years

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on gods and mortal perceptions

@hira-a asked me about the mortals in my god AU and...I don’t have much, but I do have this. I wrote these ages ago but I never actually posted them to tumblr, so here: the various godly emperors and how their citizens see them. (also disclaimer a few people are missing but that’s because I don’t watch their POVs to know enough about them)

Lizzie, god of power and the ocean, patron god of sailors and sea dwellers

Sailors pray to the Ocean Queen for safe passage through her lands. She is often kind to them, but the ocean’s temper is fierce and unpredictable. The beings in her kingdom are not human. She would stop the ocean’s tide to save the ones she cares about, but that power works in the opposite direction as well, and she could raze cities to the ground if she wished.

The citizens of the Ocean Empire know their queen is a goddess, and they respect and even revere her. She keeps them safe from the worst of the ocean's wrath, after all. They don't want to draw her ire.

Joel, god of death, chaos, solitude, and the mesa, known as the Mad King

No one lives in the god of death’s empire. Some say he killed his people and trapped their souls in his terracotta automatons; others say there were never any citizens to begin with. His empire is larger than life, sprawling with color, and it is empty. Some call him the Mad King of Mezalea. Most don’t dare speak his name in fear that his sword will come for them next.

Joel.....part of me wants to say that, once, at the very beginning, Mezalea had living citizens. Once, the god of death dared to have life populate his empire.

There are no longer any Mezalean citizens that aren't automatons.

Part of me wants to say that he trapped the souls of those early Mezalean citizens in his automatons and put empty masks of his own face upon their heads, damning them to an afterlife of servitude. Part of me says that is too cruel; another part asks if I really think it is beyond the god of death and chaos.

The rest of me says he killed his citizens when the crawling feeling of life got too strong, and then he escorted them across the Ocean Empire to the god of life's empire, where they can freely enter the afterlife. Only those that wish to remain are placed into automatons, and any time they wish, he will release them to whatever comes after death.

Jimmy, god of cod, naivete, and the swamp, known as the Codfather

No one has ever seen the Codfather’s face, but the swamp is bright with the sound of his laughter. It is not the nicest place to live, and its people live in constant wariness of a war on the horizon, but they would go to the ends of the earth for their king. They are comforted by the thought that he would do the same for them.

Scott, god of isolation, winter, and the mountains

The elven king of Rivendell guards his mountains with icy protectiveness. His people pray to a deer statue and golden antlers; they do not know of the matching pair he keeps hidden away. He does not want to be worshipped. They say he has been here for eternity. He will be here for an eternity more, or at least until this world comes to an end.

Scott never outright says he's a god, nor does he ever do anything truly divine in front of his people (usually), but unlike Sausage, he also never tries to convince his people there's ever been more than one Rivendell king. He always is and always will be. Most Rivendell citizens are elves, anyway, so they're used to long lifespans; if the emperor seems to age slowly, or not at all, even for an elf? What does it matter?

Pixl, prophet, god of life, prosperity, and the desert

The god of life’s kingdom thrives in the desert. His people see him as a great man and nothing more, though some whisper of his preternatural ability to track and honor the deaths of his fellow rulers at his Vigil. He leaves them, one day. The conduit eyes of their kingdom keep watch over his people. He is not there, but the desert is still kind.

They welcome him home with warm, open arms.

There has always been something holy about Pixandria. It is an unspoken thing that their leader is more than mortal, but he is so human that it barely matters. The vigil needs a keeper, after all, and there is no one better for the job.

fWhip, the admin and creator of the world, god of destruction, corruption, and the plains

The Grimlands know their ruler loves them, and they know he is not mortal. The deepslate redstone corruption feels exactly like the warmth of his smile and the explosiveness of his weaponry. He could send this world and everything on it back into the fabric of the Universe. He would do anything to keep his people safe.

fWhip doesn't care, and all the Grimlands citizens know their ruler is a god. They know he's kind, usually, and that he cares about them.

Pearl, god of growth, strength, and forests, patron god of farmers

Farmers pray to the god of the Smallholding for healthy crops and bountiful harvest. On summer days, when the sunrises are golden, they hold festivals in her honor. Her symbol is a golden crescent moon with two folded wings; it can often be seen on necklaces worn by her citizens.

Gem, god of crystals, magic, and cliffs, patron god of wizards and scholars

Everybody knows the Wizard is not human. Her kingdom hums with magic; each of her citizens are learned in the arcane arts. A near-invisible wall of crystalline purple surrounds her lands in hopes that she can keep her people safe. There is a dragon egg beside her tower. No mortal is strong enough to protect that power.

Sausage, god of blood, ambition, and dark oak forests

The people of Mythland speak in secrets and rumors. Nobody knows their ruler’s true nature, but the city always smells of blood. Wolves and iron golems protect their gates, but they can do nothing about whatever odd magic saturates the land.

The god of blood would never purposefully hurt his people, but sometimes he forgets that not everyone on this world sees it as a game.

Sausage doesn't try incredibly hard to hide the fact that he's a god, but he never says it. Don't ask, don't tell, and Mythlanders know the value of secrets. No one ever comments on the fact that all their emperors look the same and never age, but once or twice every century Sausage will fake his death and return as the "reincarnation" of the previous ruler. He's not good at secrets but again: Mythlanders know what isn't to be spoken aloud. Mythland and its king were here before them, and they will be here after them.

In the time between rulers, between Sausage's return, the blood sheep - with fragments of his own blessing within them - protect the empire.

#empires smp #mythicalsausage #ldshadowlady #smallishbeans #solidaritygaming #smajor1995 #i am not tagging all his names. fuck u scott smajor /lh #pixlriffs #fwhip #pearlescentmoon #geminitay #god au: in the form of stars #banana made a post

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recurring-polynya · 3 years

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Once again, I am thinking about the dubious claim that people make from time to time that Renji would have gotten better character development in the TYBW arc if Byakuya had died. The thing is, though, that Renji did get excellent character development in this arc, particularly with respect to his relationship to Byakuya, it was just very subtle and I want to talk about it.

So, the first thing I want to point out is that the captain-lieutenant relationships is one of the major themes of the TYBW. A lot of this is sort of weird and awkward, but this is perfect, actually, because captain-lieutenant relationships are, for the most part, weird and clunky and awkward. Take for example, the part that I always make fun of, where the captains are told not to go to bankai, and Hitsugaya, Komamura, Byakuya and Soi Fon immediately go to bankai-- but they all do this on the assumption that they are luring their opponent into a trap to see how this works, and that their lieutenant will somehow ??defeat them anyway?? (well, except Soi Fon who seems to think she can one-shot her Quincy). There’s Sasakibe’s funeral, where we find out that Yamamoto cared far more for him than we ever imagined. Kyouraku returns Nanao’s zanpakutou to her and stands behind her as she defeats an opponent he can't. Iba carries Komamura’s body off of the battlefield as he loses the last of his humanity. Isane struggles to keep her head above her grief because that’s the burden Unohana left her with. Rose avenging Kira. Hitsugaya and Matsumoto fighting and (sort of) dying together. The Zaraki-Yachiru thing. The Mayuri-Nemu thing. Momo and Shinji actually got to have a relatively normal one, which they each deserved, but at least they got to have normal one together. Anyway, that could be an entire essay, but as usual, I only want to talk about Renji and Byakuya.

Renji’s introduction as a character happens in stages. Initially, he sort of appears to be Byakuya’s sidekick-- he's here to do the dirty work during Rukia’s arrest, while Byakuya stands by and calls the shots, but even early on, it’s clear that Renji’s a little hung up on Byakuya. He’s trying to impress him, and gets more embarrassed and self-conscious as things go progressively pear-shaped. When Byakuya finally enters the action, Renji’s thought bubbles reveal that he’s watched Byakuya for a long time, that he knows all his moves. When we get the Renji backstory reveal a few issues later, we learn that Renji’s goal is to defeat Byakuya, which he seems to feel is necessary to seeing Rukia again, even though there has never been any sort of causal link revealed between these two things. Don’t get me wrong, if Young Academy Renji had tried to continue to be friends with Rukia, I think Byakuya would have kicked him out on his ass, but it’s clear that a lot of Renji’s hang-ups are internal-- he doesn’t want to face Rukia again until he can stand against Byakuya. I think the origin of this is that he simply wants what’s best for Rukia, and he can’t stomach the idea of asking her to leave her rich, noble family for him, unless, of course, he’s somehow better than Byakuya in some dimension, and the only thing Renji’s ever considered himself good at is fighting.

Even more interesting is that he’s chosen to go about this by... studying the man’s every move and becoming his lieutenant. But for as much energy as Renji has put into learning Byakuya’s favorite combat moves, he doesn’t actually know anything about him as a person. He’s shocked when Rukia predicts that Byakuya won’t lift a finger to help her, and then horrified when this actually comes to pass. A few chapters later, as he’s running Hinamori through, Aizen comments that “Adoration is the state furthest from understanding.” I would probably classify Renji’s feelings towards Byakuya more as admiration or idolization, rather than adoration, but I think this statement is also very true of Renji and Byakuya’s relationship. Unlike poor Momo, Renji gets a little more time and opportunity to do something with this information. With a little Ichigo-forced soul searching, he realizes that he’s not going to come out the hero of this story no matter what, but if he doesn’t do something, Rukia’s not going to come out of this story at all, and even if he’s not really ready, he’s spent 40 years trying to figure out how to beat Kuchiki Byakuya, let’s hope all that was good for something.

The Byakuya-Renji fight has no direct impact on the events of the Soul Society Arc. It makes Byakuya show up to Rukia’s execution 5 minutes late and without his scarf. Renji gets healed, so it really doesn’t matter all that much to him, either. You could argue that they both wasted a bunch of energy (that they could have used to fight Aizen later) but it’s primarily a character-driven moment of them both drawing lines in the sand about where they stand, vis a vis Rukia. Byakuya wins this fight, and he wins it handily, but he’s wrong, as he comes to realize a few issues later, when Ichigo kicks his ass and tells him he’s a bad brother, a lesson that Byakuya will take to heart for the rest of the manga. Byakuya claims that the difference between Renji and himself is class, but the real difference between is the heart, and in the long run, Renji is the real victor of this fight.

The hospital scene is an interesting footnote to this. Byakuya defeated Renji, but Byakuya was the asshole and everyone knows it. There’s an expectation that perhaps Renji will quit or perhaps Renji will give him an earful and perhaps even Rukia will choose to leave the family, either to go to the Living World or to be with Renji (and Byakuya would deserve this), but instead, both Renji and Rukia give Byakuya another chance, which is not, I think, a place Renji ever expected to be.

Rukia and Byakuya building up a sibling relationship after this is fairly straightforward (although I’m sure it had its weird moments), but Byakuya and Renji now have this profoundly awkward relationship where Byakuya is obviously in charge, but he sort of depends on Renji as a personal compass because he’s shit at dealing with people and he doesn’t want to screw stuff up with Rukia again. Take for example, the part of the Hueco Mundo arc where Orihime is kidnapped and Rukia and Renji desert their posts to come help rescue her. Kubo takes to the panel-space to tell us that Byakuya has tacitly approved this. As a clan head and a captain, a person who is entrenched in the hierarchy of Soul Society, Byakuya couldn’t possibly go to Hueco Mundo-- but he can turn a blind eye while his sister and lieutenant scurry out through the Kuchiki family senkaimon. Renji, for his part, tried to go to Hueco Mundo through official channels and got shot down. We don’t know what Renji would have done if Byakuya had explicitly forbidden him from going, but it doesn’t matter-- Byakuya enabled Renji to follow his heart here, because Byakuya can’t. Rukia would have gone to Hueco Mundo regardless. She cares about Byakuya, but she doesn’t depend on him for validation the way Renji does.

I said this was going to be about the TYBW, so let’s get to that. Early in the arc, we’re shown several scenes where it’s clear that Byakuya respects and values Renji as a lieutenant, but he’s also pretty damn patronizing to him. Renji is the first one to engage As Nodt, and when Byakuya shows up, he acts surprised that Renji hasn’t taken him out yet, but then proceeds to take over the fight (real, “stand back, fives, an eleven has arrived” energy). After Byakuya then loses his bankai like a doofus, Renji wants to take point so that Byakuya can figure out As Nodt’s attack and Byakuya won’t let him... and then proceeds to get thrashed.

This has to be one of the most emotionally charged fights in Bleach. Byakuya is losing, and Renji jumps in, absolutely incensed that As Nodt would use Senbonzakura against Byakuya. Renji isn’t doing great, but he’s not doing terrible when Byakuya gets up and tries to help Renji, even though he’s a big bloody mess. As Nodt reacts by shredding Byakuya into chunks, and Renji just loses it, and if Mask de Masculine hadn’t shown up and kicked him halfway across the Seireitei, I daresay Renji would have killed himself trying to take down As Nodt.

This is where I usually make the point that if Byakuya had died to here, it would have broken Renji into little pieces, but that’s not today’s essay. Instead, everyone goes to the Royal Realm, and by virtue of the fact that Byakuya is injured worse than everyone else, Renji has to go forward without him or his approval.

In typical Renji fashion, the thing that motivates Renji here is not glory or heroism, but the desire to accompany Ichigo, the need to be with his friends in their times of trial. In fact his companionship here is absolutely essential-- at Hikifune’s, Ichigo expresses deep doubts that he’s doing the right thing, and Renji reminds himself that if he wants to protect others, he has to take care of himself first.

At Nimaiya’s however, Renji and Ichigo are split up because they must follow their own paths. The other extremely interesting thing that happens here is that Renji’s sword is reforged. Byakuya shattered one of Hihio Zabimaru’s joints the very first time Renji used them in combat. Renji brushed it off at the time, saying that he could get by without it. Even though Byakuya has long been his motivating force and his mentor, he’s also been held back by his connection to him. And at this point, it’s gone.

I really wish we got to see where Renji and Rukia meet up again, but we don’t. Unlike with Ichigo, though, Rukia doesn’t seem to need anything from Renji. They travel together, fight together as equals, wear matching outfits, like you do. Oh. Wait. After all this time, in the 493 chapters between Needless Emotions and Blue Stripes, Renji can finally see himself as an equal to Rukia. They get. bankai. Together.

I want to emphasize that it’s not really anything about Rukia herself that allowed Renji to make bankai, it’s the fact that he’s finally managed to move past the feeling that he’s not enough. Defeating Byakuya would not actually have solved this problem, and having Byakuya dying in front of him wouldn’t have either. Renji gets criticized for losing a lot of his fights, but that’s such a key to his character. He’s not always the strongest, he doesn’t always win, but he keeps fighting for what he cares about. He struggles with his need for approval, for external validation, but Renji is at his best when he doesn’t have time to think about that, when he’s just fighting by his friends’ sides against impossible odds, doing what he knows in his heart is right.

I think people tend to make a little more than is strictly necessary of the line where he tells Mask that he’s “a villain”, I think he’s most just making fun of Mask’s own self-aggrandizement. On another level, though, this is just Renji being at ease with himself. Byakuya typically enters a fight bloviating about the honor of Soul Society and “how dare you raise your sword against me, the 28th Head of the Kuchiki” and even Ikkaku had the whole deal about telling people your name before you kill them, but Renji is more like “you beat up my friends, so I’m gonna break your face,” like there’s no ego in it, just you’re there, and he’s there, and then you’re lying on the ground and he’s taking a nap somewhere. This is so different than the insecure, posturing young man he was at the start of this series and I love this growth for him.

Even after he eventually meets up with Byakuya again, something has changed about their dynamic. The group gets split up and rejoined two or three times, and Renji and Rukia always stay together while Byakuya ends up fighting alongside others, Hisagi and later Hitsugaya and Zaraki. This is cemented in their last scene together, where Rukia and Renji try to stay with Byakuya and he sends them off to fight with Ichigo by saying “your help is not needed here.” In some ways, it’s an echo of Byakuya sending them off to Hueco Mundo, but in other ways, it’s acknowledging that they are their own people, not just an extension of him.

Hitsugaya follows it up with this:

There’s more here than meets the eye, though-- Byakuya and Renji have maintained a pretty strict superior-subordinate relationship, because that’s the easiest way for them to make sense of the world, but the fact is, they do care about each other and are important to one another.

I know there would be a certain narrative satisfaction in seeing Renji make captain at the end-- he’s one of the hardest working people in Bleach, and it frankly seems weird to see Iba get the haori when he doesn’t. But Renji has never wanted to be a captain. Renji becoming captain would, in some ways, be a failure. He spends years pre-canon chasing rank and prestige because that’s what he thinks will make him worthy, and it didn’t. Instead, he found worth in being himself, in loving his friends and being there for them, in learning things from Byakuya and teaching him things in return. Renji doesn’t need to be Byakuya’s lieutenant anymore, he just does it because he likes it. It makes him happy. What better character development is there than that?

#renji abarai #byakuya kuchiki #tybwa #god i love to get up on a saturday and write essays about renji's character development #tldr: renji checks off all the gotei career milestones *except* making captain and then proceeds to lean in to his true calling: malewife #we stan legends only

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lesferatu · 3 years

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Just some thoughts on second chances that I wrote the night of the CR campaign finale but forgot to post till right now. As such, it is a reflection on the campaign before the wrap up and I really don't feel like going through it to see if my opinion changed after the wrap up, so here ya go.

Spoilers for character arcs through out the campaign and episode 141 (as well as a Long Post) below cut

The Mighty Nein campaign has been a story of second chances and living beyond your past while staying true to who you are. And love...lots of it.

Fjord was a sailor who followed more than he lived for himself. Vandren showed him how to be a sailor and how to be the man he grew into and, in the end, he tried to become Vandren. Fjord's second chance came twice with a sword and a patron. His first second chance was a false start but one that let him reach his true self through trial, error, and struggle. His second second chance was a much softer beginning; surrounded by friends who loved him for all he was and could be, with a Goddess who cares at his back and a purpose of his own choosing to drive him. He found someone who loved him for who he was, not how he presented himself to the world.

In the end, Fjord is still a sailor but one who lives and loves on his own terms and fjorges his own way.

Jester lived a sheltered life but one full of love and chaos. It was never bad or one not worth living, but for her it was incomplete. Her mother hid her from the world with good intent but it left her naïve of the true nature of the world; books can only teach you so much about life and often it is a romanticized version. Jester's second chance came of her own making early on and yet took a long time to come to fruition. She locked that man on the balcony and, in the end, was shunted into a world she knew about in theory but was clueless of in practice: the real story her books were based on. She spent the campaign becoming disillusioned with the idea of story book love and life and yet found a real love and life along the way.

Jester never loses her love of romance, stories, and fantasy but found the truth in them all the same that made life real.

Yasha lived a life given and taken from her against her will for many decades. Her clan dictated so much of her destiny that, when she chose to find her own pocket of happiness within it, said destiny was ripped from her along with that happiness. That loss became the chains that a new given destiny used to bind her against her will once more; her mind was taken as well as her life so that no pockets of happiness could be found again. Yasha's second chance came with Mollymauk, then the Mighty Nein, then Beau; choices upon choices that given destiny tried to take once more but, in the end, free will won.

Yasha lost so much because of love–or rather because of other's reaction to said love–but love saved her in the end. She loved so hard, she found her own destiny, broke the chains that held her, and now her pockets of happiness are overflowing.

Beau's life was one of bucking the system and ignoring expectations. She was forced to live her father's regret and fear and rebelled hard against both. Her rebellion got her trapped by the system she tried to escape. That system taught her much and yet, when she was let loose from it, she rebelled once more. Anger and snark can only get you so far and, in the end, it was love and learning that got her farther. She thought her fists were her best quality but her mind was as sharp as her strikes and tongue. Once she let herself use it to its fullest, she cut through every mystery in her way. Beau’s second chance came through her friends and understanding how the world wasn't always out to get her and, when it is, it is possible to fight it in a way that changes the world and doesn’t just spite it. She grew into a friend, a lover, and a revolutionary; she went her own way and the system had to struggle to keep up with her. Closure she didn't know she needed was given to her but her second chance was something she made herself.

Beau is still angry and rebellious but she has a true family and influence to back it up. She allowed herself to be soft and it made her strong.

Caleb life was forged for him through pain–his own and others–and manipulation. He was naïve in a destructive way; loyal and trusting to a fault...but to the wrong man, the wrong cause. His trust got his parents killed and his life ruined. He didn't want a second chance–didn't think he deserved one–but one came to him anyway in the form of a wild group of chaotic idiots and love in many forms. It came in the form of his friends, of a chance to right wrongs–though not his own for the longest time–and in seeing himself in another and offering the forgiveness his new family offered him. It came in the form of an unexpected fight and a legal battle, both fought with his new family at his side. He got revenge for his old self, his old family and loves.

Caleb is not Bren–not truly...anymore–but Caleb can live with that. He found his purpose in making sure that no more Brens have to become Calebs and finding forgiveness and love–however bittersweet in the end–with his narrative foil and the friends who dragged him to redemption.

Veth is another who's life was taken from her. Yes, eventually by death but first by bullies. She was made to hate herself by the cruelty of society and, though she found love and happiness through that, she never let herself be all she could; she could only see what she was not. And Nott she became and she hated Nott. But love saved her; not love for who she used to be, nor who she could be in the future, but who she was right at that moment. It was the love of her friends, her husband, and herself that saved her. Her second chance was finding her way back to her first, but with an understanding of who she truly is; brave, true, smart, and a great mother.

Veth was Nott but she was not...not and by finding the truth in that statement, Nott became Veth. Veth chose the soft life once more in the end but this time of her own volition and it was her found courage that allowed her to do it.

Caduceus is another sheltered soul but this time of his own choice, though he didn't really think of it that way. He thought he needed to wait for someone to tell him his purpose and he thought someone had when grieving chaos fell upon his doorstep. He helped them find vengeance and closure and that could have been it, but he stayed, sure that he was supposed to. In doing so, he found his family twice–both metaphorically in the Nein and physically at the Menagerie– and found both his purpose and his choice. He led another to salvation just by being himself and a good friend. Caduceus's second chance came by figuring out his given destiny was given by himself, by the adventure he found along the way, and the chosen purpose he found in the end.

Caduceus is the favorite of the Wild Mother and the best friend anyone could ever want, and he chose to be so by following the first chaos he found.

Essek life was, sadly by Dynasty standards, his own; he was not a lost soul given life once more but a new one given power. Knowledge was his driving force and it led to the ruin of many; He wasn't allowed to do what he wanted...so he did what he wanted anyway and it inadvertently started a war. He was okay with that, truly, until the Mighty Nein stumbled into his life and suddenly he was very much not. It was not a betrayal really–though he was definitely guilty of treason–but it was the loss of the Mighty Nein's trust that he feared the most and felt the most when he finally lost it, however briefly. He thought he has lost the only true family he had but really he had found a life to live. His second chance came when he chose to live that life.

Essek's life wasn't given to him so he took it for himself and it ruined him...but love built him back up and showed him that it was better to live life to change than it was to wallow in guilt.

Molly's life, in itself, was a second chance, though not one asked for by Lucien. He forged forward and made it his own. He loved and he created and he left everywhere he went better than when he got there. We never got to see the true end of his new start. Life is not always fair and not every second chance works out in the end...that is, until the end of Lucien. Molly fought to make his new life his own and how dare his original self try and tear down his progress!

Molly's second chance was cut short when he died for his friends and he died once more helping his friends make sure his first chance didn't ruin it.

Kingsley's life, again, was an enforced second chance, though one Molly would approve of. Molly didn't dwell on the past and neither will his brother, his new self. Kingsley saw the love in the Mighty Nein's eyes and never questioned it; all he asked was that he could learn it on his own. He woke up to chaos and love and he embraced it. Molly would have never wanted to be dwelled upon in a way that stifled change and Kingsley lived that. Kingsley's second chance came in the form of a new life and a new coat, but the same friends. He grew into his own self before learning what was taken from the group he had learned to love. The Mighty Nein could have seen him as Molly, could have tried to force him into the hole in their heart and he probably wouldn't have blamed them, yet he was Kingsley in their eyes and he loved them all the more for it.

Kingsley's life lives true to Molly's ideas of the past: forget it and continue forward and live every second of it to the fullest. His second chance is in the works but he's not hesitating for one second.

The Mighty Nein were a group a fuck ups from the start; barely contained chaos which changed and grew and erupted at every turn. They were volatile at the beginning yet as ride or die as any adventuring party should be. They did not experience the world separately but as a team; each second chance a member got–whether it was sought after or not–was a chance to learn and grow together and grow closer. Their second chance came when a leetle teifling girl walked over to engage with a smelly man and a “halfling” and a purple man and an angel convinced them all to go to the circus

They will always be a chaotic bunch of assholes, no matter how far apart they travel, but now they are a family and nobody can take that from them.

#critical role #jester #jester lavorre #fjord #yasha #beau #caleb widogast #yasha nydoorin #beauregard lionett #caduceus #caduceus clay #essek theyless #mollymauk tealeaf #mollymauk #Kingsley

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mybg3notebook · 3 years

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Lore: Well-known Characters in Faerûn

Here I'm going to explain some interesting characters worth knowing in detail that some groups in the fandom keep saying are Gale's true identity.

Disclaimer Game Version: All these analyses were written up to the game version v4.1.104.3536 (Early access). As long as new content is added, and as long as I have free time for that, I will try to keep updating this information. Written in June 2021.

Additional disclaimers about meta-knowledge and interpretations in this (post)while disclaimers about Context and the popularisation and misuses of professional words in "Context, persuasion, and manipulation".

Azuth

He is the Patron of Wizards, his personal preference is toward wizardry rather than sorcery, and his philosophy fits better with the studious life of a wizard than the more haphazard practices of a sorcerer. Wizards invoke Azuth when they scribe scrolls, inscribe magic circles, attempt to memorise spells, and even when they cast spells. Often this acknowledgement comes in the form of silently forming Azuth's holy symbol, pointing the index finger of the left hand to the sky.For many wizards, the gesture is so commonplace in their lives that it becomes an unconscious habit. Azuth is represented at such sites as a hooded and bearded figure with his left hand held high, finger pointed up. Sometimes he is represented by merely the hand.

When he was a mortal, he was a wizard who showed prowess with spells and magical lore that attracted Mystryl’s attention, and after completing several quests to prove his worth, she named him Magister (old title in 1e and 2e, different to Chosen, related to a more bureaucratic role of Magic). With the new title, he taught magic to many people across Faerûn.

Azuth came into conflict with a minor southern deity: Savras the All-Seeing. Both were powerful spellcasters and Mystryl favoured both. They began a battle that lasted several years, using agents, magic traps, and personal spell-battles. Azuth managed to defeat the young deity and imprison him. With this victory Azuth ascended to godhood, became Mystryl's lover, and pledged to serve her.

During the Spellplague, Azuth fell to the Hells and Asmodeus consumed his divine spark to achieve godhood. It was thought that this had destroyed Azuth, but instead he ended up inhabiting Asmodeus' body together. Most of the time Asmodeus had control over the dormant Azuth. In 1486, Azuth managed to have a Cormyrian war wizard as a Chosen, and began to struggle with Asmodeus for dominion over their shared body. As a consequence, the hierarchy of the Nine Hells is jeopardized due to the unbalanced Asmodeus. After a while, The Chosen of Azuth sacrifices his life to be a vessel for the god and let him escape from the Hells. After the Second Sundering, Azuth returned to the faerunian pantheon.

Where is he in 1492?

Now, he has returned to the Faerunian pantheon, and considering Ao's ban, he can't be walking around Faerûn.

Can Gale be Azuth? I certainly can't see it. Azuth has been trapped in the Hells for most of Gale's life, returning to the pantheon recently. And we can't forget Ao's ban of direct contact: no god can have direct contact with mortals anymore, with the strange exception of Mystra (see the post about "Mystra and her Chosen ones" for more details). Besides, if Gale were to be Azuth's avatar, we are usually talking about characters over lvl 40.

The only link we can agree with Gale is that Azuth also has storm motif concepts in his design. Gale tends to explain with his pointing finger extended, but as it's said in the lore books, this is basically an unconscious common body language in most wizards. I cannot see any resemblance to make us infer “Gale is Azuth”.

What we can see by reading Azuth's story is why the Hells are so convoluted at this point. The blood war is unbalanced, since powerful figures such as Asmodeus had been having weak periods of leadership due to the inner fight with Azuth in his own body. For this detail alone, it is so important to give context to BG3 I considered worthy to mention.

Sources: 3e : Magic of Faerûn 5e: Sword Coast Adventurer's Guide, Novels: Fire in the Blood. The devil you Know

Myrkul

Myrkul had a cold, malignant intelligence, and spoke in a high whisper. He was always alert, never slept, and was never surprised. He was never known to lose his temper or be anything other than coldly amused when a mortal succeeded in avoiding his directives or chosen fates. His influence in Faerûn was imposed through fear, and he was a master of making mortals terrified of him through his words and deeds. He was the one deity that almost all human mortals could picture clearly.

As a mortal, Myrkul's full name and title is said to have been Myrkul Bey al-Kursi. He was a powerful adventuring necromancer who travelled with Bane and Bhaal in order to acquire divinity for themselves. In -375 DR, they slayed one of the Seven Lost Gods, gaining a bit of divine power. Using it to go further, they embarked to Jergal's realm with the intention to slay him as well.

However, Jergal—tired of his godhood—freely agreed to hand over his dominion of the underworld. As the three could not decide who among them would sit upon the throne of the dead, they left the decision to chance with a game. More details and stories of several deaths and coming backs can be briefly read in the wiki. It makes no sense to add them here since they provide nothing interesting related to Gale.

Most of Myrkul's “recent” story can be seen/read in the game Neverwinter Nights 2, the Mask of the Betrayer. The game explains how Myrkul created the Wall of the Faithless (non existent anymore in 5e and nobody knows how it was destroyed) where the souls of the faithless or those abandoned by their gods got stuck in eternal pain. The main goal of the Wall was to use all that energy to feed Myrkul. The main character of Neverwinter 2 can visit the agonising God in the Astral Plane and kill him or leave him in a slow death.

Myrkul, with Bane and Bhaal, tried to seize the Tablets of Fate from the overgod Ao and use them to rule over Faerûn and its gods. They failed and were slain during the Time of Troubles. Since then, a variety of contingency plans they had in place allowed them to be reborn afterwards.

A small group of followers across Faerûn kept Myrkul's worshipping alive despite the dire events of the Spellplague and the Second Sundering. In the 1400’s, he is considered to have returned with the three dead in a quasi-deity condition.

While the Sundering forced the other gods to withdraw their direct influence from the mortal world, the Dead Three remained behind in mortal form as quasi-divine beings. While their power has diminished, they remain a formidable trio and play a malevolent role in influencing events on Faerûn.

Where is he in 1492?

He is clearly somewhere in Faerûn, with Bhaal and Bane most probably (we have strong leads to assume that the Absolute is them, getting as many worshippers as they can to recover their deity status, since now they are only quasi-deities)

Can Gale be Myrkul? I honestly can't see anything that we can use to link him to Myrkul without making it look like an absurdity. The easiest argument to revoke that nonsense is that Gale clearly is not a quasi-deity.

A quasi-deity is immune to every attempt to tamper with their mind (which would nullify the tadpole effect, and would make Gale immune to any tadpole intrusion, which is not the case as we saw in the post of "The Tadpole"). A quasi-deity is also immune to sap its vitality, or to force it into a different form. It has a strong defence against magic and a limited defence against heat. Weapons not enchanted with magic of an epic scope could not hurt a quasi-deity without problems. These defences against magic, heat, and non-magical physical attacks grew stronger as a deity rose in rank. It is crystal clear that none of this applies to Gale, the squishy wizard of the group.

This comparison is nonsense, especially if we think that some people supported it because “Gale's robes have clasps in the shape of triangles”, which was considered an incomplete symbol of Myrkul. So... I really won't waste time in this comparison. I just did it because I wanted to offer a summary to compare Myrkul (the three dead more precisely) with The Absolute. This idea is very strong when we think that in 5e DM book is explaining that a quasi-deity can recover their godhood condition if they amassed a sufficiently high number of followers (which is what The Absolute is doing). But this should be done in another post related to the Absolute.

Source: 2e: Faith and pantheon, 5e: Descent to Avernus, Dungeon Master's guide

Karsus

Karsus was born in Netheril in -696 DR. He was able to cast his first spell at the age of two, and by the age of twenty-two created his own floating city. He also founded a magic school encouraging radical thinking to keep pushing magical discoveries. A seer warned Karsus that soon Mystryl would face the greatest challenge of her divine life, so worried about the consequences of this, Karsus created his spell Karsus' Avatar with the objective to protect the Netheril civilization. This spell would steal the power of a deity and transfer it to him, giving him divine power to protect his people from Mystryl's challenge and destroy the magical aberrations that had been attacking Netheril (phaerimms) for years. He was very aware that the feat could cost him his life, but he accepted it as a worthy sacrifice to protect his people as well as remain in the History as an iconic figure.

In -339 DR, Karsus chose Mystryl, the goddess of magic, as his target, feeling that she was the most powerful deity and the most appropriate choice for his purposes. However, this was a mistake. The responsibilities of the deity of magic are to regulate the flow of magic to and from all beings, spells, and magic items in the world. Unable to fulfil Mystryl's function with the Weave, Karsus causes a surge of magic and violent fluctuations.

In an attempt to save the Weave, Mystryl sacrificed herself to block Karsus's access to the Weave, causing all magic to cease for several minutes. The flying cities of Netheril (fuelled by magic) fell to the ground. The severing of the link also killed Karsus, who turned into stone and fell to the ground, seeing his entire civilisation being destroyed because of his actions. This is known as Karsus's Folly.

The stone form of Karsus eventually landed in a part of the High Forest, now called the Dire Wood. Karsus was never accepted as a petitioner by any god, nor did he go to the Fugue Plane when he died. Instead, his soul was bound to the Material Plane. Those with experience in pact magic could call up his vestige, where he appeared as a giant blood-red boulder, like the one found in the High Forest where his petrified form landed. Blood burbles up from the top of the stone, trickling down the side facing the summoner, pooling at the base. Karsus granted the summoner a boost in magical ability, though he also imparted some of the arrogance he was renowned for.

Where is he in 1492?

Even in death, Karsus' undying spirit persists in the chaotic magic of the Dire Wood. His essence is ensnared in a single point of time by the magic of the lich Wulgreth, and it manifests in three separate pieces. Each manifestation contains one portion of Karsus' tripartite spirit. It is believed that Karsus cannot depart from the Realms until his sundered spirit is reforged into one.

Karsus' mortal body survives as a tall butte of red stone embedded in the ground and eroded by the elements. This manifestation radiates heavy magic (read the post about the "Orb" for more details)

Karsus' gigantic, ever bleeding heart beats within the butte itself. This manifestation is essentially powerless, but it cannot be destroyed. Karsus' heart continuously radiates an enchantment similar to the sadness effect produced by the 4th level wizard spell Emotion.

The final third piece is inside an animated golem created by Wulgreth. This manifestation bleeds an ever-flowing stream of blood like liquid which mingles with the Heartblood River, giving it its characteristic colour.

So, can Gale be Karsus? Hardly. Karsus' spirit is not even complete. One could ask if Gale is a part of Karsus? I don't see it either: each of these parts are stuck in the different stones across the Dire Wood, and since it was a lich who made the binding I see little reason to suspect how a piece of Karsus' spirit stuck in the middle of the continent reached a baby in Waterdeep.

Sources: 2e: Magic of Faerun, Powers and Pantheons 3e: Lords of Darkness

Elminster

Elminster was born in 212 DR, son of a prince of Athalantar. His parents were killed by mages and at the age of 12 he became a brigand and thief. With a friend thief, Elminster committed many acts of thievery together and lived life fully, creating the gang the Velvet Hands after a number of adventures.

Elminster tried to desecrate a temple of Mystra as a gesture of vengeance for the goddess having not defended his parents when they were killed by mages. Mystra appeared before him, and despite Elminster's defiance, she offered him the power to take revenge for his dead parents. Elminster accepted, and Mystra turned him into a woman to see “the world with female eyes” and to strengthen his bond with magic before being a proper Chosen. This transformation also helped Elminster to pass unnoticed among his enemies. He spent a long time learning magic in this shape, taught by Mystra's avatar in disguise. When her disguise was uncovered, she and Elminster slept together and she offered him to become her Chosen. By that time, Elminster accepted any command from the Goddess, his defiance was completely gone.

In 241DR he travelled to the city of Cormanthor and continued his magical studies.

Somewhere around the mid–7th century DR, Elminster entered a tomb and became trapped there in stasis for roughly a century. He emerged from the dusty tomb in 759 DR. By that time Magic was unreliable (Mystra was possessing Elué's body to conceive her daughters). The god Azuth told him that he couldn't rely on Mystra or magic for aid. Soon he had to learn how to survive without magic. He later underwent further magical training under the tutelage of a wicked sorceress who sought to tempt him away from Mystra's path. During a fake ritual for Bane, she revealed herself to be the goddess Mystra herself, once again testing him.

In 767 DR, Elminster became a foster parent to three other of Mystra's Chosen: Laeral Silverhand, Storm Silverhand, and Dove Falconhand.

In 851 DR, Elminster mentored the newly-appointed Chosen of Mystra, Sammaster, in how to use his new powers.

During the Harpstar Wars in 1222 DR, Elminster defeated the Zulkir of Necromancy, Szass Tam, and earned himself (and the Harpers) the enmity of Thay.

In 1358 DR, just before the Time of Troubles, Mystra gained some foreknowledge and backed up her power into Midnight, the human wizard, so it would not be lost. During this time, Elminster, like most wizards who received his power from Mystra/the Weave, was left powerless once more.

In 1371 DR, the new Mystra stripped away many of Elminster's memories of her former incarnation's secrets. By the end of that year, he was called to Blackstaff Tower to discuss the phaerimm attack. The whole event ended up being related to a planificated attack from the Shadovars. Since shadovar were living shadow magic, and silver fire was raw magic, the collision between the two tore at the fabric of reality, creating a rift to the Nine Hells. Elminster realized that the only way to close the portal before legions of devils spilled forth into Toril was to close it from the other side. He did it, being trapped on the other side and at the expense of much of his magical strength.

Once in Hell, he was abducted and enslaved by an outcast archdevil known as Nergal, who wished to discover the secret of Mystra's silver fire. Elminster was subject to brutal tortures, surviving only because of his exceptional endurance and ability to heal himself with silver fire. Mystra tried to save him herself, but ended up sending several Chosen ones instead. Only The Simbul was successful in his rescue.

In 1373 DR, Elminster discovered a daughter he had never known, conceived against his will with a dragon thanks to Mystra's intervention.

Following the death of Mystra in 1385 DR and the collapse of the Weave during the Spellplague, Elminster was stripped of many of his abilities as one of the Chosen, though he still aged as slowly as he had for the previous millennium and was still quite powerful magically. However, every use of his magic drove him insane. When this happened, only Storm was able to bring his mind back, giving off her own essence to soothe Elminster's mind. Despite these setbacks, Elminster and Storm continued with their campaign to save Faerûn, battling evil and fixing the Weave where they could.

In 1479 DR, Elminster sought to gain access to artifacts known to contain the spirits of the Nine—objects powerful enough to permanently restore the Simbul's sanity.

During one of his excursions for these artefacts, Elminster's body was destroyed by Manshoon, who had secretly been peeling away the Old Mage's contingency spells over several years. However, Manshoon departed before he realized that Elminster had survived his body's destruction in a near-undead state. With the agreement of Amarune and the aid of Storm, Elminster's essence was placed in Amarune's body with the aid of a spell the ex-Chosen had discovered in a cache once belonging to Azuth. Later, thanks to the sacrifice of the Simbul, he regained his former body again and ruined for good Manshoon's claim to the throne of Suzail.

In 1487 DR, Elminster (with the help of the Srinshee, Alustriel, and Laeral Silverhand) stopped Shar as well as Larloch from becoming the new deity of magic. He killed Telamont Tanthul and let Thultanthar fall upon Myth Drannor. Along the way, Mystra was completely restored.

In 1491 DR, Elminster returned to the city of Waterdeep, aiding the newly appointed Open Lord of Waterdeep, Laeral Silverhand, to uncover the culprits behind a string of murders of Masked Lords.

Sincerely, there is a lot of content left outside this summary because Elminster’s material is a lot. A LOT.

Where is he in 1492?

The last time we know about Elminster’s whereabouts is during the book Dead Masks, a year before BG3. He has been working in Mystra’s name in Waterdeep when Hidden Lords have been assassinated. It’s very hard to conceive Gale as Elminster in disguise. Elminster has a different personality and a very obvious pattern of speech, sounding more like a mixture of a scholar and a farmer, and using expressions like Nay, aye, and so on. Elminster being abandoned by Mystra is also a strange concept because if there is something very clear from all the material we can read about his adventures is that Mystra loves him with a particular and exceptional love. He was the only Chosen that, when he was being tortured in the Hells, she attempted to save him by herself, risking her life (obviously, then she changed her mind and sent several Chosen ones that died in the process).

Also, if Gale were Elminster, he should sustain a spell of disguise constantly (many people know Elminster, an old man of white hair and beard), which is also very unlikely for a lvl1 wizard to do.

Source: 3e: Elminster: The Making of a Mage. The Temptation of Elminster. Dead Masks

Sammaster

He was born in 800 DR, probably in Sembia, the Dalelands, or the North. At age of 17, fascinated by the theory of the Arts and how magic works, Sammaster became a follower of Mystra. He was a gaunt man of poor health, full of eccentricities: he never remained in one place for too long, he skipped his meals and sleep in favour of learning, and it's suspected to have fathered a countless number of children.

Before being 40 y/o he acquired the skills of an archmage and he discovered, rediscovered, or improved numerous spells in the advanced theory of magic known as "metamagic". All this discovery of knowledge and magic (so favoured by Mystra as we can see in the post about "Mystra and her Chosen ones") granted him the attention of the Goddess, who appeared before him.

At his 50 y/o Sammaster saw his most fervent dream appear before his very eyes. He was both awestruck and smitten with passion as he fell to his knees and wept upon Mystra’s feet. Raising him to meet her gaze, Mystra responded to his unspoken question and swept him into her embrace. They spent a tenday together, and at the end of that period, Mystra asked him if he thought he was worthy and strong enough to carry a part of her divine power within him. Despite not knowing what she meant, Sammaster accepted anyway, becoming the first Chosen after she conceived her seven daughters. Mystra explained that she had chosen him for his development in metamagic but also because she had foreseen the death of an already Chosen one (Syluné) whose place she wanted immediately filled with Sammaster.

Sammaster was ordered to be in contact with Elminster to learn more about his new condition of Chosen. Sammaster and Elminster developed a tense situation mostly because Sammaster's obsessive love for the Goddess deepened while Elminster kept reminding him that her only consort was Azuth.

Dejected for the truth that he would never have a personal long-lasting relationship with Mystra, Sammaster focused on understanding the powers of the Chosen and the mysteries of the Lady in himself and in Toril. However, a seed of resentment started to grow.

In 855 Sammaster found a Zhentarin slave caravan resting in a camp. In it, he found three large cage carts full of peasants taken from the farmlands in the surrounding area. Enraged, Sammaster attacked the Zhentarin using his spells and Silver Fire, but in the process he killed many innocents he wanted to save. His mind snapped that day. Despite trying to convince himself that the Zhentarins were to blame, this episode was—without any doubt—the seminal event that irrevocably turned Sammaster down the path to madness and, eventually, evil.

Years later he started to develop his interest in necromancy in an attempt to return those innocents he had killed, trying to find a way to revive the dead. During this time his interest was focused on the undead, and forged relationships with some liches. How did Mystra allow this? At that time, Mystra was a much more neutral deity. Her primary interest was the use and development of magic; she cared little about how it was used or by whom. As long as Sammaster continued to advance the theories of magic and push forward its frontiers for all mortals, Mystra turned a blind eye to his necromancy interests.

In 861 DR Sammaster met Alustriel, Chosen of Mystra, and fell in love with her. His unbalanced mind seemed to finally find some peace and stability, but his obsession —at first focused on Mystra—now turned upon Alustriel, wanting to master her, to make her entirely his, and to make her world revolve around him. Disturbed with Sammaster's necromancy research and his increasing need for control over her, Alustriel broke up with him.

Afterwards, while deepening in his experiments with necromancy, Sammaster befriended Algashon Nathaire, a priest of Bane who had formerly been a mage. In the unstable Sammaster, Algashon saw the chance to create a formidable tyrant. Bane must also have seen the chance to rob one of his most powerful enemy’s Chosen of his last vestiges of sanity and perhaps his powers or even his life.

Presented as a friend, Algashon manipulated Sammaster into thinking that all his failures and problems were the fault of that uncaring goddess and her equally inconsiderate servants, her so-called "Chosen". Sammaster resisted this subtle indoctrination at first, only to be painfully reminded of the events at the slavers' camp (the Zhents' fault, of course), his uneasy relationship with Elminster, his failure to win the love of Mystra (Azuth's fault and Elminster's for pointing it out so hard-heartedly), and his failure to win Alustriel (her fault and that of her Goddess). As time went on, Sammaster argued against these superficial, easy excuses less and less, and Algashon's lies wove their way deeper into the unhappy and unstable mage's mind. The next step of Algashon was to steal the secrets of the power of the Chosen. To do that, he encouraged Sammaster to use his Chosen power at every opportunity.

Rather than risking their pawn's life (yet) by attempting to strip the silver fire from Sammaster outright, Bane and Algashon decided to try and arrange to steal another Chosen's silver fire: given her past with Sammaster, Algashon chose Alturiel. This way Sammster fought Alturiel, aiming silver fire against her. Losing the battle against a maniacal Sammaster, Alustriel called for help from Laeral Silverhand and Khelben Arunsun. The three of them won the combat against Sammaster.

Azuth presented himself on Mystra's behalf and removed Sammaster's Chosen condition. When the other Chosen left the place, Algashon helped Sammaster, affixing the immortality of the Chosen ones in his body despite having lost his powers. While he could be destroyed, Sammaster continued to remain ageless and to heal from wounds very quickly. However, as a side-effect of this spell, Sammaster lost his last vestige of sanity and morality that may have remained in his clouded mind.

In 887 DR Sammaster retranslated old texts of a prophecy, highlighting the importance of undead dragons and creating soon afterward his own Cult. In his insanity, he kept doing more necromancy research focused on turning dragons into draconlich to follow this prophecy. His first success in turning a dragon (Shargrailar) into an undead made his cult famous. In this way, Sammaster earned a powerful weapon with which threatened many across Faerun and obtained an enormous amount of money. Even the rich nobles paid tribute when the Cult threatened to send Shargrailar to burn their farmlands and villages to ash. Sammaster did not think to oppress the peasants for their coppers, but the noble powerful ones.

In 960 DR, his cult finally adopted the name “Cult of the Dragon”, even though “Cult of the Dracolich” could be more appropriate, even though Shargrailar still looked like a normal dragon. By that time the cult increased too much for Sammaster and Algoshon to control, so Sammaster wrote all his wisdom in a book called Tome of the Dragon that would turn into the core of the cult, helping them to spread Sammaster's ideas beyond their limitations.

The popularity of the cult was not missed by several groups. The Harpers tried to destroy it, but they failed. The Zhentarims are also against Sammaster's cult since their activities are limited with the constant threat of the Dragon Shargrailar. More groups were added to the cult's list of foes, but Sammaster ignored them or sent them a dragon to destroy them. Not merely mad now, Sammaster was becoming drunk with a level of power he had not felt since before he had been stripped of his powers as one of the Chosen. Algashor suggested that he keep a low profile in order to protect the cult, but his advice was ignored.

In 916 DR, The Harpers developed a plan to eliminate Sammaster and weaken the cult itself. The battle was brutal and Sammaster seemed to win by the end of it, commanding an army of undead and experimental creatures. Sammaster would have won had not Lathander sent a battle avatar, enraged by the undead abominations that Sammaster created. After an intense battle, Lathander incinerated Sammaster. However, Sammaster had planned ahead: he had sent his mind to a phylactery before being killed.

With the phylactery and a special book of the Tome of the Dragon, a loyal cultist called Zotulla had been ordered by Sammaster to create a new cell of the cult in the Northwest. However, Zotulla failed and died at the hands of an orc war party who discarded the phylactery and the book. Both items were lost for more than 300 years, until a shaman may have deciphered the instructions in the book and raised Sammaster as a lich.

In 1282 Sammaster rose as a lich and began to gather the remnants of his cult once more. Harpers and some countries began to plan to defend themselves from this danger again. In 1285 a group of adventuring paladins known as the Company of Twelve supported by the Harpers, attacked the lich and killed him at a great cost. However, neither the phylactery nor the book were found. The possibility for him to return is high.

In 1373DR Sammaster completed the transformation of the Dracorage Mythal. This was a Mythal created by elves around -25.000DR which had a maddening effect on dragons, making them lose their minds for several tendays. This effect used to be linked to the appearance of the comet King-Killer Star in the sky. When Sammaster transformed this mythal by binding his phylactery to it, its maddening effect was no longer constrained by the appearance of the comet but linked instead to his own life force. Only Dracoliches remained unaffected by Sammaster’s endless, ever-intensifying Dracorage effect. This fact forced wyrms to join his Cult and accept to be transformed into dracoliches or suffer permanent madness. By manipulating this effect, Sammaster tried to retake control over his Cult. However, a group of adventurers destroyed the mythal—thus Sammaster’s phylactery—and put an end to this effect.

Where is he in 1492?

So, is Gale Sammaster? Lore-wise, to destroy a lich for good you need to destroy their phylactery. This has been done in 1373DR, therefore, I hardly see any potential for Sammaster to raise again. And here is where any possible argument ends.

What Sammaster's story shows us is that Mystra's sudden abandonment is not uncommon once she gave them their Chosen powers. In the report of the Harpers that narrate Sammaster's life in the book Cult of the dragon (2e), there are some comments pointing out how Mystra, despite noticing Sammaster's madness, allowed him to follow his dark path. One may speculate that maybe Mystra uses the obsession that she may cause in some of her Chosen ones, in order to make them eager to explore beyond their limits so she can acquire knowledge or control of new magic.

Certainly, what Sammaster and Gale share in common is how they were favoured by Mystra, had a affair with her, and soon afterwards she stopped “whispering” in their ears. Their condition as Chosen had been kept intact, but their madness in one case, or their devotion in the other, made them go too far. Sammaster ended up being a toy of a priest of Bane, while Gale simply made the mistake of thinking himself capable of controlling an unknown magic to impress Mystra in order to have once more her attention on him. More than this is walking on the headcanon terrain since the game in EA can't provide more information.

Source book: Cult of the dragon (2e), Dragons of Faerun (3.5e)

Conclusion

The truth is that Gale is Kirby. He doesn't only eat artefacts but also Faerûn iconic characters as well (joke done by a reddit user)

In my personal interpretation, I hardly see Gale as the incarnation of anyone. First, it would be very, very lazy writing. Characters such as Sammaster, Elminster, or Azuth tend to be NPCs. We found some of them in games such as previous Baldur’s Gate games or Neverwinter nights.

But the main and strongest argument against secretly being any of these characters is that he is an origin character. All companions are potential players in their origins. Anyone who played DOS2 AND played an origin character would understand this: there is no plot twist of that magnitude in their personal backstories that would erase completely the essence and the personality of the character. All that sensitive information is previously stated.

All what we need to know about the origin char is basically said in the BG3 webpage. Those descriptions are the same ones found in the game, which changed after EA was released in Astarion’s and Gale’s case, showing—in my opinion—that Larian changed them a bit at the last stage of development. These descriptions spoil every secret that the characters have. This doesn’t mean their more complex background should not be part of a plot twist later in the game, but it would not have the impact of erasing completely the RPG characters you were playing for a while.

Every companion has a secret spoiled in their descriptions: Astarion, his vampire condition; Shadowheart, her Shar faith and he mission; Wyll, Mizora; Lae’zel, the tadpole (not for the group, but for her people); Gale, the “orb”. All these secrets are informed beforehand to the player for them to pick an Origin if they want to play it and make it their own. As companions, we learn these secrets early (act 1). This happens in act 1 of DOS2 too.

A player choosing an origin has to be informed of the character’s secrets and motivations at the moment they pick it. Otherwise, it would ruin their RPG experience, making the player unaware of their own character’s true nature. This doesn’t mean that deepening their backgrounds would not make us discover information we don’t know. My point is, it won't remove the character’s persona turning him into a character very well known in lore.

Gale, so far, seems to be a pretty fair standard wizard who had a young obsession over Mystra (quite common in terms of lore for those who stand before her), which brought him troubles and made him prone to mistakes (as, once more, we know it tends to happen in lore). The justification why he was Chosen is also clear from a lore point of view: we have a context post-Spellplague that made Gale's skills more than useful for Mystra. In my opinion, there is nothing else abysmally suspicious beyond these points, and if there are more secrets, it seems fair to think that not even Gale is aware of them.

This post was written in June2021. → For more Gale: Analysis Series Index

#gale of waterdeep #bg3 meta #bg3 early access #bg3 gale #azuth #myrkul #karsus #elminster #sammaster #lore #chosen of mystra #FR lore

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into-the-daniverse · 3 years

Text

Of Everlong | Leon x Anatole

For @sunrisenfool a kiss prompt set in our Lucio Reversed Ending AU that got a bit out of hand because of course it did

Some context for those who aren’t me or Jules: This AU takes place years (and years) after Lucio’s Reversed Ending, where Alec became the Devil. In this timeline, desperate to keep her from dying, Leon made a deal with his patron arcana, the Knight of Swords, for the power to protect Alec, even as she’s working with Lucio to take over Vesuvia and fighting with Prakra. This destroys his and Anatole’s relationship, and they go their separate ways, meeting on the battlefields until Anatole stops fighting and goes to Balkovia, tired of the war. Now, years and years later, Leon has left the Devil’s side, and seeks Anatole out again.

(If you want to see how these two fair leading up to Lucio’s Upright Ending, I would highly recommend reading Jules’s series A Songbird Sings, The World Could End because it’s perfect and it helps soothe the angst of this AU lol)

Fictional Kiss Prompts: 3. kissing so desperately that their whole body curves into the other person’s (for this specific AU) Title: Of Everlong by The Crane Wives 4.4k words

Leon, or Fūjin, he wasn’t always sure who he was anymore, felt like he was waking up from a long and awful nightmare. Limbs heavy and head even heavier on his shoulders, he could no longer continue to lie to himself, he had to leave. Leave Vesuvia, leave everything he had spent the last however many years protecting, leave Alec, again.

But that was the reason he knew he had to go, because she, Alec, the reason he had stayed in the first place, didn’t exist anymore. After everything he had done, everything and everyone he had given up to keep her safe, she had died anyway.

Except, this time when her soul had died, it hadn’t been with a snap of his tether echoing in his own soul—no, this time it merely faded with each passing day, week, month, year, growing fainter and fainter until he woke up, and it was gone entirely.

Even then, he tried to ignore it, tried to convince himself she was still in there, somewhere, that the Devil hadn’t completely killed her, but he was tired. He was so tired of lying to himself, of fighting.

How long had he been fighting? How long had he been moving, flying faster than the weight of his own guilt could catch up? He had no idea anymore. All he knew was that he had done the same thing, day after day, for far too long and for someone—no, something who didn’t even know who he was.

For a moment, a long, treacherous moment, he had hoped her memories would come back. That she would see him, really see him, and see the damage she was causing, and would stop. It would hurt, and it would be hard, but then he could hold her when she cried and help her fix it all. Even if it took years, he would still help her. But the memories never came back, and she slipped through his fingers again.

Now, he was leaving.

She, the Devil, didn’t notice him leave, didn’t notice the charm he had cast all those years ago loosen from her shoulders, freeing him from staying. Leon left Vesuvia and stood on burnt plains, wondering where he could go.

Prakra was out of the question. They would kill him on sight, and though a part of him craved that, he knew it wouldn’t be fair. He didn’t get to just walk away from the destruction he had caused anymore.

He felt for his remaining tethers, letting his magic trail through his fingers and out into the world.

Camia and Jamil were both in Prakra still, so he would have to find another way to get to them. Jamil, he had visited in dreams, and Leon knew he was miserable. His mother had trapped him again, and the war had taken its own toll on him. Camia was, all things considered, well-off. She had married Nahara Satrinava, both of them leading Prakra’s army against Alec, Lucio, and him. Anger was the only thing he felt from her, and though he wanted to find her, knew she didn’t want him to.

The tether he had been saving for last was warm in his hand, and as he turned his thoughts to Anatole, his Anatole, he heard his voice in his mind.

“Don’t I mean anything to you?”

Leon stopped, heart aching in his chest. It wasn’t the first time he had replayed their last conversation in his mind, but somehow it only hurt more now.

If he had known then how it would have turned out—no, that didn’t matter. He would have still tried, even if the future had been handed to him, he would have resisted it. That was what he did, resist. Fight. It had always been all he knew.

He had thought, this time, that he was doing it right, for once. That protecting Alec was the right thing, even if Anatole had tried to talk him out of it.

He didn’t understand why Leon had to do it. Why he had to make that deal to help her. He wasn’t the one who felt when Alec died the first time, who watched his family fall apart over her death, who was there when she woke up not remembering any of them. That was Leon, and he would do anything to keep that from happening again.

“At what cost?” Nana had asked, and at the time, Leon had said “whatever it takes.” He knew now that the answer had been “everything I’ve ever loved.”

Wrapping his fingers around their tether, Leon considered breaking it. He had thought about it dozens of times over the years, of breaking the one thing that kept them connected. At least twice, he had almost done it. But every time he felt it start to fray, Anatole’s presence fading, he hadn’t been able to do it.

And he couldn’t do it now. Instead, he reached out, feeling along the tether to find Anatole in the world. He was in Balkovia, where he had been for a few years now, making a new life for himself. Leon wondered if he was happy. He hoped so. It seemed that the only hope he ever offered himself anymore was reserved for Nana, who deserved it.

Before he could think, he felt himself lift into the air, flying over the ground towards Balkovia, towards Anatole.

There was a time, so long ago Leon often thought he had made it up, when Anatole talked about taking him to Balkovia. When things were different, better, when Vesuvia was better, for one. They had plans, places they wanted to go, people they wanted to visit. Well, Anatole was the one with the plans, Leon didn’t care where they went or who they met as long as he was able to go with him.

He was going to Balkovia now, by himself, with only his tether to guide him through the streets instead of what might have been Nana’s hand guiding him. And he wasn’t sure what he was expecting. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that Anatole would take him back. Best case scenario, he wouldn’t immediately turn him away, and he would at least get to apologize. Then, if Nana wanted him gone, he would leave. He would break their tether even, if he wanted him to.

Not that he had any idea of where he would go when he did eventually get sent away, but he could figure that out when it happened.

It was late at night when he finally made it to the city of Bgraz, later still when he finally navigated his way to what he assumed was Anatole’s apartment. He was about to knock on his door when Leon stopped.

He couldn’t do it. He wanted to, gods, he wanted to, but it felt wrong. Wrong to intrude on Anatole’s new life, his life without him. Of course, he wouldn’t want to see him, it would just ruin everything, Leon would just ruin everything again. He was just being ridiculously selfish, like always.

He fought against himself for a long time, but eventually, the selfish part of him won out, in the end, and he knocked on Anatole’s door.

It was a long, agonizingly long moment before the door opened.

“Leon? What are you doing here?”

Hearing Anatole’s voice again was almost enough to make Leon cry. He had dreamed about hearing his voice, even if it was just him saying fuck off. Dreamed about him saying his name again. Even though his voice sounded a bit older, it was still Nana’s voice. Leon’s heart constricted in his chest, but he forced himself to speak.

“Nana, I… I wanted to talk to you.”

There was a long pause, and Leon almost wondered if Nana had just gone back inside, but then he sighed.

“Let’s not do this outside.”

He heard Anatole step aside, and gingerly walked past the door, into his apartment. Once he heard the door click shut behind him, Nana stood in front of him, tone sharp with anger.

“Before you speak, I have things to say first. I waited for you, Lee.”

Leon didn’t answer, but Nana continued.

“I waited for you, for so long. To stop fighting, to stop being so stubborn, to listen to what I was trying to tell you. But you never did. I was—I felt so stupid, waiting. But I wanted you to come back. More than anything.”

“I wanted to come back,” Leon confessed, voice soft.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I thought… I thought I had to stay, for Alec.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“You’re here, so clearly that thought changed.”

A shuddering exhale escaped Leon. “Yeah. It changed. She’s… she’s gone. The Devil is still there, sure, but Alec—she… isn’t.”

Anatole sounded a little less angry when he spoke, but the words still hurt. “I could have told you that, Leon. I tried to tell you that, but you didn’t listen. You held onto an idea that wasn’t going to happen, and in the process, you brought Vesuvia down with you, Lucio, and Alec. Fought in a pointless war, hurt people, hurt our friends, our family, hurt me.”

They both went quiet for a moment, and Leon sighed.

“I came here because I wanted to say that I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me, or to want to see me again. I’m… I just wanted to know you were okay. As—as okay as you could be, I suppose.”

“Well, I am. And I haven’t completely decided on forgiving you or not, yet.”

“I understand.” Leon took a step back, feeling for the door, but Nana stopped him.

“Where are you going?”

“I—leaving?”

Nana’s hand on his arm made him jump, but he melted into his touch almost too quickly. “No, you’re not. You came all the way here, you look like hell, you’re going to take a shower and then we can continue this discussion, because it is far from over.”

He was pulled further into the apartment. Leon bit back a laugh at being practically dragged across the floor. It reminded him of that long ago time that they spent together. Leon then would have asked Anatole to join him in the shower, but he couldn’t do that now.

As he thought back, he felt a sharp pain dig into his hand, pulling him back into the present. “Ah!”

“Antu!”

Nana’s familiar let go of Leon at the sound of his name, but he still ran between Leon’s legs, trying to trip him.

Leon winced, shaking his hand. “I… it’s nice to know you’re still around, Antu.”

The furious chittering he received in response let him know that the sentiment was not returned, which Leon thought was fair.

“Just, go wait in my room, please, Antu.” Anatole sighed, and after a long moment Leon heard Antu leave the room. “I didn’t think he would react quite like that… Well, alright, I suspected he might, but still, you’re bleeding.”

Leon hummed, letting magic flow through his hand, closing the bite instantly. He wiped the blood away to show Nana that it was closed, and he assumed there was a scar left behind. “It’s fine.”

Anatole’s voice was quieter when he spoke again. “Leon, Fish…”

“She’s… gone.” Leon’s throat closed even as he said it, even as it had happened years ago now. He lost Fiasharya during one of the worst battles, and it tore him apart to feel the piece of his soul that was hers crumble and fall away. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he had ever mourned her properly, or if he had just pushed forward, like he did with everything else.

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t, but I still know that it hurt.”

Everything hurt, Leon thought, but didn’t say. “You said there was a shower I could use?”

It seemed like Nana wanted to say more, but he just led Leon to the bathroom and gave him a towel to use and a pair of pants to change into. He let Leon know he would be sitting in the living room that they had walked through, and to take his time.

Leon tried not to take too long in the shower, but the warm water felt heavenly on his tired body, and he had to run shampoo through his hair, so by the time he stepped out, his fingertips were wrinkled. He dried himself off and wrung out his hair as much as he could, feeling it still stick to his back and his hips.

Holding up the pants Nana had given him, he let his fingers trace the hem, falling into thought.

He didn’t want to know where the pants came from, if they were Nana’s or… someone else’s. A part of him, a big part of him, selfishly hoped there was no one else, but it had been so long, and Nana deserved happiness, even if—especially if, it didn’t include him.

Sighing, he put them on and left the bathroom.

Nana called to him from the couch, and Leon joined him, stepping hesitantly in the unfamiliar space. As he sat down, he went to speak, but Nana spoke first.

“It’s late. We can talk more in the morning, Lee.”

“You…” Leon shook his head. “I can stay?”

“Did you think I invited you in and had you use my shower just so I could throw you back onto the street?”

Leon laughed through his nose. “I suppose not.”

“You can stay out here, on the couch. I’ll see you in the morning.” As Nana stood, Leon reached out to him, then stopped.

“Nana?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Anatole hummed, walking around the couch. “Goodnight, Leon.”

When he heard Anatole’s bedroom door close, Leon laid back on the couch and tried very hard not to think about how everything smelled like him, and how desperately he had missed it. How desperately he had missed everything about Anatole. After years of being apart, the realization that there was only one door, a handful of steps between the two of them, made Leon’s heart ache.

He was grateful that he was allowed to be this close to him at all, but that selfish part of him wanted more.

Shaking his head, he buried those thoughts like he had buried them for years and tried to sleep.

Sleep didn’t come easily to Leon anymore, and he wasn’t even sure when he did manage to slip into unconsciousness.

All he knew was that at some point the softness of the couch drifted away, and he could feel hard ground under his feet, heat all around him, hear Lucio’s war cry as the Devil’s army marched on, and he with it.

People were yelling, screaming, crying all around him, and he knew most of the voices he could hear. Yet he still attacked, anything he could do to protect Alec, to keep her from dying again. And again and again he fought, feeling himself get hurt over and over, and never stopping to breathe.

Soon it was that the screams were the only thing he could hear, and he knew that those were his friends, people he had cared about that he had hurt who were screaming, who he was hurting. Yet, still, his magic poured out of him, even though he was crying and pleading with himself to stop. In dreams, he never would, he would keep hurting, keep fighting until he died, and he knew that. But he had left, and he tried to remind himself of that, even as the screams continued.

He shot straight up on the couch, clutching at his chest, heart beating fast. He was awake, he wasn’t in the desert anymore, he was in Balkovia. But the screaming hadn’t stopped. It seemed louder now, shrill, and he couldn’t breathe.

No, no, he was awake, he wasn’t still there, he left, he left and he—

“Lee?”

The screaming stopped, and he heard the sounds of a kettle being taken off a stove. He sank back into the couch, covering his face in his hands, heart still fluttering in his chest. Anatole’s quick steps joined him, and he jumped when something touched his arm, when Anatole’s hand touched him.

“Leon, what is it?”

“I—” Leon was suddenly very aware of Nana’s touch, but he didn’t pull away, as much as he felt he should. “Nothing. It was… just a bad dream. Though it wasn’t really a dream, I guess, a memory.” He let his hands fall from his face, voice quiet. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”

Anatole hummed, and the couch shifted as he sat next to Leon. “The years can do that. Blur those lines together. I often have similar dreams. But in the end, that’s all they are, just dreams.”

Leon barely heard him past the years can do that. It had been so many years, nightmare after nightmare.

“All those years, and for what?” He sighed, feeling his breath rattle in his chest, tired. “I did nothing but hurt people, hurt Camia and Jamil, hurt you—and I never wanted that, I never wanted to go back to that… that thing that just hurt people because they could. But it turned out that’s all I’m good for.”

“I know I know the answer, but humor me anyway, why did you do it?”

“I didn’t want to lose her again. I—it hurt so much the first time she died, I would have done anything to keep that from happening again, but what I did… I thought I would be able to help her, I thought I was strong enough, even without her memories. I never thought it would get as bad as it did.”

“But it did, and you didn’t leave.”

“No, I didn’t.” Leon’s voice tapered off, and he rested his hand on his chest, feeling for something that wasn’t there.

“Lee, does your chest hurt?”

“No, it’s…” Leon realized what he was grabbing for. His necklace. He had given it to Anatole right when he made his first deal to protect Alec. He had snuck it into his pocket and hoped, again selfishly hoped that he would hold onto it. Even after all this time, his body was still looking for it, for those missing pieces of himself. “Nana, I… do you remember the necklace I had?”

“The one you gave me when you thought I wasn’t paying attention?”

Leon knew he shouldn’t be surprised that Anatole knew, but he was, a little. “Yes. I—my chest doesn’t hurt, it’s just, I was looking for it. The necklace. I don’t suppose you still—"

“I have it.”

“You… you do?” Leon laughed despite himself. “I thought you would have gotten rid of it. Where, uh, where is it?”

“Over here.” He felt Nana’s hand on his elbow, lifting him up from the couch, and let himself be moved across the room.

They stopped, and Leon reached out, feeling the spines of books under his fingers. He swore he could recognize a few of them, books that Anatole had kept back in Vesuvia, but he didn’t say anything.

“It’s higher up.”

“Higher?” Leon slowly reached for the next shelf. “How did you manage to get it up here in the first place?”

“I can be very resourceful.”

“Or stubborn,” he said, a small smile on his face. He felt around on the shelf until he grazed a small ceramic box, a gift he had given Anatole a long time ago. Instinctively, he knew that the necklace was in there without asking and pulled it down.

As he opened the box, Nana took the necklace out, and put his hand on Leon’s shoulder.

“Here, let me.”

He leaned down, let Nana hang the necklace around his neck, and feeling the cool glass of the vial rest against his skin, sighed softly. As if it had been waiting for that moment, his magic shrunk, no longer threatening to burst from his veins, now it settled into his soul, collecting into the vial, a piece of the weight taken from his shoulders.

Once the necklace was on, Anatole’s fingers rested gently against his chest, nails tracing the patterns of scars across his skin.

“These are new.”

“Are they?” He supposed there had to be dozens of new scars, most of which he barely remembered getting, or healing, and to be fair with his magic at full blast all the time it was likely they had healed the moment he got hurt. “I don’t even remember what they’re from.”

Nana’s hands trailed further down his stomach. “And these—are these burns?”

Leon flinched, but didn’t move away. “Yeah. Those I, um, unfortunately do remember. I think you were there for that, maybe, but I could only hear Cami and how angry she was. I didn’t… I didn’t know she could ever be that angry. At me.”

Angry was putting it lightly, he knew. Camia then was, and probably still was, furious with him. Furious and disappointed and he hadn’t known how much that would hurt to hear in her voice when she begged him to stop fighting. The feeling of her flames actually hitting his skin hadn’t hurt as much as hearing her cry had. Because of him.

He had caused so much hurt, so much pain, how could he be standing next to Anatole again—feeling his fingers trace light circles into his skin around his scars, as if he did it unconsciously—like he hadn’t helped the Devil destroy everything?

“I don’t deserve to be here.” He stepped back, Nana’s hands leaving his skin. “I don’t… I shouldn’t have come here; you don’t need this.”

He turned, trying to remember his way back to the door when he felt Nana take his hand, holding him in place.

“No, Lee,” Anatole’s voice was stern, but not sharp, not angry. “You don’t get to just leave after this. You don’t get to decide that you shouldn’t be here, or that I don’t need you. Maybe I don’t, maybe I would be better if you hadn’t come, but that doesn’t matter anymore because you did. You did and we’re going to talk about this, just like we used to talk.”

“I…” Leon’s voice felt heavy in his throat. “I missed you, Nana. There wasn’t a single day that I didn’t miss you. Sometimes it hurt less, sometimes it hurt like my soul splitting at the seams, but it always hurt that I did this to us. And I thought it would be okay if it meant Alec would be fine, but she’s not even here anymore, and maybe she was never there, and that means I did all of that for nothing, hurt you for nothing—”

“Leon.”

“—and if it was all for nothing, why did I even come back, I should have just gone to Prakra and let them kill me—"

“Don’t say that. Don’t even think that, Leon, how could you?”

Leon stood still, fighting back tears, his throat closing. He wanted to run away, but he was tired of running. So, he stood, and felt when Anatole sighed, breath against his chest. Slowly, he felt Nana’s hands reach up to cup his face, and pull him down ever so slightly, and then he was kissing him, not unlike the exploratory way they had kissed for the first time, learning each other again.

Anatole was kissing him, and it felt just as good as he remembered, as he dreamed, and Leon wasn’t sure if he was his Anatole anymore, but he would take what he could get, and kissed him back. And kissed him again, and when he felt Nana push against him, let him, pressing their bodies close together, as close as they could.

How many times had he longed to feel Anatole against him again? How many times had he regretted the last things they said to each other, the pain in both of their voices, the anger that had kept them apart? Anger and stubbornness and pride, and Leon wished he had never felt any of it at all. He wished he could never feel anything at all again except how it felt to hold Anatole.

He hadn’t realized he started to cry until he felt Nana’s thumbs wiping tears away from his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.” He knew Anatole could feel how deeply he meant it, but it would never be enough.

Nana didn’t answer, instead leading him back to the couch, where they sat, and Leon buried his face in Nana’s shoulder, clinging to him.

“Look at you,” Nana whispered, and Leon felt his fingers run through his hair. “You were supposed to be happy—we were supposed to be happy. I knew it would be hard, but I thought we could do it together. I wanted to do it together. But then…”

He sighed, and Leon murmured: “I’m sorry.”

“I know. That, unfortunately, doesn’t change that you still did everything you did, and it won’t get rid of the hurt, but I know you’re sorry. And I’m sorry, too.”

Leon leaned into his touch, feeling his thoughts start to run again. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I want to make up for all of it, but I don’t know how. And I don’t know where I can go—"

“Stay with me. For now. We can figure it out what you’re supposed to do, together. Take it one step at a time. One day at a time.”

We. Leon laughed softly, another tear slipping down his cheek. “Yeah?”

“Yes, Leon.” Nana kissed his cheek once before standing from the couch. “Now, since it’s a bit late to call it breakfast, would you mind helping me prepare lunch?”

“You know I can’t cook.”

“I do. And I’m asking you anyway.”

Leon felt a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth, and he stood, feeling Nana’s hand take his. “I’ll help you.”

“Thank you.”

The anxiety that Leon felt over what his future might hold didn’t disappear, but he was able to put it aside, happy that he would have a future, and it might even include Anatole again. There was a hurt, a deep-set hurt that he didn’t think would ever completely go away, for either of them, but they would work on it, together. And that was all he wanted.

#the arcana #daniverse oc #daniverse fic #kiss prompt fic #coincidence lovers #leon #aelius anatole #I literally had discord open this entire time to re-read everything we've ever said about this lmao #I have just been in pain #I love them so much

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prismy-sprout · 4 years

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O&O Classes

Sci-Twilight Sparkle ⚙:

- Artificer: This class choice pretty much explains itself, Sci-Twi main attribute is having quite a handle when it comes to technology and creating gadgets, so playing a class that can create equipment and weapons it´s quite fitting.

- Wizard: Despite not being focused on magic as much as her Equestrian counterpart, she has a good understanding on how magic works on her dimension, making this class not that weird for her.

- Ranger: It´s a bit odd having a class that most of the time spents it´s time on the wilderness for a girl that pretty much lives on a lab, but, rangers can be seen as strategists aswell, by placing traps and gaining advantage over battlefield while staying on the back-line supporting her allies.

Pinkie Pie 🎈:

- Bard: Pinkie was born for being a bard, this class is designed to raise the party´s morale by the use of songs and rhythm, while also excelsing at roleplay moments such as getting their way by words and being overly charismatic.

- Cleric: Every adventurer party is always down to have a member that can keep them safe with healing and boosts, and since a safe party is a happy party, Pinkie is prone to doing things to make other people happy, so it wouldn´t be strange seeing her on this role.

- Barbarian: Barbarians are seen the most of times as unstoppable forces of anger and destruction, that mixed with Pinkie´s wild card-y and crazy attitude, can make for a small ball of anger and sheer hilarity.

Rarity 💎:

- Sorcerer: Sorcerers are pretty much like wizards, but instead of extensively studing the art of magic, they are naturally born with skills for using their disciplines, that fits Rarity in the sense that she got quite a lot of talent for what she does (fashion, as an example).

- Rogue: Not so much as the kind of rogues that she could consider as “ruffians” that go through the night pick-pocketing people and engaging on “dirty work”, but as the kind that with their high charisma are able to get valuable information from someone with a single conversation, or infiltrating on big events.

- Cleric: Some clerics are seen as part of the royalty and most of them uses gold accessories as part of their outfits, two things that Rarity totally has on her “favorite things” list.

Fluttershy 🦋:

- Druid: Fluttershy checks every single box on what a druid should be, since her first priority are the animals and nature itself, being able to communicate with them and even stopping their actions with “the stare”.

- Ranger: Rangers are like druids that take it upon themselves to protect the land on their own as forest keepers instead of only being part of the forces of nature, taking out her assertive side when needed.

- Cleric: Clerics have the main purpose to aid the injured, and Fluttershy being known for caring so much for her friends, it´s natural of her to be there to heal their wounds after an intense battle.

Applejack 🍎:

- Barbarian and Fighter: These 2 classes fall under the same category since they are all about going on the front-line and dealing a lot of damage to hordes of enemies, which fits to a strong girl such as AJ.

- Monk: Follows the same logic as Barbarian and Fighter, but, it has something else that would totally re-asure the idea of playing this class to AJ, and is the option of instead of using weapons, being able to fight with her bare hands, something that the user of the strenght geode might find as a good time.

- Paladin: Along with Fluttershy, AJ is the one from the Mane 7 who´s willing to put herself on the line if that means she´ll protect the party, but instead of protecting them by healing during the combat or at the end of it, she shields them, avoiding them of receiving any damage.

Rainbow Dash 🌈:

- Rogue: Having a natural rainbow colored hair is not the best attribute to go around without being noticed, but, who needs to go around sneaking when you are so fast and agile that no one nor their projectiles will be able to reach you or even strike you down.

- Ranger: It takes the agility from the rogue, and harnesses it to use a bow or a crossbow and strike down enemies that might be a problem to get from a close combat.

- Fighter: It takes the speed from the rogue, and put it on the front line by quickly taking on enemies and defeating them even before they have the chance to throw an attack of their own.

Sunset Shimmer 🔥:

- Warlock: Warlocks are seen most of the time like “bad guys” of the caster classes because their source of powers comes from selling their souls to a patron, which fits with Sunset´s past, BUT, it doesn´t mean that all warlocks has said conection with evil, such as the Feykind and Celestials, which fits to a redeemed Sunset.

- Fighter: Spell casting might be cool and all, but Sunset may not refuse the chance of instead of boringly stay on the backline where not that much happens, going out and fight sword to sword with hordes and hordes of enemies, where all the fun is.

- Paladin: It seems a bit like the other side of the coin considering her first class option is Warlock... because it is, but, Paladins are seen as wardens, and it fits perfectly to someone who bestowed upon herself the duty of stopping the magic leaking into her dimension.

Trixie Lulamoon 🔮:

- Wizard: She´s Trixie, therefore she´s obsessed with all that comes with magic, it being stage magic, or arcane magic.

- Sorcerer: Remember when I said that magic came to sorcerers just naturally? well, it´s quite fitting for someone who calls herself “great and powerful” to harness impresive magic skills.

- Warlock: Sometimes your own powers are not enough, so it doesn´t harm to take some powers from a source of questionable origins, like an amulet, right?

She might even multiclass all 3 and go all Wiz-cer-lock

(Trixie is pretty much the kind of friend who loves DMing)

Twilight Sparkle ✨:

- Wizard: Who´s the unicorn who has spend all of her life studing magic and even was granted to go beyond her limits and become an Alicorn? that would be Twilight, magic is her entire life, and so is wizard´s.

- Artificer: She might rely more on magic than anything else, but she clearly does not fall behind when it comes to technology, she even figured out how to keep the portal to the school yard permanently opened.

- Ranger: Same logic as Sci-Twi here.

#Twilight Sparkle #Pinkie Pie #Rarity #Fluttershy #Applejack #Rainbow Dash #Sunset Shimmer #Trixie Lulamoon #Sci-Twi #Mane 6 #Mane 7 #Mane 7 Dices #M-7D #MLP: Friendship is Magic #MLP: Equestria Girls #Friendship is Magic #Equestria Girls #Dungeons and Dragons

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ralfstrashcan · 3 years

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Malec in late 2B

It's been *checks watch* three years and I've finally calmed down enough to try and untangle my feelings about the end of 2B in a coherent way.

1) Alec's decision not to tell Magnus about the Soul Sword. I've worked through my thoughts regarding that in this fic already where I go into Alec's reasoning for it. The tldr of which is that a) Alec consciously made the decision not to tell Magnus instead of running out of time to decide, b) he actually had good reasons for that and made that decision with Magnus's and the Downworld's best interests at heart and c) ultimately his love for Magnus was the very reason he didn't tell him because if he had cared about sparing Magnus's feelings a little less he would have told Magnus about the Soul Sword on condition that Magnus can't tell his people, damn the guilt Magnus will feel when warlocks die because they weren't forewarned.

2) Magnus's reaction to finding out. Magnus flips his shit, basically, lashes out, is deliberately hurtful and doesn't really listen to Alec's reasons for his decision. This is both an understandable and an ic reaction because Magnus is a very emotion-driven character and what he just learned is drastic. Could there have been a more graceful way to handle this revelation? Certainly. But it's nothing I would just expect from any given character. You'd have to be exceptionally level-headed to keep your cool in such a situation and I don't fault Magnus for not being that. His reaction was very human.

Alec gets points deduction for his line “Let's not make this personal” because dude, do you know your boyfriend at all? Have you realized that emotional compartmentalization isn't his strong forte? This line just angers Magnus more. (Alec also gets points deduction, with extreme prejudice, for trying to shush Magnus because what is wrong with you, man. I mean, this might just be a personal hang-up of mine but isn't that gesture patronizing as hell? Anyway.) On the other hand Alec gets some points for not going after Magnus. When I first watched that I thought it was very strange and kinda weird but in hindsight it is obviously the right choice. Magnus needed time and space to deal and Alec realized that trying to go after him and talk it out then was pointless and would have only angered Magnus more.

3) Magnus's reaction to Alec seeking him out because of Max. Admirable. Magnus puts all his (very understandable) anger aside to rush to the Lighwood family's aid. It doesn't matter that he can't help in the end, he is there as emotional support despite the frosty atmosphere between him and Alec. It is the decent thing to do but not everybody would have shown such kindness in his shoes. 10/10.

4) Magnus contemplating if he should take the Seelie Queen's offer aka sappy Malec flashbacks. I'm gonna place half the blame on show writers and half the blame on Magnus himself because, bro, this is not how you make a strategical decision for your people. Not even once is Magnus shown contemplating the repercussions of his decision for the warlocks or Valentine or the future of the Downworld. He only mopes about his boyfriend betraying his trust, basically. And I mean! I understand he's hurting a lot! And I understand people can't just turn off their emotions! But a good leader should be able to put his own emotions aside at least for a short time when an integral decision about his people has to be made, and quickly! And in that regard Magnus, uh, fails, apparently.

Again, I think half the blame lies with the show writers who wanted cute Malec flashbacks and generally fail at portraying inner Downworlder affairs if they don't serve the shadowhunter-centric plot. But I can't just yell “ooc behavior!!” and shrug it off because this isn't exactly ooc behavior for Magnus. Magnus is a very emotion-driven character who fails at separating personal and political matters. That's a theme. I point no further than the whole Camille-thing where he turned a blind eye to her bleeder dens because he felt personally indebted to her, and only stopped her when Raphael's life was at stake. So yeah... 0/10.

Full disclosure, I think there is a different way to read these scenes. Maybe Magnus wasn't just nursing his broken heart and missing the point. Maybe what he was actually contemplating was what he'd been fighting about with Luke before, namely if Alec can even be trusted as a person or if he's too much a shadowhunter to ever deserve their faith and cooperation because he will always treat Downworlders as lesser, because he's as racist as the Clave. In that case it would make sense for him to remember their private 1:1 interactions, to reassess Alec's character as a whole. But it would also mean that the conclusion he reached is that Alec is as corrupt as the rest of the Clave, and that would make them getting back together without ever talking about this... even more messed up than it already is! But I'm getting ahead of myself. Anyway, needless to say that I don't interpret it this way.

5) Magnus breaking up with Alec. To me personally (and to Alec) the breakup makes no sense. Magnus and Alec have different stances on, like, the implications of their relationship (and I'm emotionally wired like Alec is, at least in that regard). What I mean is this: Why does Magnus feel the need to break up with Alec? He's not an idiot, he knows that just because he breaks up with Alec his feelings for Alec will not miraculously evaporate as well. He'll be as emotionally compromised as he was before. And yet he says, “The only thing holding me back from [making difficult decisions to ensure the survival of my people] is you.”

Here's the thing. When Alec decides not to tell Magnus about the Soul Sword he does so in his capacity as the Head of the Institute, taking (almost) no account of his role as Magnus's lover. He is able to do that because he can compartmentalize between these two roles in an extreme way and therefor his relationship status has no influence on his decision. (Sure, not being with Magnus wouldn't have provided extra incentive to tell him, but work with me here. What I mean is that if Alec had rationally decided to tell Magnus about the Soul Sword, he would have made that same decision whether he was with Magnus at that point or not.) What did influence his decision making process were his feelings for Magnus, and these remain unchanged regardless of their relationship status.

Magnus has an entirely different stance. To him being in a relationship implies a certain kind of loyalty that must be maintained at all times. If their roles had been reversed I don't doubt that Magnus would have told Alec about the Soul Sword immediately because of said loyalty, and he would have thought it through for exactly zero seconds beforehand. He expected the same thing from Alec and that's why he feels so betrayed when he realizes that Alec kept it from him. This is why Magnus feels the need to break up with Alec: to disengage from this loyalty that keeps him from making decisions with only the warlocks in mind. Magnus's decision making hinges on their relationship status and the loyalty it demands, not his feelings for Alec.

Alec doesn't understand this. That's why he tells Magnus that he can have both: Alec, and the freedom to make the best choices for the warlocks, to act like the High Warlock of Brooklyn. Alec wouldn't hold it against him if he made the best decisions for his people while they are together because Alec, too, did have Magnus and made decisions as the Head of the Institute. But Magnus works differently. He'd feel like he's betraying Alec if he makes High Warlock of Brooklyn decisions while still being with Alec. And that's why he breaks up with Alec, and that's why it makes sense for Magnus to break up with him.

6) Magnus's behavior afterwards. Oh my god where do I even start.

--- Magnus being a petty bitch? Hell yeah.

--- Magnus hiding behind the Seelie Queen and running after her like he's her lap dog? Hell no. Wtf did I just watch!! Even better, he leaves Raphael behind? And Raphael then tells Izzy that Magnus was his ride and he's effectively trapped at the Institute because the sun is shining brightly outside?? I'm sorry, what. The Downworld just divorced the shadowhunters with a side of “hmm maybe we'll stop caring about the Accords as well in the near future” and Magnus leaves his Raphael behind? This is unacceptable!! I don't even know what to say to that!!

--- This has surely been discussed before but it needs to be said. Magnus implementing an anti-portal ward around New York that incinerates any angel-blooded creature that tries to pass it and not telling Alec about it. They hear about it from Luke instead and since Jace's reaction is immediately telling the shadowhunter extra next to him to stop shadowhunter movement in and out of the city immediately it is heavily implied that some shadowhunters already died thanks to this ward – since there are apparently troop movements in and out of the city that need to be stopped. (Which was to be expected! Sure, they know Valentine won't leave the city before he's got his hands on what he believes to be the mortal mirror locked away at the Institute, but he could surely be regrouping outside the city. Sending patrols into the near vicinity is the sensible thing to do.) Shadowhunter casualties due to the ward are further implied by Jace then leaning heavily on the desk and half-whispering to himself “No more shadowhunters die today.” Which makes sense. The patrols in question would have just vanished with no chance to report back what happened to them so they were probably assumed dead by Valentine's hand.

The point: Wtf Magnus. He must have been aware this could and would happen. The way I see it there are only two possible explanations: Magnus deliberately did not tell the NY Institute shadowhunters a) because he thought word might get around to Valentine or b) out of pettiness. And considering that knowing about the ward doesn't magically un-trap you and only means you will not cross it and therefore remain alive but contained, a) doesn't really make sense. The ward wasn't designed to lure Valentine to his death. It was designed to keep Valentine in the city so the other Downworld factions could hunt him down, and the ward will continue to do so even after Valentine learns of its existence. There s no harm in him knowing about it while there is a lot of harm in the NY shadowhunters not knowing about it because they will just die, for nothing, while trying to find Valentine. Magnus willingly risking that on the off-chance that Valentine walks into the ward at random is not his style at all. This leaves pettiness as motivation and sure, Magnus is petty, but not at the cost of so many casualties. This is so painfully ooc that I just can't!!

7) Their “reconciliation.” As you might have already guessed from those quotation marks: Thanks, I hate it. That adequately sums up my feelings on the matter. Don't get me wrong, the scene itself is lovely, I guess. But, content! They have this huge issue and they just don't talk about it! Magnus never learns of Alec's (legit) reasons for not telling him about the Soul Sword. Alec apologizes for.. what exactly? Doing something he was convinced was the right thing? And they never realize their differences in decision making which is even worse! This whole drama stemmed from the fact that they view the obligations that come with being in a relationship differently where their responsibilities as leaders are concerned. This is bound to become a problem again in the future!! And they just! dont! talk about it! aaaahhhhhhhh!!!! how!!!!!! are you adults or what!!!!!!! *sigh* just... –ꝏ /10

8) Aftermath. Oh right, this will of course not become a problem again in the future because Magnus loses his job. How neat.

Leaving the salt aside though I have to admit that I.. actually think the warlocks weren't entirely in the wrong in sacking Magnus. And before you kill me, hear me out. The first thing to note is that neither Raphael nor Luke get sacked for their decision to side with the Seelie Queen. Why is that? Because vampires and werewolves are fundamentally differently organized than warlocks. Warlocks have an international infrastructure. There's the Council, the Spiral Labyrinth, and stuff. Vampires and werewolves have their local clans and packs, and nothing more. Magnus has superiors. Raphael and Luke do not. After the Seelie Queen makes that deal with Valentine she condemns every Downworlder, except those located in New York, to death. Raziel's wish will kill every Downworlder on earth and only those in the Seelie Realm are safe. And as Magnus says in early 2x19

If Valentine had succeeded then literally all the other warlocks in the world would have died! Yes, the fact that the Seelie Queen threw them all under the bus isn't Magnus's fault, but

it was to be expected. Luke and Raphael both warn Magnus not to trust the Seelie Queen, that she has her own agenda and it's to rule over the Downworld, and that's why both Luke and Raphael were hesitant to accept her deal.

So I think it's pretty understandable why the other warlocks kicked Magnus out on his ass. In their eyes he would have been semi-complicit in their collective demise if Valentine had succeeded, having sided with the one who betrayed the Downworld. It doesn't matter that Magnus's choice means the warlocks at least wouldn't have gone entirely extinct if Valentine had won. It doesn't matter that the Seelie Queen would have made that deal with Valentine whether the other Downworlder factions had sided with her or not. (She had Simon in her Realm who could create new vampires, she probably would have kept Maia for new werewolves, and warlocks can be made by uuhh unethical means. What better Downworld than one that's never known anything but the Seelie Queen's uncontested reign? Yes, she absolutely would have let them all die.) None of that matters to the warlocks. They feel like Magnus betrayed them as a community and that's why they sack him.

Okay, so now we know why it made (in-universe) sense for the warlocks to fire Magnus. Make no mistake though – I don't approve of this reasoning. It's short-sighted and not very practical, and also unfair. Better save some of your species than none, right? Fine, Magnus should have informed the Council and stuff about what was going on so they could make their own deals with the Seelie Queen if they want to.. but then, do we even know if he did or didn't inform them? No. Any further discussion on this point is just poking in the dark so let's move on.

I did say that I think the warlocks weren't entirely in the wrong in dismissing Magnus from his job, though. Let me explain.

a) Magnus's decision to side with the Seelie Queen or remain sided with the Institute would have not made a difference regarding the whole Valentine-thing, right? Things would have played out exactly the same: Warlocks create anti-portal ward, Val makes a deal with the Seelie Queen and gets to Alicante anyway. The survival of the Downworld depended on Clary stabbing Valentine to death before he made the wish, and that remains unchanged no matter Magnus's decision. What Magnus's decision would have influenced (if this goddamn show knew what continuity is, lol) is what came after. Where does siding with the trigger-happy Seelie Queen, who made no secret of gunning for war with the Clave, leave the warlocks? On the Clave's bad side, that's for sure. Especially if things had escalated between the seelies and the shadowhunters (which they do in the books!!). In the show.. things just go back to how they were before the Downworld's little fail-rebellion. Either because the Downworld and the Clave mutually decide to just pretend none of it ever happened (since the Consul was exposed as a Circle Member, which, awkward) or, which I believe is more likely, because 3A focuses on The Owl Mystery and not on foreign policy and this show just sucks when it comes to including anything not strictly-plot-relevant. In any case!! Magnus's decision to side with the Seelie Queen should have had severe repercussions for the warlocks and their standing with the Clave aka dramatically worsened it, and for nothing (since nothing came of the “rebellion” and it's honestly doubtful how many warlocks would have wanted a full-on war with the shadowhunters anyway. They seem pretty good at laying low and doing their own thing). So in the long term siding with the Seelie Queen wasn't / wouldn't have been a strategically good decision (if it wasn’t followed up by a war of independence, which it wasn’t) and a legit reason to get fired.

b) More importantly, in 3x09 Lorenzo says to Magnus, “I took this position because you couldn't handle it. You let your heart dictate your actions and that will be your downfall,” which I always took to mean – since Lorenzo was god knows where when all of 2B happened – that the gossip in the warlock community is strong, and has it that Magnus only sided with the Seelie Queen as revenge for Alec not telling him about the Soul Sword / something relating to their breakup. No matter how this opinion formed in the community... *glances at 4)* they're not wrong? And this is definitely a legit reason to get fired.

So where does this leave us? I don't approve of the Council firing Magnus for the reason they did because it was a dumb reason. When I look at Lorenzo – lazy, self-centered, unwilling to actually do anything when push comes to shove – I don't think Magnus should be fired because he's obviously the much better choice as High Warlock. And I don't even think that siding with the Seelie Queen was, per se, a wrong choice. But the way Magnus made that choice left much to be desired and was a clear lapse in leadership, one where a dismissal would have been justified. And this should have been addressed in a constructive way so he can learn from his mistake.

#shadowhunters #alec lightwood #magnus bane #valentine morgenstern #the seelie queen #malec #i rewatched the 2b season finale and this happened #is this a controversial opinion? lol

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ricinbach · 3 years

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honor him. | chapter 1 - wolf to man

sword practice takes a turn as tensions rise under the gray skies of the Flooded District.

Ego homini lupus.

Man is wolf to man. The dark, twisted, plague-ridden world you had to be a part of brought this brutal law of nature to the spotlight - in all of its twisted ways man could think of.

Sometimes it took form in letting swarms of rats crawl and devour a poor soul in a matter of minutes, only leaving the gut-wrenching sounds of human tissue getting chewed on while you watched and did not lift a single finger to rescue the man. It was just the way the world worked, the way the cogs turned and clicked. It had been a challenge to shut down your sense of pity and helpfulness as a good human being - when your entire life revolved around killing and letting it be killed, finding time for remorse did not come so easy between the death contracts.

Often times it was a bloody blade twisting in yet another soul’s heart, tearing arteries and ribs apart. Traveling to the deepest, grittiest corners of the once-great city of Dunwall, slicing countless noble and Weeper throats for coin that would only be enough to barely get by, days and days of living on cold and ruthless rooftops to scout for missions had all shown you many horrors that your humankind could commit. In times of distress, of misery and sometimes, times when one succumbs to selfish intentions.

This time, the simple combination of Latin words was showing its' gnarly thorns into killing an Empress.

The piercing sound of steel clashing steel echoed through the bricks and the damaged rooftops as it got mixed with the filtered huffs and groans thrown in the duel through the whaler masks. He pressed on with another attack, taking a quick forward step along with a low groan of effort as he threw out an expert dash that would have taken your dainty little beating heart out of your chest if you had not anticipated it, a little spark flying out as your trusted blade clashed against his yet again.

The shadows in your hands became prominent, engulfing your fingers with the familiar warmth of smoke and magic until the sensation was blocked. The dark but enticing songs of the whales muted for the time being, powers taken away from you momentarily as the cool and cold surface of the steel felt harsh against your palms again.

“Flesh and steel. The way I trained you,” the Knife of Dunwall sneered, almost reprimanding you, a familiar spark of adrenaline in his darkened eyes.

A man of enigmas stood before you wielding a knife, but there was only one certain truth eminent on him - when Daud fought, it had been with the only intention of killing.

The man rose strong yet scarred from the slums when all odds were against him, killing to fight for his life, later for coin, for reputation and much to your gratefulness, to keep his underlings alive and fed and equipped. It had been easy to him, taking lives as he did not even bother for a split second to watch the light dim out in their eyes, blood washing over his leather overcoat and steel only to dry off till the next target appeared in his eyesight. Whoever saw the Knife in front of their mere mortal eyes, with his blade drawn and ready, begged to pay him tenfold whatever his patron paid, collapsed without a hint of pride left.

Only this time, there was something else lurking in there, some sort of unknown. Uncertainty reflecting off of his irises as they met yours on the opposite sides of locked steel, neighbored by the reflection of the old and battered down Rudshore Financial buildings. Almost as if those dark eyes of his were looking for answers to questions you could not fathom, questions you did not dare ask yourself in the first place.

The shadow magic unavailable from your disposal for the time being, you fueled your pent up adrenaline into a violent push to break out of the agonizing lock, sending your Master’s blade slide off of yours with a screeching sound from the friction.

Taking a step back and catching your breath, the blade was flipped with years ease in your hands as you watched his movements - taking in every step, every little reflex, even the single movement of his fingers clasping the metal handle. The two of you moved in accustomed unison, albeit on opposite sides, like two wolves circling in the snow, waiting to bite each other’s throats off but only waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The Serkonan scanned your every movement with his rugged but dangerously handsome face - you knew he knew your next ten steps, what you wanted for dinner, and then some. His moves and tricks were no surprise to you either, after all, you had been by his right hand, under his wing for many painful years.

Locked in that tense moment, eyebrows furrowed in concentration and knuckles almost white from all that clutching, you lunged forward in a swift but graceful attack which got countered by none other than the blade master himself and a series of slashes, groans and sickening clangs began echoing in the air.

What had been an ordinary daily sword practice on the rooftops of the Flooded District had turned into the rather interesting sparring of the Knife of Dunwall against one of his most-trusted lieutenants. Whalers knelt and stood on surrounding buildings, some watching behind the brick remnants of destroyed walls, some choosing the more traditional approach and staying on the rooftops. Wherever the Whalers were, it did not matter - there was only one focal point, one spectacle to follow.

“Is the old man trying to kill her or something?” the assassin clad in navy leather spoke in a surprised tone beneath the mask. “Always thought Daud had a soft spot for her - how did this happen?”

The woman clad in red leather shrugged, with her arms crossed, eyes dead focused on the clinging blades further down below, following every moment and every flick of the leather-covered wrists. “Daud knows what he is doing,” she spoke, sounding fairly confident in contrast to the fact that, frankly, Billie Lurk did not have an inkling of an idea of what fueled the almost emotional duel she was witnessing.

Sure, it was common occurrence for Daud to try one of the assassins in a duel every now and then, but the magic running through her veins sourced by none other than her Master himself told another tale - he was desperate. As if he was looking for a way out, or for someone to reassure him. Someone to tell him that everything would fall into place in the end. A trapped soul he was, signals of doubt lingering in the ebbs and flows.

The Daud she knew never crumbled against the unknown.

Panting mixed in with angry throes of war with the side of sickening metal clashes were all you could hear as your footwork did not let you down for the time being.

By the time you could count the ways you fought against Daud, it would take you an entire trip around the Isles and maybe more. After all, he had been the one to pull you out from the gutter, from the decrepit, bloodfly-infested back alleys of the slums of Karnaca. Taught you how to slit your first throat in exchange for money. Sailed across the Isles and brought you to capital of the Empire, where he trained you relentlessly. Told you how to exploit the weaknesses of each and every victim. How to find the shady stuff under everyone’s name, even the cleanest, the most noble. How to stick a blade in one rich bastard in the Estate District to please another rich bastard somewhere else, long as gleaming coin went in your pouch at the end of the day. How to confront the most dangerous, most reckless and the most wanted of Dunwall - only equipped with one of his old swords he had stolen from the Grand Guard.

“Always go for the head,” he had always said as his leather-clad hands tutored yours, teaching you the ruthless ways of fighting. The feel of that calloused texture still fresh under your fingertips.

True to his advice, that was exactly what he did to send you reeling back in a loud groan - his undefeated blade knocking yours out of your grip in a sharp flick of his large hand, sending it sprawling against the old bricks and cement.

Your panting and aching body was then left without a solid defense, he seized the opportunity as well as any - the cold hard steel rested dangerously on your covered throat, the victorious master assassin’s larger frame close to yours as his dark eyes sparked in some sort of emotion you could not discern. Shivers running down your body, a lump in your throat so evident it made the blade angle as a defeated gulp passed through.

It was as if the world had stopped. You wondered if this is what being summoned to the Void felt like - cold, uninviting, tiring, frightening, daunting. Unknown and unexplored. He had told you about his encounters with the black-eyed bastard once, years after when he first received the wretched mark on his left hand that seemed to haunt him in his nightmares to every single dawn.

Now it seemed to be that Daud himself was recreating the Void for you, for all of the eyes to watch as the Whalers held their breaths.

“You better not fight like this when we take the Empress,” Daud scolded you, his fierce eyes locked into yours even through the covers that your whaler mask provided. As his mouth uttered the last word, your entire body was begging you to give up, to collapse as your heart dropped. Your body under the heavy tactical gear stood as rigid as can be, though, even with a blade looming on your precious neck and all you could give to your mentor as an answer was a short nod.

Was this one of those usual duels he would pick up with you just to show the other Whalers what failure could cost them? Beat you on purpose, take the shared powers away from you for the duration of the fight so that the others would train like they would die in the next hour?

No - this had been a message for you. Every single footstep he took as he advanced on you, every little spark that flew into thin air as metal hit metal.

Much to your demise, the Knife of Dunwall knew you to your core. By the Void, he could piece together details about you that the old soul of the Outsider maybe did not even consider looking for.

Daud knew this one contract, the biggest job his Whalers were asked to pull off would strike a nerve deep within you, hit a buried spot concealed within your emotions, your morals and memories. The same spot in him that was struck, that made him do a double-take on the grand scheme of things, what they implied. What this particular death implied.

It terrified him, as much as it terrified you. He knew the mere prospect of it, considering the looming deadline as you steadily approached into Month of Earth, shook you to the very core. It was natural instinct for you to read through his irises, but some experience to see the hesitance lay in them.

“Understood, sir,” your throat gave out in a hoarse voice filtered through the mask, your head tilted upwards to his towering figure as he grew satisfied with the answer, loosening his grip on the blade slowly, then sheathing it to the holster on his belt with habituated ease. Your chest heaved with deep, lingering breaths as the remnants of the adrenaline emptied themselves in your veins, slowly dissipating after the sparring. The man in front of you tilted his muscular neck, as the mark on his left hand glowed orange ever-so-visible even through his thick gloves as he raised his palm lightly - making the familiar warmth of power surge through you once again, the return of the bond making you gasp lightly, finding some sort of much-needed comfort as you nodded your thanks.

With yet one more stare thrown your way, his jaw clenched as his feet carried him across the rooftops away from your figure, walking in between his assassins, his loyal gang of misfits and killers alike. Taking this as a signal that practice for the day being was over, the Whalers began to vanish into the shadow one by one, leaving a more vast, open sight of the gray skies contrasting the beige-white ruins of what once used to be a booming financial hub.

It was at that moment of defeat that your weakened body fell on the knees next to your sword, millions of possible scenarios filled with blood and screams running through your mind. Head leaning forward as you breathed in and out, in an attempt to calm yourself down.

And it was at that moment when your heart and body and mind fell in unison - you could never spill the blood of an Empress, even if the man who swore to protect your life ordered you to.

#oh boy here we go #hope this one starts out alright #dishonored #dishonored fic #honor him #corvo attano #corvo attano x reader #corvo attano / reader #dishonored 2 #mild daud x reader #daud x reader #val writes

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